Some years ago Edith Grossman translated Don Quixote, and she has an interesting essay about the process in the latest issue of Guernica. I particularly liked this passage on dealing with difficult words:
What was I to do about the inevitable lexical difficulties and obscure passages? These occur in prodigious numbers in contemporary works and were bound to reach astronomical proportions in a work that is four hundred years old. As I’ve said, normally when I translate I dig through countless dictionaries and other kinds of references—most recently Google—for the meaning of words I don’t know, and then my usual practice is to talk with those kind, patient, and generous friends who are from the same country as the author, and preferably from the same region within the country. As a last step in my lexical searches, I generally consult with the original writer, not for the translation of a word or phrase but for clarification of his or her intention and meaning. But Don Quixote clearly was a different matter: none of my friends came from the Spain of the early seventeenth century, and short of channeling, I had no way to consult with Cervantes. I was, I told myself in a tremulous voice, fervently wishing it were otherwise, completely on my own.
Two things came to my immediate rescue: the first was Martín de Riquer’s informative notes in the Spanish edition of the book I used for the translation (I told García Márquez, whose Living to Tell the Tale I worked on immediately after Don Quixote, that Cervantes was easier to translate than he was because at least in a text by Cervantes there were notes at the bottom of the page). Riquer’s editorial comments shed light on countless historical, geographical, literary, and mythical references, which I think tend to be more obscure for a modern reader than individual lexical items. Throughout his edition, Riquer takes on particularly problematic words by comparing their renderings in the earliest translations of Don Quixote into English, French, and Italian, and I have always found this—one language helping to explicate another—especially illuminating. The second piece of invaluable assistance came from an old friend, the Mexican writer Homero Aridjis, who sent me a photocopy of a dictionary he had found in Holland when he was a diplomat there: a seventeenth-century Spanish-English dictionary first published by a certain gentleman named Percivale, then enlarged by a professor of languages named Minsheu, and printed in London in 1623. The dictionary was immensely helpful at those dreadful times when a word was not to be found in María Moliner, or in the dictionary of the Real Academia, or in Simon and Schuster, Larousse, Collins, or Williams. I do not mean to suggest that there were no excruciatingly obscure or archaic phrases in Don Quixote—it has a lifetime supply of those—but despite all the difficulties I was fascinated to realize how constant and steady Spanish has remained over the centuries (as compared with English, for example), which meant that I could often use contemporary wordbooks to help shed light on a seventeenth-century text.
Thanks for the link, Denny!
Reading the essay in its entirety, I found Grossman herself quite a writer. She quotes Flaubert’s “Language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time we long to move the stars to pity”, but it is quite obvious that, in addition to her great knowledge and assiduous research into the source text, it is her wonderful mastery of English that makes her into a translator able to take on great Spanish authors. I truly stand in awe of such people.
That 1623 dictionary is in EEBO. Unfortunately, one pretty much needs a university to get access to it.
In an article about Don Q, she uses “contemporary” to mean “present day”? What a twit.
Oh, come now. Like it or not, that’s standard usage these days.
Jolly confusing, though. I never know which is meant.
Other “twits,” according to MWDEU, include George Bernard Shaw and Aldous Huxley (not to mention the authors of A Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage (1957) and the Harper Dictionary of Contemporary Usage (1975)). “Present-day” has been the predominant use of contemporary for well over half a century now, so you’d think dearieme would be used to it already.
Bernard Shaw was in some ways a twit.
Bernard Shaw was in most ways a twit.
“Present-day” has been the predominant use of contemporary for well over half a century now, so you’d think dearieme would be used to it already.
Dearieme is at least a hundred and thirty years old, and no one knows how old he was when he was discoverd.
Wonderful article, and a fascinating journey is what she tell us here! I completely agree with Bathrobe.
Me encantó ella, el modo en que relata su tarea, las dificultades que enfrentó y cómo las resolvió.
I wonder if she used “El Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española” de Covarrubias (1611) among the dictionaries she mentions.
But saying that “Cervantistas have always loved to disagree and argue, often with venom and vehemence” is such a lie!! We love each other. Tenderly 😉
Minsheu’s Dictionarie in Spanish and English is now freely available here.
@hat
This is an unusual dictionary; the compiler seems to lavish time on some odd idiomatic expressions; also there are a number of obsolete words and meanings, and there are odd spellings (maybe indicating dialect mixture or incomplete sound changes). Here is a somewhat long series of findings; feel free to shorten or delete this comment:
Bacaláos, a kind of new-land fish.
Baráto, good cheape. [cf. Du. goedkoop, Ge. gutkauf]
Bezár, to kisse, to accustome, to instruct.
Blebéyo [also Plebeyo], m. of or pertaining to the com∣mon people…
Borrácha, f. a bottle with haire [the odre “wineskin” was made with the hair on the inside and not removed from the skin]. Also a drunken woman.
Caçuéla para pringár, a pipkin to keepe hot larde to drop vpon Moores or Neagers, and on other malefactors. Also a pipkin with dripping in it that the poorer sort eate of.
Caracól, m. a snaile, a cockle fish, a welke, or periwinkle, a tortoise. Also a paire of winding staires. Also the place where a rower sits to rowe in any boate.
Charlatán, m. a pratler, a talkatiue fellow.
Cuadérno, that which is fower fold, that which hath fower corners, a sheete of paper turned into fower, as stationers doe in binding their bookes.
Cuésco, vide Cuéxco, craftie. Also the stone or core of any fruit. Also a fart.
Danúbio, the greatest riuer in Europe, rising out of the hill Arnoba [Arnoba = Bernau? via Classical Abnoba with variant Arnoba] in Germanie, and passing by many countries keepeth his name.
desAbrigádo, m. set in the colde.
desAlin̄áda mugér, a woman without rule or gouernment, a sluttish woman, a slatter-bag. Also vnhansome, ill atti∣red.
desBarahustár, to rush into a throng among weapons, and to strike them downe, one while on one side, another while on another.
desFlemár, to purge fleame, to scum a pot, to breake or vtter ones choler.
desFrutár, to gather fruit.
Envestír, yo Envísto, to inuest into ano∣ther countrie or order, to assaile, to breake in among enemies.
Gáfas, f. the bender of a crossebow.
Gaspácho [also gazpacho], m. a sop made with vineger, oile, salt and bread.
Gomitár, vide Vomitár, to vomit, to spew, to cast the gorge, to loath.
Hazér água, to take in fresh water a shipboord. Also to make water.
Hígo, m. a fig a disease in the head, a kinde of piles about the fundament.
Macarrónes, fresh cheese and creame.[were macaroons filled?]
Mácho, m. the male kinde of any creature, the man, a smithes sledge, or great hammer. Also a hee goate.
Marhojadór, m. one that scrapeth off mosse [still exists but regional, dictionary also has std. pan mohoso = mouldie bread ].
Martinéte, a high standing feather in the hat. Also the iack of a virginall that striketh vp the string. Also a kinde of Instrument vsed in warre.
Maulladór, m. a maulling [= screeching?] cat.
Meércle, verily, in truth.
Melón, m. a Melon. Also a badger.
Méro, or líbre Sen̄ór [cf. Ge. Freiherr], a meere free Lord.
Míça, f. a speech to call a cat with, as wee say, pusse. [cf. Ge. Mieze/i]
Mómia, f. mummie, the liquor that run∣neth out of the Cedar trees.
Mósto de Tíntin, wine that runneth first before the presse forceth much.
Nába [also Náva], a rising and falling in a field, as the going vp and downe of a ship at sea.
Natúra, vide Cón̄o.
Nervióso, vide Nervóso, full of sinewes
Obispíllo, m. a Bishop made in iest at Shrouetide among students and schol∣lers, which they hold vp for a weeke, do∣ing him all honour, as though he were truely a bishop indeed.
Obispíllo de puérco, a haggas, a hogs haslet, a chitterling.
Páco, m. a kinde of wilde beast in the Indies of the bignes of a great goat.
Padrásto, m. a stepfather. The pilling of the skin about the nailes. Also a place where one may batter with the canon at a castle, fortresse or wall.
Palmatória, or Can̄ahéja, a ferula, such as they clap schoole boies on the hands with.
Pánda, f. a certaine place within the cittie of Antwerpe. [Could not find]
Paxaréta yérva, a certaine herbe. [Active ingredient in pacharràn? Modern S. endrina]
Pegár, Praes. yo Pégo, 1. Praet. yo Pe∣gué, to pitch with pitch, to sticke, to cleaue to, to cling vnto, to solder, to kerne as fruite do, to infect, to glue.
Perca, f. a peach. [Should this be persca?]
Pólla, a female yoong chicken or birde.[Don’t try this one out!]
Preservatívo, a preseruatiue that will preserue. [Ditto]
Prímos segúndos, coosen germans once remoued.
Privadéro, a iakes farmer. Also one that depriueth.
Privérno, a citie in Italy so named. [Not exactly, Privernum was the abandoned Roman site, Piperno was the new name on a new site from c. 800-1928, when some places in Lazio, sorry, Latium were upgraded or more precisely, retrograded]
Pro, as Buén Pro os hága, much good may it do you, a benefit.
[I think this is wrong, the author has another entry with the correct phrase “Buén Provécho os hága”]
Pucherícos, m. the face and gesture children make when they begin to crie.
Púxo, a desire to goe to stoole, and yet in vaine.
Reçumár, to leake as a pot, to licke the iuice.
Redán̄o, the caull wherein the bowels lie.
Regálo, gentle vsage, daintinesse.
Remoládo, m. battered, rugged, or craggie.
Retardádo, delaied, staied.
Revessár, or Revesár, yo Reviésso, to ouerturne, to belch mightily, to vomit vp his meate and drinke againe.
Rezmilla, f. the top of a mans yard.
Rodílla, a knee, Also a dishclout.
Róma, Rome the citie. Also a mule got∣ten of a horse and an asse. Also a wo∣man with a flat nose.
Rugimiénto de trípas, the crying of the guts.
Sanbeníto, id est Sánto Beníto, Saint Bennet. Also a deformed coate put on such as are founde and prooued protestants.
Sinón, a famous theefe among the Grecians, by whose industry and crafty inuention, in deuising the huge horse of woode, and mangling himselfe, Troie was betrayed. [Someone is misremembering his Vergil]
Tampóco, as little.
Tarénto, a principall citie of Greece called Tarentum. [Not quite Greece, try Italy]
Tarjéta, f. a great long dagger, or a short sword.
Taríma, a Moores bed made of wood.
Tarpéio, or Tarpéyo, one of the sea∣uen hils about Rome so called. [Capitoline hill, ass. with Tarpeia and her rock]
Tenáda, f. a hay loft.
Tóda via, neuerthelesse, notwithstanding.
Tomár cálças de vílla Diego, to runne away like a coward. [Villadiego]
Trastejár cása, or Trastechár, to tile a house. Also to rob, filch, steale: a borrowed speech from the going on the tops of houses, to breake in and rob.
Triquéte, m. a corner or bench in a brothell house where the queanes practise their filthines.
Zohorí, one that seeth well, one that findeth springs on the earth.
feel free to shorten or delete this comment
Heaven forfend! That’s great stuff; I particularly like “Cuésco, vide Cuéxco, craftie. Also the stone or core of any fruit. Also a fart” and “Hígo, m. a fig a disease in the head, a kinde of piles about the fundament.”
Never seen those; however, effectively a calque of that exists (obsolete, literary) in German: wohlfeil “cheap”, related to feilhalten “have for sale”.
*lightbulb moment*
cf. Du. goedkoop, Ge. gutkauf
Never seen those; however, effectively a calque of that exists (obsolete, literary) in German: wohlfeil “cheap”, related to feilhalten “have for sale”.
DWS has it as Low German (quoted form gootkoop). I can’t remember ever having heard it either in Platt or in Standard German.
Added information on wohlfeil: in the basic meaning (“cheap” of goods) it is obsolete outside historical novels or similar writing; in literary language its always used figuratively, as in wohlfeile Parolen “cheap slogans” etc.
@hans
Thanks, I thought gutkauf existed (in older writing) but the only corpus hits are for the noun Gutkauf (meaning “farm purchase”)! The Dutch word is in common use, more so, I think, than its synonym “billijk” (vijlen = feilen, but I don’t know any analogue to wohlfeil).
So Ulrich Ladurner’s commentary on the front page of Die Zeit, January 15 2026, is written in “literary language”?:
For me, that’s simply stylistically unmarked written Standard German, without the least “literary” touch. In theory, anybody who passed his Abitur with a “gut” or “sehr gut” in German should be able to write like that.
There’s a difference between ‘in literary language [it’s] always used figuratively‘ and ‘if it’s used figuratively it can only be literary language‘. Possibly to do with iffs.
The implication of the post was that the word only exists in literary language; that is wrong — in fact it’s dubious if the term “literary language” has any real meaning. In the 20th and 21st century, every literary author uses the language he needs, and if you’re honest, this was already true 200 years ago — there is little in common between the language of the prose of Heinrich von Kleist and that of the Geheimrath von Goethe.
Why not? Surely Die Zeit is highbrow enough for that?
Yes. That doesn’t mean they’re going to do that when aiming for a less rarefied register.
For me, that’s simply stylistically unmarked written Standard German, without the least “literary” touch. In theory, anybody who passed his Abitur with a “gut” or “sehr gut” in German should be able to write like that
If you need a good grade Abitur to write like that, it’s definitely literary language in my book. Using that word is certainly not colloquial language, and it’s also not a word I’d expect in business or administrative German.
Good points, and agreed.