As a person who has always been fascinated by all things Mediaeval—and who rather regrets never giving Mediaeval History a serious go in tertiary education—I'm always looking for Mediaeval literature to read and add to my collection. One work that has been on my to-read list for several years is a certain chanson de geste called the Song of Roland. There were a few reasons for this: it's a foundational piece of Mediaeval literature, a work that allegedly contributed to the shaping of the French language as we know it, and a work that helped solidify the concept of chivalry. Also Roland has been my top choice of name for a theoretical future son for years, and I wanted to know more about the cultural history of the name and what sort of connotations (and/or baggage) the narrative assigns it. This year I finally got around to reading it.
Usually I find most of my books in second-hand bookstores, but if I've been looking for something for a few years and have had no success finding it (or if I know it's super niche or I get swayed by a particularly nice edition or cover) then I may go out of my way to purchase a brand new copy. When it comes to old works in different or archaic languages I find this particularly daunting. Translation and commentary are, as far as I see it, foundational in shaping a reader's understanding and enjoyment of translated works and works from a different historical context. Translation alone is, I think, a delicate art that carries a great deal of responsibility. As with all written work, the reader places a lot of trust in any author. You surrender your time and your attention into the hands of an author and trust that they will take you on a meaningful journey. The translator has an extra layer of duty here. Their responsibility is not only to the reader--to make sure the journey is meaningful and makes sense--but also to the original author--to make sure that they represent and honour the original narrative by presenting it in a way that is as close to the author's original vision and voice and intent as possible. Finding a good translation is thus very important. As to how one defines and identifies a good translation... I have no idea. I am fluent in exactly one language and so am utterly at the mercy of the translators and whatever other readers recommend. When the time came to decide on a version of the Song of Roland there were two names that regularly came up in my research: Dorothy Sayers, whose translation of The Divine Comedy I have and am presently reading, and some guy called Simon Gaunt. Because I was already familiar with Sayers I decided to go with her version. But then I noticed that the Sayers translation was more expensive than the Gaunt translation and the Gaunt translation came with two other "poems of Charlemagne". So I ended up going with Simon Gaunt and Karen Pratt's The Song of Roland and Other Poems of Charlemagne, and boy am I glad that I did!
Having read through the whole book now I can't really say anything as to how good the translations were. My 12th century French is as lacking as my 12th century Occitanian (sp?). The experience of reading was quite clear and easy to understand, but overall The Song of Roland did not evoke much in me. There were a lot of interesting historical details and tid-bits, but I did not connect to the characters or their conflicts. I do intend to read it again one day, though. I imagine it is the sort of thing that is better on a second reading. At the time of purchase I did not think much of the other two poems in the book and had low expectations for them both. I assumed they would be far inferior and did not expect to end up reading them all the way through. The Song of Roland was clearly the main star and they were just tacked on to flesh out the page count or perhaps make that star shine brighter. In the end, though, I have to say I found The Song of Roland to be, in my experience, the weakest read of the three. The third poem, Charlemagne's Journey to Jerusalem and Constantinople was far more amusing and felt reminiscent of something one might find in Bocaccio's Decameron. But for me the star ended up being the second entry in the book: a poem of some 2000 lines called Daurel and Beton.
