The Book Of Desire by Meena Kandasamy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
In translating Simone de Beavoir’s Le Deuxième sexe (The Second Sex), the translators, Constance Borde and Shiela Malovany-Chevallier, in their note at the beginning of the Vintage Classic edition raise the difficulties any translator faces, commenting: ‘different times have produced different conceptions of translation.’ They also suggest that ‘while great works of art seldom age, translations do.’ George Eliot too pondered the difficulties of translation, stating her strongly-worded opinion that ‘the moral qualities especially demanded in the translator’ were patience, rigid fidelity, and a ‘sense of responsibility in interpreting another man’s mind.’
Here, Kandasamy grapples with the underlying philosophy of her translation with her stated purpose being to offer a ‘feminist interventionist’ translation of an ancient Tamil text, her act of translating undertaken as a feminist decolonial Tamil. In doing so, she first deconstructs what colonialism is, suggesting that it is more than ‘white-skinned European hegemony,’ and her expansive framework of how she perceives colonialism serves to further enrich her text. In fact, I found her essay which begins the book to be a useful tool to fully appreciate the skills required to undertake her task. Kandasamy claims the space to be able to interpret a powerful, influential text as a woman, as a Tamil, and she does so with a potency that almost shimmers through the English words she has chosen to put on the page.
I know very little of Tamil history or culture, so I cannot begin, nor would it be appropriate, to comment on any aspect of what Kandasamy has done with the underlying Tamil text. I offer my views as someone who was, very simply put, spellbound by the English words on the page, responding to them in an emotional, heartfelt way, for her words, they are magical. This is a woman who so deeply understands the intrinsic emotional conflicts inherent in desire, that ephemeral fiery impulse that sits between two humans in ways we often do not understand, and the magnetic pull of desire, as well as the fear of being consumed, lost to it.
She confides that she was the victim of domestic violence, and for any woman who has ever been caught in the swirl of a consuming, violent, or coercive relationship there is both a recognition and a comfort in the words. The one that resonated most for this reader:
‘This sly enchanter and
his artful words, are they
not the army that breaks
into our womaness?’
As I read these words I felt seen. I felt heard.
Kandasamy’s work, even without any understanding or contextual framework of the original text, is beautiful, a real joy to read.
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Deborah Siddoway 