• You write orgastic, I edit orgiastic: Fact-checking Fitzgerald. For more on Fitzgerald’s editing and revision process, see also.
• Reading list for Joseph Campbell’s mythology class at Sarah Lawrence.

Apropos of today’s Bulgakov discussion contrasting the opening paragraphs of the Ginsburg and Glenny translations of Master and the Margarita, a reader writes:

BTW, the Russian original is, literally, “chewed,” not “crumpled.” Ginsburg, being a native Russian, is obviously concerned here about translating too literally, not being sure whether “chewed” works in English.
Also, I wonder where they both got “sneakers” from. The Russian word is “slippers” (something one wears only at home), which adds to the picture of slovenliness.
The “cowboy” v. “tartan” is interesting: the Russian word is “kovboyka,” which, literally means cowboy shirt. But in the Russian of that time this was a common word for a large category of what we would now call polo shirts, not worn by those with sartorial taste. A literal translation doesn’t work. Tartan is better. But neither fully conveys the picture.
It’s always interesting to see how translators go about their work. Having read and compared many originals and translations, I would say that on the whole, nine times out of ten the superior translation will be the one done by the translator who is translating into his native language, as opposed to from his native language.

I find this sort of thing fascinating. So many thorny issues in a single paragraph — let alone a chapter, a novel.

• After yesterday, I was going to self-impose a moratorium on all mentions of James Wood until he either a) published his first review as a New Yorker staffer (on the topic of the latest deadly Philip Roth novel, I believe*), or b) stopped by the house for tea & buns, but this screed, written by The Rake, is too smart and provoking to skip.
• What is a cranberry morpheme? (Via Lindsayism.)
* I admire Roth’s novels a lot, but the last few have me want to hire him a hooker.**
** I expect Wood will work with a different thesis.
*** I don’t know why I’m using so many footnotes today either.

The Bulgakov translation conundrum began a few weeks ago. My husband Mr. Tingle* was looking for a book to read, and I suggested Master and the Margarita as it’s one of the Best Books in the World. Also, he (Mr. T) recently read the Bible, a grinding sort of triumph, and I thought he’d enjoy Master and the Margarita‘s religious elements.**
But the book was abandoned after only a few pages, the reason given that something was off with the writing, maybe it was the translation? And I flapped my arms around a lot, but when I went to re-read the novel myself I saw he was right. Our house copy is the Mirra Ginsburg translation, and I got the Michael Glenny translation from the library and started reading it last night. It’s a huge improvement, as you can see from the opening paragraphs alone.
From the Ginsburg translation:

At the hour of sunset, on a hot spring day, two citizens appeared in the Patriarchs’ Ponds Park. One, about forty, in a gray summer suit, was short, plump, dark-haired and partly bald. He carried his respectable pancake-shaped hat in his hand, and his clean-shaven face was adorned by a pair of supernaturally large eyeglasses in a black frame. The other was a broad-shouldered young man with a mop of shaggy red hair, in a plaid cap, pushed well back on his head, a checked cowboy shirt, crumpled white trousers, and black sneakers.

From the Glenny translation:

At the sunset hour of one warm spring day two men were to be seen at Patriarch’s Ponds. The first of them — aged about forty, dressed in a grayish summer suit — was short, dark-haired, well-fed and bald. He carried his decorous pork-pie hat by the brim and his neatly shaven face was embellished by black horn-rimmed spectacles of preternatural dimensions. The other, a broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair and a check cap pushed back to the nape of his neck, was wearing a tartan shirt, chewed white trousers and black sneakers.

The musicality of the Glenny translation is just more pleasing, down to the substitution of “chewed” for “crumpled.”
RELATED LINKS:
• In praise of the Glenny translation
• Excellent Master and the Margarita website (via TEV.)
* This was my husband’s handle at Tingle Alley, and he’s asked that it remain what he gets called here as well. In case he ever wants to join a motorcycle gang or open up a magic store or something.
** Spotting Biblical allusions is Mr. Tingle’s new hobby — a consolation, I think, for the hardships of Leviticus. One night I was watching Devil Wears Prada and at the point when Miranda Priestly approaches the building and Stanley Tucci shouts “Gird your loins,” he popped in from two rooms over to announce, “‘Gird your loins’ is from the Bible!”

• NYPL Series on the “Life And Works of Vladimir Nabokov“: Lots of great archival images to peruse.
• The 25 world’s weirdest animals. (via Dooce.)

• Garth Risk Hallberg in The Quarterly Conversation: “Why James Wood Is Wrong About Underworld”
• A LitKicks panel investigates “Does Literary Fiction Suffer From Dysfunctional Pricing?”

Over at Shaken & Stirred, Gwenda shares her list of books currently out from the library. Here’s my own. I suppose this sort of thing is open to the same criticisms as the posting of random iPod lists but whatevs: Viva List Fancy!
• Winter Season: A Dancer’s Journal by Toni Bentley: After a break of a kazillion years, I start ballet class again this Thursday. Stasis in darkness./ Then the substanceless blue/Pour of tor and distances., etc. Preparations have included reading this memoir (mentioned by Terry in a recent WSJ column), watching Elusive Muse, some light stretching, and resumption of a prodigious cocaine habit.
• Ghost Hunters: William James and the Search for Scientific Proof of Life After Death by Deborah Blum: Recommended by Bookslut; I was smitten as soon as Alfred Russel Wallace came waltzing in in Chapter 1.
• March by Geraldine Brooks
• Castle by David Macaulay and Castle by Christopher Gravett: We’re installing a moat.
• The Complete Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
• Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
• A History of Reading by Alberto Manguel: Because; see also Robert Birnbaum’s great interview with Manguel.
• A Kierkegaard Anthology by Søren Kierkegaard: Untouched, forlorn. Weirdly, it never seems the right night to go to bed with Kierkegaard.
• Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
• Paula Spencer by Roddy Doyle: The sequel to The Woman Who Walked Into Doors. We’re reading it this semester in writing class.
• The Golden Compass [sound recording] by Philip Pullman
• Appointment with Death [sound recording] by Agatha Christie
Holds
• The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov: The Mirra Ginsburg translation I own is choppy so I’m test-driving the Michael Glenny translation, recommended here (although I also wish to try the Burgin/Tiernan O’Connor translation before purchasing either). Nice discussion of the merits of the various English translations in the novel’s Wikipedia entry. All in all, an excruciating decision!
• Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones
• The Ministry of Special Cases by Nathan Englander
• The Catalogue of the Universe by Margaret Mahy
• The Horrific Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred by Carl-Johan Vallgren: My mum’s favorite book read this year. She compares it to Winter’s Tale and Love in the Time of Cholera, with Geek Love base notes.

My companions at Martha’s Vineyard, Hortense and Boozy, used to work together as editors at a publishing house in New York. One of their work jokes was a video concept called “Girls in Publishing Gone Wild,” which would feature scintillating footage of girls who wear glasses unbuttoning their cardigans and struggling to extricate themselves from their turtlenecks as buds of crumpled Kleenex emerged provocatively from their shirt cuffs.
Our weekend together had a similar quality. We drank a lot of tea, and stayed up late watching Room With A View and eating candy-colored macaroons from Chelsea. At the beach, we clambered around talking about Enid Blyton and Isabella Blow. We visited three bookstores, and my souvenirs from the trip are roughed-up copies of John Barth’s Giles Goat-Boy and a book called The Sea-Horse and Its Relatives. The latter, written by two Australian museum curators and published in 1958, reads like something a character in Wodehouse might write. A chapter called “Interesting Habits” begins, “What is the most remarkable member of the Animal Kingdom? Few would disagree with awarding the palm to the female of the human species, but of all the marine creatures, as Sir J. Arthur Thomson has written, Sea-horses … ‘are the most “kenspeckle” creatures of the sea, and this is saying a good deal …'” Indeed.
This weekend I’m traveling again, this time to the Wienerschnitzel family reunion. This is a reunion of my mom’s umpteen brothers and sisters held biennially on my grandfather’s farm in southern Indiana. Lots of croquet and volleyball, and gathering in the living room to hear my musical cousin pound out “House of the Rising Sun” on the piano. As the finale, the uncles, who will have been drinking beer in the barn all afternoon, will troop out to a distant field and set off fireworks for the delight of the crowd that is watching, amid fragrant clouds of bug spray, on the lawn — a display that always marks for me the official close of summer.