Language is culture and behind every language hides a different perception of the world. When we refer to situations, feelings, events and talk about the world in two different languages, we are never talking about the same situations, feelings, events and the same world.
Every language has different elements and its translation is not always easy.
Expressions, similes, allegories, proverbs, lyrical elements and symbols of every language of every culture cannot function on an international or universal level; they are elements that move the reader of a particular national linguistic community. Language carries the wealth accumulated within a society over the course of many centuries, it carries elements from its culture, its history, religious narratives; it carries expressions and peculiarities that derive from the history of the development of the language itself and its daily life .
The translator can approach a text with some certainty and hope for some success only if he knows all this very well.
Re-reading Charlie Chaplin's autobiography, I came across two different Greek translations, both interesting.
I found the different approaches of each translator very entertaining and noticeable.
I am quoting some paragraphs translated differently.
Enjoy them..
TRANSLATION 1
Prelude
Before Westminster Bridge opened, Kennington Road was nothing more than a narrow path. After 1750 they laid a new road directly connecting the bridge with Brighton. Thus Kennington Road, where I spent most of my childhood, could boast of some fine houses of architectural merit, adorned with iron grills, on the front balconies, from which the occupants once watched George IV go with his carriage at Brighton.
By the mid-19th century, most of the houses had fallen into disrepair and were rented out by rooms or apartments. But some others remained untouched and were inhabited by doctors, successful businessmen and vaudeville stars. On a Sunday morning, outside a house in Kennington Road, an elegant coach could be seen behind a pony, ready to pick up some vaudeville act, to take him to Norwood or Merton, ten miles away, and back. stopping off at the various pubs, the White Horse, the Horns or the Mug in Kennington Road.
TRANSLATION 2
Introduction
Before Westminster Bridge was built, Kennington Road was nothing more than a footpath, a bridleway. After 1750 a new road was laid directly connecting the bridge to Brighton. As a consequence, Kennington Road, where I spent most of my childhood, had some fine houses of architectural merit, fronted by iron-railed balconies, from which the occupants would once have seen King George IV. to drive to Brighton.
By the middle of the 19th century most of the houses had become "boarding houses". Some, however, remained intact and were inhabited by doctors, wealthy merchants and stage stars. On Sunday mornings outside the houses of Kennington Road you would see fine ponies, warmed up on elegant two-wheelers, ready to pick up some theater for a walk 10 miles away to Norwood and Merton, stopping on the way at various 'The White Horse' bars, the "Horn", and the "Mastrapa" on Kennington Road.
…
TRANSLATION 1
The mother was a vaudeville soubrette, a minion, in her late twenties, with a fair complexion, blue-violet eyes, and light brown hair, so long she could sit on it. Sidney and I adored Mother. Although she was not uncommonly beautiful, we considered her beauty divine. Those who had met her told me later that she was elegant and attractive, with an irresistible charm. He took great pride in dressing us for the Sunday outings…
TRANSLATION 2
My mother was a soubrette in stage plays, a minion, in her early thirties, with rosy skin, hazel eyes, and long light brown hair, so long she could sit on it. Sidney and I adored our mother. Although she was not an extraordinary beauty, we thought she was as beautiful as an angel. Those who knew her later told me that she was elegant and attractive and had an irresistible charm. She was proud to dress us for our Sunday outings...
…
TRANSLATION 1
Now it is night, and I am wrapped in a traveling blanket on a four-horse carriage, running with mother and her friends from the theater, so happy in their amusement and laughter, as the trumpeter with fanfare and trumpets announces the our passage through Kennington Street...
TRANSLATION 2
Now it is night and I am wrapped in a traveling blanket in a stagecoach drawn by four horses, traveling with my mother and her troupe mates, lulled by their mirth and laughter as much as our trumpeter by our advertising trumpets. he exclaims as we cross Kennington Street...
*Frontpage picture: Edward Gooch Collection in the Getty Images