Intralingual Translation of British Novels: A Multimodal Stylistic Perspective 9781350151871, 9781350151901, 9781350151888

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels

Advances in Stylistics Series Editors: Dan McIntyre, University of Huddersfield, UK, and Louise Nuttall, University of Huddersfield, UK Editorial Board: Jean Boase-Beier, University of East Anglia, UK Beatrix Busse, University of Heidelberg, Germany Szilvia Csábi, Independent Scholar Yaxiao Cui, University of Nottingham, UK Manuel Jobert, Jean Moulin University, Lyon 3, France Lorenzo Mastopierro, University of Nottingham, UK Eric Rundquist, Pontifica Universidad Catόlica de Chile, Chile Odette Vassallo, University of Malta, Malta Peter Verdonk, University of Amsterdam (Emeritus), The Netherlands Chantelle Warner, University of Arizona, USA Titles in the series include: Chick Lit: The Stylistics of Cappuccino Fiction, Rocío Montoro Corpus Stylistics in Principles and Practice, Yufang Ho Crime Fiction Migration, Christiana Gregoriou I.A. Richards and the Rise of Cognitive Stylistics, David West Mind Style and Cognitive Grammar, Louise Nuttall Narrative Retellings, Marina Lambrou New Directions in Cognitive Grammar and Style, Marcello Giovanelli, Chloe Harrison and Louise Nuttall Oppositions and Ideology in News Discourse, Matt Davies Pedagogical Stylistics, Michael Burke, Szilvia Csábi, Lara Week and Judit Zerkowitz Style in the Renaissance, Patricia Canning Stylistic Manipulation of the Reader in Contemporary Fiction, Sandrine Sorlin Sylvia Plath and the Language of Affective States, Zsófia Demjén Telecinematic Stylistics, Christian Hoffmann and Monika Kirner-Ludwig Text World Theory and Keats’ Poetry, Marcello Giovanelli The Stylistics of Poetry, Peter Verdonk World Building, Joanna Gavins and Ernestine Lahey World Building in Spanish and English Spoken Narratives, Jane Lugea

Intralingual Translation of British Novels A Multimodal Stylistic Perspective Linda Pillière

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2021 Copyright © Linda Pillière, 2021 Linda Pillière has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. viii constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Pillière, Linda, 1958– author.  Title: Intralingual translation of British novels : a multimodal stylistic perspective / Linda Pillière.  Description: London ; New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2021. | Series: Advances in stylistics | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2020054770 (print) | LCCN 2020054771 (ebook) | ISBN 9781350151871 (hardback) | ISBN 9781350151888 (ebook) | ISBN 9781350151895 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: English fiction–20th century–History and criticism. | English fiction–American influences. | American fiction–20th century–History and criticism. | American fiction–English influences. | English language–Variation–United States. | English language–Style–United States. | Editing. | Comparative literature–English and American. | Comparative literature–American and English. Classification: LCC PR881 .P55 2021 (print) | LCC PR881 (ebook) | DDC 823.009/34–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054770 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054771 ISBN: HB: 978-1-3501-5187-1 ePDF: 978-1-3501-5188-8 eBook: 978-1-3501-5189-5 Series: Advances in Stylistics Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents List of Figures List of Tables Acknowledgements List of Abbreviations Introduction 1 Defining the terms 2 Editing the text 3 Repackaging the text 4 Americanizing the text 5 Crafting the text 6 Revoicing the text Conclusion Corpus References Index

vi vii viii x 1 13 35 57 97 133 169 203 211 215 245

Figures 1 .1 1.2 1.3 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10

Jakobson’s model of communication Lecercle’s ALTER model Hewson’s reworking of the ALTER model Cover design of AmE edition of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry Area model for On Beulah Height Cover design for the BrE cover On Beulah Height Cover design for the AmE cover On Beulah Height Area model comparison of crime fiction Cover design of BrE edition of Flour Babies Cover design of AmE edition of Flour Babies Cover design of BrE edition of Notes from a Small Island Cover design of AmE edition of Notes from a Small Island A reworking of Lecercle’s ALTER model to include the material text

14 32 33 72 73 74 75 77 80 81 83 85 94

Tables 4 .1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8 4 .9 4.10 4.11 4.12 5.1 6.1

Table of examples of Americanized spelling Table of examples of Direct Translation Table of examples of Generalization Table of examples of Substitution with a TC item Table of examples of official equivalents Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding nouns Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding verbs Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding prepositions, and adverbs Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding determiners Table of predictable substitutions regarding conjunctions Table of predictable substitutions regarding word order Table of examples of predictable transposition Table of examples of stylistic concision Table of examples of modifications to features of expressivity

101 105 107 112 116 120 122 123 124 126 126 127 139 177

Acknowledgements One of the basic premises of my study is that every book is the product of a collaborative enterprise, and this monograph is no exception. It would never have been written without help from the Centre National des Universités, in the form of a research leave semester, and I am grateful to my colleagues at AixMarseille Université who covered my hours during my leave. My thanks also go to my research centre, the LERMA (Laboratoire d’Études et de Recherche sur le Monde Anglophone ER 853). Without their funding and support, I  would not have been able to attend various conferences both in France and further afield, and benefit from conversations with colleagues of various scholarly associations: the European Study for the Study of English (ESSE), the European Study for Translation Studies (EST), the International Association of Literary Semantics (IALS), the Poetics and Linguistics Association (PALA), the Société des Anglicistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur (SAES) and the Société de Stylistique Anglaise (SSA). I am also immensely grateful to the Harry Ransom Center, the University of Texas at Austin, for awarding me a Research Fellowship in the Humanities. The archives provided invaluable insights into editing practices, and my thanks go to all the staff at the Center for their warm welcome during my stay, and to Rick Watson for his guidance and to Kate Hayes for all her help. Thanks too to all the copy editors who have been kind enough to reply to my queries over the years: to Benjamin Dreyer at Random House, to the members of the copyediting forum Copyediting-L, and to the members of ACES, SFep and AFEPI. Thanks also to Paul Luna, for his insights into the typography used by the OED. Any errors are of course my own. Thanks too to Emily Dunford for chasing up references in Harry Potter. I would also like to thank Andrew Wardell at Bloomsbury Academic for enthusiastically supporting the project, Becky Holland for her patience and advice, and the helpful comments from my anonymous reviewer. Last but not least, my long-suffering family: my daughters Elizabeth and Rebecca, who have lived with the idea for this book for more years than I care to remember, but most of all, my husband, Jean-Marc, without whose love and support none of this would have been possible.

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The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge the permission granted to reproduce the copyright material in this book. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions in the above list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

Abbreviations A AF BL BH BJ BJR BNW BW CS CT EW FA FB FC FR FT GMT HBP HGF IHA ITA LD MCW MW MnWH MP MWH NP OP OPC PM

Amsterdam Almost French Brick Lane On Beulah Height Bridget Jones’s Diary Bridget Jones and the Edge of Reason Brave New World Blackberry Wine The Comfort of Strangers The Child in Time The Empire of the Wolves Fleshmarket Alley Flour Babies Fleshmarket Close Flowers in the Rain Forest Therapy Goodnight Mister Tom Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire In Her Arms In Those Arms The Road to Little Dribbling A Mouse Called Wolf The Map that Changed the World The Maiden of White Hands Moving Pictures The Maid of the White Hands Normal People Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Other People’s Children The Professor and the Madman

Abbreviations

PP PS RC RD SA SB SC SD SI SL SS SSP WT

Pony in the Porch Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone The River at the Centre of the World The Remorseful Day Schindler’s Ark In a Sunburned Country The Surgeon of Crowthorne The Life and Loves of a She Devil Notes from a Small Island Schindler’s List Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone Sheltie, the Shetland Pony White Teeth

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Introduction

The idea for this book began many years ago, when I ordered Simon Winchester’s The Surgeon of Crowthorne and The Professor and the Madman. Much to my surprise and annoyance, I  discovered on their arrival that they were one and the same book. Or were they? I started reading them in parallel and from the opening chapter realized that the two editions differed in many important ways. Up until then, like most readers, I had always assumed that if I purchased a copy of an English novel in the United States, or elsewhere, it would be identical to the one I might have bought in the United Kingdom. Protest over the changes made to the Harry Potter series – or any work with a wide readership on both sides of the Atlantic – has meant that some readers are now aware that differences can and do exist. However, this knowledge is not widespread, and there is a general absence of any detailed critical writing on this subject beyond articles in specialized periodicals. So, what exactly are these transformations, and how is the novel ‘modified’ for the reader in the United States? This point will be examined more fully in Chapters  4 to 6 but imagine for a moment that you are in a bookstore in New York. Among the piles stacked high on a central display table is a novel by your favourite author, and you cannot resist taking a look. You will probably be struck first by the cover design and possibly the title. In other words, the material presentation of the text, those elements that Genette ([1987] 1997) identifies as belonging to the paratext. Although the term paratext may make us think such elements are peripheral to the text itself, nothing could be further from the truth for these aspects of the work serve ‘to present it, in the usual sense of the verb but also in the strongest sense: to make present, to ensure the text’s presence in the world, its “reception” and consumption’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 1). Intrigued, you turn the novel over to look at the back cover. The reviews will now mostly come from the US press. The photograph of the author that smiles up at you from the back cover may be different, and the plot synopsis will

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probably describe a different aspect of the book or emphasize different elements in the plot. But suppose you now open the book, your curiosity aroused by the cover and title: surely inside the covers it is the same? Yes and no. You may find illustrations or photographs where there were none in the British edition (see e.g. The Professor and the Madman; Schindler’s List) or illustrations omitted where they used to be (see e.g. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone). There may be greater or lesser spacing between paragraphs or different chapter headings (see e.g. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry). The size of the book may be smaller (see e.g. On Beulah Height) or larger (see e.g. The Map that Changed the World). The type may be changed, and a glossary may have been added (see e.g. Notes from a Small Island; Moonlight Downs). These changes are not irrelevant; if they did not influence the potential buyer, major publishing houses would not spend time and money on reformatting texts. The world of publishing is, let us not forget, first and foremost a commercial enterprise. While we may not go as far as Alice and wonder what the use of a book is without pictures or conversations, it is inevitable that wellchosen illustrations and a text that is spaced out will have a positive effect on the potential buyer. Unlike a newspaper, books usually make less use of different typefaces, and the average reader is not consciously aware of the publisher’s choice in this domain. However, the printed form inevitably influences our interpretation of the text, giving ‘the reader the sense of being within a special separate world, the world only of this book’ (Gross 1993: 276), thus, influencing our reading experience. Change the format and you may also change the role of the book, for not all books are destined to be read in quite the same way. The coffee table book is but one example where a specific edition has a function other than to be read  – seeking to impress the casual visitor of its owner’s culture and to stimulate conversation. As your attention now focuses on the words themselves, further differences become apparent. Your attention is probably drawn first to those changes that concern the graphological code: the spelling, punctuation, the use of hyphens, capital letters or the use of italics or boldface. You may spot lexico-grammatical differences, the use of ‘sidewalk’ instead of ‘pavement’, the use of ‘gotten’ instead of ‘got’, indicating that the dialect being used is American English (AmE). Other changes will remain unnoticed, however, unless the two editions are laid side by side and the various additions and omissions noted. As you stand there in the bookstore, holding the AmE edition in your hand, you may well find yourself wondering how to classify this new version of the text. Should it be considered

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a copy, a new edition, an adaptation, a translation? And if it is a translation, is it the same as translating from a totally foreign language? In this book, I  aim to answer some of these questions. By investigating the different modifications that have been made from a multimodal stylistic perspective, I  will seek to explain the reasons behind the changes and to demonstrate that such transformations, even if they vary from one book to another and from one publishing house to another, affect the text both as a set of linguistic forms and as a material and physical object.

1.1  An introduction to the concepts and aims of this book If we want to determine how these AmE editions might be deemed to be translations, then Jakobson’s (1959) influential tripartite division of translation is a good place to start. Jakobson labels the rewording or rewriting of a text by means of other signs of the same language ‘intralingual translation’; the other two being interlingual and intersemiotic. While Jakobson has the merit of identifying and labelling forms of translation that are not necessarily translation from one natural language to another, he spends little time investigating two of the forms: intralingual and intersemiotic translation. Research in translation studies has tended to follow Jakobson’s lead, focusing on interlingual translation to the detriment of the other two categories. The tripartite division has also encouraged scholars to see the three categories as separate entities rather than as sharing common features. Consequently, intralingual translation has either been totally neglected or regarded as being of lesser importance than interlingual translation. I will examine Jakobson’s definitions in more detail in Chapter 1, as well as recent developments in translation studies that revisit the relationship between intra- and interlingual translation. Although there have been some influential articles on intralingual translation (Hill-Madsen 2015, 2019; Zethsen 2007, 2009) and, more recently, book chapters on the topic (Berk Albachten 2014; Kajzer-Wietrzny 2019; Whyatt 2017), there is, as yet, no fulllength monograph on intralingual translation. One of my aims is therefore to address the place of intralingual translation within translation studies and to reflect on how best to classify these AmE editions of British English (BrE) texts. In so doing, I  underline that far from deserving its past neglect, the study of intralingual translation has, in fact, much to offer translation studies and should therefore no longer find itself on the periphery. I also question the fragmentation of translation studies into Jakobson’s tripartite division.

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To investigate intralingual translation I have chosen to focus on a comparison of the AmE editions of BrE works, even though the scope of intralingual translation is far broader than this and can include expert-to-lay translation, adaptations of classics for children, and modern renderings of classics. The changes made to BrE editions for the AmE market have been studied in a few specialized articles (Bruyère and Cachin 1997; Cachin 1998; Denton 2007; Nel 2002; Nowak 1997; Quinion 2000; Radosh 1999; Whitehead 1996, 1997), and some have even identified these changes as cases of intralingual translation (HillMadsen 2019; Pillière 2010, 2013; Zethsen 2007, 2009). However, to the best of my knowledge at the time of writing, no full-length study on the intralingual translation of BrE novels exists. Moreover, most of these studies focus on one book: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for the AmE reader). In other words, the phenomenon has tended to be reduced to one specific genre, children’s literature; one specific author, J.  K. Rowling; and one specific publisher, Scholastic Press. This has led researchers to focus on lexical changes, as these are the most frequent modifications (albeit not the only) in this specific work. However, that is not the full picture of changes made to BrE editions when they are republished in the United States. Bryson’s travelogues offer a wealth of examples of explicitations, paraphrases and deictic shifts; McEwan’s novels present interesting cases of tense changes; and other works in children’s fiction illustrate a standardization of non-standard varieties. By focusing on lexical modifications, previous studies have labelled this kind of intralingual translation as dialectal or intercultural translation (Gottlieb 2008; Hill-Madsen 2019; Zethsen 2009). While there is no escaping the fact that many of the changes are indeed dialectal, others obey stylistic constraints, and while some may have been made by the authors themselves, others are more probably the work of editors. Following the ‘cultural turn’ in translation studies (Bassnett and Lefevere [1990] 1995), there has been a growing interest in the sociocultural context in which a translation is produced and the various constraints and power relations that may be imposed upon it. However, the active role played by editors in producing the final text before publication is rarely acknowledged in translation studies. This is partly explained by the fact the changes made by editors are invisible in the final text and can only be observed through comparisons of editors’ proofs and manuscripts. While the editor and/or copy editor play a vital role in checking for basic factual inconsistencies within a text, and in correcting repetition, spelling and punctuation, textual changes may well go beyond this fundamental task, adding or omitting passages that they consider will enhance or hamper a book’s commercial success.

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How far editors work with authors in making these changes and how far authors accept or approve of these changes will vary. If examples exist of editors closely collaborating with authors, as in the case of Maxwell Perkins and Thomas Wolfe (Dessauer [1974] 1993:  64), other writers are less appreciative of the changes made (Legat [1982] 1998: 159). Roald Dahl (Knopf 1979), J. K. Rowling, A. S. Byatt (Nowak 1997) and Ian McEwan (private email) are recent examples of authors who did not agree with every change that was made, and Jane Whitehead’s 1996 article, ‘This is NOT what I wrote’, is in fact the quotation of a comment written by a children’s author-illustrator, Amanda Vesey, inside the AmE edition of her work, The Princess and the Frog. The comment underlines Vesey’s anger at finding her original text modified for the North American reader. Such modifications reflect a general pattern of behaviour in US editors. Legat ([1982] 1998: 177) comments that ‘it has long been said that British editors are over-reluctant to help their authors to improve their books … whereas American editors go to the other extreme and often virtually rewrite books which had no need of such treatment’. The reactions of these authors and the very existence of multiple versions of a text raise the question of the role of the author, authorial intention, and even the author’s identity. The role of the editor (I use the term editor to refer to various agents who intervene in the publishing process) is examined in greater detail in Chapter 2. The comparison of two editions of a work that coexist in AmE and in BrE offers then an opportunity to examine the different ways an editor intervenes on a text and opens up interesting perspectives for research in translation studies. While the role of the translator in relation to the author has been the subject of much attention in translation studies (Arrojo 1997; Hermans 1999; Venuti [1995] 2018), stylisticians have rarely distinguished between analysing a text in translation and an untranslated text. Further, Boase-Beier (2018: 202) makes the point that stylisticians tend to write about translated texts as if the words should be ascribed to the author and not the translator, often blissfully unaware that the fact the texts are translated ‘changes everything’. To a lesser degree this is true of any text. We automatically suppose that all the choices have been made by the author when, in fact, the editor may well have intervened. One of the questions that will need addressing, within the exploration of intralingual translation, is whether the work of the editor is the same as that of a translator. To explore this idea, I will be using research into editorial practices and book publishing (Greenberg 2018; Thompson 2010) along with interviews and comments by editors themselves (Athill [2000] 2011; Greenberg 2015; Gross 1993). This

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will be further supplemented by a study of the process of transediting (Stetting 1989), a term originally coined to refer to the transformations carried out by journalist-translators, and a concept that has not been fully explored in relation to literary works. Editors play a vital role in interpreting the text for the potential reader, just as translators interpret and present the text in another language. Yet models of interpretation and communication have not really theorized the role of the translator (see, however, Lecercle 1999 and his discussion on Benjamin’s philosophy of translation), and few scholars, apart from some editorial theorists (Darnton 1982; Adams and Barker [1993] 2001) envisage the role of the editor within a theoretical framework of interpretation. The second aim of this book is to examine how the editor can be integrated within a pragmatic framework of interpretation. If the text is the fruit of a collaborative enterprise, to consider merely the textual transformations, the linguistic features, would be to neglect the contribution made by the other participants in the enterprise. This study therefore goes beyond both linguistic analysis, which would simply study specific grammatical forms in context, and literary study – which would focus on changes in narratorial voice – to consider the book in its entirety and to raise awareness of the important role played by the material text. In recent years, the material aspects of a text have been highlighted by research in bibliography and editorial theory. Editorial theorists have begun to underline the need to examine what McGann (1991: 13) calls bibliographical codes: ‘typefaces, bindings, book prices, page format, and all those textual phenomena usually regarded as (at best) peripheral to “poetry” or “the text as such” ’. Such phenomena belong to the ‘social and technical circumstances’ of the text’s production (McKenzie 1999: 1), and an interest in this aspect of texts, the non-verbal elements, marks a move away from seeking authorial meaning and intentions to studying how texts are transmitted and received. For Bornstein (2001: 8), ‘bibliographic (sic) codes or the physical features of the text correspond to the physical features of delivery of a speech act’, a point of view shared by Shillingsburg (1997: 155). A book is very much a physical object, present both in time and space. The existence of two (or more) editions draws attention to the fact that all the participants in the process  – author, editor, text and reader  – can vary, and the participant that varies the most is the text itself. For many scholars it is no longer possible to aim for a definitive edition of an author’s work or an ideal copy-text, as the number of revisions and existing editions underlines the text’s instability. The existence of yet another edition on the other side of the Atlantic adds credence to such a theory. This point is of importance, for we are all too

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often taken in by the written printed text, believing it to be a finalized, completed version: what the author wants to say. We are unaware of all the changes and modifications that may have taken place before its appearance on the bookshelf, unless we have access to the manuscript, just as we are unaware of further changes that may be introduced in subsequent editions. The fact that there may be hundreds of identical copies of a work available for every edition serves only to highlight this impression of a printed work’s completeness, because once the book is published and on sale, all traces of the editor’s interventions vanish (Lerner [2000] 2016: 198). The comparison of AmE and BrE editions in the pages that follow will focus on such ‘traces’, thus making visible an element that is present in every book we read, though we rarely notice it or take it into account in our critical analysis. Stylistics and translation studies have not totally ignored the materiality of the text. Theorists such as Benjamin (2012) and Venuti have emphasized that language is not referential, and that the materiality of the text, including its style, needs to be accounted for. In recent years, the role played by different modes in creating textual meaning has come under scrutiny (Kress and van Leeuwen 2001), and I explore this point further in Chapter 3. This has resulted in a widening of the field of translation studies (Dicerto 2018) and an expansion of the stylistics toolbox (Nørgaard 2019a) in order to consider ‘how meaning is handled modally across the range of modes in different societies’ (Kress 2010: 11). However, the role of multimodality in translation studies remains largely unexplored, and this is especially true in the case of intralingual translation. My third and final aim in this book will be to demonstrate the need to consider translation and stylistics in the light of multimodal research, and to reflect on how that may influence the way we define translation.

1.2  Methodology and corpus The works in the corpus were all published between the 1980s and the turn of the twenty-first century. The reason for choosing such a time span, and for not venturing into the early twentieth century or even the nineteenth century, is that recent years have witnessed many changes in the world of publishing, with the industry undergoing a series of important mergers. Consequently, the publishing world today appears very different when compared to that of the first half of the twentieth century. The arrival of the paperback, the change in distribution channels, the emergence of international conglomerates have resulted in an

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increased emphasis on profit and publishing as a commercial venture . These factors have undoubtedly influenced some of the editorial decisions that have been made and that are studied in the chapters that follow. Although a certain period has been chosen, within that period my choice is eclectic, based on novels and works that I  have read and that contain modifications. Many works that have crossed the Atlantic unscathed, or which provide evidence merely of spelling and punctuation changes, have been excluded from my analysis. As my research continued, I  actively sought out works that had titles changed or were signalled by other readers on the internet and social media. Most of the works fall into the category of popular fiction, but there are also travelogues, children’s fiction, biography, Booker Prize winners, a Nobel Prize winner and translations. This is not a statistical corpus study and, although I have limited my research to works published between the 1980s and the present day, it would be foolhardy to draw any definitive conclusions about editorial changes made to BrE novels from this evidence. The nature of my study, and its emphasis on both the linguistic and material text, makes a statistical study more difficult, although it would be interesting to see whether or not the findings of such a study confirmed some of my hypotheses. Mahlberg ([2014] 2018: 389) rightly notes that ‘quantitative data can highlight linguistic phenomena that readers may not be aware of ’. However, a close comparison of BrE and AmE editions is a little different to comparing two interlingual translations, as a substantial amount of the text is identical in both editions. Therefore, if one is meticulously noting the differences, changes to grammatical function words such as prepositions or conjunctions are immediately apparent. My study draws on research from a variety of disciplines  – translation studies, stylistics, multimodality, book history and communication theory  – to explore the concept of intralingual translation. This has led me to adopt an interdisciplinary approach and to incorporate different theoretical frameworks into my methodology. From a translation perspective, the methodology adopted in this study is broadly a descriptive one as outlined by Toury ([1995] 2012). The texts from the corpus were read in parallel and all the differences duly noted. From these preliminary readings it became evident that the changes made to the BrE text were not consistent. Some were language-specific and exemplified an Americanization of the text. Others were less easily labelled and seemed to correspond to norms imposed by editors. The two types of choices are not impermeable, and that has made categorization difficult at times. After noting the changes, I examined

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them in the light of translation strategies and stylistic choices. The link between choice and style is fundamental to stylistics but has also been noted by translation scholars such as Boase-Beier ([2006] 2020; 2010), Munday ([2008] 2016), Hewson (2011) and Bosseaux (2007), to name but a few. I will be exploring the relationship between stylistics and translation studies more closely in Chapter 1, particularly translational stylistics as proposed by Malmkjær (2003; 2004). Malmkjær’s approach, which I  will be adopting, encourages a comparative reading of texts and analysis of translators’ choices, while being constantly aware of the constraints imposed upon a translated text and the need to consider any stylistic choices in the light of these constraints. By comparing the AmE and the BrE editions, I will be studying not just the changes made, but what those changes tell us about the BrE text itself. Without the AmE edition as a point of comparison, some of the stylistic aspects of the BrE text might go unnoticed. It will be equally important to consider the constraints imposed by the target text readership as they will necessarily influence the stylistic choices that are made. Stylistic choices will have been influenced by the norms of the target culture, that is, the US publishing house, the genre or different sociocultural norms. Others will have been the individual choice of a copy editor or another member of the editing team. Whatever the reason for the changes, these choices affect the way the target text (TT) is read and/or interpreted. A stylistic approach will enable me to tweak out the possible effects of a specific choice of linguistic feature and to be more aware of the possible effects when the text is modified for the AmE reader. Finally, as my interest lies in the book as a product, I will be taking and modifying Genette’s ([1987] 1997) theory of the paratext and supplementing it with existing research on multimodality (Bateman 2008; Nørgaard 2019a). This will enable me to revisit Jakobson’s (1959) tripartite division of translation and to question its legitimacy in the light of my findings. An important aspect of translational stylistics is the concept of interpretation. The aim of this work is not simply to describe the changes but to reflect on the effects of such changes and as far as possible to understand the underlying causes. Koster (2002: 29) claims that it is ‘hard to see how any meaningful target text–source text comparison is possible without somehow taking into account the question of interpretation’. If we accept that the author writes with an imagined reader in mind, we must also accept that the translator and the editor and all those involved in the publication process also have their own mental representation of the reader that will influence their marketing strategies. Traditional communication theories that present communication as a process conveying ideas and thoughts from a speaker to an addressee, or from an author

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to a reader will not suffice. My study will seek to integrate the editor into a communication model that includes the author, reader and text, but will also take into account the sociocultural context and representation of language. I will therefore be using the ALTER model as outlined by Jean-Jacques Lecercle (1999) and looking at how this can be adapted to include the editorial process.

1.3 Overview The book divides roughly into two sections. Chapters 1–3 are more theoretical and present the various frameworks that will be used throughout the study. Chapters  4–6 look more specifically at the modifications carried out on the linguistic text. Finally, I offer some concluding remarks and seek to reconsider how intralingual translation can be placed within translation studies. In Chapter  1, I  examine the concept of intralingual translation within translation studies in general, beginning with Jakobson’s seminal essay and tripartite division and moving on to study more recent attempts to define the concept (Gottlieb 2018; Hill-Madsen 2019; Zethsen 2009). This leads me to examine current questions posed by definitions of translation studies, and to investigate the relationship between translation studies and stylistics. Finally, I consider how the role of the editor can be integrated into theoretical frameworks of communication and translation. Chapter 2 looks at the various roles of the editor within the publishing process and how these roles can be considered in relation to the author, the reader and the text. The chapter begins by briefly examining the role played by an editor prior to the author’s submission of his/her final draft, and the subsequent work undertaken by the editor on the final draft itself. It then considers editors as readers:  both as the text’s first readers and as readers imagining how other potential readers will react. Finally, the relationship between editor and text is examined, followed by a brief overview of the textual changes that may be proposed by the editor. From this study, I demonstrate that the term editor refers to a diverse range of functions: on the one hand in relation to the author and text and, on the other, in relation to the reader and the text. The variety and complexity of the examples studied underline how difficult it is to produce one single theoretical framework that will account for all the different roles assumed by the editor. Chapter  3 begins by presenting the key theoretical frameworks that will be used to analyse the material text. I explore Genette’s concept of paratext in

Introduction

11

the light of recent multimodal research in stylistics and genre studies. I  then give a multimodal analysis of the various paratextual features of works in my corpus:  book covers, illustrations, typeface. The aim is to show how these elements influence reader expectancy and play a role in creating meaning. The changes between the AmE and BrE editions demonstrate how the actors in the production process have positioned themselves in relation to the linguistic text, and how they adapt the text’s packaging for the new readership. Chapters  4, 5 and 6 investigate the modifications that have been made to the linguistic text. Chapter  4 focuses on lexical and grammatical changes, analysing them both from a stylistic point of view and as translation procedures. Chapter 5 studies the less noticeable changes that have been made for the AmE edition, changes that would not easily be labelled as Americanization and that mainly appear when the two editions can be compared. Chapter 6 looks at how these various changes affect the voices within the text, the characteristics of expressivity and subjectivity that have been modified and the various deictic shifts. The Conclusion draws together the various strands of the study to reconsider Jakobson’s (1959) tripartite division in the light of the preceding study and to suggest ways in which translation studies and stylistics can benefit from each other’s research.

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1

Defining the terms

In this chapter I examine the concept of intralingual translation, both in relation to translation studies and in relation to other fields such as stylistics.

1.1  Defining the subject Most people would consider translation to involve transferring a text from one foreign language to another and, despite Wilde’s ([1887] 2016: 5) well-known statement that the British ‘have everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language’, few British people would immediately label AmE as a foreign language. If AmE editions of BrE novels are indeed translations, then they must be translations of a specific kind. Most definitions on translation begin with the tripartite division made by Jakobson (1959: 233) in his seminal essay ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’: Intralingual translation or rewording is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of other signs of the same language. Interlingual translation or translation proper is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of some other language. Intersemiotic translation or transmutation is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of signs of nonverbal sign systems.

Jakobson’s definitions have the advantage of not limiting the concept of translation to transfer between two or more languages, and intralingual translation, or rewording, would seem at first the most suitable label to apply to the AmE editions of BrE novels. Yet Jakobson’s seemingly simple tripartite definition is far more problematic than it at first appears. Jakobson’s short essay was written in 1959, almost twenty years prior to Holmes’s use of the term ‘translation studies’, and at a time when translation had

14

Intralingual Translation of British Novels Context Addresser/sender

Message

Addressee/receiver

Contact Code

Figure 1.1  Jakobson’s model of communication (Jakobson 1960: 353)

not yet been fully recognized as an independent academic field but was often included within other disciplines such as comparative literature or linguistics (Toury [1995] 2012). One of the underlying ideas in Jakobson’s definition of translation is that language is a code, and that ‘translation involves two equivalent messages in two different codes’ (1959: 233). The belief that a translator must decode a message and then encode in another language is closely linked to Jakobson’s communication model (see Figure 1.1) that he presented a year later in 1960, which was itself partly inspired by Bühler (1934) and also by research in radio and telegraphic communication (Shannon and Weaver 1949). In Jakobson’s model, the addresser encodes a message that the addressee successfully decodes – implying that the addresser’s original intention or meaning is retrievable, and that the communicative process involves no transformation of the original message. Yet common sense tells us that few messages, if any, are totally unambiguous, and that there is always the possibility of misunderstanding or of the addresser seeking to mislead the addressee deliberately. We do not simply decode a message when we communicate, nor when we translate. The ambiguity of any message is nicely illustrated by Jakobson’s own definition of interlingual translation and his use of the term translation proper. Scholars have interpreted the word proper in two different ways: first, as Jakobson suggesting that interlingual translation is true translation to the detriment of the other two kinds (Berk Albachten 2014); second, as representing what other people say or think  – what is conventionally considered to be translation (Hermans 1997). These differences in reading show that we do not decode language; we interpret. While Jakobson’s communication model may lend weight to theorists who see the translator as an invisible figure, one who decodes the original author’s message and whose translation is a direct quotation of the original, Benjamin (2012: 81) argues that language is not referential and, therefore, translation ‘must in large measure, turn its attention away from trying to communicate something’ and escape ‘the bondage to the sense’. Others, such as Hermans (1996a) and Hewson (2011), have demonstrated that the translator’s voice and their interpretation of the text constitute an integral part of any translation. Moreover, as Hermans



Defining the Terms

15

(1996a:  5) points out ‘languages and cultures are not symmetrical or even isomorphic systems. For every instance of consonance, however measured, there is also dissonance. Not only the language changes with translation; so does the context, the intent, the function, the entire communicative situation’. Scholars such as Reddy (1979) have since questioned any model that suggests language functions as a ‘conduit’ transferring a message from one person to another, and which fails to present the sender and addressees as human beings, with all the added complexities that implies. When the model is applied to a literary text, the problems increase because, as McGann (1991: 76) points out, ‘a “literary” work, in its textual condition, is not meant for transparency, is not designed to carry messages. Messages may be taken from such work, but always and only by acts of simplification and diminishment’. A literary work is not a single, simple communicative act but the result of ‘various historical moments represented by authoring, production, distribution’ according to Shillingsburg (1997: 110). Jakobson’s model of communication and his tripartite definition of translation are abstract, decontextualized models that leave aside the context – social, economic, cultural – in which translation takes place. This is a point to which I will return. Jakobson’s tripartite division has also been criticized on semiotic and linguistic grounds. Scholars such as Sturrock (1991) and Eco (2003) have underlined that, while intra- and interlingual translations share common features, intersemiotic translation can be viewed as fundamentally different (Eco 2003; Sturrock 1991). Sturrock (1991: 309) points out that intra- and interlingual are both concerned with rewording and determining synonymy. Moreover, if it is possible to backtranslate to the original from a translation of a book, it is not at all possible to do so from a film to a book. Toury ([1986] 2020: 1114) takes these arguments one step further by modifying Jakobson’s categories. He opposes intersemiotic translation to intrasemiotic translation and, within the latter, he places intrasystemic translation (intralingual) and intersystemic translation (interlingual). While these definitions offer interesting insights, they also further fragment translation as a concept. In his essay, Jakobson bases his distinction between intra- and interlingual translations on whether the same language or a different one is being used. The validity of using this criterion has been challenged (Derrida 1985), all the more so as Jakobson does not explore the problem of how we delimit a language. Turkic languages (Berk Albachten 2014), or Bosnian, Croatian, Montenegrin and Serbian (Longinović 2011), are examples where political boundaries have been moved or new ones created, and where local varieties may be promoted

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels

to the status of national languages. The labelling of a variety as a language is thus fluid:  what may be identified as a dialect at one moment in time can be politically labelled a language at the next. Moreover, in an age of globalization, the exact status of the various Englishes to be found in the world is far from clear-cut. To differentiate intra-and interlingual translation solely on the basis of a socio-political distinction is therefore problematic. Similarly, the definitions do not consider the diachronic aspect of language. Old English has all the appearance of a foreign language to modern-day English speakers, yet how should we label translations of, say, Beowulf (Davis 2014)? Should Seamus Heaney’s version of the poem be labelled as an intralingual or interlingual translation? The label will depend, not on the linguistic systems of the two varieties, but on political and cultural arguments. Those seeking to confirm the unity of the language and the nation will argue that the different versions of the poem are intralingual translations as opposed to interlingual ones, yet Old English is mostly incomprehensible for the uninitiated reader. The boundaries, then, between intra- and interlingual translation are not so clear-cut as Jakobson’s definitions would suggest. Pym (1992:  25) rightly states that ‘there is no strict cut-off point at which wholly intralingual rewriting can be said to have become wholly interlingual’. Toury ([1986] 2020:  1113) concludes that interdialectal translation is ‘usually appended to the intralingual, but at times also to the interlingual type of translating’, while Pym (1992: 25) maintains that ‘(t)he kinds of translation that can take place between idiolects, sociolects and dialects are essentially no different from those between more radically distanced language systems’. The fact that the distinction does not hold for dialects may be one reason why Mossop (2016) includes dialectal translation (usually identified as intralingual) within the category of interlingual translation. He adopts a viewpoint (one that would be shared by most linguists) that a variety – or lingua, as he chooses to call it – possesses its own phonological or manual and lexical-syntactic system. He thus accepts the Americanization of BrE texts or the modernizing of Shakespeare as interlingual translation, and he reserves intralingual translation for rewriting a text for a new audience for reasons of knowledge or age. For Mossop, intralingual translation entails greater adaptation, and such large-scale adaptations are not made by translators. However, as we shall see, the situation is more complex, for not all the changes existing in an AmE edition can be labelled as Americanization or dialectal (see Chapter 5); other changes are editorial. We therefore find, existing side by side, what Mossop would label as interlingual and intralingual translations. Does that mean we must label one part of the text, or even one part of a sentence,



Defining the Terms

17

as interlingual translation and another part as intralingual? And, if one could even divide up a text in this manner, when one lingua prefers a particular form in edited English, even though both exist (such as AmE’s preference for that in restrictive relatives), do we consider that to be a case of interlingual or intralingual translation, as defined by Mossop? Far from solving the difficulties, the distinction recreates fragmentation at another level. While scholars may debate how best to label different kinds of translation, Hermans (1997: 5) points out that the general public recognizes translation as indisputably interlingual, so much so that it has given rise to a social entity called ‘translation’ and a form of behaviour called ‘translating’ with which, give or take a few nuances, we reckon we are all familiar in our own language and culture. The meaning of ‘translation’ is codified in dictionaries, there are professional activities called translation, we have organizations representing translators, institutes for translator training, etc.

Translation studies have thus traditionally focused on interlingual translation (Munday [2008] 2016), and it is interlingual translation that is taught in educational institutions, in the ‘language-learning classroom where translation has a very precise narrowly defined pedagogical role’ (Bassnett and Lefevere [1990] 1995:  xviii). As a result, intralingual translation has been relegated to the periphery of mainstream translation (Berk Albachten 2014; Hill-Madsen 2015; Zethsen 2009) and has not featured so widely in translation research. In her preface to the Routledge Encyclopaedia of Translation Studies, Baker ([1998] 2020: xx) even goes so far as to say that she knows of ‘no research that looks specifically at the phenomena of intralingual or intersemiotic translation. We do have classifications such as Jakobson’s, which alert us to the possibility of such things as intersemiotic and intralingual translation, but we do not make any genuine use of such classifications in our research’. Nevertheless, Baker’s remarks ring a little less true today. Recent years have seen a growing interest in intralingual translation, with the publication of articles on adapting medical texts for a lay reader (Hill-Madsen 2015; Meyer 2001); on modernizing the language of an original text – such as the Bible (Zethsen 2009), Shakespeare (Delabastita 2016), or Greek classics (Maronitis 2008); on improving a text’s readability and adopting Plain English guidelines (Nisbeth Jansen 2015); on investigating the discrepancies between audio dialogue and corresponding subtitles for the deaf and hard-of-hearing (McIntyre and Lugea 2015); and on intralingual translation as revealing translational and ideological norms (Berk Albachten 2013). Chapters on intralingual translation have also

18

Intralingual Translation of British Novels

appeared in recent translation studies readers (Berk Albachten 2014; KajzerWietrzny 2019; Maronitis 2008; Whyatt 2017). For these scholars, intralingual translation involves the same kind of exercise as interlingual translation. Whyatt, Kajzer-Wietrzny and Stachowiak (2016 : 176) argue that ‘translating, in the most general sense is a universal human skill, but more effort is required when we translate across language barriers’. Similarly, Steiner ([1975] 2006: 49) suggests that the translation problems to be found on the interlingual level will ‘abound, at a more covert or conventionally neglected level, intra-lingually’. Chapters 4, 5, and 6 will therefore examine some of the changes made to AmE editions as translation strategies and procedures to investigate whether the same problems are encountered in intralingual translation, and whether the same strategies and procedures for dealing with these problems are employed.

1.2  Intralingual translation: taking a closer look The growing interest in intralingual translation has led to researchers re-examining its relationship with interlingual translation. After examining five different Danish versions of a Bible extract, Zethsen (2009: 809) concludes that ‘the micro-strategies applied in intralingual translation (the editions, omissions, restructuring, etc.) seem to be much more radical than what is seen in the majority of interlingual translations’, although the absence of any corpus analysis makes it difficult to corroborate or to deny this statement. These micro-strategies include omission, addition, explicitation, restructuring and paraphrasing. Zethsen (2009: 805) suggests that four main factors or reasons are influential in intralingual translation:  knowledge, time, culture and space. Knowledge refers to the changes made on account of the ‘ability of comprehension of the target group’, and this involves explicitation, explanation and addition. Zethsen does not define these terms, which have come under close scrutiny in recent research (see Chapter 2), nor does she include omission here, although, as our study shows, omitting elements that are considered problematic for the target reader is relatively common. Examples of intralingual translations ‘instigated by the parameter of knowledge’, which she also labels ‘explanatory translations’ (2009:  806), are children’s versions of classical texts and manuals and so forth, which explain a technical concept in layman’s terms. Time refers to the updating of existing versions of a text, and typical examples are contemporary versions of classical texts. Culture refers to those references which ‘time or general background knowledge prevent the target group from understanding’



Defining the Terms

19

(2009:  807), and Zethsen includes here examples of the Americanization of BrE texts. Nevertheless, as I  will argue in the following chapters, the changes made to BrE novels for the AmE reader cannot all be explained as examples of intracultural, intralingual translation. Zethsen also includes under culture the phenomenon of localization within business, where the aim can be to produce ‘different cultural versions of the same text within the same language’ (2009:  807). Finally, space denotes ‘instances where the text is either reduced or extended’. Obvious examples would include abridged versions of classics or subtitling for the hard of hearing. Zethsen’s list of parameters is not exhaustive; other socio-economic factors, for example, might be involved. Furthermore, a certain number of these parameters easily overlap and prevent the list from being a clear taxonomy:  children’s literature, for example, is affected by all four parameters. Despite these minor drawbacks, Zethsen demonstrates the fundamental role played by intralingual translation, and that both intra- and interlingual translation use similar translation procedures. These points will be investigated in Chapters 4 and 5. Other attempts to define intralingual translation include Petrilli’s typology (2003: 19), which identifies three subtypes of intralingual translation: diamesic, diaphasic and diglossic. The diamesic subtype refers to translation between written and oral modes, as with subtitling. The diaphasic subtype refers to translation between registers, as in simplifying technical texts for the layperson; and the diglossic subtype is presented as a translation between standard language and a dialect. Although at first these categories appear to be clear, the typology is problematic for my study as the translation from BrE to AmE does not correspond to any of these categories, and some subtypes, such as the diachronic one, are missing from the typology. A more elaborate taxonomy of thirty-four translation types is to be found in Gottlieb (2018), who distinguishes between the following categories: synchronic, when the target text is an alternative to the source text, as in an abridged print version of a longer online article; diachronic, when a source text is updated; dialectal, when a message in standard English is rendered in a local variety or vice versa; diaphasic, when a text is made easier to read for a non-expert; transliteration, when the font of a text is modernized or Arabic letters are reset in Latin; diamesic, when spoken language is subtitled; and infrasemiotic, when a text is spoken, as in an audiobook. Gottlieb’s taxonomy has the advantage of moving beyond verbal modes of communication and considers translation as a multi-faceted phenomenon. It applies the same categories, with different examples, to intra- and interlingual translation (which, following Toury, he

20

Intralingual Translation of British Novels

calls intrasemiotic) as well as to intersemiotic translation, thus highlighting the features shared by all three types. However, Gottlieb’s taxonomy follows Jakobson in maintaining a distinction between intra- and interlingual on the basis of whether one or two languages are involved (2018: 51). The translation from BrE to AmE does not really correspond to Gottlieb’s dialectal category, as neither can be said to be more standard than the other. Finally, Hill-Madsen (2019:  538) sets out to investigate intralingual translation as ‘the language-internal rewriting of a source text (ST) into a target text (TT) with the purpose of neutralizing a comprehension barrier’. To do so, he reviews Gottlieb’s earlier (2008) typology, which is less detailed than the 2018 typology outlined above. Three types of intralingual translation are examined: dialectal using the ubiquitous example of the first Harry Potter novel; diachronic illustrated by a modernization of Shakespeare by Sparknotes, and diaphasic with the rewriting of specialized texts (pharmaceutical information) into patient-friendly information leaflets. Hill-Madsen (2019:  554) concludes from these three cases that Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone exhibits only lexical and orthographic translation strategies, and that the degree of translation is extremely low compared to the other two cases. Such a conclusion is understandable based on one book. Even so, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is not totally devoid of grammatical changes – for example shan’t (BrE-PS: 10) becomes won’t (AmE-SS: 6), and the definite article the is introduced before next day (AmE-SS: 89). If we expand the corpus to other books in the series, then other shifts become apparent, notably grammatical, as with the shift in tenses in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (for a full list of all the changes in all the books see www.hp-lexicon.org/differences-uk-us-editions). Hill-Madsen’s aim is to examine the diversity to be found within intralingual translation as a phenomenon (2019: 539) so, understandably, he cannot examine a variety of AmE editions. It is worth bearing in mind, however, that Harry Potter belongs to the genre of children’s literature and therefore does not fully illustrate the wide range of translation strategies to be found in the AmE editions of BrE novels. As we will see in Chapter 4, the changes that occur are not just cases of lexical substitution – such as explicitation, omission, and paraphrasing. Grammatical shifts also occur (even in Harry Potter) and, more importantly, not all these changes are ‘dialectal’ in the strictest sense of the word. Building on Hill-Madsen’s description of intralingual translation, I  will be focusing on a large corpus of AmE works in order to reveal both the complexity of the phenomenon and the variety of changes that can be made. Although I  concur with Hill-Madsen (2019:  538) that ‘neutralizing a comprehension



Defining the Terms

21

barrier’ plays an important role in intralingual translation, I will demonstrate that other reasons for intralingual translation exist. I will also argue, as outlined in the Introduction, that the text is both linguistic and material, and that typography contributes to a text’s meaning, contrary to Hill-Madsen (2019: 556), who concludes that a different font is ‘not a different meaning-making system’. In fact, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is an example where written letters have been personalized by introducing different fonts for the different characters (see Chapter 3), thus contributing to the creation of the character’s voice. None of these studies on intralingual translation consider the multimodal nature of the text, and as a result they perpetuate Jakobson’s tripartite division. One of the aims of my study will therefore be to investigate more fully the relationship between intra- and interlingual translation. Jakobson’s definition obviously needs reworking, and deciding what should be included under the label of interlingual translation needs clarifying. Steiner’s claim (2004:  1) that ‘every language act is a translation’ may be too broad to be really useful, yet definitions based on linguistic equivalence are too narrow to encompass the complexity of translation studies today. While it is beyond the scope of this work to investigate all the possible definitions of translation, and it is probably impossible to provide an absolute definition, it is useful to take a brief look at existing definitions to gain a clearer idea of what is at stake and how intralingual translation might be included.

1.3  Towards a working definition of translation A good starting point for understanding the term ‘translation’ is to look at its etymology, even if its meaning may have evolved over time. The word originally comes from the Latin translatio and contains the word ‘across’ and ‘to bring’ (-latio derives from the past participle of ferre). What exactly is to be ‘brought across’ or ‘transferred’ has been the subject of much debate. Early definitions (such as Catford 1965), present translation as maintaining a relation of formal linguistic and syntactic equivalence with the source text. Over time, translation studies expanded to examine the role of culture (Bassnett [1980] 2014) and the role of the professional translator (Nord 1997; Reiss [1971] 2004; Vermeer 1987), and one effect of this expansion was that the notion of functional equivalence gained ground. A functional approach to equivalence (Nord 1997; Reiss [1971] 2004) is concerned more with the target reader and communicative situation, and it is the skopos or purpose of the translation that becomes important.

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels

Translating advertisements or commercial documents necessitates considering the target culture and society, with the aim of producing the same effect in the target reader as in the source reader. As Schrijver (2014: 3) points out, this means that ‘the functionalist definition of translation allows for a broad spectrum of possible translations … At the extreme end of the spectrum, the translator engages in text production that is minimally bound to the ST.’ Other scholars question the possibility of finding a conclusive definition for translation (Schmid 2008). Rather than constrain the concept of translation through definition, Toury ([1995] 2012:  29) proposes three postulates to determine whether a translation can be labelled as such: the source-text postulate, the transfer postulate and the relationship postulate. A translation is a translation, then, if it is assumed ‘there is another text, in another culture/language, which has both chronological and logical priority over it’ (Toury [1995] 2012: 29); if the assumed translation emerged through the transfer of certain features of the source text and, finally, if there are relationships which connect the target text to the source text. This means that an assumed translation can be regarded as any target-culture text for which there are reasons to tentatively posit the existence of another text, in another culture and language, from which it was presumably derived by transfer operations and to which it is now tied by certain relationships, some of which may be regarded – within that culture – as necessary and/or sufficient. (Toury [1995] 2012: 31)

Such a definition is relatively flexible and, for Zethsen (2007), Toury’s definition can include intralingual translation, although, as Zethsen rightly remarks, it is far from likely that many laypeople would ‘assume’ that an intralingual translation is a translation. The definition, then, raises several questions, not least whether the idea of an ‘assumed’ translation pushes the boundaries back too far, making individual judgement as to what is or is not a translation all-powerful. The problem of defining what constitutes a language still remains unresolved, and the premise that a source text has chronological priority is not as obvious as it may at first seem. Zethsen (2007: 299) therefore proposes her own modified version of Toury’s definition: • A source text exists or has existed at some point in time. • A transfer has taken place and the target text has been derived from the source text (resulting in a new product in another language, genre or medium), i.e. some kind of relevant similarity exists between the source and the target texts.



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• This relationship can take many forms and by no means rests on the concept of equivalence, but rather on the skopos of the target text. This definition moves away from the traditional notion of equivalence, which has featured in translation studies (Catford 1965; Nida and Taber [1969] 2003), stating instead that the resemblance or relevant similarity that a translation bears to the source text is skopos-dependent. Transfer, here, is linked to derivation and allows for the creation of a new product (not necessarily a text). Zethsen expands translation’s boundaries beyond the transfer of a written text from one natural language into another. This has the advantage of including intersemiotic translation. Although we saw earlier that some scholars distinguish between intra- and interlingual translation on the one hand and intersemiotic on the other, others, such as Pereira (2008: 105), argue that illustrations ‘can especially be seen as translations because as a process, the methodologies employed by illustrators are in the majority of cases the same as those adopted by translators to translate a text’, such as omission, addition and explicitation. Zethsen’s definition can also include adaptation, which Hutcheon ([2006] 2013: 8) defines as • An acknowledged transposition of a recognizable other work or works • A creative and an interpretive act of appropriation/salvaging • An extended intertextual engagement with the adapted work For Venuti (2007), an adaptation and a translation are both acts of interpretation, both recontextualize, both use similar procedures, and it is possible also to draw parallels between adaptation and intralingual translation, as ‘adaptation can also constitute a simpler attempt to make texts “relevant” or easily comprehensible to new audiences and readerships via the processes of proximation and updatings’ (Sanders [2006] 2016: 23). Attempts to distinguish between the two have often used arguments of fidelity and equivalence: while a translation is semantically equivalent to the ST, in an adaptation the TT no longer resembles the ST in genre or style. However, in recent years translation studies has tended to distance itself from questions of equivalence and fidelity, realizing, as Steiner ([1958] 1998: 270–1) remarks, that ‘great translators … act as a kind of living mirror. They offer to the original not an equivalence, for there can be none, but a vital counterpoise, an echo’. Bassnett ([1980] 2014: 90) concludes that ‘much time and ink has been wasted in attempting to differentiate between translations, versions, adaptations and the establishment of a hierarchy of “correctness” ’. Zethsen’s definition allows us to move beyond such discussions by enabling both adaptation and translation to be contained within her definition.

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels

The idea that translation and adaptation differ simply in terms of degree is investigated by Malmkjær (2017) in her comparison of the translation of Alice in Wonderland into the Aboriginal language, Pitjantjatjara, with an English translation of Hans Christian Andersen’s novels and stories. While the translation into Pitjantjatjara contains numerous adjustments, including changes to characters and scenery to fit its new context – thus suggesting that it is no longer a translation but an adaptation – the translation into English, which also contains adjustments, this time for Victorian sensibilities, is nevertheless labelled a translation because the changes are not considered to be so significant. Malmkjær (2017: 455) notes that there are no clear criteria for distinguishing adaptations from translations, although a greater degree of domestication is identified as being characteristic of adaptation. What we have, then, is a difference of degree rather than a difference in kind. The difference of degree in fidelity to a source text or in terms of domestication introduces the idea of a gradient, or a continuum, that resolves the problem of binaries that are so frequently opposed in translation studies: literal versus free; direct versus oblique; formal versus dynamic; semantic versus communicative; overt versus covert; documentary versus instrumental; domestication versus foreignization (Munday 2014:  72). The idea of a continuum, scale or spectrum has been suggested by Hervey and Higgins (1992), Schrijver (2014), Sidiropoulou (2004) and Stetting (1989). Such a continuum could be adapted for various genres and cases. Translations that remain faithful or close to the ST would find themselves at the ST end of the continuum, while translations that are freer and more functional would be nearer the TT. Hutcheon ([2006] 2013), herself, proposes a reception continuum with the ideal of fidelity at one end and prequels and sequels at the other. Another suggestion has been to consider that various forms of translation share family resemblances (Shuttleworth and Cowie [1997] 2014; Zethsen 2009) and could be encompassed under a general heading such as transfer studies (Göpferich 2010; Maksymski 2015; Tymoczko 2007) or text production (Dam-Jensen and Heine 2013). The ongoing debate regarding definitions of translation and what can and cannot be labelled a ‘translation’ has only been briefly examined here. If we look at the numerous forms of translation that have materialized since Jakobson wrote his seminal essay, then it is obvious that any definition will either need to be broad enough or flexible enough to cover all possible kinds – or that we must accept that no one definition will hold for any length of time but must evolve. Chesterman (2006:  4) points out that ‘different times and cultures may well conceptualize the notion of “translation” in very different ways’. The chapters



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that follow will seek to examine how the existence of AmE editions of BrE works can contribute to the debate and usefully shed light on the nature of translation.

1.4  Stylistics and translation That linguistics and stylistics are both concerned with a close reading of texts, and how language produces meaning might encourage us to think that style, and more specifically stylistics, would play an important role in translation studies. This is far from being the case, however. Hewson (2011: 75) points out that ‘style has until recently been either disregarded or downplayed in translation studies’. Even when theorists, such as Nida and Taber ([1969] 2003:  12), focus on the TT reader or receptor and the impact of the message, it is meaning that comes first and style that comes second:  ‘Translating consists in reproducing in the receptor language the closest natural equivalent of the source language message, first in terms of meaning and secondly in terms of style’. Such an approach separates style from meaning, resulting in style being considered by some as mere ornamentation, or even as untranslatable (Tedlock 1971: 121). As a result, little attention has been paid to translating style in educational institutions and, in turn, this is mirrored by a limited critical interest in translating style. There are of course notable exceptions to this, such as Boase-Beier (2006; [2006] 2020), Malmkjær (2003; 2004), May (1994), Munday (2008) and Parks ([1998] 2014) but, generally, style has remained neglected within translation studies. This lack of interest may be due to several reasons: the problem defining the terms, the recent non-linguistic trends in translation studies and the fact that stylistics is rarely comparative, but monolingual (Boase-Beier 2004: 9). I shall look briefly at these three points.

1.5  Stylistics and translation studies: two separate disciplines? As we have seen, translation is a difficult term to define, and style (and its study, stylistics) is no easier, since it can be used to describe an individual’s way of writing or a genre or even a specific historical period. Most definitions of style are therefore inevitably broad in scope. For Leech and Short ([1981] 2013: 9), style ‘refers to the way in which language is used in a given context, by a given person, for a given purpose, and so on’, while Wales ([1980] 2014: 397) defines style as ‘the perceived distinctive manner of expression in writing or speaking’. Although

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stylistics is the study of style, it is not merely concerned with the description of distinctive features of language. It seeks to understand how specific linguistic features produce certain effects, how these features affect readers and how they are understood (Simpson [2004] 2014:  3). Stylistics is therefore based on the premise that ‘every linguistic feature in a text has potential significance’ (Wales [1980] 2014:  400), which in turn entails the premise that choice is important or, in the words of Halliday (1971: 338), ‘all types of option … are meaningful’ (italics mine). Stylistics is thus concerned with how and why a text means what it does, and is not solely concerned with linguistic forms. It ‘takes a particular view of the process of communication which places the text at the centre of its concerns, whilst being interested in the relationship between writer and text, and reader and text, as well as the wider contexts of production’ (Jeffries and McIntyre 2010: 3). It is therefore not surprising that stylistics has always drawn on various methodologies, frameworks and theories (Jeffries and McIntyre 2010:  3) and, like translation studies, it is continuously re-examining itself in the light of new research in literature, linguistics, cognition, sociolinguistics, pragmatics and so on. From the start, both translation studies and stylistics were heavily influenced by research in linguistics, beginning with structuralism (Culler 1975; Riffaterre 1971) and New Criticism (Wimsatt and Beardsley [1954] 1982). It is not by chance that Jakobson, the linguist and semiotician, wrote both on linguistics and on style, as well as on translation, and that early works in stylistics feature ‘language’ or ‘linguistics’ in their titles (cf. Freeman 1970; Leech [1969] 1973). Stylistics has even sometimes been called literary linguistics or linguistic stylistics. Similarly, work in translation studies, such as Catford (1965), belong to what Venuti (1998: 22) terms ‘linguistics-oriented’ approaches to translation. Catford (1965: 30) argues that translation is all about replacing textual material in the source language (SL) with equivalent textual material in the target language (TL), and that ‘any theory of translation must draw upon a theory of language – a general linguistic theory’. Both translation and stylistics started, then, with a focus on the formal linguistic properties of texts, although to imply that these theorists were only interested in a linguistics approach would be reductive. The shared common ground between stylistics and translation is perhaps best illustrated by the title of Vinay and Darbelnet’s seminal work in translation studies, first published in 1958, which featured the two terms in its French title: ‘stylistique’ and ‘traduction’, later translated into English (1995) as: Comparative Stylistics of French and English: A Methodology for Translation.



Defining the Terms

27

Despite this early common ground, by the end of the twentieth-century there had been a backlash, and translation scholars such as Lederer ([1994] 2003: 5) identified linguistic translation with ‘the translation of words, as well as sentences, out of context’ – and stylistics, because of its early close connection to linguistics, seems to have been rejected by translation studies as well. The reasons for this separation of the ways are not entirely clear. Malmkjær (2018) suggests that translation studies sought to dissociate from linguistics in order to establish itself as an independent discipline. Lederer ([1994] 2003: 87), speaking from a French perspective, describes how ‘linguistics reigned all-powerful over a good number of other disciplines, including translation studies, for half a century’. Obviously, some scholars, seeking to establish their own field of research and new theoretical perspectives, would have called into question existing approaches to translation. Whatever the exact reason, both stylistics and translation studies have evolved, and today neither can be said to be dominated by a linguistics approach. Indeed, both translation and stylistics are interdisciplinary by nature. For Munday (2008:1), translation encompasses ‘any language combinations, various branches of linguistics, comparative literature, communication studies, philosophy and a range of types of cultural studies including postcolonialism and postmodernism as well as sociology and historiography’ and, while stylistics is rarely multilingual (although it is interested in registers and dialects, cf. Broadhead 2013 or Hodson 2014), it also ‘draws upon theories and models from other fields more frequently than it develops its own unique theories’ (Jeffries and McIntyre 2010: 3). As a result of their interdisciplinary nature, both stylistics and translation studies have extended their original field of research, assimilating similar theoretical frameworks and models over the years:  both have been interested in the sociocultural context, through the ‘cultural turn’ in translation studies (Snell-Hornby 1990), the ideological aspects of translation (see e.g. Tymoczko and Gentzler 2002) and critical discourse analysis (see e.g. Brisset 1990; Fairclough [1989] 2015; Jeffries 2010); both have embraced gender and sexuality studies (see e.g. Harvey [1998] 2018; Mills 1995; Montoro [2014] 2018; Mullany 2004; Simon 1996); both have used corpora in their analyses (see e.g. Baker 2000; Kenny 2001; Mahlberg 2012; McIntyre and Walker 2019; Olohan 2004; Winters 2018); both have looked at reader-response theories (see e.g. Assis Rosa 2006; Bell et al. 2019; Chan 2010; Gambier 2018; Mossop 2009; Nuttall 2017; Sotirova 2006; Whiteley and Canning 2017); both have included multimodality within their theoretical frameworks (see e.g. Nørgaard 2019b; Pérez-González 2014; Watts 2005); and both have incorporated audiovisual discourse (Bednarek

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2018; Chiaro 2009; Diaz Cintas and Remael [2007] 2014; Richardson 2010). Relevance theory and pragmatics have been adopted as a theoretical framework by both (see e.g. Alves and Gonçalves 2003; Black 2005; Chapman and Clark 2014; Dicerto 2018), as has cognitive poetics (see e.g. Boase-Beier [2006] 2020; Gavins and Steen 2003; Halverson 2014; Tirkkonen-Condit and Jääskeläinen 2000; Stockwell [2002] 2016; Tabakowska 1993). Despite these shared interests, stylistics has for the most part remained resolutely monolingual, and the two disciplines have stayed relatively closed to each other. Opportunities for contact or the exchange of ideas between the two, such as conferences or journals, are rare. There are, of course, exceptions; some translation studies adopt a stylistics approach, and some stylistics research incorporates translation studies. Such cross-disciplinary studies explore how the ST author’s style is rendered in the TT (Boase-Beier 2006; Parks [1998] 2014) or what different translations of the same ST may tell us about the translator’s style (Bosseaux 2007; Hewson 2011; Saldanha 2011). Other studies focus on a specific feature of a translator’s style – for example Saldanha (2011) looks at the use of foreign words by two translators, Peter Bush and Margaret Jull Costa, in a Portuguese–English corpus, while Bosseaux (2007) focuses on point of view, free indirect discourse, deixis, modality and transitivity in translations of two novels by Virginia Woolf, and Lin (2014) analyses the English translation of a Chinese poem using a systemic-functional linguistics (SFL) based model. Despite the interdisciplinary nature of both translation studies and stylistics, both have always remained focused on language, and so it is perhaps not surprising to find that in more recent years there has been a fresh look at how stylistics and translation may offer each other useful insights. Morini (2014: 128) goes as far as to claim that ‘if translation is seen as the manipulation of literature across language borders … its study certainly requires a linguistic understanding of what is manipulated, and how. Arguably, no discipline can provide that linguistic understanding better than stylistics’. Certainly, stylistics ‘persists in the attempt to understand technique or the craft of writing’ (Toolan [1998] 2001: ix) and stylisticians’ close reading of a text parallels the close reading practised by translators. The two have therefore much in common and can mutually benefit each other. Boase-Beier (2006: 112) goes as far as to argue that it is an advantage for the translator to possess ‘a stylistic sensitivity’. One approach, which has notably sought to incorporate stylistics into a theoretical framework, is that of Malmkjær (2003; 2005; 2017; 2018), who argues for a re-examination of the link between translation studies and linguistics,



Defining the Terms

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claiming that translation studies is now sufficiently proven as a discipline so it no longer needs to fear it will be swallowed up by the more established discipline of linguistics. She (2003: 39) defines translational stylistics as being ‘concerned to explain why, given the source text, the translation has been shaped in such a way that it comes to mean what it does’. Malmkjær (2017: 451) contends that ‘answers to this question may be developed by way of looking for patterns in the relationships between translations and originals, and that these answers rather often need to take into consideration both language constraints and social context’. She argues (2003) that the patterning of Hans Christian Andersen’s lexis and syntax reflect the ethics and aesthetics of his fictional world and, by comparing the original with translations that do not maintain the same patternings, even if the storyline is constant, she demonstrates how the fictional universes may differ as a result. Patterning, both lexical and textual, has always played an important role in stylistic analysis. Toolan ([2012] 2014: 22) contends that ‘literature exploits and privileges repetition – kinds of repetition, or repetitions with kinds of difference, but repetitions all the same’, and corpus linguistics has demonstrated the important role played by linguistic patterning in identifying an author’s style or analysing characterization (Mahlberg 2012). For Malmkjær (2004: 20), the need is to look for ‘patterns in the relationship between the translation and the original text’. However, a translational stylistics analysis differs from monolingual stylistics in that it is constrained by the source text. Even if creative writers will also be constrained by certain norms, they are nonetheless able to write ‘from the depths of their heart, mind or imagination about whatever phenomena they consider appropriate to the general or personal time and mood’ (Malmkjær 2004:  15). A translator, on the other hand, is constrained to a greater or a lesser degree by a source text so, although choices exist, these choices have been influenced by a number of factors. Malmkjær (2004: 16) outlines four characteristics which influence the translator or mediator in their translation: the way in which the translator/mediator interprets the source text; the underlying aim or purpose of the translation; the way in which the purpose or aim of the translated text differs to that of the source text; and the target text readership, which will invariably be different to that of the source text. The existence of these four characteristics underlines that a conventional stylistic analysis will not suffice in translation. Translational stylistics needs to analyse the choices made while bearing these four parameters in mind, as many of the choices that are made will have been influenced by constraints or norms of either ST or TT readership and aims. In other words, translators do not exist in a vacuum; they are working from a ST,

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and the ST will inevitably influence the choices possible. Studying a translation can thus shed light on the style of the source text itself, revealing choices that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. In the case of my parallel corpus, the editors have also been constrained by the ST, and the choices made are influenced by factors such as publishing norms, prescriptive style guides and so on. These constraints will require further investigation. The comparison of choices made will also enable me to focus on certain linguistic features of the ST that would not necessarily strike the stylistician on first reading. Stylistics and translation studies, therefore, have much to offer each other. Stylistics can provide a toolkit enabling the translator to undertake a rigorous analysis of both source and target text; it can help the translator become more sensitive to aspects of a text they may not have otherwise noticed. Similarly, stylisticians can gain much from looking at parallel corpora, analysing the choices made, or from studying translations by the same translator. At the heart of both translation studies and stylistics is the text, its production and reception. How the text communicates, how it is interpreted are common concerns. For most theorists, interpretation has been examined within a communication model that includes author, text and reader, and which is derived from the one proposed by Jakobson. However, as argued above, such a telementation model (Harris 1996) is not sufficient, and the concept of interpretation in this study is further complexified by the need to include not only the role of the translator, but also that of the editor. Models proposed by narratology, translation studies and book history fail to cover all these points. Narratological models of communication (Booth [1961] 1983; Chatman 1978) do not examine translated works and therefore do not include the translator in their model. They have, however, been used by translation scholars, such as Hermans (1996b) and Schiavi (1996), seeking to include the translator within a theoretical framework of communication. Building on the classic narratological model proposed by Chatman (1978), Schiavi proposes that a translated text contains an implied translator, just as the source text contains an implied author. As a reader, the translator receives the implied author’s norms and conventions, but as mediator of that message, the translator needs to adapt the message to the reader of the TT, thus building up a different ‘relationship between what we must call “a translated text” and a new group of readers’ (Schiavi 1996: 7). The implied reader of the translation is therefore different to the implied reader of the source text. Considering the real translator to be an external agent, O’Sullivan modifies Schiavi’s model by placing the real translator outside the text. These models present the advantage of considering how the translator can be included



Defining the Terms

31

within the model, but they do not include the editor, whose role has not featured widely in translation studies. O’Sullivan (2005: 91) does suggest that ‘all involved in a translation – translators, editors, programme planners – can be found in the agency of the implied translator’ but how they interact with the text is not clear in the model. Models that do include the editor are usually found in the context of textual criticism and book history theory. Darnton (1982:  68) proposes a ‘communications circuit’ that seeks to provide a ‘holistic view of the book as a means of communication’. It is a circuit which usefully introduces the various actors involved (publisher, printer, shipper, bookseller and reader), but makes no distinction between real and implied reader, and focuses on eighteenthcentury literature. Adams and Barker ([1993] 2001) expand Darnton’s model to focus on the book as artefact and base their model on the five events in the life of the book (publishing, manufacturing, distribution, reception and survival), at the expense of the participants involved. Just as translation models fail to include the editor, book historians rarely consider translations. One notable exception, which draws both on Darnton and Adams and Barker, is the complex methodological framework proposed by Belle and Hosington (2017). This model accounts for the circulation of translations in early modern England and includes the various actors but, as with Darnton’s model, it does not examine how the actors interact with and interpret the text. It does, however, represent the number of variables that exist in any text production, and these variables are increased even further if we seek to include the translator and/or editor. Trying to account for all the various phases of interpretation is therefore difficult, and each of the models mentioned so far is deeply rooted within the context of its discipline. One solution to these problems is to envisage a multi-layered flexible approach, and in this respect Lecercle’s ALTER model, which is a pragmatic model for interpretation, is a useful theoretical framework.

1.6  Editing and translating as interpretation In Interpretation as Pragmatics, Lecercle (1999:  75) proposes a model for interpretation that features five participants: author (A), language (L), text (T), encyclopaedia (E) and reader (R) (see Figure 1.2). The text (T)  or message is at the centre, produced by language L and the encyclopaedia E. The concept of encyclopaedia is borrowed from Umberto Eco and refers to social institutions, shared knowledge and beliefs. Encyclopaedia

Intralingual Translation of British Novels

32 [A

[L

[T]

E]

R]

Figure 1.2  Lecercle’s ALTER model

represents accumulated experience, which enables us to form a situation model (van Dijk and Kintsch 1983: 12). It is therefore a dynamic construct, changing and evolving as we integrate new experiences. The various participants are in fact places within a structure and should therefore not be confused with the ‘author’ or ‘reader’ as concrete subjects. They are ‘effects’ of the text, and Lecercle therefore uses the Greimasian notion of actant to refer to the five discursive places within the structure, places that can be occupied by different concrete subjects at different moments. A can therefore be anyone who produces a text, and R is anyone who reads it. The square brackets show that neither reader nor author entertains a direct relationship with the text, but each is ‘filtered’ by language and the encyclopaedia. A is assigned a place, or is interpellated by the reader R, just as A assigns a place to the reader. If the language or the sociocultural context is changed, so too is the perception that the reader will have of the author. From this it follows that the author is a composite figure. The author ‘is a place, A, with various fillers’ (1999: 149), and the term author serves to designate ‘a place in the structure filled by various entities’ (1999: 150). This notion can be explored in several ways, all of which bear relevance to the existence of BrE and AmE editions. First, it can be used in the sense that the author as a person is not a single stable figure. The author changes over time, and with changes come different intentions. Even at a specific moment in time, T1, the author may not have one unique intention. Thus, subsequent editions may contain revisions, alterations. Second, the concept of the author as a composite figure can be taken to refer to a network at A. This would support the theories of critics such as McGann (1991) and McKenzie (1999), who emphasize the importance of the social process of text production. The finished product, the book, is the result of a social process and therefore any theory that concentrates solely on what the author intended is flawed. Furthermore, to consider the text as a social product is to underline its instability, as it will obviously be modified and changed as the social and historical context changes. The text can therefore be seen as the result of a collaborative effort and not as the result of a single creative genius. The interest of Lecercle’s model for translation studies has not escaped the notice of Hewson (2011:  23), who proposes that the model (see Figure  1.3) should be adapted to reflect the translator’s double status, both as reader and as writer.



Defining the Terms [A

[L

[T]

E]

33

R]

[Tr/R’

[L’

[T’] E’]

R’’]

Figure 1.3  Hewson’s reworking of the ALTER model

While Hewson rightly highlights the dual role of the translator, I  see no need in the new frame to label the translator as other than A2. In fact, Lecercle’s model can be extended ad infinitum, an infinite succession of interpellations, as demonstrated in Lecercle’s description of role-taking in an everyday conversation (Lecercle 1999: 73). Beneath the apparently static model, a myriad of possible exchanges can take place, calling into question the idea of a single authoritative voice, which is never more than a construct and as such is interpellated by the reader. While the author may occupy the discursive place, A1, this place in the structure will in turn be occupied by those involved in the publication process. A number of scenarios can be imagined: A1 is occupied by the author who produces a text T1 that interpellates a reader R1, R1 is occupied by a member of the production process such as a proof reader who in turn produces a text T2 that interpellates an agent at the place A2 who is the author and forces him or her to adapt or adjust his or her representations accordingly. The author adapts his/her text to R1’s representations. A2 is not occupied by the same actant as A1. For the sake of argument, I will choose the proof reader as the actor who fills the structural place R1. After reading text T1 s/he modifies it to produce T2 and in doing so the actant A2 interpellates another actor to fill the place, the next member in the production process and not the author. In other words, those involved in the production process will react as readers, occupying the R position before modifying the text and subsequently occupying the A position  – and, at each stage, a new text will be produced. There will thus be yet again a series of ALTER structures, as the text T passes through the various stages of the production process, with A and R being occupied by copy editors, proof readers, type setters, book binders and so on. Those who occupy the structural place R may intervene in the linguistic text or in the document, the physical aspect of the work. At times, the structural place A may even again be occupied by the author when, for example, the galley proofs are returned. This repetitive structure enables us to include the existence of many actors intervening in the text, thus endorsing the viewpoint that within a text there is

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a multiplicity of voices. As Shillingsburg (1997: 92) remarks, ‘the material text is not one unproblematic transparent “voice” but, rather, the “spoor” so to speak of a multitude of speakers working at various times and places, combining their efforts in the material text’. Both translator and editor have similar roles within the structure: both can occupy positions R and A, and both interpret the text through the language and through their encyclopaedia. In the chapter that follows, I will look more closely at the role of the editor and how it relates to that of a translator.

2

Editing the text

2.1 Introduction From the time an author’s manuscript enters the possession of an editor to the time it is sold in a bookshop, it will have been transformed a number of times at the hands of several different people. Editing plays an essential role in these transformations, and yet it is rarely the focus of literary or translation studies. Many readers never consider the editor when they purchase a book, and the name of the publishing house itself probably receives but a cursory glance, at best. It is the title which intrigues or the name of the author that beckons. Yet, ‘it is the rare writer indeed who can write a book in splendid isolation and autonomy; and once the book is done, the writer must depend on the editor to guide the book through the course of its preparation for publication’ (Howard 1993: 65). While the legendary names of some editors, such as Saxe Commins or Maxwell Perkins, live on in the memories of those connected with the publishing world or with the field of literary research, or may persist in the names of the publishing houses themselves, such as André Deutsch or Alfred A. Knopf, the vast majority remain in the wings, only occasionally being pushed to centre stage by a brief mention in the author’s acknowledgements. Such mention may go from simple thanks, as with Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace: A Novel: ‘I would like to thank … my editors Ellen Seligman, Nan A. Talese, and Liz Calder’ (1996: 467), to the recognition of a greater debt: ‘Never was an editor more essential to a book than was my editor and publisher, Nan A. Talese, who sent me back to my desk to write what I only thought I had written’ (Cahill 1998: 274). There are various possible reasons for the editor’s invisibility. First, the decisions that have been made during the production process are only visible if one has access to manuscripts and draft copies. Such papers can provide the scholar with ‘potentially unrivalled insights into translator decision-making’ (Munday 2013: 125). Second, ignoring the contribution made by editors allows

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readers to believe their favourite author is a creative genius and enables editors themselves to promote their authors as celebrities and stars (Shipton 2012: 44). York (2013: 68) quotes the editor Michael Kandel as saying ‘if the editor is an artist, he [sic] is an anonymous one. He is invisible. The whole point as well is to have the reader exclaim not, “What a wonderful edited book” but, rather, “What a wonderful writer!” The editor is even more invisible than the translator’. In the words of da Silva (1993: 152), production editor in the copy-editing department at Simon & Schuster: ‘The author is the hero’. A third possible reason is the fact that it is not always easy to distinguish between the various roles of the editorial team, and with so many different people intervening on a text, it could be difficult to single out any one name for recognition (York 2013:  75). Correspondence between Ian McEwan and his editors on Atonement reveals that suggestions for textual changes may come from the United Kingdom or the United States, from Dan Franklin at Jonathan Cape or Nan Talese at Doubleday, or from the copy editors on either side of the Atlantic (McEwan 2001). Attempting to define the different roles assumed by editors will be the focus of the next section, before considering how far editors play a role in mediating the text and whether their role may or may not be similar to that of translators.

2.2  The different roles of an editor An important distinction can first be drawn between the role played by an editor prior to the author’s submission of his final draft and the subsequent work undertaken by the editor on the final draft itself. At each stage different duties and responsibilities are involved, resulting in different job titles. First, there is the acquisitions, or commissioning, editor, who seeks to acquire or commission a work and promote the identity of their publishing house by defining the list of authors (Ginna 2017). A fortuitous acquisition can establish the fortunes of the publishing house, as was the case when Bloomsbury acquired J.  K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. The acquisitions editor therefore needs expert knowledge of the book market. The developmental editor, on the other hand, works closely with the author on the macro level of the text to make sure that the initial and subsequent drafts contain no major problems with its plot, characters or themes, and that the tone and expression is consistent throughout (Miller 2017: 60–1). At this stage in the process, problems such as word choice, syntax and inconsistencies of style are examined, and rewriting of sentences or even paragraphs may be suggested. Once the final draft is submitted then



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37

the production editor or managing editor steps in, with the task of scheduling and managing the entire production process, from preparing the manuscript for typesetting to finding a printer and a copy editor. In publishing houses that distinguish between a line editor and a copy editor, it is the line editor who works on style and creative content and major rewriting, while the copy editor carries out the detailed work on the manuscript, at the micro-level of the text, checking it carefully for spelling, punctuation and grammar, making sure that references and quotations are accurate, that the publisher’s house style, if one exists, is respected, and generally improving the readability of the text (Witte 2017: 97). After such scrupulous verification, one might think the text was now ready for release, but that would be to forget the role of the proofreader, who goes through the text with a fine toothcomb. In fact ‘the best proof-readers do more than read the galleys very carefully, word for word, against the manuscript; they also back up the work of the copy editor’ (Waxman 1993: 160), the difference between a copy editor and a proofreader being that a proofreader checks for typographical and mechanical errors in copy that has already been typeset. While it is certainly helpful to make a distinction between these various roles, the general trend towards cost-cutting means that they are not necessarily carried out by different individuals. The acquisitions editor, for example, may also carry out the first edit on the manuscript. Developmental editing may well overlap with the next stage of editing: line editing (Miller 2017: 62), and it is not always easy to distinguish between line editors and copy editors (Saller 2017). In the smaller publishing houses, the term editor may cover one or all of the functions listed above. The editor may well not only acquire the book and copyedit it, but also be involved in its marketing and design. When Athill ([2000] 2011: 24) worked for André Deutsch, her job was to ‘read, edit, copy-edit, proofread, and also to look after the advertising’. Some senior editors may have their own lists, look after their own stable of authors and edit their works (Sharpe and Gunther [1994] 1997: 23). Other publishers no longer employ copy editors but send the work out to freelancers; in fact ‘some publishers just can’t afford the time or expense to train copy editors, supervise them closely, review their work, and instil in them a grasp of house style, a knowledge of company tradition, and a sense of pride. English is not even the first language for many copy editors’ (Curtis 1993: 34). From here, it is but a short step to dispensing with the copy editor altogether, with some British publishers ‘relying on the author to have done a large part of the copy editor’s work, and leaving the rest of it to the production department and/or the designer, or even to the printer’ (Legat [1992] 1998:  91). In the age of word processing software, with its editing functions,

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some editors economize on the copy-editing by providing the proofreader with what is known as camera ready copy. Thus, while distinctions can be drawn between the various roles, they may not correspond exactly to the practices to be found in every publishing house. Moreover, the various roles are not carried out in a vacuum. The acquisitions editor may tell the copy editor to look out for certain repetitions and the copy editor may suggest more substantive changes than spelling. Correspondence between publishing director Dan Franklin, copy editor Pascal Cariss, and author Ian McEwan reveals close consultation at various different levels on the manuscript for Atonement (McEwan 2001). Given the difficulties in distinguishing between the different job titles, for the purposes of this study I will be using the term editor throughout and identifying the role when possible for a specific example.

2.2.1  Editor and author Contrary to what we may at first imagine, the editor’s role does not begin with the reception of ‘a complete manuscript formally submitted to him [sic], all neatly packaged and ready to go to press’ (Schuster 1993: 23). The role of the editor can start at the book’s conception, with the editor suggesting an idea for a book to the author. Such practice is more common in works of non-fiction where a current issue may provoke an acquisitions editor into searching for an author to write on a specific topic, but it is not entirely absent from the world of fiction. Williams (1993:  5) quotes the example of Cecil Scott of Macmillan putting the subject of The Guns of August to Barbara Tuchman; and, at the beginning of The Road to Little Dribbling, Bryson (BrE-LD: 28) tells how his publisher at Transworld, Larry Finlay, suggests he should write a sequel to Notes from a Small Island. Jennifer Enderlin of St. Martin’s Press (quoted in Hill and Power 2005:  69), explains how she and the author ‘have brainstormed the concept before it gets to the formal, written-down idea stage’. Thus, while the reader identifies a book with the name of the author on the front cover, the germ of the idea may have originated with the editor. In such instances, then, the editor’s role can be said to precede the first draft of the text. In addition, the developmental editor may play a role in the various preliminary drafts of the text, although how far and how closely the editor and author work together will depend very much on the individuals involved, the type of book, and the publishing house. According to Lerner ([2000] 2016: 195), McCormick, editor-in-chief at Doubleday in 1946, once introduced Maxwell Perkins by underlining the way he ‘helped’ authors as a friend. ‘He helped them



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structure their book, if help was needed; thought up titles, invented plots; he served as psychoanalyst, lovelorn adviser, marriage counselor, career manager, moneylender’. While few editors probably match all those criteria, many do offer a helpful approach to their authors. Gottlieb (1969), at Alfred A. Knopf, writing to Irish author Anthony C.  West and advising a ‘thinning out’ of the manuscript for the US readership, underlines how important it is that an editor be in sympathy with the novel they are editing, otherwise they risk changing its nature. Today’s commercial publishing and the merging of publishing houses into international conglomerates has sometimes meant there is less time to edit, and that the work is no longer that of the editor but of a variety of assistants. The economic pressure to publish quickly and to publish many books a year results in editors seeking ‘less-experienced people to do these highly demanding jobs’ (Curtis 1993:  34). This can mean that not all authors have such a close relationship with their editors. Moreover, the reshuffling that occurs from the merging of major publishing houses results in editors changing houses more frequently, although authors will often follow their editors from one house to another. McEwan, for example, has followed Nan Talese from Simon and Schuster to Houghton Mifflin and then to Doubleday. In fact, archives at the Harry Ransom Center reveal numerous discussion between authors and their editors where ideas are shared, comments taken on board or rejected, and the existence of ‘a back-and-forth exchange, in which both author and editor benefit from listening as well as speaking/writing’ (Sale 1993: 270). Lerner (2017: 72) echoes this idea, calling the relationship ‘the perfect tennis match where each player brings out the other’s best game’. In fact, ‘the editor should be working to help the author write and revise the best book that he or she means to write’ (Witte 2017: 98). Although senior editors may query spelling and grammatical mistakes, they are more concerned with the overall shape of the book, and their advice can have quite an impact on the final work. Max Perkins’s editing of Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe is legendary, as are the radical cuts and additions made by Raymond Carver’s editor, Gordon Lish. Max’s (1998) study of the manuscripts at the Lilly library at Indiana University reveals that ‘Lish cut about half the original words and rewrote 10 of the 13 endings’ of the short stories to be found in Carver’s 1981 collection What We Talk about When We Talk about Love. And he concludes that some of Carver’s ‘early stories were so transformed by Lish that they should be considered the product of two minds’. Editors may also suggest developing some aspect of the plot or character. Athill ([2000] 2011:  162) recounts how, on reading the early version of Wide Sargasso Sea,

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she wrote to Jean Rhys that Part Two was ‘thin: the marriage became a disaster almost immediately, before it had been given time to exist’. Her suggestion that the earlier days of Rochester’s marriage should be more detailed was taken up by the author. An equally important suggestion was made by Harper Lee’s editor, who recommended rewriting To Kill a Mockingbird from the point of view of Scout as a young girl (Lerner 2017: 73). At other moments, the editor will recognize that the tone of a passage in an initial draft necessitates some modification. Athill relates how she told the Irish novelist, Molly Keane, to change a comic passage in Good Behaviour. ‘It was wildly funny, but funny in a way at odds with the rest of the book so that it fractured its surface. I asked her to cool it, which she did’ ([2000] 2011: 237). Editors can also suggest reordering chapters (Aronson 1993: 11). This kind of change between AmE and BrE editions is not common in my corpus, although the opening of the AmE edition of Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island is different to its BrE counterpart. While the BrE edition focuses on Bryson’s arrival at Dover ‘on a foggy March night in 1973’, and insists on his role as a stranger in a foreign land (‘everything that lay before me was new and mysterious and exciting in a way you can’t imagine’ BrE-NS: 19), the AmE edition starts by establishing Bryson’s experience of living in Britain (‘there are certain idiosyncratic notions that you quietly come to accept when you live for a long time in Britain’ AmE-NS: 1) and thus his credentials as an observer of all things British. The arrival in Dover only appears some pages later. Finally, it is a senior editor who will often recommend the Americanization of the work to an author. It is Nan Talese who writes to Ian McEwan suggesting that The Child in Time should be Americanized for its US publication, and Bruce Giffords, senior production editor at Viking Penguin, who contacts Penelope Lively regarding her novel The Photograph to explain that, without Americanized spelling and so forth, US readers risk being distracted (Lively 2002). Underlying these editorial interventions is the overwhelming desire to transform a manuscript into a book that is marketable and will sell. As such, editors not only help the author as much as they can, they also promote the book to the editorial meeting of the publishing house. Thus, all books are the result of a collaborative effort between editor and author, to a greater or lesser degree. This idea of a collaborative exercise between editor and author troubles some critics and readers. They feel ill at ease with an idea that undermines the romantic ideal of the individual author producing an inspired work or that seems to question a work’s authenticity in some way. Despite the questioning of the author’s authority in post-structuralist theories, readers and critics still



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identify a work with the author’s name. Even in translation studies, where the new text is the work of someone else, the translator is often ‘invisible’ (Venuti [1995] 2018), so that translation studies often assert ‘the singularity of intent, the coincidence of voice, the illusion of equivalence and, of course, the unmistakable relation of power and authority’ (Hermans 1999: 64). Yet the very existence of different editions for different markets invites us to re-examine the concept of authorship and the roles played by translator and editor. If the ideas and the general structure of the novel may not be one hundred per cent the author’s, what then of the words themselves? Surely here the author’s style, the characteristic idiosyncratic turn of phrase that we identify as belonging to X or Y, must prevail. Once again, it is impossible to reply with a wholehearted affirmative. As we have seen, Carver’s minimalist style is due in part to Lish’s influence. At one extreme, the modifications made to the text may be so thorough and so far-reaching that the final book is considerably removed from the author’s original submission, and very much the result of collaboration. Athill ([2000] 2011: 37) tells of one author whose work about the discovery of Tahiti had to be made readable: ‘I doubt if there was a sentence – certainly there was not a paragraph – that I did not alter and often have to retype’. Likewise, writing about George Mikes, she states that ‘if his writing was to sound like natural, easy-going colloquial English, which he was aiming for, about one sentence in every three had to be adjusted’ (Athill [2000] 2011:  61). Despite this close collaboration between author and editor, which will always exist to a lesser or greater degree, most editors do not seek to place themselves wholly in the role of the author. Gottlieb (quoted in MacFarquhar 1994) states that when he worked with Margaret Atwood at The New Yorker, ‘whether there was a plot problem or a punctuation problem, if the solution came from her it worked wonderfully. But if I offered one myself, it never took … Your job as an editor is to figure out what the book needs, but the writer has to provide it.’ One of the frequent images used by editors to explain their intervention in relationship to the author is that of the midwife. Dessauer ([1974] 1993:  65) speaks of ‘the essential midwifery of publishing’, and Gross (1993: xvi), in his preface to Editors on Editing entitled ‘Reflections on a Lifetime of Editing’, writes that ‘the editor’s role is that of the midwife, whose job is to bring forth a happy, healthy manuscript into the publishing world’. However, as Peter Shillingsburg (1997: 22) rightly argues, such an image is questionable, especially in scholarly editing: the image of midwife is of a humble and indispensable companion of the painful events of generation. Midwives have no creative function, but they ensure that

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels nothing goes wrong. But if the scholarly editor is a midwife, she can only preside at a rebirth; the child will be newly reborn; but, the author absent, one can only suspect that the midwife does have a creative function. The metaphor will not hold.

Although opinion is divided on how far an editor plays a creative role, few, if any would disagree with the editor’s role as reader.

2.2.2  Editor and reader Apart from the literary agent, the editor is the first person outside the author’s immediate entourage who reads the text, ‘doing something that almost no friend, relative, or even spouse is qualified or willing to do, namely to read every line with care, to comment in detail with absolute candor, and to suggest changes where they seem desirable or even essential’ (Gross 1993: 6). Editors see themselves first and foremost as readers, ‘helpless, passionate, hungry, lifelong readers’ (Witte 2017: 96). As readers, they are not just any reader, for while they may read for their enjoyment, they primarily read to anticipate what effect the text may have upon other readers. They are therefore careful readers (Mossop [2001] 2014: 1), always on the lookout for anything that might pose a problem for other potential readers. Robert Loomis, executive editor at Random House (USA) writes to Coetzee regarding Age of Iron, with questions that he suggests would arise in the mind of a reader and could therefore disrupt the reading. One of these questions regards the identity of the narrator, who Loomis feels should be identified as a man or a woman much earlier on in the narrative (Coetzee 1990a). In many ways, the editor is a Januslike ­figure  – both reader and mediator. Editors will encourage their authors to consider their future readers, to guide them, especially in non-fiction, and to ensure that the transitions between the various chapters and sections make sense since ‘readers often need these transitions or they become lost in the details of so much new information’ (Hoover Thomas 1993: 123). The ideal potential reader will depend on the genre: a book aimed at a general public cannot contain too many technical terms; children’s fiction must appeal to adults while also containing vocabulary that can be understood by the younger reader (Fogelman 1993: 306). It is the fear that the potential AmE reader may not understand BrE terms, that informs many of the changes made to the BrE editions in my corpus. Other readers inside the publishing house, such as publicity, subsidiary rights managers, and sales and marketing will also read the manuscript and ensure that it will attract the right readership.



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2.2.3  Editor and text Although some of the textual changes observed in the chapters that follow may be the work of a senior editor, others are more likely to be the work of a copy editor, or possibly a line editor. As mentioned earlier, the distinction between these various roles is not always clear-cut, which means that there is a wide range of possible textual interventions, and these have been categorized in various ways, often in terms of levels or degrees. Witte (2017) suggests there are three levels of intervention:  at the micro-level of spelling and so forth, at the mid-micro level of sentence structure and at the macro-level of chapter structure. Beginnings and endings are especially important: ‘every manuscript needs to begin strongly enough so that the reader will want to turn the page and keep reading’ (Witte 2017: 100). Mossop ([2001] 2019: 30) proposes a slightly different typology, with four levels of editing: copyediting, stylistic editing, structural editing and content editing. His use of the term copyediting corresponds to the micro-level of intervention:  checking ‘ “house style”. spelling. syntax and idiom. punctuation. correct usage’ as well as consistency’. Stylistic editing involves adjusting the text for the new readership and smoothing the text. Structural editing refers to editing headings, lists, poor paragraphings, explaining acronyms and so forth. Content editing is concerned with checking the content and rectifying factual and conceptual errors. Einsohn ([2000] 2019:  12), on the other hand, sees copyediting in terms of degree:  light, medium and heavy. Although there is no universal definition of what the terms cover exactly, light copyediting usually refers to checking for indisputable spelling and grammatical errors, any inconsistencies in terminology and factual inaccuracies and is always necessary (Waxman 1993:  163). As such, it is close to Saller’s (2017:  110) essential copyediting. In the overview of the modifications made to the text, I  will use Mossop’s typology but replace copyediting with the term ‘microlevel’ to avoid confusion with the job title of copy editor.

2.2.3.1  Micro-level editing Micro-level editing is visible in the corpus on a number of occasions. The AmE edition has, for example, sometimes spotted spelling errors in the BrE edition and corrected them: One should act in a human way towards the conquered. (BrE-SA: 400) One should act in a humane way towards the conquered. (AmE-SL: 369)

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels He thought that the Herr Direktor should … be appraised of their contents. (BrE-SA: 367) He thought that the Herr Direktor should … be apprised of their contents. (AmE-SL: 338)

Or removed syntactic errors due to a misplaced word: She had stared at the empty stable for a long time, her eyes until blurred over with tears. (BrE-PP: 6) She had stared at the empty stable for a long time, until her eyes blurred over with tears. (AmE-PP: 6)

2.2.3.2  Stylistic editing Mossop’s stylistic editing and Witte’s mid-micro-level editing are closer to the idea of substantive copyediting as defined by the Chicago Manual of Style: ‘rewriting to improve style or to eliminate ambiguity’ (17th edn, 2.50). Rewriting to improve style, or ‘smoothing’ can be observed in the following extract, where the use of an adjective followed by a noun phrase has been modified to three adjectives: ‘That’s the way chummy likes them: thirty-ish, plump redheads’. (BrE-EW: 58) “That’s the way our boy likes them:  thirty-ish, plump, redheaded.” (AmE-EW: 59)

Stylistic editing also involves removing unintended ambiguities, as in the following example, where ‘concerned’ is replaced by ‘eager’: Levartov blinked and watched the other prisoners hurry by … concerned to be out of range. (BrE-SA: 229) Levartov blinked and watched the other prisoners hurry by … eager to be out of range. (AmE-SL: 210)

Or finding the exact term: To some people it now seemed that Oskar was spending like a man with a gambling madness. (BrE-SA: 245) To some people it now seemed that Oskar was spending like a compulsive gambler. (AmE-SL: 225)

Or using a more specific lexical item by substituting a hyponym: Children suddenly stopped talking at any sound from the stairwell. (BrE-SA: 139) Children suddenly stopped talking at a creaking in the stairwell. (AmE-SL: 126)



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Stylistic editing may also include tailoring vocabulary to a particular readership, or to the tenor of the novel, which is the explanation given by the AmE copy editor, in a private email, for the following changes to the lexical items in the text: ‘Problems of … elocution?’ (BrE-EW: 8) “Problems of … speech?” (AmE-EW: 8) Four long edifices surrounded it, laid out in a quincunx. (BrE-EW: 269) Four long edifices surrounded it, one at each of the corners. (AmE-EW: 269)

2.2.3.3  Structural editing Mossop’s structural editing focuses on reorganizing how the content is presented so that the reader can follow the writer’s ideas more easily. This can include spelling out acronyms at the micro-level and reworking headings and paragraphs at the macro level. In the next example, the initial ellipsis has been removed by re-establishing the conditional clause and reorganizing the content so that the reader can follow the writer’s ideas more easily: Costly to mine, but cheap to transport, and Somerset coal might be competitive still: a canal was essential to keep the coalfield in action at all. (BrE-MW: 54) If it were costly to mine but cheap to transport, Somerset coal might be competitive still:  A canal was essential to keep the coalfield in action at all. (AmE-MW: 49)

A change of subject in mid-sentence in the BrE edition is also removed in the AmE edition: The Trust Agency had taken his business, he had lost his car, his apartment. (BrE-SA: 93) He had lost his business to the Trust Agency, his car, his apartment. (AmE-SL: 85)

2.2.3.4  Content editing Content editing is also concerned with both micro and macro levels as it involves not only correcting factual errors but also suggesting possible additions and subtractions. In the following examples from the AmE edition of Schindler’s List, factual errors have been corrected: He knew, for example, that the Aktion had been led by large SS Obersturmführer Otto von Mallotke. (BrE-SA: 149)

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels He knew, for example, that the Aktion had been under the overall management of one Wilhelm Kunde but had been led by SS Obersturmführer Otto von Mallotke. (AmE-SL: 134) Cracow would be judenfrei. (BrE-SA: 191) Cracow would be judenrein. (AmE-SL: 174)

In the second example, the term judenfrei has been corrected to judenrein, for as the Shoah website explains, judenfrei means freeing Europe of all the Jewish citizens, but does not have the purification idea that is conveyed by judenrein, and which is an essential concept in Aryanization. Factual errors within the fictional world itself may also need correcting, as in the use of the affirmative in the following example from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which was corrected to a negative in the AmE edition: ‘You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore but I’ve heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before …’ (BrE-HGF: 613) “You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore but I’ve never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before …” (AmE-HGF: 706)

Mossop’s final category involves checking for consistency at every level, ensuring that a word is spelled the same way throughout the book, for example. Most of the changes outlined above will be examined in greater detail in Chapter 5, where I analyse the reasons for stylistic modifications. What the various typologies outlined above have in common is an identification of two major kinds of changes: corrections in accordance with established rules, such as a publisher’s house style or a dictionary or a recognized manual of style, and changes made to improve a text’s readability. This distinction corresponds to the two kinds of editing proposed by Bisaillon (2007:  77):  normative (when the text is being made to conform to pre-set rules such as spelling, punctuation, grammar, etc.) and communicative (when the editor also examines ‘the formal quality of the text, yet also devotes his/her attention to the effectiveness of the text from the viewpoint of communication with the reader’. While normative editing is concerned with simply following the publisher’s style guide, or dictionary spellings and so forth, communicative editing involves interpretation and is more stylistic. However, even the division between normative and communicative can become fuzzy, and the micro level of editing, which might seem the most mechanical, can not only reveal an editor’s personal interpretation and choice but also influence the style. A  case in point is punctuation. Lennard ([2000] 2018) indicates three roles for punctuation: elocutionary, syntactic and deictic.



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The elocutionary role refers to punctuation marks being used to indicate pauses, the syntactic role is the grammatical role of punctuation, while the deictic function is to emphasize. If punctuation was first used by readers to interpret how the text should be read aloud (Parkes [1993] 2016), with commas signifying pauses and semicolons indicating longer pauses, it soon became a means of clarifying meaning, marking sentence structure and, as such, passed into the hands of prescriptivists. What the deictic function suggests, however, is that punctuation also reflects the writer’s position both in the text and regarding their discourse, and this requires interpretation. Any editing of punctuation needs to try to decide how far the choice of punctuation is due to prescriptive rules and how far it reflects a writer’s personal choice. The rules governing the use of punctuation are not always the same on both sides of the Atlantic, and these differences will be studied in Chapter 4. The reasons for the changes are probably various:  some changes in my corpus have been made automatically to introduce AmE conventions; others have more probably been made in accordance with the style guide of the publishing house; others seem to be a correction of mistakes not spotted by the BrE copy editor. Finally, it is equally possible that the author and/or a member of the editorial staff has reinterpreted the text. It is impossible to give a detailed analysis of all the changes that have been made; for the purposes of my study it is sufficient to observe that although these alterations may seem minor, they illustrate some important aspects of the changes that a BrE text is subjected to. Punctuation is extremely standardized, so the temptation will always be present to impose such a norm, regardless of whether the author was seeking a specific stylistic effect or not.

2.2.3.5  Changes in punctuation – substitution On some occasions, a different punctuation mark is substituted. One notable example of this occurs in Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam, where a question mark is introduced into the AmE text: ‘She was a lovely girl. Remember the snooker table.’ (BrE-A: 6) “She was a lovely girl. Remember the snooker table?” (AmE-A: 7)

The text goes on to describe the event in question. Molly and ‘the man she was going out with at the time … staged an Adam and Eve tableau on a disused snooker table, he in his Y-fronts, she in bra and panties, a cue rest for a snake and a red ball for an apple’ (BrE-A: 6–7). The BrE edition’s punctuation implies it is hardly the sort of event that anyone is likely to forget, and indeed one version

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of it even appears in Molly’s obituary (BrE-A:  7). The AmE edition’s use of a question mark implies ‘Do you remember?’ thus introducing a note of doubt, or inviting further comment from the addressee. In Schindler’s List an exclamation mark is substituted for a full stop at the end of the following passage: In the end, Stern spent all afternoon on his report. He was a scholar and accustomed to writing in exact prose. The rescue organization in Budapest, the Zionists in Istanbul would receive from Stern a report they could rely on. Multiply Stern’s summary by the 1,700 large and small forced-labor camps of Poland, and then you had a tapestry to stun the world! (AmE-SL: 221)

The exclamation mark occurs at the end of a paragraph written in the third person that can be read as belonging to the omniscient narrator. The final sentence, with the use of the second person pronoun can also be read in that way, but the use of the exclamation mark renders it more ambiguous, suggesting a shift in viewpoint. In the next example, the exclamation mark brings the character’s words alive again; it is as if the reporting narrator has slipped further into the background and allowed the character to speak for himself. Oskar blew clouds of smoke. Oh, my God, he said, the relief to see the end of this system! (AmE-SL: 268)

The use of the dash also seems to vary between the editions with various substitutions being introduced. According to the Chicago Manual of Style (2010:  333), ‘an em dash or a pair of em dashes sets off an amplifying or explanatory element’. For Quirk et  al. (1972:  1071) dashes ‘tend to give a somewhat more dramatic and informal impression, suggesting an impromptu aside, rather than a planned inclusion’. Both works point to the idea that a dash introduces an afterthought, which raises the question of the exact relationship between what precedes the dash and what follows it. In the following example from Bill Bryson’s Down Under, Bryson broaches the subject of the Aborigines with ‘a pair of quiet, middle-aged teachers from north Queensland’ who proceed to become ‘vague and flustered’. Daphne replies ‘hesitantly’: ‘The Aboriginal parents, well, they get their dole payment and spend it on drink and then go walkabout. And the teachers have to … well feed the children. You know, out of their own pockets.’ (BrE-DU: 41) “The Aboriginal parents, well, they get their welfare check and spend it on drink and then go walkabout. And the teachers have to, well, feed the children—you know, out of their own pockets”. (AmE-SB: 23)



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The AmE edition has omitted the ellipsis points and also introduced an em dash. As Henry ([2000] 2018:  122) points out, ellipsis points do not have the same function as a dash:  ‘each mark has separate functions and connotations:  the dash creating a sense of abruptness, whilst the series of points suggests a slower, lingering or contemplative pause’. In this example, ellipsis points indicate the attitude of Daphne regarding the subject, her hesitancy in naming the action and/ or her desire to find the most appropriate term. At the same time the presence of these marks requires the reader to participate, to fill in the missing blanks. The removal of ellipsis points changes the relationship between the speaker, Daphne, and her discourse, but also changes the way the reader is invited to interpret what she says. Finally, the colon may also disappear or be replaced by a different form of punctuation. In the following example a full stop is substituted: Melbourne may not have a Harbour Bridge or an Opera House like Sydney’s but it has something in its way no less singular: the world’s most bizarre right turns. (BrE-DU: 199–200) Melbourne may not have a Harbour Bridge or an Opera House like Sydney’s but it has something in its way no less singular. It has the world’s most bizarre right turns. (AmE-SB: 148)

Once again, the reader’s expectations are affected by the change, and the overall tone of the text is modified. The colon in the BrE edition introduces the elements that elaborate on the preceding sentence, it creates a moment of anticipation, and in this specific context it serves to introduce information that brings the reader up with a jolt. If Melbourne does not have a Harbour Bridge or an Opera House, we expect the narrator to tell us that it has some other monument, not ‘the world’s most bizarre right turns’. The presence of the colon creates an expectancy in the reader only to be followed by information that is an anticlimax, which increases the comic effect, while in the AmE edition the full stop and introduction of a subject and verb create a more neutral tone of voice. I will return to the role of punctuation and how it can contribute to creating a voice in Chapter 6. Brief though this study of the punctuation changes may be, it underlines the fact that certain texts contain punctuation marks that are used as part of a narrative strategy. Commas can serve to focus on a specific element in a series; colons can introduce an ironic or comic effect. Lennard’s ([2000] 2018) recognition of the various roles played by punctuation in a text underlines that even at micro-level editing, where changes might appear to be the most mechanical and normative, the editor is still interpreting the text and making

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stylistic choices. Editing a text can thus cover many different strategies, and an editor can be more or less interventionist. Moreover, editing practices may vary across the globe and, more specifically, on either side of the Atlantic. Mossop ([2001] 2014:  6) acknowledges that ‘two editors may be working in different linguistic cultures even though both use the same name for their language’. As mentioned earlier, there is a general consensus of opinion that American copy editors intervene more than their British colleagues (Barzun 1986: 103) or ‘assume it is their prerogative to edit drastically, and advocate stringent editing’ (Burrough-Boenisch 2003: 238), which may account for some of the differences to be found in AmE editions of BrE texts. However, without access to editor’s proofs, there is no means of knowing for certain who made the changes.

2.3  Translating, editing, rewriting Editors and translators are both close readers and interpreters of the text and, as interpreters, they both mediate between author and reader. For Ginna (2017: 3), the editor is ‘a connector – a conduit from writer to reader – but also a translator, improving the communication from each to the other’. Greenberg (2018) goes as far as to suggest that translation can be a useful metaphor for the work of an editor, and she identifies five ways in which the processes of translating and editing overlap. The first is the invisibility of both editors and translators. Both work on an ‘original’, and neither is fully credited. Greenberg quotes Wechsler’s (1998: 7–8) description of the translator as ‘an artist whose performance looks just like the original … nothing but ink on the page … no one can see his difficult performance. Except where he slips up. In fact, he is praised primarily for not being seen’. The translator’s invisibility has been challenged in recent years by scholars in translation studies, such as Venuti ([2000] 2012)  and Berman ([1985] 2012), who highlight the translator’s creative input; but the translator’s invisibility is such that many readers refer to a translation as if they had read it in the original. And these remarks, mutatis mutandis, could be applied to the editor, who also remains largely invisible. While a translator’s name does feature on the book’s cover or inside, and sometimes even alongside the author’s name on booksellers’ websites, the name of the copy editor, as we saw earlier, only figures in an author’s acknowledgements, and there is little or no detail of their contribution to the final text. In the case of editors, this invisibility is actively encouraged by style guides and manuals: ‘editorial skills, properly applied, do



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not draw attention to themselves’ (Mackenzie 2011: xi). Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 84) compare the editor’s function to a baseball umpire: ‘the best umps, like the best editors, are invariably the ones you don’t notice. They guide the game but don’t intrude on it’. Second, both editors and translators must make choices and solve problems. The problems may not be totally identical (an editor may also look at plot consistency, etc.), but both are involved in rewriting for clarity, because both seek to make the text understandable for the reader. Both therefore need to consider how far they should intervene on the text (Greenberg 2018: 45). Just as translators ‘can’t change the ending of a novel, can’t omit what they like, can’t violate the feel of the book in its original language’ (Davies n.d.), so editors also stop short of intervening in the author’s ideas. Third, both editors and translators tread a fine line between duty to author and duty to reader. Translators and editors are attentive readers, making accessible for the reader a text they would not normally have access to, in the one case because it is in a foreign language, in the other because it is a manuscript. Mossop ([2001] 2014: 18) labels the editor or reviser ‘a language therapist who improves the text to ensure ease of mental processing and suitability of the text for future users’. But both translator and editor also have an obligation to the writer of the original and seek to understand the author’s intent, even though, as Lecercle’s model of interpretation underlines, such intent is not recoverable. Both editor and translator therefore have a dual role. The fourth common feature is identified as the ‘fluidity of boundaries’ (Greenberg 2018:  47). The fact that both translator and editor collaborate with the author calls into question the existence of an ‘original’ text. The translator appropriates the source text, and the editor intervenes on the text from an early stage. Matters are further complicated in a published translation as the final product has been appropriated by both the translator and an editor. Fawcett (1995:  189) notes that, in the case of translation, the final edited text ‘is rarely all the translator’s own work; it is usually submitted to a copy editor or other translation reviser who normally exercises considerable influence in shaping the final product’. Finally, both translator and editor are presented as performers, with translation presented as a kind of interpretive performance: Like the critic, the translator reads, critiques and writes, but whereas the critic does so through statements about the text, the translator does so by re-enacting the text anew. It is an apt description that conveys the interconnectedness of critical and creative dimensions of practice, and the potential insights that can arise from seeing the subject through the lens of performance. (Greenberg 2018: 49)

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These similarities should not blind us to the differences that exist between editing and translating. Although there are plenty of examples of translators who have ‘improved’ upon a text, this is not considered to be their prime goal, unlike editors, who seek to correct inaccuracies, to bring out the best in an author and to make the writing ‘better’ (Dreyer 2019: xi). However, both are actively engaged in rewriting the text, and it is this concept of rewriting that has been recognized by Lefevere ([1992] 2016) as common to all forms of mediated discourse that adapt a text for a new readership. Such rewriting is seen by Lefevere ([1992] 2016: 2) as carried out under the influence of ‘issues such as power, ideology, institution and manipulation’. Given the similarities that exist between editing and translation, it is perhaps hardly surprising that a term has been coined to refer to ‘the grey area between translating and editing’ (Stetting cited in Bielsa and Bassnett 2009: 63): transediting. First used by Stetting (1989), the term recognizes the fact that a ‘certain amount of editing has always been included in the translation task’ (Stetting cited in Schäffner 2012: 867), particularly in translations aimed at the target reader. Although Stetting (1989: 374) considers that transediting is only practised ‘in a minor way’ in the translation of literary texts, she identifies three areas of transediting that are all present in my corpus of literary corpus: Adaptation to a standard of efficiency in expression: ‘cleaning up transediting’. Adaptation to the intended function of the translated text in its new social context: ‘situational transediting’. Adaptation to the needs and convention of the target culture ‘cultural transediting’.

The broad definition of transediting given by Stetting means that some scholars have chosen to focus on one or more of the three types that she lists. Chesterman ([1997] 2016:  108), for example, seems to be referring to Stetting’s cleaning-up form of transediting when he writes that transediting is ‘the sometimes radical re-editing that translators have to do on badly written original texts:  it includes drastic re-ordering, rewriting’. However, in his classification of translation strategies, Chesterman (104) considers transediting to be a pragmatic translation strategy that takes into account the TT reader and selects information accordingly. Mossop ([2001] 2014) also looks at revising and editing strategies for translators, although he does not use the term transediting. Writing in the 4th edition of Mossop’s Revising and Editing for Translators, Hong compares transediting to translation and focuses on macrolevel changes such



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as rearranging paragraphs or adding or omitting a substantial amount of text in news journalism, suggesting that transeditors intervene more on the text than does a translator. Mossop (2003: 6) considers transediting to consist not of clarifying but of ‘smoothing’ the text so that it is mechanically easier to read (by re-organizing the order of presentation, adjusting poor focus, eliminating confusing redundancies, creating coherent inter-sentence connections, and so on). These transediting tasks are not demonstrative, i.e. transediting is for the most part non-quotational. The language production work involved might be described, as the term transediting suggests, as simultaneous translating + editing (revising).

The term transediting then challenges clear-cut traditional definitions of translation and ‘the boundaries of what we might term as translation have been recast’ Bielsa and Bassnett (2009: 2). The concept of transediting has received most attention in research on journalism (see e.g. Bielsa and Bassnett 2009; Cheesman and Nohl 2010; Hursti 2001; Valdéon 2005; and van Doorslaer 2009), with little research on transediting in literary works. Notable exceptions are Hemmungs-Wirtén (1998, 2000, 2001) and Schmid (2009). Hemmungs-Wirtén uses the term to describe the cooperation between translator and editor during the rewriting of Harlequin novels for different local markets:  ‘translators edit and editors translate  – and this is what the process of transediting involves’ (1998:  126). She (2001:  570) defines transediting as ‘a systematic adaptation that sometimes result(s) in the construction of a totally new text’, as a ‘mode of rewriting, creating something new’ and a process which can also be equated at times with ‘blatant interfering and tampering with the text’. Elsewhere, Hemmungs-Wirtén (2004: 48) gives a further definition: ‘combining translation with editing, “transediting” indicates instances when an editor – without the participation of author or translator – rewrites a text for the purpose of achieving a more fluent or, in his/her eyes a more suitable translation’. Although Wirtén is not concerned with translating from one variety of English to another, her demonstration of how texts are both globalized and localized in the editing process offers some useful insights for this study. Schmid (2009), writing on Harry Potter, also argues that transediting, shaping texts for a new local readership, is to be linked to making works ‘more marketable on an international scale’. What all these various uses of the concept demonstrate are the ideological forces at work in the translation and editing of texts. This is perhaps more readily accepted and more easily visible in the

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world of journalism, but as Lefevere ([1992] 2016) indicates, the production, distribution and consumption of all rewriting is directed and controlled by social forces. While this aspect of translation has been studied, especially in postcolonial studies, editorial revision and the underlying reasons for it have remained largely unexplored. The term transediting presents the advantage of highlighting both translation and editing as ‘social practice’ (Wolf 2010). Scholars seeking to demonstrate the common features of translation and editing or mediated discourse in general often argue that the same procedures or strategies are used in both. Zethsen (2009) contends that these similarities are grounds for considering intralingual and interlingual translation to be part of the same process of translation. These common procedures are usually labelled as being ‘universals’, and are defined by Baker (1993:  243) as ‘features which typically occur in translated text rather than original utterances and which are not the result of interference from specific linguistic systems’. Such universal features are often seen as being the ‘product of constraints which are inherent in the translation process itself, and this accounts for the fact that they are universal. They do not vary across cultures’ (Baker 1993: 246). What then are the universals of translation that could also be applied to editing? Following Baker (1993; 1996), proponents of translation universals focus on four universals: explicitation, simplification, normalization and levelling out. Explicitation occurs when extra information is added or things are spelt out for the target reader. Simplification is found when ‘translators subconsciously simplify the language or message or both’. Normalization or conservatism is reflected in a TT’s tendency to ‘conform to patterns and practices which are typical of the target language, even to the point of exaggerating them’ and levelling out, which results in less variation in a translation corpus than in a corpus of original texts, is the ‘tendency of translated text to gravitate around the centre of any continuum rather than move towards the fringes’ (Baker 1996: 176–7). These four universals are revealed through specific linguistic features. Linguistic features associated with explicitation are the frequency of the use of the optional complementizer that (Olohan and Baker 2000; Williams 2005), the frequency of the use of full forms as opposed to contracted forms (Olohan 2003) and the use of more explicit relations through the introduction of linking adverbials (Mutesayire 2004). Normalization is represented through the frequency of coinings and loan words (see e.g. Bernardini and Ferraresi 2011; Williams 2005), frequency of lexical bundles (Ulrych and Murphy 2008) and use of inclusive language. Simplification is represented by lexical density



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(Laviosa 1998) and mean word length (Kruger and van Rooy 2012). Levellingout has received less attention but can be measured by comparing a corpus of translated texts with a comparable corpus of non-translated texts. Scholars such as Toury ([1995] 2012) and Mossop ([2001] 2014) have elaborated on Baker’s original four universals, suggesting that standardization is also found in all translations. Mossop ([2001] 2014: 46) notes that ‘translators and editors, by virtue of their self-image as “servants”, or by virtue of demands made on them to be “language guardians”, probably have a tendency to lean unconsciously toward a conservative approach to usage’. Other scholars, such as Shlesinger (1991), consider translated texts to be less repetitive, while Laviosa-Braithwaite (1997:  533) argues that syntactic, lexical and stylistic simplification renders translated texts simpler and easier to understand than non-translated texts, and Tirkkonen-Condit (2002) suggests that translations will contain fewer target-language-specific items. Perhaps as a reaction to the proposed increase in universals, other researchers have argued that all the various categories can be identified by one label. Zanettin ([2012] 2014:  13) proposes the heading of ‘de-complexification’, while Pym (2008) chooses the label ‘risk aversion’ or ‘risk management’. Pym contends that translators take fewer risks than nontranslators, and for various reasons: ‘prudence, Gricean cooperation, relevance to a new reception situation, the ethics of service (subservience), damage control or remedy’ (Pym 2005: 40). Risk aversion is therefore ‘a rational consequence of the kinds of situation in which translators work, in certain cultures and in terms of certain norms’ (Pym 2005: 41). The choice of the term ‘universal’ has also been questioned. Toury (2004: 17) prefers the concept of ‘laws’ because it allows for exceptions, while Chesterman (2014: 87) concludes that ‘the quest for universals is no more than the usual search for patterns and generalizations that guides empirical research in general’. Opinions also differ as to whether universals should be considered necessary (Blum-Kulka 1986) or as ‘an almost general tendency  – irrespective of the translator’s identity, language, genre, period, and the like – to explicate in the translation information that is only implicit in the original text’ (Toury 1980:  60), or whether they can be explained on cognitive grounds (Malmkjær 2008; 2018). Chesterman (2004: 51) also suggests that as mediators communicating a new message for a new readership, translators ‘tend to want to reduce entropy, to increase orderliness’ and seek ‘to save the readers’ processing effort’, and this may explain why there is a tendency towards explicitation, simplification and reducing repetition. This explanation is close to Pym’s risk-aversion theory mentioned earlier.

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Universals remain, then, a controversial issue within translation studies (Becher 2011; Dam-Jensen and Heine 2013; House 2008; Pym 2008) and studies on universals within a variety of different languages and genres have produced mixed results (see e.g. Kenny 2001; Øverås 1998; Pápai 2004; Puurtinen 1997). Editing, as mediated discourse, has also been examined in the light of universal strategies (Ulrych and Murphy 2008). Lanstyák and Heltai (2012:  110) argue that universals such as simplification, explicitation and normalization can be found in situations in which communication is constrained in one way or another, and especially when the differences ‘between the speaker’s and the hearer’s cognitive environments are great’. However, empirical studies on the existence of universals in edited texts, unedited texts and translated texts have not been conclusive. Bisiada (2017) and Kruger (2012) analyse specific linguistic features that have been identified in previous research and are associated with the three universals of explicitation, simplification and normalization. The results of Kruger’s study do not confirm her initial hypothesis that translation universals and editing universals are identical, and she explains this by drawing attention to fundamental differences between translation and editing. While translation involves producing a new text and therefore has greater recourse to explicitation or simplification, editing is more constrained and results in greater conventionalization. She also suggests that editing may possess its own specific features, and this raises the question as to whether effects noted in translations might not be ascribed to editing rather than translating. Bisiada (2017) replicates Kruger’s universals for German as far as possible and concludes that, although there is little evidence in favour of mediation universals, a closer study of editing would give a clearer picture of translation as a process and help distinguish between features that are commonly attributed to translation but that are really attributable to other agents who intervene in the text. These various studies usually focus on academic or business magazines, so it is questionable as to how far their findings can be applied to other genres, and notably to my corpus. Second, as I pointed out in the introduction, this is not a quantitative study. However, the concept of universals will be used as a tool for exploring whether tendencies that have been observed in translations can also be observed in AmE editions, and whether the two editions of the works in my corpus offer examples of explicitation, simplification, normalization and levelling.

3

Repackaging the text

This chapter examines how the text is packaged for its readership on both sides of the Atlantic. The choice of a book’s packaging, its cover and material aspects, ‘is not a neutral practice … no choice to include material in the paratext is innocent, or rather … every choice is motivated’ (Watt 2005: 5). Responsibility for a book’s material packaging falls to the publishing house, even if the author may be consulted; it is the area where the influence of editors and publishers is most visible, and where authors least control their work. My study will begin with Genette’s model of the paratext, a model which, I will argue, needs broadening in the light of recent research on multimodality, both in stylistics and in translation studies. I will therefore be supplementing Genette’s model with features from other theoretical frameworks before analysing the paratextual features (both linguistic and material) in some of the works in the corpus and how they have been adapted for the AmE market.

3.1  Genette’s paratext The term paratext refers to ‘the liminal devices … that mediate the relations between the text and reader’ (Genette [1987] 1997: xi). It denotes ‘a zone between text and off-text, a zone not only of transition but also of transaction’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 2), and covers a heterogeneous group of elements: ‘a title, a subtitle, intertitles:  prefaces, postfaces, notices, forewords, etc.; marginal, infrapaginal, terminal notes; epigraphs; illustrations; blurbs, book covers, dust jackets and many other kinds of secondary signals’ (Genette [1982] 1997: 3). Surrounding the text, these elements serve to ‘present’ the text ‘in the usual sense of this verb but also in the strongest sense: to make present, to ensure the text’s presence in the world, its “reception” and consumption in the form (nowadays, at least) of a book’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 1).

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Genette divides paratext into two subcategories:  peritext and epitext. Peritext comprises the elements within the bound text, while epitext includes the elements outside the text, such as interviews, correspondence or diaries, elements which can be public or private. A paratextual message is defined by its spatial, temporal, substantial, pragmatic and functional features. Both peritext and epitext are located spatially in relation to the text, either within the same space as in the case of the peritext, or at a distance, as with the epitext. Given that a text appears at a specific moment in time, paratextual elements can be temporally located, either prior to, simultaneous with or subsequent to that date. Substantial features refer to the mode of the paratext, verbal or other. Although Genette mentions the possible iconic nature of a paratext (illustrations) or its material nature (typography), his theory and analysis focus on verbal elements. The pragmatic feature of the paratext is concerned with the illocutionary force of the paratextual message, how it expresses the author’s or editor’s intentions, or seeks to influence the reader. The paratext then has a role in communicating a message just as the linguistic text itself does: ‘The pragmatic status of a paratextual element is defined by the characteristics of its situation of communication: the nature of the sender and addressee, the sender’s degree of authority and responsibility, the illocutionary force of the sender’s message’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 8). This leads Genette to examine his main point: the paratext’s functional features, its subordinate role to the text itself and how the paratextual features influence a text’s reception and ensure ‘for the text a destiny consistent with the author’s purpose’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 407). Genette’s model is based on several premises, which are problematic, both for the multimodal stylistician and the translator. First, although Genette ([1987] 1997: 14) concedes that paratext is ‘the most socialized side of the practice of literature’, his model of communication – with its emphasis on authorial intention guiding the process and on the role of the sender of the message – is at odds with what we know of the production process and the important role played by actors (including the translator) other than the author. The collaborative nature of text production has become even more visible in the digital era (Birke and Christ 2013; Desrochers and Apollon 2014; Smyth 2014) and, as affirmed earlier, any communication model that relies on the concept of communication as a oneway process, or ‘telementation’ (Harris 1996: 136), conveying ideas and thoughts from the speaker to the addressee, is inadequate. Second, Genette’s model introduces the paratext as subordinate to the text, ‘dedicated to the service of something other than itself that constitutes its raison d’être. This something is the text’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 12). Writing at a time



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when print culture was dominant, Genette could not have foreseen the central role to be played by the paratexts of digital literary texts. However, as Hayles (2002: 107) indicates, ‘literature was never only words, never merely immaterial verbal constructions’, and the paratext plays an important role in any text (see e.g. Bornstein 2001; McGann 1991; Shillingsburg 2006), signalling ‘to readers the way in which they should read the lexical text’ (Shillingsburg 2006: 16) and conveying meaning. Finally, Genette’s model needs re-examining from a temporal perspective. Genette ([1987] 1997: 5) classifies paratextual elements as being prior to the text, or as original (i.e. at the same time as the text), or later (appearing after the text – for example, on the occasion of a second edition) or delayed (appearing long after the text). The comparison of BrE and AmE editions underlines that deciding which text comes first, or is the original, can be problematic and therefore situating the paratext temporally is equally difficult. Penelope Lively’s How It All Began was first published in the UK, but the later AmE edition actually used earlier proofs (Lively 2011). So, although the BrE edition, in terms of publication dates, is ‘the original’; its text is a later version. Moreover, in recent years, BrE and AmE editions have been published simultaneously. It is difficult in such circumstances to talk of ‘an original’ or ‘the text’. Genette’s concept of text, and by extension his theoretical framework, is static; he does not trace a text’s evolution, nor the sociocultural context in which a text is produced (Watts 2005). Yet, paradoxically, the paratext is the highly visible reminder of the changing context of a text’s production, inviting us to no longer view a text as a permanent stable entity, but as a work that is recreated through each change in its new sociohistorical context and modified bibliographical codes (Shillingsburg 2006). A  text is therefore fluid (Bryant 2002), and each printed version of a text is just that – a version – thereby underlining a text’s instability, which leads McGann (1991: 9) to conclude that ‘the textual condition’s only immutable law is the law of change’. Genette’s framework, therefore, needs broadening to eliminate some of the problems outlined above. Batchelor (2018:  142) addresses these problems by suggesting a more functional definition, which will be adopted here: ‘a paratext is a consciously crafted threshold for a text which has the potential to influence the way(s) in which the text is received’. Batchelor’s definition removes references to a single authorial intention, thus allowing both text and paratext to be the fruit of a collaborative enterprise. It also underlines the importance of reception. Finally, it retains the basic notion of a threshold but is vague enough to include both verbal and non-verbal modes. Following Nørgaard (2019a), I will be using

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the terms verbal and non-verbal, rather than verbal and visual, since the material text includes non-visual features such as choice of paper (Nørgaard 2019a), even though space precludes consideration of this aspect. It is the non-verbal modes that now need to be examined in the light of recent research in multimodality, which has often taken Genette’s paratext as its starting point.

3.2  Multimodality, stylistics and translation Using verbal and visual means to create meaning in a literary work is no recent phenomenon. Works such as Tristram Shandy (1767) or the illustrations in Thackeray’s work (Fisher 1995) or Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1794) immediately spring to mind. Such works exemplify what Drucker (1994: 97) calls a marked text, one that ‘aggressively situates the reader in relation to the various levels of enunciation in the text … with manipulative utilization of the strategies of graphic design’. Despite this, research in multimodal stylistics, and even more so in multimodal translation, is relatively recent. In translation, the focus has traditionally been on the linguistic text (O’Sullivan 2013:  2), although a semiotic approach to translation informs a number of theoretical studies (see e.g. Aguiar and Queiroz 2010; Eco 2003; Jakobson 1959; Stecconi 2007; Toury [1986] 2020). Among the notable exceptions in translation studies that do include multimodal elements are Chiaro, Heiss and Bucaria 2008, Dicerto 2018, O’Sullivan and Jeff cote 2013, van Meerbergen 2009 and Ventola et  al. 2004. Finally, a number of scholars include an analysis of cover design in their studies (Tahir-Gürçağlar 2002; Harvey [2003] 2014; Pellatt 2013; Watts 2005) or devote an article or full-length study to the topic (Mossop 2018; Sonzogni 2011). The advent of more experimental novels, stylistically marked texts such as Mark Z.  Danielewski’s House of Leaves (2000), Todd Shimoda’s The Fourth Treasure (2002) or Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (2005), has led stylisticians to also broaden their remit beyond traditional linguistic analysis (see e.g. Gibbons 2012 and 2016; Luke 2013; Montoro 2012; Wagoner 2014). But what of the more conventional works of prose? What of the novel that we buy at the airport to read on a long flight? While such novels may be less visibly experimental, they often contain varied typefaces that help construct the meaning of the text. This is arguably becoming more visible in contemporary fiction. When Stephen King’s novel The Shining was followed by its sequel, Doctor Sleep, some thirty-seven years later, the difference in the presentation of the famous message  – redrum  – illustrated the typographic



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changes that had taken place. In the first novel, the message is written on the mirror and given no specific typeface; it simply appears in capital letters. In the sequel, Doctor Sleep, the word appears again on the mirror, but this time with its own specific typeface, resembling a handwritten message. Following Nørgaard (2019a: 3), I  will therefore argue that multimodality exists, and has always existed to a greater or lesser degree, in ‘visually conventional novels’, even if ‘in conventional literary fiction, effective typography recedes’ (Sadokierski 2011: 101). Indeed, ‘once given visual form, any text is implicitly coded by that form in ways that signal, however subtly, its nature and purpose and how its creators wish it to be approached and valued’ (Gutjahr and Benton 2001: 6). Although many scholars now agree that meaning is created both verbally and non-verbally, there is less agreement on the methodology required to analyse how that meaning is created. The interdisciplinary nature of multimodality means that it has been approached from various angles, resulting in a proliferation of terminology and models. One influential model has been Halliday’s social semiotics/systemic functional grammar (SFG), due in part to the linguistic training of many stylisticians and translators. Proponents of this model include Kress and van Leeuwen (2001) and Jewitt, Bezemer and O’Halloran (2016). In SFG, both spoken and written language are seen as structured in such a way that they simultaneously produce four different but interwoven types of meaning or metafunctions: experiential, logical, interpersonal and textual. Experiential and logical meaning together form ideational meaning:  how we represent what we experience in the world. This metafunction is reflected in the lexicon and in grammatical choices, the different kinds of processes used to describe experience. In image it is found in certain features of composition and systems of vectoriality (Kress and van Leeuwen [1996] 2006). Interpersonal meaning denotes social interaction  – how a writer or speaker positions themselves in relation to a subject or the reader/addressee. In language, one example of interpersonal meaning is modality. In images, the interpersonal metafunction is achieved through the systems of the gaze, size of frame, and angle. Finally, textual meaning is concerned with how meaning is organized into a coherent text, and how the text relates to its context. The linguistic expressions of this metafunction include cohesion and thematic structure, while images use composition, framing and salience. Kress and van Leeuwen ([1996] 2006:216) thus aim to establish a grammar that can be applied to the visual mode, and the different metafunctions enable them to create links between the various semiotic resources; but they also acknowledge that each mode will have its own individual characteristics, its specific affordances and different means for making meaning.

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Nørgaard (2019a) develops Kress and van Leeuwen’s theoretical framework for analysing visual elements and proposes a model of analysis that integrates stylistic theories. Both approaches offer a fine-grained analysis for multimodal texts and will be referred to in my analysis of my corpus. However, as my study is focused on intralingual translation and the changes made by editors, other elements need to be included in the model if we are to achieve a better understanding of the paratextual changes that have been made, and of the role played by the sociocultural context and genre constraints. The importance played by genre in the publishing context is highlighted by Squires (2007a: 80), who argues that genre ‘is one of the primary means by which authors and readers communicate’, and she devotes a chapter of her work to ‘genre in the marketplace’. The concept of genre enables us to move beyond a purely visual and verbal analysis to consider questions of materiality and constraints. Swales (1990:  58) defines genre as comprising ‘a class of communicative events, the members of which share some set of communicative purposes …. In addition to purpose, exemplars of a genre exhibit various patterns of similarity in terms of structure, style, content and intended audience’. Within translation studies, the role of genres has featured in research on text types (Hatim and Mason [1990] 2013, 1997; Reiss ([1971] 2004), on translators’ decisions (House 2001), on didactic tools in translator training (Biel 2017: 160–161) and on culture-specific conventions (Trosberg 2002). Knowledge of genre conventions and constraints has therefore been considered of utmost importance for the translator in producing the TT. In stylistics, genres have been investigated as text types with specific linguistic features (Busse 2014). One theoretical framework which links the concept of genre to multimodality is Bateman’s Genre and Multimodality (GeM) model. Bateman (2008) adopts an empirical approach by describing the compositional layers of a text that need to be observed to define a genre. The first layer to observe is the base layer: the individual elements on the page; how they are positioned and their appearance, such as font size, colour, use of space and so forth. The second is the layout layer: how the baseline elements combine visually in clusters. It consists of three domains: the layout structure, the hierarchical organization of the content; the area model, which looks at the position in the layout; and the realization model, which describes the graphic and typographic appearance. The third layer, the rhetorical layer (language and pictorial elements), focuses on the discourse relations between the various elements using Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST), while the navigational layer, the fourth layer, looks at the elements used to guide the reader, such as chapter headings, footnotes and so forth. Finally, following



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Waller (1987), Bateman, Delin and Henschel (2004) propose three kinds of constraints on a document: canvas constraints that arise from the physical nature of the object being produced, such as the paper or number of pages available; production constraints that arise from the production technology, such as the availability of photographs, the micro-macro economy of time or materials (the deadlines to be met or the expense of including illustrations or copyright issues); and consumption constraints that arise from ‘the degree to which the document must be easy to read, understand, or otherwise use’ (Bateman, Delin and Henschel 2004:  74). This level of constraints thus incorporates the conditions of production and consumption, power relations and sociocultural norms. The notion of production and distribution constraints is also to be found in Kress and van Leeuwen (2001: 20). Bateman’s GeM model offers several useful features for my analysis. First, Bateman’s approach is empirical: at the base level the aim is to observe what is there on the page, rather than to begin with a model, as in the SFG approach, and the GeM model is therefore not a closed network. It focuses on the material features at the base level and builds up towards an interpretation to give an overall picture. The concept of genre supports the idea of observable regularities enabling us to observe possible cultural differences between the two editions and to discover whether the resulting genre is different – for example, in children’s fiction or crime novels. The model also moves beyond purely visual and verbal analysis to consider questions of materiality and constraints of production and has already been used to analyse cross-cultural communication (Bateman and Delin 2003; Hiippala 2012; Kong 2013; Thomas 2014). In the pages that follow, I will be integrating these various approaches into a working model. Bateman’s GeM model will provide the basic framework and will enable me to adopt a stratal approach, describing various features individually while trying as far as possible to demonstrate how the choices made in each mode contribute to the global meaning of the work in question, and to obey certain constraints, and also to investigate whether those constraints are the same in the United States and United Kingdom. That implies examining a cover in relation to other ones within the same genre. The first step is to identify the distinct visual elements that occur on the cover. Genette’s taxonomy will be used as a checklist of the various elements to investigate but will be supplemented by elements from Kress and van Leeuwen’s work and from Nørgaard’s useful toolkit, to include non-verbal features. The second step is to examine how these elements are disposed visually on the page and investigate the presentation information: font, colour and so forth using an area model, which will enable

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us to visually perceive how the information is presented. I will focus on how the various elements interact to convey a message to the new readership by including four mini case-studies. Finally, I will look at the publisher’s inner peritext and the navigational layer.

3.3  The publisher’s outer peritext The publisher’s peritext includes the outermost features of the book (its cover, title, etc.) and the book’s material construction, ‘the selection of format, of paper, of typeface, and so forth’ (Genette [1987] 1997: 16). Genette distinguishes four book covers (front cover, back cover, inside front cover and inside back cover), but I will focus simply on the front and back covers. As my corpus comprises only paperbacks, the dust jacket will not feature in my study, and I also exclude the book spine. Genette’s taxonomy is extremely detailed, but rather than present each element separately, I have chosen to focus on the most common elements that combine to promote the author and to entice the reader, and on the translation of these elements for the AmE reader. As far as possible, the study will therefore be comparative, but space precludes the detailed microanalysis to be found in Nørgaard and van Leeuwen. The study will also highlight the constraints imposed and the importance of the genre by presenting some case studies. Finally, I look at non-verbal modes in the inner peritext and how that too can relate to genre constraints and the translation of the text for the new readership. Previous work on book covers, their history and their role in attracting readers, includes Baines (2005), Drew and Sternberger (2005), Matthews and Moody (2007), Powers (2001) and Squires (2007a). There are, however, fewer comparative studies of book covers and of their adaptation and translation for different readerships, notable exceptions being Watts (2005) and Nørgaard (2019a). Yet cover design is an important marketing tool (Matthews and Moody 2007), a ‘highly visual and conceptualized means of communication’ (Drew and Sternberger 2005: 20) and ‘Failure to succeed here would seriously jeopardise the finances of the whole company’ (Baines 2005:  236). A  cover is successful when it ‘satisfies all the communication needs of the book: it conveys the subject matter in an interesting way, sets the tone of the text, and draws attention to itself while adding extra levels of meaning to the content’ (Gall quoted in Drew and Steinberger 2005: 151). It thus targets potential readers, helps create an author’s reputation and influences where the book is placed in a shop, whether it is to be placed in the history or fiction section, with children’s books or with adult



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novels, and it ‘indicates branding strategies in the publishing industry’ (Squires 2007a: 89). The cover therefore provides the book with a visible means to reach the public, and it is hardly surprising that it is almost consistently changed for a different target culture.

3.3.1  Presenting the author and creating a brand The principle reason for purchasing a specific book is the author (Royle, Cooper and Stockdale 1999). The choice of name and how that name appears on the cover is therefore important. As English and Frow (2006:  48) remark, there has been a ‘historical shift over the last century from a model of authorship dominated by the signature to one dominated by the brand name’. The name of the author is no longer ‘a straightforward statement of identity (“The author’s name is So-and-So”); it is, instead, the way to put an identity … at the service of the book’ (Genette [1987] 1997b: 40). Choosing J. K. Rowling over Joanne Rowling to appeal to both young male and female readers is the result of a marketing policy. Changing names for AmE editions only occurs once in the corpus. Lucy Daniels, author of the BrE Animal Ark series for young readers becomes Ben M. Baglio for the AmE edition. Lucy Daniels is in fact the pseudonym for a team of writers who write in turn for the series – a clear case of the author as impostor (Lecercle 1999: 150). A biography of the ‘author’ even appears on the website, although the man behind the books and the team is indeed Ben M. Baglio. The change for the AmE edition may reflect a desire to widen the potential readership beyond young girls or else be due to copyright issues. However, an author’s identity is not just the name itself; it is how that name is promoted on the cover. There is the visual appearance, the importance in size of lettering, whether the name is more visible than the title, for example. Whether US and UK practices differ here is a matter of debate. In reply to Roald Dahl’s complaint that his name is much smaller than the title of The Twits on the proposed US jacket copy, the senior editor at Knopf/Pantheon, Frances Foster, suggests publishing practices are indeed different in the United States and that the author’s name, though it should be large, is not necessarily larger than the title (Knopf 1981). The visual style of the cover and the unique font for the author’s name not only create a brand for the author (Ray 2005) but act as a reminder for the reader, prompting them to buy the sequel. In my corpus, the authors Rachel Joyce, Ian Rankin, and Reginald Hill all have their names appear on covers in a specific font. The choice of the same cover designer (Claire Ward for Rachel

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Joyce) or illustrator (Neil Gower for Bill Bryson) also facilitates identification (see Nørgaard 2019a) for a similar technique used for Haddon). The author’s identity is also linked to the literary awards mentioned on the front cover. Squires (2007b: 81) points out that ‘the strapline “Booker Prize Winner” as well as meaning that the book will be heavily marketed and prominently placed in bookshop displays, sends out signals to a potential readership’. These signals are complex since they are influenced by the image of the prize as portrayed in the press, as perceived by the potential buyer and in relation to previous winners. British awards may mean little to AmE readers and are therefore absent from AmE covers. The branding of an author – reaffirming their credentials – is also created through the endorsements or blurbs that may feature on the front or back cover or even both. Recommendations from other authors carry more weight if they are well known and experts in the field. It makes sense to have a well-known crime writer such as Ian Rankin recommend On Beulah Height or for Salman Rushdie to praise Zadie Smith’s White Teeth. If actual comments from other authors are not forthcoming, then it is always possible to indulge in a little name-dropping. References to Peter Mayle and Frances Mayes on the back cover of Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French serve to situate the novel within a certain genre. The quotes that editors choose from press reviews to feature on the cover seek to attract the reader by a tantalizing snippet, reinforce the author’s identity by mentioning previous work, or affirm the genre. The quotes chosen for The Professor and the Madman refer to ‘Victorian pride’, and Winchester’s ‘reporter’s eye for detail with a historian’s sense of scale’, both of which contribute to the US promotion of the book as belonging to the history genre (see 3.8.2). In their study of non-fiction endorsements (termed as blurbs), Cronin and La Barre (2005:  19) compare the different practices of publishing houses and note that some publishers are more partial to endorsements, and those that rank the highest in this category are mainly US publishers, such as Hyperion, Jossey-Bass, Free Press. Their findings are confirmed by the AmE editions in my corpus. Atonement, for example, has five endorsements on the AmE back cover and a further twenty-four on the inside pages, while the BrE edition clocks up a more modest five inside. Diamond Dove has just one endorsement, from The Guardian, while its AmE equivalent, Moonlight Downs, features eight. Obviously the AmE editions favour endorsements from the North American press, often from a wide range of sources, although endorsements from UK sources may also feature, especially on the inside cover or pages. These endorsements influence the visual aspect of the cover: the BrE edition often appears starker and the AmE far more detailed.



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A photograph of the author is more common in AmE editions, with the exception of some genres, such as children’s fiction. The photograph is usually placed on the back cover, although as Lerner ([2000] 2016: 256). points out ‘if an author looks like George Eliot, chances are her picture won’t be emphasized on the jacket’. The pose adopted by the author generally reflects the tone of the book. Bill Bryson is featured with an avuncular grin, while only half of Ian Rankin’s face features in the bottom right-hand corner of some BrE editions, emphasizing his eye staring out at the reader and creating an air of mystery and ill ease. Finally, there may also be an authorial blurb, a shortened curriculum vitae, which features on either the back cover or an inside cover. Its aim is once again to promote the author and to reassure the reader that the writer is successful in his or her domain and therefore guarantees a good read. Both the AmE editions and the BrE editions present authorial blurbs in a similar fashion, although one or another edition may include information the publishers consider to be more important to their specific readership, or more in keeping with their culture’s humour: the BrE edition of Almost French self-mockingly mentions that author Sarah Turnbull failed French in her first year at university; the fact is passed over in the AmE edition. The BrE blurb for Ian Rankin’s Fleshmarket Close differs slightly from the other works in the corpus. The thirty-line account details his previous professions:  ‘grape-picker, swineherd, taxman, alcohol researcher, hi-fi journalist and punk musician’, all his honorary doctorates, and awards received for the Rebus books. It finishes, however, on the usual note: ‘He lives in Edinburgh with his wife and two sons’. The AmE edition, Fleshmarket Alley is far more succinct, mentioning the American awards for his crime fiction but only reaching seven lines.

3.3.2  Enticing the reader – translating the title Besides the author’s name, the title is the other essential verbal feature of the front cover. Titles fulfil a number of functions (Genette [1987] 1997; Grivel 1973; Hoek 1981; Viezzi 2011), and the labels chosen to identify these functions vary from author to author, although most identify the need for a title to determine or identify a work and to persuade the potential reader to read the book. Genette ([1987] 1997) identifies four functions:  designation, description, connotation and seduction. The descriptive function covers two title categories:  thematic (what the text is about) and rhematic (what the text is). The title itself is further subdivided into title, subtitle and generic indication, although Genette himself admits the division is not always clear-cut. To these layers of analysis can be

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added the place of the title: front cover, back cover, spine and title page (Genette [1987] 1997: 65). All four places precede the text, underlining the priority given to the title by the editorial process. However, as a comparison of AmE and BrE titles will demonstrate, the modern title is not stable, nor is it necessarily the sole work of the author. The most in-depth analysis of book titles and their functions in translation studies is offered by Nord (1994; 1995) and Viezzi (2013; 2015). Nord identifies three essential functions (distinctive, metatextual, phatic) and three optional functions (referential, expressive and appellative). Viezzi (2013) adds a further four optional functions to Nord’s original list: suggestive, seductive, intertextual and poetic. Recognition of these functions, which ones may be considered important for the target culture, and how they are affected in translation, helps to shed light not only on the reasons for the changes to titles that are made in interlingual translation, but also on the seemingly arbitrary changes made in intralingual translation. However, my aim here is less to label the functions than to identify the changes and the effects. Translation of the titles in the corpus occurs at different levels. Direct translation results in minor grammatical, orthographic or lexical changes being made. Pony in the Porch, Death Is Now My Neighbour and The Colour of Magic thus become Pony on the Porch, Death Is Now My Neighbor and The Color of Magic. Of a slightly different nature is the change to the spelling of Michelle Magorian’s children’s story Goodnight Mister Tom, which becomes Goodnight Mr. Tom for the AmE reader. Spelling Mr as Mister is traditionally used to indicate non-standard speech or a lack of education, as is the use of a first name with Mister, rather than a surname. The title attracts the reader’s attention (Nord’s appellative function) but also provides information about the story (referential function) as the BrE title represents the voice of Willie Beech, the child protagonist who, on arrival as an evacuee at Tom’s house, can neither read nor write and refers to the man who takes him in as Mister Tom. The AmE edition’s standardized spelling may reflect constraints imposed by the genre of children’s fiction:  parents and educationalists might be wary of a book which features non-standard spelling on the cover. Inside the book, the text retains both the spelling of Mister Tom and other nonstandard spellings, suggesting that the title change is indeed influenced by a different marketing policy. Semantic changes reflect the need to adapt the title for the new readership. Ian Rankin’s Fleshmarket Close, the fifteenth novel in the Inspector Rebus series, is set in the city of Edinburgh, and a ‘close’ is a Scots term for an alley or narrow passage. Location plays an important role in the crime fiction genre



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and references to existing streets and city monuments serve to lend an air of authenticity. Rankin himself has said of his Rebus novels, ‘If Edinburgh were to disappear in a puff of smoke, you could bring it back to life using my books as a template’ (Dexter and Carr 2015: 8). The BrE title fulfils Genette’s descriptive function, or Nord’s referential function, as it refers to the Edinburgh street where the bodies are discovered at the start of the action. The AmE edition’s different title, Fleshmarket Alley, is also used to replace references to Fleshmarket Close in the text itself. This results in a curious combination of fiction and reality insofar as the city of Edinburgh is concerned, as all the other places mentioned refer to actual streets and landmarks. The change was presumably made because the Scots term, close, is unfamiliar to AmE readers, although it is not necessarily well-known by English people either. A  similar contradiction between reality and fiction was created when Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone became Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. While the ‘philosopher’s stone’ is referred to in medieval accounts of alchemy and is associated with Nicolas Flamel (who also appears as a character in the book), the Sorcerer’s Stone is pure invention, but probably chosen for its easier appeal to children. It also ties in with the AmE edition’s emphasis on magic, visible both in the choice of illustration for the cover and the choice of font. Other titles have been modified to fulfil one or another of the functions elaborated by Nord (1997). The need to fulfil the metatextual function, ensuring that a title is recognizable as a book, is illustrated by the change of title for Lodge’s How Far Can You Go?, which was changed to Souls and Bodies ‘on the grounds that the British title would be shelved by American bookshops under How To Do It books’ (Lodge 1994: 195). Unlike Lodge’s novel, Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good remained unchanged, but the genre descriptor ‘a novel’ was added. AmE editions frequently add ‘a novel’ to the title, suggesting that Genette’s rhematic function (informing the reader what the text ‘is’) is more important in the United States. The AmE title of Bryson’s Down Under is In a Sunburned Country, a quotation from a poem by Australian poet Dorothea Mackellar (albeit with Americanized spelling  – the original reads ‘sunburnt’). While the title is certainly evocative for Australian readers (it is probably the ‘most beloved poem  – certainly the most memorized and oft-recited by schoolchildren’ (AmE-SB:  preface), its choice for the AmE reader is less obvious. Perhaps Down Under was considered too derogatory or too British. The choice of a title may also be influenced by previous publications by the same author, fulfilling an intertextual or intertitular function (cf. Hoek 1981; Viezzi 2013). Bryson’s Notes from a Big Country was chosen for the BrE edition of the work as its publication followed on from Notes

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from a Small Island. The AmE edition’s title is I’m a Stranger Here Myself), thus introducing a deictic shift, a change in point of view to the first person. Changes to titles frequently create different expectations in the reader (Viezzi’s suggestive function). David Lodge’s The British Museum is Falling Down is entitled Vatican Roulette in the USA. The implications of the AmE title are reinforced by the choice of cover, which features a heavily pregnant woman facing a man. The blurb reads, ‘Games Catholic people play with love, sex, and the rhythm method’, and the back cover emphasizes the humour: ‘a frank and rollicking narrative’. The AmE edition suggests some kind of bedroom farce, although the publishers have made sure they will not alienate any potential Catholic readers by including an endorsement of the book by the Catholic Transcript, which finds it to be ‘strong stuff but thoroughly wholesome’. On the back cover, an essential verbal element is the blurb, or short text that entices the reader to open the book. It is also a feature that differs greatly from one edition to another, once again underlining the different marketing aims and constraints. The blurb to The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (renamed Philomena in the USA) is far more critical of US society and the Catholic Church, presenting Republican Michael Hess as ‘a gay man in a homophobic party where he had to conceal not only his sexuality but, eventually, the fact that he had AIDS’. The AmE edition has recourse to euphemism and avoids direct criticism of one of the major political parties: ‘He struggled to hide secrets that would jeopardize his career in the Republican Party and endanger his quest to find his mother’. Similarly the BrE edition tells how mother and son ‘were scarred by hypocrisy on both sides of the Atlantic’ while the AmE edition removes the emotive vocabulary and states that the book ‘pulls back the curtain on the role of the Catholic Church in forced adoptions’.

3.3.3  Non-verbal elements The illustration on the front cover plays a crucial role in attracting readers and intriguing them. Designing the front cover, and more specifically the cover illustration, has become a recognized art form, and the names of the artists feature on the back cover, albeit in small print. Many of the illustrators, such as Chip Kidd, Carin Goldberg, Carol Devine Carson, John Gall and Peter Mendelsund, have become well-known figures in the publishing world and are all acknowledged as creative artists. The choice of cover illustration reflects both the expectations that publishers wish to create in the potential buyer and the norms of the book’s genre. To the choice of cover image can be added the choice of



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typeface and choice of colour, both of which also signify. Chicklit (contemporary fiction for young women) is known for its specific style of cover, with its use of pinks and mauves and cursive fonts (Montoro 2012). Use of the same colours and same style font on a cover immediately sends a clear signal to the potential buyer, and this may explain the choice of cover for the AmE edition of Rachel Joyce’s The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. The BrE edition features Harold’s walking shoes and a crow (more reminiscent of crime fiction) accompanied by a typeface that has irregular lettering. As such, the cover does not send a clear message to the reader regarding the book’s genre, although subsequent works by Joyce that use the same lettering and the same illustrator clearly build on the connection with this particular novel to create a brand. The AmE edition has opted to use the cursive font of the romance genre, the same mauve and blue colours, and the illustration is now no longer a pair of old shoes but a couple walking along a beach, into the distance, hand in hand (see Figure 3.1). The AmE edition of Joyce’s sequel, The Love Song of Queenie Hennessy, reuses the same typeface and style of image just as the BrE edition of the sequel re-employs the irregular lettering and a pair of shoes, this time a woman’s pair. Seen side by side in a bookstore, the two covers would suggest completely different novels. The AmE cover illustrates how all the features, and especially typeface and illustration, work together to send a message to the reader. In order to study the interaction of all the elements mentioned so far, to adopt a more multimodal approach, and to investigate how the various elements combine to translate the book’s appeal for the new readership and to brand it as belonging to a specific author or genre, or to target a specific audience or culture, I propose to look at four short case studies.

3.4  Case study 1: Mystery/crime novels – On Beulah Height Crime and mystery novels have long been recognized as a distinct genre, and I want now to consider how the various features combine to create such a genre. Space precludes providing an XY diagram of the layout structure of each of the case studies, but Figure 3.2 presents an area model in the form of a horizontal grid for the BrE and AmE editions of On Beulah Height, based on Bateman (2008) and a comparative visual display of the different elements that feature on the covers of the two editions First, a difference in size can be observed. The smaller format for the AmE edition (10.5cm x 17.5cm) signals that it is a mass market paperback and

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Figure 3.1  Cover design of AmE edition of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry



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Figure 3.2  Area model for On Beulah Height

intended for light reading, as opposed to a larger format traditionally associated with literary works (Straus 1996).While certain elements (title, author, image) feature on both covers, other elements are optional. The area model shows that the prominence given to a name and title can vary considerably. On the BrE cover, on the left, the author’s family name, Hill, is the graphical focus, printed in large silver embossed letters, with the first name reproduced in the same colour and font but reduced in size. The AmE edition has given prominence to the author’s name through the use of a different colour – turquoise – but uses a smaller font size and capital letters throughout (see Figure 3.3). The title On Beulah Height, gives no indication of the book’s genre, and the artwork on the BrE cover features a photograph of a landscape possibly representing the mere mentioned in the book. Were it not for the choice of colours (sombre tones of mauve, grey and black), which create an air of mystery, the photograph could easily feature on the cover of a book about the Yorkshire countryside. Later BrE editions include a black crow, a common feature on crime novel covers, thus indicating more clearly the genre. The serif font is not evocative of the crime genre either. The AmE edition also creates a sense of mystery, but in a totally different way. A  black and white photograph of a child’s head and shoulders emerging

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Figure 3.3  Cover design for the BrE cover On Beulah Height



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Figure 3.4  Cover design for the AmE cover On Beulah Height

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from the darkness accounts for almost 90 per cent of the cover. In stark contrast, the remaining bottom 10 per cent of the cover features a colour photograph of an isolated mansion on an expanse of grassland with a solitary tree, suffused in warm golden sunlight. The two AmE illustrations echo the plot:  the larger photo reflects the mystery of the missing children, and the slightly supernatural element that structures the plot using the children’s folktale of Nina and the Nix. The smaller illustration refers to the phrase ‘a happy rural seat of various view’, which is the title of the section Day One, and the phrase reoccurs later in the novel, when Pascoe turns the pages of a book entitled The Drowning of Dendale:  ‘The first photograph was a panorama of the whole dale, bathed in evening light. And the epigraph under the subtitle was A happy rural seat of various view’ (BrE-BH: 71). The phrase is a quotation from Paradise Lost, and the village of Dendale, flooded some fifteen years before the events in the novel, is compared to Paradise by the villagers. However, there is no mention of a country mansion, and the term ‘seat’ in Milton is a place of abode, not a country seat. Despite the black and white photograph, the AmE edition paradoxically seems more colourful, and this is achieved in part by choosing to produce the author’s name in turquoise and re-using the same colour on the back cover. The remaining information on the cover uses the same sans serif font but in white and apart from the review, capital letters are used throughout. These details combine to create a bold dramatic effect. The serif font used by the BrE edition is less evocative of a crime novel. The combination of all the details on the AmE edition means that it sends a clearer message to the reader. The other noticeable difference concerns the higher number of optional elements to be found on the AmE cover. Both covers feature a descriptor: the AmE edition uses a compound noun (‘A Dalziel/Pascoe mystery’), underlining that the book belongs to a category and the category is specified ‘mystery’, while the BrE edition does not specify the category, leaving it to the reader to recognize the two main characters:  ‘featuring Dalziel and Pascoe’. The AmE cover also provides a teaser from The New York Times Book Review qualifying the author as ‘the master of form and sorcerer of style’. The choice of teaser echoes the choice of photograph:  the emphasis is placed on magic and the supernatural. Above the author’s name, the AmE edition endorses the credentials of the book, ‘a New York Times Notable Book’, and those of the author, by identifying him with a previous bestseller. In order to judge whether these differences are typical of the genre on either side of the Atlantic, Figure 3.5 presents an area model of two other covers from



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Figure 3.5  Area model comparison of crime fiction

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detective novels in my corpus: Ian Rankin’s Fleshmarket Close/Alley and Colin Dexter’s Death Is Now My Neighbour/Neighbor. The AmE editions feature on the left of Figure 3.5 and are all slightly smaller in size. They contain more optional elements, making their covers appear more content-driven. This confirms a remark made by Rita Frangie, assistant art director at Penguin Books: Here (in the United States) we tend to want to use every inch, to fill (the cover) up with color, and to get it to do as much as it can do. Everything here is bigger, more commercial, more targeted to sell and to advertise. In Europe, the covers are geared to look more like the way they dress: very simple. Their use of negative space goes along with the theory of less is more. (in Pinchefsky 2005)

Ian Rankin’s name is presented in the same red font on both covers, indicating that he has been branded in a similar way on both sides of the Atlantic. However, apart from that, the designs are quite different. Once again, the colours on the BrE cover are limited in number:  red for the text, except for ‘Fleshmarket’ in black, against a black and white photograph of an alleyway leading intriguingly into the distance. The only other information is the endorsement, ‘The number one bestseller’. In contrast the AmE edition, as with the AmE of On Beulah Height, endorses the author’s credentials by mentioning that Rankin is ‘winner of the Edgar Award for best novel’, and identifying him in relation to one of his bestsellers. It also endorses the book with a review from the Philadelphia Inquirer that functions simultaneously as a descriptor indicating the genre:  ‘a cracking crime thriller’. As with the AmE edition of On Beulah Height, the AmE edition of Fleshmarket Close is more colourful, featuring various tones of red and orange, and the bundle of twenty-pound notes is a direct reference to an element in the plot. The Colin Dexter novel, Death Is Now My Neighbour, also confirms the differences noted so far. The BrE cover on the right has little information, and the main cover feature is the illustration: a black and white photograph of three chairs, taken from an unusual angle, in muted colours of green, grey and black. In the lower half of the cover, the author’s name is given visual prominence through the use of the colour white. In contrast, the title is written in black; the only other information is the descriptor in white letters, ‘An Inspector Morse Novel’, thus identifying the detective involved (cf. On Beulah Height). The AmE edition again features an element from the plot, a train, red in colour and either moving into the distance or approaching the reader. The information on the cover is presented in three different colours:  at the top is a red banner, with



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the descriptor, ‘An Inspector Morse Novel’, in black; Colin Dexter’s name is in orange; the title and the endorsement of the author in white (‘that puzzlemeister without peer’). This brief comparison reveals that the BrE and AmE layouts for crime novels are very different: AmE editions are slightly smaller, include far more optional elements often endorsing the author or the book and carry a wider range of colours. They also feature an element from the plot in the illustration. The BrE editions use more muted colours, emphasize the name of the author, but feature few or no endorsements on the cover. Their illustration is a photograph rather than an element from the plot.

3.5  Case Study 2: Children’s fiction – seeking a wider audience Children’s fiction faces the dual task of appealing to both the young reader and the parent. For parents and educationalists, establishing an author’s credentials is therefore important, and this is emphasized on the BrE cover of Flour Babies (see Figure 3.6), where Anne Fine’s name appears in gold capital letters, thereby visually identifying her with the gold embossed medal representing the Carnegie award for children’s literature that also appears on the cover. The information about the award is repeated directly beneath the medal with the additional information that the book also received the Whitbread Award. Neither award features on the AmE edition, but the author is endorsed (as with the previous examples) by designating her as ‘author of Alias Madame Doubtfire’, a title which has become famous through its film adaptation. The prizes awarded are, however, mentioned on the inside front cover. Unlike the crime fiction studied above, the title on the cover is in a larger typeface than the author’s name. Once again, the most striking difference between the two editions is the illustration. The BrE edition has a contrasting blue-mauve and pink cover, colours potentially aimed at a female audience (Baines 2005: 240), and the flour baby is depicted as mentioned in the narrative:  ‘She was sweet. She was dressed in a frilly pink bonnet and a pink nylon frock, and carefully painted on her sacking were luscious sexy round eyes fringed with fluttering lashes’ (BrE-FB: 28). The sack has been positioned to give the impression that it has arms and closely resembles a doll. Finally, the puffin logo in the bottom righthand corner replicates the bright pink of the dress for its background colour. The AmE edition is markedly different (see Figure 3.7). Its main colours are muted browns and beiges, with the title in red, and the focus here is on

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Figure 3.6  Cover design of BrE edition of Flour Babies



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Figure 3.7  Cover design of AmE edition of Flour Babies

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Simon, the main protagonist, seated at his desk, surrounded by exercise books and pencils, with the sack in one corner. The illustration represents a scene from the story: ‘(Simon) pulled his flour baby, a pad of paper, and a pen from his book bag, and, without making any more fuss, propped the flour baby up on the desk top.’ The doll-like aspects of the flour baby have disappeared. The only item of clothing is an apron-like piece of red and yellow material, with a small flounce. What is most in evidence is the sacking and the square shape of the doll. The description of the flour baby has also been modified, playing down its ‘girly’ features; it does not even feature the bonnet and pinafore dress mentioned in the AmE text: ‘She was sweet. She was dressed in a frilly white bonnet and a pinafore dress, and carefully painted on her burlap were voluptuous round eyes fringed with fluttering lashes’. (AmE-FB: 33). The AmE text has removed all mention of the flour baby being dressed in pink. From these two covers, it appears that the AmE edition is less gender-biased and probably seeks to attract a wider readership. This is further evidenced by the synopsis on the back cover. The AmE edition begins by specifying that the book is about a class of boys: ‘the boys in Room 8’, while the BrE edition simply mentions ‘Mr Cartright’s class’. If the BrE edition describes the flour babies as ‘sweet little six-pound bags of flour that must be cared for at all times’ and Simon as coming ‘to learn more than he could have imagined about the pressures and strains of being a parent’, the AmE edition presents the boys as ‘ready to dropkick their six-pound flour “babies” into the creek’, and the effect of ‘keeping his flour baby clean and dry’ is to help ‘Simon figure out his own life’. In other words, less emphasis is placed on the lessons to be learnt in maternal care and on the endearing qualities of the flour baby, and greater emphasis is given to the boys’ aggressive reaction. The playing-down of the feminine element in the AmE edition is reinforced by the two-line reviews that appear, one on the front cover and one on the back. They too have been chosen for their neutral tone: ‘it’s a poignant, gloriously funny book’, according to Booklist, while Publisher’s Weekly calls it ‘an extraordinary adventure in living and learning’.

3.6  Case Study 3: Travelogues – a different cover for a different culture Other changes in cover design can be attributed to a desire to appeal specifically to an AmE reader’s culture. The AmE and BrE editions of Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island both feature collaged items on their covers, but those on



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Figure 3.8  Cover design of BrE edition of Notes from a Small Island

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the BrE cover appeal to British nostalgia by featuring characteristics of more or less bygone days:  a red phone box, a belisha beacon and a Morris Minor (see Figure 3.8). That the latter two elements would mean little to a potential American reader is underlined by the fact that the words belisha beacon and Morris Minor appear in the glossary of the AmE edition. The nostalgic collaged images are set against the background of a crumpled Union Jack, and the colours of the flag are reflected in the main colours of the cover: blues, reds and whites, with the letters of the author’s name highlighted in blue. The American edition (see Figure 3.9) also features collaged items but focuses on a very American view of all things British. The main feature on the cover is a Grenadier Guard (although the buttons are on the wrong side of the tunic) with a map at the bottom that features Scotland and Ireland with just a glimpse of Plymouth, despite the fact that apart from a short incursion into Scotland, most of the book deals with travels in England with no mention of Ireland whatsoever. The other items are unashamedly aimed at appealing to an American readership: the teabag is an American brand: Bigelow tea and is blotting out the guard’s face (perhaps a humorous allusion to the Boston Tea Party); a barely perceptible mileage chart in the bottom left-hand corner represents distances to American towns: Buffalo, Chicago and Boston, which have no connection to the UK.

3.7  Case Study 4: Holocaust fiction – emphasizing the facts Literary critics have recognized that Holocaust writing, through ‘its moral connection to the writing of history’ (Lang 2000: 20), has come to adopt a series of conventions that have turned it into a genre. Ethical questions immediately arise regarding the ‘uncertain status of imaginative texts which take the Holocaust as their subject’, since there is a ‘critical preference for testimony over fiction’ (Vice 2000:  91). This doubtless explains why the AmE edition of the translation of Patrick Modiano’s Dora Bruder highlights the factual aspect at every level. First, it has kept the name of Dora Bruder as its title (unlike the BrE edition, which is intriguingly entitled The Search Warrant). Second, the cover illustration is a photo of Dora herself, unlike the rather enigmatic BrE cover, where a barely distinguishable face is in darkness. Third, the back cover blurb contains references to historical records, specific dates and precise historical events, thus underlining the authenticity of the account. The BrE blurb, on the other hand, mentions that Dora disappeared one ‘bitterly cold’ night at ‘a time of



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Figure 3.9  Cover design of AmE edition of Notes from a Small Island

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especially violent German reprisals’ and labels the book ‘a moving survey’ that revives the ‘sorrowful rhythms of occupied Paris’. In contrast, the AmE edition has replaced the emotive vocabulary with a more neutral tone. Modiano is no longer ‘moved by her fate’ but simply ‘sets off on a quest’. The German reprisals are no longer ‘especially violent’. Instead, the reader is given the exact date of the newspaper that featured the missing person ad in 1941, and we learn that there was an ‘official mention’ of Dora’s name on ‘official’ records. Similarly, when the BrE cover blurb recounts how Modiano seeks ‘to exhume Dora Bruder’s fate’ and ‘in turn faces, and must come to terms with, his own family history’, the AmE edition states that ‘the result, a montage of creative and historical material, is Modiano’s personal rumination on loss, both memoir and memorial’. Inside the book, the insistence on non-fiction continues. At the point where the narrator describes in detail some photographs that he has discovered of Dora and her family, the AmE edition actually includes two black and white photographs, although only one of the two corresponds to the description in the text; the other is a photograph described some fifty pages later in the novel. Another photograph, which does correspond to the description at this point in the narrative, is placed at the very beginning of the novel. These photographs increase the historical, documentary aspect of the novel, providing evidence that Dora really did exist. However, as the photographs are not placed next to the corresponding text, they could arguably distract the reader. A  similar problem concerns the two maps of Paris included in the AmE edition. The maps correspond partially to the routes followed by Modiano or Dora as they walk through Paris but, again, they are a little misleading for the reader. Important places in the story, such as the area around the Porte de Lilas, where Dora was interned before being taken to Drancy, do not feature on the maps. The maps and photographs will inevitably give the AmE reader a different reading experience if they use the maps to check the spatial references in the text as they read and compare the photographs to the written text. Another difference between the two editions concerns the footnotes. These are marked by an asterisk in the BrE edition but numbered in the AmE edition as in a work of non-fiction, thus giving them greater authority and contributing to the idea that this is a historical work. These brief case studies have brought to light how the various features of both linguistic and material text interact to provide meaning; when the outer cover is changed to appeal to a new readership or conform to the conventions of a new genre, then the inner peritext is also likely to be modified. A certain number of patterns has emerged from a comparison of BrE and AmE covers, and there are some distinct cultural differences that constrain the choice of design. AmE



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editions have traditionally been identified as possessing ‘bright colour, good design, and story suggestion’, while BrE jackets ‘tend to be dull in colour and to give no information, often, beyond author and title’ (Matthews and Moody 2007: 15). This difference in design has been recognized by illustrators and cover designers themselves. Mendelsund (2014: 148) contends that ‘each country has its own style, tradition and inherited set of visual references that somehow feels as different as our languages’. Writing to Jim Crace, Kate Harvey of Macmillan comments that the US cover style of his book Harvest would be difficult to sell in the UK, even though she greatly admires the cover art (Crace 2012). The brief survey of the covers has also led me to consider the publisher’s inner peritext, as all the elements combine to reflect the publisher’s interpretation of the book and their marketing strategies, and it is the inner peritext that now needs to be examined in more detail.

3.8  Inside the covers: the inner peritext In this section I  examine mainly non-verbal elements that contribute to the meaning of the text and that differ from one edition to the other.

3.8.1 Illustrations Illustrations can play an important role in shaping how we interpret a text (Fisher 1995), and illustrators, like cover designers, play an overt creative role, with their names appearing on the cover, or inside the book. In this section I examine the kinds of relationships that exist between the illustrations and the text, and how texts and images are the result of the context in which they are produced and how they are constrained by a specific genre. The possible relations between image and text have been analysed using the logico-semantic relations of Halliday’s SFG (Kong 2006; Kress and van Leeuwen 2006; Martinec and Salway 2005; Royce 2007). Another approach, employed by Bateman (2014), Delin and Bateman (2002), Hiippala (2017) and Taboada and Habel (2013) has adopted Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST), initially elaborated by Mann and Thompson (1988). There is not space to examine the merits of each of these approaches, but as RST is used in the GeM model and possesses a wider range of possible rhetorical relations and moves beyond clausal relations to examine discourse functions, it is this approach that I shall be referring to in the pages that follow, although once again, a detailed analysis is impossible.

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Illustrations frequently occur at the beginning of a work, or at the start of a chapter, and function as Preparation to what follows (Taboada and Habel 2013: 74), but editions will vary in how they use illustrations, and a change in use often reflects a change in genre. The inclusion in the BrE edition of the Harry Potter series of the shield-shaped Hogwarts school crest illustrates this point. For BrE readers, a school crest belongs to their cultural framework, and its presence reflects Rowling’s use of reality and fantasy in her fiction; the books combine the school-story tradition with fantasy. The school crest does not fulfil the same function for an AmE reader, nor does it correspond to the aspect of the book that is promoted by the AmE edition: the world of magic. The crest is therefore missing from the AmE edition which has Americanized the school references (see Chapter  4) or downplayed them. This in turn constrains the choice of illustrations: the cover features Harry Potter on a broomstick chasing a Snitch, with a unicorn in the background, whereas the BrE edition presents Harry in a school scarf standing beside the Hogwarts Express which, despite the enigmatic ‘9¾’ hanging next to it, could be a steam train straight from the cover of a book in the Thomas the Tank Engine series. Further evidence of the AmE’s emphasis on wizardry and magic can be seen in the choice of font for the chapter titles. The AmE edition also features small black-and-white drawings at the beginning of each chapter, alluding to events to come, and situating the book within the genre of children’s fiction. Omitting illustrations inevitably affects how the text is perceived. In Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights, the framed images that begin each chapter have a Preparation function but they do not feature in the AmE edition. The Preparation function of the image for the final chapter is especially significant as it has no frame. At this point in the narrative, as Pullman (2015: 236) explains, ‘all the barriers have been smashed, all the frontiers have been blown away, the whole universe is wide open; so there’s nothing shutting (Lyra) in’. This opening up of the universe is mirrored by the frameless image in the final chapter. Part of the meaning is therefore lost without these illustrations. Illustrations are similarly removed in the AmE edition of Rachel Joyce’s The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. In the BrE edition, each chapter features an Andrew Davidson line drawing which fulfils a Preparation function (Hiippala 2015: 134), announcing a key point of the ensuing narrative. Chapter 1 features a pillar box that refers both to the letter that Harold receives, setting events in motion, and to his written reply that he goes to post, leading to the start of his pilgrimage to find Queenie in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The pillar box is rendered lexically and visually salient through the layout (it is placed centred on the page,



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directly below the chapter title) and the subsequent text, which mentions the word ‘post-box’ four times along with other related lexical items such as ‘post a letter’. The illustration also has an Elaboration function (van Leeuwen 2005a: 79) as it tells the reader that the letter in the title is also a letter to be posted. The reader is thus prepared to expect other links between the chapter drawings that follow and the subsequent text. In the AmE edition, there are no illustrations at the start of each chapter; instead, they have been integrated into the map which features on the first pages of the novel. A map features in both editions of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, but again various elements have been modified for the AmE reader, and cultural elements deemed too British have been removed. The primrose, for example, is missing, as is the horse chestnut – both native species to the British Isles, but less identifiable for an AmE reader. More importantly, the pillar box, instead of displaying the royal cipher as in the British edition, has the word ‘post’ written on it, presumably to guarantee that the pillar box is correctly identified as such by non-British readers. Similarly, landmarks such as the Isle of Man, the Isle of Wight and France are all identified on the map in the AmE edition, but not in the BrE edition. The map appears at the beginning of the AmE edition, where it has a Preparation function, although by mapping Harold’s journey in advance it removes any suspense. In the BrE edition, the map is placed at the end of the novel and therefore has a Summary function.

3.8.2 Typeface The choice of typeface for the contents of most conventional novels is never entirely arbitrary (Nørgaard 2019b: 242; van Leeuwen 2005b: 139), and even in books aimed at the mass consumer market its choice is more motivated than might at first appear. Berkeley Old Style typeface was chosen for Rachel Joyce’s two novels about Harold Fry. Its ‘calligraphic weight stress, smooth weight transitions, classic x-height and ample ascenders and descenders’ results in ‘high levels of character legibility and a text color that is light and inviting’ (ITC, www.fonts.com). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to give a detailed presentation or discussion of the various taxonomies of typography proposed by social semiotic multimodal research (van Leeuwen 2006; Machin 2007; Nørgaard 2019a), so my main focus will be on examining how the various typographic elements contribute to meaning, and how that meaning has been interpreted and translated for the AmE reader. I will be referring to Nørgaard’s (2019a) typographic semiotic principles based on Peirce and Stöckl, and

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concentrating specifically on iconic meaning, as this occurs most frequently in my corpus. Nørgaard (2019a: 98) defines iconic meaning as occurring when ‘letterforms look like that which is signified or share conceptual qualities with it’. In the AmE editions of the Harry Potter series, the individual handwriting of the various characters is reproduced using different typefaces that reflect their characters. Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn, the Half-Blood Prince, Lavender, R.A.B. and Sirius Black are all given their own unique signature or handwriting. Dumbledore’s handwriting (Aquiline Two Font) is a cursive italic style with flourishes on certain letters, based on sixteenth-century writing with a quill. Hagrid’s writing, on the other hand, is in Felt Tip Roman, a digitized handwriting font that imitates the irregularities of natural handwriting. These distinctive styles contrast with the 2005 BrE edition, which gives Dumbledore and Hagrid identical typefaces (BrE-HBP: 172; 440). Iconic meaning also occurs when capital letters are used for shouting, although this is not necessarily reproduced in the AmE edition. In the Empire of the Wolves, italics are used instead: ‘LET ME IN!’ (BrE-EW: 97) “Let me in!” (AmE-EW: 97)

I return to this point in Chapter 6, as the change in type has repercussions upon how we interpret characters’ voices. The choice of typeface can also often reflect the choice of genre. The BrE edition of The Professor and the Madman, Simon Winchester’s tale of the making of the Oxford English Dictionary has used Monotype Bembo throughout, a classical typeface designed by Stanley Morison that has a serif font and is identified as legible book typeface. The AmE, on the other hand, has opted to use several different typefaces, as its colophon explains. The main text is in Monotype Bell, a facsimile of the typeface cut by Richard Austin in 1788 for English printer John Bell, with no relationship to the OED. Clarendon is used for the headwords of the dictionary extracts, a typeface traditionally associated with the Clarendon Press at Oxford but used before the Dictionary was published. The dictionary entry opening is set in Times Roman, designed for the Times of London, and historically attributed to Morison, but rarely used in Oxford dictionaries. By importing typefaces of the past, the AmE edition has sought to create verisimilitude, and this arguably illustrates the principle of discursive import (Nørgaard 2019a); none of the typefaces correspond exactly, no more



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than the dictionary quotations themselves are true reproductions. The AmE edition has therefore sought to evoke the past (albeit in a rather loose fashion), and this corresponds to the publisher’s choice to catalogue the book as ‘history’ rather than ‘biography’. Other elements reflect this change: the cover no longer features the magnifying glass of the BrE edition, but a larger sepia photograph of James Murray, and inside there are full-page black and white illustrations by Philip Hood, reminiscent of Victorian illustrations by Cruikshank. It may also explain some of the added explicitations of historic references in the AmE text. The mention of blacking factories has the added parenthesis ‘shoe polish makers, like the one in which the young Charles Dickens worked’ (AmE-PM: 7), and a Bow Street Runner is followed by ‘as London’s early police were known’ (AmE-PM: 8). The interaction between the various typefaces and the text itself demonstrates that the linguistic and material text are indeed a ‘laced network’ (McGann 1991: 13).

3.8.3  Structural forms and devices: The navigational layer The contrast between AmE and BrE editions is even more marked in the use of structural forms and devices. Usually such features are ‘only reminders, handy when one is reading and consulting the text’ (Genette [1987]1997: 316), but the AmE editions tend to invest more effort in the navigational features. The BrE editions of Monica Ali’s Brick Lane and Bill Bryson’s Down Under and Notes from a Small Island are all published by Transworld Publishers, a division of the Random House Group, under the imprint Black Swan Books. Each features the page number at the bottom of the page, but no running heads. On the other hand, the AmE editions published by Scribner (part of Simon and Shuster), Broadway (Random House) and Harper Perennial all feature running heads with the author and title. Other AmE editions use ornamented crossheads to mark a new chapter (The Professor and the Madman), and fleurons (non-alphabetic decorations) to separate the various sections (The Map that Changed the World, Notes from a Small Island). While many of the BrE editions announce a new chapter with a number, followed by the text starting from the margin ranged left, the AmE editions will mark the start of the text with a large initial letter: a versal or lettrine. Such a versal may rise above the text, as in Blackberry Wine and The Comfort of Strangers, or fall below in the form of a drop cap, as in The Map That Changed the World, Harry Potter and Fleshmarket Alley. It may be in italics, as in Enduring

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Love, or appear as a drop cap at the beginning of an indented paragraph, as in Flowers in the Rain. Even in books aimed at adult readers, the AmE edition frequently pays greater attention to page design. Both editions of Simon Winchester’s The Map That Changed the World have small line drawings of Jurassic ammonites at the beginning of each chapter. In the BrE edition, these drawings are part of the chapter headings and centred in the middle of the page. In the AmE edition they are incorporated into the opening of the chapter, on the left-hand side. Consequently, the text in the AmE edition is indented and, in addition, contains a decorative inline drop cap, asymmetrically inscribed, so that the hollowed strokes are light on the left and dark on the right. The drop cap is in bold type, as is the chapter heading and number. The result is a chapter opening that contributes to the overall design and highlights the drawings. As a result of these decorative elements, the AmE edition is nearly always more pleasing to the eye, while the BrE text often appears more bland and uniform in comparison. When these various flourishes are accompanied by a better quality paper and a slightly larger format, the reader is left with impression that the AmE edition is aimed at a more affluent market. The increase in items in the navigational layer of AmE editions also suggests greater emphasis on guiding the reader. One exception to this general impression is the genre of crime fiction which, in my corpus, tends to be published in a slightly smaller format and with a cheaper-quality paper than its BrE counterpart, resulting in a less readable type. The spacing and use of paragraphs plays a vital role in communicating the text, and the two editions can vary enormously in this respect. This may be due to production constraints (Bateman 2008): extra lines and indentations require more space, which in turn implies additional cost. If the close-printed text of some paperbacks suggests the important role played by printing costs, the change of paragraph division in most of the novels in my corpus does not seem to be driven by such a cost-conscious policy. As with preceding sections, I shall be using the parallel corpus to investigate how changes to the layout can affect meaning. One striking example of a change in spacing is to be found in The Empire of the Wolves. The original French text contains a high number of short-sentence paragraphs, which imitate the fast-moving, action-packed narrative, as do the short chapters. The BrE translation reproduces this layout as below: It was four p.m. and the sun was still high in the sky. Suddenly, he decided not to wait for nightfall.



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He was too impatient to get away. He crossed the living room, grabbed his bag and opened the door. Fear had been at the beginning. And fear would be at the end. (BrE-EW: 193)

By integrating these sentences into two paragraphs, the AmE edition has created a more fluid reading experience; the reader no longer pauses at each sentence but is invited to see them as forming a sequence. This modifies the pacing and rhythm: It was 4:00 PM and the sun was still high in the sky. Suddenly, he decided not to wait for nightfall. He was too impatient to get away. He crossed the living room, grabbed his bag and opened the door. Fear had been at the beginning. And fear would be at the end. (AmE-EW: 193)

How the type is spaced across the page is also extremely important. If the lines are justified, then the spacing between the words must be even and balanced. Lines must therefore be sufficiently long enough to allow justification, otherwise ‘rivers’ (blank streaks) appear in the text. Different genres, again, have different constraints. Works for young readers are more concerned with facilitating the reading experience, and the two editions may not always use the same solution. The BrE edition of A Mouse Called Wolf has chosen a ranged-left paragraph for consistent word spacing. In the AmE edition, when a word break occurs it is usually where the syllable ends, such as lit-tle, down-stairs, communi-cate, beautiful-ly. Both editions feature a higher proportion of white space around the text block than usual, presumably because negotiating dense, closely set type is more difficult for young readers. Spacing can also be iconic. In Monica Ali’s Brick Lane, the BrE edition presents Hasina’s letters in italics and uses ranged-left text, representing Hasina’s handwritten letters, which are described as being ‘written in a scrawl’ and are indicative of Hasina’s individualism and rebelliousness (BrE-BL: 47). In the AmE edition the letters are also presented in italic type, but the justified lines give a neatness to the text that is not in keeping with the idea of the letters being carelessly handwritten. Specific layouts can be associated with specific forms of texts in the reader’s mind, and thereby can influence how the linguistic text is interpreted. Chapter 1 of Reginald Hill’s The Death of Dalziel, entitled ‘Mill Street’, is a justified series of truncated sentences with no punctuation or capital letters. In the AmE edition

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(Death Comes for the Fat Man), the text is centred, creating the visual impression of a poem.

3.9  Conclusion From this brief study of paratextual elements and bibliographical codes of the works in the corpus, a number of elements have emerged. First, despite the heterogeneity of the various elements analysed, they all form part of a multimodal ensemble. This relationship between the material text and the linguistic text is perhaps best described as one of interpellation (Lecercle 1999). Insofar as the choice of title, cover design or typography are not totally random but subjected to the linguistic text, then it can be argued that the linguistic text interpellates the material text; both conform to the same constraints of language and encyclopaedia. At the same time, the linguistic text is interpellated by the material text, since its identity is constructed through the bibliographical codes and non-verbal modes. This can be represented as in Figure 3.10 The interrelation between the various elements, underlines the need for translation studies to move beyond the text and to consider how the text is packaged. First, when a book is adapted to a new genre for a new readership, as for example in the case of The Professor and the Madman or Dora Bruder, it is both the linguistic and material text that is modified. This suggests that the tripartite division of translation into intralingual, interlingual and intrasemiotic is artificial. If we are to consider the book as an integral whole, then we must also consider translation from an integrated perspective. Second, the changes that have been made for the AmE edition illustrate how the packaging is adapted for each market and/or genre. The choice of title or cover is part of a marketing strategy that obeys local socioeconomic and cultural constraints. Drew and Sternberger (2005:  8) make the point that ‘when a text is published and the book is designed and printed, it becomes a physical manifestation not just of the ideas of the author, but of the cultural ideals and aesthetics of a distinct historical moment’. Third the paratextual elements reveal that various people have intervened in the text during the production process, that their roles are

[A

[L

[T] LT

E]

R

MT

Figure 3.10  A reworking of Lecercle’s ALTER model to include the material text



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diverse and that they relate in different ways to the linguistic text. The book is the product of a collaborative enterprise. The various elements of the material text reveal a host of strategies that demonstrate how the actors have positioned themselves in relation to the linguistic text, and in doing so they have translated it into a more culturally acceptable form for a new readership. It is the linguistic text that I now propose to examine in more detail in Chapters 4 and 5, and the modifications that have been made for the North American market.

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In this chapter I  will examine the dialectal changes made to the BrE edition, those aspects which most closely resemble interlingual translation. These include changes to the punctuation, the lexis and the grammar.

4.1  Americanizing the punctuation The changes made to the punctuation are part of an overall policy that seeks to make the text look more ‘natural’ to the AmE reader, as R. D. Loomis of Random House explains in a letter to J. M. Coetzee (1990b). The most obvious dialectal modification involves substituting AmE double quotes for BrE single quotes: Amy said, from the sofa, ‘Would you like that, Luke?’ (BrE-OPC: 50) Amy said, from the sofa, “Would you like that, Luke?” (AmE-OPC: 60)

Another typical change is the placing of commas and full stops inside the quotation marks in the AmE edition: By 1781  … Samuel Johnson was calling the English ‘a nation of readers’. (BrE-MW: 27) By 1781  … Samuel Johnson was calling the English “a nation of readers.” (AmE-MW: 22)

Edited AmE also differs in the use of dashes, using an em dash where BrE uses a space, en dash, and a space: Whatever the political outcome – whatever the effect of the new phenomenon of public opinion that literacy and communication and newspapers and libraries encouraged – the nation … seemed generally prepared. (BrE-MW: 28)

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Intralingual Translation of British Novels Whatever the political outcome—whatever the effect of the new phenomenon of public opinion that literacy and communication and newspapers and libraries encouraged—the nation … seemed generally prepared. (AmE-MW: 23)

The use of full-stops after abbreviations also varies on either side of the Atlantic. North American editors and typesetters prefer placing a full-stop after every abbreviation, producing a text that is defined by Bringhurst ([1992] 2005:  88) as being ‘full of birdshot and wormholes’. Thus ‘Mr F.T. Elworthy’ and ‘Dr Fitzedward Hall’ (BrE-SC:  147) become ‘Mr. F.T. Elworthy’ and ‘Dr. Fitzedward Hall’ (AmE-PM: 165–6). An AmE edition is therefore usually immediately identifiable by simply glancing at the punctuation

4.2  Americanizing the Lexis Establishing lexicogrammatical differences between AmE and BrE is not as easy as it may at first appear. The United States’ economic and electronic prestige, and the higher number of AmE speakers worldwide, has resulted in BrE borrowing many AmE terms. These terms do not always strike the BrE speaker as being ‘different’ or borrowed and are often used indifferently with a BrE equivalent. Matters are further complicated as AmE and BrE share a common history. A  word may exist in both languages but have taken a different meaning, be used more or less frequently, or in a different context or simply not have the same scope of reference. So while AmE speakers prefer sweater (AmE-SS: 24) or use have as in: “Does she have a horse too?” (AmE-PP 10), BrE speakers might prefer to use jumper (BrE-PS: 23) or use have got: ‘Has she got a horse as well?’ (BrE-PP: 10). It is unlikely that BrE readers would consider the substitutions in the AmE edition as either odd or foreign. However, the same cannot be said for AmE speakers reading the BrE edition as they would associate BrE jumper with a pinafore dress or coverall, and expect have more readily in edited standard AmE. There is often then a ‘murky middle ground in which British and American are mutually comprehensible, but neither is ever quite right for the other’ (Heacock and Cassidy 1998: 98). There are two main categories where the lexis is adjusted for the AmE reader. One concerns referents that exist in both cultures but are known by another name, such as sidewalk and pavement. The editor here has the choice of whether to retain the term or not. The other category concerns BrE terms that have no exact cultural equivalent in AmE. Translating culturally specific items is often recognized as especially problematic in interlingual translation (Baker [1992]



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2018:  21; Leppihalme 1997; Newmark 2010:  172–3) but the same problems exist for the Americanization of BrE texts, as we shall see. Terms that have no cultural equivalent have been labelled as ‘culture-specific items’ (Davies 2003), ‘culture-specific concepts’ (Baker [1992] 2018), ‘cultural words’ (Newmark 2010), ‘culturemes’ (Nord 1997), ‘culture-bound phenomena’ (Robinson 1997), ‘extralinguistic cultural referents’ (Pedersen 2005) or realia (Leppihalme 2001). Crystal ([1995] 2018: 326) suggests that cultural differences between AmE and BrE are likely to be far-reaching, since each region has its own ‘local festivals and folklore, abbreviations, localities, institutional differences (e.g. politics, banking, legal systems, armed forces, sports, honours), local fauna and flora, and everyday slang’. Both of the above categories have been examined in terms of cultural domains and various taxonomies proposed (see e.g. Aixelá 1996; Antonini 2007; Espindola 2005), although the number of categories and the types of categories proposed varies from one scholar to another. Newmark (2010: 175) identifies six categories for culture-specific terms: ecology, public life, social life, personal life, customs and pursuits, private passions, while Nedergaard-Larsen’s typology (1993: 211) offers four main categories: geography, history, society and culture. Geography covers Newmark’s ecology but also includes cultural geography, regions, towns and so forth; history covers buildings, events and people; society refers to the economy, social organization, politics, social conditions, ways of life and customs; and culture covers religion, education, media and culture and leisure activities. I will be adopting Nedergaard-Larsen’s typology in this study, although as with any taxonomy, some of the categories overlap. The different solutions for translating these culture-specific items are variously labelled as strategies, techniques or procedures. Following Munday ([2008] 2016: 23) I will use strategy to refer to the ‘overall orientation of a translated text’ and reserve the term procedure for a ‘specific technique used at a given point in a text’. Translation strategies can be global and local (Chesterman [1997] 2016), formal and dynamic (Nida 1964), overt and covert (House 1997) or foreignizing and domesticating (Venuti [1995] 2018), while a translation procedure is a method to be used to solve a specific translation problem (Lörscher 1991). Various typologies of translation procedures exist, and they vary in their complexity. Vinay and Darbelnet’s (1995) comparative stylistic study of French– English translation with its seven basic procedures of adaptation, calque, equivalence, modulation, borrowing, literal translation and transposition was the first study to present a methodology for translation, and was followed by taxonomies from Baker ([1992] 2018), Catford (1965), Chesterman ([1997]

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2016) and Newmark (1988), among others. The specific problems posed by the translation of culturally specific terms has resulted in various taxonomies of procedures being proposed for these terms (e.g. Davies 2003; Leppihalme 2001; Newmark 2010; Pedersen 2005). Hervey and Higgins (1992), for example, have five procedures that they place on a scale ‘between the extremes of exoticism and cultural transplantation’; Aixelá (1996), on the other hand, has a scale with conservation at one end and substitution strategies at the other, while Nedergaard-Larsen (1993) and Pedersen (2005) have a cline from SL cultureoriented procedures to TL culture-oriented procedures. Pedersen’s (2011:  76) study of translating culture-specific items, identifies the following procedures, which include various subcategories: Retention: the item is retained unchanged or only slightly so. Specification: the item is retained but further specified. Direct translation: a word for word translation occurs; there are no semantic changes. Generalization: the TT is rendered less specific by using a superordinate term or paraphrase. Substitution: the item is replaced by another term from BrE or from AmE. Omission: the item is not reproduced. Official equivalent: an official AmE equivalent exists as with weights and measures. Not all these categories are easily identified as being closer to the ST or to the TT, or as being more or less typical of foreignization or domestication (Venuti). Retention is clearly ST oriented and substitution more TT oriented, but omission is arguably neither one nor the other (Pedersen 2011: 76). Pedersen also indicates that several strategies can be combined. Pedersen’s study is one of the most detailed approaches to date, and the one I will use to analyse the lexical changes.

4.2.1 Retention In interlingual translation, keeping a foreign term belonging to the ST but spelling it differently or marking it with inverted commas or italics would be identified as foreignizing the text. However, in the case of our parallel corpus, the decision to Americanize the spelling of BrE terms is already a step towards domesticating the text. These spellings do not apply to culture-specific items, but to all the words in the text and therefore indicate that the editor has already



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Table 4.1  Table of examples of Americanized spelling BrE –our coloured (BrE-BW: 77) harbour (BrE-DU: 27) favourite (BrE-HBP: 23) honour (BrE-MnWH: 119) neighbourhood (BrE-CS: 9)

AmE -or colored (AmE-BW: 77) harbor (AmE-SB: 13) favorite (AmE: HBP: 27) honor (AmE-MWH: 87) neighborhood (AmE-CS: 19)

BrE –re centre (BrE-CS: 9) kilometre (BrE-SA: 177) meagre (BrE-DU: 51)

AmE -er center (AmeE-CS: 19) kilometer (AmE-SL: 161) meager (AmE-SB: 31)

BrE doubling of final – l in inflected forms shrivelled (BrE-MnWH: 384) towelling (BrE-DU: 28) panelled (BrE-DU: 38)

AmE use of single – l in inflected forms

BrE -logue cataloguing (BrE-DU: 70)

AmE -log cataloging (AmE-SB: 47)

BrE -ence defence (BrE-MW: 243) offence (BrE-MW: 167)

AmE -ense defense (AmE-MW: 241) offense (AmE-MW: 164)

Less systematic differences in spelling BrE cheque (BrE-CS: 11) cosily (BrE-DU: 81) draught (BrE-DU: 75) gaol (BrE-MW: 8) grey (BrE-MnWH: 226) mouldy (BrE-MnWH: 225) pyjamas (BrE-CS: 11) plough (BrE-BW: 77)

AmE check (AmE-CS: 22) cozily (AmE-SB: 56) draft (AmE-SB: 51) jail (AmE-MW: 2) gray (AmE-MWH: 160) moldy (AmE-MWH: 159) pajamas (AmE -CS: 21) plow (AmE-BW: 77)

shriveled (AmE-MWH: 271) toweling (AmE-SB: 13) paneled (AmE-SB: 21)

opted to adapt the text for the AmE reader. Table  4.1 illustrates some of the changes to be found (a more detailed analysis of spelling differences can be found in Hargraves 2003):

4.2.2 Specification Specification occurs when the BrE term is retained and information is added that is not present in the BrE text. Two subcategories can be identified: Completion and Addition. The term explicitation is not used here, as explicitation is often used

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in a more general way in translation studies (Pedersen 2011: 79). Completion includes spelling out acronyms and abbreviations that are considered too opaque for the AmE reader. These will be examined in Chapter 5 as examples of clarification. The opposite procedure can be observed when AmE terms that have been spelled out for the BrE reader are reduced to their abbreviated form in the AmE edition, as in the case of the different states: Gordonville Virginia (BrE-SC:  203) is rewritten as Gordonville, VA (AmE-PM:  235). Completion can also include adding information that is latent in a name as when Brunel (BrE-SC:  37) becomes Isambard Kingdom Brunel (AmE-PM:  40) and Scott (BrE-SC: 37) Robert Falcon Scott (AmE-PM: 40). The same process is observable when the full name or function of a specific shop is given: Waterstones and Dillons bookshops. (AmE-NS: 72) Every Sketchley’s dry cleaner. (AmE-NS: 76) Sainsbury’s supermarket. (AmE-NS: 77) Modern Tesco’s supermarket. (AmE-NS: 158) Clapham Junction station. (AmE-LD: 63)

The second subcategory, Addition, also involves adding information that is latent in the term but the information that is added is not part of the name as such, but part of its meaning or its connotations. Addition frequently occurs when a specific person, who is part of the BrE reader’s encyclopᴂdia, or shared sociocultural knowledge, is mentioned but is considered to be less well-known or unknown for the AmE reader: Rather like Jeremy Paxman. (BrE-BJR: 10) Rather like Jeremy Paxman or similar Newsnight presenter. (AmE-BJR: 9) Called Tom to tell him of trauma who said I should not be so superficial but to think of Mo Mowlam. (BrE-BJR: 122) Called Tom to tell him of trauma who said I should not be so superficial but to think of Irish Secretary Mo Mowlam. (AmE-BJR: 98)

Paradoxically, the information that is added here limits the scope of reference to one particular aspect of the person in question:  their profession or social function. While some proper nouns are ‘unmotivated’ and simply designate an entity, many are ‘motivated’ and have acquired sociocultural associations within a culture. In the examples above, the names of these celebrities signify far more than their profession, so although Addition should disambiguate, this will only be the case if the additional information is appropriate in the given context. In



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the first example, Jeremy Paxman may have been a Newsnight presenter, but he was a particularly incisive (some would say aggressive) presenter, and this information is not conveyed to the AmE reader. In the second example, Bridget Jones has just had a disastrous haircut, an experience that she feels is traumatic. Her reaction is considered superficial in comparison to Mo Mowlam, not because Mo Mowlam is the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland but because she lost her hair due to a brain tumour and for a time suffered jibes from the tabloid press. It is therefore questionable as to whether Addition here really makes the sociocultural connotations latent in the names accessible to the AmE reader, as the additions only specify one aspect of the person in question. Specification can also entail Addition of a detailed paraphrase or explanatory phrase that is often introduced into the text in parentheses: Lay-bys (BrE-LD: 92) Lay-bys (small rest areas beside busy highways) (AmE-LD: 65) A big new building in Southwark or Lambeth or Nine Elms (BrE-LD: 89) A big new building in a more outlying area like Southwark etc. (AmE-LD: 63)

Or even offered in the form of a ‘translation’ for the reader: “Dining room’s closed, mate,” said one of the two guys at the bar. “Chef ’s crook.” Crook means ill. (AmE-SB: 182)

As with the previous examples, Addition modifies the role of the narrator and their relationship with the narratee (I will return to this in Chapter  6). The narrator is now a well-informed guide who imagines that the narratee does not possess all the required knowledge to understand what is being referred to. This can result in a patronizing tone and, perhaps to avoid this, Bryson often includes additions that intend to amuse: Marmite (an edible yeast extract with the visual properties of an industrial lubricant) (AmE-NS: 130) An ice cream van came trundling over the hill playing a twinkly tune such as English ice cream vans always play (to attract the notice of children). (AmE-NS: 100) So you may conceive my satisfaction when I  realized that if you changed “billy boiling” to “willy boiling” (and I should perhaps just note that a willy in AngloAustralian argot is the part of a gentleman’s anatomy that he would be least likely to place in a boiling medium) it put an entirely new slant on things. (AmE-SB: 132)

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4.2.3 Direct translation With Direct Translation the semantic meaning remains unchanged, and nothing is added or omitted. In this category I include those terms that are given their accepted AmE equivalent and have grouped them according to the headings in Nedergaard-Larsen’s typology (1993: 211). However, as I indicate below, the semantic meaning is not always identical. Table 4.2 is not an exhaustive list, but it does represent a fairly balanced picture of the changes made in the corpus. First, it has to be remembered that the corpus comprises mainly novels, so references to flora and fauna are relatively limited and, unlike Australia, which has a high number of endemic species, many of the plants and animals to be found in the United States are also present in the British Isles. There are also few works in my corpus that contain historical references. Most examples, therefore, occur under the heading society, as this covers a wide range of lexical fields, including food, which ‘is for many the most sensitive and important expression of national culture’ (Newmark 1988:  97). Another subcategory that is well-represented in the corpus is that of urban landscapes and their features (including transport). As Hargraves (2003: 160) remarks, ‘the built landscapes in the US and the UK developed independently and organically out of their own locations’, so it is no surprise that terms referring to both the urban landscape and the features and types of dwellings to be found there, tend to differ. The category of culture includes religion, education, media and leisure. Once again, not all these subcategories are well-represented in my corpus. Although this category is labelled Direct Translation, this does not mean that there is necessarily an AmE one-to-one equivalent for a BrE term. Some terms are given different translations in different books. The BrE dual carriageway is translated as a divided highway in one Bryson book (In a Sunburned Country) and as an urban expressway in the more recent The Road to Little Dribbling. Similarly the BrE dresser is translated as china cabinet (AmE-PP:  64) or china closet (AmE-SL: 29) or even retained in the text as dresser (AmE-SL: 60), although that may be due to an oversight. The fact that some terms are translated differently underlines the role played by the individual copy editor who chooses the term. Second, some of the AmE terms are not strictly equivalent. Vicar (BrE-PP: 80) is replaced by pastor (AmE-PP: 76), although for Hargraves (2003: 257) the correct term in the American Episcopal Church would be rector. The term pastor may have been chosen because it does not necessarily refer to a particular denomination in the United States, where there is no one state religion. As with proper nouns, the connotations latent in any word do not necessarily translate directly into the



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Table 4.2  Table of examples of Direct Translation GEOGRAPHY rooster (AmE-SSP: 3) SOCIETY the Australian equivalent of Hansard the Australian equivalent of the (BrE-DU: 138) Congressional record (AmE-SB: 100) dole payment (BrE-DU: 41) welfare check (AmE-SB: 23) crisps (BrE-PP: 77) potato chips (AmE-PP: 73) aubergines (BrE-DU: 212) eggplants (AmE-SB: 159) a takeaway food stand (BrE-DU: 292) a takeout food stand (AmE-SB: 221) sweet papers (BrE-SD: 65) candy wrappers (AmE-SD: 67) biscuits (BrE-HGF: 623) cookies (AmE-HGF: 718) candy floss (BrE-FT: 217) cotton candy (AmE-FT: 217) jacket potato (BrE-PS: 127) baked potato (AmE-SS: 172) dressing gown (BrE-DU: 141) bathrobe (AmE-SB: 103) singlet (BrE-DU: 237) tank top (AmE-SB: 179) flowery pinny (BrE-HBP: 215) flowery apron (AmE-HBP: 228) trainers (BrE-PS: 83) sneakers (AmE-SS: 110) polo-neck (BrE-WT: 49) turtleneck (AmE-WT: 41) a cupboard (BrE-PP: 17) an armoire (AmE-PP: 16) cooker (BrE-PP: 48) stove (AmE-PP: 45) curtain rail (BrE-PP: 105) curtain rod (AmE-PP: 101) hoovered (BrE-DU: 63) vacuumed (AmE-SB: 40) drink cupboard (BrE-SA: 85) liquor cabinet (AmE-SL: 77) white spirit (BrE-SD: 65) turpentine (AmE-SD: 67) curtains (BrE-FB: 38) drapes (AmE-FB: 45) wheelie bins (BrE-LD: 88) garbage bins (AmE-LD: 62) coat-stand (BrE-WT: 53) coat rack (AmE-WT: 45) tram (BrE-SA: 177) trolley (AmE-SL: 161) railway (BrE-SA: 36) railroad (AmE-SL: 31) railway sleepers (BrE-DU: 47) railway ties (AmE-SB: 28) passenger carriage (BrE-DU: 64) passenger car (AmE-SB: 41) boot (BrE-FR: 183) trunk (AmE-FR: 197) leafy roundabout with roads radiating off leafy rotary with spoked roads in various directions (BrE-DU: 121) (AmE-SB: 88) a petrol station (BrE-DU: 52) gas station (AmE-SB: 32) lorries (BrE-DU: 307) trucks (AmE-SB: 234) dual carriageway (BrE-DU: 120) divided highway (AmE-SB: 87) motorway (BrE-DU: 104) an interstate (AmE-SB: 74) rutted dirt road (BrE-DU: 53) rutted dirt highway (AmE-SB: 33) back windscreen wiper (BrE-NS: 162) back windshield wiper (AmE-NS: 140) glove box (BrE-NS: 163) glove compartment (AmE-NS: 140) postbox (BrE-WT: 39) mailbox (AmE-WT: 33) central White Cliffs (BrE-DU: 52) downtown White Cliffs (AmE-SB: 32) cockerel (BrE-SSP :3)

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pavement (SA: 142) an allotment (AmE-FT: 172)

sidewalk (SL: 129) a community garden (AmE-FT: 172) CULTURE revision timetables (BrE-OP: 574) study schedule (AmE-OP: 651) comprehensive (BrE-PS: 29) public school (AmE-SS: 32) set books (BrE-PS: 52) course books (AmE-SS: 66) secondary school (BrE-ITA: 49) grade school (AmE-IHA: 57) primary school (BrE-ITA: 49) elementary school (AmE-IHA: 57) changing rooms (BrE-FB: 37) locker room (AmE-FB: 43) members of staff (BrE-FB: 37) teachers (AmE-FB: 43) came top of the year (BrE-PS: 222) had the best grades of the first years (AmE-SS: 307) football (BrE-PS: 124) soccer (AmE-SS: 167)

other language. Third, the original BrE term may have been chosen for more than just semantic reasons, and the Direct Translation does not always recognize that. Nel (2002: 268) argues that the fact Quidditch is played on a pitch in Harry Potter (and not a field) is not just a case of semantics. There is also a pleasing internal rhyme that is created and that is further echoed in ‘the Snitch was glittering way above the pitch’, which disappears with the choice of field. Pedersen (2005: 5) suggests that the ‘strategy of Direct Translation straddles the fence between the SL- and the TL-oriented strategies, between the exotic and the domestic’. The effect of using AmE words in a fictional world that is supposed to be specifically British is a little different and can result in a strange blend of two different worlds. On Beulah Height, the action takes place in Yorkshire, with several characters using dialectal words such as owt (AmE-BH:  56) yon (AmE-BH: 60) mashed (AmE-BH: 57). The AmE edition retains these dialectal terms but while the characters still drink in the local pub, they no longer drive a Mercedes estate or a white saloon but a station wagon (AmE-BH:  85), and a white sedan (AmE-BH: 90), and parents no longer use a pushchair but a stroller (AmE-BH: 58). Similarly, Ian Rankin’s detective Rebus lives and works in Edinburgh, but the AmE Fleshmarket Alley introduces terms such as paddy wagon (FA: 122), sidewalk (FA: 4) and drapes (FA: 131).

4.2.4 Generalization Generalization refers to the replacement of a culture-specific term with a superordinate term or a paraphrase, both of which are less specific than the ST term. The superordinate term is often not culture-specific.



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Table 4.3  Table of examples of Generalization BrE tea (BrE-PS: 150) a thermos of P.G. Tips (BrE-WT: 74) Trevor McDonald (BrE NS: 153) Leslie Crowther (BrE-BJR: 151) he used to be a member of Red Wedge (BrE-BJR: 204) an irritating little Michael Fish moustache (BrE-NS: 261) in the words of Simon Jenkins (BrE-LD: 90) only that week, I had watched with open mouth an edition of Question Time (BrE-NS: 72)

AmE meal (AmE-SS: 204) rather awful tea (AmE-WT: 63) the anchorman (AmE-NS: 131) a game show host (AmE-BJR: 121) he used to be a member of trendy lefty groups (AmE-BJR: 165) an irritating little toothbrush moustache (AmE-NS: 232) in the words of one commentator (AmE-LD: 64) only that week, I had watched with open mouth a television program (AmE-NS: 56)

Generalization inevitably entails a loss in meaning. A Land Rover (BrE-PP: 135) may be a car (AmE-PP: 129), but it is a specific kind of car, just as Question Time is a specific kind of television programme. The superordinate term in the AmE edition, on the other hand, has a wider and vaguer field of reference. In addition, any specific cultural reference is lost. The Quorn (BrE-BJR:  15) is one of the oldest hunts in England, so replacing it with simply the hunt (AmE-BJR:  12) removes a network of cultural references. The following examples illustrate similar replacements that no longer retain the uniqueness of the referent: Richard Finch, sporting sideburns and black Jarvis Cocker spectacles, his portly frame squeezed hideously into a 70s retro safari suit was bellowing at the assembled twenty-something research team. (BrE-BJR: 9) Richard Finch, sporting sideburns and black trendy spectacles, his portly frame squeezed hideously into a ’70s retro safari suit was bellowing at the assembled twenty-something research team. (AmE-BJR: 7)

The mention of Jarvis Cocker spectacles evokes a specific style of glasses worn by the musician at a certain stage in his career. While trendy may be a suitable adjective to describe the spectacles at the time Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason was written, not all trendy spectacles would have been in that specific style. Sometimes paraphrases replace the culture-specific term:  Basingstoke and Bracknell (BrE-NS: 176) become ‘other planned communities’ (AmE-NS: 152), but the danger, once again, is loss in meaning. Finally, Generalization can result in loss of humour. Bryson imagines the planning and building of Merton College in Oxford as follows:

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‘You know, we’ve been putting up handsome buildings since 1264; let’s have an ugly one for a change.’ Then the planning authorities had to say, ‘Well, why not? Plenty worse in Basildon.’ (BrE-NS: 157)

The AmE edition has removed all mention to Basildon, as it would have little meaning for the general AmE reader, and has replaced it with elsewhere. However, the choice of Basildon in this passage is far from innocent: for the BrE reader it is associated with Essex, and a comic contrast is being established between the world of Oxford dons (Merton College) and the county of Essex which, as the Longman Dictionary of English Language and Culture points out, is often the butt of jokes in which ‘Essex men are badly educated’. The adverb elsewhere in the AmE edition, introduces a vague comparison but carries little meaning at all. Similarly, a humorous neologism coined by Bryson using the name of a nationwide builder of standardized housing estates – ‘a kind of endless Bovisville’ (BrE-NS: 177) – is replaced by a less evocative ‘a boundless expanse’ (BrE-NS: 153). An expanse may refer to a large, often uniform, area but rarely evokes buildings. The replacement term only covers part of the meaning. In the following example, replacing British Rail with trains, not only removes the irony but changes the meaning: I was looking forward to one of those quiet, soothing journeys of the kind that British Rail are always promising. (BrE-NS: 187) I was looking forward to one of those quiet, soothing journeys that only trains can provide. (AmE-NS: 164)

The BrE edition, with its choice of verb promise, be+-ing aspect and adverb always, contains an implied criticism of British Rail: they always fail to deliver. The AmE edition, on the other hand, can be read at face value: trains do provide quiet, soothing journeys.

4.2.5 Substitution This category can again be subdivided into the replacement of the culturespecific term with a different element from the source culture, an element from a shared culture (a Transcultural Reference) or an element from the target culture. The first subcategory retains a link with the source culture, by substituting a better-known reference for the AmE reader, as in the following examples: ‘Me, I don’t even walk to the corner shop on bank holidays,’ some little guy on the margins will chirp up proudly, as if by staying at home in Staines he has for years uncannily avoided a notorious bottleneck at Scotch Corner. (BrE-NS: 30)



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“Me, I don’t even walk to the corner shop on bank holidays,” some little guy on the margins will chirp up proudly, as if by staying at home in Clapham he has for years uncannily avoided a notorious bottleneck at Scotch Corner. (AmE-NS: 2)

Although the AmE reader would probably be hard put to situate the exact whereabouts of Scotch Corner, its name clearly evokes a northern location, even if it is not to be found in Scotland. Staines, on the other hand, situated in the commuter belt of West Surrey, contains no suggestion of its location and is probably less well-known than Clapham in Central London. In the next example, the town of Keighley, rated number forty in the fifty worst places to live in the UK by The Idler magazine in 2003, is probably not the most wellknown undesirable town in England, even for BrE readers; this more than fully justifies Substitution, although whether the inhabitants of Leeds would agree, is another point: Surely they could find some new and less visually sensitive location to blow up – Keighley, say. (BrE-NS: 122) Surely they could find some new and less visually sensitive location to blow up – Leeds, say. (AmE-NS: 101)

In Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, the AmE edition has preferred the betterknown Brighton over Rutland Water: How dare Daniel go round bad-mouthing me! How did he know I don’t know where Germany is? We never even went near it. Furthest we got to was Rutland Water. Huh. (BrE-BJR:247) How dare Daniel go round bad-mouthing me! How did he know I don’t know where Germany is? We never even went near it. Furthest we got to was the outskirts of Brighton. Huh. (AmE-BJR: 201)

The cosmopolitan town of Brighton is very different to the more remote Rutland Water, although it may well be more in keeping with the kind of weekend Daniel would have had in mind. Finally, in Bill Bryson’s In a Sunburned Country, an Australian pop group replaces an Australian TV soap, providing a more easily understandable point of comparison for the AmE reader: Had the Endeavour sunk, and Cook failed to get home … Australia would very likely have become French – an eerie thought to say the least … On the other hand, we would almost certainly have been spared Home and Away, so it’s not as if it would have been an unmitigated disaster. (BrE-DU: 293)

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Had the Endeavour sunk, and Cook failed to get home … Australia would very likely have become French – an eerie thought to say the least … On the other hand, we would almost certainly have been spared the Bee Gees, so it’s not as if it would have been an unmitigated disaster. (AmE-SB: 222)

Substitution is arguably always an approximate equivalent, which carries its own sociocultural connotations. In Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the editor has chosen to replace crumpet (BrE-PS:  140) with English muffin (AmE-SS:  199), but while the two are related they are not identical. More importantly, as Michael Quinion points out on his website WorldWide Words, a crumpet evokes a cultural phenomenon: toasting crumpets for tea in front of a fire on winter days in the company of parents or friends is an old image of comfortable, unthreatening middle-class English life of an older period. It’s associated especially with boarding school, and features in school stories going back more than a century, of which the Harry Potter books are just the most recent.

If we follow Quinion’s line of reasoning, the replacement term in the AmE edition is not only inaccurate, it also removes a cultural reference. Moreover, the term crumpet is maintained later in the same book (AmE-SS: 303), one of several inconsistencies to be found in this particular AmE edition. The second subcategory concerns Substitution by a Transcultural reference. In the next example, Bridget Jones has returned from the hairdresser with a haircut that makes her resemble the actress Ruth Madoc in the TV sitcom Hi-de-Hi. The AmE edition has substituted the better-known Mr Spock from Star Trek: When got back to work, Richard Finch said I  looked like Ruth Madoc from Hi-de-Hi. (BrE-BJR: 122) When got back to work, Richard Finch said I looked like Mr. Spock from Star Trek. (AmE-BJR: 98)

For BrE readers under forty the reference to Ruth Madoc and the series Hi-de-Hi is equally problematic, but the replacement by Mr Spock is only partially successful, for while the character of Mr Spock in Star Trek arguably has a similar haircut, it is probably his ears that are his distinguishing feature. Substitution can also affect the intertextual network of references as in Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason when a reference to Cilla Black is replaced with Kate Winslet: ‘I’m working in TV now.’ ‘TV? Marvellous! Bloody marvellous! Are you in front of the camera?’



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‘Only occasionally,’ I  said in the sort of modest tone that suggested I  was practically Cilla Black but didn’t want anyone to know. (BrE-BJR: 238) “I’m working in TV now.” “TV? Marvelous! Bloody marvelous! Are you in front of the camera?” “Only occasionally,” I  said in the sort of modest tone that suggested I  was practically Kate Winslet but didn’t want anyone to know. (AmE-BJR: 193)

The actress Kate Winslet is not best known as a television personality, unlike Cilla Black who was a well-known television presenter at the time of the book’s publication. References to the television programme hosted by Cilla Black, Blind Date, occur three times in Bridget Jones:  The Edge of Reason, and ten times in the earlier AmE publication Bridget Jones’s Diary, where a connection is established between the programme and the presenter: ‘she looked like Cilla Black on Blind Date’ (AmE-BJ: 166). References to Cilla Black therefore create echoes that resonate throughout the text. Cultural Substitution here is not only unsatisfactory because it is inaccurate but also because the term it replaces has played a significant role in the novel. Any change to a text is far from innocent, and its repercussions can be far-reaching, destroying a text’s underlying networks of signification (Berman [1985] 2012), both textual and cultural. Transcultural Substitution is also used for some food items that are not commonly found in the United States, as in the AmE edition of The Life and Loves of a She Devil, where Nutella and Vegemite (BrE-SD: 182) turn into peanut butter and jelly (AmE-SD:  199). However, food items, like proper nouns, also have sociocultural connotations, which tend to disappear in cases of Transcultural Substitution. Satsumas, for example, are associated with winter and Christmas in the UK, unlike the replacement term, walnut, in the AmE edition of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:  ‘Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut jammed up her left nostril’ (AmE-OP: 447). In the children’s book Pony on the Porch (BrE Pony in the Porch), the story is set in Yorkshire, and the specific topographical vocabulary has been replaced by more transcultural terms. Thus, meadow is substituted for moor (AmE-PP: 56) at one point, and hill is preferred at another (BrE-PP: 101). The latter choice is certainly influenced by the presence of the preposition up: ‘one of the farms up on the moor’ (BrE-PP: 106), which suggests a natural inclination. This removal of specific topographical terms appears to be a general tendency in children’s fiction (Whitehead 1997:  28). AmE editions of works set in Yorkshire for an adult readership, such as Reginald Hill’s Dalziel and Pascoe series or James Herriot’s veterinary tales make no such changes.

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Table 4.4  Table of examples of Substitution with a TC item BrE I have never passed a dog that didn’t act as if it thought I was about to help myself to its Pedigree Chum. (BrE-DU: 88) Hand in hand like the Bisto Kids. (BrE-BJR: 379) a delicate hint of Omo. (BrE-NS: 119)

AmE I have never passed a dog that didn’t act as if it thought I was about to take its Alpo. (AmE-SB: 61) Hand in hand like the Campbell’s Soup Kids. (AmE-BJR: 303) a delicate hint of Lemon Daz. (AmE-NS: 98) Alpine National Park is immense. It Alpine National Park is immense – about extends to 6,460 square kilometres – the three times the size of the Great Smoky equivalent of about seventeen Isle of Mountains National Park in America. Wights. (BrE-DU: 229) (AmE-SB: 171) On paper (Canberra) looks quite On paper (Canberra) looks quite inviting, with its … 10,000 acres of parks inviting, with its … 10,000 acres of (for purposes of comparison, Hyde Park parks (for purposes of comparison, in London is 340 acres). (BrE-DU: 128) Central Park in New York is 840 acres). (AmE-SB: 93) Partying on Guy Fawkes Night? Put mini Get ready for the Oscars with an outdoor sparklers into cocktails and desserts, movie night; serving edible golden then hand out normal-sized sparklers glitter cupcakes, popcorn and glasses after dinner with dark chocolate mints of champagne. For extra lights, camera, and coffee to take out into the garden. action, light sparklers at the end of the (BrE-FT: 217) movie for a group selfie, twirling the name of your favorite actor in the night sky. (AmE-FT: 217) The NHS has issued new guidelines. Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move initiative (BrE-FT: 140) has released guidelines. (AmE-FT: 140)

Substitution with a TC item is ‘the most domesticating’ Pedersen (2011: 92) procedure. It is common when brand names are used or when specific cultural items are used as a point of comparison (see Table 4.4). Substitution can be a single word or, as is frequently the case in Forest Therapy, a whole passage. The effect of TC Substitution can be to create a credibility gap, but it depends on the context and genre. Bryson’s travel narratives present an interesting case. Born and raised in the United States, Bryon’s idiom is already a mix of BrE and AmE in the BrE editions. He uses the term sweater instead of jumper (BrE-NS:  8), line not queue (BrE-NS:67), holidays last for eight days and fifteen days not a week and a fortnight (BrE-NS:  67) and he refers to a gopher (BrE-NS: 86). As an American writing for Americans, the change to the cultural comparisons seems natural, as do the changes made to Sarah Ivens’ Forest Therapy. The author may be a Londoner, but she lives in Austin, Texas, so combinations of BrE and AmE do not strike the reader as discordant.



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However, in fiction, the situation may be a little different. In Flour Babies, the protagonist becomes a young American who supports the Tampa Bay Rowdies (AmE-FB:  45) instead of Tottenham Hotspur (BrE-FB:  38), and whose father has left to go and live in Chicago (BrE-FB: 76) not London. A different fictional world with a different network of associations has been created, affecting how the fictional world is constructed by the reader.

4.2.6 Omission Omission of the cultural reference from the AmE edition is particularly common in the case of references to specific people, such as British politicians. In the following examples, the references in bold type have been omitted from the AmE edition: Think of Cecil Parkinson’s hair. Think of VAT at 17.5 per cent. Think of loading your car to overflowing with rubbish on a Saturday and driving to the tip only to find that it is shut. Think of hosepipe bans after ten months of rain. (BrE-NS: 101)

The list refers to reasons why Bryson believes he should be pleased to be returning to live in the States and Omission of one or two references can be defended on the grounds that those remaining convey the same sentiment. Other cases of Omission concern elements that have no cultural equivalent, for example the game of ‘penny falls’ in the amusement arcade (BrE-NS:  145), specific comparisons of British towns or references to British celebrities or institutions: ‘Could I just finish?’ I said graciously and authoritatively as if I were Michael Heseltine and Patchouli were Jeremy Paxman. (BrE-BJR: 197) ‘Could I just finish?’ I said graciously and authoritatively. (AmE-BJR: 160) whipping off his Chris Evans-type glasses (BrE-BJR: 222) whipping off his glasses (AmE-BJR: 180) Jay studied listlessly for next year’s O levels. (BrE-BW: 244) Jay studied listlessly. (AmE-BW: 260) Two motorways (the M4 and M25). (BrE-LD: 93) Two motorways. (AmE-LD: 66)

While Omission does not necessarily affect the overall comprehension of a passage, its use can result in a loss of humour and, insofar as such allusions create a shared cultural framework, their removal also affects the narrator–narratee

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relationship. One very striking example of Omission concerns the references to the death of Princess Diana in Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Bridget’s return to the UK coincides with the death of Princess Diana, with the result that the story of Bridget’s release from the Thailand jail is ousted from the front page and ironically fades into insignificance. 10.01 a.m. Strange being in bed with sheets. Nice but unreal. Oooh, have just remembered am going to be in papers. Will go fetch from shop. Will cut everything out and keep in scrapbook and show to grandchildren (if ever obtain). Hurrah! 10.30 a.m. Is unbelievable. Like dream or sick newspaper April Fool. Is unbelievable; Diana dies is just not kind of thing she would do. (Br-BJR: 325) 10 a.m. Just been to sleep. Really excited about return. Have actually had spiritual epiphany. Everything is going to be different now … Goody, now, can look at Hello! and tabloids. 11:15 a.m. Does not seem to be anything in papers about me – though as Charlie said, it was all hush-hush and kept under wraps by government. (AmE-BJR: 261)

Moreover, the BrE edition charts the reaction of the British public: 7.05 p.m. Everyone is going to Buckingham Palace with floral tributes as if is long-standing tradition. Have people always done this? Is it something naff people do to try to get on the television like camping all night outside sales or good, real thing? Hmm. Feel want to go though. … 7.15  p.m. What is point of living in capital city if cannot join in great expressions of feeling? Does not seem very English thing to do but maybe everything has changed with the changing weather and Europe and Tony Blair and it is all right to express yourself. Maybe she has changed English stuffiness. (BrE-BJR: 328)

In this instance, Omission concerns more than simply omitting a proper noun as whole passages from the BrE edition are missing – in fact all the references to the events between 29 August and 6 September. Given the important impact of this event on the British public’s consciousness, it is unlikely to have gone without mention in a diary that contains many topical references. Omission may also occur because AmE cultural terms that need explaining for the BrE reader will be transparent for the AmE reader: The Civil War, the War between the States, was … (BrE-SC: 45) The Civil War was … (AmE-PM: 50)



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While Thanksgiving is explained in detail for the BrE reader, the AmE edition is understandably much more succinct: Thanksgiving is, of course, an American celebration, a secular blessing for the harvest and the previous year, a time to eat too much, sit too much and watch too much sport. After living in America for 12 years I’ve really started to love it. It truly is the US version of Christmas (Turkey! Stuffing! Weird uncles!) with a beautiful question at the heart of it: what are you thankful for? (BrE-FT: 104) Thanksgiving is probably the holiday I  am most thankful for. At first, as a foreigner, I didn’t understand it. I thought it was just the US version of Christmas (Turkey! Stuffing! Weird uncles!) but then I realized it had a beautiful question at the heart of it: what are you thankful for? (AmE-FT: 104)

4.2.7  Using an Official Equivalent Official Equivalents belong to what Pedersen (2005: 9) terms as ‘minimum change strategies’. Pedersen considers the procedure of using an official equivalent to be different to the other procedures as the ‘process is administrative rather than linguistic’; the decision to use metric measurements in a country, for example, has been made by that country’s government. Official Equivalents can use any of the above-mentioned translation procedures (Pedersen 2011: 99), although in Table 4.5 the examples from the corpus are all cases of Direct Translation, and they could arguably be included under the heading of Direct Translation. However, there is a difference. Not all Direct Translations are necessarily fixed one-to-one equivalents, as we saw in the case of dresser. If some Official Equivalents are included under Direct Translation, then the category should be envisaged as a gradient with fixed equivalents at one end and less fixed equivalents at the other. This overview of the lexical changes made to BrE editions for the AmE market confirms that the same procedures that are used to translate culture-specific items in interlingual translation can also be observed in the corpus. A  varied picture of the changes has emerged with modifications being made to one word, to a sentence, or even to a paragraph. Some novels undergo little or no change, while others are minimally changed, or significantly changed. Some of the changes cause no credibility gap or discordance with the surrounding text, while others do.

4.3  Americanizing the grammar The distinction that is often made between lexical and grammatical variation is in many ways artificial. For Halliday (1985:  19) grammar and lexis are

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Table 4.5  Table of examples of official equivalents BrE only metres away (BrE-PP: 124) £1,500 (BrE-AF: 83) the temperature in central London was said to be minus eleven today (BrE-A: 4) 300 km (BrE-AF: 94) full stone heavier (BrE-SD: 85) a portion of pumpkin weighing 225g (BrE-FT: 93)

AmE only yards away (AmE-PP: 118) $2,300 (AmE-AF: 82) the temperature in Central London was said to be twelve degrees today (AmE-A: 5) 150 miles (AmE-AF: 93) full fifteen pounds heavier (AmE-SD: 90) an 8-ounce portion of pumpkin (AmE-FT: 93)

different ends of the same continuum, and grammar ‘is more accurately called “lexicogrammar”:  that is, it includes both structure and vocabulary’. The grammatical differences between AmE and BrE have, however, received less attention, and most studies on grammatical differences focus on specific structures (Algeo 2006). Crystal ([1995] 2018: 331) goes as far as to say that ‘there are relatively few grammatical differences between educated BrE and AmE’, a sentiment echoed by Svartvik (1997:  23), who considers that ‘grammatical differences between British and American English are few’. The high number of lexical differences is easily explained by the fact that many domains such as institutional differences, social culture, local fauna or flora, necessitate new terms. New words are constantly being coined to refer to new concepts, so that the lexicon of every language user is forever evolving. Grammatical structures, on the other hand, do not change in the same way or for the same reasons, and the influence of style and usage guides in this domain may be one reason. Departures from standard English are frequently frowned upon, as the numerous letters to newspapers complaining about non-standard usage illustrate (Milroy and Milroy [1985] 2012), and linguistic innovation is considered acceptable only within certain circumscribed texts such as poetry. As a result, when grammatical changes do take place, it is over a greater period of time and at a far slower rate. Greenbaum (1986: 6) argues that ‘over a period of fifty or so years, grammatical change manifests itself largely in the increased frequency of some variants over others, in stylistic restrictions on some variants, and in differences in the grammatical treatment of individual words’. Studies of specific grammatical forms corroborate such assertions. In his study of the case marking of whpronouns in British and American English, Schneider (1992:  231) remarks that, although uninflected, who began to replace whom in the early Modern



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English period; this process is still not complete, as it has not yet totally ousted whom from standard usage. It is therefore hardly surprising that the average language user, situated at a specific time and place, is not always aware of the changes that are happening. Consequently, studies on linguistic change and on comparisons between AmE and BrE choose not to make categorical assertions but instead prefer terms such as ‘frequency’, ‘more common’ (Tottie 2002: 175), ‘more likely’ (Hargraves 2003: 40) or ‘preference’ (Algeo 2006: 26). None of these terms can really be considered conclusive, and all can be accused of subjective impressionism. Despite these basic differences between lexical and grammatical change, it does not necessarily follow that there are no grammatical differences, and the average reader would doubtless be surprised to discover just how many grammatical modifications may be made to the BrE edition of a novel. Most previous studies on intralingual translation of BrE editions focus on the lexis, failing to notice subtle grammatical changes. Writing on Harry Potter as an example of dialectal intralingual translation, Hill-Madsen (2019: 547) affirms, for example, that ‘apart from the lexical shifts the only other changes are orthographic’. This conclusion is only partially correct, as not all the changes can be labelled dialectal, and grammatical changes do indeed occur. As we shall see in Chapter 5, some changes result from advice given by prescriptive style guides and not from any dialectal differences. If the grammatical changes have passed unnoticed it is because they are less immediately obvious than lexical ones. Although AmE may prefer a specific form, this may not strike the BrE reader as strange if the form also exists in BrE (see the distinction between have and have got above). The same ‘murky middle ground’ referred to in the previous section on lexical differences is still present when we look at grammatical features. Algeo’s study (2006) on grammatical differences in BrE and AmE is one of the most comprehensive to date, and I will therefore be referring to it at various points in this chapter. However, my study differs to Algeo’s in several important ways. First, the methods used are not identical. Algeo gathered examples over a period of twenty years, based initially on his intuitions regarding Briticisms. He then proceeded to verify these intuitions by consulting corpora, notably the Cambridge International Corpus (CIC). The result is therefore a statistical comparison, with occurrences of a grammatical structure cited in terms of ‘instances per ten million words’ (iptmw). My study does not seek to provide a statistical comparison but simply to illustrate the grammatical features that may be modified for an AmE edition and to study the implications, both for what

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they can tell us about the two dialects, but also for what these differences imply regarding intralingual translation and the editorial process in general. Second, although Algeo’s original corpus bears some resemblance to mine, it is also radically different. It is similar insofar as it is mainly composed of mystery novels and light fiction, since such fiction contains a richer store of colloquial items, lexical differences and informal language compared to serious fiction (Algeo 2006: 5). It differs insofar as Algeo does not systematically compare AmE and BrE texts of the same novel, even though he admits that ‘British fiction that has been adapted for American readers provides a useful source to document the words and expressions that publishers change for the American market’ (2006:  5). He seems, however, to limit this observation to the Harry Potter books, for the corpus that he uses to give examples of Briticisms contains texts that are paradoxically AmE editions of British novels including some selected for this study, such as Simon Winchester’s The Professor and the Madman. As I have demonstrated elsewhere (Pillière 2007), this particular novel is a striking example of a text that has been modified for the AmE reader. One can only wonder at how many more grammatical differences Algeo might have found had he based his study on BrE editions. In fact, The Professor and the Madman is only used twice by Algeo as a source of Briticisms, which is hardly surprising, since this AmE edition has replaced most of the Briticisms with Americanisms. Furthermore, the CIC used to corroborate Algeo’s initial intuitions features both spoken and written texts, unlike the present study. It also contains texts that are taken from newspapers and academic journals, both of which have their own particular house styles and may well provide findings different to my own. I would argue, for instance, that it is important to consider the fact that all the illustrative examples Algeo (2006: 89–91) gives of multiple noun adjuncts are taken from the British press. Such findings raise the question as to whether this frequency is due to a dialectal difference or to the fact that the language of newspapers is a specific genre. All these differences between the present study and Algeo’s extensive analysis may therefore explain why from time to time, my findings differ to Algeo’s. In this section, I begin by examining grammatical forms that are dialectally different. The differences will be grouped under the various parts of speech although, once again, I do not aim to provide an exhaustive list. Second, I examine some grammatical forms which exist in both dialects but vary in frequency or usage. An analysis in terms of translation procedures will enable me to consider the differences and similarities between intralingual and interlingual translation.



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4.3.1  Dialectal differences Space precludes a complete categorization of all the modifications made to grammatical structures or a detailed inventory of all the changes made due to dialectal differences. I have therefore opted to mention those modifications for which I  have the most examples in the corpus and to analyse them in terms of three different translation procedures:  substitution, transposition and modulation. While the first of these three terms is self-explanatory, the other two merit some clarification. Vinay and Darbelnet (1995: 94) define transposition as involving the replacement of ‘one word class with another without changing the meaning of the message’. Thus ‘after he comes back’ can be considered as a transposition of ‘after his return’. Vinay and Darbelnet (1995: 94–8) propose ten different categories of transposition which include adverb to verb, verb to noun, noun to adverb, adjective to noun. What one considers as transposition will, of course, depend on how one defines a specific word class. For the present study, the modification of a mass noun (accommodation) to a count noun (accommodations) will not be considered as a case of transposition, but as a case of substitution, since it is a change from one type of noun to another, not a change from one word class to another. Modulation refers to ‘a variation of the form of the message, obtained by a change in the point of view’ (1995:  133). Once again, this procedure can be subdivided into categories, which include abstract for concrete, part for whole, active to passive, negation of opposite, and cause for effect. The existence of subcategories raises the question, especially in the case of modulation, of the usefulness and of the accuracy of the categories involved. In the case of modulation, the term covers so many phenomena that it could almost be applied to all translation procedures. The boundaries between the various procedures are also far from clear-cut: for example, the category active to passive is usually classified under modulation, but it could equally be considered as belonging to the strategy of transposition. However, for our present study these categories provide a useful starting-point and help to underline the hypothesis outlined in the preceding chapter dealing with lexis, namely that the work of the editor closely resembles that of a translator and involves a re-writing of the text. None of the changes outlined in what follows is obligatory, as they do not feature in every AmE edition. I therefore begin by examining those cases where the procedures of substitution and transposition are predictable, before studying instances where they are optional. Insofar as modulation is a more general, allencompassing term, I shall consider it separately.

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4.3.2 Predictable dialectal substitutions Modifications, be they substitution, transposition or modulation, may be predictable for several reasons. First, the BrE grammatical form may not exist in AmE and may therefore pose a problem for the AmE reader’s understanding of the text. Second, the grammatical form may exist in AmE, but differ in use. Third, the grammatical form may exist in AmE, but differ in frequency of use. These three categories are far from being mutually exclusive, and their boundaries are not easily fixed. As a language changes and evolves, a form that is infrequently used may disappear. Notions of frequency of use can be subjective and so, wherever possible, I  will refer to statistical studies such as Algeo’s to support my findings. As mentioned earlier, although studies on American and British English analyse differences, they rarely affirm that a particular form is never to be found in the other dialect but prefer to speak in terms of ‘tendencies’. I have therefore preferred to consider that the substitutions examined below are all predictable, but to a lesser or greater degree, especially as the substitutions will also depend on genre. Regarding nouns, substitution commonly occurs for one of two reasons:  a noun belongs to a different category (mass vs count nouns), or it is only used in the singular in AmE (see Table 4.6). Verbs undergo greater modification as their inflectional endings are often different in AmE (see Table 4.7.) The simple past and the past participle of some irregular BrE verbs are modified to the –ed form in the AmE edition, although Table 4.6  Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding nouns NOUNS Difference in category

BrE AmE accommodation (BrE-MW: 65) accommodations (AmE-MW: 61) intellectuals being sent into the intellectuals being sent into the countryside to hoe beet. (BrE-SA: 49) countryside to hoe beets. (AmE-SL: 45) He had graduated from high school He had graduated from high school in the Realgymnasium – Engineering, in the Realgymnasium – Engineering, Physics, Maths. (BrE-SA: 175) Physics, Math. (AmE-SL: 159) mashed potato (BrE-OP: 143) mashed potatoes (AmE-OP: 157) Difference in number The staff never retain. (BrE-SA: 265) The staff never retains. (AmE-SL: 244) The staff were seated at last. The staff was seated at last. (BrE-HBP: 598) (AmE-HBP: 642) The army … in their protégé The army … in its protégé (BrE-SC: 60) (AmE-PM: 68)



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both Algeo (2006: 13) and Tottie (2002: 150) consider the use of some forms such as burnt/burned to be a question of preference with usage varying also according to register. This suggests that some changes can be editorial rather than dialectal, although some of the substitutions observed in the corpus contradict usage guides, notably in the use of showed (see Table 4.7), as Gilman (1994:  847) remarks that usage guides ‘recommend using shown’. Another dialectal difference regards some regular BrE verbs that are given their irregular AmE form. One grammatical form that exists in AmE but not in BrE is gotten to designate a dynamic change of state, and it is immediately identifiable as AmE. As observed earlier, although both BrE and AmE use have, the uses are different in the two dialects, with BrE using have got more frequently than AmE does (Algeo 2006: 31). This difference in frequency of usage also applies to the use of have to express necessity as in have got to. Algeo (2006: 32) reports that have/has got to is ‘about a third more popular in common-core English’. The use of modal auxiliaries in BrE and AmE can also differ. Tottie (2002: 155) contends that using the modal auxiliary will or would ‘to express an inference or supposition is typically British. Americans would probably prefer must’. BrE uses all these modal auxiliaries to express an inference or supposition but they are semantically different. Another difference between AmE and BrE regards the use of must itself which is replaced by have to in some AmE editions, although this appears to be more a question of preference (Hargraves 2003: 40). It is worth noting that the two examples in Table  4.7 appear in the same children’s book and may reflect the constraints of the genre. The use of the subjunctive is often considered to be a differentiating factor between BrE and AmE, especially in the mandative construction (Tottie 2002: 162), although there were no examples in my corpus. Other differences include the use of a modal auxiliary in a subordinate clause introduced by lest in BrE, while AmE substitutes the subjunctive mood (Algeo 2006: 38). Further differences regarding verb forms include the use of ditransitive verbs (verbs which have both a direct and an indirect object) and complementation. These verbs have two possible passive forms:  I was given this watch and this watch was given me, but the second construction is less frequent in AmE (Algeo 2006: 28). The category of complementation refers to ‘the forms or constructions required by other forms or constructions’ (Algeo 2006:  217ff). Certain verbs are not followed by the same prepositional complement, or the difference in complementation may concern whether the verbal complement is the infinitive with or without to. Although both AmE and BrE use help without to, Algeo’s statistics reveal that it is far more frequent in AmE (2006: 247).

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Table 4.7  Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding verbs VERBS Inflectional differences shown (BrE-HBP: 471) showed (AmE-HBP: 504) spoilt (BrE-FC: 292) spoiled (AmE-FA: 253) burnt (BrE-WT: 29) burned (AmE-WT:25) leant (BrE-WT: 14) leaned (AmE-WT:12) smelt (BrE-BW: 41) smelled (AmE-BW: 38) fitted (BrE-PS: 85) fit (AmE-SS: 113) dived (BrE-DU: 84) dove (AmE-SB: 58) speeded (BrE-EW: 161) sped (AmE-EW: 161) Snape had got to his feet. (BrE-HBP: 37) Snape had gotten to his feet. (AmE-HBP: 32) ‘He can’t have got far.’ “He can’t have gotten far.” (BrE-MnWH: 331) (AmE-MWH: 231) Jay guessed it must have got pretty bad Jay guessed it must have gotten pretty for Maggie (BrE-BW: 131) bad for Maggie (AmE-BW: 135) ‘Has she got a horse as well?’ said Mandy. “Does she have a horse too?” asked (BrE-PP: 10) Mandy. (AmE-PP: 10) ‘She’ll ring when she’s got news.’ “She’ll call when she has news.” (BrE-PP: 34) (AmE-PP: 33) ‘Mrs Taylor says he’s got a cold.’ “Mrs Taylor says he has a cold.” (BrE-PP: 52) (AmE-PP: 49) ‘We’ve got to find out what’s wrong “We have to find out what’s wrong with Prince, James. We’ve got to do with Prince, James. We have to do something!’ (BrE-PP: 106) something!” (AmE-PP: 102) ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘You must stop!’ “Stop!” she cried. “You have to stop!” (BrE-PP: 137) (AmE-PP: 131) Subjunctive ‘lest Filch should turn up’ “lest Filch turn up” (AmE-HBP: 521) (BrE-HBP: 488) Ditransitive verbs But in the end he [had a short But in the end he [had a short name] name] given him by the other cubs. given to him by the other pups. (BrE-MCW: 17) (AmE-MCW: 11) Complementation The only thing that stopped them eating The only thing that stopped them from Hagrid. (BrE-HBP: 451) eating Hagrid. (AmE-HBP: 482) Jewish workers would not receive any Jewish workers would not receive any wages and were meant to live entirely on wages and were meant to live entirely by their rations. (BrE-SA: 97) their rations. (AmE-SL: 88) One of the triumphs Schindler wanted One of the triumphs Schindler wanted from life. (BrE-SA: 97) out of life. (AmE-SL: 88) The accountant was still slaving at the The accountant was still slaving over the Emalia books. (BrE-SA: 117) Emalia books. (AmE-SL: 106) the American Embassy, which he knew the American Embassy, which he had helped to raise a fund for her. knew had helped raise a fund for her. (BrE-SC: 112) (AmE-PM: 126)



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According to Crystal ([1995] 2018: 331), the use of prepositions is ‘an area of major grammatical differentiation’, so it is hardly surprising that this particular word class is one of the most frequently modified in AmE editions, and Table 4.8 provides some examples. The difference in use of round and around as both adverb and preposition is clearly marked in the AmE editions (see Table  4.8). Algeo (2006:  188) records that ‘in combined prepositional and adverbial uses, round outnumbers around 7:6 in the British LOB corpus; in the American Brown corpus around outnumbers round’, and Gilman (1994:  119) remarks that ‘everybody knows that around is more common in American English and round more common in British English’. In Ian McEwan’s The Comfort of Strangers, the AmE edition has systematically substituted around for BrE round. In some of these instances the use of around would have been equally possible in BrE; in others the meaning of around is turned round, not look here and there so the use of around would be unacceptable in BrE: Table  4.8  Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding prepositions, and adverbs Prepositions and adverbs BrE AmE his flat in rue du Chemin Vert. Paul’s apartment on Rue du Chemin (BrE-EW: 111) Vert. (AmE-EW: 111) in the grounds of Mill Hill School. on the grounds of Mill Hill School. (BrE-SC: 99) (AmE-PM: 112) He was mourned in every continent He was mourned on every continent (BrE-SA: 429) (AmE-SL: 397) at weekends (BrE-BW: 132) on weekends (AmE-BW: 135) in your break-time (BrE-FB: 1) during your break-time (AmE-FB: 3) Two flies gyrated lazily round the ceiling Two flies gyrated lazily around the light. (BrE-CS: 1) ceiling light. (AmE-CS: 9) Mandy often stopped by to see Prince Mandy often stopped by to see Prince when she was round at Lilac Cottage when she was over at Lilac Cottage (BrE-PP:3) (AmE-PP: 3) outside Hogwarts (BrE-HBP: 59) outside of Hogwarts (AmE-HBP: 57) Tomatoes growing amongst the warm Tomatoes growing among the warm leaves. (BrE-BW: 41) leaves. (AmE-BW: 37) The belief that mountains grew like trees, The belief that mountains grew like organically, upwards and outwards. trees, organically, upward and outward. (BrE-MW: 40) (AmE-MW: 36) ‘I am a nobody,’ he would write towards “I am a nobody,” he would write toward the end of the century. (BrE-SC: 30) the end of the century. (AmE-PM: 32) Harry, Sirius and Mundungus looked Harry, Sirius and Mundungus looked round and, within a split second, around and a split second later they had dived away from the table. they had dived away from the table. (BrE-OP: 80) (AmE-OP: 83)

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As she set down her empty cup on the table, she looked round and saw Colin fully dressed on the balcony. (BrE-CS: 64) As she set down her empty cup on the table, she looked around and saw Colin fully dressed on the balcony. (AmE-CS: 83)

One preposition that is used less frequently in AmE than in BrE is amongst and whilst. According to Algeo (2006:  160), the CIC has only ‘1 per cent of amongst versus 99 per cent of among in American texts’ which also confirms Gilman’s findings (1994: 90). Another preposition which is sometimes modified is outside. Even though Gilman (1994:  702) states that the acceptability of outside of in AmE is hotly contested, it is sometimes substituted for outside. Prepositions and adverbs that end in  –s in BrE, such as towards, backwards, downwards and upwards, are almost systematically replaced by the form without –s. Gilman (1994: 113) notes that ‘many commentators have observed that toward is the more common choice in American English, while the preference in British English is for towards … Both words are commonly used in the US but toward is undoubtedly prevalent’, although Hargraves (2003: 49) states that ‘unless the intention is to remove all traces of national origin, these adverbs can generally be left in their original form when Americanizing or Briticizing text’. In practice, the adverbs and prepositions are rarely left in their original form in the corpus. Some differences in the use of determiners (see Table 4.9) can also be found in the corpus. BrE prefers no determiner before toothache as observed by Algeo (2006:  61). Another difference between the two dialects concerns the use of the definite article before institutions, such as university and hospital (Algeo 2006; Hargraves 2003; Tottie 2002), and also before next day. Algeo (2006: 55) notes that ‘in random CIC samples of next day, British had 42 tokens out of 250 without a determiner and American had only 1’. Not all substitutions are dialectal; some depend on the editor’s interpretation of the text. In those instances, the modification changes the meaning. In the Table 4.9  Table of predictable dialectal substitutions regarding determiners Determiners BrE AmE he had toothache (BrE-HBP: 23) he had a toothache (AmE-HBP: 18). attended university (BrE-SC: 35) attended a university (AmE-PM: 38) Next day, in fact, he actually dreamed The next day, in fact, he actually that he was singing. (BrE-MCW: 24) dreamed that he was singing. (AmE-MCW: 17)



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following example, the use of the definite article in the BrE edition implies that the compound in question is a unique entity or is sufficiently identifiable from the context: Ghetto B, the small compound a few blocks square at the eastern end of the ghetto, containing the old, the last of the employable. (BrE-SA: 190)

At this point in the novel, Ghetto B is being compared and opposed to Ghetto A, ‘the major section of the ghetto’ where the healthy working Jews were living, and which has just been described. The contrast between the two is clearly stated at the end of the paragraph: ‘Ghetto B was straightforward honest work. Ghetto A was the challenge’ (AmE-SL: 174). The use of the definite article in the example can be seen to have a categorizing role, although it could also be argued that there is an anaphoric link to a previous mention, some thirty pages earlier, when Commandant Goeth is shown round the camp by Horst Pilarzik. The ghetto is described here as being divided into two by the trolley lines, with the section on the left identified as Ghetto B and as containing Jews who were to be ‘shipped away’ for special treatment (AmE-SL: 161). In the AmE edition, the use of the indefinite article suggests that the information concerning Ghetto B is new: Ghetto B, a small compound a few blocks square at the eastern end of the ghetto, contained the old, the last of the employable. (AmE-SL: 174)

The copy editor seems to have substituted the indefinite article here for clarity, believing that the reader is unlikely to hold the information concerning the referent over from a previous chapter. A  similar problem is posed by the substitution of the indefinite article for the zero article in the following example, where again it seems to be a stylistic not dialectal difference: One such official, Dr Sopp, physician to the SS prisons in Cracow and to the SS court in Pomorska. (BrE-SA: 245) One such official, a Dr Sopp, physician to the SS prisons in Cracow and to the SS court in Pomorska. (AmE-SL: 225)

The AmE copy editor has interpreted one such official as implying underdetermined reference. The preceding paragraph refers to the class of ‘sundry officials’ and suggests that Dr Sopp is not well-known and does not have unique reference, hence the use of the indefinite article. These stylistic substitutions imply a change in point of view or voice, a point which will be developed in greater detail in Chapter 6.

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Table 4.10  Table of predictable substitutions regarding conjunctions Conjunctions Ben was standing there … whilst Ben was standing there … while Hermione looked on the verge of tears. Hermione looked on the verge of tears. (BrE-OP: 64) (AmE-OP: 66)

Table 4.11  Table of predictable substitutions regarding word order Word order the keyboard which had as usual been the keyboard which as usual had been left open. (BrE-MCW: 9) left open. (AmE-MCW: 2–3) they had rarely done before. they rarely had done before. (BrE-SC: 71) (AmE-PM: 82) He said later. (BrE-SC: 39) He later said. (AmE-PM: 44) For he knew now that … For he now knew that … (BrE-MCW: 97) (AmE-MCW: 80) She thinks about the father often She often thinks about the father (BrE-ITA: 44) (AmE-IHA: 51)

According to Algeo (2006: 205), the conjunction whilst is less popular in AmE than in BrE and the changes made to the AmE editions in my corpus confirm Algeo’s findings (see Table 4.10). Finally, predictable substitutions also concern word order, although this may be due to editing rather than any dialectal difference (see Table 4.11). Such substitutions would probably not strike the BrE reader as being particularly American. Algeo notes that in canonical word order AmE tends to place an adverb of frequency more easily before the first auxiliary in a sentence, whereas BrE places it after the first auxiliary, although the place of an adverb may vary according to whether emphasis is placed on a specific element in the sentence. Similarly, in AmE the preferred position for temporal adverbs is before the verb. So far, we have studied cases of substitution, which are predictable, though in varying degrees. A similar study can be made of transposition.

4.3.3 Predictable dialectal transposition One of the most frequent cases of transposition in my corpus concerns the use of the suffix -ed. Algeo (2006: 119) remarks that



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Table 4.12  Table of examples of predictable transposition TRANSPOSITION Transposition from noun+ –ed to noun BrE AmE The cop noticed that he was bare-footed The cop noticed that he was barefoot (BrE-EW: 217) (AmE-EW: 217) Transposition from compound adjective to compound noun Those were the days of hard work and Those were the days of hard work and making-do, the one-roomed flat in South making do, the one-room flat in South London … (BrE-A: 123) London … (AmE-A: 133) People greeted each other with twoPeople greeted each other with twocheeked kisses. (BrE-NS: 36) cheek kisses. (AmE-NS: 24) It took more than seventy years to create It took more than seventy years to create the twelve tombstone-sized volumes the twelve tombstone-size volumes that made up the first edition of what that made up the first edition of what was to become the great Oxford English was to become the great Oxford English Dictionary. (BrE-SC: 23) Dictionary. (AmE-PM: 25) Scattered all over the fields around Scattered all over the fields around Churchill … were hundreds of small, Churchill … were hundreds of small, thumbnail-sized objects. (BrE-MW: 36) thumbnail-sized objects. (AmE-MW: 36) Detritus and Ruby sat awkwardly on Detritus and Ruby sat awkwardly on human-sized chairs (BrE-MP: 270) human-size chairs (AmE-MP: 326) Transposition from adverb to adjective And yet, as the eighteenth century And yet, as the eighteenth century opened, so these long-held beliefs opened, so these long-held beliefs and prejudices were confronted and prejudices were confronted with with increasing vigour … and, most increasing vigor … and, most important, importantly, by evidence. (BrE-MW: 44) by evidence. (AmE-MW: 39) Transposition from adverb + past participle to compound adjective He was a fully fledged (civilian) officer. He was a full-fledged (civilian) officer. (BrE-RD: 176) (AmE-RD: 123) A man … is only fully grown at twenty. A man … is only full-grown at twenty. (BrE-BNW: 23) (AmE-BNW: 15) Transposition from adverb +noun-ed to adjective+noun-ed He was … originally minded enough to He was … original-minded enough realize he could do better. (BrE-SC: 122) to realize he could do better. (AmE-PM: 138) These early Smith maps may in some These early Smith maps may in some ways look – especially to pedantically ways look – especially to pedanticminded critics – rather vague. minded critics – rather vague. (BrE-MW: 149) (AmE-MW: 145) a radically minded landlord. a radical-minded landlord. (BrE-MW: 31) (AmE-MW: 26)

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British and American differ in their use of the suffix –ed to form adjectival modifiers from nominals. British uses certain forms that American does not, such as booted. But differences between British and American uses of individual items are less significant than the apparent over-all more frequent British use of the pattern. … It would be difficult to ascertain the frequency of all denominal –ed forms in the two varieties, but on the whole it seems to be greater in British.

These remarks are borne out by several examples in my corpus, and by the remarks of copy editors themselves, even if exceptions exist, such as the substitution of potted plant for pot plant in the AmE edition of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Compound adjectives formed from a noun +-ed such as -roomed and -sized are usually replaced by a compound noun in the AmE edition, thus confirming a tendency noted by Algeo (2006: 120). However, in BrE the two terms exist with a difference in meaning, as Hirtle (1970:  31) indicates: One might characterize a family amply provided with automobiles as a manycarred family. But one would say, without the dental suffix, a two-car family since this expression implies, not the possession of two cars, but the ability (as measured by social status, income and the like) to possess them and so might even be used of a family that does not have two cars.

In other words, two-car, the compound noun, creates a category. A  further difference occurs in the case of a noun with an irregular plural: the compound adjective has the irregular plural form two-knived while the compound noun adopts the singular form:  two-knife. This difference suggests that in a compound adjective the quantity is focused upon and directly modifies the adjective, corresponding more to a specific point of view or subjective personal appreciation. While a compound noun evokes a category and implies a reference to something recognized by the linguistic community, a compound adjective focuses on what someone considers to be a prominent trait. In the example above, where one-roomed flat occurs, it is important to consider the context of the novel in which it appears, and which is quoted in full below. The passage slips from a narrative report of a speech act: ‘she … began with a little history of her marriage’ to Free Indirect Discourse, the appreciative adjectives being those of the character, Mrs Garmony: She paused to ensure she had everyone’s full attention, then began with a little history of her marriage, from the days when she was at the Guildhall, dreaming of a career as a concert pianist, and Julian was an impoverished and



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high-spirited law student. Those were the days of hard work and making do, the one-roomed flat in south London, the birth of Annabel, her own late decision to study medicine and Julian’s unflinching support, the proud purchase of their first house at the less popular end of Fulham, the birth of Ned, Julian’s growing success at the bar, her first internship, and so on. (BrE-A: 123)

In this extract, Mrs Garmony, a politician’s wife, is remembering their modest start in life. The choice of one-roomed in the BrE edition, as opposed to oneroom, insists upon Mrs Garmony’s personal evaluation of the flat’s size: it was small. One-room evokes a specific category and thereby attenuates the character’s individual evaluation and by doing so, it also attenuates the impression that we are hearing the character’s voice. It could be argued that such transpositions entail a change in perspective, resulting in modulation which Vinay and Darbelnet (1995:  37) define as ‘a variation of the form of the meaning of the message, obtained by a change in the point of view’. In AmE flat adverbs, adverbs that possess the same form as their corresponding adjectives, are more common than in BrE. Gilman (1994: 451) points out that such forms were more frequent formerly in BrE than they are now, quoting Defoe, Swift and Wycherley among others, to illustrate his point. Whatever the exact origin of these adverbs, commentators agree that their use is more widespread in the United States. This means that sometimes the form in –ly found in BrE is replaced by the adjectival form in AmE. Of course, if one considers that the adjectival form is the adverbial form then what we have is not a case of transposition but one of substitution due to a difference in morphology. Examples of transposition from adverb to adjective are equally difficult to classify insofar as commentators do not always agree as to whether these changes are really due to a dialectal difference or to the influence of prescriptive style guides. According to Gilman (1994: 530), ‘American commentators tend to object to the adverb and to recommend the adjective. Objections are made primarily on grammatical grounds’. The grammatical argument is based on the claim that most importantly modifies nothing in the sentence, and that the adjective is more correct since what we have here is an ellipsis of the phrase ‘what is most important’. Gilman (1994: 531) nevertheless argues that ‘you can … use either the adjective or the adverb; both are defensible grammatically and both are in respectable use’. The transposition of woeful to woefully (see Table 4.12) is almost certainly due to the copy editor’s desire for concision (a point examined in Chapter 5). However, what is interesting about this example is that it demonstrates that transposition and modulation can be closely linked. Commenting upon the difference between she played with amazing delicacy and

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she played amazingly delicately, Hervey and Higgins (1992: 208) state that ‘there is a clearer implication in the adjective that both the pianist’s playing and the listener’s reaction have been scrutinized and allotted to appropriate categories before the sentence is uttered’. The choice of an adverb introduces the point of view of a speaker about a precise situation, whereas the use of the adjective implies that the quality has been observed and then described. The change of grammatical category is a case of transposition but the change in point of view is an example of modulation. Transposition of an adverb + past participle to a compound adjective poses a similar difficulty in terms of classification. The Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English considers fully-fledged and fully-grown to be characteristic of BrE, and full-fledged and full-grown to be typical of AmE, although BrE has both forms as the following extract from Brave New World shows: Maggots again, but larger, full grown. (BrE-BNW: 165)

In BrE, the two forms have a difference in meaning, as the adverb fully indicates a subjective evaluation and implies that a final stage has been reached in a process, that intermediary stages exist. Full-grown, on the other hand, refers to the final size, a stable state, a category that can be recognized by the linguistic community as a whole. Other transpositions of compound adjectives concern adjectives formed from a noun + ed, and while the BrE text chooses to qualify the adjective with an adverb, the AmE text has opted for a compound adjective with an adjective for the initial term. In this particular case, it seems unlikely that what we have here is merely a dialectal difference in usage, since both forms exist in AmE, as demonstrated by the following examples taken from AmE press websites, and which refer to the two heroes of the film Men in Black: Those dark-suited secret agents with the hipster Ray-Bans and the too-cool-foryou attitudes are coming back to rid Earth of the scum of the universe—again. (http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/2002/2002-03-12-mib2.htm) The two darkly suited saviors of the planet are back after a five-year hiatus. (http://www.movieorigins.com/review_meninblackII.htm)

According to the French linguist Charreyre (1995:  134), an adverb is used as the initial term when the referent is in marked contrast to the norm, and she illustrates this with the following example: ‘A man … darkly suited still in high summer, when many of his colleagues were walking along the High in T-shirts and trainers’. In this example darkly does not refer to a type of suit but to a



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specific suit in specific circumstances. Thus with regard to the two examples from US websites quoted above, the use of the adverb darkly indicates that the adjective is descriptive but does not create a category or class; the unit is less homogeneous than in the case of a compound adjective. Each element in the compound keeps its full semantic value and can be focused upon. It can therefore be argued that darkly suited men is a more analytic structure than dark-suited men. The compound adjective presumes that the feature is so striking that it is the characteristic of a class or category, resulting in the creation of a subclass or subcategory. It is worth noting that in the two examples above the determiners are different. In the first example, the use of those insists on shared knowledge, just as the compound adjective dark-suited refers to a category identifiable by the linguistic community. In the second example, it can be argued that the choice of dark suits for the saviours of the planet is a little incongruous and in marked contrast to the norm. Transposition can lead then to a change in point of view. The use of the adverb in initial position reveals the presence of a speaker and their personal evaluation, whereas the compound adjective refers to a category recognized by a linguistic community. The speaker’s individual reaction or perception becomes less significant as the description is assigned a suitable class or category, just as we saw that the speaker’s voice became less salient when a compound adjective was used instead of a compound noun. However, whether the preference for the compound adjective to the adverb +adjective is due to a dialectal difference is highly debateable. Furthermore, the theory that the change is stylistic rather than dialectal is supported by the fact that another novel by Simon Winchester, The River at the Center of the World, edited by a different publishing house, Picador, does not modify Winchester’s use of adjectives containing -minded, and an adverb in initial position: In the case of the Sprady Islands, the tiny state of Brunei – hardly the world’s most imperially minded state, even though its ruler was said to be the planet’s richest man-had advanced a claim as well. (BrE-RC: 52). Many of China’s neighbors, as well as strategically minded analysts in Washington, were starting to fret publicly about her doing such a thing. (AmE-RC: 53).

This suggests that the changes observed earlier (see Table 4.12) are due less to dialectal reasons than to the editorial policy of certain publishing houses, or the preference of a specific copy editor. If we accept that the two forms do not possess exactly the same meaning, the transposition carried out in the AmE

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edition can be considered to be another example of modulation, insofar as an individual perception and appreciation of events has been replaced by a more detached perception and categorization. Furthermore, the use of adverb+ nouned is sufficiently frequent in Winchester’s novels to be identified as a trait of his style, so that the transposition we have observed can be said to significantly modify this style.

4.3.4 Modulation As with the preceding translation procedures, modulation, or a change in point of view, can be obligatory or optional. Modulation ‘can be justified when, although a literal, or even transposed, translation results in a grammatically correct utterance, it is considered unsuitable, unidiomatic or awkward’ in the target language (Vinay and Darbelnet (1995:  36). This implies that the use of modulation frequently depends upon the translator’s intuitions and sensitivity to the finer points of style. It is perhaps no surprise, then, that the examples of modulation in the AmE texts frequently correspond to the advice given by style guides, such as a change from active to passive voice. I will therefore be examining them in Chapter 5.

4.4 Conclusion Although I  have not given an extensive list of all the dialectal changes to be found in the corpus, it has been possible to demonstrate that, once again, the same procedures are used as in interlingual translation. The changes reflect an editorial choice and, as with the lexis, they are to be found in varying degrees in the corpus.

5

Crafting the text

In this chapter, I examine the changes made to a text that are less perceptible for the reader than those studied previously, and which would go unnoticed were it not for the existence of two editions that can be compared side by side. The changes analysed in Chapter 4 illustrated the Americanization of the text and its domestication for the AmE reader. The aim of this chapter, however, is to demonstrate that the situation is more complex, and not all the changes can be so easily identified as dialectal. Venuti’s model of domestication and foreignization focuses on the translator but does not include the work of the editor, and while some research has been carried out on the role of editorial intervention in interlingual translation (Bisiada 2017, 2018, 2019; Kruger 2012, 2017), there is little, if any, empirical research on editorial intervention in intralingual translation. The choice of my chapter title is deliberate. The noun, ‘craft’, is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as ‘an art, trade, or profession requiring special skill and knowledge’, and editing is indeed a skill to be learnt, although few university courses exist, and publishing houses offer little in the way of formal instruction. As copy editors have ‘received no formal in-house training, been given no overall guidelines, had no books in the field recommended’, they turn to ‘The Chicago Manual of Style, Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary … [a]‌college copy of The Elements of Style’ (Sharpe and Gunther [1994] 1997: 78–79), or rely ‘on their own judgement when the books fail to illuminate a particular issue or offer conflicting recommendations’ (Einsohn [2000] 2019:  8). It is these style and usage guides and the advice they offer the copy editor that now need to be examined to understand the underlying motivations behind the changes.

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5.1  Style and usage guides Style guides may be corporate style guides or in-house guides, such as the BuzzFeed Style Guide (Favilla 2017), while others are the accepted style guide for a specific profession: journalists and news writers use Associated Press style (AP style); academics turn to the Modern Language Association style (MLA); the Chicago Manual of Style (CMOS) is often preferred by publishers, and the American Psychological Association style (APA) is the standard for writers in the social and behavioural sciences. Such guides seek to provide rules that can be consistently applied to a text, and application of one or other style is considered compulsory for publications. The rules cover citations, punctuation and a select number of grammatical points. Copy editors are usually quite clear about the guides they use and will inform authors of their choice. Amy Edelman, the Random House (AmE) copy editor for Coetzee’s Age of Iron, writes to the author stating that she has used Merriam-Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary, Words into Type and the Chicago Manual of Style (Coetzee 1990b). However authoritative these guides and dictionaries may appear to be, the arbitrariness of their rules is underlined when various style guides are compared on a specific point, for it is rare that they all agree in every detail. CMOS advocates writing US as an abbreviation for United States while AP prefers U.S.; in titles, AP and APA capitalize words with four or more letters (“The Spy Who Came in From the Cold”), while CMOS capitalizes important words (“The Spy Who Came in from the Cold”); CMOS uses a serial comma (“the flag is red, blue, and white”), while AP prefers not to in simple series (“the flag is red, blue and white”); and the New  Yorker is known for its quirky in-house guide that has preserved some features of BrE, such as doubling consonants, and employs an idiosyncratic use of hyphens (teen-ager) and an excessive use of commas (Norris 2019). These arbitrary rules are partly explained by different professional contexts or genres: newspapers do not have the same rules as scholarly journals (Saller 2017: 108–9). Style guides may also differ on grammatical points, such as whether to use the third person they for the singular. AP allowed for the generic use of they in 2017, while APA did not endorse the use of they as a singular third-person pronoun until the publication of the seventh edition of its manual in 2020. CMOS accepted a generic they in the fourteenth edition (2.98, n. 9), but abandoned the idea for the fifteenth and sixteenth editions. In the seventeenth edition (5.256), they still recommend avoiding the singular they with generic reference in formal writing, despite admitting that this occurs in ‘informal usage’. The MLA, which is more



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concerned with citations and references in research papers, does not mention the point. Einsohn ([2000] 2019:  371) points out that ‘for copy editors, the singular they is sure to remain a sticky wicket. Some authors will denounce the construction as barbaric, and a copy editor has little to gain (and much to lose) by attempting to impose the newest old fashion on a reluctant author’. Another usage point that receives different advice is the phrase ‘they substituted x with y’ (Mossop 2014: 46). While Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage labels this as standard but susceptible to negative reaction, The Canadian Oxford Dictionary is less positive and states that it is disputed usage, while The New Oxford Dictionary of English announces that it is well established. Disputed usage arises also over whether the gerund should be preceded by a possessive pronoun or a pronoun in the objective case (fused participle). Should one say ‘I see no point in me doing this’ or ‘I see no point in my doing this’? Fowler’s ([1926] 2015: 639) advocates the possessive, while Follett ([1966] 1998:  158) states that ‘whenever the idea that governs the verbal noun (participle) is one that clearly calls for stress on the person, the fused participle may be used; whenever the stress falls equally well or better, on the action expressed by the participle, the possessive case must be used’. In common with style guides, usage guides also cover grammatical points such as the use of which or that in restrictive relative clauses, how to avoid dangling modifiers, or when to use between and among. However, scholars have underlined a number of points on which style and usage guides differ (McArthur 1986; Peters 2006; Pillière 2018; Straaijer 2017; Tieken-Boon van Ostade 2017, 2018; Weiner 1988). In usage guides, the selection of topics tends to be both conventional and personal. Conventional insofar as a certain number of ‘old chestnuts’ recur from one usage guide to another (Peters 2006: 760; Tieken-Boon van Ostade 2015:  57; Weiner 1988:  173), and personal insofar as ‘the writer’s value system is foregrounded, with little attempt to correlate judgements with external sources, either primary or secondary’ (Peters and Young 1997:  317). The personal element is apparent in the definition of the term ‘usage’ to be found in Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage:  ‘a collection of opinions about what English grammar is or should be, about the propriety of using certain words and phrases, and about the social status of those who use certain words and constructions’. For Einsohn ([2000] 2019: 338), there are ‘dozens of “rules” that were never really rules, just the personal preferences or prejudices of someone bold enough to proclaim them to be rules’. Mossop (2014: 53) points out that the writer’s ‘opinions are voiced with a view to standardisation, that is, the elimination of variants’, and the standardizing influence of style and usage

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guides is a point I  return to at the end of this chapter. Both style and usage guides defend their rules on the grounds of clarity and consistency. APA Style states that ‘being able to communicate ideas clearly and succinctly is a recipe for success for all writers’ (2020:  111). Its manual (2020:  153) points out that ‘without style guidelines, authors might use the spellings “health care,” “healthcare,” and “healthcare” interchangeably in one work … such variations in style can distract or confuse reader’. How far readers would be confused is debateable, but the APA’s stance is echoed time and time again in style and usage guides. Neither style nor usage guides justify their preferences by a clear reference to grammatical rules; instead they base their preferences on arbitrary rules that have been handed down from one guide to another, with no identifiable authority (Cameron [1995] 2012: 33). For Heffer (2014: 223), ‘everyone who writes a book about English usage will have his own rules and presume to inflict them on his readers’. The writers of usage guides are usually self-styled experts seeking to inform the general public, invariably feeding on their insecurity. They often differ in register to style guides, first by directly addressing the reader as ‘you’ and through their use of the first person (Lovinger 2000; Stainton [1992] 2002) and, second, through their moralizing tone. Although imperatives and ‘should’ do appear in style guides, their use tends to take on a moral dimension in usage guides, leading to a stronger polarization of ‘values of right and wrong’ (Peters 2006:  761). Lovinger (2000:  viii), writing in the introduction to the Penguin Dictionary of American English Usage and Style, is quite clear in his aim: ‘I do not hesitate to distinguish between right and wrong usage when the difference is clear. My inclination is to question deviant forms, challenge innovations to prove themselves, and resist senseless fads’. Thus, although the rallying cry of both style and usage guides is clarity, consistency and concision in the interests of communication, these values take on a moral hue in usage guides, and all the more so in AmE usage guides, which tend to be more prescriptive than their British counterparts. Wordiness is labelled ‘a vice’ (Follett [1966] 1998: 14) while lack of clarity or muddiness is associated with ‘weasel words’ and dishonesty; it is an ‘unnecessary evil’ (Lucas 2012: 48), a ‘social problem’ (Williams and Bizup 2014: 6), ‘not merely a disturber of prose, it is also a destroyer of life, of hope’ (Strunk and White [1959] 2009: 79). Such views echo the ideological stance of those who believe linguistic decline is somehow connected to moral decline (Milroy and Milroy [1985] 2012: 41). The incorrect use of language is presented as a threat to authority. Writing in the Guardian newspaper, Marsh (2009) seeks not only to promote the linguistic niceties of his style guide, but also to defend ‘using language that maintains and upholds our values’.



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Although copyediting handbooks are used by UK copy editors, there appears to be far less reliance on usage guides (Pillière 2018). The difference in popularity of prescriptive usage guides is explained by Mossop (2014: 56) as answering a demand in the United States ‘both from the linguistically insecure and from the self-appointed saviours of the language’. He also suggests that following the rules laid down by such usage guides may have been seen as a way of improving oneself and a possible answer also to ‘a political concern to eliminate differences among immigrants and among social classes’. Yagelski (2014: 807) explains the appeal of such guides by underlining the powerful belief in academia and in American culture that ‘good writing is also correct writing’. He points out that ‘people equate grammar with character, and they interpret errors in writing as signs of laziness, sloppy thinking, or worse, ignorance and even stupidity’. As we saw above with Milroy and Milroy, such views are not absent from British culture, but they are perhaps less ingrained in BrE style and usage guides.

5.2  The aims of the copy editor Most usage guides and editing manuals advise would-be writers and copy editors to aim for concision, clarity, and consistency (Butcher, Drake and Leach 2006; Einsohn [2000] 2019). The APA Manual of Style (2001: 34) believes that ‘the author who is frugal with words not only writes a more readable manuscript but also increases the chances that the manuscript will be accepted’. Concision is linked to clarity (Heffer 2014: 143) and to the idea that wordy sentences are less clear for the reader than succinct ones. As a result, writing lengthy sentences can be considered ‘an unfriendly act’ (Cutts [1995] 2020: 57). While the reason for concision is understandable where print space is limited, it is less understandable as a general copyediting rule for works of fiction. The arguments used for concision, however, are not usually based on the wordcount. Instead concision is presented as the healthy alternative to wordiness. Zinsser (2006:  6) portrays clutter as the ‘disease of American writing’, the use of too many ‘long and flabby’ nouns as ‘a new American disease’ (2006:76) or ‘bloated monsters’ (2006:  17). Lederer and Dowis (1995:  42) also write of ‘dull flabby prose’ and ‘bloated writing’, comparing ‘fat writing’ to ‘an out-of-shape jogger trying to make it up a hill’ (1995: 59). Palmer (1993: 67) calls for writers to ‘fight the flab’ and to lose ‘surplus fat’. Wyrick (2017: 140) goes even further: ‘Flabby prose calls for a reducing plan: put those obese sentences on a diet by cutting out unnecessary words, just as you avoid eating too many fatty foods to keep

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yourself at a healthy weight. Mushy prose is ponderous and boring’ and Sword ([2007] 2016) uses editing as a healthy dieting trope for the title of her work entitled The Writer’s Diet and the creation of a website (www.writersdiet.com) dedicated to identifying whether prose is flabby or fit. Good writing, on the other hand is ‘fit’ and ‘trim’ (Cook 1985), ‘lean’ (Zinsser 2006) and ‘healthy’ (Sword [2007] 2016). Clarity and consistency often go hand in hand and are usually justified on the grounds of improving communication between writer and reader: ‘clear, smooth writing communicates better than muddy, awkward writing’ (Harris 2017: 2). Clarity is thus opposed to obscurity and fuzziness, expressions of ambiguity and inexactness. Mossop distinguishes between clarity and readability on the grounds that a text may be readable, it may flow smoothly and be suitable for its readership, but the meaning may be unclear. The belief that good writing is clear and transparent can be traced back to Aristotle’s Rhetoric and to its ethical concern that lack of clarity is a sign of deceit (Greenberg 2018:  227). This desirability of transparency of style has been advocated at different epochs down the ages, often motivated by a sociopolitical agenda (Cameron [1995] 2012). Tyndale’s aim to translate the New Testament into plain and literal English in 1525 was inextricably linked to the Reformation, just as the Inkhorn Controversy, with its debate as to whether it was preferable to coin new words from Latin and Greek or use words of Anglo-Saxon origin, was connected to debates about national identity (Cameron [1995] 2012:  64). In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the Plain English movement seeks to eliminate obscure English from legal documents and official texts, but it is also linked to transparency within government and administrations (see e.g. Clinton’s memorandum (1998) entitled ‘Plain Language in Government Writing’). Advocating a transparent style is as ideologically motivated as any other choice, and paradoxically can also be deceptive as ‘it pretends the facts can speak for themselves in ways that the old rhetoric never did. The very style has helped perpetuate the belief that there are technical, apolitical solutions to political problems. It is perhaps the most deceptive style of them all’ (Cmiel [1990] 1991: 260). Once again, stylistic traits are linked to morals. Commenting on Lang’s essays Writing and the Moral Self, Cameron ([1995] 2012: 68) states that ‘in handbooks such as The Elements of Style, readers are shown how to construct an acceptable moral self by conforming to certain stylistic norms’. In the following sections, I will investigate how the values of concision, clarity and consistency have informed editorial decisions in the AmE editions of BrE novels.



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5.3  Concision: pruning the text Concision is ‘brevity relative to purpose’ (Kane 1994:  140) and obtained by eliminating redundance and wordiness. This probably explains what at first may appear to be inexplicable substitutions in some of the AmE editions in Table 5.1. Among the structures changed for reasons of concision is the use of have as the verb of an expanded predicate. Algeo (2006: 270) states that BrE uses ‘have as the verb of an expanded predicate nearly twice as often as American does and in about 1.75 times as many different constructions’. Particles and prepositions are also reduced. Gilman (1994: 240) remarks that ‘the common English particles – up, on, over, into, for instance – are a frequent irritation to the usage commentator,

Table 5.1  Table of examples of stylistic concision BrE AmE Longer common phrase Shorter equivalent as well as (BrE-SA: 55) and (AmE-SL: 49) at the time (BrE-MW: 20) when (AmE-MW: 15) the grandfather of Charles Charles’s grandfather (AmE-MW: 24) (BrE-MW: 29) On the opposite side of the river On the opposite bank (AmE-LD: 72) (BrE-LD: 100) Reduction of Expanded Predicates One after another, they would take a One after another, they would run. run. (BrE-MCW: 18) (AmE-MCW: 12) And made a resolution to try. (BrE-SC: 112) And resolved to try. (AmE-PM: 125) I could have a try at squeaking it. I could try to squeak it. (AmE-MCW: 18) (BrE-MCW: 26) Reduction of prepositions and particles checked on her name (BrE-HBP: 320) checked her name (AmE-HBP: 342) with his intellect’ (BrE-SA: 68) becomes ‘intellectually’ (AmE-SL: 61) a survey conducted in 1991 a 1991 survey (AmE-MW: 15) (BrE-MW:19) ‘processes for purifying iron by to ‘processes for “puddling” iron’ “puddling” ’ (BrE-MW: 22) (AmE-MW: 17) Removal of hedges a little bit of an effort (BrE-FB: 1) a little more effort (AmE-FB: 3) not in the least bit taxing (BrE-SC: 70) not in the least taxing (AmE-PM: 79) standing in a kind of blue and green standing in an Eden of lakes and Eden of lakes and parkland (BrE-LD: 96) parkland (AmE-LD: 68) It’s a kind of tradition I guess It’s a tradition I guess (AmE-LD: 37) (BrE-LD: 59) out of a kind of politeness (BrE-LD: 97) out of politeness (AmE-LD: 68)

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who tends to suspect that they are often superfluous’, and they have subsequently been removed in several cases. Similarly, Fiske (1994: 22) states that ‘preposition phrases are suspect, particularly those longer than two words’, and these have been replaced by compound nouns or adverbs. Concision does not always result in greater clarity. Choosing to reduce ‘processes for purifying iron by “puddling” ’ (BrE-MW:  22) to ‘processes for “puddling” iron’ (AmE-MW:  17) implies that the average reader knows that puddling refers to a purifying process. The drive for concision can also affect the register and tone of the text. Removal of predeterminers, such as a bit of, or what Dreyer (2019:  4), copy chief at Random House, lists as ‘Wan Intensifiers and Throat Clearers’ such as very, rather, really, quite, in fact and of course, can make a text sound more formal. For Garner (2009: 494) kind of is ‘a poor substitute for somewhat, rather, somehow, and other adverbs’ and sort of (2009: 760) ‘should be avoided in polished writing’. However, a distinction needs to be drawn between fiction and other writing such as journalism. In first person narratives, where the author may have consciously chosen to adopt a spoken register, these modifiers can play an important role. Ochs (1979:  77) affirms that ‘a novelist trying to recreate a casual situational context will use many of the features … of unplanned discourse’. All three examples using ‘kind of ’ in Table 5.1 occur in Bryson’s The Road to Little Dribbling which, as with all his travelogues, is written in the first person and adopts a conversational tone, often directly addressing the reader. Repetition is also removed on grounds of wordiness, but its removal can affect the rhythm of a sentence, as in the following example: The family’s jewellery had been seized, and their family radio. (BrE-SA: 93) The family’s jewelry had been seized, and their radio. (AmE-SL: 85)

Specific grammatical structures are also criticized by usage guides and editing manuals for being ‘wordy’ or containing ‘empty words’. Wordiness is again linked with clarity. The APA (2020: 114) suggests that ‘wordiness can impede readers’ understanding by forcing them to sort through unnecessary words to decipher your ideas’, and they suggest that the sentence, ‘There were several students who complained’, should be replaced by ‘Several students complained’. Existential there, or there + be, is a structure that frequently comes under fire in style and usage guides. Stainton ([1992] 2002: 65) is not alone in saying that she was taught never to begin a sentence with the use of ‘there is/are’. Garner (2009:811) also eschews the structure and quotes Payne as saying ‘nothing saps



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the vitality of language as quickly as meaningless clutter’. Perhaps the most damning criticism comes from Strunk and White ([1959] 2009: 18), who suggest removing the structure to obtain ‘lively and emphatic prose’. While its removal is not systematic in the texts in the corpus, it is frequently omitted in the AmE edition. The following examples, with the removed text barred through, illustrate the changes made: There are three distinct aspects of this enormous battle that appear to make it particularly important in the story of John Smith. (AmE-PM: 54) On both sides there were planted lines of conifers. (AmE-CT: 55) There was no one else around. I felt like I was the first person in years to go there. (AmE-LD: 72) There are few phenomena above the surface in Somerset that would prompt anyone to imagine millions of years of crushing and grinding. (AmE-MW: 49)

In the above examples, the changes only involve removing elements from the sentence, but the removal of existential there can entail further rewriting: There were wildflowers of purple and yellow and the most delicate pale blue. (BrE-LD: 100) Wildflowers of purple and yellow and the most delicate pale blue sprouted everywhere. (AmE-LD: 72) Herr Schindler, raising his jaw, laughed frankly. There was also some weariness in the laugh. (BrE-SA: 23) Herr Schindler, raising his jaw, laughed frankly, though with weariness. (AmE-SL: 21)

Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 83) illustrate the principle of economy with the removal of existential there: AU.: ‘There is many a noble man to be found in the kingdom.’ ED.1: ‘Many a noble man can be found in the kingdom.’ ED.2: ‘Many noble men can be found in the kingdom.’

But while they approve the first change, ED.1, they criticize the correction made by ED.2 and regret the loss of ‘the slightly archaic tone the author intended’ by using ‘many a’. Interestingly, the authors do not consider existential there to be indicative of the author’s voice, yet linguists have been quick to point out its pragmatic role. By displacing the subject into postverbal position, existential there gives it end-focus (Erades 1975; Lakoff 1987). Other linguists (see e.g.

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Bolinger 1977; Breivik and Swan 2000; Cheshire 1999; Bolinger 1977; Sasaki 1991) have all demonstrated the pragmatic role of existential there, the fact that it is used to direct the addressee’s attention towards a new piece of information. This is illustrated in the next example, where there occurs at the beginning of a new paragraph, giving end focus to the new topic of the paragraph, ‘the map’: But there is a signal difference that sets the map apart. (BrE-MW: 3) But a signal difference sets the map apart. (AmE-MW: xviiii)

I will explore the pragmatic function of existential there further in Chapter 6. Another grammatical structure frequently criticized for being too wordy is the passive voice (Bernstein 1995; Einsohn [2000] 2019; Strunk and White [1959] 2009; Zinsser 2006). Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 82) comment that the ‘use of the passive voice is perhaps the stylistic device most out of fashion with today’s editors, who prefer the clarity and punch of the active’. Garner (2009: 613) notes how the passive voice ‘usually adds a couple of unnecessary words. Second, when it doesn’t add those extra words, it fails to say squarely who has done what … Third, the passive subverts the normal word order for an English sentence, making it harder for readers to process the information.’ The language used to criticize use of the passive can be forceful. Bernstein (1995: 14) attacks the passive for wordiness: ‘in writing, as elsewhere, a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. The active voice strikes like a boxer moving forward in attack; the passive voice parries while back-pedaling.’ Zinsser (2006: 67) even asserts that “the difference between an active-verb style and a passive-verb style – in clarity and vigor – is the difference between life and death for a writer”, while Klausser (1987: 96) maintains that the passive ‘sounds insincere, even dishonest, and it makes the reader uncomfortable, not trusting’, a view echoed by Heffer (2014: 249), who mentions ‘sinister applications’ of the passive. Even a style guide, such as the APA (2020: 118) points out that ‘many writers overuse the passive’. Certain writers, such as Gilman (1994:  720), are more cautious. He recognizes that ‘sentences cast in the passive voice have their uses and are an important tool for the writer’, while Fowler ([1926] 2015: 605) also admits there may be grounds for using the passive voice, even if he does add that its overuse ‘often leads to wordiness’. Although this overwhelming stigmatization of the passive voice has not gone unchecked by critics of style and usage guides (Curzan 2014; Pinker 2015; Pullum 2009a, 2009b, 2014), an empirical study on a parallel corpus of English business articles, with their unedited and edited German translations reveals that editors do indeed tend to



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change the passive to the active voice (Bisiada 2019). It is, then, not surprising that certain uses of the passive disappear from the AmE editions in the corpus, as in the following examples: To both of whom he would always be compared. (BrE-SA: 233) To both of whom people would always compare him. (AmE-SL: 212) Ringbolts … from which people could be hanged for discipline or instruction. (BrE-SA: 236) Ringbolts … from which to hang people for discipline or instruction. (AmE-SL: 215)

The removal of the passive may, however, be due to other causes. In the second example above, ‘hanged’ conveys the idea of hanging to death, which does not correspond to ‘discipline or instruction’ but punishment. The passive may therefore have been removed to prevent any ambiguity. Similarly, in the next example, when both US and UK copy editors were questioned on their preference for one version or the other (Pillière 2020), several preferred the AmE edition, not just for the removal of the passive, but because the child’s apprehension should be logically directed at the dog and not his feet: Willie looked apprehensively at his feet which were now being sniffed at by Sammy. (BrE-GMT: 22) Willie looked apprehensively at Sammy, who was sniffing his feet. (AmE-GMT: 15)

These two examples demonstrate that the specific context should always be taken into account. Anticipatory structures, such as cleft sentences, are also criticized by usage guides as being more wordy (Kane 1994:141), yet they play an important role in giving ‘thematic and focal prominence to a particular element of the clause’ (Quirk et al. 1972: 951), as in the following example, where the cleft sentence provides contrastive focus:  ‘It’s the gardens I  look after.’ (BrE-PP:  51). At this point in the narrative, the speaker is explaining that he cannot possibly look after both the gardens and a pony, and the cleft sentence implies It’s the gardens I look after, not the pony. The modified sentence in the AmE edition  – “I look after the gardens.” (AmE-PP: 48) – would only have the same meaning if contrastive stress was placed on gardens. Existential there, the passive, and cleft sentences all belong to ‘information packaging’ structures, constructions that present informational content in a

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syntactically different way to their basic canonical counterpart (subject-verbobject). Such constructions can be used for ‘maintaining given-new flow of discourse, focusing, shifting heavy noun phrases and topicalizing’ (Huddleston and Pullum 2005: 1365). Their use is more often than not a stylistic choice, and can mark a shift in voice, a point I examine in Chapter 6. As such, they could also all be considered as examples of modulation (as outlined in Chapter 4).

5.4  Clarifying the text Editors may decide a text needs clarifying for several reasons:  it may be to avoid ambiguity or to provide details that they consider the TT reader requires to fully comprehend the text. Clarification and explicitation are thus very similar. Séguinot (1988:  108) points out that explicitation, one of the possible mediation/translation universals, occurs when something is expressed in the translation which was not in the original, something which was implied or understood through presupposition in the source text is overtly expressed in the translation, or an element in the source text is given greater importance in the translation through focus, emphasis, or lexical choice. Clarification can occur at all levels, from typography and punctuation to lexis, grammar and syntax.

5.4.1  Clarifying punctuation As Lynn Truss ably demonstrates in Eats, Shoots and Leaves, one of the roles of punctuation is to help avoid ambiguity in written texts. AmE copy editors will often introduce a comma after which in a relative clause to make a clear distinction between restrictive relative clauses and non-restrictive relative clauses. The distinction between these two types of clauses is dealt with in more detail in 5.3.4: The matter was rather more complex for The Judge’s board of directors which met in emergency session on Monday afternoon. (BrE-A: 127) The matter was rather more complex for the Judge’s board of directors, which met in emergency session on Monday afternoon. (AmE-A: 138)

Or they will substitute that (see below) to avoid any possible ambiguity regarding the type of relative. Clarification of punctuation also includes inserting a serial



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comma, since ‘omitting the final comma may cause ambiguities’ (Garner 2009: 676), as in the following: He packed the waterproofs away, ate an apple and considered his route. (BrE-A: 81) He packed the waterproofs away, ate an apple, and considered his route. (AmE-A: 88)

Some of the works in the corpus reveal a difference in the use of commas between compound predicates, that is, when the coordinated second clause has the same subject as the first. The Chicago Manual of Style indicates that a comma is only required ‘to prevent a misreading’ and gives the example, ‘she recognized the man who entered the room, and gasped’, where the comma is necessary to avoid ambiguity (2017: 6.23). In other circumstances it is considered unnecessary, and Garner (2009: 677) advises against its use. Generally speaking, most of the AmE editions have removed this comma: The best way … to compile a full dictionary was to read:  to go through all literature, and list the words that appeared on hundreds of thousands of pages. (BrE-SC: 82) The best way … to compile a full dictionary was to read:  to go through all literature and list the words that appeared on hundreds of thousands of pages. (AmE-PM: 94)

However, insofar as the comma serves to separate the preceding text from what follows, its presence or absence is not necessarily arbitrary, and it can create various stylistic effects. In a compound predicate, the comma before the final verb can serve to dissociate the final action, giving greater emphasis to the final verb. Consider the following example: Then she shouted something and picked up her pack, and tried to sling it across her shoulder. (BrE-A: 86) Then she shouted something and picked up her pack and tried to sling it across her shoulder. (AmE-A: 93)

It is possible, in the BrE text, to understand the first two actions as forming a single unit, with the third action dissociated. Within the context of the novel, Amsterdam, there are good reasons for detaching the final verb and focusing on the final action: ‘tried to sling it across her shoulder’. Clive is observing a scene which turns into a struggle between a man (later to be identified as the Lakeland

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rapist) and a woman. It is when the woman tries to sling the pack across her shoulder that the struggle intensifies, and the man finally grabs hold of the pack ‘and with a single contemptuous movement, a mere wave of the wrist’, tosses it into the tarn. The implication in the context is that he could treat the woman with as much contempt, and indeed he appears to go on to do so:  ‘the man had hold of her wrist and was dragging her round the tarn’ (BrE-A: 88). In the following example, the separation of the final verb by a comma can be said to mimic the lapse in time: He read and took copious notes from all the reference books of the day, and eventually produced a first half-hearted attempt. (BrE-SC: 73) He read and took copious notes from all the reference books of the day and eventually produced a first half-hearted attempt. (AmE-PM: 84)

In both examples the elements A and B are presented as forming a unity while the final element C, introduced by a comma, is offset. Such a use of punctuation could be labelled as deictic insofar as it enables the speaker to emphasize specific elements in the sentence. Changing the punctuation can entail changing the writer’s rhetorical strategies.

5.4.2  Clarifying lexical items Foreign items are often considered to be problematic for AmE readers. There seems to be an underlying belief that mainstream readers ‘are generally inattentive in a way that bookish readers are not. That is, they aren’t adventurous in their reading, they don’t compulsively look to broaden their reading experience, they don’t work at it’ (Silbersack 1993:  297). Stainton ([1992] 2002:  57) advises her readers that ‘as a copy editor, you can make a few assumptions about readers. Most readers are not familiar with Greek or Latin, so English translations for these are welcome’. Translation of German culture-specific items is indeed the solution chosen for the AmE Schindler’s List: ‘the Podgórze gymnasium’ (BrE-SA: 255) becomes ‘the Podgórze High School’ (AmE-SL: 235), ‘Bendlerstrasse’ (BrE-SA: 306) becomes Bendler Street (AmE-SL: 283) and ‘Herr Hans Schindler’ (BrE-SA: 36) becomes Mr. Hans Schindler (AmE-SL: 32). While the first example might have been changed to avoid ambiguity, the other two are less problematic and arguably require no clarification. On other occasions, the AmE editions in the corpus have sometimes omitted the reference or explained it. In the following passage, from Schindler’s Ark, a character is compared to the Roman soldier, Sejanus: ‘Goeth approached this cut-rate Sejanus’ (BrE-SA: 217).



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To avoid the historic reference, the AmE edition omits it and substitutes the name of the character: ‘Goeth approached Chilowicz’ (AmE-SL: 198). In Simon Winchester’s The Map that Changed the World, where fossils are given their genus names, the AmE edition informs the reader that the foreignlooking term is in fact Latin, by adding the words ‘from the Latin’: The pound stone, an echinoid, was in all probability a species named Clypeus ploti, the genus name (from the Latin) because of its round, shield-like shape. (AmE-MW: 33)

Acronyms and abbreviations are also clarified, following Einsohn’s ([2000] 2019: 238)  advice:  ‘When in doubt, spell it out’. In Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French, DIY (BrE-AF:  112) thus becomes ‘do-it-yourself work’ in the AmE edition (AmE-AF: 111). While BrE readers of the translation of Jean-Christophe Grangé’s L’Empire des Loups are left to puzzle out the French acronyms, AmE readers are given a helping hand: the full term is given followed by the acronym in brackets. The AmE edition has even added an acronym, EHESS, when the term appears only in full both in the French text and in the translation, presumably in order to be consistent: When he returned to France, he had applied for funding from such public bodies as INSERM, the CNRS, the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, as well as various universities and hospitals in Paris. (BrE-EW: 190) When he returned to France, he had applied for funding from such public bodies as Institut National de la Santé et de la Recherche Médicale (INSERM); the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS); the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (EHESS), as well as various universities and hospitals in Paris. (AmE-EW: 190)

Examples of abbreviated terms being expanded in the corpus include sani (BrE-NS: 83) becoming sanitorium (AmE-NS: 65) or the full term being added as an explanatory sentence: ‘I could see his jacket said MOD SECURITY. MOD is Ministry of Defence’ (AmE-NS: 169). Assessing how far a reader can be expected to remember a character from a previous scene, and how far the reader should be guided, is another point where BrE and AmE editions sometimes differ. In c­hapter  24 of Schindler’s Ark, a character, who was last mentioned in the prologue, is introduced again as follows:  ‘Helen Hirsch, pale and in black, brought them the necessary accompaniments’ (BrE-SA: 240). The scene takes place ‘in the salon of Goeth’s white villa’ and, although the time of day is different, many of the details are

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similar to the previous occasion. Both times, mention is made of Schindler feeling ‘moral disgust’: The revulsion Herr Schindler felt was of a piquant kind, an ancient exultant sense of abomination such as, in a medieval painting, the just show for the damned. (BrE-SA: 17)

On both occasions a serious drinking bout is involved and mention too is made of Goeth’s German mistress, Majola, who avoids such events. The reader is thus encouraged to recall the contextual frame of the prologue scene. Moreover, the prologue gives a prominent role to the conversation between Oskar Schindler and Helen Hirsch in Goeth’s house. The reader is left to infer that the other characters previously introduced in a similar contextual frame in the prologue of the novel will also be present. As Emmott ([1997] 2004: 152) underlines in Narrative Structure and Processing, ‘when a frame is re-primed, it is not necessary to mention each element of the frame again. A  mention of one element means that the others, being bound to it, can be re-primed automatically.’ The BrE editor has judged the reader capable of remembering Helen Hirsch’s role in the household. The AmE editor, on the other hand, has preferred to remind the reader who the character is, by introducing her function in a relative clause: Helen Hirsch, the pale girl in black who was Amon’s maid, brought them the necessary accompaniments. (AmE-SL: 219)

As we saw in the previous chapter, explicitation is often used to clarify cultural terms, but it is also used in editing to clarify or to remove any possible ambiguity. This confirms Pym’s assertion (2008) that explicitation is a sign of risk management and exists within any mediated discourse. The explicitation may take the form of addition, clarifying the characters’ position: Beside the lock was a hotel with a terrace where people were having lunch in the sun (BrE-LD: 100) Beside the lock was a hotel with a terrace where people were sitting having lunch in the sun (AmE-LD: 72, my emphasis)

A verb that is potentially ambiguous may also be expanded to clarify the meaning:  ‘Stern waved his hand’ (BrE-SA:  86) becomes ‘Stern waved Oskar’s suggestion away’ (AmE-SL: 78). In the following example, ‘At every group we passed, Ron slowed and called “G’day” ’ (BrE-DU: 228), no mention is made of the car window being open, so the AmE edition has clarified the situation: ‘At



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every group we passed, Ron slowed with the window down and said “G’day” ’ (AmE-SB: 171, my emphasis). Similarly, a reader who has forgotten that it has snowed may wonder why the hillocks in the following passage are concealed: A quarter of a mile ahead was the junction, so he cut across open rough ground, stumbling on concealed hillocks. (BrE-CT: 210)

The AmE copy editor has again preferred to spell it out: A quarter of a mile ahead was the junction, so he cut across open rough ground, stumbling on hillocks concealed in the snow. (AmE-CT: 251)

These modifications suggest that the AmE publisher/editor is more risk averse than their BrE counterparts. In children’s fiction, editors sometimes decide to change lexical items on the grounds that they are too complicated. Correspondence from Jane Fior (Lively 1986a) at William Heineman, to Penelope Lively, regarding the children’s story Debbie and the Little Devil, shows that, despite Penelope Lively’s disagreement (Lively 1986b), a number of words such as shrivelled up, hurtling, bannisters and appallingly were replaced by got smaller and smaller, flying, stairs and very badly, respectively, on the grounds that these terms might prove too difficult for early readers. Such changes only become apparent with access to the writer’s or publisher’s archives, but my parallel corpus also provides evidence of this. In the following examples, two terms, homburgs and weeds have been judged as not belonging to the active vocabulary of the average AmE reader, and participles have been substituted for the preposition in: They … dropped the sections of frames as instructed by the SS engineers in homburgs and civilian clothes. (BrE-SA: 179) They … dropped the sections of frames where the SS engineers, wearing homburgs and civilian clothes, instructed them. (AmE-SL: 163) a stern Victorian matron in her tough serge weeds. (BrE-SC: 36) a stern Victorian matron, clad all in tough serge weeds. (AmE-PM: 39)

By introducing a participle, the editor has ensured that the reader does not have to read further into the sentence before deciding whether the item referred to is clothing or something else. The next AmE example introduces a relative clause and a verb that are not in the BrE text: There were kiosks selling sandwiches to snack on while walking down the street; there were travel agents to prepare departures and arrivals; there were bureaux

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de change to acquire euros; there were photocopy stores to duplicate identity papers. (BrE-EW: 112) There were kiosks selling sandwiches that you could snack on while walking down the street; there were travel agents to prepare departures and arrivals; there were bureaux de change to give out euros; there were photocopy stores to duplicate identity papers. (AmE-EW: 112)

The copy editor explained in a private email that, for an AmE reader, it would not be clear that people were walking down the street, and it could even be humorously interpreted that it is the kiosks that are doing so. The introduction of the verb give out again aims to improve the clarity. The copy editor felt the BrE edition read as if the bureaux acquired euros, when it is the people who visited the bureaux that acquired euros.

5.4.3  Clarifying the antecedent Changes to pronouns occur when the editor considers that the connection to their antecedent is insufficiently clear for the reader. AmE editions often err on the side of caution and reintroduce the referent, again supporting Pym’s theory (2008) of risk aversion in translation. Although the reader can guess what or who a pronoun refers to, ‘editors don’t want to force readers and listeners into guessing games. When meanings become confused, the economy of substituting pronouns for nouns is lost. Good editing restores clarity’ (Friend and Challenger 2013:  83). In the next two examples, the term in bold type has replaced a pronoun (in both cases them), since there is more than one potential antecedent in the BrE edition. Rather than let the reader select the antecedent, the editor has preferred to reintroduce the referent: At least half the hedgerows in Britain predate the enclosure movement and perhaps as many as a fifth date back to Anglo-Saxon times. Anyway, the reason for saving hedgerows isn’t because they have been there forever and ever. (AmE-NS: 147) A jolt of economic input that can lift whole neighbourhoods, creating demand for bars and restaurants, making faded districts more desirable places to live or visit. (AmE-LD: 89)

In the first example it is unlikely that the reader will identify the reason for saving them as referring back to Anglo-Saxon times, as the sentence saving Anglo-Saxon times would make little sense. Similarly, in the second example, the use of them (making them more desirable places to live) could not refer to the noun phrase



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bars and restaurants, which directly precedes, as the verb is ‘live’ and people do not live in bars and restaurants. However, the AmE editor has erred on the side of caution in both cases. In the following example from Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam, the pronoun he, in the first paragraph, refers unequivocally to Clive Linley, and the story at this point is seen from Clive’s perspective (‘he didn’t want’). The final paragraph similarly contains elements of Free Indirect Thought: a truncated sentence, ‘the enemy indeed’, and a direct question with a backshift of tenses. The reader can therefore infer that the use of the pronoun he, with its pejorative description, does not involve a shift in perspective but belongs to Clive’s thoughts and, therefore, refers back to the ‘enemy’; in other words, Julian Garmony. Emmott (2015: 252) suggests that ‘this lack of naming seems particularly likely when the object of the character’s thoughts is so prominent in his/her thoughts generally that the reader can easily infer who is being referred to’. Clive pursed his lips. He didn’t want to be introduced to Julian Garmony, but neither did he want to go to the bother of snubbing him. No escape. “You show the way,” he said, and was led past standing clumps of his friends, some of whom guessed where he was going and tried to lure him from his guide. “Hey, Linley. No talking to the enemy!” The enemy indeed. What had attracted her? He was a strange-looking fellow: large head, with wavy black hair that was all his own, a terrible pallor, thin unsensual lips. (BrE-A: 12–3)

The AmE editor must have felt that such inference made too many demands upon readers and that there was the danger they might make the wrong assumptions; they therefore substituted the character’s name to avoid any possible ambiguity. However, the change to the proper noun introduces a different perspective (I return to this point in Chapter  6) and arguably risks distancing the reader from Clive: The enemy indeed. What had attracted her? Garmony was a strange-looking fellow: large head, with wavy black hair that was all his own, a terrible pallor, thin unsensual lips. (AmE-A: 14)

Links between pronouns and antecedents that are established across paragraphs may also be clarified in the AmE edition. Chapter 21 of Schindler’s Ark opens by reintroducing the character Poldek Pfefferberg and describing his waiting ‘with his wife Mila for the Sonderkommandos to arrive and order them out into the street’ (BrE-SA: 199). The same paragraph explains that Mila was ‘a refugee

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from Lódź whom Poldek had married. A description of Milda follows and the subsequent paragraph opens with this flashback: Mila had lived a sweet childhood, even in Jew-baiting Lódź, and had begun her own medical education in Vienna the year before the war. They had met when Lódź people were shipped down to Cracow. (BrE-SA: 199)

While the BrE edition assumes the reader will interpret the pronoun they correctly as referring to Mila and Poldek, the AmE edition has considered the referent to be too far removed and therefore substitutes a pronoun and proper noun, at the same time achieving a greater degree of textual consistency as Mila remains the subject: Mila had lived a sweet childhood, even in Jew-baiting Lódź, and had begun her own medical education in Vienna the year before the war. She had met Poldek when Lódź people were shipped down to Cracow. (AmE-SL: 182)

The changes to these pronouns provide further evidence that the copy editor is seeking to avoid any ambiguity but, as Emmott (2015:  251) rightly points out, ‘interpreting a pronoun goes beyond simply making general knowledge connections between words … and relies on world-building, including links between mental representations of the entities in the narrative world’. A desire for clarity that considers only the physical distance between antecedent and pronoun runs the risk of ignoring the cognitive and pragmatic use of pronouns.

5.4.4  Clarifying the syntax Both that and which can traditionally be found in restrictive relative clauses, that is, relatives where the information contained in the dependent clause is integrated both syntactically (no comma) and prosodically (no pause): On Monday the paper ran a headline which foretold the storm to come. (BrE-CT: 179)

However, in edited AmE English there is a preference for using that in restrictive relatives and which in non-restrictive relatives (relatives where the information provided is considered supplementary and is usually set off by commas). The above example was therefore modified in the AmE edition to: On Monday the paper ran a headline that foretold the storm to come. (AmE-CT: 211)



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The difference in usage of which and that in restrictive relative clauses is sometimes labelled as a dialectal difference (Hargraves 2003: 53; Heacock and Cassidy 1998:  95), and a survey that I  carried out to investigate the choices made by AmE and BrE copy editors (Pillière 2018:  266) revealed that many AmE respondents also recognized that usage was different on either side of the Atlantic. However, I have included the point in this section because not all AmE writers/editors choose to use that in a restrictive relative clause. The difference in practice to be found in five North American university presses (One Book/Five Ways 1977)  suggests that the difference is not dialectical, but editorial. Some AmE style and usage guides clearly advocate which-hunting (Strunk and White [1959] 2009:  59; CMOS 15th edn:  230) while others, such as The American Heritage Book of English Usage are a little more circumspect: ‘this use of which with restrictive clauses is very common, even in edited prose. If you fail to follow the rule in this point, you have plenty of company’ (1996: 39). Similarly, Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997:  91) underline that ‘today varying “whiches” and “that’s” is widely accepted’. I would therefore argue that the preference for that in restrictive relative clauses is evidence of stylistic prescriptivism (Curzan 2014; Hinrichs, Szmrecsanyi and Bohmann 2015), and not a dialectal difference. It is the most systematic grammatical change to be found in the works in the corpus, and one which is fast being adapted in edited BrE, even if the preference is more marked in edited AmE (Bohmann and Schultz 2011). The underlying argument for using that in a restrictive relative clause and which in a non-restrictive relative clause is one of clarity. Using that in a restrictive relative is said to increase ‘lucidity and ease’ (Fowler [1926] 2015: 774), while the APA Style (2020: 123) contends that ‘consistently using of that in restrictive clauses produces clear and precise writing’. The fact that only a comma might separate a non-restrictive relative from a restrictive relative (see above) means its accidental omission could alter the meaning or render the sentence ambiguous. Moreover, by distinguishing between the uses for that and which, a neat binary system is put in place, so the preference for that in a restrictive relative may originate ‘from a desire for grammatical symmetry’ (Hinrichs, Szmrecsanyi and Bohmann 2015: 808). This doubtless explains the systematic substitution of which by that in restrictive relative clauses in the corpus, or the insertion of a comma if which is used. However, this mechanical replacement, or ‘phony restrictive-that-nonrestrictive-which “rule”’ (Liberman 2012) has not gone unchallenged. In their editing guide (Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 91) point out that substituting

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that for which can lead to a loss of rhythm or alliteration, and linguists (e.g. Huddleston [1984] 2004; Liberman 2012; Pullum 2012) have underlined that which is not ungrammatical in a restrictive relative. One grammatical form that has featured widely in research investigating the existence or non-existence of translation universals, and which is seen as illustrating explicitation, is the introduction of the complementizer that in translated texts (see e.g. Bisiada 2017; Kruger 2012). Explicitation is not the only universal associated with the complementizer that. Kruger (2012; 2017) and Olohan and Baker (2000) argue that the preference for the optional complementizer that in translations reflects a standardizing tendency to be found in translations, since full forms are associated with written standard English. Others consider that retention or omission of the that complementizer with certain verbs corresponds to specific kinds of writing and is retained in academic writing (Staples et al. [2001] 2018: 511), but more frequently omitted in more informal contexts such as speech. The decision to use the complementizer is also defended on grounds of clarity. Wilbers (2014:  44–5) affirms:  ‘Delete that for brevity; retain that for clarity. If deleting that compresses the sentence in a way that improves its flow and rhythm, take it out’. He argues that the presence of that after a verb such as believe can alter the meaning and compares ‘the attorney believed her client was guilty’ with ‘the attorney believed that her client was guilty’. The absence of that in the first sentence ‘leads the reader to think the attorney believed her client was innocent, and the word guilty comes as a surprise’. O’Connor ([1996] 2010) recommends retaining that after verbs such as know, believe, decide, and realize. It is therefore not surprising that Kruger (2017) found that the complementizer that was added to the edited texts in her corpus. Although the introduction of that is not systematic in the AmE editions in the corpus, it is found occasionally: Why not accept he was outnumbered? (BrE-CT: 102) Why not accept that he was outnumbered? (AmE-CT: 116) The Einsatzgruppe men may have seen this was a test worth their time. (BrE-SA: 68) The Einsatzgruppe men may have seen that this was a test worth their time. (AmE-SL: 68)

Whether to insert that or not appears to depend on the individual copy editor. Furthermore, UK copy editors may have already decided to insert that, as evidenced by the copyedited manuscript for Jim Crace’s The Devil’s Larder from



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Viking Press in 2001, which reveals that the BrE copy editor has systematically inserted that: I imagine that when they sat cross-legged. (15) Except that this waiter had gravy on his chin. (18) Professor McCormick must have judged that they would appreciate the ‘fitting’ menu. (69)

As with expressions such as kind of, the deletion of complementizer that has been identified as a common feature in spoken language (Biber 2004; Staples et al. [2001] 2018: 511), and its omission could arguably be more in keeping with the narrator’s voice, especially if a conversational style is adopted (Pillière 2015).

5.4.5  Clarifying the tenses Variability in the choice of verb forms might also be explained by a desire to avoid any potential ambiguity, as in the following: (Herbert Coleridge) died after only two years at work … He had been caught in the rain on the way to a Philological Society lecture, and sat through it, in the unheated upstairs room in St James’s Square, caught a chill and died. (BrE-SC: 96) He had been caught in the rain on the way to a Philological Society lecture, and he had sat through it, in the unheated upstairs room in St James’s Square, caught a chill and died. (AmE-PM: 109)

The sentence beginning, he had been caught, offers an explanation for Herbert Coleridge’s untimely death. The verbal form sat that follows is identical to both the past participle and the simple past tense. The AmE edition has chosen to reintroduce the subject he and the auxiliary had to avoid any possible ambiguity with the simple past. As the simple past can refer to any moment prior to the moment of utterance, its exact moment of reference is not necessarily clear. In the following example, the simple past is used both to refer to events that have taken place prior to the moment of the main narrative and to the main sequence of events: Clearly something terrible had happened, and he began to feel embarrassed by his ungenerous response. Clive was a true friend when Vernon’s second marriage came apart, and he encouraged him to go for the editorship when everybody else thought he was wasting his time. Four years ago, when Vernon

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was laid up with a rare viral infection of the spine, Clive visited almost every day. (BrE-A: 43)

In the AmE edition, the use of the past perfect clearly marks the anteriority of certain events: Clearly something terrible had happened, and he began to feel embarrassed by his ungenerous response. Clive had been a true friend when Vernon’s second marriage came apart, and he had encouraged him to go for the editorship when everybody else thought he was wasting his time. Four years ago, when Vernon was laid up with a rare viral infection of the spine, Clive had visited almost every day. (AmE-A: 47)

Further ambiguity can be created from the use of the simple past as it can refer both to a unique event or to an iterative one. In the following example, visited refers to an iterative event that took place ‘almost every day’, while slip refers to a unique occurrence. Once again, the AmE edition prefers to mark anteriority by using the past perfect: Why had he never properly acknowledged the act of friendship that lay behind his borrowing a large sum to see Vernon through a difficult time? When he had an infection of the spine, Clive visited almost every day; when Clive slipped on the pavement outside his house and broken his ankle, Vernon sent his secretary round with a bag of books from the Judge’s books page slush pile? (BrE-A: 65) Why had he never properly acknowledged the act of friendship that lay behind his borrowing a large sum to see Vernon through a difficult time? When Vernon had had an infection of the spine, Clive had visited almost every day; when Clive had slipped on the pavement outside his house and broken his ankle, Vernon had sent his secretary round with a bag of books from the Judge’s books page slush pile? (AmE-A: 70)

From this we can draw a preliminary conclusion:  the substitution of the past perfect for the simple past corresponds to an editorial strategy that we have already observed in the preceding chapters: a desire to render the text as clear as possible for the reader. Copy editors are following guidance here from style and usage handbooks that insist on the necessity of using the past perfect to express an action that has been completed before a specified or implied past tense. According to Crews (1987: 332), ‘if your time frame is the past and you want to mention an action completed at a still earlier time, put the verb expressing that earlier action not in the past but the past perfect tense’. Instead of writing ‘There were rumors around school that the Dean was a sergeant in the Army in



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the Korean War’, Crews advises writing ‘There were rumors around school that the Dean had been a sergeant in the Army in the Korean War.’ The belief that the past perfect must mark an anterior moment is also found in Dow Adams and Tickle (1994: 283), the Chicago Manual of Style (15th edn: 179) and Quirk et al. (1972: 92). It also appears that the AmE edition prefers a simple past to the BrE past perfect if the action is considered not to have taken place at an anterior moment. This may explain the changes that have been made in the following examples: [The Prime Minister] had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he had felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. (BrE-HBP: 11) [The Prime Minister] had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. (AmE-HBP: 5)

The AmE text has placed the emotion felt by the Prime Minister as being posterior to the arrival of Fudge, and to his terror at discovering he has a talking portrait – although the choice may also have been motivated by the fact that in children’s fiction excessive use of the past perfect may be considered too clumsy and unwieldy. Although the style guides may advocate the use of the past perfect to refer to a moment anterior to the main narrative, both BrE and AmE novels contain flashbacks that do not necessarily employ the past perfect. Very often, the flashback will begin by using the past perfect and then change to the simple past, although the same period of time is being referred to: Mr. Silk’s life in business for himself had come to a bitter end with the closing of the banks. It had taken him quite a time to get over losing the optician’s store up in Orange, if he ever did. Poor Daddy, Mother would say, he always wanted to work for himself. He’d attended college in the South, in Georgia where he came from – Mother was from New Jersey – and took farming and animal husbandry. But then he quit and up north, in Trenton, he went to optician’s school. (Roth 2001: 93)

Yet while such changes from one tense to another are to be found quite easily in AmE novels, copy editors seem less tolerant when it comes to BrE texts. The following example, taken from Rosamunde Pilcher’s collection of short stories, Flowers in the Rain, shows how far-reaching such modifications may be: Once on the way back to London after a weekend in Sussex, he had gone to see Kitty and her husband; they lived on a houseboat and Kitty was pregnant. The

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boat, and Kitty, had both been in such a state of shambles that Tom, without having meant to, asked Kitty and her husband out for dinner. It had been a disastrous evening. Terence had got drunk; Kitty had talked, non-stop, as though she had been wound up; and Tom had said scarcely anything at all. He simply listened, paid the bill, and helped Kitty get Terence back on board. Then he had left her and driven back to London. Later he heard that the baby had been a boy. (BrE-FR: 20–1) Once on the way back to London after a weekend in Sussex, he had gone to see Kitty and her husband; they had a boat on the Hamble River and Kitty was pregnant. The boat, and Kitty, were in such a state of shambles that Tom, without having meant to, asked Kitty and her husband out for dinner. It was a disastrous evening. Terence had got drunk; Kitty had talked, non-stop, as though she had been wound up; and Tom had said scarcely anything at all. He had simply listened, paid the bill, and helped Kitty get Terence back on board, and flat on his back in the bunk. Then he had left her, got into his car and driven back to London. Later he heard that the baby was a boy. (AmE-FR: 27)

The American copy editors whom I  consulted over these changes felt total dissatisfaction with the US edition here and suggested different editings of the passage: The boat, and Kitty, were in such a state of shambles that Tom, without meaning to, asked Kitty and her husband out for dinner. It was a disastrous evening. Terence got drunk; Kitty talked, non-stop, as though she had been wound up; and Tom said scarcely anything at all. He simply listened, paid the bill, and helped Kitty get Terence back on board. Then he left her and drove back to London. Later he heard that the baby was a boy. The boat, and Kitty, had both been in such a state of shambles that Tom, without meaning to, asked Kitty and her husband out for dinner. It turned into a disastrous evening. Terence got drunk; Kitty talked, non-stop, as though she had been wound up; and Tom said scarcely anything at all. He simply listened, paid the bill, and helped Kitty get Terence back on board. Then he left her and drove back to London. Later he heard that the baby was a boy.

Interestingly enough, the two suggestions have one important point in common: a uniformization of the tenses. Once the simple past has been introduced, the US editors tended to continue with the same tense. In the preceding example, the event Tom asked Kitty and her husband out for dinner introduces a series of actions belonging to the same time sequence and both copy editors opted to continue relating events in the simple past. It could also be argued that events



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here become more vivid with the use of the simple past. What these variations demonstrate is that there is no one fixed rule governing the choice of tense in a flashback, and different copy editors will correct a text differently. Although the flashback is usually introduced by a past perfect, the events that make up this flashback can be referred to either by the simple past or the past perfect, or a combination of both. In the BrE text the events are not presented as a chronological sequence, but as the reasons why the evening was a disaster: It had been a disastrous evening. Terence had got drunk; Kitty had talked, nonstop, as though she had been wound up; and Tom had said scarcely anything at all.

It could be contended that the past perfect summarizes the events of the evening. On the other hand, three events which do form a chronological sequence: “He simply listened, paid the bill, and helped Kitty get Terence back on board” are in the simple past. The use of the past perfect at the end of the extract in the BrE edition: ‘Then he had left her, got into his car and driven back to London’, refers to an event which is in fact posterior to the three preceding events in the simple past and serves to signal the end of the flashback, and to underline its anteriority to what follows: ‘Later he heard that the baby was a boy’. The danger of envisaging the past perfect simply in terms of chronology is to ignore its various effects in discourse and, notably, its aspectual value. The following passage is taken from the opening chapter of Harry Potter and the Halfblood Prince, where the Prime Minister is remembering his earlier encounters with the wizard Fudge: Then three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge … He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, ‘Well, sit down, sit down, I’d better fill you in … have a whisky.’ The Prime Minister had rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let  alone offered his own whisky, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge had pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister’s hand and drawn up a chair. (BrE-HBP: 13–14) Then three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge … He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, “Well, sit down, sit down, I’d better fill you in … have a whiskey.”

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The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whisky, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister’s hand and drew up a chair. (AmE-HBP: 7–8)

Contrary to some of the examples studied earlier, the AmE edition has preferred in this instance to use the simple past instead of the past perfect. The switch from one tense to another can be explained in a variety of ways. In this extract there are various signs that we have a specific point of view being introduced, that events are remembered through the eyes of the character. If we consider T0 to be the implicit moment of narration, then the temporal deictics ‘tonight’ and ‘ago’, accompanied by the simple past, situate the point of view at T1, the moment of the narrative. The situation being described in the passage, which took place three years previously, refers to an anterior moment, a point we can label as T2, a moment that has a reference point previous to T1. The events being described in the passage just quoted have relevance to the Prime Minister’s feelings: the past perfect underlines the link between these past events and the reference point of the Prime Minister, T1. The simple past, on the other hand, eradicates the interrelationship between the tenses, creating a sequence of events, reactualizing events and situating us at the moment of T2, the moment they took place, rather than viewing T2 from the vantage point of T1, that is, retrospectively. In other words, the AmE edition establishes a chronological sequence of events: pulled, conjured, pushed, and drew that take place after Fudge’s speech. Furthermore, it can be argued that the choice of the simple past offers another possible interpretation: a more generalized interpretation of events. The Prime Minister could resent being told to sit down in his own office by anyone on any occasion, whereas had resented would refer to the one particular occasion when Fudge told him to sit down. If this interpretation is given, it implies a change in point of view, a third-person narrator commenting on events. These changes suggest that the AmE text interprets the past perfect as viewing a situation as a past event, while the BrE text uses the past perfect as indicating current relevance at T1. The choice of tense is thus closely linked to the perspective being used and is not simply linked to chronological sequencing. A note of caution is perhaps necessary here, however. As this change of tenses occurs in a work of children’s fiction, it may simply be, once again, that the repetitive use of the past perfect was considered to be too unwieldy. The following example further illustrates this point. Once again, the use of the past perfect in the BrE edition seems to present events as being viewed from



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the vantage point of T1, and through the eyes of the character after the events. The use of the backshifted tense reveals explicit intervention by the narrator. The presence of the deictic, this, strengthens this interpretation. The continuous use of the past perfect in the BrE edition emphasizes that it is still a flashback, that the events are being viewed from T1, while the simple past in the AmE edition makes the moment more vivid as if events were being relived: Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban. ‘A mass breakout?’ the Prime Minister had repeated hoarsely. ‘No need to worry, no need to worry!’ Fudge had shouted, already with one foot in the flame. ‘we’ll have them rounded up in no time – just thought you ought to know!’ And before the Prime Minister had been able to shout, ‘Now, wait just one moment!’ Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks. (BrE-HBP: 15) Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban. “A mass breakout?” the Prime Minister repeated hoarsely. “No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge, already with one foot in the flame. “We’ll have them rounded up in no time – just thought you ought to know!” And before the Prime Minister could shout, “Now, wait just one moment!” Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks. (AmE-HBP: 9)

Is this use of the past perfect to be interpreted in terms of a dialectal difference? There would appear to be an element of truth in this theory as the linguist Algeo remarks that ‘it is clear that the British are keen on (Americans would say ‘fond of ’) the pluperfect, whereas Americans prefer the simple past: British, ‘He had left before they arrived’, versus typical American, ‘He left before they arrived’. However, not all the examples in my corpus support this claim, and such a theory would need further investigation. Once again, the choice of the simple past as opposed to the past perfect may be due just as easily to the influence of prescriptive style guides, or an individual copy editor’s stylistic preferences as to a deep-rooted tendency in AmE to prefer the simple past. It is not difficult, for example, to find well-established American authors (those who can defy their copy editors?) passing quite easily from past perfect to simple past and back again, as the extract from Roth, quoted earlier in this chapter, demonstrates. However we interpret this change in tense in the AmE editions, it does imply

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a change in point of view, in how the event is viewed by the speaker, and I will examine this again in Chapter 6. Finally, clarity is often associated with consistency. For Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 92) ‘consistency is not maintained for its own sake, but to aid the reader. Its function is to enhance readability and help make the author’s intent clear’. It is debateable whether the desire for consistency should be linked to clarity or standardization. On the one hand, it can be argued that editors proceed to harmonize hyphenation from a desire to avoid a reader’s being distracted by an inconsistency. Such distraction would arguably diminish clarity of communication. On the other hand, the introduction of a specific form of spelling reduces variety and standardizes the language. There is no set pattern in English as to whether one should write a compound noun with a hyphen, as a single word or as two separate words, but style guides always rule on the matter. So, while native speakers may hesitate quite happily over whether to write copy editor or copy-editor, no editor would knowingly publish a book with both being used interchangeably. Standardizing the language adds to the myth that English is a uniform language and suppresses ‘optional variability’ (Milroy and Milroy [1985] 2012: 22). For Cameron ([1995] 2012: 39), copy editors ‘help to sustain the illusion of a uniform standard language’ (in italics in the text) by ‘persuading English speakers, against all evidence to the contrary, that uniformity is the normal condition whereas variation is deviant’.

5.5  Smoothing the text To the ‘values’ examined so far, one more is often mentioned, and that is elegance or smoothing of the text. Mossop (2014: 67–9) lists a number of features that make for a smooth-reading text, including making it clear ‘what-goes-with-what within each sentence’ and expressing parallel ideas through parallel forms, both of which occur frequently. Her parents were still hiding in the country, intending to slip back into the – until today – relative safety of the ghetto. (BrE-SA: 145) Her parents were still hiding in the country, intending to slip back into the ghetto, which had been, until today, less perilous. (AmE-SL: 132) The King’s Bench, the nearby Marshalsea and the Fleet were different from most London prisons. They were privately run, for a start; they were very old; and they were managed according to a set of old rituals. (BrE-MW: 8)



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The King’s Bench, the nearby Marshalsea and the Fleet were different from most London prisons. They were very old for a start, and were privately run according to a set of very strange rituals. (AmE-MW: 4)

Both preceding examples in the BrE editions could be accused of ‘inelegance’. In the first, the definite article is separated from the noun group; in the second, a number of elements are juxtaposed. The AmE edition has reordered the sentences so that in the first a canonical word order is obtained, and in the second the three elements are integrated into one sentence. The result is certainly smoother although, arguably, in the first sentence ‘until today’ is less foregrounded and, in the second, the three elements no longer have equal status. However one judges the aesthetic merits of either structure, there is a change in voice. A change of subject in mid-sentence or mid-clause is also removed in the following examples to obtain a ‘smoother’ reading in the AmE edition: The Trust Agency had taken his business, he had lost his car, his apartment. (BrE-SA: 93) He had lost his business to the Trust Agency, his car, his apartment. (AmE-SL: 85) The city of Bath is very proud to have had William Smith as a resident, and in 1 926 a plaque to him was unveiled. (BrE-MW: 105) The city of Bath is of course very proud to have had William Smith as a resident, and in 1926 it unveiled a plaque to him. (AmE-MW: 102)

One feature that is commonly identified with a smooth style is the use of parallel structures (Mossop 2014), and the APA (2020: 124) advocates using parallelisms to ‘enhance readers’ understanding’. The following example illustrates how the BrE text has been rewritten to introduce parallel structures: There are entries recording how he found the whiteness of chalk extraordinary, and his wonder at why there were no stones in the Churchill fields. (BrE-MW: 56) There are entries recording how he found the whiteness of chalk extraordinary, and how he wondered why there were no stones in the Churchill fields. (AmE-MW: 52)

In the following example, while the parallel structure in the AmE edition creates a smoother reading, the BrE version allows greater contrastive focus to fall on Ingrid because it is the only preposed element in the immediate context. Schindler bought a poodle, a ridiculous Parisienne thing acquired by Pfefferberg for his Polish secretary, Klonowska, that Christmas. For Ingrid he bought jewellery. (BrE-SA: 91)

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For his Polish secretary Klonowska, that Christmas, Schindler bought a poodle, a ridiculous Parisian thing, acquired by Pfefferberg. For Ingrid he bought jewelry. (AmE-SL: 82)

5.6  Normalization and levelling out The term levelling out is defined by Baker (1996: 184) as ‘steering a middle course between any two extremes, converging towards the centre, with the notion of centre and periphery being defined from within the translation corpus itself ’. She suggests that translated texts are more homogeneous in terms of lexical density, diversity and mean sentence length. As Vandevoorde (2020: 21) points out, ‘in order to arrive at an understanding of levelling out, one would indeed need to have an idea of an average range of a specific feature in translated texts and compare it to the average range of that same feature in original texts’. The tendency is difficult to test qualitatively and is beyond the scope of this study. I  will instead use levelling out as applying to register and variety (Kruger and van Rooy 2012; Redelinghuys 2016), and as referring to a reduction in distinctive registers for a more neutral term. The process is most easily illustrated by the use of lexical terms, such as news presenter, which does not have specifically BrE or AmE associations, unlike news anchor or newscaster. Similarly, the use of pastor, as opposed to rector or vicar, as commented upon earlier, could also be interpreted as being chosen for the same reason, as could the more transcultural terms used for Yorkshire topography in the children’s book Pony on the Porch and mentioned in Chapter 4. David Crystal puts forward the hypothesis that as different national Englishes develop, a new form of English, a ‘World Standard Spoken English’ (or WWSE), will emerge (Crystal [1997] 2003: 185) and will be used at the conference table and at international meetings. Crystal relates how he attended an international seminar at a European university in the late 1990s where the speakers went out of their way to avoid ‘national idioms’ (Crystal [1997] 2003:  185). A  British colleague ‘consciously avoided using the word fortnight, replacing it by two weeks but at one point the US, UK and Australian delegates found they had disbarred themselves from using any of their natural expressions for ‘the safe walking route at the side of a road’ – pavement (UK), sidewalk (US) and footpath (Australian). In the absence of a regionally neutral term, all they were left with was circumlocution (Crystal [1997] 2003: 187). Crystal’s hypothesis appears to be confirmed in some recently published novels that contain fewer marked regional terms, although this hypothesis needs further investigation. The



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BrE edition of Sally Rooney’s Normal People (2018), for example, uses ‘sweater’ (BrE-NP: 1) not ‘jumper’ (cf BrE-PS), and ‘chocolate spread’ (BrE-NP: 2), not a specific brand such as ‘Nutella’ (BrE-SD: 182), and ‘windshield’ (BrE-NP: 8), not ‘windscreen’ (BrE-NS: 162). This may be because Faber and Faber used the US copyedited proofs from Random House, or may simply be due to the influence of edited AmE English, and it obviously requires further analysis. Normalization refers ‘to the translator’s sometimes conscious, sometimes unconscious rendering of idiosyncratic text features in such a way as to make them conform to the typical textual characteristics of the target language’ (Scott:  1998:  112). Research on normalization in translation has suggested that translators follow the language norms of the target culture. Even-Zohar (1990: 48–9) suggests that ‘translated literature’ is ‘a major factor of conservatism’ and ‘a means to preserve traditional taste’. In the AmE editions, it certainly appears that copy editors have preferred to substitute grammatical forms that are prescribed by style and usage guides, and that they follow what Curzan (2014: 33) identifies as stylistic prescriptivism. The result is a variety of English best described as ‘edited English’ (Wilson 1996: 164): A hypothetical printed level of language, essentially Formal in character, the written dialect, so to speak, as edited and printed by this country’s leading commercial publishers and most reputable journals and university presses. It is conservative in usage matters of all sorts, and thanks to its stylebooks and editors, its standards tend to be fairly self-perpetuating.

Edited English ‘is a version of the language associated with schools, good newspapers, good books, and good public speakers’ (Moore, Corder and Ruszkiewicz 1987: 11), and essentially conservative in nature. Editors’ preference for a conservative written variety can once again be linked to Pym’s (2008) theory of risk aversion, but also to the ideology of the standard variety. Many of the examples already studied in this chapter could be labelled as characteristic of edited English. In the pages that follow, I will look at two grammatical structures where the AmE edition reveals a tendency to standardize and to enforce rules that are not followed in other varieties of English. There has been a longstanding debate over which pronoun case should follow than: the subjective or the objective. The debate hangs on whether one considers than to be a preposition, in which case it should be the objective case (She is happier than me), or whether one considers it to be a conjunction, in which case the subjective case is chosen (She is happier than I). The elliptical construction with the subjective case is far from popular (Heffer 2014; CMOS),

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because it sounds pedantic (Garner 2009:  642). Garner therefore advises supplying the verb (She is happier than I am). A distinction between the two forms is also made in terms of register, with the objective case being considered more appropriate in spoken colloquial English. In my corpus, the subjective case may be substituted even in dialogue, as in the following example, where the words are spoken by a maid, and where the objective case might seem more appropriate: ‘She’s younger than me’. (BrE-SA: 32) “She’s younger than I am” ’ (AmE-SL: 29)

Similar stylistic prescriptivism seems to dominate the use of each other and one another. The rule that ‘two people look at each other’, while ‘more than two look at one another’, dates back to the eighteenth century, according to MerriamWebster’s Dictionary of English Usage. Usage guides tend to be divided over whether each other can be used for more than two people, and Garner (2009: 281) concludes that ‘careful writers will doubtless continue to observe the distinction but no one else will notice’. The systematic correction of Ian McEwan’s use of one another and each other in The Comfort of Strangers suggests that a very careful copy editor was reading the text: They settled at last near two teenage girls whom a small knot of men were trying to impress by turning clumsy cartwheels and by throwing sand in each other’s eyes. (BrE-CS: 69) They settled at last near two teenage girls whom a small knot of men were trying to impress by turning clumsy cartwheels and by throwing sand in one another’s eyes. (AmE-CS: 89)

Finally, a slightly different kind of normalization is to be found in the constraints imposed by social norms on editing in the form of politically responsive prescriptivism (Curzan 2014:  38), more commonly referred to as political correctness. Usage guides and editing manuals now contain chapters on using nondiscriminatory language, so it is not surprising that any trace of such language should be removed. What is perhaps surprising is that the BrE editions did not remove them from the outset. The first kind of change concerns the introduction of gender-neutral pronouns where the BrE edition has used the third person singular he: Each day a new impoverished prisoner would be pushed out into the cage – to spend the next twenty-four hours on begging-duty, pleading with passers-by to give money to help him in his plight. (BrE-MW: 10)



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Each day a new impoverished prisoner would be pushed out into the cage – to spend the next twenty-four hours on begging duty, pleading with passers-by to give money to help in his or her plight. (AmE-MW: 4)

Or where the BrE edition has used gender-specific terms such as man for generic use: Man was in place, made in the image of his maker, and he could do with his world more or less as he and his maker between them pleased. (BrE-MW: 19) Human beings were in place, made in the image of their Maker, and they could do with their world more or less as they and their Maker between them pleased. (AmE-MW: 14)

The use of the feminine pronoun to refer to countries has also been removed in the AmE edition: A joint of roast beef … became … part of England’s national mystique (and, of course, her French nickname, le rosbif). (BrE-MW: 24) A joint of roast beef … became … part of England’s national mystique (and, of course, the Englishman’s French nickname, le rosbif). (AmE-MW: 19) Britain could no longer feed herself. (BrE-MW: 25) Britain could no longer feed itself. (AmE-MW: 20)

References to minority groups have also been modified. The use of the term blacks (BrE-SC: 26) has been corrected to slaves (AmE-PM: 57), and any passage deemed offensive is removed as in the following extract Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, which only appeared in the BrE edition: ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it’s all going ahead. We’re off on the eighth of Feb! Kenya! Imagine! The only nigger in the woodpile is …’ ‘Mother!’ I exploded. ‘What, darling?’ ‘You can’t say “nigger in the woodpile”. It’s racist.’ ‘We’re not going to put anyone in a woodpile, silly. Daddy and I have got central heating.’ ‘If expressions like that are allowed to linger in the vocabulary, it poisons attitudes and …’ ‘Durrrr! You do miss the wood for the trees sometimes. Ooh did I tell you? Julie Enderbury’s preggy again.’ (BrE-BJR: 46)

It is worth noting that the examples I  have found in my corpus are relatively limited. Only two authors are concerned, but they demonstrate the social constraints that can be imposed on translation and editing.

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5.7 Conclusion Many of the changes noted in this chapter correspond to the mediation/ translation universals outlined in Chapter  2. They also correspond to what Berman ([1985] 2012:  242) identifies as deforming tendencies in his negative analytic of translation. Berman proposes a typology for the various translation procedures that deform the ST and reduce its linguistic variety, outlining twelve ‘deforming tendencies’:  rationalization, clarification, expansion, ennoblement, qualitative impoverishment, quantitative impoverishment, the destruction of rhythms, the destruction of underlying networks of signification, the destruction of linguistic patternings, the destruction of vernacular networks or their exoticization, the destruction of expressions and idioms, and the effacement of the superimposition of languages. Berman ([1985] 2012:  252) concludes that ‘all the tendencies noted in the analytic lead to the same result: the production of a text that is more “clear,” more “elegant,” more “fluent,” more “pure” than the original. They are the destruction of the letter in favour of meaning’. Although Berman is writing about translation, many of the strategies he mentions either use terms upheld by editing manuals or refer to procedures analysed in this chapter. While one may hesitate to adopt the negative terms that Berman uses, the stylistic choices that have been observed in this chapter do, without a doubt, have repercussions on how we read the text, and at times they introduce a change in voice. It is this important aspect that I examine in the next chapter.

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Revoicing the text

6.1 Introduction Previous chapters have focused on the various changes made to the BrE editions in my corpus before publication in the United States. From bibliographical codes and spelling to lexico-grammatical modifications and editorial styling, we have seen how the text changes as it passes through the hands of the numerous people involved in the publication process. In this chapter, I consider how the various changes and the rewriting of the text affect the style by focusing on one aspect: voice.

6.2  The concept of voice in translation studies and stylistics The term voice has been used, both in translation studies and in stylistics, to refer to a number of different instances. In translation studies voice frequently refers to the voice of the translator, or the presence of the translator in the text. Traditionally, translation was long considered to be ‘a form of delegated speech, a kind of speaking by proxy’, and the translator’s voice was expected to be inaudible and their presence invisible (Hermans 1999:  62). As this traditional approach began to be challenged (Venuti 1995; Hermans 1999), so scholars started to investigate when and how the translator’s voice becomes audible. For Hermans (2002), two occasions render the translator’s voice audible within the text. First, when ‘cracks’ appear in the seemingly ‘unruffled picture of translation’ (Hermans 2002: 4), when the illusion of a single unified voice may be shattered, and other voices may be heard. Hermans (2002:  8) illustrates the self-contradictory statements that may appear in translation. In the English version of a text by Derrida (originally written in French) the first-person narrator, ‘I’, states, ‘I am trying to respond in French.’ The ‘I’ still

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refers to Derrida, but the words are not in French, despite what is said, and they no longer belong to Derrida but to the translator. There is thus ‘always another voice … a voice we are not normally meant to hear, which echoes and mimics the first voice but never fully coincides with it’ (Hermans (2002:  9). Second, there are cases of ‘contextual overdetermination’ (Hermans 1996b: 27), when form content and context are so intertwined that translation is difficult. The difficulty of translating the French vous/tu distinction into English would be one example. However, Hermans (1996b: 23) suggests that the translator’s voice elsewhere in the text will tend to be ‘wholly assimilated into the Narrator’s voice’. O’Sullivan (2003: 202) presents two other ways in which the translator’s voice becomes audible. One is as the implied translator in paratextual elements such as a preface or afterword, or in footnotes and glossaries. The other is the voice of the narrator of the translation (O’Sullivan 2003: 202, emphasis in original), which may or may not coincide with the author’s and may or may not dominate. For Greenall (2015: 47), a translator may or may not choose to make their voice manifest. A voice is non-manifest when it stays close to the original, but still is present. It becomes manifest when there is a noticeable shift or departure from the source text, when it is foregrounded in some way, or when it generates an emotional response. Finally, the translator’s voice can be viewed from an ideological perspective. Baker (2006 [2009]: 105) argues that translators can reframe narratives, ‘accentuate, undermine or modify aspects of the narrative(s) encoded in the source text or utterance, and in so doing participate in shaping social reality’. Following on from the recognition of the presence of the translator’s voice, corpus translation studies have attempted to identify the specific style of the translator (see e.g. Baker 2000) and ‘the linguistic manifestation of that presence in the text’ (Munday 2007:  19). The translator’s discursive presence thus becomes highlighted through an analysis of their style (Bosseaux 2007: 23). This approach necessitates either comparing several translations by the same person, or by comparing several translations of the same source text (see e.g. Hewson 2011) and has led to a growing interest in the translator as creative writer. More recent research has extended the concept of voice to the actors involved in the publication process, thus arguing for the presence of not one but many voices (Alvstad and Assis Rosa 2015; Buzelin 2011; Jansen and Wegener 2013). Influenced by Stillinger’s (1991) ‘multiple Authorship’, Jansen and Wegener (2013) use the term multiple translatorship to designate the various agents or voices involved in producing and mediating a translation, while Alvstad and



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Assis Rosa (2015: 4) distinguish between textual voices and contextual voices. The latter refers to voices that ‘arise in the context around the translated text’, and that are not ‘part of the translated text in its strictest sense’. All these approaches underline that a translation is no more produced by a solitary person than the source text itself. In each case, it is a collaborative process. How audible or visible such voices should be has been at the heart of the debate between foreignization and domestication (Berman [1985] 2012; Venuti [2000] 2012). Both Berman and Venuti have criticized domesticating strategies that seek to smooth out ‘the Babelian proliferation of languages’ (Berman [1985] 2012: 243). Although Berman does not specifically mention the deformation of voice  – there is no category, ‘destruction of textual voice’  – the concept is implicit in much of what he writes. He indicates, for example, that the deforming tendency of expansion ‘is no more than babble designed to muffle the work’s own voice’ ([1985] 2012: 246), and he mentions the effacement of the orality of vernacular languages. A natural outcome of the deforming tendencies, outlined by Berman, is a modification of the voices within the text. For Venuti ([2000] 2004:  485), the domesticating strategies in AngloAmerican translation lead to the foreign text being ‘rewritten in domestic dialects and discourses, registers and styles, and this results in the production of textual effects that signify only in the history of the receiving language and culture’. In a domesticating translation, all linguistic and stylistic peculiarities of voice have been removed to give the impression ‘that the translation is not in fact a translation, but the “original” ’ (Venuti [1995] 2018: 1).The translator thus becomes invisible, and the translated text seems transparent and fluent. Foreignization, on the other hand, aims at stressing the foreignness of the text and making the translator’s presence visible, or their voice audible, by using foreignizing elements such as heterogeneous language. The aim of such a strategy is to make the reader feel they are reading a translation. Although both Berman and Venuti are concerned with interlingual translation, we can draw parallels with the AmE editing of texts written in BrE. In both intraand interlingual translation ‘the source message is always interpreted and reinvented’, and the text is reconstructed ‘according to a different set of values’ (Venuti [2000] 2004: 484). As we saw in Chapter 4, just like translators, AmE editors must decide whether they should domesticate the BrE text, and to what degree. In stylistics and narratology, voice has often been associated with the ‘one who speaks’ (Wales [1980] 2014:  437), whether that be the narrator(s) or character(s), and with the stylistic features that characterize a subjective identity

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in a text. As in translation studies, the term voice is polysemic. It can be used to refer to an author’s style or to the literary representation of a character’s idiom. As a character’s idiom, voice serves to construct a character’s identity:  it can indicate regional origins, social class, age, cognitive ability. Voice is also used more metaphorically to refer to the expression of a narrating instance, whether that be a character or not. Fludernik (2001: 623) remarks that, ‘when readers read narrative texts, they project real-life parameters into the reading process and, if possible, treat the text as a real-life instance of narrating’. Wales’s mention of the ‘one who speaks’ refers to Genette’s ([1972]1980) distinction between the ‘one who sees’ (focalization) and the ‘the one who speaks’ (voice). While some scholars have continued this distinction (see e.g. Booth [1961] 1983; Chatman 1978; Lanser 1981; Uspensky 1973), others have demonstrated the difficulty in distinguishing between the two (see e.g. Fludernik [1996] 2010; 2001; Grishakova 2002; McIntyre 2006). Fludernik (2001: 633–5) contends that the distinction can be dispensed with since the same linguistic cues are used to determine both focalization (or point of view) and voice and the identification of ‘who sees’ and ‘who speaks’ is based on the same linguistic data. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that mind-style (Fowler [1977] 2004), which occurs when internal focalization reproduces the way a character views the world, has also been termed voice (Gregoriou 2014). Space precludes any lengthy discussion of these differing theories so, in the pages that follow, I will be using the term voice to refer broadly to a discursive presence, be that character or narrator, that is perceived by the reader through the choice of language, and adopting Fludernik’s argument that voice can be regarded as ‘linguistically generated’ and ‘defined empirically by a complex set of interrelated textual and contextual features’ (Fludernik [1996] 2010: 375). Stylistic choices made during translation will therefore inevitably affect how the reader perceives a voice (Bosseaux 2007; Hewson 2011). In the following sections, I look at how and when the editor’s voice becomes visible. As we saw in Chapter 2, editors believe they bring out the best of the author’s voice. Sharpe and Gunther ([1994] 1997: 83) claim that it is ‘the editor’s job is to allow the author’s voice to emerge without coloring it, or replacing it with her own’, and one of Alice Munro’s editors, Daniel Menaker, declares that he never edited her style because ‘her style was her voice, her natural way of speaking at its very best’ (Thacker 2005: 447). Lish’s cutting of Carver’s texts, however, shows that not all editors are so restrained or of the same mind, and that when such changes are made, voice is inevitably affected.



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6.3  Perceiving the editorial voice In the preceding chapters, I have already referred to some instances where the editor’s voice becomes visible: notably in Chapter 3 in the choice of multimodal features, in paratextual elements (such as the blurb on the back cover, or in the treatment of cultural references). The copy editor’s voice is less perceptible and, without access to archives and manuscripts, it is nigh impossible to say with certainty that any part of the text belongs to their voice as opposed to the author’s. Their voice becomes perceptible, however, when discord occurs between the various textual voices in the AmE edition. In this section, I look at those clear instances of discrepancies, beginning with footnotes and glossaries.

6.3.1  Footnotes and glossaries In BrE translations of a foreign work, subsequently modified for the AmE reader, it is not always possible to ascertain with certainty who is responsible (translator or editor) for new footnotes or glossaries, and their addition or modification does not always introduce a change in voice. However, in a work originally written in BrE, such as Simon Winchester’s The Map that Changed the World, a biography of the geologist, John Smith, the additional footnotes in the AmE edition do tend to modify the narrator–narratee relationship. These additional footnotes usually explain British cultural references, as in the two following examples: A guinea, equivalent to a pound and a shilling, is a classically British and very informal unit of currency – with neither a coin nor a bill to formalize it – that is still used today (despite Britain’s having adopted decimal currency in 1971) in some circles, such as the buying and selling of racehorses and sheep. There used to be a one-guinea coin, struck from gold from the eponymous nation, but only its name and worth survive, and today the word is only a vague and ephemeral throwback to more casual financial times. (AmE-MW: 61) A baronetcy was the most junior hereditary entitlement  – the appellation “Sir” being handed down, according to the principles of male primogeniture, indefinitely. But it did not mean that the title holder had been ennobled: One had to become a baron to be called “Lord” and to sit in the upper house of Parliament; the ranks of viscount, earl, marquess and duke then rose in stellar fashion, one above the other. Above dukes were only princes of the blood royal; below baronets, mere knights and then the rest, known sniffily as “gentlemen.” (AmE-MW: 277)

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The lengthy footnotes adopt a more pedagogical tone than the existing footnotes in the BrE edition:  the narrator now knowledgably guides the uninformed reader, who is definitely not British. This last point is clear in the footnote below the mention of ‘those many-layered gobstoppers English schoolboys once knew so well’ (BrE-MW:  186). Here the AmE edition has added ‘and known to their North American counterparts as jawbreakers’ (AmE-MW:  183). These footnotes function as any translator’s note would, providing additional information about a term or expression for the new implied reader. Footnotes are, however, less frequent in the fiction probably because they risk introducing an obtrusive narratorial voice. This probably explains why glossaries are preferred and feature in several AmE editions in the corpus. In children’s fiction, the use of a glossary or afterword offers the possibility of explaining words deemed problematic for a younger reader, while maintaining the same fictional voice. The AmE editions of Louise Rennison’s Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging, and Sue Townsend’s The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾, have both included glossaries within the fictional framework. Georgia writes a note to her ‘American-type chums’, informing them that she has included a glossary for their benefit, and Adrian writes a reply to questions posed by his American friend, Hamish. This enables both the fiction and the humorous tone to be preserved. The glossary in the AmE edition of Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island also maintains the book’s humorous tone, including tongue-in-cheek definitions, such as the one for pork pie: ‘small pie consisting of processed meat in a pastry casing; very tasty so long as it is not looked at’ (AmE-NS: 323), and a word invented by his son: flubba-wubba. In these three examples, one would be hard put to find a change of voice. However, even in these glossaries, there are occasions when the editor’s voice does become perceptible. First, there is a discrepancy between the fictional world and the text when, for example, Adrian writes to Hamish as a British youngster explaining Briticisms yet using AmE spelling: favorite. Second, the glossary in the AmE edition of Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island contains definitions of BrE words removed from the AmE edition. Thus berk, clot, prat and bum feature in the glossary (AmE-NS: 319–20) but not in the AmE text. Other cultural terms have been explained in the main text and therefore do not need to feature in the glossary: Ladybird Books is defined in the glossary as ‘a line of children’s books’ (AmE-NS: 322), and Tesco’s is defined as ‘a prominent supermarket chain’ (AmE-NS: 322), but the main text has already specified what they are: ‘Ladybird children’s books’ (AmE-NS: 103) and ‘Tesco’s supermarket’ (AmE-NS:  158). Finally, the glossary refers to the BrE jacket



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cover. Under Morris Minor, the reader is invited to ‘see jacket for illustration’ (AmE-NS: 352), except, of course, the AmE edition has a totally different cover, and there is not a Morris Minor in sight.

6.3.2  Discrepancies between the linguistic and the material text Discrepancies can also appear between the linguistic and material text (Pillière 2008). The Map that Changed the World includes small line drawings of Jurassic ammonites throughout both editions, although they are placed differently on the page in the AmE edition. In ­chapter  3 two drawings have been inverted, introducing a discrepancy in the way the information is presented. In the BrE edition, the first caption for the ammonite, a pound stone, introduces the fossil with the indefinite article and the Latin name: ‘Clypeus ploti –’. The second caption refers to the same fossil using the definite article ‘the pound stone, viewed from the side’, thus indicating that the fossil is not a new discourse item. In the AmE edition, the second illustration with its caption appears first; the pound stone is therefore presented first as ‘given’ information and then later reintroduced as if for the first time with the indefinite article. Another discrepancy occurs at the navigational layer of this book. Both editions feature a list of numbered illustrations, but the AmE edition has removed the number against each illustration within the chapters. The numbers therefore appear in the list of illustrations but identify nothing in the text itself. The AmE edition of the children’s story, A Mouse Called Wolf, has modified the text but only partially modified the illustrations, also creating potential discrepancies. When the mouse, Wolf, observes a police officer from the window (AmE-MCW: 89), the officer is described in the text as wearing a cap, as a US officer would. In the accompanying illustration, Wolf has been Americanized (he now has Mickey Mouse ears), but the police officer is identical to the one in the BrE edition and wearing a helmet (BrE-MCW: 89).

6.3.3  Textual inconsistencies Chapter 5 gave several examples of stylistic changes made by the editor. These changes usually pass unnoticed unless the two texts are compared. On some occasions, however, the editor’s voice is heard through a change of meaning. In The Professor and the Madman, the rewriting of the Oxford English Dictionary

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definition for elephant at the beginning of ­chapter  5 results in an erroneous definition: Of several species once distributed over the world, including Britain, only two now exist, the African and the Indian; the former is the largest of extant land animals, and the latter is often used as a beast of burden, and in war. (BrE-SC: 89) Of several species once distributed over the world, including Britain, only two now exist, the Indian and the African; the former (the largest of extant land animals), is often used as a beast of burden, and in war. (AmE-PM: 102)

These cracks in the ‘unruffled picture of translation’ are instances when ‘translations produce their own discursive incongruities’ (Hermans 2002: 7). In the sections that follow, I examine how the other voices, characters and narrators are modified through the changes made to the AmE text.

6.4  Characters’ voices in direct speech Characters’ voices are most easily perceptible when they are visibly marked in direct speech by inverted commas. Speech presentation in a written text is always mediated by a narrator and therefore never corresponds to actual speech, but instead obeys a number of conventions (Fludernik [1993] 2014). McHale 1978; Sternberg 1982). According to Page ([1973] 1988: 56), ‘speech offers two kinds of information … The first works outwards to show an affinity between the user and some identifiable group, actual or conventional; the second works inwards to denote individuality or even eccentricity.’ In the first case, we have dialect, in the second idiolect, although this separation can be artificial, as an idiolect can contain dialectal features. Dialogue thus ‘becomes a textual resource that helps the reader to define the sociocultural profile of the character, as well as his/her position in the sociocultural context’ (Ramos Pinto 2009: 21). Dialect exists on several levels in the corpus. First, all the UK editions contain standard BrE, so the Americanization of the characters’ speech is already a translation of dialect. Second, some works contain British regional or social dialects. Translation scholars have long recognized that translating dialects is problematic (Armstrong and Federici 2006; Federici 2011; Jones 2014). Not only is there the question of how to represent a regional variety linguistically in another language, but there is also the added problem of how to translate the connotations such a variety may have for the source text readers.



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6.4.1  Americanizing features of expressivity The most common modification of characters’ dialect within the corpus concerns the Americanization of their speech, regardless of whether they are speaking standard BrE (which is itself a social dialect) or a regional variety. The substitution of AmE terms, analysed in Chapter 4, obviously plays an important role in modifying a character’s voice, and I  will not analyse them again here. Other changes which denote individuality concern a character’s idiomatic expressions and features of expressivity, such as exclamations and interjections and qualifiers or intensifying adverbs, as outlined in Table 6.1. For Hargraves Table 6.1  Table of examples of modifications to features of expressivity Exclamations, interjections and qualifiers ‘Cheers!’ (BrE-PP: 78) “Enjoy!” (AmE-PP: 74) ‘Blast!’ (BrE-FB: 27) “Damn!” (AmE-FB: 32) ‘Mu-um!’ (BrE-FB: 36) “Jeez, Mom!” (AmE-FB: 42) ‘What a doddle!’ (BrE-FB: 83) “What a cinch!” (AmE-FB: 95) ‘Rubbish!’ (BrE-FB: 73) “Oh, sure!” (AmE-FB: 86) ‘I’m so pleased’ (BrE-PP: 56) “That’s great” (AmE-PP: 53) ‘My but that little boy misses “That little boy sure misses them terribly” them something awful.’ (AmE-PP: 52) (BrE-PP: 55) ‘Dead interesting.’ (BrE-FB: 3) “So interesting” (AmE-FB: 5) ‘Dead brilliant.’ (BrE-FB: 3) “The best!” (AmE-FB: 6) Idiomatic expressions her heart gave a lurch her heart skipped a beat (AmE-PP: 30) (BrE-PP: 31) barking (BrE-PS: 219) off his rocker (AmE-SS: 302) Duke had pride of place Duke had center stage (AmE-PP: 37) (BrE-PP: 38) ‘I think Susan’s mum is daft’ “I think Susan’s mom is nuts.” (AmE-PP:39) (BrE-PP: 42) She was up and on to her bike She was up and onto her bike in an instant like a shot (BrE-PP: 81) (AmE-PP: 77) a doddle (BrE-FB: 39) a cinch (AmE-FB: 46) jewellery was no trouble jewelry was a snap (SL: 82) (BrE-SA: 91) Vocatives Mum (BrE-PP: 58) Mom (AmE-PP:58) Mum (BrE-FB: 27) mother (AmE-FB: 32) Gran and Grandad (BrE-PP: 3) Grandpa (AmE-PP: 3) chummy (BrE-EW: 58) our boy (BrE-EW: 59) my lad (BrE-EW: 126) our boy (BrE-EW: 126)

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(2003:  47), the class of intensifying adverbs ‘is one of the readiest markers between American and British English that any listener or reader will seize upon immediately as evidence of transatlantic origin’. Under the heading of vocatives are terms of address. It is worth noting the examples in Table 6.1 nearly all come from children’s fiction, suggesting that editing is more extensive in this genre.

6.4.2  British English sociolects and regional dialects In Flour Babies, by Anne Fine, the speech of the main protagonist, Simon Martin, is presented as socially marked through graphological deviation (eye-dialect), which immediately exploits assumptions about language and social status, even if the weakly stressed forms such as din’t are heard in informal speech: ‘Got stuck, din’t I?’ … ‘Tole him I din’t blong. But would he listen? Not him. Not till that other ear’ole finally came along and rescued me’ … ‘Wossit for?’

These elements are replaced by standard American English in the AmE edition. The antagonistic tag question, din’t I? identified by Algeo (2006: 301) as characteristically British, is omitted, and all non-standard spelling removed: “Got stuck.” … “I told him I  didn’t belong. But would he listen? Not him. Not till that other earhole finally came along and rescued me.” … “What is it for?” (AmE-FB: 14–15)

In addition, a number of BrE expressions belonging to a colloquial register have been standardized in the AmE edition. Steal (AmE-FB:  42) is substituted for nick (BrE-FB: 36) and I nearly got seriously rearranged (AmE-FB: 99) for I nearly copped it (BrE-FB: 100). Using a dialect for a main character in children’s fiction poses a risk for a publisher, concerned with market sales. Editors of children’s fiction are well aware of the possible problems facing young, inexperienced readers when they are confronted with varieties or spellings that do not correspond to those they know or



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have already encountered. Such texts can require extra effort from a reader and may cause ‘reader resistance (Toolan 1992: 34). Adults may also be reluctant to purchase a book that they feel uses non-standard English. The choice facing the editor is either to substitute an equivalent in AmE or to normalize the character’s speech. Choosing an equivalent is always problematic because of the social connotations attached to a specific sociolect or dialect. Milroy and Milroy ([1985] 2012:  152) indicate that the standard-language ideology prevalent in the United States is quite different from the one that reigns in Great Britain: while British standard English is built upon complex class distinctions, with Received Pronunciation indicating not only class but a sound educational background, in the United States any class differences are firmly connected to racial and ethnic divisions. To change Simon Martin’s sociolect to African-American vernacular English would probably be considered politically incorrect and would also entail modifying other elements in the plot, since Simon’s non-standard variety is inextricably linked to his character in the story. The editor has therefore opted to use standard speech, which inevitably reinforces the standard language ideology and results in ‘bleaching out the identity of the non-standard speaker’ (Hodson 2014: 113). Regional speech can be suggested in a number of ways: through the lexicon, syntax and grammar or through suggestions of non-standard pronunciation. Most writers tend to focus on a few easily identifiable elements rather than trying to reproduce the dialect in exact detail, and certain dialects seem to feature more easily in fiction than others. The Yorkshire dialect is one such dialect. In the children’s book, Pony on the Porch, Mandy’s grandfather and other older members of the village use a few stereotypical dialectal words: grand, lass and aye. ‘Aye’ Dan,’ Grandad called to the man at the leading-rein. ‘Duke’s a grand sight.’ (BrE-PP: 38) Walter said, ‘Is that the lass that’s coming round to try our jumps?’ (BrE-PP: 58)

Another feature is the use of the deictic that, identified by Algeo (2006: 292) as dialectal and not usually found in AmE: ‘He’s a good jumper, isn’t he?’ she said. Walter smiled. ‘He is that,’ he said. ‘He’s a grand little jumper,’ said Grandad. (PP-BrE: 94)

These dialectal terms have disappeared from the AmE edition. Either culturally neutral terms are substituted, such as wonderful and girl:

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“Yes, Dan,” Grandpa called to the man at the leading-rein. “Duke’s a wonderful sight.” (AmE-PP: 36) Walter asked, “Is that the girl who’s coming to try our jumps?” (AmE-PP: 55)

Or the dialectal terms are omitted altogether: “He’s a good jumper, isn’t he?” she said. Walter smiled. “He is,” he said. “He’s a great jumper,” said Granpa. (AmE-PP: 90)

Dialect is used in the book to underline the difference between the generations, but it is also significant in the narrative, as the newcomer, Susan, the character around whom the tale is centred, stands out because ‘her accent sounded different. Not like somebody from Yorkshire’ (AmE-PP: 6). This remark, which features in both editions, becomes rather incongruous in the AmE edition as not a single character sounds as if they come from Yorkshire; the reader has to rely on the narrative to learn this. Indeed, the elderly grandfather is even given the occasional Americanism. In the BrE text, he describes a horse as a great big fellow (BrE-PP: 37), which is translated into a great big guy (AmE-PP: 36). The voice of the grandfather has thus changed, and there is a discrepancy between how he is described and presented in the text (an elderly Yorkshireman), and the way he actually speaks (AmE or standard English). Similar inconsistencies can be found in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone where Hagrid uses the AmE term mom, yet all the while speaking with a seemingly non-standard BrE accent: “Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mom’s eyes.” (BrE-SS: 47)

Seamus Finnegan, who, as his name indicates, comes from Ireland, is given a few stereotypical traits of an Irish accent: ‘Me dad’s a Muggle. Mam didn’t tell him she was a witch’ (BrE-PS: 93); these disappear in the AmE edition, where he too refers to his mother as Mom: “Me dad’s a Muggle. Mom didn’t tell him she was a witch.” (AmE-SS: 125)

The AmE edition has therefore removed any cultural and dialectal elements that may exist to differentiate the idiolects of these two characters; they both say Mom regardless of where they come from. Such modifications have important repercussions on the characterization. As idiolects and dialects serve as a means of identifying a character, of rendering idiosyncratic turns of speech, these modifications change how a character is perceived. As mentioned earlier, these



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examples are found in children’s fiction. Adult fiction, such as Reginald Hill’s On Beulah Height, also set in Yorkshire, has not modified the character’s use of dialectal words, thus confirming that genre needs to be considered when examining these changes: “That’s grand, luv. So you saw nowt, Mr Krog?” (AmE-BH: 164) “You missed him last time, what meks you think all this durdum’s going to get you any closer this?” (AmE-BH: 345)

6.5  From direct discourse to indirect discourse I turn now to examine instances of where the voice of a character is modified, not through changes to the idiom, but through transformation of the type of discourse used. In the following example, we have free direct discourse, the use of the present tense representing the words of Lloyd George, and a reporting verb but no inverted commas: A fully-equipped English duke, grumbled Lloyd George to what he knew would be a sympathetic working-class Edwardian audience on Tyneside, costs as much as two dreadnoughts, is every bit as great a terror and lasts a great deal longer. (BrE-MW: 46)

In the AmE edition the pattern of tenses has been rationalized: A fully equipped English duke, grumbled Lloyd George to what he knew would be a sympathetic working-class Edwardian audience on Tyneside, cost as much as two dreadnoughts, was every bit as great a terror and lasted a great deal longer. (AmE-MW: 42)

This backshifting of tenses renders the character’s speech more distant and indirect. Similarly, BrE texts sometimes choose to reproduce part of a character’s speech in inverted commas, while the AmE has removed the direct speech: Impatiently he asked the driver to “get us out of here”. (BrE-EW: 16) Impatiently he asked the driver to get them out of there. (AmE-EW: 16)

For the copy editor responsible for this modification (private email), the change is not due to a dialectal difference but due to an AmE copyediting choice: when one quotes only some of what a character said, it should be for a good reason, that is, it is dramatic or it is in quotes because it is an unusual use of a familiar

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term. In this instance, the copy editor felt neither of these reasons applied. The BrE text, which is a translation of a French novel, has in fact reproduced the French punctuation: D’un ton d’impatience, il ordonna au chauffeur de les “sortir de là”. (EW: 32)

The translation of the French verb ordonner by ask does not really convey the same urgency and authority, but by retaining the words in direct speech the semantic loss is partially compensated for, as direct speech makes the words more insistent and conveys ‘a greater sense of immediacy’ (Black 2005: 66). The AmE text, on the other hand, allows the reader to reconstruct the characters’ words in various ways; the only indication of how the words were pronounced is the adverb impatiently. The AmE copy editor, however, did not work with the French original text; it was not a bilingual operation, and the BrE text was not examined in the light of the French source text but simply from the viewpoint of the AmE readership.

6.5.1  Typography and voice If the roman typeface is taken as indicating a uniform homogeneous voice, then the use of italics will introduce visual salience and indicate a change of tone, or even voice. Reginald Hill’s On Beulah Height begins with the first tapescript of Betsy Allgood, and events are told in the first person. Each time one of Betsy’s tapescripts appears in the BrE edition it is set in italic type, marking it off from the third person narrative and the events that are happening some ten years later. The removal of these italics in the AmE edition means Betsy’s voice is no longer so clearly marked, and the change in narrative voice and the switch from one moment in time to another, are less easy to distinguish. However, the decision to use italics or not is far from consistent in my corpus, underlining the fact that different publishing houses have different style guides. Italics are often added to the AmE edition to indicate thought, thereby arguably removing the fluid passage from narrator to character and from one mode to the other: People took it meekly, thinking, We’ll do this, and that will be the brunt of what they ask. (BrE-SA: 80) People took it meekly, thinking, We’ll do this, and that will be the brunt of what they ask. (AmE-SL: 73) How did I come to be so foolish, thought Nazneen. What is wrong with my mind that it goes around talking of pregnant imams? It does not seem to belong to me sometimes; it takes off and thumbs its nose like a practical joker. (BrE-BL: 69)



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How did I come to be so foolish? thought Nazneen. What is wrong with my mind that it goes around talking of pregnant imams? It does not seem to belong to me sometimes; it takes off and thumbs its nose like a practical joker. (AmE-BL: 50)

The AmE edition of Empire of the Wolves presents an interesting case where the modification of the use of italics has important repercussions on the presentation of voice. In the BrE text, quotation marks are used to introduce thought, and capital letters in the dialogue indicate shouting: “Lousy cop,” she thought. (BrE-EW: 16) “Hand her over,” he thought. “Hand her over, it’s the only way.” (BrE-EW: 195) “LET ME IN!” (BrE-EW:97)

In both these occasions, the AmE edition, has introduced italics: Lousy cop, she thought. (AmE-EW: 16) Hand her over, he thought. Hand her over – it’s the only way. (AmE-EW: 195) “Let me in!” (AmE-EW: 97)

The choice of italics instead of capital letters may have been influenced by advice given by The Chicago Manual of Style, which states that ‘capitalizing an entire word or phrase for emphasis is rarely appropriate’ (2003: 291). In addition to these two uses of italics, the AmE edition further uses italics to highlight a key term, while the BrE either uses quotation marks or keeps to roman type: She would never have used the word “love” to describe their relationship. (BrE-EW: 16) She would never have used the word love to describe their relationship. (AmE-EW: 16) “I said modern, not loose” (BrE-EW: 173) “I said modern, not loose” (AmE-EW: 173)

The AmE edition thus has greater recourse to italics than the BrE edition. However, there is one important occasion when the BrE edition does use italics, and that is when a character is recollecting words that have been spoken to them by someone else, or when they are quoting another character. In the following example, Mathilde is quoting Sema’s words: “And the dope … where is it?” “In a cemetery. In funeral urns. A little white powder amid all the grey powder …” He nodded again. He recognised Sema’s ironic touch, the way she had practised her trade as if it was a game. (BrE-EW: 371)

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The words a little white powder amid all the grey powder have already been used in the novel by Sema, but some hundred pages earlier: “Where is it? Where are the drugs?” “In Père-Lachaise cemetery.” … “A little white powder amid all the grey powder…” … When Mathilde spotted the large building, topped by two chimneys, at the end of the slope, she understood. A little white powder amid all the grey powder. (BrE-EW: 268)

Whether the reader would have remembered this earlier use of the phrase is debatable, but the graphological deviation marks that we have a flashback, and that the words are reported speech. In the next example, the words in italics were spoken earlier by another character, Cyril Brouillard: He reached the fourth floor and stopped. Another corridor opened up, containing apparently smaller compartments. The storey with the little treasure troves. Schiffer searched in his pocket and removed the key. (BrE-EW: 254)

Italic type serves then to remind the reader that the words have already been spoken by another character and are remembered, creating a frame switch (Emmott [1997] 2004) and a series of echoes within the text. However, the AmE edition has already used italics for three different reasons and could hardly reuse them. It could have chosen inverted commas, but instead there is no distinction made between the quoted words and the character’s thoughts: it is all in roman type. As the following example demonstrates, this means that unless the reader remembers who originally spoke the words, the link to the original quotation is lost, and the words could just as easily belong to the character’s thoughts: He reached the fourth floor and stopped. Another corridor opened up, containing apparently smaller compartments. The floor with the little treasure troves. Schiffer searched in his pocket and removed the key. (AmE-EW: 254)

Empire of the Wolves is a novel about lost identity, about searching for one’s past and trying to regain one’s memory, so the use of these echoes within the text plays an important role. The typographical changes in the AmE edition not only destroy the network of references, they also create a uniformity or homogenization of the various characters’ voices.



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The decision to mark the first word of each chapter in bold capital letters in the AmE edition of The Lost Child of Philomena Lee can also affect the reading experience. Chapter  14 begins with direct speech and the use of an imperative: ‘DON’T you tell me what to do … and don’t tell me how to feel!’ The common use of capitals in emails to express shouting encourages the reader here to interpret the first ‘don’t’ as being pronounced more loudly, as loudly as the second ‘don’t’, which is in italics. In the BrE edition, the first ‘don’t’ is not in italics, indicating that it is only the second which is to be emphasized. The change in typeface in the AmE edition has introduced a potentially different reading.

6.5.2  Character and thought: Free indirect discourse Although in FID the tenses and pronouns used are those associated with indirect speech and the narrative voice, the deictics are frequently those belonging to the character, so that there is ‘some blending between the speech or thought of a character and the narrative voice’ (Hodson 2014:  87). Each mode has its own spatiotemporal references, but FID gives the impression that both narrator and character are speaking simultaneously. The two voices may converge or be separate (as in the case of irony). When they converge, we have ‘a strategy of alignment’ and, ‘in terms of lexicogrammatical markers and aesthetic or narrative effect, there is a continuum from pure narrative words to pure character words’ (Toolan [1998] 2001: 135). FID is therefore a hybrid form, and it is the shift from one voice to another, rather than any specific grammatical form, that marks its presence. However we may interpret FID, the idea of a shift in voice is crucial to its identification; the presence of a single word or a specific punctuation mark can influence our interpretation of whose voice we are hearing (Leech and Short [1981] 2013:  328–33). One of the significant linguistic features in creating a shift in voice is deixis, since it indicates the position of the speaker in time (now and then) and in space (here and there), and its interpretation ‘is contextually anchored to the identity of the speaker and addressee, their locations, and the time of utterance’ (Zubin and Hewitt 1995: 6) thus playing an important role in creating a character’s voice or perspective. To these proximal and distal adverbs can be added this and that, temporal deixis (tensed verbs) and deictic verbs such as come and bring. These all indicate the spatiotemporal position of the speaker. The deictic system of I, here and now serves to locate utterances in relation to a speaker’s viewpoint and is often referred to as the enunciative triad (Fraser and Joly 1979, 1980). As Simpson 1993: 15) remarks, ‘the linguistic co-ordinates

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of space and time serve to anchor the fictional world, which, in turn, provides a window and vantage point for readers’. This basic deictic triad has been elaborated upon to include social deixis (Levinson 1983), that is, the marking of social relations and proximity/distance between people, and empathetic deixis (McIntyre 2006: 94–99), such as the distancing use of that in ‘that dog of yours keeps barking’. Further categories of deixis can also be envisaged (Stockwell [2002] 2016: 53), relational deixis, textual deixis: ‘expressions that foreground the textuality of the text’ and compositional deixis: ‘aspects of the text that manifest the generic type of literary conventions available to readers’. If we take deictics in the strictest sense of the term to be shifters, then social/relational (as in proper names and address forms), textual and compositional are arguably not strictu sensu deixis. However, they do offer information about how a speaker stands in relation to a text. The changes to these deictics, will therefore have repercussions on how the textual voice is perceived. In the following example, the use of a verb indicating a mental process, felt, and the use of the proximal deictic here suggest a passage to FID and to Harry’s consciousness: Harry felt, afterwards, that he should have known it was all too good to last. After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in here, with lit windows all along the walls. (BrE-PS: 25)

The distal deictic in the AmE edition removes this possibility, and distances the reader from Harry: Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last. After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. (BrE-SS: 26)

Given the dual voices to be found in FID, the exact reference of deixis is not always clear. As Macrae (2019: 45) notes, the use of deixis within literary discourse is not identical to the canonical use of deixis in a situation of utterance. Deixis can also involve the ‘ “space” of the material written text’ and therefore be textual (Macrae 2019: 47), so there are occasions when the exact reference of the spatial and temporal coordinates may be difficult to identify. In the following extract, now could refer to the character’s temporal framework or to the narrative’s temporal framework, a particular point in the text (Macrae 2019: 49): Still in his coat, he walked up there now, took a pencil and a sheet of manuscript paper and, leaning against the grand piano, scribbled down the ten descending notes. (BrE-A: 18)



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However we interpret the use of now, it signals the presence of a voice: that of the narrator or the character, which disappears when replaced by the distal spatial adverb there: Still in his coat, he walked up there, took a pencil and a sheet of manuscript paper, and, leaning against the grand piano, scribbled down the ten descending notes. (AmE-A: 19)

As seen in Chapter 5, editors frequently replace pronouns with proper nouns to clarify the text, and this also results in a possible change of voice. When this occurs in a passage of free indirect discourse, the effect is to render the external narrator’s voice more audible: His extremities had been numb for half an hour but it was only now that the chill finally enveloped his core. (BrE-A: 14) His extremities had been numb for half an hour but it was only now that Clive felt the chill finally envelop him. (AmE-A: 16)

While the reintroduction of Clive does not totally destroy the FID, it makes the reader more aware of the narrator’s presence and, used cumulatively in a text, can affect a reader’s degree of identification with a character and their voice. I  will not reanalyse all those examples here, but instead focus on a different pronoun used in FID: the second person. In the following example, Anna (she) is presented as the focal point. Her viewing position is established through she observed and she was struck, and the passage then moves imperceptibly to her thoughts through the use of the possessive pronoun your and the proximal deictic this: While answering, she observed the woman in front of her. She was struck by her brilliant, ostentatious, almost American manner. Her brown hair glistened on her shoulders. Her broad, regular features scintillated around her extremely red, sensual mouth, which drew your eyes. She thought of crystallised fruit, full of sugar and energy. This woman inspired immediate trust. (BrE-EW: 72)

The second person pronoun generalizes the experience (Herman 2002: 331–71), inviting readers to identify with Anna’s point of view, thus increasing readers’ empathy with the character. In the same novel, we find a similar use of you: Paul observed him. He had regular features with short-cropped black hair that fitted over his skull like a balaclava. A  clear face, drawn by a Rotring. Only his stare was disturbing, with asymmetric eyes. The left pupil never moved, remaining forever fixed on you, while the other was fully mobile. (BrE-EW: 290)

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The verbless sentence, a clear face, drawn by a Rotring, could be interpreted as representing the fragmentary or partial thought of the character, Paul, who is introduced as the observer of what is happening. If so, the use of you would be a further indication of the character’s thoughts. In both instances, the AmE edition has opted to replace you with a more distal pronoun: While answering, she observed the woman in front of her. She was struck by her brilliant, ostentatious, almost American manner. Her brown hair glistened on her shoulders. Her broad, regular features scintillated around her extremely red, sensual mouth, which drew one’s eyes. She thought of crystallised fruit, full of sugar and energy. This woman inspired immediate trust. (AmE-EW: 72) Paul observed him. His regular features with short-cropped black hair fit over his skull like a hood. A clear face, drawn by a calligrapher’s nib. Only his stare was disturbing, with asymmetric eyes. The left pupil never moved, remaining forever fixed on whoever he was looking at, while the other was fully mobile. (AmE-EW: 290)

The change in pronouns, not only affects the character’s voice, thus distancing the reader, it also affects the register. You belongs to a more colloquial register than one and whoever. A similar distancing effect results when deictic verbs such as bring and take are changed to take and go: And was it not generally true that over the years it had been Clive rather than Vernon who had provided the music – in every sense? The wine, the food, the house, the musicians and other interesting company, the initiatives that brought Vernon to rented houses with lively friends in Scotland, the mountains of northern Greece, and the shores of Long Island. (BrE-A: 65) And was it not generally true that over the years it had been Clive rather than Vernon who had provided the music – in every sense? The wine, the food, the house, the musicians and other interesting company, the initiatives that took Vernon to rented houses with lively friends in Scotland, the mountains of northern Greece, and the shores of Long Island. (AmE-A:70) After a short walk in total darkness he came back indoors, said goodnight to his waitress, and returned to his tiny room. (BrE-A: 67) After a short walk in total darkness he went back indoors, said goodnight to his waitress, and returned to his tiny room. (AmE-A:72)

In the first example, past events are being presented from Clive’s perspective. He is remembering how he has entertained Vernon and lent him money in the past, but that this has never been reciprocal. The use of took in the AmE edition



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suggests that Vernon went to places without Clive, contradicting the beginning of the extract, which tells us that Vernon was always a guest at Clive’s. In the second extract, the use of went marks another shift in voice, from the character to the narrator. The passage in the AmE edition reads as straightforward narrative, while the presence of the directional verb come marks the transition to the character’s thoughts and perceptions.

6.6  First-person narratives In fictional narratives, it is generally agreed that ‘the use of the first person in a narrative both identifies the narrator and also provides a perspective to enter the text world’ (Jeffries 2008: 71). In this section I focus on two different first-person narratives: the novel and the travelogue. Joanne Harris’s Blackberry Wine is narrated both in the third person and the first person. The first-person narrator is not in fact a person but a 1962 Fleurie bottle of wine. Perhaps giving voice to an inanimate entity was judged less marketable for the AmE reader, as the AmE edition is completely narrated in the third person. Wine plays an important role in the novel, particularly six bottles of home-brewed wine, the ‘Specials’, that Jay, the main character, inherits from an elderly friend, Joe. These six bottles have a magic quality: they help transform Jay’s life, and he ends up abandoning his career, his girlfriend and his London home to become a successful potato farmer in France. Removing the first-person narrator has resulted in extensive rewriting of the novel. The 1962 Fleurie opens the BrE edition by addressing the reader: ‘Take me, for instance, Fleurie, 1962. Last survivor of a crate of twelve’ (BrE-BW: 9). There is still a distinct narrator in the AmE edition, addressing the reader, but the first person is omitted: ‘Take these six in Jay’s cellar, for instance. The Specials. Not wines really meant for keeping, but he kept them all the same’ (AmE-BW:2). The arrival of the Specials in Jay’s wine-cellar is given greater focus in the BrE edition, and they too are endowed with human attributes: There was no escaping them: their whisperings, their catcalls, their laughter. We pretended indifference to their antics. These amateurs. Not a whiff of grape in any of them. They were inferiors, and we begrudged them their place among us. And yet there was an appealing impudence to these six freebooters, a hectic clash of flavours and images to send more sober vintages reeling. It was, of course, beneath our dignity to speak to them. (BrE-BW: 10)

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There was no escaping them: their whisperings, their catcalls, their laughter. Jay had hidden them behind a crate of more sober vintages the day he’ d brought them back from Pog Hill Lane. Five weeks later he could almost persuade himself they were forgotten. Even so he sometimes imagined he heard them, without really knowing what it was he heard. (AmE-BW: 2)

The AmE edition has not only removed Fleurie’s voice, it has minimized the human attributes of the bottles and therefore the magical thread of the narrative. At the end of the BrE novel, Jay has turned from writer to successful potato farmer. The newspaper article that appears in the Courrier d’Agen finishes in the BrE edition with the following paragraph: When asked to what he attributes this spectacular success he replies, ‘Just luck.’ He gives our reporter his mischievous smile. ‘And, of course, a little magic.’ (BrE-BW: 334)

In the AmE edition this paragraph is missing:  there is no question of Jay attributing his success to magic of any description. Fleurie’s vintage is also significant: it corresponds to the year Jay was born. At the end of the novel, when Jay opens the bottle to share it with Marise, the event marks the end of his old life and the beginning of a new one, as the narrator, Fleurie, underlines: This is where my story ends. Here, in the kitchen of the little farmhouse in Lansquenet. Here he pours me, releasing the scents of summers forgotten. (BrE-BW: 332)

Marise’s words, ‘Fleurie 1962  … My favourite’, confirm the new beginning. At the end of the AmE edition, it is not the Fleurie that Jay opens, but one of the Specials. Marise’s words now sound ironic, and at odds with the situation: “Blackberry ’75? … My favorite.” (AmE-BW: 355). Marise will never have tasted Joe’s Blackberry ’75 before, and it is hardly likely that a winegrower will go into raptures over a bottle of homemade blackberry wine. The credibility gap reveals the editor’s voice. As a character, Fleurie also observes and comments on Jay’s life, underlining the unsuitability of Jay’s initial girlfriend:  ‘Rows of bottles  – most negligible, chosen by Kerry – in the racks’ (BrE-BW: 16). The removal of Fleurie as narrator has resulted in these comments also disappearing, so that Kerry comes across as a more likeable character in the AmE edition. The removal of a voice from the novel has far-reaching repercussions on the text itself, the presentation of the characters and the general tone of the novel.



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A different kind of first-person narrative is to be found in Bryson’s travelogues. These narratives are very much concerned with creating a voice, a voice that both reflects the narrator’s personality, the ‘I’ whose encounters are related, but also a voice that engages the reader: travel narratives aim not only to inform the reader, to present them with descriptions of unknown exotic countries, but also to make them feel they are sharing in the experiences. As such, the narrative voice is easily detected, often directly addressing the reader: Note, as we stroll past the back of Christ Church College, the studied calm of Corpus Christi … Let’s pass back down Cornmarket … We could go on through the district of St. Ebbes … but I  think we can safely stop here at the county council building and save our weary legs. (BrE-NS: 154–5)

The analysis that follows is based on three of Bill Bryson’s travelogues: The Road to Little Dribbling Notes from a Small Island (NS), and Down Under, republished in the United States as In a Sunburned Country (SB), and I  will concentrate on the deictic functions in the two editions. As a first-person narrator, the I of the travel narrative is both an individual and the representative of another society and culture. Bryson frequently refers to his American origins: Coming as I do from a country where even the most obscure and worthless of presidents gets a huge memorial library when they pop their clogs. (BrE-NS: 166) All this to a swelling stereophonic rendition of ‘God Bless America’ … Tears of joy and pride welled in my sockets and it was all I  could do to keep from climbing on to my seat and crying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is my country!’ (BrE-NS: 203)

The narrator also uses the first-person plural in Down Under to identify himself specifically with Americans: We in America. (BrE-DU: 133)

The identification of the voice as belonging to an American is reinforced by the presence of lexical items which are typical of AmE (as discussed in Chapter 4). The narrator’s idiolect is thus firmly established and, unlike the rather strange introduction of AmE terms into a BrE setting that I commented upon earlier, the coexistence of both AmE and BrE forms is totally convincing here, given that Bryson has lived in both the United States and Britain for extensive periods of time. However, in the AmE editions, the narrator’s voice becomes more decidedly American, partly through the replacement of the third person by an

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inclusive we for all references to America. This establishes a shared point of view with the implied American reader: As a place that attracted American interest Australia ranked about level with Belarus and Burundi. (BrE-DU: 16) As a place that caught our interest Australia ranked about level with Belarus and Burundi. (AmE-SB: 4) I went … to see how much it had engaged attention in my own country. (BrE-DU: 16) I went … to see how much it had engaged our attention. (AmE-SB: 4)

The AmE edition thus highlights the Americanness of Bryson’s ‘voice’. To create the personal relationship with the reader, travelogues frequently address the reader directly, either in the form of assertions or by seeking to capture the reader’s attention with questions: ‘Did you know … ?’ (BrE-NS: 169). While such a use of you addresses a generalized reader, other uses of you in the BrE edition refer more specifically to a British reader: So what are we to do with Britain’s poor battered towns if I won’t let you have Richard Seifert and I won’t let you have Walt Disney? (BrE-NS: 218)

The AmE edition substitutes the third person pronoun on such occasions, or specifies that the remark applies to Britain, or omits the personal pronoun and substitutes a noun clause: So what are we to do with Britain’s poor battered towns if I won’t let them have Mies van der Rohe or Walt Disney? (AmE-NS: 193) Indeed, increasingly in Britain you hear the view that conservation of all types is fussy, retrograde, and an impediment to progress. (AmE-NS: 146) If your concept of world geography was shaped entirely by what you read in the papers and saw on television. (BrE-NS: 32) If your concept of world geography was shaped entirely by the content of British newspapers and television. (AmE-NS: 4)

The two pronouns we and you have ‘the faculty of including the implied reader in their referential field, a faculty that can be indulged in or negated … but whose exercise … places permanently on the actual reader the onus of defining himself in relation to the text and its enunciator’ (Coste 1989: 176). To these uses of you can be added the phatic function (Jakobson 1960: 355): you often serves to increase the conversational tone. Other uses emphasise the fact that both narrator and reader



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have shared the same experience, creating a sense of solidarity. Their omission or replacement by the third person creates a more neutral account, altering the addresser-addressee relationship. As a writer living in Britain addressing British readers, Bryson occupies the same spatial and temporal field of reference, and uses the proximal deictic adverb here and the pronoun this: You are so lucky in this country to have a relatively good public transport system. (BrE-NS: 63) When I first came here. (BrE-NS: 63)

In the AmE edition this shared reference is modified by the substitution of more neutral locative expressions, such as the third person or the definite article: The British are so lucky to have a relatively good public transport system. (AmE-NS: 47) When I first came to the country. (AmE-NS: 47)

Frequently there is no need in the BrE edition to specify that the country being referred to is Britain, since shared knowledge with the reader enables omission. However, the AmE edition, addressing a different readership, finds it necessary to introduce such a reference: Why is it … that sixties shopping centers in Britain are always called the Arndale Centre? (AmE-NS: 173)

These changes to deictic references reflect the narrator’s distancing himself from the British and his moving closer to the American reader. These changes resemble interlingual translational shifts in deixis which ‘are able to create distance or, on the contrary, closeness between translators and readers’ and which reveal ‘how translators position themselves towards the text they work on’ (Mason and Serban 2003:  290). Once again, both intra- and interlingual translation share common features. As we observed in Chapter 4, the AmE editions of Bill Bryson’s works contain a number of additions, either extratextual expansions through the visible means of footnotes and glossary or intratextual expansions incorporated within the text itself. Not only do these make the text longer, they also modify the narrator’s voice. The following two paragraphs appear within the AmE text itself, but are completely missing from the BrE edition: To become a London cab driver you have to master something called The Knowledge – in effect, learn every street, hospital, hotel, police station, cricket

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ground, cemetery and other notable landmark in this amazingly vast and confusing city. It takes years and the cabbies are justifiably proud of their achievement. It would kill them to admit that there could exist in central London a hotel that they have never heard of. (AmE-NS: 31–2) Nothing gives the English more pleasure, in a quiet but determined sort of way, than to do things oddly. They put milk in their tea, drive on the wrong side of the road, pronounce Cholmondeley as “Chumley” and Belvoir as “Beaver,” celebrate the Queen’s birthday in June even though she was born in April, and dress their palace guards in bearskin helmets that make them look as if, for some private and unfathomable reason, they are wearing fur-lined wastebaskets on their heads. (AmE-NS: 161)

Such additions place the narrator in a position of authority, whereas in the BrE edition the emphasis is on a shared cultural framework. For Bryson, an American, to inform the BrE reader in such a manner, to teach them about the country where they live or how to pronounce English place names would make him appear presumptuous or condescending. However, as an American talking to fellow Americans, he can portray himself as the ‘one in the know’, and his voice is adapted accordingly. As an outsider – Bryson is an American making fun of the British – Bryson has to strike the right note: he must appear neither too patronizing nor too ignorant. The wide range of cultural allusions serves not only to provide many of the comic asides, but also to prove to the reader that the narrator does know what he is talking about and that he is as well qualified as any British person to talk about the country.

6.6  The textual voice The final aspect of voice to be examined is one I shall call the textual voice, or the narratorial idiom. I start from the premise that a text contains a discursive presence, even if the reader is not necessarily aware of it, and even if the origin of enunciation is unclear. This voice is characterized through a number of linguistic procedures, including narratorial idiom, diction and tone. I  shall also adopt the standpoint that the reader constructs the image of this voice through the linguistic elements in the text. My aim is not to produce a typology of narrators but simply to examine some specific instances where the narrator’s voice can be most easily identified and to question whether changes introduced in the AmE edition mark a change in voice or not.



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6.6.1  Linguistic patternings and the creation of a narratorial voice One way this voice becomes audible to the reader is similar to the way in which FID becomes audible – through a shift from one level of discourse to another. As with FID, the most obvious shifts are those that feature elements of direct discourse within a reported narrative:  spatio-temporal references. It is these aspects I will examine first, before considering how this voice can also be heard at another level, in the way information is presented in the text or ‘packaged’ (Huddleston and Pullum 2005: 238). In other words, the textual voice can be discerned through the use of specific linguistic patternings that deviate from elementary syntactic structures.

6.6.2  Textual Deixis As previously mentioned, proximal deictics, such as here and now, are one means of identifying a subjective centre, especially in the case of first-person narrators. They also play a role within the textual discourse and can be found in third-person narrative in conjunction with the description of a past event, serving to bring the event closer to the reader and to give it greater immediacy. As Simpson (1993: 15) suggests, deictics can offer a means for the reader to enter the story. This use of deixis corresponds to Macrae’s (2019) use of discourse deixis as it is used to organize the narrative sequencing, but also to render the storyworld more dynamic and vivid. The following examples taken from Simon Winchester’s The Surgeon of Crowthorne illustrate this point. In the first example the proximal deictic foregrounds the discourse context; in the second it is the moment in the narrative that is highlighted: Here the full horror of this cruel and fearsomely bloody conflict (BrE-SC: 46) In 1873 – having now left the bank and gone back to teaching at Mill Hill School – he published The Dialect of the Southern Counties of Scotland. (BrE-SC: 35)

The substitution of a distal deictic, or the omission of the deictic in the AmE edition remove any sense of immediacy and the reader no longer has the impression that the narrator is reliving past events: There the full horror of this cruel and fearsomely bloody struggle (AmE-PM: 52) In 1873 – having left the bank and gone back to teaching (at Mill Hill School) – he published The Dialect of the Southern Counties of Scotland. (AmE-PM: 38)

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Other uses of deictics indicate how the narrator positions themselves in relation to the information that they are presenting. Fraser and Joly (1979, 1980) demonstrate that this is used by a speaker when they wish to present new information or to reappraise past happenings, while that is more conclusive and is used when the speaker considers that the identification of the referent or the information contained in the message pose no problem for the addressee. The AmE editions, however, tend to prefer either to omit this or substitute that in contexts referring either to past events or distant locations: God  – who in this part of London society was held to be an Englishman  – naturally approved (BrE-SC: 68) God – who in that part of London society was of course firmly held to be an Englishman – naturally approved (AmE-PM: 78)

In the following example, the referents calls and demands do not appear in the preceding text, but are explained in the subsequent paragraph: [Johnson] began the process also in response to these calls from the giants, these demands that something needed to be done. Theirs was a near-universal complaint. Addison, Pope, Defoe, Dryden, Swift (BrE-SC: 79) [Johnson] began the process also in response to calls from the giants – demands that something needed to be done. Theirs was a near-universal complaint. Joseph Addison, Alexander Pope, Daniel Defoe, John Dryden, Jonathan Swift. (AmE-PM: 91)

The use of these indicates that the narrator is referring to information that requires further precision or elucidation; ‘the processing of information is viewed as “still in progress” ’ (Lapaire and Rotgé 1993: 94). While the omission of these is grammatically acceptable, it removes the narrator’s voice at this point in the text. Far from being isolated examples, the same trend can be observed in other works in the corpus. The American copy editor of the following example explained in a private email that to retain the proximal deictic would have been an error in point of view: His first act of bravery. His first distinction. But this was only the beginning. (BrE-EW: 36–7) His first act of bravery. His first distinction. But that was only the beginning. (AmE-EW: 36)



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Yet when we examine the context in which this occurs the narrator continues to describe Paul’s acts of heroism. The topic is far from being concluded, and the substitution of that modifies the narrator’s relationship to their text. From the changes observed, copy editors seem to apply the rule that distal deictics must be used with the past and proximal deictics with the present, thus ignoring the fact that deixis may be used as a commentary on the fictional discourse.

6.6.3  Present tense A similar kind of rationalization is to be found in the changes made to the use of the present tense within the narrative. The following example is from Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam: They should have been ridiculous, these photographs, they were ridiculous, but Clive was somewhat awed. We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white. Here was a rare sight below the waves, of a man’s turmoil. (BrE-A: 71) They should have been ridiculous, these photographs, they were ridiculous, but Clive was somewhat awed. We knew so little about each other. We lay mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white. Here was a rare sight below the waves, of a man’s turmoil. (AmE-A: 76)

The present tense with the use of the pronoun we is ambiguous. It could be Free Direct Thought and attributable to the character, Clive, or it could be the voice of the external narrator making a statement about humankind in general or even a dual voice, a fusion of character and narrator. However we interpret it, the sudden shift to the present tense and the first person plural breaks with the preceding text, giving immediacy and importance to the two sentences. As the story unfolds, these sentences become almost prophetic: Clive and Vernon really do know little about each other and each other’s plans. It is therefore apt that these remarks should be given prominence. The AmE edition has chosen to rationalize the choice of tenses, placing all the actions in the past tense. However, not only are the two sentences no longer foregrounded, but a note of inconsistency is introduced as the first-person plural is maintained. Thus, although the tenses have been backshifted in accordance with general pattern of FID, the pronouns have not. Had the sentences been followed by he thought or had the first person plural been used elsewhere in the novel in passages of FID, then this modification would not strike the reader as being so strange.

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6.6.4 Information-packaging To consider the change in narratorial voice merely in terms of deixis and as direct discourse is to impose severe limitations upon the concept. A  textual voice also becomes audible through linguistic patternings, through the relationship between the narrator and the text. Huddleston and Pullum (2005: 238) outline eight ‘information-packaging constructions’ – constructions that enable information to be presented in a way that is different from basic syntactic structures:  passive clauses, extraposition, existential clauses, the itcleft construction, pseudo-clefts, dislocation, preposing and postposing and reduction. These structures can often be compared to a more basic syntactic structure, so that in most cases the information-packaging construction is not a constraint but a stylistic choice, serving to highlight specific information. It is the presence of such structures in the text that mark a shift in voice, revealing the discursive presence of the narrator. However, as noted in Chapter 5, such structures are frequently removed because they are considered to be too wordy. Space prevents me from re-examining the structures already studied, but one structure, existential there, does deserve another mention, since it can play an important role as a discourse deictic. Linguists such as Cheshire (1999:  138), have demonstrated that existential there can act as a pointer to indicate that what follows is a new topic. The structure therefore plays an important role in the presentation of events, ‘packaging’ the information differently. In the following example, from McEwan’s Amsterdam, the choice of existential there can be explained by the fact that it introduces a new topic – the reason why Vernon has to go to the local café to find space to write. On the other hand, the omission of existential there presents not a single surface was left uncovered by something of Molly’s more as a conclusion to the preceding text than as a pointing forward to what follows: Magazines, make-up, bank statements, bead necklaces, flowers, knickers, ashtrays, invitations, tampons, LPs, airplane tickets, high-heeled shoes – there was not a single surface left uncovered by something of Molly’s. (BrE-A: 54) Magazines, makeup, bank statements, bead necklaces, flowers, knickers, ashtrays, invitations, tampons, LPs, airplane tickets, high-heeled shoes – not a single surface was left uncovered by something of Molly’s. (AmE-A: 59)

The foregrounding role of existential there can be linked to the deictic function of there, as in ‘There she is!’ where there clearly points to the visible presence of the person, and it plays a similar textual function by giving perceptual salience



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to the information that it introduces. The following example is from McEwan’s Amsterdam: He was led out into a yard behind where the patrol cars parked, and there were a dozen men standing by a wall. (BrE-A: 154)

Events here are perceived through the eyes of the character, Clive. The main thought in his mind is to identify the killer correctly and ‘not to let anyone down’ (BrE-A: 154). From Clive’s perspective, the patrol cars parked behind the yard are less important or less perceptually salient than the men lined up for the identity parade. This is reflected by the syntactic choice of placing the information in a subordinate clause: where the patrol cars were parked, and the foregrounding of the men waiting by the use of existential there and the punctuation followed by the coordinating conjunction and, both of which serve to detach the information from what precedes and to give added emphasis. The suppression of existential there and the creation of a parallel structure, present the perception of the patrol cars and of the men waiting for the identity parade as being equally important: He was led out into a yard behind where the patrol cars parked, where a dozen men were standing by a wall. (AmE-A: 167)

Two other forms of information-packaging reflect the presence of a textual voice: preposing and postposing. Preposing refers to the placing of an element before the subject of a clause instead of putting it in its usual position after the verb. Postposing is the process whereby an element is placed at the end, or near the end, of the clause rather than in an earlier position. In both cases, one of the effects is to give salience to the displaced element. The following example illustrates how the AmE edition has chosen to re-establish the unmarked syntactic structure: With Joe, nothing was wasted. (Br-BW: 73) Joe wasted nothing. (AmE-BW: 72)

The choice of either structure can also influence the text’s cohesion. In this example, the text continues to explain what happened to each of the articles brought to Joe: ‘old newspapers went into the compost. Pieces of carpet kept the weeds down’ (AmE-BW: 72). In other words, ‘nothing was wasted’ introduces the theme of the next few sentences. In contrast, Joe wasted nothing places Joe as the subject, which would be more logical if the passage continued: ‘He threw old papers into the compost. He used pieces of carpet to keep weeds down’.

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Moreover, the preposing of with Joe means that it is possible to have double information focus, one nucleus coming on Joe, and the other on nothing: With Joe, nothing was wasted.

It could be argued that by using the preposed structure, too much contrastive focus is placed on Joe. The sentence could be interpreted as meaning Joe was thrifty, others were not, and perhaps the copy editor has decided to change the word order to avoid a contrastive focus that is not in keeping with the rest of the text. However, in other novels the same modifications can be observed, and on these occasions contrastive focus does play an important role. The following example occurs in dialogue and once again, the AmE edition prefers to re-establish the basic syntactic structure: ‘Eight years we’ve had this pony.’ (BrE-PP: 2) “We’ve had this pony eight years.” (AmE-PP: 2)

In this example, the preposed element is considered by the speaker to be of special importance. The speaker is anxious to underline that they have looked after the pony a long time, and they are sad to have to find him another home. Postposing seems to pose similar problems for the AmE edition. The American copy editor working on the following text explained that the BrE version has ‘a misplaced modifying phrase that makes things sound as if the floors are full of knick-knacks’ (private email). It was a huge old Parisian apartment with varnished parquet floors, full of colonial knick-knacks. (BrE-EW: 24)

The AmE edition has again rationalized the text: It was a huge old Parisian apartment full of colonial knick-knacks and with varnished parquet floors. (AmE-EW: 24)

By displacing the elements from their usual canonical position in the sentence, the BrE syntax mirrors the character’s perception as s/he observes the different objects. The modifications to information-packaging structures aim at producing a clearer, more concise text but simultaneously modify other characteristics of the text: its rhythms, its voice, its linguistic variety and patternings. The BrE text contains a polyphony of voices, a diversity of discursive types that tend to disappear or, at best, become muted in the AmE edition. Vernacular networks, the coexistence of different sociolects and dialects within the same novel, risk being effaced as the text becomes domesticated for another



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market, another readership. This ‘reduction of complex narrative voices’ has been identified by Chesterman (2010: 41) as a potential universal of translations when compared to their source texts. Such modifications are ideological: they suppose that the domestic readership for whom they are made is homogeneous, a mass audience with a shared dialect and culture. In Venuti’s words, ‘translating is always ideological because it releases a domestic remainder, an inscription of values and beliefs, and representations linked to historical moments and social positions in the receiving culture’ ([2000] 2004: 498).

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In this study I have aimed to analyse the different editions of American English and British English works from a multimodal and stylistic perspective, and to reflect on the place of intralingual translation within translation studies itself. The parallel corpus of BrE and AmE editions of novels, children’s fiction, biographies and travel narratives reveals that the changes made are varied and difficult to predict. While some works in the corpus show quite striking differences when compared to their BrE equivalent, others barely differ. From a multimodal perspective, nearly all the books present marked differences since the cover is the first aspect of the work that is modified for the new readership. But there are exceptions in my corpus, such as Sarah Ivens’s Forest Therapy, published by Da Capo Press in the United States, which has retained the BrE edition’s illustrations by Ruth Craddock and cover design by Ellen Rockell. However, the two editions do not have totally identical covers as the blurb on the back cover has been slightly modified, so even here the outer peritext of the book has been changed for the AmE reader. Other examples, such as Dora Bruder, are repackaged to correspond to a specific genre, and the changes made affect not just the outer cover but the inner peritext and the text itself. Some works, not retained for study, only have the outer peritext modified; the linguistic text is unaltered. This tends to be the case of novels by Graham Swift, for example. Different publishing houses then aim at different markets, have different marketing policies and translate the works accordingly. The inner peritext is equally different, ranging from changing the typeface and versals to removing or adding illustrations. The changes made to the linguistic text itself are also varied, ranging from minimally adjusting the punctuation and spelling and/or translating the occasional word deemed too opaque for the AmE reader to a more full-scale Americanization of the text; from changing the pronouns in relative clauses to substituting different tenses and deictics; from substituting a more easily recognizable cultural reference to omitting whole passages or even

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rewriting paragraphs. The picture becomes more complex when novels have their proofs copy-edited on both sides of the Atlantic and harmonized before simultaneous publication in the United Kingdom and the United States. The study of the various modifications carried out in Chapters 4–6, revealed that the same procedures that are used in interlingual translation are also at work in the translation of BrE books for the AmE reader. Chapter 4 revealed evidence of procedures such as transposition, substitution and modulation (although the latter was not studied in detail). Translation/mediation universals such as greater explicitness, reduced complexity, increased conventionalization and normalization to a formal edited standard American English, were also observed in Chapter  5. Chapter  6 demonstrated that the changes made to deictics were similar to those observed by Mason and Serban (2003) in their study of interlingual translation, and that the polyphony of voices in the BrE text tended to become homogenized in the AmE edition. The changes studied revealed that copy editors are just as risk-averse as translators and also play it safe: ‘they omit, generalize, explicitate, simplify, normalize and rationalize’ (Pym 2012: 108). My findings, then, confirm what other scholars (see e.g. Hill-Madsen 2019; Zethsen 2009) have suggested or analysed on a smaller scale: intralingual translation is not different to interlingual translation in terms of procedures or universals. This should cause little surprise, for such practices are part of any mediated communication and rewriting. The question that also needs examining is whether intralingual translation differs in terms of degree. Hill-Madsen (2019) argues that a central characteristic of intralingual translation is that it is a partial translation; not all the elements of the source text will be altered. While this is obviously true, it is not a strong enough argument for considering intralingual translation, as illustrated here, to be fundamentally different. Even in interlingual translation, there can be varying degrees of foreignization and domestication. Van Poucke (2012) suggests that the procedures used in interlingual translation should be seen in terms of clusters and integrates Pedersen’s (2005) taxonomy into his model. According to van Poucke, strong foreignization of a text on the lexico-semantic level involves retaining foreign terms and creating neologisms based on loanwords, while on the syntactic-stylistic level it would feature retention of word order and phrase and clause structure ‘when alternatives are not only possible but also more idiomatically accepted in the TL’ (van Poucke 2012: 146). Moderate foreignization includes translation procedures that cause minor changes, such as Pedersen’s (2005:3) official equivalents, as seen in Chapter 4. It also includes the procedure of transposition. Moderate domestication includes procedures

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that adapt the ST to ‘some idiomatic and stylistic norms of the TL’. It includes Pedersen’s generalization and substitution but also Vinay and Darbelnet’s transposition and modulation. Finally, strong domestication refers to a TT that has no traces of the ST and that adds or deletes clauses or phrases and makes fundamental changes to meaning. Joanne Harris’s Blackberry Wine would be one example of this, as would any text with a high number of cultural references such as Bryson’s travelogues, or Sarah Ivens’s Forest Therapy. As with any taxonomy, deciding under which heading a specific translation procedure should be placed is debateable, and how exactly one measures these degrees is also questionable, although van Poucke does propose a model. However, these points are in many ways immaterial to the question that needs examining here. What van Poucke’s study foregrounds is that there are degrees of foreignization, and to isolate intralingual translation as being different to interlingual translation simply on the grounds of ‘degree’ is therefore open to question. My study of a parallel corpus of AmE and BrE editions has also underlined the difficulty of trying to separate dialectal changes (which Mossop recognizes are, to all intents and purposes, identical to those of interlingual translation) and stylistic changes that would traditionally be labelled as editing. It is not always clear whether the preference for a linguistic form should be labelled dialectal or not, and the same sentence can include both dialectal and editing procedures. Separating the two is often an impossible task. Moreover, as we saw in Chapter 3, when we consider the book as a product, and also look at non-verbal modes and not just the linguistic text, then it becomes apparent that translation exists at every level. The analysis of multimodal elements in Chapter 3 demonstrated that a book is a structured entity, and that the linguistic and material text are interdependent (cf. Even-Zohar 1979), one interpellates the other, to use Lecercle’s terminology. Moreover, intersemiotic translation shares common practices with intra- and interingual translation. There are ‘many similarities between translation (into words) and illustration (translation into pictures) as forms of interpretation’ (Oittinen 2000:  106), a conclusion shared by Pereira (2008: 105). Omission addition, explicitation and other translation procedures are also at work in multimodal elements. In terms of translation studies, I have sought to provide the first full-length study on intralingual translation from a multimodal stylistic perspective in the hope of increasing our knowledge of a topic that has hitherto been largely unexplored. In doing so, I have also raised questions on the nature of translation itself. Gentzler (2017:  2) suggests that texts which are borderline cases in traditional definitions of translation may ‘tell us more about the nature of the

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paradigm than the central paradigm’. My parallel corpus of BrE and AmE editions has provided fresh evidence of the need to study more closely the role between translating and editing. As Bisiada (2017: 242) remarks ‘studying texts before and after editing can provide great insights into the translation process’. My study has also reflected upon the concept of voice in translation, providing evidence of the multi-layered voices that are present in a text and underlining the need to consider the role of the editor. It has therefore sought to fill a research gap in translation studies and in stylistics and to respond to Nergaard’s (2013: 179–80) criticism that ‘seldom do those who study translations take into account all the other elements constituting a book, or the publishing policy of the publishing house producing and selling the book’. In order to define more clearly evolving contexts of translation and communication, a flurry of new blends have been coined in recent years:  translanguaging, transediting, transterpreting, transadapting. The multiplicity of these terms draws attention to the fact that different practices share points in common, hence the use of trans, but they also underline a basic discomfort with the term translation, a feeling that it is not broad enough to encompass the new forms and media. Whether we need to multiply the number of categories is, however, debateable. The underlying problem of creating yet more categories is that as each domain builds its own identity, defining what it is and what it is not, it risks not realizing what it has in common with other forms of translation and disciplines. Moreover, as we have seen with Jakobson’s tripartite definition, once definitions are given it becomes difficult to evolve and to remain open to change. Underlying this debate is the thorny question of defining translation itself, and the fear that by including different kinds of translation within the definition, the discipline itself becomes diluted. Yet, the opposite danger, as we saw in Chapter 1, is that Jakobson’s tripartite division (1959) of translation into three categories (intralingual, interlingual and intersemiotic) artificially fragments three translation practices that share common features. All three are interpretations of a text; all three necessitate rewriting; all three are forms of mediated writing. None of the three is a clear-cut monolithic category. While it can be beneficial to use classifications such as intralingual and interlingual as a means to reflect on the characteristics of texts, I suggest that we need a flexible approach and should consider such classifications as working definitions, as tools, rather than definitions written in stone. Many of the concepts on which our working definitions are based have evolved in ways that earlier scholars could not have imagined. Genette’s concept of the paratext, for example, was based on literary texts and obviously needs modifying in the digitized age

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(Batchelor 2018). Jakobson’s definition of translation was based on language, and he could not have foreseen the paths intersemiotic translation would take. What constitutes a text is evolving fast, and definitions and typologies need to be flexible enough to account for these changes along with the different forms and genres that have emerged and the changing roles of author and reader. Nor do our concepts of translation correspond to how translation is envisaged in other countries around the world. Tymoczko ([2007] 2014: 75) shows how the words for translation in different cultures ‘illustrate distinct conceptualizations, histories, and practices of translation that go beyond Eurocentric understandings of translation’. Tymoczko ([2007] 2014: 78) concludes that ‘there are no necessary and sufficient conditions that can identify all translations and that at the same time exclude all non-translations across time and space’ (emphasis in the original). Following Göpferich (2007: 33), Hill-Madsen (2019), Schmid (2008; 2012), Steiner ([1975] 2006) and Zethsen (2009), I believe that intralingual translation should indeed be fully included within the field of translation studies, and that more cross-fertilization between scholars involved in intersemiotic and intralingual translation with those working in more traditional fields of translation is necessary. Teaching intralingual translation would enhance what Malmkjær (2018: 452) calls ‘language awareness’, not just the awareness of the existence between various varieties of English and of the link between language and social norms and constraints, but also the awareness ‘that different language choices give rise to different nuances of meaning’. My study has also raised other fundamental questions that could be fruitfully explored. It has highlighted the production constraints placed upon any text, constraints that largely go unnoticed by stylisticians. It underlines the need to consider that not every word on the page has been written by the author; that both felicitous and infelicitous choices may have been the work of someone else; that the choice of certain words or grammatical structures also obey constraints of genre and the norms imposed by edited English. Harvey ([2003] 2014: 69) states that ‘in-house editorial policies make it dangerous to assume that the translator as individual … is singly responsible for textual outcomes even in the main body of the text’. Retracing the evolution of the text is materially difficult and, as mentioned in my study, without access to archives and manuscripts, it is almost impossible for a monolingual text. Even when one does have that kind of privileged information, not all the pieces of the jigsaw are available because queries and answers may have been dealt with over the phone or simply be missing from the files. As an example, my personal query to Ian McEwan regarding differences in the AmE edition of Amsterdam figures in his papers kept

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at the Harry Ransom Center (McEwan 2006a), but not his emailed reply to me, nor his request to his editor, Nan Talese, for further information. A letter from Nan Talese (McEwan 2006b) suggests the request was made, but what happened next is anyone’s guess. The trail then often grows cold, and such circumstances are probably common. However, the existence of a parallel corpus does offer some insights, and it is important to have a comparative study of this kind to highlight that such changes do take place. Recognizing that a text is the product of a collaborative enterprise, and that various editions of a work coexist, challenges the traditional concept of a source text and a target text as two fixed, easily identifiable entities. Simon (1996: 162), writing on gender in translation, already mentions ‘the blurred edge where original and copy, first and second languages, come to meet’. In the age of simultaneous publication on both sides of the Atlantic, or with the existence of different proofs, it makes little sense to talk of the source text or the original (Tymoczko [2007] 2014: 67). My study also demonstrates how the various forms of translation interact to produce a structured work and genre, and that translation studies has much to gain from exploring multimodality theory. The AmE edition of The Surgeon of Crowthorne has been rewritten at every level to present itself as a more historical work under the title The Professor and the Madman (even if there is arguably no professor and no madman in the book). The Search Warrant emphasizes its biographical features when it becomes Dora Bruder, not just through the linguistic text but through the presentation of the footnotes, the blurb on the back cover, the inclusion of maps and photographs within the text itself and so forth. Finally, my study has raised the question of ethics and, more specifically, accountability. How far translators should respect the author’s voice and how far they should consider their potential reader raises a number of ethical questions (Chesterman [1997] 2016). Such decisions will be influenced by the socioeconomic context and, to that extent, both editing and translating are ideological practices, for they involve ‘a mosaic of cultural assumptions, political beliefs and institutional practices’ (Simpson 1993: 176). However, such responsibilities are not just the remit of the translator. The presence of many different voices in a text makes ‘every participant, not just translators and interpreters, ethically accountable’ (Greenall et  al. 2019:  639). Pym (2012:  103) contends that the fundamental ethical question facing translators is not how they should translate but whether they should translate. Transferred to the situation facing editors, the question is whether or not to adapt for the AmE reader. The decision here does

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not belong to the copy editor who is answering the request of their client, but to editors at a higher level, who may, in turn, be following the rules and guidelines of the publishing house, and they, in turn, are replying to market forces. Rewriting a BrE translation of a foreign work for the AmE reader raises extra questions of accountability. While a US copy editor will contact the author of a BrE novel, there is little likelihood that the BrE translator will be consulted (Ian Monk, private email) or that the US copy editor will consult the original work in the foreign language. Unlike a translator from one foreign language to another, the copy editor’s presence is not visible, is not acknowledged, and so the changes that are made will be identified as belonging to the translator. When we buy a translation, say from French, the translator’s name will feature somewhere on the cover or inside the book. Their presence may become visible through footnotes. Not so the editor. So, while Claudine Richetin, the French translator of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, clearly signals her presence on the first page by a footnote explaining the reference to Jemima Goldsmith and Imra Khan that appears in the BrE text, the AmE version simply substitutes Posh Spice and David Beckham and the reader is none the wiser. There is no annotation ‘translated from British English’, although French translators who have worked from an AmE edition may signal that their work is ‘traduit de l’américain’ as in the case of Le Professeur et le Fou, the French translation of Simon Winchester’s The Professor and the Madman. In terms of publishing practices, there is again scope for further research, not least regarding the effects of globalization. BrE linguists are often concerned with pointing out that the standard written variety of BrE does not represent the varieties of BrE as a whole (Carter [1999] 2000). Perhaps it is now time to widen the debate and to ask whether current trends in the publishing world are not in danger of producing an edited variety that is neither BrE nor AmE. This is already reflected in the rise in using that in restrictive relative clauses. A brief comparison of later works by Ian McEwan reveal that which has now been replaced by that in restrictive relative clauses wherever possible, unlike the early novels, which retained the use of which in the UK editions. It also seems to be confirmed by the fact that some recent novels may well remove any lexical items deemed to be too regional, opting for words such as sweater instead of jumper. Both stylistics and translation have always stood at the interface of many different disciplines. Both have assimilated a wide range of theoretical frameworks and models, and both have benefitted from the cross-fertilization of ideas. In this study I have aimed to take that cross-fertilization of ideas one step further, by demonstrating that a study of a parallel corpus can offer insights

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into translation studies, multimodality, stylistics, and publishing practices. Although I have ventured into these different fields and disciplines, it has not been possible to explore each and every theoretical approach with the attention that it deserves. I hope, however, that the questions raised and the gaps in the points covered will encourage further research into the nature of translation, the role played by editors, the constraints imposed, the stylistic effects of the choices operated and the close interaction of verbal and non-verbal modes.

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Keneally, T. (1982), Schindler’s Ark, London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1982. Keneally, T. (2000), Schindler’s List, New York: Scribner. King-Smith, D. ([1997] 1998), A Mouse Called Wolf, London: Corgi Yearling Books. King-Smith, D. ([1997] 2000), A Mouse Called Wolf, New York: Yearling. Laurens, C. ([2003]2004), In Those Arms, trans. I. Monk, London: Bloomsbury. Laurens, C. ([2003]2004), In His Arms, trans. I. Monk, New York: Random House. McEwan, I. (1987), The Child in Time, Boston: Houghton Mifflin. McEwan, I. ([1987] 1988), The Child in Time, London: Picador. McEwan, I. ([1981] 2001), The Comfort of Strangers, London: Vintage. McEwan, I. ([1981] 2002), The Comfort of Strangers, New York: Anchor Books. McEwan, I. ([1997] 1998), Enduring Love, London: Vintage. McEwan, I. ([1997] 1999), Enduring Love, New York: Anchor Books. McEwan, I. (1998), Amsterdam, London: Random House. McEwan, I. (1999), Amsterdam, New York: Anchor Books. Miles, R. ([2003] 2004), The Maiden of White Hands, Reading: Pocket Books. Miles, R. ([2003] 2004), The Maid of the White Hands, New York: Crown. Modiano, P. ([1997] 1999), Dora Bruder, trans. J. Kilmartin, Oakland: University of California Press. Modiano, P. ([1997] 2000), The Search Warrant, trans. J. Kilmartin, London: Harvill. Pilcher, R. ([1991] 1992), Flowers in the Rain, Sevenoaks: Coronet. Pilcher, R. ([1991] 1992), Flowers in the Rain, New York: St. Martin’s Press. Pratchett, T. ([1990] 1997), Moving Pictures, London: Gollancz. Pratchett, T. ([1990] 2002), Moving Pictures, New York: Harper Torch. Pratchett, T. [1983] 2012), The Colour of Magic, London: Transworld Publishers. Pratchett, T. [1983] 2000), The Color of Magic, New York: HarperCollins. Rankin, I. ([2004 2005]), Fleshmarket Close, Chatham: Orion. Rankin, I. ([2004 2005]), Fleshmarket Alley, New York: Little, Brown. Rennison, L. ([1999] 2006), Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, New York: HarperCollins. Roth, P. (2001), The Human Stain, London: Vintage. Rowling, J. K. (1997), Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, London: Bloomsbury. Rowling, J. K. ([1997] 1999), Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, New York: Scholastic. Rowling, J. K. (2000), Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, London: Bloomsbury. Rowling, J. K. ([2000] 2003), Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, New York: Scholastic. Rowling, J. K. (2003), Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, London: Bloomsbury. Rowling, J. K. (2003), Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, New York: Scholastic. Rowling, J. K. (2005), Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, London: Bloomsbury. Rowling, J. K. (2005), Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, New York: Scholastic. Sixsmith, M. ([2009] 2010), The Lost Child of Philomena Lee, London: Pan Macmillan. Sixsmith, M. ([2009] 2013), Philomena, New York: Penguin. Smith, Z. ([2000] 2002), White Teeth, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Smith, Z. ([2000] 2001), White Teeth, New York: Vintage.

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Townsend, S. ([1982] 1998), The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾, London: Random House. Townsend, S. ([1982] 2003), The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾, New York: HarperTempest. Trollope, J. (1998), Other People’s Children, London: Bloomsbury. Trollope, J. ([1998] 2000), Other People’s Children, New York: Berkley. Turnbull, S. (2002), Almost French: A New Life in Paris, London: Nicholas Brealey. Turnbull, S. (2002), Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris, New York: Penguin. Weldon, F. ([1983] 1984), The Life and Loves of a She Devil, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Weldon, F. (1983), The Life and Loves of a She-Devil, New York: Ballantine. Winchester, S. ([1996] 1998), The River at the Centre of the World, St. Ives: Penguin. Winchester, S. ([1996] 2004), The River at the Centre of the World, New York: Picador. Winchester, S. ([1998] 1999), The Surgeon of Crowthorne, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Winchester, S. ([1998] 1999), The Professor and the Madman, New York: HarperCollins. Winchester, S. ([2001] 2002), The Map That Changed the World, New York: HarperCollins. Winchester, S. ([2001] 2002), The Map That Changed the World, St. Ives: Penguin.

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244

Index abbreviations 98, 102, 134, 147 accents 180 acronyms 43, 45, 102, 147. See also abbreviations active voice 119, 132, 142, 143 Adams, T. and Barker, N.  6, 31 adaptation 3, 16, 23–4, 52, 64, 99 addition (see translation procedures) addressee 9, 14, 48, 58, 61, 142, 185, 193, 196 adjectives 44, 107, 119, 131. See also transposition adjectives vs adverbs 129–31 compound adjectives 128, 130–1 adverbs 108, 124, 126, 130, 177–8, 182. See also adjectives, substitution, transposition distal 185, 187 without -ly 129 place of 126, 131 proximal, 185, 193 wordiness 140 Aguiar, D. and Queiroz, J.  60 Aixelá, J. F. 99, 100 Algeo, J. 116–18, 120–1, 123, 124, 126, 128, 161, 179 Ali, M. Brick Lane 91, 182, 183 use of italics 93 Almost French. See Turnbull, S. ALTER model 10, 31–4, 94 Alves, F. and Gonçalves, J. V. R.  28 Alvstad, C. and Assis Rosa, A.  170, 171 American Heritage Book of English Usage 153 American Psychological Association Publication Manual 134, 136, 137, 142, 153, 163 Amsterdam. See McEwan, I. Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging. See Rennison, L. Antonini, R.  99 area model 62, 63, 71, 73, 76–7

Armstrong, N. and Federici, F. M. 176 Aronson, M.  40 Arrojo, R.  5 Assis Rosa, A.  27 Associated Press Stylebook and Briefing on Media Law 134 Association of American University Presses One Book/Five Ways 153 Athill, D.  5, 37, 39, 40, 41 Atwood, M.  35, 41 authorship 41, 65, 170 Baglio B. M. name of author 65 Pony on the Porch, The 179–80 Americanization of grammar 98, 122, 123 Americanization of idiomatic expressions 177 Americanization of lexis 104, 105, 116 Americanization of vocatives 177 information-packaging 143, 200 micro-level editing 44 substitution with superordinate 107 transcultural substitution 111 Baines, P.  64, 79 Baker, M.  17, 27, 54, 55, 98, 99, 164, 170 Barzun, J.  50 base layer 62–3 Bassnett, S.  21, 23 Bassnett, S. and Lefevere, A.  4, 17 Batchelor, K.  59, 207 Bateman, J. A. 9, 62, 63, 71, 87, 92 Bateman, J. A. and Delin J. L. 63 Bateman, J. A., Delin, J. L. and Henschel, R. 63 Becher, V.  56 Bednarek, M.  27 Bell, A., Ensslin, A., Van der Bom, I. and Smith, J.  27 Belle, M. A. and Hosington, B. M. 31 Benjamin, W.  6, 7, 14

246 Berk Albachten, Ö. 3, 14, 15, 17, 18 Berman, A.  50, 111, 168, 171 Bernardini, S. and Ferraresi, A.  54 Bernstein, T. M. 142 Biber, D.  155 Biel, L. 62 Bielsa, E. and Bassnett, S.  52, 53 Birke, D. and Christ, B.  58 Bisaillon, J.  46 Bisiada, M.  56, 154, 206 Black, E.  28, 182 Blackberry Wine. See Harris, J. Blum-Kulka, S.  55 blurbs 57, 66. See also endorsements authorial 67 editorial 70, 84, 86, 173, 203, 208 Boase-Beier, J.  5, 9, 25, 28 Bohmann, A. and Schultz, P.  153 Bolinger, D.  142 book cover designer 65, 87 book covers, 64. See also blurbs, endorsements, book titles and individual works back cover 66–7, 70, 173, 208 branding 65–6, 71, 78, 94 design 64, 87, 94 front cover 38, 66–7 illustrations 70–1, 73–6, 78, 79–82, 84 book history 8, 30, 31 book size 2, 71, 78 book titles 2, 57, 73, 208 American vs British 67–70, 84 colour 78, 79 functions 68–9 size 65, 79 Booth, W. C. 30, 172 Bornstein, G.  6, 59 Bosseaux, C.  9, 28, 170, 172 Brave New World. See Huxley, A. Breivik, L. E. and Swan, T.  142 Brick Lane. See Ali, M. Bridget Jones. See Fielding, H. Bringhurst, R.  98 Brisset, A.  27 Broadhead, A.  27 Bruyère, C. and Cachin M.-F. 4 Bryant, J. L. 59 Bryson, B.  67 Down Under 48 humour 103, 108

Index In a Sunburned Country 69, 104 addition 103 Americanization of grammar 122 Americanization of lexis 105 Americanization of spelling 101 explicitation 149 punctuation 48 substitution 109, 110 transcultural substitution 112 voice 191–2 Notes from a Small Island 40 abbreviations 147 addition 103, 194 Americanization of grammar 127 deictics 193 explicitation 150 glossary 174 humour 174 omission 113 specification, 102 substitution 108–9 substitution with superordinate 107, 108 transcultural substitution 112 Road to Little Dribbling, The 38, 140 addition 103 Americanization of lexis 104, 105 existential there 141 explicitation 148, 150 omission 113 specification 102 stylistic editing 139 substitution with superordinate 107 travelogues 4, 112, 140, 191–4, 205 first-person narrative 191 voice 192 Bühler, K.  14 Burrough-Boenisch, J.  50 Busse, B.  62 Butcher, J., Drake, C. and Leach, M.  137 Buzelin, H.  170 Cachin, M.-F. 4 Cahill, T.  35 Cameron, D.  136, 138, 162 capitalization 2, 61, 73, 76. See also italics, style guides iconic meaning 183, 185 Carter, R.  209 Catford, J.  21, 23, 26, 99

Index Chan, L.  27 Chapman, S. and Clark, B.  28 Charreyre, C. 130 Chatman, S. 30, 172 Cheesman, T. and Nohl, A. M. 53 Cheshire, J.  142, 198 Chesterman, A.  24, 52, 55, 99, 201, 208 Chiaro, D.  28 Chiaro, D. Heiss, C. and Bucaria, C.  60 Chicago Manual of Style 44, 48, 134, 145, 157, 183 Child in Time, The. See McEwan, I. children’s literature 4, 5, 19, 20, 42, 68, 88, 111, 121, 149, 157, 160, 164, 174, 178–9  clarity 137, 138, 140, 142, 144–62 Clinton, W.  138 Clover, P. Sheltie, the Shetland Pony 105 Cmiel, K.  138 Coetzee, J. M. 42, 97, 134 Color of Magic, The. See Pratchett, T. Comfort of Strangers, The. See McEwan, I. communication model 6, 10, 14, 15, 30, 31, 58 concision 129, 137 effects of 140, 200 stylistic 139–40 conjunction 126, 199 consistency 46, 136–8, 152, 162 constraints 4, 29, 70, 167 canvas 63 consumption 63 genre 62, 64 production 63 stylistic 4, 9, 30 Cook, C. K. 138 copy editors 36–8, 104, 125, 150, 154, 155, 159, 182, 204 American vs British, 144, 149, 153, 157 and clarification 146, 152 role 4, 43 and standardization 162 style guides 134 stylistic prescriptivism 166 vs translators 209 usage guides 133, 137, 165 voice 173 Coste, D.  192 Crace, J.  87, 154

247

crime fiction 67, 68, 71, 73, 76–7,  79, 92 critical discourse analysis 27 Cronin, B. and La Barre, K.  66 Crystal, D.  99, 116, 123, 164 Culler, J.  26 culture-specific terms 99–100, 106–8, 115, 146 Curtis, R.  37, 39 Curzan, A.  142, 153, 165, 166 Cutts, M.  137 da Silva, G.  36 Dam-Jensen, H. and Heine, C.  24, 56 Daniels, L.  65 Darnton, R.  6, 31 Davies, E. E. 99, 100 Davies, J. M. 51 Davis, K.  16 Death Is Now My Neighbour/Neighbor. See Dexter, C. deictic shift 4, 11, 70, 185, 193 deixis 28 categories 185–6 textual 186, 195–7 verbal 185, 188–9 Delabastita, D.  17 Delin, J. L. and Bateman, J. A. 87 Denton, J.  4 Derrida, J.  15, 169–70 Desrochers, N. and Apollon, D.  58 Dessauer, J. P. 5, 41 determiners 124–5, 131, 163, 175, 193 Dexter, C.  79 Death is Now My Neighbor 78 Remorseful Day, The Americanization of grammar 127 Dexter, R. and Carr, N.  69 diamesic intralingual translation 19 diaphasic intralingual translation 19, 20 Diaz Cintas, J. and Remael, A.  28 Dicerto, S. 7, 28, 60 diglossic intralingual translation 19 direct translation 68, 100, 104–6, 115 domestication 24, 100, 112, 133, 171, 200, 204–5. See also foreignization Dora Bruder. See Modiano, P. Dow Adams, P. and Tickle, A.  157 Down Under. See Bryson, B. Drew, N. and Steinberger, P.  64

248 Dreyer, B.  52 140 Drucker, J.  60 Eco, U.  15, 31, 60 edited English 17, 97, 98, 152–4, 165, 204, 207, 209 AmE vs BrE practices 171 changes 4, 8, 16, 50, 175 editing 205. See also transediting and interpretation 31 levels of 37, 43–50 translation universals 56 editors 5, 10, 30, 34, 36–8 American vs British 5 and authors 5, 35, 38–42, 172 communication model 30, 31 invisibility 7, 36, 50 prescriptivist role 8 and readers 6, 9, 42 risk aversion 55 standardization 162, 165, 178 vs translators 50–2, 119 voice 174, 190 Einsohn, A.  43, 133, 135, 137, 142, 147 ellipsis 45, 129. See also omission ellipsis points. See punctuation Emmott, C.  148, 151, 152, 184 Empire of the Wolves. See J.-C. Grangé endorsements 79 American vs British 66, 70, 78 English, J. F. and Frow, J.  65 epitext 58 equivalence 21, 23, 41, 99 Erades, P. A. 141 Espindola, E.  99 ethics 29, 55, 138, 208 Even-Zohar, I, 165, 205 explicitation. See translation universals expressivity, 11, 177–8 Fairclough, N.  27 Favilla, E. J. 134 Fawcett, P.  51 Federici, F. M. 176 Fielding, H. Bridget Jones The Edge of Reason, 209 addition, 102 omission, 113, 114, 167 stylistic prescriptivism 167 substitution, 107, 109, 110

Index substitution with superordinate, 107 transcultural substitution, 112 Bridget Jones’s Diary, 111 Fine, A. Flour Babies Americanization of grammar 123 Americanization of idiomatic expressions 178 Americanization of lexis 105, 106 Americanization of vocatives 177 book cover 79–82 sociolect 178–9  stylistic editing 139 substitution 113 first-person narrative 189, 195 Fisher, J. L. 60, 87 Fleshmarket Alley/Fleshmarket Close. See Rankin, I. Flour Babies. See Fine, A. Flowers in the Rain. See Pilcher, R. Fludernik, M. 172, 176 focalization 172 Fogelman, P. 42 Follett, W.  135 fonts 19, 63, 71, 73, 76. See also typeface author’s name 65 character 21, 90 choice 69, 88 colour 78 romance fiction 71 sans serif 76 serif 73, 76, 90 size 62, 73 footnotes 62, 86, 173–4 voice 170, 173 foregrounding 135, 163, 197, 198–9 and deixis 186, 195 and voice, 170 foreignization 100 degrees of 204, 205 vs domestication 24, 99, 100, 133, 171 Forest Therapy. See Ivens, S. Fowler, H. W. 135, 142, 153 Fowler, R.  172 frame 33, 148, 184 Fraser, T. and Joly, A.  185, 196 Freeman, D. C. 26 Friend, C. and Challenger, D.  150 front cover. See book covers

Index Gambier, Y.  27 Garner, B. A. 140, 142, 145, 166 Gavins, J. and Steen, G.  28 gender 27, 82, 166, 167, 208 generalization 106–8. See also superordinate Genette,G. 1, 9, 10, 57–60, 63–9, 91, 172, 206 Genre and Multimodality (GeM) model 62, 63, 87 Gentzler, E.  27, 205 Gibbons, A.  60 Gilman, E. W. 121, 123, 124, 129, 139, 142 Ginna, P.  36, 50 globalization 16, 53, 209 glossaries 2, 84, 170, 173, 174–5, 193 Goodnight Mr. Tom. See Magorian, M. Göpferich, S.  24, 207 Gottlieb, H.  4, 10, 19–20 Gottlieb, R.  39, 41 grammar Americanization 115–32 dialect 179 value judgements 137 visual (see Kress, G. and van Leeuwen, T.) Grangé, J.-C. Empire of the Wolves, The abbreviations 147 Americanization of grammar 122, 123, 127 Americanization of vocatives 177  deixis 196 information packaging, 200 italics 90, 183, 184 layout 92, 93 pronouns 187, 188 removal of direct speech 181 stylistic editing 44, 45, 150 Greenall, A. K. 170 Greenall, A. K. et al. 208 Greenbaum, S.  116 Greenberg, S. L. 5, 50, 51, 138 Gregoriou, C.  172 Grishakova, M.  172 Grivel, C.  67 Gross, G.  2, 5, 41, 42 Gutjahr, P. C. and Benton, M. L. 61 Halliday, M. A. K.  26, 115 systemic functional grammar (SFG) 61, 63, 87

249

Halverson, S. L. 28 Hargraves, O.  101, 104, 117, 121, 124, 153, 177–8 Harris, J. Blackberry Wine. See also voice Americanization of grammar 122, 123 Americanization of spelling 101 information-packaging 199 narrator 189–90 omission 113, 205 Harris, R.  30, 58 Harris, R. A. 138 Harvey, K.  27, 60, 207 Hatim, B. and Mason I.  62 Hayles, N. K. 59 Heacock, P. and Cassidy, C.-J. 98, 153 Heffer, S.  136, 137, 142, 165 Hemmungs-Wirtén, E.  53 Henry, A. C. 49 Herman, D.  187 Hermans, T.  5, 14, 17, 30, 41, 169, 170, 176 Hervey, S. and Higgins, I.  24, 100, 130 Hewson, L.  9, 14, 25, 28, 32–3, 170, 172 Hiippala, T.  63, 87, 88 Hill, R. On Beulah Height 2, 78 Americanization of lexis 106 author’s name 65, 73 crime genre 73 dialect 106, 181 endorsements 66 voice 182 Dalziel and Pascoe series 111 Death of Dalziel layout 93 Hill, B. and Power, D. 38 Hill-Madsen, A.  3, 4, 10, 17, 20, 21, 117, 204, 207 Hinrichs, L., Szmrecsanyi, B. and Bohmann, A.  153 Hirtle, W. H. 128 Hodson, J.  27, 179, 185 Hoek, L.  67, 69 Holmes, J.  13 Holocaust fiction 84, 86 Hoover Thomas, J.  42 House, J.  56, 62 Howard, G.  35

250

Index

Huddleston, R.  154 Huddleston, R. and Pullum, G.  144, 195, 198 humour 67, 70, 107, 113, 174 Hursti, K.  53 Hutcheon, L.  23, 24 Huxley, A. Brave New World 130 Americanization of grammar 127 Hyland, A. Moonlight Downs 2, 66 iconic meaning 90 ideology 52, 165, 179 idiolect 176, 191 illustrations 91, 203. See also book covers AmE vs BrE editions 2, 175 analysis of 87–9 and paratext 58 implied reader 30, 31, 174, 192 implied translator 30, 31, 170 In a Sunburned Country. See Bryson, B. In His Arms. See Laurens, C. information-packaging 198–200 interpellation 32–3, 94, 205 italics 93, 100, 183 vs capital letters 90, 183 Chicago Manual of Style, The 183 vs italics, 185 and voice 182, 183 Ivens, S. Forest Therapy 203, 205 Americanization of lexis 105, 116 cultural substitution 106, 115 transcultural substitution 112 Jakobson, R.  3, 9–11, 13–17, 20–1, 24, 26, 30, 60, 192, 206, 207 Jansen, H. and Wegener, A.  170 Jeffries, L.  27, 189 Jeffries, L. and McIntyre, D.  26, 27 Jewitt, C., Bezemer, J. and O’Halloran, K.  61 Joyce, R. Love Song of Queenie Hennessy, The book cover, 71 Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, The 2 book cover 71–2 illustrations 88 maps 89 typeface 71, 89

Kajzer-Wietrzny, M.  3, 18 Kane, T. S. 139, 143 Keneally, T. Schindler’s List Americanization of German lexis 146 Americanization of grammar 120, 122, 123 Americanization of idiomatic expressions 177 Americanization of lexis 104, 105, 106 Americanization of spelling 101 content editing 45, 46 determiners 125 existential there 141 explicitation 147–9, 151–2, 154 micro-level editing 43, 44 omission 147 passive voice 143 photographs 2 punctuation 48 stylistic editing 44, 45, 139, 140, 162–4 stylistic prescriptivism 166 voice 182 Kenny, D.  27, 56 King-Smith, D. A Mouse Called Wolf 122, 124 Americanization of word order 126 illustrations 175 layout 93 stylistic editing 139 Klausser, H. A. 142 Knopf, A. A. 5, 35, 39, 65 Kong, C. C. 63, 87 Koster, C.  9 Kress, G.  7 Kress, G. and van Leeuwen, T.  7, 61, 62, 63, 87 Kruger, H.  56, 133, 154 Kruger, H. and van Rooy, B.  55, 164 Lakoff, G.  141 Lang, B.  84, 138 Lanser, S.  172 Lanstyák, I. and P. Heltai, 56 Lapaire, J.-R. and Rotgé, W.  196 Laurens, C. In His Arms

Index Americanization of lexis, 106 Americanization of word order, 126 Laviosa, S.  55 Laviosa-Braithwaite, S.  55 layout 62, 71, 79, 88, 92, 93 Lecercle, J.-J. 6, 10, 31–3, 51, 65, 94, 205 Lederer, M.  27 Lederer, M. and Dowis, R.  137 Leech, G.  26 Leech, G. and Short, M.  25, 185 Lefevere, A.  52, 54 Legat, M.  5, 37 Lennard, J.  46, 49 Leppihalme, R.  99, 100 Lerner, B.  7, 38, 39, 40, 67 Liberman, M.  153, 154 Life and Loves of a She Devil, The. See Weldon, F. Lin, B.  28 Lively, P.  40 Americanization 40 Debbie and the Little Devil 149 How It All Began 59 Lodge, D.  69, 70 logico-semantic relations 87 Longinović, T. Z. 15 Lörscher, W.  99 Lost Child of Philomena Lee, The. See Sixsmith, M. Love Song of Queenie Hennessy, The. See Joyce, R. Lovinger, P. W. 136 Lucas, F. L. 136 Luke, J. A. 60 MacFarquhar, L.  41 Machin, D.  89 Mackenzie, J.  51 Macrae, A.  186, 195 Magorian, M. Goodnight Mister Tom Americanization of spelling 68 passive voice 143 Mahlberg, M.  8, 27, 29 Maid of the White Hands, The. See Miles, R. Maksymski, K.  24 Malmkjær, K.  9, 24, 25, 27–9, 55, 207 Mann, W. C. and Thompson, S. A. 87

251

Map that Changed the World, The. See Winchester, S. maps 84, 86, 89, 208 Maronitis, D. N. 17, 18 Marsh, D.  136 Martinec, R. and Salway, A.  87 Mason, I and Serban, A. 193, 204 material text 6–7, 8, 10, 21, 34, 57, 58, 60, 63, 64, 86, 91, 94–5, 175, 186, 205 Matthews, N. and Moody, N.  64, 87 Max, D. T. 39 May, R.  25 McArthur, T.  135 McEwan, I.  4, 5, 36, 38, 39, 208 Amsterdam 207 Americanization of grammar 127 Americanization of lexis 116 existential there 198–9 explicitation 151 modification of tenses 155–6, 197 modification of voice 187–8 pronouns 151 punctuation 47, 144, 145 Child in Time, The 152, 154 Americanization 40 existential there 141 explicitation 149 Comfort of Strangers, The Americanization of grammar 123, 124 Americanization of spelling 101 stylistic prescriptivism 166 relative clauses 209 McGann, J.  6, 15, 32, 59, 91 McHale, B.  176 McIntyre, D.  26, 27, 172, 186 McIntyre, D. and Lugea, J.  17 McIntyre, D. and Walker, B.  27 McKenzie, D. F. 6, 32 Mendelsund, P.  87 Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary 133 Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage 166 Merriam-Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary 134 Meyer, B.  17 Miles, R. Maid of the White Hands (The) 101 Americanization of grammar 122

252 Americanization of spelling 101 Miller, N.  36, 37 Mills, S.  27 Milroy, J. and Milroy, L.  116, 136, 137, 162, 179 mind-style 172 MLA Handbook, The 134 mode 19, 61 non-verbal 7, 205, 210 verbal 210 Modiano, P. Dora Bruder 84 blurb 86 book cover 84 footnotes 86 genre 94, 203, 208 maps 86 photographs 86 title 84 modulation. See translation procedures Montoro R.  27, 60, 71 Moonlight Downs. See Hyland, A. Moore, M. D., Corder, J. W. and Ruszkiewicz, J. J. 165 Morini, M.  28 Mossop, B. 16–17, 27, 42, 43–6, 50, 51, 52– 3, 55, 60, 135, 137, 138, 162–3, 205 Mouse Called Wolf, A. See King-Smith, D. Moving Pictures. See Pratchett, T. Mullany, L.  27 multiple translatorship 170 Munday, J.  9, 17, 24, 25, 27, 35, 99, 170 Mutesayire, M.  54 Nedergaard-Larsen, B.  99, 100, 104 Nel, P.  4, 106 Nergaard, S.  206 Newmark, P.  99, 100, 104 Nida, E. A. 99 Nida, E. A. and Taber, C.  23, 25 Nisbeth-Jansen, H. and Wegener, A.  17 Nord, C.  21, 68–9, 99 Nørgaard, N.  7, 9, 27, 59–64, 66, 89–90 Normal People. See Rooney, S. normalization. See translation universals norms 30, 55, 207 editing 46, 49, 207 genre 70 ideological 17 sociocultural 9, 63

Index stylistic 138, 205 translational 29, 165 Norris, M.  134 Notes from a Small Island. See Bryson, B. nouns. See also transposition, pronouns compound, 127–8, 131, 140, 162 mass vs count 119, 120 proper 102, 104, 111, 114, 151, 152, 187 singular vs plural 120 Nowak, H.  4, 5 Nuttall, L.  27 O’Connor, P.  154 O’Sullivan, C.  60, 170 O’Sullivan, C. and Jeffcote, C.  60 O’Sullivan, E.  30, 31, 170 Ochs, E.  140 Oittinen, R.  205 Olohan, M.  27, 54 Olohan, M. and Baker, M.  54, 154 omission. See translation procedures On Beulah Height. See Hill, R. Other People’s Children. See Trollope, J. Øverås, L.  56 Page, N.  176 Palmer, R.  137 Pápai, V.  56 paragraph. See layout, navigational layer parallel structures 162–4, 199 paraphrase 100, 103, 106 paratext. See also epitext, peritext definition 57–8 editorial voice 173 functional features 58 instability 59 multimodality 9, 11, 58–60, 62 temporal perspective 59 translator’s voice 170 Parkes, M. B. 47 Parks, T.  25, 28 passive voice 132, 142–3 Pedersen, J.  99, 100, 102, 106, 112, 115, 204–5 Pellatt, V.  60 Pereira, N.  23, 205 peritext 58 definition 58 inner 86, 87 (see also illustrations, typeface, navigational layer)

Index inner vs outer 64 outer, 64 (see also book covers, book titles, blurbs) Peters, P. 135, 136 Peters, P. and Young, W.  135, 136 Petrilli, S.  19 photographs 2, 63. See also Modiano, Keneally Pilcher, R.  157 Flowers in the Rain, 158 Americanization of lexis, 105 modification of tenses 157–9 Pillière, 4, 118, 135, 137, 143, 153, 155, 175 Pinchefsky, C.  78 Pinker, S.  142 Plain English 17, 138 point of view 11, 28, 70, 119, 125, 128, 130–2, 160, 162, 172, 187, 192 political correctness 166–7 Pony on the Porch, The. See Baglio, B. M.  postposing 198, 199 Powers, A.  64 pragmatics 6, 26, 28, 31, 52, 58, 141, 142, 152 Pratchett, T. Color of Magic, The 68 Moving Pictures 127 prefaces 57, 170 prepositions 121, 123–4, 139–40, 149 around vs round 123 Professor and the Madman, The. See Winchester, S. pronouns 197 case following gerund 135 case following than 165–6 each other vs one another 166 point of view 48, 151 political correctness 166–7 relative 116, 203 (see also restrictive relative clauses) replacement by nouns 150–2 shift in voice 187–9, 191–3 singular they 134–5 Pullman, P. Northern Lights 88 Pullum, G.  142, 144, 154, 195, 198 punctuation American vs British 98 changes 47–9, 203 colon 49

253

commas 49, 100, 146 ellipsis point 48–9 roles of 46–7 voice 185 Puurtinen, T.  56 Pym, A.  16, 55–6, 148, 150, 165, 204, 208 Quinion, M.  4, 110 Quirk, R., Greenbaum, S., Leech, G., Svartvik, J.  48, 143, 157 Radosh, D.  4 Ramos Pinto, S.  176 Rankin, I. author branding 78 author’s name 65 author’s photograph 67 Fleshmarket Alley Americanization of grammar 122 Americanization of lexis 106 blurb 67 choice of title 69 Fleshmarket Close blurb 67 title change 68 Ray, A.  65 readability 17, 37, 46, 138, 162 Reddy, M.  15 Redelinghuys, K.  164 register 19, 27, 121, 140, 164, 166, 178, 188 Reiss, K.  21, 62 Remorseful Day, The. See Dexter, C. Rennison, L. Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging 174 repetition 4, 29, 55 restrictive relative clauses 135, 144, punctuation 144 which vs that 152–4, 209 rhetorical layer 62 Rhetorical Structure Theory 62, 87, 174 rhythm 93, 140, 154, 168, 200 Richardson, K.  28 Riffaterre, M.  26 risk aversion 55, 148, 149, 150, 165, 204 River at the Center of the World, The. See Winchester, S. Road to Little Dribbling, The. See Bryson, B.

254

Index

Robinson, D.  99 romance fiction 71 Rooney, S. Normal People 165 Roth, P.  157, 161 Rowling, J. K. 4, 5, 36 author’s name 65 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire Americanization of lexis 105 corrections 46 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince Americanization of grammar 20, 122–4 Americanization of lexis 105 fonts, 21, 90 modification of tenses 157, 159–62 stylistic editing 139 typefaces 90 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Americanization of grammar 120, 123, 126 Americanization of lexis 106 transcultural substitution 111 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone Americanization of grammar 20, 122 Americanization of idiomatic expressions 177 Americanization of lexis 98, 105, 106, 110 standardization of dialect 180 substitution with superordinate 107 voice 186 Harry Potter series illustrations 88 Royce, T. D. 87 Royle, J., Cooper, L. and Stockdale, R.  65 Sadokierski, Z.  61 Saldanha, G.  28 Sale, F.  39 Saller, C.  37, 43, 134 Sanders, J.  23 Sasaki, M.  142 Schäffner, C.  52 Schiavi, G, 30 Schindler’s Ark/List. See Keneally, T. Schmid, B.  22, 53, 207 Schmid, S. 53 Schneider, E. W. 116 Schrijver, I.  22, 24 Schuster, M. L. 38

Scott, N. 165 Search Warrant, The. See Modiano, P. Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 ¾, The. See Townsend, S. Séguinot, C.  144 Shannon, C. E. and Weaver, W.  14 Sharpe, L. T. and Gunther, I.  37, 51, 133, 141, 142, 153, 162, 172 Sheltie, the Shetland Pony. See Clover, P. Shillingsburg, P. L. 6, 15, 34, 41, 59 Shipton, R.  36 Shlesinger, M.  55 Shuttleworth, M. and Cowie, M.  24 Sidiropoulou, M.  24 Silbersack, J. W. 146 Simon, S.  27, 208 Simplification. See translation universals Simpson, P.  26, 185, 195, 208 Sixsmith, M. Lost Child of Philomena Lee, The blurb 70 capitalization 185 skopos 21, 23 Smith, Z. White Teeth 66 Americanization of grammar 122 Americanization of lexis 105 substitution with superordinate 107 Smyth, P.  58 Snell-Hornby, M.  27 sociolect, 16, 178–9, 200 Sonzogni, M.  60 Sotirova, V.  27 speech presentation, 177–81. See also typeface, voice direct 176, 195 free direct 181 free indirect 28, 128 indirect 181 Squires, C.  62, 64, 65, 66 Stainton, E.  136, 140, 146 standard English 19, 116, 154, 179, 180 standardization 4, 47, 55, 68, 135, 154, 162, 178 Staples et al. 154, 155 Stecconi, U.  60 Steiner, G.  18, 21, 23, 207 Sternberg, M.  176 Stetting, K.  6, 24, 52 Stillinger, J.  170 Stockwell, P.  28, 186

Index Straaijer, R.  135 Straus, P.  73 Strunk Jr., W. and White, E. B. 136, 141–2, 153 Sturrock, J.  15 style guides 46, 134, 157. See also usage guides capitalization 134, 183 grammar 135 italics 182 prescriptivism 117, 129, 161, 132 punctuation 43, 134 register 136 standardization, 162 stylistic prescriptivism 166–7 substitution. See translation procedures superordinate 100, 106–7 Svartvik, J.  116 Swales, J. M. 62 Sword, H. 138 syntax 29, 36, 43, 144, 152–5 Tabakowska, E.  28 Taboada, M. and Habel, C.  87, 88 Tahir-Gürçağlar, S.  60 Tedlock, D.  25 Thacker, R.  172 that complementizer 54, 154–5 there is/there was existential there 140–2, 198–9 Thomas, M.  63 Thompson, J. B. 5 thought presentation 182–9 free direct 197 free indirect 151, 187 Tieken-Boon van Ostade, I.  135 Tirkkonen-Condit, S.  55 Tirkkonen-Condit, S. and Jääskeläinen, R.  28 Toolan, M.  28, 29, 179, 185 Tottie, G.  117, 121, 124 Toury, 8, 14, 15, 16, 19, 22, 55, 60 Townsend, S. Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 ¾, The 174 transediting 52–4, 206 translation procedures 11, 99, 115, 118–19, 168, 204, 205 addition 18, 23, 103, 148, 193, 205 modulation 99, 119–20, 129, 130, 132, 144, 204, 205

255

official equivalents 115–16 omission 2, 18, 23, 100, 113–15 transposition 23, 99, 119–20, 126–7, 129, 130, 132, 204, 205 translation universals 55, 144, 154 explicitation 18, 20, 23, 54–6, 144, 148, 154, 205 levelling 54, 56, 164 normalization, 54, 56, 165–6, 179, 204 simplification 15, 54, 55, 56 transposition. See translation procedures travelogues. See Bryson, B. Trollope, J. Other People’s Children punctuation 97 Trosberg, A.  62 Turnbull, S. Almost French 66, 67, 147 Americanization of lexis 116 Tymoczko, M.  24, 207, 208 Tymoczko, M. and Gentzler, E.  27 typeface 6, 60, 71, 79, 89–90, 203 handwritten 61, 93 and voice 182, 185 typography. See typeface Ulrych, M. and Murphy, A. C. 54, 56 Universals. See translation universals Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, The. See Joyce, R. usage guides 116, 121, 133. See also concision, clarity, existential there, passive voice, restrictive relative clauses American vs British 136–7 as an authority 135, 138, 140, 143 grammar 135, 165 political correctness, 166 prescriptivism 137, 166 register 136 Uspensky, B.  172 Valdéon, R.  53 van Dijk, T. A. and Kintsch, W.  32 van Doorslaer, L.  53 van Leeuwen, T.  89 van Meerbergen, S.  60 van Poucke, P.  204, 205 Vandevoorde, L.  164 Ventola, E.  60

256 Venuti, L.  5, 7, 23, 26, 41, 50, 99, 100, 133, 169, 171, 201 Verbs 120–2. See also active voice, deixis, passive voice backshifting 151, 181, 185, 197 compound predicates 145–6 expanded predicates 139 gotten 2, 121, 122 have got 98, 117, 121 participles 120, 127, 130, 135, 149 tenses 155 past perfect vs simple past 155–62 present 181, 197 rationalization 181, 197 Vermeer, H.  21 Vice, S.  84 Viezzi, M.  67, 68, 69, 70 Vinay, J.-P. and Darbelnet, J.  26, 99, 119, 129, 132, 205 Wagoner, E. A. 60 Wales, K.  25, 26, 171, 172 Waller, R. H. W.  63 Watts, R.  27, 59, 60, 64 Waxman, M. L. 37, 43 Wechsler, M. L. 50 Weiner, E.  135 Weldon, F. Life and Loves of a She-Devil, The Americanization of lexis 105, 116 transcultural substitution 111 which vs that. See restrictive relative clauses Whitehead, J.  4, 5, 111 Whiteley, S. and Canning, P. 27 White Teeth. See Smith, Z. Whyatt, B. 3, 18 Whyatt, B., Stachowiak, K. and KajzerWietrzny, M. 18 Wilbers, S.  154 Wilde, O.  13 Williams, A. D. 38 Williams, D. A. 54 Williams, J. M. and Bizup, J.  136 Wilson, K. G. 165 Wimsatt, W. K. and Beardsley, M.  26 Winchester, S.  66 Map that Changed the World, The 2, 91 Americanization of grammar 120, 123, 127

Index Americanization of punctuation 97, 98 Americanization of spelling 101 existential there 141, 142 explicitation 147 footnotes 173–4 illustrations 175 political correctness 166, 167 rationalization of tenses 181 structural editing 45 stylistic editing 139, 140, 162, 163 Professor and the Madman, The 102 Americanization of grammar 120, 122–4, 126, 127 Americanization of word order 126 Americanization of punctuation 98 chapter headings 91 choice of typeface 90 deixis 195, 196 existential there 141 explicitation 91, 149 French translation 209 genre 94, 208 modification of tenses 155 omission 114 photographs 2 punctuation 145, 146 specification 102 stylistic editing 139 stylistic prescriptivism 167, 176 textual inconsistencies 175 River at the Center of the World, The, 131 Winters, M.  27 Witte, G.  37, 39, 42, 43, 44 Wolf, M.  54 word order 126, 142, 163, 204. See also Laurens, Smith, Winchester and information-packaging wordiness 136, 140 Wyrick, J.  137 Yagelski, R. A. 137 York, L. M. 36 Zanettin, F.  55 Zethsen, K. 3, 4, 10, 17, 18–19, 22–4, 54, 204, 207 Zinsser, W.  137, 138, 142 Zubin, D. A. and Hewitt, L. E. 185