Lost in Translation

I have to confess that after recently watching Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation I was almost angry at Coppola for not telling me what did Bill Murray whisper in the teary eyed Scarlett Johansson's ears at the end of the movie which left her beaming. I wanted to be a witness to that intensely private moment of both the protagonists. But alas, Coppola left me out. However, the more I thought about the movie and the end after I switched off the screen, the more I fell in love with it and the fact that Coppola allowed me and the other audiences to witness that crucial, lovely and private moment only from a distance.

"Lost in translation" is almost a ubiquitous phrase if I can loosely substitute "translation" for "interpretation". We are in "Lost in translation" state almost all the time. Atleast I am. Its like a definition of a poem, which is open to so many interpretations. It is a definition for a writer like Murakami or Marquez (both my favourites) who often leave us wondering with their dexterity in weaving magical web of words. However, do you really want to arrive at a close-ended interpretation of a poem or beautiful stories by these writers. Or would you rather enjoy their open-endedness and then explore various versions of "translation" in your head. Isn't that more inetresting?

Just imagine me knocking on the grave of one of my favourite poets, William Blake and asking him as to what was he thinking when he wrote a particular poem. What were his exact thoughts at that moment. I think he would want to punch me on my nose for disturbing him for something so silly. And I would seem like a journalist for Aaj Tak or India TV for asking the most ridiculous questions ever. Why would he want to explain why he wrote what he wrote. Tennyson wouldn't want to describe 'Lady of Shalott' to you ever. He did that already, in his poem.


Murakami creates a guy in 'Nausea 1979' (one of the short stories from Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman) who is a serial flirt, who only has affairs with married women and then one day he develops a bizarre vomiting disease where he would vomit everyday. There are prank calls too. It happens for 40 days and then it never happens again. Was there ever a relation of his vomiting with his serial flirting with married women. Murakami wouldn't answer that. You shouldn't even ask that. It is just interesting as it is. Open-endedness is one of the most beautiful things in life according to me. I wouldn't ever want to disturb that to arrive at one single fucking boring conclusion, especially if I feel the writer doesn't want me too.

Its the funniest thing to ever ask someone to explain their poems, short stories etc. How can you explain that to someone. If you don't get it, its absolutely fine. Live with it. If you like it, then interpret it as your private moment. But don't ask the writer to re-create/re-enact/re-explain the private moment of their life when they wrote that particular poem, story or novel.

When I was doing my graduation in English Literature, we had atleast 10 books by critics on one novel by a particular writer. All with their own "translations"/"Interpretations". I would always enjoy reading all and never believing in even one. Because there is nothing right or wrong with any of those. Its each individual's own version of someone else's words and that's how it is intended to be Or so I think :)