It came to me when I was writing about snow…

Manon Steffan Ros

It came to me when I was writing about snow. 

Translating, to be precise. My own novel, Blasu, a saga touching on Welshness, history, mental health and the comfort and complexities of food. It had been warmly received in Cymru – or Wales, as you may know it – in the Cymraeg language, and now, some years after its publication, I was taking on the daunting task of translating it into English. It was to be called The Seasoning, and would be my first foray into the world of publishing outside Cymru.

I had been writing novels in Cymraeg for some years, ranging from children’s picture books to 80,000 word novels for adults, and most things in between. The joy and thrill of doing such a seemingly frivolous thing for a living was, and remains, a great honour. Telling stories – making things up, if you strip it down to its bones! And now, I was being given a new toy to play with – my second language, English, with all its glorious oddities and wonders. 

I came to a sentence in the novel, which in Cymraeg read as, ‘Mae’n pluo’. My fingers paused above the keyboard, the rhythm of my typing silenced. 

I was stilled by the sudden realisation that my mother tongue is indescribably lovely. 

I was trying to say that it had started to snow; the first flutterings were falling. The literal translation from Cymraeg would be, ‘It’s feathering’. It’s such a wonderful image, so full of softness and silence, and I had never considered it before then.

Using the words of two languages to tell stories throws up these nuggets of joy all the time. The English language, too, is peppered with turns of phrase, quirks, wonders that give me a true thrill. I am privileged; I have two languages, and both feel like mine to play with, to delight in, to love. Having both somehow allows me to examine one from the perspective of the other, and explore the way they convey love and despair and joy differently, beautifully. 

Let me tell you about one of my favourite books. 

It starts with children playing a game, a simple, familiar game of hide and seek. Then, a flash of magic, meaning that our hero, the protagonist, transforms into a mountain. His body houses entire communities, and time becomes warped – the still, silent boy-mountain watches the evolution of culture and humanity, without ever being able to take part or interrupt. It is a children’s book, I think, but I didn’t read it until I was in my late thirties. It made me cry, the story sinking into my bones, and made me feel like part of the landscape which holds me. It is one of those rare books that seem to have their own current, their own energy. I don’t mean it lightly when I say that I love this book. 

The vast majority of readers will never be able to read it. The book is called Tir y Dyneddon (Land of Men) by E. Tegla Davies. It was published in 1921, and it is written in Cymraeg – the Welsh language – and is, thus far, untranslated. I am sorry to those of you who aren’t able to access this book, because it really is quite as wonderful as it sounds. 

And of course, there are all the rest.

Cymru – or Wales- is rich in land and language and literature. In the last few years, when I’ve ventured outside the boundaries of the Cymraeg literary scene with my own translated books, I’ve been consistently surprised by the lack of awareness of this fact. Reactions range ‘from People actually speak Welsh?’ to ‘Do you mean Welsh as in Under Milk Wood?’ No, Under Milk Wood was, of course, written in English, and yes, many of us speak, write, argue, tweet, raise our children, fall in love and write books in Cymraeg. Not in order to make a political point, not as an act of rebellion against the English language, not for any reason other than it is what comes naturally. We stand on the shoulders of generations of great writers and brilliant poets. 

The Cymraeg literary scene moves in its own direction, independent of publishing trends set in other countries. And there is something great that comes out of cultural participation in a minority language. Fewer books are published in Cymraeg than there are in English, naturally, given the numbers of speakers. So those who are in the practice of reading Welsh books do not have the luxury of sticking to the genres that appeal to them most; there just aren’t enough. And so those that read books in Cymraeg tend to read almost everything that’s published in the language, just to have enough reading material. We all read the YA novels and the collections of short stories, the heavy tomes of literary historical fiction and autobiographies of rugby players. Fairy stories and novels of violence and gore. It breeds an open-mindedness, this forced imbibing of books that are outside your comfort zone. 

Similarly, authors are not pigeonholed in the same way as they are in English – no-one has passed a single comment on the fact that I have written books on numeracy for 4-year-olds; family sagas about love and passion and sensuality; YA novels; short stories about ageing and comedic flash fiction. We are positively encouraged to experiment with our creative voice. 

Unfortunately, the English language publishing world seems to approach translations with great suspicion; more so if they are Cymraeg, perhaps. In fact, any nod towards Welsh culture, or even a book set in Cymru, is deemed to be unmarketable. There are many, many stories about authors offered book deals by London-based publishers on the proviso that they change the setting from Cymru to another, more palateable location, always somewhere in England. 

When my own book, The Blue Book of Nebo, a novel that I myself translated from the original Cymraeg, won the Yoto Carnegie Medal for Writing in 2023, I was aware that there was a certain measure of astonishment that a book not only set in Cymru, but also a celebration of Cymraeg culture, had succeeded. Someone remarked that it was clever of me, using Welshness as my USP – it was a gamble, but it paid off! Needless to say, I do not consider my mother tongue nor my culture as tools with which I can exploit the literary market. It simply is my life, the most effective tool I have to convey my thoughts and stories. 

Llyfr Glas Nebo, as it was originally titled, has now been translated into twelve languages; I only speak two. Every now and again, I will have the pleasure of receiving a copy of my own book through the post in a language I cannot read. It has my name on it, but I can’t understand any of the other words. It is my story, but it has its own traction now, which is a great thrill and a true privilege. Whenever I receive one of these books, I have exactly the same routine. I flick to the back of the book, about eighty percent of the way through, and I’ll find a quote. I can always tell that I’ve found the right one because the name of the poet – T.H. Parry Williams – is included. I spend time looking at it, examining the words and his name, and it always thrills me immeasurably. T.H.Parry Williams was one of Cymru’s most beloved poets and essayists, and his work is sensitive, tender and full of soul. I have never come across such sincerity and brilliance in any other writer, and I always get a deep sense of gratitude and privilege that by quoting him in my book, new readers have the opportunity to learn about him. It is comparable to an English speaker having the chance to introduce new readers to this playwright they’ve never heard of, a man called Shakespeare. 

Every language will have their own T.H. Parry Williams. Their own Shakespeare. There are so many fantastic, brilliant books we haven’t read, so many amazing writers we haven’t heard of yet. Unless the world of publishing becomes more open to the idea of translation, we will miss out on fantastic, moving, important writing.

Books are transformative. They offer insight and perspective into lives and minds unlike ours; they teach us how to empathise, even with those whose experiences seems worlds away from ours. Translated fiction offers so much in regards to this. Every language offers a different perspective on the world, a different life experience, and the books written in those languages enrich our knowledge of those perspectives. Crucially, these books are not written for the English gaze; they are written intimately, honestly, with their own unique words, phrases and idiosyncrasies.  

I look forward very much to a time when translated work is not seen as risky or inherently righteous. When minority languages and cultures are not seen as a quirk, but are shown respect and given the opportunity to be exactly themselves, without the pressure to conform to a tidy, clichéd, marketable package.  

Being raised bilingually has brought me nothing but joy, opportunity and privilege. And translating Welsh literature is a way of sharing some of that privilege, though it will take some time to convince readers to pick up translations without apprehension or dubiousness. Any suspicions readers may have about translated books are unwarranted. Your favourite book might not yet be translated into a language that you understand. 

Works cited

Ros, Manon Steffan (2007). Blasu (The Seasoning). Honno The Welsh Women’s Press

Davies, E. Tegla Davies (1921). Tir y Dyneddon  (Land of Men). WilliamLewis

Ros, Manon Steffan (2018) Llyfr Glas Nebo (The Blue Book of Nebo). Talybont: Y Lolfa

Manon Steffan Ros is a writer, scriptwriter and columnist, working in the Cymraeg and English languages. She has won Wales Book of the Year, the Tir Na N’Og prize for children’s fiction, and the Yoto Carnegie Medal for Writing. She lives with her family in Meirionnydd.