Feature

Lost in the Translation — When Oral Myths Are Written Down
What Is Lost or Gained When Storytelling Becomes a Literary Experience?

by Lorie Boucher

"The Raven snapped up the light in his jaws, thrust his great wings downward and shot through the smokehole of the house into the huge darkness of the world …. The Raven flew on, rejoicing in his wonderful new possession, admiring the effect it had on the world below, revelling in the experience of being able to see where he was going, instead of flying blind and hoping for the best. He was having such a good time that he never saw the Eagle until the Eagle was almost upon him. In a panic he swerved to escape the savage outstretched claws, and so doing he dropped a good half of the light he was carrying. It fell to the rocky ground below and there broke into pieces — one large piece and too many small ones to count. They bounced back into the sky and remain there even today as the moon and the stars that glorify the night."

— Bill Reid, "The Raven Steals the Light," 1996

"The Raven Steals the Light" is one story in a collection of the same name by Bill Reid. Reid dedicates his book to Henry Young of Skidegate, an elder of the west-coast Haidas, and an accomplished storyteller. In his prologue, Reid laments that had he "listened longer and more carefully, we might now be able to tell you the true stories of the Raven and all his fellows, instead of these slight entertainments, mere glancing versions of the grand old tales." Separated in age by sixty years, Reid regrets not having spent as much time with Young as he had requested. If only he had shared those extra moments with Young, repents Reid, the stories in the collection would have been more than "slight entertainments." In truth, had Reid paid closer attention to Young’s tales, memorized more story elements, heard the stories presented repeatedly in different venues, "The Raven" might have been … longer. It would have included more remembered points, perhaps more elaborate descriptions. Yet no amount of time regained could resurrect the Raven’s "true stories" because the act of writing as preservation of the spoken word is faulty, even oxymoronic. Writing and oration are opposite media; attempting to preserve one with the other is inherently flawed. This is not to suggest, however, that the transcription of oral myths is entirely without merit. Without writing them down, these beautiful myths would be forever restricted to a select group of listeners, their wisdom limited to that small group. How are we to reconcile our willingness to preserve the meaning and flavour of the oral story with the simplest means of doing so — writing?

Time and Place — A Severed Link

A myth related orally is tied to a particular time and place; it assumes an importance endowed it by the ceremony of telling, the gathering of individuals to share in an experience. In Aboriginal communities, storytelling is a social event led by revered elders. Listening to a story carries with it a unique sense of occasion — it is special, momentous, and anticipated. And like any experience, it cannot be exactly reproduced. Transcribing myths on paper changes the experience of listening to the experience of reading, and disconnects the myth from a specific set of event circumstances. The myth exists only between the pages of an anthology; it is no longer part of a listener’s experiential memory.

Because it is disconnected from a specific time and place, the written myth is always available. While an oral myth may be heard a handful of times in a listener’s lifetime, the written myth may be accessed upon demand. The accessibility of the written myth may increase the reader’s retention, but diminishes a portion of its intended value. Always available, the story is not eagerly awaited. It is part of the listener’s learning, but not part of his or her experience.

The disconnection of myths from time, place, and ceremony is not entirely negative. In his essay "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (Illuminations, 1969), Walter Benjamin argues that "mechanical reproduction emancipates the work of art from its parasitical dependence on ritual" (Benjamin, 224). Disentangled from its ritualistic roots, the story is free to be art. This dissociation allows the story to assert itself as an organic, separate, and artistic entity — a work of art to be appreciated for its beauty, and not necessarily for its cultural significance, or as an instrument of education. The story becomes literary, a contribution to world literature.

The change of medium transforms the story from an experience to a measurable objet d’art. As a work of literature, the story joins centuries-long theoretical discourses, and is subject to literary theory and criticism. Critical attention expands the story’s appreciation. The weight of its new designation — art — affords it a place on par with other valued and immortalized texts.

The Means of Learning and the Mutability of Meaning

Writing is privileged over speech in most modern societies as the means of formalizing and transmitting knowledge. Until recently, however, oral storytelling maintained its prominence in Canadian Aboriginal communities. Yet the declining number of elders in traditional communities has threatened the continuation of this traditional method of transferring knowledge. As a result, one of the most important ways in which whole communities learn may be threatened. We may, in the very near future, witness a decided shift from auditory to visual learning in traditional communities. Not only will the information presented to new learners be modified and diluted by the change of medium, the manner in which they perceive the world may be affected. A gradual relearning of a society to rely on its eyes and not its ears could take place. The written myth, if taught to the exclusion of oral storytelling, would represent the triumph of writing over speech, of modernism over tradition.

These potential dangers have been recognized and addressed in the Northwest Territories, where stories are part of the provincial curriculum, Inuuqatigiit. Inuuqatigiit, which means "Inuit to Inuit, people to people, living together, or family to family" (Retrieved 16 June 2000, Inuuqatigiit: The Curriculum for the Inuit Perspective ), attempts to preserve the words and wisdom of elders and stresses the importance of "language, culture, traditions and survival skills" (Curriculum [Link no longer works.]). While the curriculum highlights the importance of these subjects, it also addresses the issue of appropriate media. The curriculum advises teachers that "by telling stories [themselves] and by having storytellers invited to [their] classroom, Inuuqatigiit is an excellent way to reintroduce the oral traditions of the Inuit" (Curriculum [Link no longer works.]). This stress on the relevance of oral stories illustrates a conscious attempt to preserve the medium, not just the message.

The medium by which a story is related necessarily affects its meaning. Oration is an exchange between the storyteller and the listener. The story flows over a live connection between them. While the storyteller retains the basic myth each time it is told, a good storyteller reads the reaction of the audience, and tailors the tale to their response. The myth is adaptable. Thus the listener affects the story, and is an active participant in its rendering. The written myth, in contrast, is fixed. It does not change in response to the reader’s eye. Forever immutable, the unchanging text is not interactive in the same way as the oral myth. While the reader may draw different meanings from the text at different times, the stability of the text limits the scope of those meanings. Meaning is not derived in the same way from a page as from a voice; in comparison to the oral story, the written text seems two-dimensional and reductive.

From the Communal to the Universal

In his essay, Benjamin further explores the effects of reproduction on the nature of art. Benjamin posits that the very ability to reproduce a piece of art affects its design, that is, that a certain quality of the art is erased in the intention to reproduce it: "… the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility" (Benjamin, 224). In the attempt to preserve mythology and appeal to a wider audience, the myth writer may attempt to universalize the story, erasing local references, and as a result, diluting local flavour. The landmarks and particularities of the western coastline, for example, while familiar to the Haida clan, may not be considered key to the meaning of the Raven myths. And so a decision may be made to retain core story elements and sacrifice textual "accessories." How much detail was removed from the introductory excerpt from "The Raven"? How would this story be told differently to other west-coast clans like the Tlingit, Tsimshian, Kwakiutl or Bella Coola? Robbed of region specificity, the tale is less representative and less colourful.

Yet the attempt to extend the appreciation of oral myths to an audience who would otherwise not have access to them is worthwhile. Myths are often the way non-Aboriginal Canadians are introduced to Aboriginal clans. The beauty of mythological literature serves as a welcome counterbalance to the negative portrayal of Aboriginal peoples in the media. While relying on myths as the sole representation of a society threatens to romanticize it and limits the potential for real learning, incorporating mythology as a vibrant part of our teachings of Aboriginal groups sensitizes non-Aboriginal Canadians to the sacredness of traditional stories.

Preservation at a Price

The benefits of the written myth must be weighed against the costs of changing the traditional medium. The written myth, while bridging cross-cultural gaps and preserving the story in art, eliminates the sense of occasion associated with listening, fixes the parameters of meaning, dilutes local flavour, and endangers traditional learning methods. When these shortfalls are acknowledged and attempts to maintain the oral tradition are made, the oral and written story may peacefully co-exist, each valued for its distinct properties and advantages. There is room for both listening and reading, as long as we don’t block our ears to open our eyes.

Lorie Boucher is a writer and editor in Ottawa, Ontario. She is a Contributing Editor for Writer’s Block.