Archive for the Count of Monte Cristo Category

NEWS: Penguin releases a new hardcover line from it’s ‘Classics’ imprint

Posted in Count of Monte Cristo, Dangerous Liaisons, Dumas with tags , , on February 23, 2010 by litterbury

Well, old news really, but better late than never.  Actually, it’s something that has managed to drift under the radar to my knowledge, and I see it as my duty to inform other book lovers, as I would certainly appreciate the info.

Penguin books has now released a new sub-series of hardcover bound books from the Penguin Classics imprint.  Initially, eight titles were released in late October, 2009, and all feature jacket design work by Coralie Bickford-Smith.  Smith’s website states that she’s “a senior cover designer at Penguin Books, where she has created several series designs,” and that she studied typography at Reading University.   Smith deserves credit, as it’s a very good-looking line, and all retail for $20.00; but Amazon has them at reduced prices running at about $13.50ish.

I’ve yet to get any hands-on time with any of the books, but clearly I want them, or, at least, some of them.  I’m actually quite a fan of Penguin Classics, and for many, many years it was the specific label that I looked for as it resonated with me as an affordable, not to mention accessible library of genuine merit.  The books cut a large swath through the literary canon, capturing the great works of English-speaking countries, but all the important and recognized works of places such as France and Russia, not to mention ages old historical works from past civilizations such as that of the ancient Greeks.

The House of Penguin, in my opinion, has always centered around their classics.  Do they publish current literature from contemporary authors? I’m sure they do, but I’ll be damned if I can think of even one their new releases.  All I know is that I hunted down that little penguin logo for years and it rarely ever let me down.  Affordable, literate and stylish looking for the shelf; my only complaint was that they were only cheap little paperbacks and some of my best-loved Penguin Classics over the years have turned yellow, and grown very tattered.

(pic. 1_Never has Dangerous Liaisons been such a faithful companion; that little paperback is the most well-worn book in my whole library.)

Now Peguin has taken a marvelous step in the right direction, but my enthusiasm has been somewhat dampened a bit.  Granted, the books themselves look fantastic, and Coralie Bickford-Smith has shown a real knack at making the editions elegant, but with a little bit of an edge over plainer releases.   If the books contain the attention to detail that I’ve always revered in Penguin, then I’ll be pleased.  What I’ve dreamed of for years is some of my favorite releases from them, just simply hardbound.

(pic. 2_One of the new Penguin Classics hardback editions; gorgeous design.)

Will I get my favorites? I don’t know, and that’s where my enthusiasm has really died down a bit.  The selection is bland, with nary a surprise in sight.

The first wave of releases from 2009 is as follows:

Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens

Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen

Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen (two Austens!)

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy

The Picture Of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte

and Cranford, by Elizabeth Gaskell

Amazon has pre-order listings set to hit March 10th, 2010, as follows:

Emma, by Jane Austen (a third!)

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson

Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll

The Odyssey, by Homer

and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D. H. Lawrence

(pic. 3_Homer’s The Odyssey, albeit, the Rieu translation.)

Amazon also has further listings that look like they will release on September 28, 2010:

Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott

The Hound Of The Baskervilles, by Arthur Conan Doyle

Oliver Twist, Charles Dickens

and (in a surprising twist) The Woman In White, by Wilkie Collins

I’m not trying to make a point that any one of the selections isn’t a worthwhile read, but each entry is so by-the-book, if you will, that there isn’t really anything that can’t be picked up in a superior version from something like the Everyman’s Library.  It’s a lot of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and some obvious picks like the Jane Eyre and Dorian Gray.  The lone surprise for me is the inclusion of the seemingly little known Woman In White by Wilkie Collins.  I’m also a little surprised at the inclusion of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as I can think of far more deserving books to be honored from the list of Penguin Classics.

One thing that Penguin seems to do better than any other publishing firm is they seem to either seek out or acquire some of the best translations of ‘foreign’ books I think I’ve ever encountered, but even that’s a bit wasted here.  The one book that would need translating on this list would be Homer’s Odyssey, but it’s the translation done by E. V. Rieu, and while I haven’t had the pleasure of reading that version myself (it’s billed as a Penguin staple), I’m more familiar with the work done by Robert Fagles, who is also within Penguin’s reach as they published his updated versions of both Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.  I haven’t read the second entry by Fagles, but if it’s anything like his Iliad, then I can’t imagine why Penguin would squander the opportunity to release a beautiful hardcover.  Fagles’ work is available as a deluxe-paperback boxed-set from Penguin, but it would have been nice to see it get the full treatment that it deserves.

Penguin has had a long-standing classic in their clutch with the 1961 translation of Pierre de Laclos’ Les Liaisons Dangereuses, as done by P. W. K. Stone.  Penguin recently published an updated translation by Helen Constantine (October, 2007), and I still haven’t been able to pick up a copy -yet- but I can vouch that the Stone version is incredible; I’ve been reading it for years, and despite seeing publication in the early sixties, it’s still the standard for one of literature’s greatest achievements.  What would I do to get a copy hardbound for keeps? I think I’d consider bartering my very soul, if that’s what it took.  It’s clearly one of the best offerings from Penguin and it’s existence alone puts it’s entire division ahead of everyone else.  (If Penguin happens to read this and wants to grant me my special wish, I’ll send an e-mail attached with my bloody heart and even do carnal tricks to seal it up.  Not kidding.)

(pic. 4_New Penguin edition of Jane Eyre; Jane Eyre really is one of the best books ever.)

And then there’s quite possibly my other biggest wish from Penguin to include Dumas’ The Count Of Monte Cristo in their new line.  Monte Cristo is a bit of a complicated affair, because as often as it’s remembered, people either identify with it through film adaptations (horrors!) or the more commonly acquired abridgments that slice the narrative in half (greater horrors!).  A more complete and updated translation by Robin Buss was published in 1996, and while it’s page-count clocks in at almost 1250, I can attest to the fact that there isn’t a wasted page in the entire volume.  Some time ago I purchased the fairly new Everyman’s edition, that while very striking on the shelf and is a pleasure to read and hold, I’ll still reach for the Penguin version more times than not, as I’ve decided that I’ll settle for Buss and nothing else.

Buss also did another Dumas work in 2006 with The Women’s War, an excellent, though lesser known Dumas book and Penguin saw fit to include it in their own line of Classics then.  Wouldn’t a hardcover release be something of a pleasant surprise? And isn’t it a wasted opportunity to pass over real exclusives and to merely release what every other publisher already does? Not that Penguin doesn’t have missteps, and I’ve written in great (perhaps unnerving) detail about what I think of the Richard Pevear translation of The Three Musketeers (stick with Oxford), but I’ve found it rare that Penguin ever brings in a questionable translation in all the years that I’ve been reading them; there’s been a few, but not many.

That’s why it disappoints me that from all the wonderful works that Penguin could choose from, they do the obvious, and start reaching for Austen and Dickens, incidentally two authors who never have to fear going out of print from now to eternity.  Why not make use of Monte Cristo and Dangerous Liaisons when they can’t be offered up by anyone else? It does seem wasteful.

And then I have my second complaint.

I can think of a few publishers who have made it a point to print their hardcovers on acid-free paper: chiefly, Everyman’s Library and the Library of America, but I believe that Modern Library makes a consistent effort here as well.  The usage of acid-free paper is to prevent the yellow discoloring and, often, pre-mature aging of a book, and anyone who has a library full of paperbacks knows exactly what I’m referring to.

Wikipedia has a whole page devoted to acid-free paper, but basically defines it as a “paper that has a neutral or basic pH (7 or slightly greater).”

I’m not exactly sure when I became aware of the usage, or it’s apparent importance, but it now factors into my decision-making process greatly when I purchase a book, and I tend to be disappointed if it’s not factored into my latest acquisition.  As a result, I’m picking up more and more titles specifically from Everyman’s and Library of America, but I’ve been long frustrated that I have more than a few editions of certain books that feature inferior translation work, and have secretly longed for Penguin to do a real deluxe line.  Sadly, the new Penguin hardcovers don’t appear to make use of this practice.

They do, however, seem to be a bit more green friendly, which I can also respect.  The copyright page on the new line states, “Penguin Books is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and out planet.  The book in your hands is made from paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.” A logo is also included which states ‘mixed sources.’  Are the two practices of being environmentally friendly and using acid-free paper mutually exclusive? I’m not sure, but it would be nice to merge the two for any given book line.

(pic. 5_An old Penguin paperback, greatly loved.)

Still, I’m pleased to see Penguin make a bit of a jump with a real hardcover line for it’s classics library.  The design work looks fantastic, and, whore that I am, makes one or two purchases necessary, bank account willing.  I’m hopeful that the selection will improve, and that Penguin will use the line to differentiate itself from what other publishers are doing, perhaps even giving a few looked over works a better chance at standing out in stores, but that also means steering away from Dickens and Austen, and taking a risk on equally, if not better, books that have already received the excellent Penguin touch but languish, perhaps, in niche status.  At least Penguin gets it half right so far, and will hopefully build on an exciting new brand into the coming year.

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www.penguin.com

http://us.penguingroup.com/

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Brace Yourself: In which I take to task translator Richard Pevear, ‘The Elegant Variation’ blog author Mark Sarvas and have a little bit to say about translating Dumas.

Posted in Count of Monte Cristo, Dostoevsky, Dumas, Musketeers with tags , , , , , , on November 22, 2009 by litterbury

There is a small article up on The Wall Street Journal about the husband-and-wife team of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.  I must give credit to The Elegant Variation in drawing my attention to it, a website that I was just taking issue with today, and where I’m about to take issue again.

First off, Pevear and Volokhonsky are renowned in the publishing world for their work, perhaps even having won awards, I don’t know.  They translate classic Russian works together, and Pevear has translated some French on his own.  I’m familiar with these two because about a month or so back I read the Everyman’s Library edition of The Brothers Karamazov, which Pevear and Volokhonsky worked on.  Also, about a year ago I read Pevear’s independent translation of The Three Musketeers, published by Viking, which I believe is now available from Penguin.

Now I’m leery to criticize the translation of Karamazov, seeing as it’s my first Russian novel, and thus making it my first encounter with Fyodor Dostoevsky.  My problem with that book is that it’s so very overrated and, in my view, perhaps not even all that great a book, but I’ll have more to say about that soon enough.  Don’t you worry!

I can, however, safely criticize Pevear’s translation of The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas.  To his credit, Pevear does restore a missing element that had been censored from previous translations into English from it’s native French.  Without giving anything away, there was a minor sex scene that had been altered between two of the characters, and Pevear does include it in his version of the book.  Make no mistake, it’s an important development, but it concerns a single sentence if I recall, and nothing more.

I was anxious to get my hands on a newer translation of the Musketeers, as I’m a devoted fan, and a fan of Dumas in general; he’s one of my favorite authors.  As I read through the book, I seemed to enjoy myself, but when I had finished I had a very distinct feeling that something was missing.  The translation, to my knowledge, is clean enough, but if I had to recommend a version of the Musketeers to someone, this would not be the one.

The writing was crisp and kept up the familiar pace of the adventure, but it also read as very, if not distinctly, modern, and I ultimately decided that it was a little too modern for it’s own good.  Much of the lush romantic swooning that I had come to associate with Dumas seemed to be missing, and the weightier, more archaic sounding language seemed to be completely overhauled to the point of, quite frankly, seeming somehow unfamiliar.  It’s a very literal translation, if that makes any sense.

Now a couple points I want to make.

Have I read The Three Musketeers in French and attempted to translate it myself? No, I have not.  I took some French in junior-high and high-school, but I don’t necessarily believe that I would have the confidence to delve into such an endeavor personally, and I don’t currently have access to a copy of the novel in it’s original French, leaving this argument I’m making to guesswork.

Second, I just noted ‘the weightier, more archaic sounding language.’  Could that very well be the work of time and place versus the translation itself? And could my own familiarity and sense of comfort with older versions be limiting me to a certain bias? Perhaps… but I place very sensitive emphasis on that perhaps.

I’ve read quite a few versions of the Musketeers over the years, and a sizable amount of books by Dumas, and rarely done by the same translator twice:

1.  About four versions of The Three Musketeers; the William Barrow edition from 1846 published by Oxford and Richard Pevear’s version from 2006 being the two in my current library.

2.  Twenty Years After, 2nd in the Musketeer saga, is more difficult to nail down, but large credit goes to William Robson who supplied an authorized French text to London, and seems to be the basis for most modern translations, but I’m not sure who receives the credit for the English itself; my version is published by Oxford.

3.  The Vicomte de Bragelonne, 3rd in the Musketeer saga, is also a bit messy.  My Oxford copy credits an 1848 section (Thomas Williams) and an 1850-1 complete text (Thomas Pederson) for the basis of a copy put out by Routledge in 1857, which has been revised and cleaned up, apparently, for my copy.

4.  Two separate editions of The Count of Monte Cristo; one translated by Robin Buss originally published in 1996, currently available from Penguin, and the recent Everyman’s Library edition from the first English translation credited as anonymous from 1846, and has been revised by Peter Washington; I should note that I’ve yet to read the second one.  I’ve also read an older abridged version (butchered in half) many years ago.  I can credit it to Signet Classics, but that’s all, and it wasn’t very good.

5.  Another Robin Buss translation, this time for the novel, The Women’s War, with an original copyright of 2006, currently available from Penguin.

6.  And lastly, a modern translation of The Knight of Maison-Rouge from Julie Rose, credited as being released in 2003 to the Modern Library.

Whew!

Now, the Oxford editions of the Musketeers are pretty much the copies that readers will find the most readily available.  They are fine editions, but a little on the old-fashioned side of things, but they relate the tales well and convey Dumas’ own knack for storytelling beautifully.

The Julie Rose translation of Red House is good, but it feels a bit conservative.  It could be the book itself, it could be her own stamp of translation, I’m not really in a position to say, but it did feel oddly cold for a Dumas book.  I recently picked up her newer translation of Hugo’s Les Miserables (also Modern Library), so I’ll have to take stock of things when I get around to reading that one.

Now the Robin Buss books are going to be my Rosetta Stone, if you will.  Having read both of Buss’ versions (Monte Cristo and The Women’s War), there remains a a recognizable style that is distinctly, strictly Dumas, but with a bit of modern approach that suggests the effort in trying not to limit the sound or cadence of the translation itself to any specific era.  In short? The Buss translations have more in common with the texture of the first translations of Dumas in English.  It sounds like the Dumas I came to fall in love with in the Oxford editions of the Musketeer books, but not sounding as though it was filtered through a specific era (Victorian? or was that later? I’d have to check).  All the emotion and sparkling psychology of Dumas is richly on display, to the point that I find it crushing that Buss never translated any of the Musketeer books, and never will; he died in December 2006.

It might seem inappropriate to even make this comparison, but the basis of an argument lies in this: the translation work of Robin Buss is very different than the translation work of Richard Pevear.  Granted, we’re talking completely different books here, but when I say that I wouldn’t recommend the Pevear version of The Three Musketeers, I mean it.  Judging how Dumas can be effectively conveyed in modern English put’s Pevear’s work at a step back.

Now here is my argument: having no frame of reference to hold to Russian literature, I’m a little concerned about the Volokhonsky and Pevear translation work that they have done together.

Is it blind and irrational? Yes, and I understand that they have pretty much the whole industry propping them up with accolades, and I would say that their version of Karamazov sounded richer than Pevear’s sole work on the Musketeers, so maybe they just work better together.  But there is the unmistakable fact that the industry seemed to praise Pevear’s version of The Three Musketeers, not that I examined the issue heavily, mind you, but I did come across a few things.

Specifically! Seeing TEV’s post from Sarvas linking to the Wall Street Journal article, in which Sarvas says “The Royal Family of translators, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, are interviewed in the Wall Street Journal,” it jolted my memory on something I had read from Sarvas on his blog some time ago.  I can’t give a date, but it was in regards to Pevear’s new translation of The Three Musketeers, in which Sarvas simply commented “which we liked.”  I remember at the time thinking, huh, I didn’t like it! and thought that it was just yet another opportunity to find myself at odds with Sarvas and his blog.

I have to wonder.  Is Mark Sarvas the real deal and an unbiased opinion on a very honest and widely read blog? Or is he so enmeshed in the industry that it’s just more of the same signs of blind industry acceptance for the lucky few to have been admitted beyond the hallowed, golden gates? My disagreeing with him on the Dumas matter seems slight, even a bit shrill, but to someone like myself it speaks volumes about taste and judgement, and, frankly, I feel comfortable on my side of the issue.

This worries me because if the publishing and literary world is collectively so navel-gazing to the point of almost going down on itself, can one trust their faith to be dealt with honestly and seriously in regards to the quality and craftsmanship that the industry has an invested interest in promoting? I’m starting to wonder, and it makes me uncomfortable with many of the recognized literary blogs that often sound more like endless PR, rather than genuine outbursts of sincerity from real book lovers.

I’m okay with thinking that Pevear and Volokhonsky are a capable team in regards to translating Russian literature, as my own time with their shared work didn’t see any obvious fault to the language, but then again, I have nothing to compare that to, and little to no background on the specific subject either.  That really does concern me, because I’ve read translations of books before that later proved to be inferior, but seemed widely, if not commonly accepted at the time.  And this industry is really enamored with these two, which I hope isn’t representative of fawning adulation.

I’m just as unnerved by the fact that I trust well-connected, highly intelligent and literate people who run sites like The Elegant Variation to give me unfiltered reviews and insight that I can trust.  I’d like to think that it’s generally the case with many other blogs, columns, critics and publishers as well.  Could there be a difference of opinion? Absolutely.  I do find liking Pevear’s translation of the Musketeers odd, though.  And as a Dumas fan, it sticks out to me.

The Wall Street Journal article is here:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704431804574539613167679976.html?mod=article-outset-

Mark Sarvas here:

http://marksarvas.blogs.com/

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