by David Sugarman
When I was studying French at university, the language classes included weekly translation exercises. They had very little to do with the commercial and corporate translation that has been my stock-in-trade for many a long year. They were almost invariably extracts from literature: novels, biographies, travel books and so on. One week, there would be a chunk of Proust to translate into English, the next week a chunk of Virginia Woolf to translate into French.
Yes, one wasn’t just translating from the foreign language into one’s own, but also from one’s own language into the foreign one. This is a practice of which, in professional terms, I am highly critical. I always insist that a translator should only ever translate into his or her mother tongue (and in my view very few people are sufficiently bilingual to be able to swing either way, as it were). But at university, we were expected to translate into French.
We were struggling to master all the grammatical subtleties of the language, so I would guess our written French left something to be desired. Try as one might to get all the genders right, to make all the adjectives agree and to conjugate all the irregular verbs correctly, the result could be decidedly iffy. One of my tutors had a very good marking system. A red “Gr” in the margin meant a grammatical slip, and you were given the benefit of the doubt; if it was a “Grr” it meant a serious grammatical error that you shouldn’t be making at university level; and woe betide you if it reached the proportions of a “Grrr!”
We all make silly mistakes when we write in our own language, never mind a foreign one. When I speak, my brain has practically completed the sentence as I open my mouth to begin voicing it, or at least has a good idea in what direction the sentence is going. But because it takes longer to write or type than to speak, I often start a sentence without quite knowing how I am going to finish it. This is just one cause of writing errors. My fingers having a mind of their own is another one: they get so used to certain key combinations that they double-guess my brain a lot of the time.
I don’t know why, but, for me at any rate, e-mails are the worst problem. It’s amazing how often I fail to notice my mistakes until it’s just too late. I’ve just clicked on “Send” and in the nano-seconds before the e-mail vanishes from my screen I see them, large, clear, practically with an arrow pointing at them. How can they have escaped me before? Thank goodness my old tutor at university isn’t there to scrawl a great big red “Grrr!” in the margins of my e-mails!