In high school, my English teacher once explained that reading translated books meant intrinsically losing an essential part of the text. Contrary to popular belief, translated literature is not a mere word-by-word copy of the original text; it is the translator’s best interpretation of the author’s language reshaped into a new version for readers.
This sentiment hit hard as a die-hard lover of prose in all shapes and forms—especially when I decided to pick up Haruki Murakami’s novel “Norwegian Wood” this past summer.
Murakami is a popular Japanese novelist with dozens of books, earning global acclaim for his sensational writing and storytelling. His way with words has been a hallmark of his success, as its simplicity and frankness reveal insights about life and the human experience that explore philosophical questions of mortality, reason and existence. Even though most of his works deal with magical realism and adventurous plots, his voice continues to elevate a story and enrapture his audience fully. But instead of starting in the abstract depths of Murakami’s repertoire (although I do hope to venture there soon), I decided to begin with one of his more accessible novels, which has become a flagship of his work.
“Norwegian Wood” is a literary novel that follows the life of Toru Watanabe as he recounts his college years in the late 1960s. The book navigates the highs and lows of youth in Tokyo while discovering the power of love and grief, and the toll it takes on others. The comforting yet eerie tone is set as soon as you read the first sentence—making the reader feel hugged by a cold mist. Murakami’s story is driven by its characters and their relationship with the people around them; as Toru, and subsequently the reader, meets each person, the plot and tone shift and the reader is overcome with a wave of adoration and isolation as they watch the various relationships ebb and flow.
As I embarked on my journey into this beautiful world, my English teacher’s sentiment slowly began to haunt me. An author’s writing styles consist of various building blocks that readers do not explicitly acknowledge, like syntax, cadence and diction, which profoundly impact our reading experience. When writers play with these foundations to their liking, they create a sense of writing that is unique to them. Still, this idea only applies within the context of a particular language’s parameters and rules for making a coherent text. So, how does one preserve the integrity of a foreign author’s unique writing style when they are transforming it into a world where certain words, sentence structures and cultural connotations are nonexistent?
Not to get too linguistic (as I will leave that to the professionals) but reading Murakami’s writing felt fraudulent. Perhaps it was my unfamiliarity with Murakami’s prose but it felt as if I was skipping an integral part of the story—like the heart and soul were missing and I was left with the husk. It felt wrong knowing that the novel was written with a different arrangement in Japanese compared to the translated English version that was now in my hands. Since an author’s writing style is a fundamental part of their work, it did not make sense to read a book that could not uphold that same structure when translated and inherently be deprived of its original meaning (to a degree) . This idea affected my ability to truly submerge myself in the novel as I was so hung up on every word or quote—is this exactly what it was written like in Japanese? Is this what Murakami truly meant? What’s the true translation of this? A wall was erected between myself and the book—which becomes the worst relationship a reader can have with a novel.
Questioning every choice made me feel like some of the characters were not as fleshed out as I thought they would be; the plot felt stale and undriven. I was so confused and overwhelmed that I needed to put the book down for a few days to give myself space.
During this time, I wondered what classics, such as Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment,” Coelho’s “The Alchemist” and Homer’s “Iliad” were truly like in their original languages. What could that reading experience be to a native speaker? To truly comprehend every word the author intended you to see and feel? Yet despite the translation barriers, I realized, these books still became prominent and read worldwide, used in high schools and universities to be studied and deciphered. So how come no one else felt this same way? Why is it that we continue to read books in other languages if we can never truly understand the author? What was the point of reading?
Despite my troubles fully connecting with the writing, Murakami’s characters left a lasting imprint on my mind; I needed to know what impacted Toru so deeply throughout the first chapter. So I dusted off “Norwegian Wood” and continued to read—pushing the thoughts of impostorism aside. Page after page, I slowly fell in love with the novel—reading past 3 a.m. for several consecutive nights as the action rolled through and I could gain the weight of each character. Yet, my relationship with Murakami’s prose continued to be convoluted. Lines that I felt were crafted with intense thought and feelings—pinnacle points of Toru’s mind and Murakami’s themes—felt absent to me. But in a twisted way, I could still recognize its beauty even if I could not truly connect with it.
I emailed my English teacher and explained to her how I felt, partially blaming her for bestowing on me this philosophical insight that has come to torment me. She laughed and replied by explaining that as readers, we have to find it within ourselves to be innately okay with the fact that we might never truly understand a translated text as one would in its original language, but that does not take away the enjoyment and morals that we obtain from the book and prose. As a self-proclaimed existentialist, it seems hard to understand that concept, but after finishing “Norwegian Wood,” I realized I did enjoy the book, despite the hardships of connecting with it. So, even if I felt like the prose did not feel as ‘authentic’ as I think it could be, what is authenticity in translation? If translation is an imperfect craft, can there be a “true” translation? The matter is, we don’t know—at least in the context of literature. Reading the final sentence of “Norwegian Wood” made me realize how sad I was that I was finished but also how grateful I was that I could share this experience with Japanese readers and the hundreds of others who get to interact with Murakami’s craft from across the world.
Though I can never look at translated work the same, I know that the ability to feel and learn from the prose, morale and character, is truly what literature is all about. It is amazing that I can do this from halfway across the planet.