Rundle Sturge Translation Under Fascism

Translation under Fascism
Edited by
Christopher Rundle and Kate Sturge
Also by Christopher Rundle
PUBLISHING TRANSLATIONS IN FASCIST ITALY (2010)
Also by Kate Sturge

‘THE ALIEN WITHIN’: TRANSLATION INTO GERMAN DURING THE NAZI
REGIME (2004)
REPRESENTING OTHERS: TRANSLATION, ETHNOGRAPHY AND

THE MUSEUM (2007)
Edited by
Christopher Rundle
University of Bologna, Italy
and
Kate Sturge
Aston University, UK
Selection and editorial matter © Christopher Rundle and Kate Sturge 2010
Chapters © their individual authors 2010
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted
save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence
permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency,
Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.
Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this
work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published 2010 by
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN
Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited,
registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke,
Hampshire RG21 6XS.
Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC,
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies
and has companies and representatives throughout the world.
Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States,
the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries.
ISBN 978–0–230–20354–9 hardback
This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully
managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing
processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the
country of origin.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Translation under fascism / edited by Christopher Rundle, Kate Sturge.
p. cm.
Summary: “The history of translation has focused on literary work but
this book demonstrates the way in which political control can influence and
be influenced by translation choices. In this book, new research and specially
commissioned essays give access to existing research projects which at
present are either scattered or unavailable in English”— Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978–0–230–20354–9 (hardback)
1. Translating and interpreting—Political aspects—Europe—History—
20th century. 2. Fascism—Europe—History—20th century. I. Rundle,
Christopher, 1963– II. Sturge, Kate.
P306.8.E85T74 2010
418'.0209409043—dc22
2010027557
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne
Contents
List of Figures and Tables vii
Notes on Contributors viii
Part I Introduction 1
1 Translation and the History of Fascism 3
Part II Overview Essays 13
2 Translation in Fascist Italy: ‘The Invasion of Translations’ 15
Christopher Rundle
3 ‘Flight from the Programme of National Socialism’?
Translation in Nazi Germany 51
Kate Sturge
4 It Was What It Wasn’t: Translation and Francoism 84
Jeroen Vandaele
5 Translation in Portugal during the Estado Novo Regime 117
Teresa Seruya
Part III Case Studies 145
6 Literary Exchange between Italy and Germany:
German Literature in Italian Translation 147
Mario Rubino
7 The Einaudi Publishing House and Fascist Policy
on Translations 178
Francesca Nottola
8 French–German and German–French Poetry
Anthologies 1943–45 201
Frank-Rutger Hausmann
9 Safe Shakespeare: Performing Shakespeare during the
Portuguese Fascist Dictatorship (1926–74) 215
Rui Pina Coelho
v
vi Contents
Part IV Response 233

10 The Boundaries of Dictatorship 235
Matthew Philpotts
Bibliography 252
Index 270
List of Figures and Tables
Figures
3.1 Numbers of translated titles by year 53

3.2 Trends in source languages 56
3.3 ‘The World of the Book’: Frontispiece of
Langenbucher (1938) 60
5.1 Number of translated authors published per decade 125
5.2 Translated titles per decade 126
Tables
2.1 Total book production and number of translations

published in Italy, France and Germany 17
2.2 Proportion of translations in average yearly book
production: Italy, France and Germany 19
2.3 Number of translations into and from Italian and German 19
2.4 Proportion of translations in average yearly book
production in Italy: breakdown for narrative literature 21
4.1 Numbers of copies permitted for Kant translations 95
4.2 The translated plays most frequently presented to the
censors, 1936–62 107
vii
Notes on Contributors
Rui Pina Coelho is a researcher at the Centre for Theatre Studies of the
University of Lisbon and lectures at the Advanced School for Theatre
and Cinema (also in Lisbon). He is a member of the Editorial Board of
the journal Sinais de cena, a member of the Executive of the Portuguese
Association of Theatre Critics and a theatre critic in the national
Portuguese daily newspaper Público. He is the author of Casa da Comédia:
Um palco para uma ideia de teatro (Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional – Casa da
Moeda, 2009).
Frank-Rutger Hausmann is the author of a respected study of the Nazi-

sponsored European Writers’ Association, ‘Dichte, Dichter, tage nicht!’
Die Europäische Schriftsteller-Vereinigung in Weimar 1941–1948, Frankfurt
2004. Professor Hausmann has published extensively on the history of
the humanities and literary exchange under Nazi rule. He held a chair
in Romance Studies at the University of Freiburg, Germany, until his
retirement in 2006.
Francesca Nottola is currently preparing her Ph.D. dissertation in Italian

Studies at the University of Manchester in the UK. Her research interests
centre on the history of publishing and translation in early twentieth-
century Italy, with a focus on issues of gender and modernity and on
the interplay between imported cultural products, fascist discourse and
Italian society.
Matthew Philpotts is a senior lecturer in German Studies at the

University of Manchester. His principal research interests are cultural
policy and artistic practice in the German dictatorships; literary journals
and cultural change in the twentieth century; theories of authorship
and the literary field. Among other publications, he is co-author of
Sinn und Form: The Anatomy of a Literary Journal (Berlin/ NY: De Gruyter,
2009) and The Modern Restoration: Re-Thinking German Literary History
1930–1960 (Berlin/NY: De Gruyter, 2004), and author of The Margins
of Dictatorship: Assent and Dissent in the Work of Günter Eich and Bertolt
Brecht (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2003).
Mario Rubino is Professor of Modern German Literature at the University

of Palermo. His main research interests are the age of Goethe, the history
of German studies in Italy and the reception of German literature in
viii
Notes on Contributors ix
Italy. He has edited and translated works by Schönberg, Enzensberger,

Beer-Hofmann, Jean Paul and Fallada. Recent publications include I mille
demoni della modernità (Palermo: Flaccovio, 2002); ‘La falsa ripartenza.
Wolfgang Staudte: Die Mörder sind unter uns’ in M. Galli (ed.) Da Caligari
a Good Bye, Lenin! Storia e cinema in Germania (Florence: Le Lettere, 2004);
‘La Neue Sachlichkeit e il romanzo italiano degli anni Trenta’ in F. Petroni
and M. Tortora (eds), Gli intellettuali italiani e l’Europa (1903–1956) (Lecce:
Manni, 2007).
Christopher Rundle is a researcher in Translation Studies at the Faculty

for Interpreters and Translators (SSLMIT), University of Bologna, Italy. He
is also Honorary Research Fellow in Translation and Italian Studies at the
School of Languages, Linguistics and Cultures, University of Manchester,
UK. His main research interests lie in translation history, with a special
focus on translation and Fascism, a subject on which he has published
extensively. He is the author of the monograph Publishing Translations in
Fascist Italy (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2010). He is a coordinating editor of the
online translation journal inTRAlinea (www.intralinea.it).
Teresa Seruya is full professor in the Department of Germanic Studies at

the Arts Faculty of the University of Lisbon, where she teaches Germanic
literature and culture, are the history of translation and translation
theory. Her main research areas are the history of translation in Portugal
in the twentieth century and contemporary migration literature in
German-speaking countries. She has published on literature and culture
in the German language, the history of Germanic Studies in Portugal
and the history of translation in Portugal. She has translated works by
Goethe, Kleist, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Döblin, Thomas Mann and
Kafka. She is currently responsible for the projects ‘Intercultural Literature
in Portugal 1930–2000: a Critical Bibliography’, and ‘Translation and
Censorship in Portugal during the Estado Novo Regime’.
Kate Sturge, Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at University College,

London (2000), is a visiting senior lecturer in Translation Studies and
German at Aston University, Birmingham, and a freelance translator in
Berlin. Her research interests are in translation in Nazi Germany and
translation as a mode of cultural representation. As well as articles, she
has published ‘The Alien Within’: Translation into German during the Nazi
Regime (Munich: iudicium, 2004) and Representing Others: Translation,
Ethnography and the Museum (Manchester: St Jerome, 2007). With
Michaela Wolf, she is co-editor of the Routledge journal Translation
Studies (www.tandf.co.uk/journals/rtrs).
x Notes on Contributors
Jeroen Vandaele, Ph.D. in Romance Languages and Literatures at the

Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium (2006), is a senior lecturer at the
University of Oslo, Norway. Dr Vandaele’s doctoral research examined
the discursive strategies in Billy Wilder’s original and Francoist film
versions: Estados de Gracia. Trasvases entre la semántica franquista y la
poética de Billy Wilder (1946–75). Among other areas, he has published
in the field of humour studies (Translating Humour, Special Issue of The
Translator, 2002) and cognitive poetics (with Geert Brône, Cognitive
Poetics, Berlin/NY: De Gruyter, 2009).
Part I
Introduction
This page intentionally left blank
1
Translation and the History of
Fascism
Recent research has placed cultural policy and practices at the very
centre of our understanding of fascism,1 revealing much about the ideo-
logical frameworks of fascism as well as the institutional tools that were
used to manage public perceptions and ideological change. However,
within this growing body of work, one important aspect of cultural
policy has been largely ignored, and that is translation, whether literary,
cinematic or non-fiction.
Our aim in this volume is, firstly, to begin to fill this historiographical
gap, showing that questions around translation can provide important
insights into four regimes: Mussolini’s Italy, Hitler’s Germany, Franco’s
Spain and Salazar’s Portugal. We hope to bring into the discussion
material on translation that has previously been absent, and to shed
new light on existing material that has not necessarily been considered
from the point of view of translation; at the same time, the book aims
to suggest an outward-looking approach to historical translation studies
that engages closely with the surrounding historiography. Finally, this
volume, with its interdisciplinary group of contributors, aims to
encourage discussion between historians and translation scholars with
a common historical interest and to bring them together in a joint
endeavour.
In our view, translation practices – as important intersections of dif-
ferent cultural, ideological and political influences – are most usefully
examined within their precise historical context. That includes both
the macro level, such as institutional constraints or long-term liter-
ary trends, and the micro level, the texts themselves, right down to
the decisions made by translators, editors and publishers concerning
individual translations. Conversely, all of these aspects of translation
analysis can be of interest to historians investigating the fine detail of
3
4 Translation and the History of Fascism
cultural institutions or ideological patterns and practices in the periods

concerned.
The study of translations in this way is not simply a comparative
supplement to the literary history of the periods concerned. We do
not trace the fortunes of individual authors in translation for their
own sake: none of the essays here approaches the relationship between
‘original’ and its translation as a matter of moral probity where the
ideal result would be a perfect reflection of the sacrosanct source. When
we do discuss source text/target text relations, these are studied for the
insight they offer into the strategies used by the translator and thus the
relationship between the translator and the historical context in which
he/she worked, not as part of a narrative of ‘loss’ or ‘distortion’. Nor do
we consider translation to be a personal, individual affair fought out
between a translator and his or her text. Instead, along with translation
scholars like Lefevere (1992) or Wolf and Fukari (2007), we assume that
translations are always active interventions into texts, brought about by
multiple agents with multiple interests, and that they are always active
interventions into the cultural and thus political environment of the
receiving language. By importing ideas, genres and fragments of differ-
ent cultural worlds, translations will affirm or attack domestic realities
(see Venuti 1995); they are never neutral in their impact or in their
representation of the sending cultures. Furthermore, translations can
have an important symbolic value, as a phenomenon which reflects, or
is considered to reflect, the prestige of either the source culture or the
receiving culture – an issue of particular importance in this volume. The
study of translations is pursued here as a means of tracing the contours
of that receiving environment: translation as an indicator of cultural
and political processes at work. We contend that this makes translation
practices a prime area of interest for scholars of fascist cultural policy
and a field that can potentially cast light on issues of central concern to
the study of all the four regimes we set out to examine.
Our use of the label ‘fascist’ to embrace these four different systems
deserves some explanation. While Italy and Germany are generally
accepted as exemplars of fascist regimes, in effect the templates against
which the fascism of other regimes is measured, the term is usually
employed with some qualification, such as ‘para-fascist’ or ‘semi-fascist’,
when applied to Spain or Portugal.2 This is a recognition of the fact that
Francoism and Salazarism, although they were both clearly inspired by
the success of the Fascist and Nazi regimes, were essentially conserva-
tive systems that maintained a number of what are frequently termed
‘fascist trappings’, especially in the interwar period, but did not share the
Christopher Rundle and Kate Sturge 5
drive towards national and cultural regeneration based on an imagined

glorious past that can be seen in Italian and German fascism. Another
important distinction to keep in mind, and one which will prove signifi-
cant in the course of this volume, is that although all four of these regimes
were, to varying degrees, founded on an often uneasy alliance between
genuinely fascist forces and a more conservative establishment, in Italy
and Germany the fascist partner in this alliance was dominant, while in
Spain and Portugal it was the conservative establishment or its representa-
tives which maintained control and effectively dictated the direction in
which the regime would evolve. Finally, it is important to remember
when comparing the cultural policies of these regimes that although all
four were founded between the two world wars, Spain and Portugal are
to a significant extent defined by their post Second World War history.
The significance of this difference is apparent, for example, in the relative
lack of hostility of these two regimes to the idea of cultural exchange (and
translation) when compared to the much more paranoid attitudes of the
Italian and German regimes in the 1930s, when a closed, nationalist and
xenophobic cultural system in Western Europe was still conceivable.
Aside from these distinctions, it is clearly necessary to consider
the divergences between Fascism in Italy and National Socialism in
Germany, in terms of both ideology and modus operandi. Not only
did both regimes alter their stance on cultural policy over the course of
their existence (most notably – especially in the case of Germany – with
the outbreak of war), and not only did neither ever reach an internal
consensus on means and objectives, but the two orders differed in the
importance they attached to what are, in terms of translation, key policy
issues. The case studies in this volume will show that the treatment of
popular culture (itself largely import-based in the period) was highly
contested inside each regime and drew on contradictory traditions,
while anti-Semitism, a driving force of cultural policy in the Nazi con-
text, played a far less significant role in Italy in the early years.
We use the term ‘fascist’ speculatively, therefore, with a view to initi-
ating a productive comparison of the four regimes through the lens of
translation history; the research collected in this volume will show that
comparative approaches can bear fruit precisely in this field. Our use of
the term is informed by a body of historical research which, while mak-
ing all the necessary distinctions, includes these regimes in the debate
on comparative fascism.3 To clarify this, we will now consider recurrent
themes in the research where the perspective of translation becomes
particularly significant and promises to contribute to our understanding
both of fascism in general and of the specific nature of these regimes.
Publishing history
The history of publishing is an important component of both cultural

and economic developments within a given language community. As
Eliot and Rose point out, not only do books make history, as tools to
‘transmit ideas, record memories, create narratives, exercise power, and
distribute wealth’, but they are made by history, being ‘shaped by eco-
nomic, political, social, and cultural forces’ (Eliot and Rose 2009: 1). In
all the four national contexts we examine, translations played a crucial
part in the history of publishing in general, due to the success of foreign
fiction, and especially foreign popular fiction. As we shall see later, in
these contexts translations could be perceived as a threat to the integrity
of the nation’s culture, but they were also often seen as an economic
threat, provoking hostility on the part of a literary establishment that felt
unable to compete with the easy commercial appeal of foreign romances
and the new imported genres of crime fiction and westerns. Translations,
especially from English, were driving a globalization in reading habits,
both enabling and supported by the modernization of the publishing
industry. While this was occurring across Europe in the interwar period,
the fact that, according to the Index Translationum, in the 1930s Italy and
Germany were translating more than any other countries in the world
suggests that translations from English hold a special place in the his-
tory of reading under these fascist regimes (see Rundle 2010: Chapter 2).
In Spain, in particular, translations enjoyed such a high status among
Spanish readers that there was a boom in pseudotranslations: non-
translated works that claimed to be translations in order to enhance their
prestige or market position (see Merino and Rabadán 2002). In Germany
translation activity continued unabated, at least in quantitative terms,
with English retaining its pre-1933 position as by far the most-trans-
lated language, until the outbreak of war (see Sturge 2004: Chapter 2).
Portugal, on the other hand, was the one country where the translation
market was not dominated by English as a source language. Instead, the
hegemony of French gave way to Spanish as the main source language
with the growth of a mass market for popular fiction – a market pervaded
by translations of Spanish pseudotranslations, written by Spanish authors
using anglophone pseudonyms (see Seruya in this volume).4
Censorship
Another historical issue in which research on translation has an important

contribution to make is fascist censorship. As recent work on translation
and censorship has shown, translated works are magnets for censorship,
since they make manipulation possible at several stages, from the selec-
tion for publication to the precise wording of the translated text. The
phenomenon of censorship in translation is far from unique to fascist
or other totalitarian regimes, and the translation studies debate on the
boundaries between ‘censorship’, ‘literary conventions’ and ‘good taste’
is only just beginning (see Billiani 2007a; Seruya and Moniz 2008b;
Ní Chuilleanáin, Ó Cuilleanáin and Parris 2009). Equally, the history of
translation in the regimes we are investigating can certainly not be ade-
quately addressed from the perspective of censorship alone. Nevertheless
the processes and rationales of fascist censorship of translation are an
important theme in the research collected in this volume, at the very least
because they cast light on the specific mechanics of political interven-
tion in culture during the periods concerned, and in a more far-reaching
respect because they hint at the ideological complexities that often under-
pinned such intervention.
A number of preconceptions concerning the totalitarian efficiency
of these regimes need to be reconsidered in the light of what emerges
from their treatment of translations (and publishers of translations). In
Germany a dense net of preventive or ‘prior’ censorship was imposed on
all the mass media (press, radio and cinema), but book publishing was
mainly controlled via post-publication measures; for Spain the preven-
tive approach applied to books as well. Italy maintained the pretence
that Italians enjoyed a freedom of speech and that no preventive cen-
sorship was in force – something that was in fact only true (and then
only partially) for books; in any case Italy applied its censorship with a
surprising degree of flexibility. Portugal maintained a tight control on
all forms of mass communication but adopted a relatively pragmatic
attitude towards the censorship of books, which were never moni-
tored systematically. Like Italy, Salazar’s regime was prepared to allow
the cultural elite a degree of freedom it would not allow the masses,
as long as this freedom did not develop into a potentially dangerous
political activism. Significantly, only the Nazi regime and, very late
in its lifespan, the Italian Fascist regime devised a specific censorship
policy concerning translations; and only Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy
adopted specifically anti-Semitic censorship policies.
Renewal and expansion
The drive for renewal and regeneration, the desire to reconstitute the
nation in a new form, is widely considered to be one of the defining
characteristics of a fascist political programme (regardless of how suc-

cessfully these programmes were put into practice), and is particularly
evident in the Italian Fascist and Nazi cases, while both Franco and
Salazar resisted and defused such impulses from within the ranks as
they established more reactionary regimes. In Italy and Germany this
drive was, unsurprisingly, also played out in the cultural field – on the
whole with results that were disappointing for the regime. The problem
for cultural policymakers was how to generate a cultural renewal, which
many thought required contact and interaction with the outside, while
maintaining control over a distinctive national identity at home in a
form of cultural ‘autarky’ or self-reliance. In Italy, translation became
one of the nodes around which this debate developed – as a potential
vehicle of cultural exchange and enrichment but also as the vehicle of
a cultural pollution that was perceived as a threat to the integrity of the
national culture and language. In Nazi Germany the terms of the debate
were different in that exchange (via translation) with regions that
seemed to have a cultural, and hence ‘racial’, affinity with Germany was
not necessarily seen as an unambiguous threat, while an uncontrolled
exchange with other cultures driven only by public taste could never be
considered beneficial.
Also typical of fascist political ambitions was the drive towards politi-
cal, colonial and, by extension, cultural expansion. Among the many
reasons for these ambitions in Italy and, at least in part, Germany was
the desire to enhance the nation’s prestige abroad, and in both coun-
tries, though probably somewhat more so in Italy, translations became a
key issue in this project. On the one hand they were seen as a uniquely
effective means of cultural conquest – or ‘instrument of penetration’,
as the Italian Fascists put it; on the other, the statistics on translation
showed that Italy published more translations than any other state
while Italian was one of the least translated languages, providing glar-
ing evidence of the failure of Fascist culture to expand and of its low
status abroad. German literature was more successful in this respect, in
that it was widely translated, yet literary policymakers complained that
this success arose from the translation of the ‘wrong’, that is anti-Nazi,
German authors and could thus have a harmful propaganda effect (see
Sturge 2004; Rubino in this volume). Careful management of transla-
tion from German in the occupied nations was to help redress the prob-
lem (see Hausmann in this volume).
Such issues were of much less significance in Spain and Portugal,
especially after the Second World War. Spain rapidly abandoned any
ambitions it may have entertained of further colonial expansion and
remained in self-imposed isolation until the late 1950s. There is no evi-

dence that the success of foreign cultural products was seen as a threat
to national prestige, as long as they conformed to the ideological and
moral constraints that the regime very efficiently imposed. Furthermore,
both Spain and Portugal could point to a large linguistic community
spread throughout the world, to the extent that, unlike Fascist Italy, the
perceived prestige of their languages was unlikely to be affected by the
dynamics of the translation market.
Racism
One very important distinction between the regimes lies in their

respective attitudes towards racism and especially anti-Semitism. Both
Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy were deeply concerned with notions
of cultural and racial purity. These notions defined the ways in which
each regime reacted to the phenomenon of translation, and the differ-
ent understandings of what constituted purity and national identity is
reflected in the sometimes surprising differences between Fascist and
Nazi treatment of translations. In official Nazi discourse, translation was
viewed most often in a framework of racist assumptions, based on the
understanding that (to use the terms of current translation studies) the
activity of translation creates ‘hybrid’ products, mixing cultural orders
and thus potentially undermining the supposed organic, ethnically
defined unity of ‘true literature’. For Nazi policymakers, purity in trans-
lation was possible: translations might be racially pure and therefore
foster racial understanding – a much longer-standing translation ideal
that acquired new dimensions in the Nazi setting. Alternatively, and
more commonly in the late 1930s, they might be contaminants that
threatened to pollute the receiving nation through a kind of cultural
miscegenation. Within the terms of Nazi ‘racial purity’, translations
from what were considered related cultures, such as Sweden and Norway,
were encouraged by parts of the regime as a means of strengthening
connections within an extended idea of the Germanic Volk. Within
Fascist Italy’s initially more nationalistic and less racialized idea of cul-
tural integrity, the source culture was less significant and the debate on
translation was dominated by the fear that Italy’s receptiveness was a
negative reflection on its national and cultural prestige. However, in the
wake of the foundation of the Italian empire in East Africa, and as Italy
and Germany formed closer political and ideological ties, Italy formally
introduced anti-Semitic legislation and began a systematic purge of Jews
from public life. This development also marks the moment when the
regime first started to formulate a specific policy against translation.

What had been confined to a question of national prestige now took on
more dramatic tones as the regime began to see translation as a source
of cultural pollution, in terms that closely matched those being used in
the political sphere as part of the anti-Semitic campaign. In Spain and
Portugal, on the other hand, such racialized policies were not favoured
and the discourse on translation that emerges from the research is free
from the heightened sense of threat that can be found in Italian Fascist
and Nazi rhetoric on translation.
The chapters in this volume are divided into four parts. Part II contains
four overview essays on the context and structures of translation policy in
each regime: Christopher Rundle on Fascist Italy in Chapter 2, Kate Sturge
on Nazi Germany in Chapter 3, Jeroen Vandaele on Francoist Spain in
Chapter 4, and Teresa Seruya on Salazar’s Portugal in Chapter 5.
In Part III, a series of case studies address individual facets of the issues
raised in the opening chapters. In the first of two Italian studies, Mario
Rubino, in Chapter 6, focuses on the specific literary relations between
Italy and its fellow Axis power Germany. Taking up an issue that already
emerges in the opening chapters on Italy and Germany, he traces in
detail the mismatch between the officially voiced desire for brotherly
exchange of ideologically valuable goods and the daily practice of Italian
publishers and readers of translation from German, who persisted in
tastes they had acquired in the pre-Nazi period of Weimar. Rubino’s
study reminds us that ‘censorship’ alone is an inadequate conceptual
tool when working with translation in Fascist Italy, since the complexi-
ties of reception arose from longer histories of literary and journalistic
image-making, the internal dynamics of which continued to work in
parallel to official policy. Indicating the important role of translation in
the generation of such cultural representations, and in turn the part that
existing representations will play in the selection and mode of subse-
quent translations, Rubino casts light on the difficulties faced by fascist
cultural policy in truly managing to ‘educate public taste’.
In Chapter 7, Francesca Nottola, in her detailed study of the Einaudi
publishing house, provides us with an important complement to the
experiences of Mondadori and Bompiani as described by Rundle in
Chapter 2. In contrast to these publishers’ relatively smooth negotiation
of the sensitive field of translation publishing, the political activity of
a number of his friends and associates meant that Einaudi was briefly
arrested and was monitored very closely by the regime. His status was
such, however, that the regime found it expedient not to shut him
down, and instead adopted a strategy of mild but frustrating and often
unpredictable obstructionism in contrast to the more cooperative spirit
adopted towards publishers perceived to be aligned with the regime. In
particular, Einaudi was often hindered in his attempts to publish transla-
tions which were apparently harmless, and he was even told unofficially
to avoid publishing translations of Anglo-American works – the only evi-
dence to date of a Fascist translation policy that targeted a specific source
language, and a case that highlights the ambivalent and often contradic-
tory nature of Fascist policies of censorship and cultural control.
In Chapter 8, Frank-Rutger Hausmann’s essay on two poetry antholo-
gies from the 1940s continues the theme of literary exchange as a politi-
cally charged, and politically manipulated, channel of communication.
His study draws out the importance of such exchange as one element of
the occupation’s cultural propaganda: the compilation of an anthology
of German poetry in French translation was a project of the German
Institute in Paris and part of a drive to publicize German culture in
occupied France. Yet as Hausmann points out, even under such extreme
circumstances the history of the anthology and its planned successor,
an anthology of French poetry in German translation, was not simply
one of obedience to the dictates of the state. The actors involved in the
anthologizing projects were motivated too by continuities with pre-
1933 traditions and their own literary ambitions, which they saw as
existing in a sphere beyond the reach of day-to-day political realities.
Rather than focusing on institutions, Rui Pina Coelho turns to
the fortunes of one author in translation in Chapter 9. His essay on
Shakespeare in the Portuguese theatre under Salazar and Caetano traces
the ways that state intervention could shape an era’s image of a particu-
lar imported author through the choice of particular texts for transla-
tion, textual manipulation, and the specific translational or adaptational
decisions made during production. As Coelho’s case reminds us, such
manipulation is not a feature of fascism alone – the eventful history
of Shakespeare in translation over four centuries is a prime example of
highly diverse forms of selection or exclusion, canonization or demoni-
zation, and ideologically motivated textual intervention (see, for exam-
ple, Delabastita and D’hulst 1993). In the case of Salazar’s Portugal, the
choice of Shakespeare’s plays and the manner of their production took
place at the tense boundary between an inward-looking regime and the
intellectual currents of its Western European surroundings.
The volume closes in Part IV with Chapter 10, by cultural historian
Matthew Philpotts, providing an overall response to the issues raised
by the studies contained in this volume and evaluating the interdis-

ciplinary contribution that studies of translation have to make to the
cultural history of fascism.
Notes
The editors would like to thank the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies in
Translation, Languages and Cultures (SITLeC) of the University of Bologna, Forlì
campus, and especially its former director Professor Rosa Maria Bollettieri, for the
moral, financial and logistical support which helped make this project possible.
1. See, for example, Ben-Ghiat (2001) and Stone (1998) on Italy, Barbian (1995a)
and Cuomo (1995) on Germany, Abellán (1980) and Carbajosa and Carbajosa
(2003) on Spain, and Ó (1996) on Portugal.
2. Griffin (1991: 121) uses the term ‘para-fascist’ to describe the Spanish and
Portuguese regimes, both of which he considers to be examples of ‘abortive’,
not fully realized, fascist systems. Payne (1995: 266) uses the term ‘semi-
fascist’ in reference to Spain but describes Salazar’s Estado Novo as a form of
‘authoritarian corporatism’ or ‘authoritarian corporative liberalism’ (1995:
313), by which he would seem to imply that Spain was more fascist than
Portugal.
3. Aside from Griffin and Payne, mentioned earlier, examples of other scholars
who have, in one way or another, grouped these four regimes (among others)
together in a study of fascism are Blinkhorn (1990), Kallis (2000, 2003), Costa
Pinto, Eatwell and Larsen (1995), and Paxton (2004).
4. Aside from the chapters in this collection, the following historical studies
inform this analysis: Fabre (1998), Ben-Ghiat (2001), Payne (1995), Gallagher
(1990), Costa Pinto (1995), Sturge (2004), Schäfer (1991), Geyer-Ryan (1987).
Part II
Overview Essays
2
Translation in Fascist Italy:
‘The Invasion of Translations’
Christopher Rundle
If there is one thing that to my mind characterizes the history of

translation in Fascist Italy, it is that this was dominated by an idea of
translation rather than the activity itself. The discussion on the subject
of translations developed from an aesthetic question in the 1920s,
centring on the contribution that literary exchange could potentially
make to the modernization and popularization of Italian literature,
with the fear expressed in some more culturally conservative quarters
that this process, if left uncontrolled, could lead to its impoverishment,
to a characteristically Fascist ideological debate in the 1930s which was
dominated by the symbolic value attributed to translation as a phenom-
enon and by the concern that Italy was the weak partner in an interna-
tional struggle for cultural expansion and that its cultural prestige was
being threatened by translation. In this chapter, I intend to focus on
the debate that arose around the question of translation in the 1930s
and on the way in which the attitude of the regime towards translation
evolved from a silent tolerance to an active hostility – an evolution that
is, in my opinion, directly related to the regime’s increasingly imperial-
ist political agenda.1
The other important point which I think will emerge is that, despite
lip-service being paid to the morally corrupting effects of much foreign
literature, there is little evidence that the regime genuinely saw transla-
tion as a potentially seditious activity. It had put in place a very effective
system of censorship which relied essentially on an extensive degree of
self-regulation, stimulated by the odd exemplary punishment;2 it also
maintained a relationship of considerable trust and cooperation with
the publishers. The regime had no reason to fear, therefore, that transla-
tions might be a channel for some kind of political opposition. Instead,
its real concern, as we shall see, was that the translation phenomenon
15
16 Translation in Fascist Italy
gave the lie to the myth that Italy under Fascism was enjoying a period
of renewed cultural prestige and influence. Furthermore, just as the sta-
tistics on translation showed that Fascist Italy was failing to expand its
cultural influence abroad, they also showed that the Italians had in fact
developed a considerable appetite for foreign literature, and that Italian
literature, seen both as an economic and as a cultural construct, was
being dominated by the foreign competition.
The birth of a translation industry
One of the interesting features of the debate on translation in Italy in

the 1930s is the way in which it was informed by a series of statistics
which allowed Italy to compare its own performance with that of other
countries – France and Germany in particular. Using them almost like
an opinion poll, the cultural establishment would consult the interna-
tional statistics on translation to see which country was most successful
in exporting its culture. The problem was that, for Fascist Italy at least,
these statistics did not make encouraging reading. As the figures showed
with embarrassing clarity, Italy translated more than any other country,
while at the same time it was the least successful in exporting its own
culture in the form of translations out of Italian.
This translation deficit was to become a key issue in the debate
that arose over whether the regime ought to intervene to correct the
situation or whether Italian culture would be able to rise to the chal-
lenge and redress the balance on its own merits. Or to pose the ques-
tion in more practical terms: should the regime establish barriers to
restrict the number of translations being published and to protect
Italian authors whose livelihood was being threatened by the ready
availability of ‘low-quality’ popular literature, as the authors themselves
advocated; or should the publishers be free to publish whatever the
market demanded, with the authors adapting to the evolving tastes
of the public and learning to produce literature with a greater popular
appeal, as the publishers advocated?
The discussion, therefore, evolved along two main strands. On the
one hand, a concern on the part of many within the establishment
that Italy’s cultural prestige was somehow being damaged by what was
perceived as an ‘invasion’ of translations was set against the belief that
the process of modernization and industrialization of Italian publish-
ing, which was being driven by the success of translated popular fiction,
was not necessarily undesirable or un-Fascist. On the other hand, what
amounted to a turf war took place between the publishers, represented
Christopher Rundle 17
by the Publishers Federation [Federazione nazionale fascista degli editori

industriali], who were keen to exploit an increasingly profitable mar-
ket, and a significant number of authors, represented by the Authors
and Writers Union [Sindacato nazionale fascista degli autori e scrittori],
who saw their livelihood threatened as their readership’s tastes were
‘corrupted’ by an over-abundance of cheap, foreign fiction and by the
increasing commodification of literature.
Before we look at this debate in greater detail in the following sec-
tions, let us try to put it in perspective and establish with a reasonable
degree of approximation what the situation actually was. For the pur-
poses of this analysis I shall compare Italy with France and Germany,
the three countries which published more translations than any other
country in the world at that time;3 both because the available data on
these three countries is reasonably consistent and has been compiled
with similar criteria, and because it was France and Germany that the
Italian cultural establishment naturally looked to for comparison.4
The first thing to establish is whether Italy really did publish more
translations in this period than any other nation. Table 2.1 shows the
Table 2.1 Total book production and number of translations published in Italy,
France and Germany
Italy France Germany

Total Transla- Total Transla- Total Transla-
Production tions Production tions Production tions
1926 5283 582 11520 30064 1164
1927 5687 584 12300 31026 1267
1928 5962 444 11850 27794 1477
1929 6829 717 11311 430 27002 1222
1930 9426 1135 9280 473 26961 1235
1931 10067 977 9998 549 24074 1024
1932 10199 903 12304 652 21452 [726]
1933 10428 1295 641 21601 [536]
1934 10344 1112 12210 546 20852 [397]
1935 10484 1173 10452 800 23212 558
1936 10015 912 10006 [611] 23654 617
1937 9938 851 8648 592 25361 680
1938 9786 919 782 25439 730
1939 9683 705 726 20288 530
1940 9330 659 20706 706
1941 9427 555 18837 505
Note: Figures in square brackets show an average between numbers reported in the Index
Traslationum and those reported in national sources – used in those instances where there
was a significant discrepancy between the two.
number of translations published in Italy, France and Germany from

1926 to 1941, alongside the total number of books published.
What emerges is that, after the economic difficulties of the late 1920s,
the number of translations published in Italy rose considerably in the
1930s, reaching a peak in 1933 but not dropping off significantly until
the outbreak of the war in 1939–40. The situation in Germany under-
went a decline in the early 1930s and, especially, from 1939, after hav-
ing been a leading publisher of translations in the late 1920s. These dips
were due at least in part – and certainly after 1939 – to a series of aggres-
sive measures on the part of the Nazi regime.5 In comparison with these
two, France generally maintained a slightly lower level of production –
with the exception of 1939, the one year in which it published more
translations than any other country (by a small margin). Overall, Italy
averaged 998 translations a year in the period 1930–39, while France
averaged 637, and Germany 703.
Although, Italy’s overall ‘leadership’ during the period is clear, espe-
cially around the middle of the decade, the margin does not appear to
be very significant. Italy’s particular receptiveness is more apparent if we
also compare the proportion of translations to the overall production
in each country. Table 2.2 makes this comparison using average figures
for the periods indicated. Here, the relative importance of translations
within the Italian publishing industry is markedly higher than in France
and Germany. Interestingly, commentators at the time never made the
comparison in these terms, even when their aim was to attack the pub-
lishers by emphasizing the extent of the phenomenon.
The fact that the discussion at the time centred around the rather
bald figures in Table 2.1 on how many translations were published,
a piece of information that does not in itself say very much about the
cultural context that produced it, and not on the more representative
figures in Table 2.2, is a sign that it was the symbolic or propaganda
value of these statistics that made them important. This is confirmed by
the importance that was given to the ‘translation trade balance’, that is
to say the balance between the number of translations published into
Italian and the number published out of Italian. Comparison was made
with Germany, which, like Italy, was a very receptive culture but which,
unlike Italy, was also very successful in exporting its own literature in
the form of translations out of German. Table 2.3, although it contains
a number of gaps, is sufficient to show just how great the difference
between Italy and Germany was on this score.6
What the issue of the translation trade balance shows is that transla-
tion was acceptable ideologically when it could be seen as a form of
Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to University of Western Sydney - PalgraveConnect -
Table 2.2 Proportion of translations in average yearly book production: Italy, France and Germany
Italy France Germany

Avg. Avg. No. Trans % Avg. Avg. No. Trans % Avg. Avg. No. Trans %
Total of Trans of total Total of Trans of total Total of Trans of total
1926–1930* 6637 692 10.3 10296 452 4.4 28569 1273 4.5
1930–1936 10145 1072 10.6 10708 610 5.7 23115 728 3.1
1936–1941 9716 767 7.9 9327 678 6.5 22381 628 2.8
1926–1941 8938 845 9.5 10898 618 5.6 24270 836 3.4
*Note: Figures for France are for years 1929–1930 only.
Table 2.3 Number of translations into and from Italian and German
2011-02-21
Into and From Italian Into and From German
Trans into Italian Trans from Difference Trans into Trans from Difference
Italian German German
1927 584 1267 1648 ⫹381
1928 444 1477 1996 ⫹519
1929 717 1222 2143 ⫹921
1930 1135 1235 2479 ⫹1244
1931 977 1024 2546 ⫹1522
1932 903 63 ⫺840 726
1933 1295 536 1252 ⫹716
1934 1112 190 ⫺922 397
1935 1173 203 ⫺970 558 1964 ⫹1406
1936 912 159 ⫺753 617 2175 ⫹1558
1937 851 195 ⫺656 680
19
1938 919 171 ⫺748 730
10.1057/9780230292444 - Translation Under Fascism, Edited by Christopher Rundle and Kate Sturge
cultural exchange, or even as a form of cultural expansion. In the eyes

of the Italians this was the case with Germany, which they admired
for succeeding in exporting many more translations than it imported.7
When, however, the process was almost completely one-sided, as in the
case of Italy, translation came to be viewed as a form of cultural inva-
sion and became ideologically unacceptable as an indicator of Italy’s
cultural weakness and its failure to convert its renewed international
prestige into a greater cultural dominance.
Alongside the issue of Italy’s international status, translation also
became a bone of contention in a more domestic debate over the future
of Italian letters and the impact of foreign literature. From the end of the
1920s up until the outbreak of the war, Italian publishers came under
repeated attack in the press for the supposedly unpatriotic way in which
they were flooding the market with foreign literature – most of which
was assumed to be both low in quality and poorly translated. A new,
wider readership was evolving with a taste for popular entertainment
literature, what was called letteratura amena, such as adventure stories,
romances and, especially, crime fiction. The increasing popularity of
foreign models of fiction generated considerable hostility on the part
of both those who disapproved of such literature on aesthetic grounds
and those who felt unable to compete professionally. A closer look at
the impact of literary translations will help to explain why translation
could appear to be such a threat.
Table 2.4 shows the average figures for the period indicated. If the
proportion of translation to overall production (Column 3) was already
double that registered in France and Germany, the proportion of trans-
lation within narrative literature (Column 7) was even more significant.
Over a third of all novels published were translations. Furthermore,
a large number of these translations by all accounts enjoyed spectacular
commercial success.8 It is very difficult to collect evidence on print runs
or the number of copies sold, partly because many publishing houses
consider such information to be confidential, but some information is
available from the 1930s on the Mondadori publishing house, without
doubt the main protagonist in the evolution of Italian publishing during
this period and one of the most enterprising publishers of translations.
When Mondadori started publishing its now famous series of crime fic-
tion called ‘I libri gialli’ [Yellow Books] their success was outstanding: the
first four ‘Libri gialli’ sold a total of 50,000 copies in the first month. All
the books in the series had a first print run of 20,000 copies followed
by a second of 10,000. Up to 1942, when the regime banned crime fic-
tion in cheap formats, the economical edition in magazine format sold
Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to University of Western Sydney - PalgraveConnect -
Table 2.4 Proportion of translations in average yearly book production in Italy: breakdown for narrative literature
All translations Translated narrative literature only

Avg. Avg. No. Trans % Avg. Total % of Translated % of
2011-02-21
Total of Trans of total Novels Avg. Total Novels Avg. Total
(col.1) (col. 4)
Col. 1 Col. 2 Col. 3 Col. 4 Col. 5 Col. 6 Col. 7
1926–1930 6637 692 10.3
1930–1936 10145 1072 10.6 1125 10.9 384 34.9
1936–1941 9716 767 7.9 773 8.0 283 36.3
21
10.1057/9780230292444 - Translation Under Fascism, Edited by Christopher Rundle and Kate Sturge
over 5,000,000 copies overall, with an average of 26,000 copies per title.
And overall, the various ‘Gialli’ series had sold over 10,000,000 copies
by 1943.9 These few figures are enough to give us an idea of the impact
of some of the more popular translated fiction on the average Italian
author, who could usually expect an initial print run of 1000–1500
copies, and might expect to sell 5000–6000 copies overall (Tranfaglia
and Vittoria 2000: 300). As we shall see later, when the regime eventu-
ally moved to restrict translations it specifically targeted the ‘Gialli’ –
the genre that had come to represent both the success and the dangers
of translation.
There were Italian authors who became bestsellers themselves, of
course: the biography of Mussolini, Dux, written by his (Jewish) mistress
Margherita Sarfatti, was a major bestseller, and there were a number of
authors who rose to the challenge of the various Anglo-American and
Hungarian authors to produce successful popular fiction of their own,
such as Guido da Verona (Guido Verona), Pitigrilli (Dino Segre), Liala
(Liana Cambiasi Negretti Odescalchi) and Mura (Maria Volpi) – to name
a few.10 But this did not alter the resentment that many authors felt at
the increasing commercialization of Italian publishing, spurred on by
the growth of the cinema industry and the market for popular maga-
zines that this induced (Tranfaglia and Vittoria 2000: 300, 311–12).
Literature had ceased to be the preserve of the cultural elite and was,
instead, becoming a mass commodity that was being marketed and sold
with modern industrial methods. In many ways this industrialization
of the publishing sector was very much in line with Fascist populist
aspirations to demolish the ivory towers in which intellectuals had
been allowed to detach themselves during the post-unification era. On
other hand, the fact that foreign ‘imports’ played such an important
role in this process was more difficult to accommodate. As we shall see,
this inherent contradiction would become impossible to ignore once
the empire in East Africa was founded and autarky became a defining
policy of the regime.
Translation and the ‘culture wars’
There were at least two campaigns during the 1930s in the press and in
periodicals against translations, and against the publishers who were
guilty of marketing them. During the first, in 1933–34, the publishers
were accused of flooding the market with low quality literature that was
spoiling the tastes of the Italian reading public and thereby threaten-
ing the livelihood of Italian authors. Much was also made of the newly
available statistics which, as we have seen, showed Italy to be both the

most receptive culture and the culture least successful in exporting its
products abroad. The second campaign, in 1936–38, came in the wake
of Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and the League of Nations sanctions that
were subsequently imposed. In a highly nationalistic political climate in
which the regime launched its call for economic autarky, the publishers
quickly found themselves the target of a call for a ‘cultural autarky’ to be
imposed on the publishing sector – in effect a call to limit the number
of translations.
The translation invasion

When the first ‘Libri gialli’ were published in September 1929, there was
already talk in the press about the ‘problem’ of translations. In May
1927 La Fiera Letteraria, a literary journal then based in Milan, published
an editorial entitled ‘Un ufficio internazionale della traduzione’ [An
International Translations Bureau] which suggested that a central organ
was needed to encourage some form of quality control, and accused the
publishers of peddling low-quality translations in order to save money.
This was followed in July 1928 by an article by the influential writer and
intellectual Giuseppe Prezzolini on ‘Il problema delle traduzioni’ [The
Translations Problem], in which Prezzolini advocated an international
translation bibliography and argued that perfect command of Italian
was even more important than a perfect understanding of the source
language for a good quality translation. So far, then, the discussion had
centred on what was perceived as an excessively cheap market in which
the integrity of the Italian language was being threatened by the number
of poorly written translations being published.11 The stakes were then
raised by the Fascist journal Il Torchio. Settimanale Fascista di Battaglia e di
Critica [The Press. Fascist Weekly of Combat and Criticism], which con-
ducted a very aggressive investigation into the question of translations.
It first sent out a letter to a wide variety of people within the literary
establishment asking them: (i) if they agreed that ‘this invasion of for-
eign authors seriously damages our national literature’ [‘se l’invasione
di scrittori stranieri, non danneggi seriamente la letteratura nazionale’],
(ii) if they agreed that Italian authors were being damaged financially
by this invasion, and (iii) whether they didn’t agree that ‘protectionist
measures’ [‘qualche provvedimento protettivo’] should be introduced in
favour of domestic production.12 The letter was published in the journal
along with an editorial on ‘L’invasione dello straniero’ [The Invasion of
the Foreigner] which called explicitly for the government to institute a
system of preventive censorship for translations.13 Replies to the letter
continued to be published until the end of that year, and most came out
in favour of the journal’s position.
The impact that all this negative publicity was beginning to have
on the publishers is revealed in a letter that the General Secretary of
the Publishers Federation sent out to its members on 25 April 1930,
in which he encouraged them to use all the means at their disposal to
refute the accusations being levelled at them in the press of publishing
an ‘excessive number of translations’ [‘eccessiva quantità di traduzioni’]
and even of being ‘anti-Italian’. He stressed that otherwise such accu-
sations, though untrue, risked influencing public opinion by dint of
repetition.14
The situation only got worse, however, and over the next four years
there were hostile letters in the press, investigations into the state of
Italian publishing, and a general tendency to criticize the publishers, to
cast them in the guise of unscrupulous profiteers and to question their
loyalty to their country. On 9 October 1933, for example, the Milanese
newspaper La Sera published the following appraisal:
[T]he list of recently published works is no more than a list of the

futile, the temporary, the commercial, the cheap. For the most, they
are foreign books, on the whole translated badly, slovenly, printed
pretentiously with poor graphics, poorly bound and full of mistakes
and typing errors.15
The following year, another investigation into the state of Italian lit-
erature was conducted by the Giornale di politica e di letteratura [Journal
of politics and literature] and the results published in March. The jour-
nal argued that the Italian readership had been ‘ruined’ [guastato] by
the growth in the number of translations that were being published.
It would be in the greater interests of the nation, the journal added,
if the soon to be instituted Book Corporation [Corporazione del libro]
were to intervene by imposing higher prices on translations, in effect
applying an importation tariff – a measure that was clearly designed
to help Italian authors gain the competitive edge they tended to lack
against translated literature.16 In May 1934 Corrado Alvaro published a
particularly vicious attack against the publishers in the Turin daily La
Stampa. Alvaro was a very successful novelist who, after a period of mild
dissent in the late 1920s, had made a successful effort to return into the
good graces of the regime and had taken to professing an aggressive
form of literary chauvinism that in many ways anticipated the sort of
xenophobic sentiment later bandied about by the Authors and Writers
Union after the Ethiopian war (Ben-Ghiat 2000: 106–12). His article
complained that
whatever subject you may be looking for in a publishing business

that prints thousands of volumes a year, you’ll find very little Italian
culture or literature, no classics, no account of the Italian way of life,
etc. Instead you will find an Italian or Roman tale translated, just as
you will find translated novels, and translated encyclopaedias, trans-
lated travel books, and even translated cookery books. In Italy the
literary and the historical and the cultural all come from abroad.17
On 30 April 1934, just a few days before Alvaro’s article, the Publishers
Federation held a General Assembly during which it became apparent
that this campaign was succeeding in altering public perceptions of
the translation phenomenon. Antonio Vallardi, Vice President of the
Federation and owner of the Vallardi publishing house, read the del-
egates a report on the previous year, in which he posed the question of
translations in unusually stark and pessimistic terms:
Another phenomenon which deserves our attention is that of trans-

lations. Italy is the country which translates the most, as the figures
of the Index Translationum prove beyond doubt. (Even if we consider
that the figures of the Index Translationum are necessarily incomplete
or inaccurate). Is the fact that Italy is the main tributary to foreign
literature a good thing or a bad thing? (Emphasis added.)18
Here Vallardi was citing the international statistics that had only
recently become available (the Index Translationum only started publish-
ing in 1932) as an undeniable fact – however unpalatable. He also makes
clear in his choice of the word ‘tributary’ how even the publishers were
being forced to define the issue in the terms imposed on them by their
antagonists: according to which translation was somehow an indica-
tion of cultural weakness and the statistics a political embarrassment.
This is confirmed later in the same speech, when Vallardi answered the
question he had just posed by trying to minimize the problem. First he
argued that the figures needed to be pruned of translations from the
classics, because these could not be considered foreign imports – an
argument that was frequently used to try and play down the importance
of Italy’s top place in the translation tables. Secondly, he argued that
Italy’s lack of ‘publishing autonomy’ [‘autonomia in campo editoriale’]
really only concerned popular literature, while in the fields of science,
art, history, jurisprudence and philosophy, and in didactic literature,

Italy had ‘almost completely freed itself from any foreign domination’
[‘quasi del tutto svincolata dalla sudditanza straniera’].19
Despite the concerns of many within the literary establishment, and
despite the perceived threat to Italian cultural prestige, the regime did not
intervene against translations during this period. Translations had begun
to be seen as a problem, and the loyalty to their country – and to the
Fascist project – of publishers who were flooding the market with transla-
tions had been openly called into question, but none of these issues were
serious enough to push the regime into direct intervention. This was, at
least in part, due to the fact that, whatever their detractors might say,
the publishers actually enjoyed a very collaborative relationship with the
regime. The president of the Publishers Federation, Franco Ciarlantini, was
a long-standing member of the regime’s establishment, having joined the
Fascist Party in 1923 and been a member of the Fascist Grand Council,
and he firmly believed that the future of Italian publishing lay in its
industrial development within the corporate state that the regime was in
the process of building. Aside from its president, all the other members of
the Federation were either firmly pro-Fascist, such as Mondadori, Vallardi
and Vallecchi (to name a few of the most prominent), or quietly neutral
(such as Bompiani). With the two important exceptions of Laterza and,
to some extent, Einaudi, there simply was no real opposition within the
publishing world. Any publisher who might have adopted an antagonistic
stance towards the regime during its establishment in 1924–25 had either
been forced to close or to align itself with the regime.20 Laterza, which
was based somewhat on the fringes of the publishing world in Bari, was
able to maintain an openly hostile stance towards the regime thanks to
its association with the highly influential philosopher Benedetto Croce;
while Giulio Einaudi was probably allowed to keep his Turin publishing
house in operation, despite the suspicion that he was involved with the
Giustizia e Libertà [Freedom and Justice] anti-Fascist movement, because of
the eminence of his father, the internationally respected economist and
future president of the Italian Republic, Luigi Einaudi. In a general climate
of consensus, both within the publishing world and in the country at
large, it probably suited the regime to allow these two antagonistic houses
to remain open: such tolerance was a demonstration of strength, while to
close them would have meant risking international disapproval.
Translations and cultural autarky

As the Italian invasion of Ethiopia came to a close and Italy inaugurated
its colonial status (the empire was officially proclaimed by Mussolini on
9 May 1936), and in the wake of the League of Nations sanctions and the
campaign for economic autarky that was launched as a response, there
was another campaign against translations. The following editorial, from
a provincial literary journal, gives us a sense of how the terms of the
debate had been exacerbated by the resentment that the sanctions had
caused:
All translations by authors from enemy countries should be banned,

without exception for now: this would not only function as a reprisal
but it would also lead to considerable savings on cellulose. Once
the sanctions are over it would be useful to set up a special office
to deal with requests for, and offers of, translations both into and
from Italian, regulating the concessions so as to make sure that the
imports in this field do not exceed the exports. Translations into
Italian should be limited to works of genuine artistic, scientific, and
political value, while works of so-called popular literature should be
rejected without indulgence as these constitute a constant danger to
the education and good taste of our people.21
This second campaign, which lasted from 1936 to 1938, was led by the
Futurist poet F. T. Marinetti – one of the few pro-Fascist artists of genuine
international standing. Marinetti, and the Authors and Writers Union
that he presided over, saw the opportunity that the political situation
offered of lending greater weight to their argument in their ongoing
dispute with the Publishers Federation, and felt that the regime was now
more likely to listen to concrete suggestions on how to restrict the flow of
translations. In this highly charged political context, in which nationalist
and xenophobic feeling ran high, the authors’ accusations of an unpat-
riotic privileging of private profit over national interest were much more
damaging to the publishers. How could they both join the call for a cul-
tural autarky and continue to publish so many translations? Furthermore,
at a time in which Italy had successfully completed a project of colonial
expansion, the failure of Italian culture to match this with an expansion
of its own became an even greater political embarrassment – responsibil-
ity for which the authors had rather ably succeeded in shifting onto the
publishers with their campaign against translations.
The first shot in the new campaign was the inaugural issue of the
new journal of Authors and Writers Union, Autori e scrittori, which came
out the same month as the founding of the empire. Here Marinetti
announced the decision to draw up a list of translators, in collaboration
with the Publishers Federation, intended to ‘discipline both translations

and translators’ [‘addivenire ad una disciplina delle traduzioni e
dei traduttori’]. He also announced the formation of a Translations
Commission, composed of representatives from the Authors and Writers
Union, the Italian Copyright Agency (SIAE) and the Confederation of
Professionals and Artists, but not the Publishers Federation. These two
initiatives were explicitly presented as a logical extension of Italy’s
reaction to international sanctions:
All the members of the Union have responded promptly and sponta-
neously to the call against the sanctions. The National Executive has
approved a motion against the overwhelming diffusion of foreign books
and theatrical works and has also prepared a report [in which the idea
of a list of translators and a new commission are put forward] which
will be presented to the appropriate authorities.22
As the campaign gained momentum these two ideas evolved, over a

series of articles and public conferences, into two concrete institutional
proposals: a Translators Register [Albo dei traduttori] and a ministerial
Translations Commission.23 The Register was intended to be restric-
tive and would have the effect of drawing translators away from the
influence of their employers the publishers, bringing them closer to the
interests of the authors. The ministerial commission was intended as an
organ which could regulate the translation industry without interference
from the Publishers Federation, given that the authors did not intend to
include the Federation in the project. The intention was to impose some
sort of quality control on translations and also a system of controlled
reciprocity: the principle was that translation into Italian should only
be permitted in relation to the number of Italian works being translated
into that language. This could either limit the number of translations
published in Italy, given the lack of popularity of most Italian literature
abroad or, conceivably, encourage the translation of Italian works by
exploiting the leverage of the success of foreign literature in Italy –
a principle which would eventually be accepted and applied by the
regime, as we shall see. This suggestion also allowed the authors to claim
that they were not advocating any sort of outright protectionist ban, but
merely an autarkic principle of balancing imports and exports:
[N]ot protectionism then; but nevertheless […] a form of cultural

exchange could be instituted, which is limited in relation to the
number of Italian works of all kinds which enter the respective
foreign countries, and leaving it to a specifically competent corporate

organ to prepare periodic lists of books which are indicated to the
publishers as works suitable for translation into Italian.24
(Levi 1936: 6)
Despite the Authors and Writers Union’s insistence, however, the

Translators Register remained a list with no prescriptive power
and there was no sign of a ministerial commission. The one indica-
tion that the campaign was having any effect on the regime’s attitudes
towards translations was the introduction of what is, to my knowledge,
the first measure by the state censor, the then Ministry for the Press and
Propaganda, specifically aimed at translations.25 In January 1937 the
Ministry informed publishers that from now on they must send prior
notification every time they decided to translate a text. Furthermore, the
Ministry required monthly lists of everything that was being published
to be sent in to the local Police headquarters, the Questura.26 Although
this prior notification was not a particularly threatening requirement,
it will certainly have given publishers the sense that they were being
observed more closely, and the fact that the Ministry had seen fit to
draw up a procedure that was specific to translations was significant –
so far, translations had always been regulated in exactly the same way
as any other Italian publication. As the Minister himself had explained
in a circular published a month earlier, the lists were the start of a new
Ministry policy of taking a closer interest in book publishing (which
had tended to be neglected in the past in favour of a tight control on all
periodical publications) with a view to both monitoring and shaping the
publishing industry; a policy which did not apparently target transla-
tions but which, it is reasonable to assume, was at least in part prompted
by the campaign against the publishers. The circular explains:
[Our aim is] to arrive at an exact knowledge of everything that is

printed in Italy, not only for monitoring purposes, but in order to be
able to exert a formative influence on the publishers and in response
to the widely recognized need to collect precise statistics on the non-
periodical press in Italy.27
When the Publishers Federation met in November 1937 to elect a

new executive, its president, Franco Ciarlantini, gave a speech argu-
ing that it was possible to pursue an autarkic policy in publishing. He
(understandably) felt that the onus was on Italian authors to rise to
the challenge and redress the translation balance by producing works
that could compete on the international market, rather than trying to

impose damaging restrictions on the publishers:
It is possible to achieve a special autarky in the publishing field as

well, without this meaning that publishers should abandon all for-
eign works and devote themselves solely to publishing Italian works;
an autarky of this kind is neither possible nor desirable and would
instead be damaging. Human progress is driven by a knowledge of
all of the civilized world. […] Autarky can be achieved in the pub-
lishing field through the stimulation of an increasingly large Italian
scientific, artistic and literary production, thanks to which other
countries will increasingly become our tributaries, without this
meaning that we should cease to inform ourselves of what is being
produced abroad.28
The proper way to restore Italian cultural prestige, then, was to expand
abroad without falling into the trap of imposing a culturally short-
sighted, and economically damaging, closure at home. The Federation
then took up the argument in a long editorial in its journal, the Giornale
della libreria [The Booksellers Journal]. They argued that the problem was
not actually as serious as the authors would have everyone believe, and
that translations only made up 7 per cent of national production – a
figure which they had manipulated to make it seem more favourable.29
They also congratulated themselves on the fact that the number of
translations had anyway gone down since the war in Ethiopia which, as
Table 2.1 shows, was marginally true. The editorial then launched into a
complex defence of the economics of publishing in an attempt to show
that, rather than being an instance of publishers privileging private
profit over national interests, translations were in fact a patriotic blow
struck in favour of the national industry: the money spent on buying
translation rights (that is, money which left the country) was about a
twentieth of the amount spent on paying Italian writers, translators,
printers and graphic artists; furthermore, the money spent on publish-
ing translations went into Italian hands, which was preferable to money
being spent on the foreign editions that people would buy were these
translations not available:
Have [our esteemed adversaries and denigrators] considered that, in the

final analysis, it is both preferable and cheaper to introduce the public
to a foreign work in an Italian translation rather than in the original,
a choice which would involve a greater exportation of currency?30
The editorial also refuted the idea that all translations were of low
quality; they simply met the less refined tastes of the general public. It
argued that a publishing house is first and foremost a commercial con-
cern and it must publish what the public wants to read – regularly and
consistently. If Italian writers could not produce sufficient works to feed
the market, then the publisher must turn to translations.
The authors were not convinced, however, and a month later, in
January 1938, the secretary of the Authors and Writers Union, F. T.
Marinetti, and its director, Corrado Govoni, had the directorate of the
Emilia Romagna section of the union vote a motion against translations
which stated:
We think it indispensable for a literary autarky that three quarters

of the foreign works which a few publishers are imposing on us, on
the basis of that ancient, permanent, and insufficiently discredited
Italian vice which we call xenophilia, be urgently withdrawn from
translation and publication. The consequence of this xenophilia is
the denigration of Italian literary products; a denigration which is
augmented by the ignoble diffusion of the most mediocre novels.31
The Union followed this up in February with a second motion which

once more called for the establishment of a register of recognized
translators and for the government to intervene and monitor the choice
of works to be translated – in effect the Translations Commission they
had been advocating since 1936. These measures were necessary, they
said, to stop ‘the spread of works with no literary value, chosen solely for
speculative reasons and rendered in bad Italian by people who are not
always suited for such a delicate task’:32 a particularly aggressive attack
on the integrity of the publishers. Marinetti and Govoni then led a del-
egation, which included Alessandro Pavolini, head of the Confederation
of Professionals and Artists and future Minister, to deliver a personal
copy of this motion to Minister Dino Alfieri at the Ministry for Popular
Culture (henceforth MCP). A communiqué was published in the papers
announcing both the motion and the meeting with the Minister. The
Publishers Federation reacted very strongly to this aggression and was
particularly upset at the amount of publicity that the Authors and
Writers Union had chosen to give their initiative, stating that this ques-
tion ‘of prime importance to the publishing industry’ [‘di primissimo
ordine per l’industria editoriale’] ought to have been introduced through
the proper channels ‘before being fed to the public in such an uncon-
trolled fashion’ [‘prima di essere data in pasto al pubblico nelle forme
smodate che abbiamo visto’]. In their reply published in their journal,

the Federation also firmly rejected the rather transparent attempt by the
authors to bring the Minister onto their side:
We are sure that His Excellency the Minister Alfieri and his staff,
whose prudence we have had occasion to appreciate in the past,
will want to hear representatives of the Publishers Federation before
establishing controls, commissions, registers or any other of that
battery of measures to which the representatives of the writers seem
so attached and which they seem to think will bring about a rebirth
of Italian letters, something which should in fact be their own
responsibility.33
The Minister, however, was already taking an even closer interest in the
translation question. That same month, January 1938, the MCP sent
out a telegram to all publishing houses instructing them to present a
complete list of all the translations they had published so far and the
titles of all those planned for the future.34 That this was a potentially
threatening request is clear from the response of Mondadori, in which
he made every effort to play down the importance of translations to his
company: he neglected to include the notorious ‘Libri gialli’ and another
series of popular fiction, ‘Romanzi della palma’, two of the series that
were most dependent on translations and which were the most resented
by the authors. Mondadori argued that these were merely ‘ephemeral
periodical publications’ [‘pubblicazioni periodiche di vita effimera’] –
by which he meant that they were published in magazine format.
Furthermore, he declared only 269 translations since the foundation of
the house up to December 1937, when in fact he had published 707,
and he announced that 29 translations were planned for 1938 when
in fact he would go on to publish 91.35 In March 1938, the MCP then
instituted a specific authorization procedure for translations:
1) As of 1 April [1938] only this Ministry is entitled to authorize the

diffusion in Italy of foreign translations;
2) Publishers can send the Ministry copies of the books they intend
to translate into Italian, in the original language, either directly or
via the Prefecture;
3) This Ministry will inform Publishers – via the appropriate
Prefecture – of its decision as quickly as possible;
4) Publishers are also permitted to submit works for approval in the
form of proofs in Italian translation;
5) No prior approval is required for purely scientific treatises […] or

for works which are universally recognized as classics.36
It is difficult to evaluate the exact significance of this measure. On the

one hand, the MCP was clearly putting pressure on the publishers and,
without actually imposing any restrictions as yet, was ensuring that it
could exert control over the publication of translation if and when it
chose to. On the other hand, all publications in Italy were already sub-
ject to prior authorization before distribution, so in this sense the circu-
lar did not introduce a significant change. What is clear from point 5 is
that it was the translations of popular fiction which were the Ministry’s
real target.37
A clearer insight into the ambivalent position of the Ministry is pro-
vided by a widely publicized speech given on 3 February 1938 in Florence
by the head of the General Directorate for the Italian Press at the MCP,
Gherardo Casini, entitled ‘Bonifica della cultura in Italia’ [The Purging of
Italian Culture].38 This was not the first time that the word bonifica had
been used to signify a process of cultural ‘renewal’, and it was a word
that was to acquire ominous associations once the anti-Semitic purge
got under way, as we shall see in the following section.39 In a rather long
and sometimes confused analysis, Casini veered between reassuring his
audience that the situation of Italian culture was actually quite healthy,
since translations only made up a small proportion of the market (Casini
cited the Federation’s manipulated figure of 7 per cent), and sounding
the alarm that the Italian public had developed an unhealthy taste for
all things foreign. Despite this concern, however, Casini tried to argue
in favour of a rather improbable cultural nationalism that could also
maintain a European outlook:
But we do not believe that it would be fruitful to close the borders

against any intellectual, artistic or cultural exchange and in fact we
see all the usefulness and merits of such exchange. […] So, to work for
Italian culture means above all to work for Italy, but it also means to
work so that European culture can find its own path once again.40
It would, however, be wrong to assume that in this debate the publishers

were without their allies, who were prepared to come out in support of
cultural exchange and against narrow-minded restrictions. The Venice
section of the Authors and Writers Union, for example, passed a resolu-
tion that was in direct contrast to the one sponsored by Marinetti and
Govoni. The resolution argued, much like the publishers themselves,
that any repression of translation would be damaging to Italian cul-

ture, and that Italian literature was best defended by means of a more
effective expansion abroad. The motion won the explicit approval of
Giuseppe Bottai, Minister for Education and editor of the long-standing
and very influential journal Critica fascista, who commented, in almost
exactly the same terms as the motion:
Also because excessively severe protective legislation would risk

creating an atmosphere of isolation around Italy which would by
no means favour its imperial role. […] Rather it would be better to
defend literary Italianness by means of a more widespread and pen-
etrating cultural expansion abroad.41
As we shall see, however, this apparent openness on the part of Bottai

did not prevent him from vigorously applying the new racist legislation
that would be introduced later that year. Another well-placed member
of the hierarchy to come out in favour of a more open interpretation of
cultural autarky was Ezio Maria Gray, a journalist who held numerous
positions of responsibility in the regime, including being a member of
parliament, a member of the Fascist Party (PNF) executive, vice presi-
dent of the Corporation of Professions and Arts and a member of the
Fascist Grand Council. In an article which appeared in the Gazzetta
del Popolo on 28 July 1938, he argued that the ‘magnificent formula of
“autarky”’ [magnifica formula dell’ ‘autarchia’] had been abused and
debased in the same way as ‘battle’ [battaglia] had been:42
The ‘zealots’ have thought to enhance national production in the

field of creative works by making war against foreign products, as if
books and journals could be put on the same plane as stockings and
garters.
Gray also praised Mondadori for showing how cultural exchange

must be reciprocal, arguing that Italians could not expect to export
their books if they were not prepared to import them as well. Cultural
exchange, he said, was an incentive to progress, and the economic
concept of autarky could not be applied to culture. The fear of for-
eign invasion was misplaced because, now that it had been immu-
nized by 16 years of Fascism, Gray rather optimistically concluded,
Italy would no longer fall into the supine xenophilia of the post-
unification era.43
Translation and racism
In the brief period between the founding of Italy’s Empire in East

Africa in May 1936 and the introduction of anti-Semitic legislation
in the autumn of 1938, the discourse on translation was informed by
the rhetoric of cultural expansion and cultural autarky but was largely
free from explicit racism or anti-Semitism. Ever since the beginning of
the decade, the paradigm that lay at the heart of the debate was one
where translation was either seen as an instrument of cultural penetra-
tion in a battle for cultural domination (a battle that Italy appeared to
be losing) or, for those who did not feel threatened by it, as an instru-
ment of cultural exchange in a drive for greater cultural prestige. This
would change with the introduction of racist legislation: with notions of
both racial and cultural purity becoming dominant, and most voices in
favour of cultural exchange maintaining a politic silence, translation
came increasingly to be seen as a form of cultural pollution and literary
exchange as potentially a form of cultural miscegenation. Furthermore,
the anti-Semitic purge would break any remaining inhibitions on the
part of the MCP, which would slowly start to impose restrictions on
translations.
The Commission for the Purging of Books

Although racist legislation was officially approved by the Fascist Grand
Council in November 1938, Giuseppe Bottai had already begun an
anti-Semitic purge of the education sector in August that year. All Jewish
teachers lost their jobs and the publishers were told to remove all text-
books by Jewish authors from their catalogues. It is significant that it
was the publishers themselves who drew up the lists of purged authors,
lists which would then serve as a basis for the complete purge (of mainly
Jewish authors) later carried out by the MCP.44 Their collaboration was
prompted not so much by their enthusiasm for the new legislation as
by a fear that, if left to others, there was a danger of the purge being too
damaging economically, given that there was also considerable ambigu-
ity as to who exactly should be included in the blacklists.45
The MCP also moved early and, on 13 September 1938, Alfieri called
the first meeting of a Commission for the Purging of Books [Commissione
per la bonifica libraria], which included a long list of representatives of the
various cultural agencies and institutions – but none from the Publishers
Federation. The naming of the commission was in itself significant. Since
the mid-1920s the term bonifica had generally been used in its agricul-
tural sense of reclaiming previously uncultivateable land, or rendering
previously unhealthy areas of the country habitable. In 1924 the regime

had launched a campaign of important public works, such as the rec-
lamation of the Pontine Marshes, with the slogan of bonifica integrale
[complete reclamation]. By choosing this name, Alfieri was consciously
placing the work of the commission within a Fascist tradition of great
public works. Moreover, as we saw in Casini’s speech earlier, the term
bonifica had begun to be used as a metaphor for a cultural ‘renewal’.
Now, as the title of this commission, this bonifica was to be a much more
explicit purging of Italian culture: the purpose of the commission was, in
the words of Alfieri himself
to establish precise criteria and determine the most suitable and

efficient methods to achieve a complete review of Italian book pro-
duction and that of foreign books translated into Italian. This review
has become all the more necessary in view of the racial directions
from above.46
It is clear from this statement that, in Alfieri’s mind, the purpose of the
commission was both to tackle the translation problem and implement
the new racist legislation. In the former respect, then, the commission
seemed to be an answer to the many requests from the Authors and
Writers Union for a Translations Commission. Once the commission
started to meet, however, its anti-Semitic agenda became dominant,
and it actually paid relatively little attention to the translation question
(see also Fabre 1998: 175). Nevertheless the connection had been made
between the process of racial ‘cleansing’ that the regime had launched
and the foreign presence of translations. Translations were now part of a
larger issue, that of racial purity; one in which they were part cause and
part symptom of the corrupting influence of Jewish culture.47
Shaken by their exclusion from any active role within the commis-
sion, the Publishers Federation decided that the best tactic would be to
pre-empt whatever decisions it might take by drawing up their own list
of works to be purged. The commission had been divided into various
subcommittees, each charged with drawing up a blacklist for its respec-
tive area of competence, and the crucial area of ‘Narrative literature,
Biography, Poetry and Theatre’ [‘Letteratura narrativa e biografica,
Poesia e Teatro’] had been entrusted to none other than the Authors
and Writers Union (Fabre 1998: 176). When, in February 1939, these
subcommittees were called together in plenary session to present their
lists, Ciarlantini was present and he announced that the Publishers
Federation had voluntarily removed 900 books from circulation in order
to facilitate the work of the commission.48 This was a politically intel-

ligent move which won the approval of the Minister and appears to
have ensured that the publishers were included in the further meetings
of the commission.
Pavolini becomes minister

On 31 October 1939, Alessandro Pavolini took over as Minister for
Popular Culture. Pavolini was a convinced Fascist and a firm believer
in the regime’s racist policies. He had been a journalist, novelist, poet,
the founding editor of the Fascist literary journal Il Bargello, and more
recently the president of the Confederation of Professionals and Artists,
taking part in the Commission for the Purging of Books alongside
Marinetti. By the time he took up his post as Minister, the anti-Semitic
purge of Italian public life was well under way and Pavolini could find
time to devote his mind to the question of translations.
With the introduction of official anti-Semitism, the MCP had broken
a long-standing policy of minimal intervention and had imposed a very
damaging purge on the Italian publishers. This precedent having been
set, the MCP would go on to impose difficult restrictions on translations,
presenting these measures as an unavoidable necessity in the current
political climate. This sense of emergency measures being introduced
in particularly delicate circumstances would only increase, of course,
with the outbreak of the war. Pavolini is in many ways a contradictory
figure, however. On the one hand he was the first Minister to introduce
concrete restrictions on translations; yet, on the other hand, he appeared
to maintain a more cordial and collaborative relationship with the
Publishers Federation than Alfieri had done. Despite many statements
which evince a very severe attitude towards the corrupting influence
of translations, his restrictive measures were in fact introduced quite
gradually and, to a some extent, in agreement with the publishers.
Despite the fact that translations were originally part of its brief, he did
not use the Commission for the Purging of Books to impose restrictions
out of hand, but instead took the trouble to negotiate these and, as we
shall see, made an effort to mitigate their impact.49
Pavolini’s first move was to call a meeting with the Publishers
Federation in October 1940 in which he informed them that he had
decided to impose a 10 per cent quota on translations. In the meet-
ing, Pavolini told the publishers that Italian literature must reflect the
nation’s prominent international role. He therefore wanted to promote
the expansion of Italian literature abroad while reducing the amount
of foreign literature being translated in Italy and being distributed in
imported foreign-language editions. His speech confirmed, once again,

that it was the success of foreign popular fiction that was the perceived
problem, explaining that these measures applied to ‘so-called “creative”
works and popular literature, and not to the classics or to scientific
works’ [‘opere cosiddette di ‘fantasia’ e di amena lettura, e non per i clas-
sici e per le opere scientifiche’]. As well as imposing a quota [aliquota] on
translations, Pavolini said that the MCP would support Italian publish-
ing by buying a regular allocation of books to be distributed in libraries,
schools, and other institutions, and by awarding subsidies to cover the
cost of paper.
In response, the Publishers Federation argued, first of all, that the
low cost of translation rights allowed them to pay their Italian authors
very generously – especially important considering the small number
of copies that most of these authors sold; also that the profits made
on translations allowed them to keep the price of Italian books much
lower than elsewhere in the world. Secondly, they stressed that the
high-selling translations actually provided work for a host of Italian
translators, editors, printers and graphic artists. Both these points were
an answer to the accusation levelled at them by the Authors and Writers
Union of ignoring the nation’s autarkic interests. They continued along
this line of argument by reminding Pavolini that their translations had
effectively put a stop to the importation of French translations of for-
eign works – another autarkic feather in their cap. They also invoked
the principle of reciprocity, reversing the way in which the authors had
used it against them by arguing that the translations published in Italy
were necessary as a lever to encourage foreign publishing houses to pub-
lish translations from Italian. Turning more directly to the commercial
situation, the publishers also stressed that the annual turnover of the
publishing sector in Italy was relatively low, and that if the quota were
imposed they stood to lose a lot of money on translation rights which
they had already bought – money which would go straight into foreign
hands. Finally, the publishers pointed out that they had already made
an effort to align themselves with the MCP’s cultural priorities and that
translations were down to a mere 500 in the period 1938–39 – which
was not actually true.50
Following this meeting Pavolini apparently agreed to wait with the
quota until the Publishers Federation had completed a detailed survey of
the situation which would ‘put the translation problem into perspective’
[‘un inquadramento del problema delle traduzioni’].51 Nevertheless the
MCP imposed a series of restrictive measures over the following year,
aimed in particular at translations published in magazine format and at
crime fiction. In December 1940 the MCP informed the Federation that
translations published in magazine format must be included in the sur-
vey that it was carrying out;52 and this was followed a few months later
by a circular which made it obligatory to request prior authorization for
these translations.53 These measures were designed to close the loophole
being exploited by publishers such as Mondadori, as we saw earlier, who
were in the habit of not including translations published in periodical
format in their requests for authorization and distribution, with the
justification that they were only temporary publications with a short
lifespan. Mondadori was therefore excluding both the ‘Libri gialli’ and
the ‘Romanzi della palma’, two of the most successful translation series in
his catalogue, in an attempt to play down the impact of translations in
his publishing figures. Yet these were exactly the kind of cheap, readily
available editions of foreign popular fiction that the Authors and Writers
Union had complained about so bitterly and which were the principal
vehicle for the ‘hasty and invasive distortion of values’ [‘frettolosa ed
invadente inversione di valori’] that the regime was keen to stop.54 It was
therefore fairly logical that the MCP should follow this with another cir-
cular in July 1941 which forbade the publication of crime fiction either
in instalments or in periodical format; a measure that was designed to
make this literature less accessible without actually banning it outright,
by forcing it into more expensive editions.55 The drive against crime
fiction then continued with a rather redundant measure which made it
obligatory to obtain specific, prior authorization for all crime literature.56
Finally, in October 1941, the MCP informed the Federation that only
publishers who were already publishing crime fiction should continue
to do so, and this at a rate of no more than one book a month with a
price of at least five lire – another measure designed to shut down the
market for the cheaper editions which were selling at two to three lire.57
Although this did not yet amount to a complete ban, Mondadori at least
did not publish any more ‘Libri gialli’ after this date.
Between January and May 1942, Pavolini and the Federation finally
agreed on a translation quota of 25 per cent, with the proviso that
houses who had published a lower proportion in the past must maintain
this. It would appear, then, that Pavolini had to some extent agreed to
accommodate those houses which depended heavily on translations –
this was a much more generous quota than the one he had begun with
18 months earlier and ‘special dispensations may be considered at the
end of the year’ [‘qualche deroga potrà essere presa in esame alla fine
dell’anno’]. It was also agreed that additional tolerance would be shown
to those publishers who succeeded in selling the translation rights to
Italian works abroad. The quota would, however, include ‘literary, politi-
cal and philosophical works, classics or not’ [‘opere letterarie, politiche
e filosofiche – classiche o non’], a more restrictive remit than was origi-
nally proposed and a rejection of the argument that translations of the
classics should be more acceptable as they were, in effect, ‘internal’
translations. This confirms that Pavolini was just as keen to reduce the
negative propaganda value of the figures on translation as he was to
throttle the flow of decadent foreign literature.58 For Mondadori, who
was the most important publisher of translations and who had played
a key part in the negotiations, translations dropped from 48 per cent of
his total production in 1941 to 28 per cent in 1942; testimony to the fact
that these measures had a real impact.59
On 6 February 1943, just six months before the regime would
finally collapse, Pavolini was succeeded by Gaetano Polverelli, another
dyed-in-the-wool Fascist who had been head of the Prime Minister’s Press
Office from December1931 to August 1933, and more recently had been
Under Secretary of State at the MCP. The only measure of significance
which he had time to implement was the complete ban in April 1943 of
all crime fiction until the end of the war, officially due to the shortage
of paper.60
A racialized view of translation

We have seen how Pavolini appears to have made some effort to maintain
a collaborative relationship with the Publishers Federation even as he
imposed his restrictions against translations. In his discussions with the
publishers, his main concern appears to have been the issue of Italy’s cul-
tural prestige. Translations needed to be curbed because they were a politi-
cal embarrassment and undermined Italy’s international status; Fascist
Italy ought to be an expanding cultural presence in the world, one which
penetrated other cultures, not one which was invaded by an uncontrolled
flow of foreign fiction before the eyes of the international community.61
There is little trace in his private exchanges with the publishers of the
racialized rhetoric that was the hallmark of his public statements on the
translation question. A good example of the latter is a speech Pavolini
gave at an annual inauguration of the Italo-German Association (there
is no record of the year):
But the edges of that great and pure current which is the Italian
tradition […] were clouded, in the dark years of our nation’s life, by
a disorganized and poisonous importation of doctrines, intellectual
fashions, modes of thought, of art and of life […] that were entirely
alien to the style and genius of the race. It is our constant effort, by
now largely realized, to purify our native culture from this marginal
pollution. The purification of books, the monitoring of translations,
the selection of foreign books and periodicals for importation […]
an ever more severe selection of theatrical, musical and cinemato-
graphic productions from abroad: all these and other analogous
provisions […] have helped to render our Italian culture ever more
‘Italian’. Italian: that is herself, free from any small-minded protec-
tionism, but conscious of her own eternal role as disseminator rather
than receiver.62
Here, alongside the concern with Italy’s cultural prestige, we find an

idea of translation clearly informed by the notions of racial purity that
had become common currency since the introduction of official racism.
For Pavolini, translations are not just an unwelcome sign of weakness
in a geopolitical cultural project of expansion, they are not just a reflec-
tion of the failure of the colonial enterprise to project Italy fully onto
the international stage: they have become a form of pollution, a poison
which threatens the cultural health of the nation.
Pavolini is a typical example of that peculiarly Fascist ambivalence
where a clear gap opens between the rhetoric and the concrete action.
On the one hand, he maintained a public alignment with official
orthodoxy and offered bold statements of intent in which translation
became conceptually embroiled in the regime’s racist purge; on the
other hand, he allowed his private sympathy with the publishers to
bring him to a more moderate, negotiated position. So it was that in the
midst of the crackdown on translations, and at a time when Italy was
already at war with both Britain and the United States, Pavolini was per-
suaded to authorize an anthology of contemporary American literature:
Americana, edited by the famous Italian author and translator Elio
Vittorini and published by Bompiani. Despite the insertion of a fairly
critical introduction and the removal of Vittorini’s own appreciative
commentary, there can have been no doubt in anybody’s mind that this
volume was intended as a celebration of American literature. Partly due
to the status that Vittorini was to acquire in post-war Italian literature,
the anthology has gone down in history as one of the more notorious
cases of Fascist censorship: the first edition had to be withdrawn from
publication, and there is some evidence that the second edition was
eventually banned as well.63 But what is striking is not that Pavolini’s
less sophisticated successor, Gaetano Polverelli, may have banned the
book, but that Pavolini, the Minister who had given himself the task of
cleansing the ‘great and pure current’ of Italian culture from all forms
of ‘marginal pollution’, had actually seen fit to authorize it in the first
place.
Conclusion
In this chapter, I have chosen to concentrate on translation as an

ideological issue and as a publishing phenomenon, rather than as a
literary process and activity. This was not an a priori decision but rather
the result of where I felt the archival material led me (see also Rundle
2010). In my reading of this history of the Fascist regime, it is this
feature which I think is most significant. The regime did not perceive
translation as a seditious activity and did not see translated literature as
a channel for some form of ideological opposition – at least not until
the introduction of racist legislation and the official paranoia that this
brought with it. The regime took an interest in translation when it
began to see that the translation phenomenon was actually calling into
question the cultural prestige of the nation.
Broadly speaking, we can trace four distinct periods in relation to
the question of translation: the first period up to the end of the 1920s
in which translation was essentially a literary and aesthetic question
that was really only of concern to those in the literary establishment;
a second period from 1928 to 1934 in which the literary establishment
began to feel threatened by the increasing success of translations and
the changes they were beginning to effect on the book market; a third
period from 1935 to 1937 in which translations first became a clearly
ideological question, both as they were caught up in the call for autarky
that followed the founding of the empire and as they came to be seen as
a weapon in an ideal battle for cultural expansion and dominion; and a
final period, from 1938 to 1943, in which racist ideology imposed itself
on the regime’s perception of translations, now seen as a polluting pres-
ence that needed to be purged – a call to arms that was only exacerbated
by the war.
Throughout this evolution in the regime’s attitude to translation, it
was the symbolic or propaganda value of the phenomenon that caused
the most concern, and, on the whole, not the impact that translations
may have had on Italian literature. This is significant in that translation
provides us with a means of understanding how the regime viewed itself
and how that view of itself was constructed. In a regime that was led by
a journalist and master of propaganda, image was everything; yet how
could the idea of Italian cultural prestige be promoted if the figures
on translation showed quite clearly that French and German culture

enjoyed far greater international prestige? How could Italian culture
hope to expand its international influence when Italians had such
an appetite for foreign literature? The voices of those who preached
cultural expansion by means of unrestricted cultural exchange were
drowned out by the loud reactions to this loss of face.
Abbreviations
ACS Archivio centrale dello stato, Rome

AME Archivio Storico Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, Fondazione
Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori, Milan
ASMi Archivio di stato, Milan
b. busta (file)
DAGR Divisione affari generali e riservati
DGPS Direzione generale pubblica sicurezza
DGSE Direzione generale stampa estera
f. fascicolo (folder, within a file)
MCP Ministero della cultura popolare
MI Ministero degli interni
PNF Partito Nazionale Fascista
SAM Sezione Arnoldo Mondadori
Notes
1. See Billiani (2007a) for a detailed account of the literary debate on transla-
tion in the 1920s. See also Rubino’s essay in this volume.
2. For more details on Fascist censorship see Bonsaver (2007), Fabre (1998), and
Talbot (2007). See also Fabre (2007) and Rundle (2000, 2010) for more details
on the censorship of translations.
3. The Soviet Union, Poland and Czechoslovakia also published a comparable
number of translations, without ever quite reaching Italian levels of produc-
tion, but available figures on these countries are too inconsistent to allow us
to make a useful comparison.
4. The statistics used in this section were all published in the period 1930–43
in the Giornale della libreria, the official organ of the Publishers Federation,
which drew them from a variety of national sources. They include all publi-
cations, fiction and non-fiction, but not sheet music or government acts. In
order to fill in certain gaps and obtain a reasonably consistent and compara-
ble series of data, I have integrated these figures with figures that I have per-
sonally compiled based on the Index Translationum. The Index Translationum
was published by the Institute for Cultural Co-operation in Paris, an agency
under the aegis of what was then the League of Nations. Publication began
in 1932 but was interrupted in 1940 following the outbreak of the war, with
only the figures for the first half of 1939 having been published, and not
taken up again until 1948. Concerning the figures published by the Giornale
della libreria: the Italian figures were sourced from the Bollettino delle pub-
blicazioni italiane, which regularly published data compiled by the National
Library in Florence. The French figures were sourced from the Bibliographie
de la France. The figures on German publications were compiled by the
statistician Ludwig Schönrock and include publications in Austria and
German-speaking Switzerland. These were sourced from the Börsenblatt für
den deutschen Buchhandel and the Swiss publication Droit d’Auteur, official
organ of the Bureau International pour la protection des Oeuvres littéraires et
artistiques in Berne.
5. See Sturge in this volume.
6. Figures on translation out of a language are clearly much more difficult to
compile. In Table 2.3 I have shown those years in which I was able to find a
figure for translation both to and from Italian and German.
7. In fact the German figures were dominated by ‘un-German’ authors – exiles
and anti-Nazis – but this fact was not remarked on in Italy. See Rubino and
Sturge in this volume.
8. For a more detailed analysis of the statistics on translation in Fascist Italy see
Rundle (2010: Ch. 2).
9. See Decleva (1993: 152), Pedullà (1997: 349, 368, 375–6), and Tranfaglia and
Vittoria (2000: 311–12).
10. See De Donato and Gazzola Stacchini (1991).
11. ‘Un ufficio internazionale della traduzione’, La Fiera Letteraria, 29 May 1927,
Prezzolini (1928), both cited in Sfondrini (1997: 53–4). All translations from
Italian in this chapter are my own.
12. The letter was published in Il Torchio, no. 33, September 1928: 3. Reproduced
in Sfondrini (1997: 264–5).
13. ‘L’invasione dello straniero’, Il Torchio, no. 31, August 1928: 3. Cited in
Sfondrini (1997: 47–56).
14. AME, SAM, ‘Federazione Nazionale Fascista degli Industriali Editori’. A key of all
the abbreviations used is provided at the end of this chapter.
15. ‘L’elenco delle opere pubblicate negli ultimi tempi dimostra della futilità,
del provvisorio, della commercialità, del facile smercio. In gran parte sono
libri stranieri, i più mal tradotti, trascurati, stampati pretenziosamente
con stramba fisionomia, mal rilegati e zeppi di errori e di refusi.’ Quoted
in ‘Editori e scrittori’, Giornale della libreria 46, no. 43, 28 October 1933:
233–4.
16. ‘Per una Corporazione del libro’, Giornale della libreria 47, no. 11, 17 March
1934: 65–6. In fact a Book Corporation was never created. The publishers
came under the aegis of the Corporation for Paper and Printing, which was
formally created along with the other 21 corporations on 5 February 1934, a
month before this discussion took place.
17. ‘Qualunque argomento cerchiate in un’editoria che stampa migliaia di
volumi all’anno trovate poca cultura poca letteratura italiana, niente classici,
nessun documento di vita italiana, ecc. Troverete bensì una storia italiana e
romana tradotta, come troverete romanzi tradotti, ed enciclopedie, libri di
viaggio, e perfino libri di cucina tradotti. Per noi l’estero fa la letteratura e la
storia e la cultura.’ La Stampa, 2 May 1934, quoted in Verde (1934: 141). See
Rubino in this volume for an account of Alvaro’s writings on Germany in

the 1920s.
18. ‘Altro fenomeno che merita la nostra attenzione è quello delle traduzioni.
L’Italia è il paese che traduce di più come prova l’Index Translationum, in
modo irrefutabile. […] E’ un bene o un male che l’Italia sia la maggior tribu-
taria della letteratura straniera?’
19. All the quotes are from the report of Vallardi’s speech in Giornale della libreria
47, no. 18, 5 May 1934: 111.
20. See Tranfaglia and Vittoria (2000) and Bonsaver (2007) on examples of these.
See Nottola in this volume for a detailed study of relations between Einaudi
and the regime.
21. ‘Si vietino le traduzioni degli autori appartenenti ai paesi nemici e, per ora,
senza eccezioni: questo non costituisce solo una rappresaglia ma altresì una
notevole economia di cellulosa. A sanzioni cessate sarebbe utile istituire
uno speciale ufficio destinato a raccogliere e a vagliare le richieste ed offerte
di traduzione in e dall’italiano, proporzionando le concessioni in modo
che anche in questo campo le importazioni non superino le esportazioni.
Le traduzioni in italiano dovranno venire limitate ad opere di reale valore
artistico, scientifico e politico, rifiutando senza indulgenza quelle opere
della così detta letteratura amena che costituisce un costante pericolo per
l’educazione ed il buon gusto dal [sic] nostro popolo.’ Unsigned editorial
comment in L’Orto V, nos 4–5, July/October 1935: 39. Available online in the
C. I. R. C. E. Digital Archive of European Cultural Journals (http://circe.lett.
unitn.it/).
22. ‘L’adesione contro le sanzioni è stata da parte di tutti gli organizzati nel
Sindacato pronta e spontanea. La Segreteria Nazionale votò a suo tempo un
ordine del giorno contro la soverchiante diffusione della produzione libraria e
teatrale straniera ed all’uopo ha approntato una relazione che sarà portata
all’esame dei competenti organi corporativi.’ Authors and Writers Union,
first six-monthly report of 1936, cited in Autori e scrittori I, no. 4, August
1936: 15. 23. Autori e scrittori I, nos 6–7, October/November 1936: 3;
‘Problema delle traduzioni e dei rapporti con l’estero’, Autori e scrittori II,
no. 10, October 1937: 1–6.
24. ‘Non quindi proibizionismo; ma tuttavia si potrebbe attuare […] delle forme
di scambio culturale limitate in ragione della quantità di opere dell’ingegno
italiano d’ogni tipo che entrano nei rispettivi paesi stranieri lasciando poi a
speciali organi corporativi competenti di preparare le liste periodiche di libri
che si indicano agli editori per la traduzione in lingua italiana.’
25. The Ministry would soon change its name to Ministry for Popular Culture, the
final incarnation of the state censorship institution. It began life as the Prime
Minister’s Press Office; it was then upgraded to the State Under Secretariat for
the Press and Propaganda on 10 September 1934. It was upgraded once again
to the Ministry for the Press and Propaganda on 24 June 1935, and finally
renamed the Ministry for Popular Culture on 27 May 1937. On the evolution
of the Press Office, see Bonsaver (2007: Ch. 4), Cannistraro (1975: 101–72,
133), Murialdi (1986: 113–20, 145–7, 157–64), and Talbot (2007: 79–82).
26. See the circular, dated 30 January 1937 and addressed to the publishers and
printers, and preserved in the state archives in Milan: ASMi, PMG I, b.716
‘Rassegna Bibliografica. Elenco delle pubblicazioni’.
27. ‘Avere un’esatta conoscenza di tutto quanto si stampa in Italia, non solo agli
effetti della revisione, ma per poter svolgere un’azione formativa sugli editori
e per la riconosciuta necessità di avere una precisa statistica sulla stampa
italiana non periodica.’ ACS, MI, DGPS, DAGR, Massime, b. S4 (provv.),
f. S4A1/1, ‘Disciplina delle pubblicazioni. Circolari’. The circular is no. 390/
Div. III dated 18 December 1936. Quoted in Fabre (1998: 30).
28. ‘Una speciale autarchia decisamente intesa è possibile raggiungere anche
nel campo editoriale, senza che questo significhi per gli editori met-
tere al bando opere straniere e dedicarsi soltanto alla pubblicazione di
opere italiane; un’autarchia di questo genere non è possibile né desiderabile,
e sarebbe anzi dannosa. Il progresso umano è alimentato dalle cognizioni di
tutto il mondo civile. […] L’autarchia si può raggiungere nel campo edito-
riale stimolando una produzione nazionale scientifica, artistica e letteraria
sempre più copiosa, mercé la quale, pur non disimpegnandosi dalla neces-
sità di conoscere quel che si fa all’estero, si rendano gli altri Paesi sempre
più tributari del nostro.’ In Giornale della libreria 50, no. 48, 27 November
1937: 350–7. A modified version of this speech was published as an article in
Resto del Carlino, 16 December 1937 (see also Giornale della libreria 51, no. 1,
1 January 1938).
29. The article lowered the proportion by not counting translations from clas-
sics, and by including musical publications and sheet music in the overall
total. In fact, translations made up 10.56 per cent of total book production,
according to my calculations (Rundle 2010: 131–2, 223).
30. ‘Hanno pensato [i nostri amabilissimi avversari e denigratori] che, in defini-
tiva, è preferibile e più economico far conoscere al pubblico il libro straniero in
traduzione italiana piuttosto che nell’edizione originale, il che importerebbe
una maggior esportazione di valuta?’ ‘L’autarchia editoriale e le traduzioni’,
Giornale della libreria 51, no. 5, 29 January 1938: 33–5.
31. ‘Consideriamo indispensabile per l’autarchia letteraria ora urgente scar-
tare dalla traduzione e pubblicazione i tre quarti delle opere straniere che
alcuni editori impongono, basandosi sul non abbastanza vituperato antico e
permanente vizio italiano che noi chiamiamo esterofilia. Questo esterofilia
avendo come conseguenza la denigrazione del prodotto letterario italiano
trova nella moltiplicazione di mediocrissimi romanzi il suo ignobile ali-
mento.’ Quoted in ‘L’autarchia editoriale e le traduzioni’, Giornale della
libreria 51, no. 5, 29 January 1938: 33.
32. ‘Il dilagare di opere senza nessun valore letterario, scelte solo a titolo specu-
lativo e rese in cattivo italiano da persone non sempre adatte per questo
compito così delicato.’
33. ‘Abbiamo pertanto la precisa certezza che S. E. il Ministro Alfieri e i suoi
collaboratori, di cui conosciamo la sperimentata prudenza, vorranno sentire
i rappresentanti della Federazione Editori prima di determinare controlli,
commissioni, albi e tutto quell’armamentario al quale pare siano particolar-
mente attaccati i rappresentanti degli autori e dal quale sembra si ripromet-
tano la rinascita delle lettere italiane, che dovrebbe in definitiva essere opera
loro.’ All quotes in Giornale della libreria 51, no. 9, 26 February 1938: 68–9.
Fabre (1998: 72–3) also comments on the authors’ visit to the MCP and on
the firm reaction of the Publishers Federation.
34. AME, SAM, ‘Ministro della Cultura Popolare’, telegram from Gherardo
Casini, the head of the General Directorate for the Italian Press within the
MCP.
35. Letter addressed to Casini dated 18 January 1938. In AME, SAM, ‘Minstero
Cultura Popolare’, busta 65–6. Mondodori’s list is reproduced in full in
Billiani (2007a: 171–2 n. 53).
36. ‘1) a datare dal 1 aprile c.a. soltanto questo Ministero potrà autorizzare la
diffusione in Italia delle traduzioni straniere; 2) Gli Editori possono inviare
a questo Ministero direttamente o a mezzo della Prefettura, nella lingua
originale, i libri che intendono tradurre in italiano; 3) Questo Ministero farà
conoscere all’Editore – tramite la Prefettura competente – il suo giudizio
nel termine più breve; 4) E’ data facoltà agli Editori di presentare le opere
anche in bozze nella traduzione italiana; 5) Sono esclusi dalla preventiva
approvazione i trattati puramente scientifici […] e i classici universalmente
riconosciuti tali.’ Circular no. 1135, 26 March 1938. ACS, MI, DGPS, DAGR,
Massime, b. S4 103 A (provv.), f. S4 B5, ‘Traduzione e diffusione nel Regno
di opere di autori Stranieri’. Quoted in Fabre (1998: 32; 2007: 27–8).
37. See Billiani (2007a: 197), who interprets this measure as an extension of the
system of preventive censorship that the regime instituted in April 1934
with circular 442/9532 (cf. Fabre 1998: 22–8); also Fabre (2007: 32–3), who
interprets it as an anti-Semitic measure which anticipated the racist legisla-
tion that would be introduced later in the year.
38. Casini (1938). The speech was given considerable coverage in the press and
was reprinted a number of times (Fabre 1998: 66 n. 3). The edition in L’Orto
can be accessed online in the C. I. R. C. E. Digital Archive of European
Cultural Journals (http://circe.lett.unitn.it/). The speech is discussed briefly
in Bonsaver (2007: 172) at some length in Fabre (1998: 66–9) and in Rundle
(2010: 157–62).
39. Cesare De Vecchi, Bottai’s predecessor as Minister of Education, had pub-
lished a collection of his speeches and Ministerial documents the year
before, under the title Bonifica fascista della cultura (Bonsaver 2007: 172).
40. ‘Ma noi non crediamo affatto che sarebbe comunque giovevole chiudere le
frontiere ad ogni scambio intellettuale, artistico, culturale, e ne ravvisiamo
anzi tutta l’utilità e l’efficacia. […] Così lavorare per la cultura italiana sig-
nifica prima di tutto lavorare per l’Italia, ma significa poi anche lavorare
perché la cultura europea ritrovi la sua strada’, Casini (1938: 67).
41. ‘Anche perché una legislazione protettiva troppo severa rischierebbe di creare
intorno all’Italia un’atmosfera di isolamento niente affatto giovevole alla sua
funzione imperiale. […] E’ piuttosto augurabile che la difesa dell’italianità
letteraria venga affidata a una più diffusa, penetrante opera di espansione
culturale all’estero’, Critica Fascista, 9, 1 March 1938. Both the motion and
Bottai’s response are reported in Giornale della libreria 51, no. 11, 12 March
1938: 81–2.
42. The reference here is to the Battle for Wheat [Battaglia del grano], a campaign
originally launched by Mussolini in 1925 to promote the modernization of
Italian agricultural methods, but which turned into a more protectionist
effort to reduce the country’s dependence on imported wheat by replacing
other (often more profitable) cultivations at home with wheat.
43. ‘Gli “zelantissimi” hanno creduto di valorizzare il prodotto nazionale nel

campo delle opere dell’ingegno facendo la guerra al prodotto straniero, come
se libri e riviste si potessero considerare alla stregua delle bretelle o delle
calze.’ Giornale della libreria 51, nos 31–2, 6 August 1938: 229–30.
44. For more details on the purge of the Education sector see Fabre (1998: 114–28)
and Sarfatti (2007: 211–17). For detailed reconstructions of how the MCP’s
lists were compiled, see Fabre (1998: 163) and Bonsaver (2007: 180–84).
45. See the letter sent out by the Federation secretary Marubini to the members of
the Excutive on 9 September 1938 reporting on a meeting with Bottai intended
to clarify these points; AME, SAM, busta 42, ‘Federazione Nazionale Fascista
degli Industriali Editori’. Bonsaver (2007: 177 n. 29) has calculated that 300–400
texts by 114 authors were removed following this first anti-Semitic move on
school textbooks. He recounts how Mondadori wrote to Bottai and ‘boasted’ of
having applied the anti-Jewish ban ‘severely and surgically’ [‘severamente and
chirurgicamente’] (originally quoted by Galfré 2005: 153, 155). The key word
here is ‘surgically’, which we might roughly gloss as taking care to cause as lit-
tle economic damage as possible and taking care not to mistakenly include the
wrong authors. The subject is further discussed in Giornale della libreria 52, no.
1, 7 January 1939: 1–2, recounted in Rundle (2010: 168–70).
46. ‘[F]issare i criteri precisi e studiare i mezzi più rapidi e più idonei per addi-
venire ad una revisione totale della produzione libraria italiana e di quella
straniera tradotta in italiano. La necessità di tale revisione si è resa tanto più
necessaria in relazione alle superiori direttive di carattere razziale.’ From a
note to Mussolini written on 12 September 1938, the day before the first
meeting of the commission. ACS, MCP, b. 56, ‘Produzione libraria italiana e
straniera tradotta in italiano. Revisione totale’.
47. Yvon De Begnac (1990: 338) has recorded that Mussolini was himself con-
vinced there was a specific connection between the spread of translations
and the diffusion of Jewish culture. He considered them an attack on ‘the
culture of the revolution’. Quoted in Bonsaver (2007: 174) and cited in Fabre
(2007: 33 n. 10).
48. Giornale della libreria LII–6, 11 February 1939: 42.
49. Bonsaver (2007: 194–5, 207) has a different view, arguing that Pavolini actu-
ally wanted to impose a hardline policy on Italian publishing but was forced
by Mussolini to soften his position in favour of a system of ‘half-written
rules that were subject to change and adjustment according to the situation’
(Bonsaver 2007: 207).
50. In fact Table 2.1 shows us that 919 translations were published in 1938 and
705 in 1939. It is possible that the Federation had arrived at this figure by
not counting translations of classics. This account of the meeting between
Pavolini and representatives of the Publishers Federation, which took place
in Rome on 3 October 1940, is based on a detailed report in AME, SAM,
‘Federazione nazionale fascista degli editori’.
51. Letter from Mondadori to Loriga, the Federation secretary, dated 4 October
1940, containing instructions to be passed on to the Federation members for
the purposes of the survey. Members were told to compile detailed monthly
lists of all the new translations published in 1940 and send them in to the
Federation. AME, SAM, ‘Federazione Nazionale Fascista degli Industriali
Editori’, busta 42.
52. In a letter dated 7 December 1940 Loriga wrote to Mondadori as follows:

‘I must inform you that the Ministry of Popular Culture has remarked on the
fact that your house is not in the habit of requesting permission for transla-
tions of foreign novels contained in periodical publications (libri gialli and
libri della Palma). The Ministry expects these books to be taken into account
in the survey on translations.’ [‘Nella circostanza ti informo che il Ministero
della Cultura Popolare avrebbe rilevato che la tua Casa non è solita chiedere
il benestare per le traduzioni di romanzi stranieri contenuti in pubblicazioni
periodiche (libri gialli e libri della Palma). Di questi libri il Ministero esige
che si tenga conto anche nella inchiesta delle traduzioni.’] AME, SAM,
‘Federazione Nazionale Fascista degli Industriali Editori’, busta 42.
53. The circular is reproduced in Giornale della libreria 54, no. 9, 1 March 1941.
54. Pavolini quoted in MCP press release which was reproduced in Giornale della
libreria 55, no. 19, 20 May 1942: 77.
55. Circular no. 7286, dated 5 July 1941 and reported in Giornale della libreria 54,
nos 29–30, 26 July 1941: 128.
56. Circular no. 7743, dated 2 August 1941. Reproduced in Giornale della libreria
54, nos 33–4, 23 August 1941: 134.
57. See Giornale della libreria 54, no. 43, 25 October 1941: 166. The compari-
son between prices is based on information collected by the author at the
Mondadori archives (AME).
58. The new criteria established by the MCP were officially communicated to the
members of the Publishers Federation in the Giornale della libreria 55, no. 19,
20 May 1942: 77–8.
59. Figures compiled by the author from the Catalogo storico Arnoldo Mondadori
editore (1912–1994) (1995). Unfortunately there are no figures on the
number of translations published in Italy in 1942 that allow us to make a
similar, more general, comparison (see Rundle 2010: Appendix).
60. Reported in Giornale della libreria 56, no. 17, 10 May 1943: 52.
61. Books were often referred to as a means of cultural ‘penetration’. An editorial
of 15 July 1939 in Critica Fascista, for example, stated that ‘we must learn
to consider the Italian book […] as a formidable instrument of penetration’
[‘bisogna decidersi a considerare il libro italiano […] come un formidabile
strumento di penetrazione culturale’]. Translations from Italian were also
viewed in the same light. When the publisher Valentino Bompiani informed
Pavolini that he had sold the foreign rights to some translations from
Italian, Pavolini wrote back and congratulated him on his ‘very useful work
of penetration’ [‘utilissima opera di penetrazione’]. Letter from Pavolini to
Bompiani dated 20 December 1940, MCP ‘Bompiani’.
62. ‘Ma ai margini di quella che è la grande e pura corrente di una tradizione
italiana […] si era andata addensando nei tempi grigi della vita nazionale,
un’ importazione disordinata ed avvelenatrice di dottrine, mode intellet-
tuali, maniere del pensiero […] interamente estranee al genio e allo stile
della razza. E’ nostra fatica assidua, ma in gran parte ormai già portata a
compimento, quella di sanare la cultura nostrana da un siffatto inquina-
mento marginale. La bonifica libraria, il vaglio delle traduzioni […] la cernita
sempre più rigorosa nella circolazione delle produzioni teatrali, musicali e
cinematografiche provenienti dall’estero, tutti questi e gli altri […] provvedi-
menti, uniti a quanto il Regime fa […] per favorire le arti nostre e per
proiettarle oltre frontiera, hanno contribuito al risultato di rendere sempre

più “italiana” la cultura italiana. Italiana, cioè se stessa, del tutto immune da
un esclusivismo meschino, ma ben consapevole del proprio eterno compito
di irradiazione più che di ricezione.’ Undated. ACS, MCP, b.103, f. ‘Discorsi
ed articoli del Ministro Pavolini’.
63. For more details on the Americana episode see Rundle (2010: 197–205) and
Bonsaver (2003, 2007: 226–30).
3
‘Flight from the Programme of
National Socialism’? Translation
in Nazi Germany
Kate Sturge
If, as translation scholar André Lefevere has said, translation is a ‘visible

sign of the openness of a literary system’ (1985: 237), it makes sense to
assume that a closed and xenophobic regime like Nazi Germany would
be wary of it. Translation as a commercial practice threatened to breach
economic autarky by opening trade between German and foreign pub-
lishers; equally importantly, as a cultural practice it threatened to under-
mine the precept that German cultural production was sufficient to
itself, the alien inferior and perhaps even an existential threat. There is,
as well, an extent to which the very fact of translatedness – literature as
a mixed product of more than one language tradition – ran counter to
the crucial tenet of racialized purity that underlay Nazi cultural policy.
And indeed, National Socialism’s official discourse on translation was
marked by suspicion, often portraying translated literature as an insidi-
ous channel of dangerous ideas or a failure of patriotism on the part of
German readers. In the worst case, as outlined by Hanns Johst, president
of the Reichsschrifttumskammer (Reich Chamber of Writers, hereafter
RSK), in 1939, the public’s interest in translated fiction might even be
interpreted as a ‘flight from the programme of National Socialism’.1
If this suggests Nazi cultural policymakers intervened decisively and
successfully to remove translations, however, that was actually far from
being the case. Between 1933 and the outbreak of the Second World
War, readers in Germany were as eager to buy and borrow translations
as they had been before the collapse of the Weimar Republic, and
despite wide-ranging attempts to restrict and instrumentalize trans-
lated literature, much remained accessible in bookshops and libraries.
Judging by reprint figures it was snapped up by the reading public. In
the following I will sketch the position of translated fiction in the Nazi
period, looking first at the numbers of translations published and the
51
52 Translation in Nazi Germany
changing contours of the translation market, then the mechanisms of

control and reception of translation, and the use of literary translation
as an instrument of cultural policy both at home and abroad. I will close
by examining the case of a bestselling translation from Norwegian and
that of detective fiction translated from English.
A world without translations?
When the official journal of the state-aligned booksellers’ association

warned its members about a deplorable public craze for translations,
it noted a fascination with the foreign that threatened to undermine
domestic security: there seems, says the Buchhändler im neuen Reich
[The Bookseller in the New Reich], to be ‘a very strange and reprehensi-
ble tendency to value foreign literature especially highly just because it
happens to come from abroad’.2 If in the past this interest in translation
was considered to indicate a laudable open-mindedness in the tradition
of Goethe’s Weltliteratur, the editorial goes on, the new era sees it dif-
ferently:
National Socialism has combated this as an ‘intellectual swamping’

and clearly characterized it as the expression of the Volk’s feeling of
inferiority. Over the years since the National Socialist revolution,
German literature itself has been thoroughly cleansed, and all the
elements alien to the German character eradicated. But today we
are faced with a development that tries, using the indirect route of
foreign translated literature, to familiarize us with exactly the same
negative values we have just managed to remove from German
literature itself.3
( June 1939: 209)
Judging by this and the similar remarks that characterize the state-
controlled literary and publishing journals of the time, a radical reduc-
tion of literary imports was felt by many policymakers to be necessary
to the moral and intellectual health of the new Germans. Weimar’s
excessive interest in translation had, it was argued, been a sign that the
nation lacked self-confidence or, in the eyes of the most vehement anti-
Semites among the literary commentators, that Jewish ‘parasites’ had
been attempting to destroy the German nation from within by means of
harmful literary imports; translation was described variously as a source
of seduction, poison, miscegenation or the smuggling of dangerous
ideas. Translation was in need of a severe pruning down to only those
Kate Sturge 53
items that represented the Volk spirit of their nation, as opposed to the
‘rootless’ works decried as cosmopolitan, democratic, frivolous and thus
‘Jewish’.4 Measures to reduce the amount of translation were urgently
called for – especially in view of what all the journals agreed was a
‘flood’ of translations threatening to swamp domestic culture.
Even on a wide interpretation of what to count as acceptable transla-
tion practice, actual adherence to this translation-hostile line should
have caused a collapse in translation right from the start of the Nazi
dictatorship. Yet in fact the statistics for literary translation show solid
and at least superficially healthy translation activity until the outbreak of
war. Figure 3.1, based on the entries in the fiction section of the German
National Bibliography,5 shows the number of translated titles rising from
342 in 1933 to 543 in 1937 and 539 in 1938, with a short-lived dip in
1934. This accounts for a rather steady proportion of fiction titles overall –
nearly 10 per cent in 1933, rising to a peak of nearly 12 per cent in 1937
which remains solid at above 11 per cent until 1940. Again, there is a dip
in 1934 with translations representing only 7 per cent of fiction titles in
that year, suggesting that publishers were particularly fearful of sanctions
against translations at that early period in the regime of literary control.
If the volume of translated fiction did not drop in the period from
1933 to mid-1939, however, the outbreak of war did create a caesura.
With blanket bans on translations from ‘enemy nations’, which I will
describe later, and increasingly severe paper shortages, the figures for
1939 to 1944 (the last year for which German National Bibliography
600
Including reprints
500 Excluding reprints
400
300
200
100
0
Number of translations by year, 1933–44
Figure 3.1 Numbers of translated titles by year

records exist) show a steep decline. Only in 1944, under the increasing
pressure of paper rationing, did translation publishing finally reach the
extremely selective, quantitatively insignificant role that many of the
commentators had urged all along, with a mere 134 titles, making up
less than 4 per cent of fiction titles published.
Provincialization and instrumentalization
At least in the pre-war half of the Nazi era, then, literary translations
appear to have flourished. However, numbers alone are misleading here.
The literary publishing landscape as a whole altered with the more or
less overt pressure of the state, and that applied in at least equal meas-
ure to translation, a ‘naturally’ suspect undertaking and one subject to
particularly rigorous permission procedures, which will be outlined later
in the chapter. Below the surface of the quantitative continuity, we find
significant changes in the translation market’s composition.
One feature of this kind is a rise in the proportion of reprints to new
translations (see Figure 3.1). According to Berman (1983: 60), the pro-
portion of reissues to new publications in general rose from 19 per cent
in 1935–38 to 39 per cent in 1941–44, due at least in part to publishers’
wariness: reprinting a work that had proved safe so far was certainly less
risky than offering a new one to the attention of the censors. But if the
second peak in the proportion of reprinted translations, in 1940–42, sug-
gests a turn to politically tried and tested titles in the wartime climate
of exacerbated translation censorship, that in 1937 and 1938 may just
as likely be a response to the state-promoted reading boom of those
years (see Barbian 1995b: 179). The importance of reprints indicates
that many of the translated titles were strong sellers, their reissue driven
by commercial success. Many of the frequently reprinted translations
were very long-lived, dating from the Weimar period or even earlier
(this is true of the numerous John Galsworthy reprints by Zsolnay, for
example, or Diederichs’ much-recycled versions of Old Norse sagas).
Just as the biggest sellers in non-translated fiction tended to come
from pre-1933 stock (Weil 1986; Vogt-Praclik 1987), in translation too
it seems – though the figures are not always easy to verify – that many
of the most popular translated authors were well established before the
Nazi seizure of power. That is certainly true of detective and adven-
ture novelist Edgar Wallace, counted by Anselm Schlösser (1937: 173)
as the second most translated English-language author of the period
1895–1934: Wallace’s novels were repeatedly reissued by Goldmann in
many thousands up to mid-1939. If the work of the most-translated
Kate Sturge 55
author in Schlösser’s rather detailed survey, Oscar Wilde, soon vanished

almost completely from the literary scene, reprints abounded up to 1939
for the third most translated, Arthur Conan Doyle. Similarly, Karl-Rainer
von der Ahé’s study of the reception of Swedish literature shows that
despite the new public prominence of translations from Swedish, only 12
of the 37 Swedish authors published in German translation in 1933–45
appeared exclusively during the Nazi period; the rest had been published
before 1933 and/or remained in print after 1945 (Ahé 1982: 258).
The pre-war literary market, for translations and non-translations
alike, was strongly marked by continuity with existing traditions (see,
for example, Nutz 1983), and the importance of reprints highlights this.
At the same time, however, a drop in the proportion of new to reissued
translations must bring with it a reduction in the vivacity of exchange
with other literatures, as the stock of literary novelty fails to become
replenished. In this respect, high reprint numbers should probably
be interpreted as a form of stagnation, supporting Hall’s verdict that
the Nazi period saw a ‘provincialization’ of literature in Germany and
Austria (1994: 277).
Trends in source languages and genres

The ‘provincialization’ of a national literature by restricting translation
may have two further aspects: the range of source literatures from which
translation draws, and the range of content which it conveys. To begin
with the origins of the translations published in the period, we find a
noticeable shift in the balance of source languages over the duration
of the regime, though once again it is 1939 and not 1933 that consti-
tutes the real break. Figure 3.2 shows how strongly the source language
English dominated translations into German for the entire pre-war
period 1933–39, followed at a great distance by French, Scandinavian
languages taken as a group, and Flemish/Dutch (these being carefully
distinguished as separate languages in the journals and the National
Bibliography). Of the many other source languages – over 50 are repre-
sented, showing a strong diversity despite the numerical dominance of
a few large groups – the strongest were Russian and Italian, then a mid-
dle range of Hungarian, Finnish, Greek, Spanish, Middle High German,
Latin, Romanian, Polish, Czech and Japanese. Looking at developments
in the 1933–39 period, it is striking that the other large source language
groups do not follow the steep 1934 dip in English; it appears that this
was a year where the most visible source of translation was approached
with the greatest caution by publishers, who later regained their confi-
dence, altered their programme, or both.
500
450 Flemish/Dutch
400 Scandinavian
French
350
English/American
300
250
200
150
100
50
0
Source languages by year, 1933–44
Figure 3.2 Trends in source languages
Like Figure 3.1, Figure 3.2 shows the impact of the blanket bans
on ‘enemy’ literature from late 1939 on (see later in the chapter),
which put pressure on the dominance of English and French, the
strong front-runners until then. Finding the path to these traditional
literary hunting grounds blocked, some publishers were prompted
to search for as yet untested writers from previously less-translated
languages (Wallrath-Janssen 2007: 299). According to the German
National Bibliography, the later years of the war saw sudden surges in
translations from Romanian or Bulgarian, for example – certainly due
in part to the loss of the traditionally stronger source languages, but
in part also to a political context which favoured the propagation of
a quasi-ethnographic ‘knowledge’ of foreign source cultures through
translations. In this respect state regulation forced publishers to work
harder in searching out and commissioning translations from suitable
authors. As Wallrath-Janssen points out, the focus on lesser-known
source languages meant more dependence on individual advisers and
fortuitous contacts, so that an unsystematic and arbitrary array of
works emerged (ibid.: 301) as opposed to the stratified and generically
patterned market that had existed for the large source languages before
1939.
In terms of the content of the translations published up to 1939,
censorship largely eliminated translated authors discovered or considered
to be Jewish, left-wing authors and those who had spoken out against
Kate Sturge 57
the Nazi regime, resulting in the loss of whole segments of, especially,
the highbrow and innovative translated literature that had flourished
during the 1920s. While in the area of non-fiction, politically unaccept-
able translated authors like Joseph Stalin or Marie Stopes quickly disap-
peared from the public sphere,6 in fiction these bans – accompanied by
an increased caution among publishers – meant that participation in
international literary experimentation was cut off. Modernist fiction
faded from view and the already dominant area of middlebrow, aes-
thetically conservative offerings strengthened its hold on the translated
fiction market. Thus, while the numbers of translated works remained
steady or even rose during the period up to the war, the profile of trans-
lated literature changed, with ‘undesirable’ works disappearing and the
apparently apolitical or politically aligned expanding to fill the space. It
will be noted that the tendency here favoured not a ‘fascist’ literature as
such, but rather a more cautious and conservative taste that made best
use of existing traditions of reception.
Among politically acceptable translations, the most prestigious area
was the ‘Germanic’ classic translated from Old Norse (such as selections
from the Edda or the Old Icelandic sagas, reprinted by Diederichs or
Reclam throughout the period) or Old High German, Old Saxon and
so on (such as Der Heliand for Old Saxon or, for Middle High German,
Walther von der Vogelweide). Although not bestsellers, the ideological
sanctity of these translations was assured by their presence in school
reading anthologies (Lauf-Immesberger 1987: 84–91), where they were
designed to illustrate the ancient pedigree of the Germans as opposed
to being ‘translations’ in the sense of imports of foreign culture (see
Kamenetsky 1984: 103–15). Also benefiting from an aura of ideologi-
cal acceptability were some Flemish writers, including Stijn Streuvels,
Gerard Walschap and Felix Timmermans.
Nineteenth-century or earlier ‘classics’ from a range of source lan-
guages became increasingly important for publishers as censorship took
hold in the course of the 1930s: in financial terms they had the benefit
of being out of copyright, while politically they could be considered
‘timeless’ and hence outside the danger zone of contemporary or critical
literature. Thus, a reissue of Balzac, an author presumably sufficiently
well established to seem almost part of the domestic canon, boosted
Rowohlt’s finances in 1936, having already saved the publisher from
ruin once before, during the Inflation of 1923 (Mayer 1967: 76; for the
similar case of Reclam, see Kästner 1987: x).
‘Harmless’ genres like animal stories, comic fiction or historical
romance were much published, again promising an apolitical and safe
image accompanied by unbroken interest among the buying public.

Among the high sellers in these areas are the Danish Svend Fleuron’s
story of a dachshund, Schnipp Fidelius Adelzahn (Ib Fidelius Adeltand, in
its 137th thousand in 1944);7 in the historical romance genre French
was a strong source language, for example with Octave Aubry’s Maria
Walewska. Roman um Napoleons geheime Liebe, 1937 (Le grand Amour
caché de Napoléon, 1925). Another important genre was the historical
or vaguely blood-and-soil novel from Scandinavian languages which,
though not itself fascist, fell within the ideological purview of fascism.
This area was the speciality of the Munich publisher Langen-Müller,
the position of which as the largest publisher of translations in the
period (Sturge 2004: 71) arose from its successful promotion of Trygve
Gulbranssen and other writers from the Scandinavian region.
An area of publishing that was officially decried but remained cen-
tral to the publishing scene was the entertainment-oriented domain
of adventure novels and, especially, detective stories. The second larg-
est publisher of translations, Wilhelm Goldmann of Munich, was the
home of the fabulously popular Edgar Wallace translations, and other
publishers (such as Aufwärts of Berlin), too, specialized in detective fic-
tion translated from English. The genre accounted for an average of one
third of all fiction translated from English, even approaching one half
in 1934 and 1938. As for the proportion of translated English-language
detective novels to their home-produced German counterparts, transla-
tions made up around 40 per cent of the detective fiction published in
1933–35. The proportion dropped to an average of around 25 per cent
in 1936–39, as domestic production began to increase, and finally fell
to around 4 per cent in 1940–43, as the wartime bans took effect. The
high profile of translations from English in the years before the war
will have been further intensified by the fact that many non-translated
detective novels of the period were ‘imitations’, set in Britain or America
and/or appearing under English-sounding pseudonyms. While not
‘pseudotranslations’ in the full sense of the term (see Toury 1995), these
imitations indicate the continuing power of the imported genre on the
book market of the pre-war period.
More will be said about the fortunes of detective fiction later, but
for now let it be noted that popular fiction in translation – or in imi-
tation of translation – demonstrates the continuity with the tastes of
the 1920s, and indeed of the 1950s, that Schäfer (1981) discusses in
detail for other areas of culture, giving the lie to the common notion
that Nazi repression all but obliterated outside influences or non-fascist
cultural products.8 It is certainly the case that the regime’s control was
Kate Sturge 59
not complete, as is indicated among other things by the frequent com-

plaints of the state literary bureaucracy that the book trade was failing
to fulfil its obvious duty (see, e.g., Thunecke 1987: 142).
What was, however, lost was the broad range of modernism and
the work of authors either considered unacceptable in their style and
content or who had personally spoken out against the Nazi regime. As
Bollenbeck points out (1999: 335–40), contemporary American litera-
ture, generally undesirable in official eyes, did not completely disap-
pear from the scene, and some experimental or otherwise ‘decadent’
work was published surprisingly late in the period (for example William
Faulkner with Absalom, Absalom!, Rowohlt 1938, or Thomas Wolfe with
Sturm des Lebens [The Web and the Rock], Scherz 1941). James Joyce,
Ernest Hemingway and even Radclyffe Hall continued to appear, albeit
in English – presumably considered thus to be restricted to an educated
audience less likely to be harmfully influenced.9 But these were excep-
tions in a field largely cleared of imported modernist experimentation –
and with the onset of the wartime bans they too would disappear. The
list of translated titles published in the years 1940–44 shows an empha-
sis on politically expedient literature (such as Mussolini’s play Cavour,
1941), translations from countries newly occupied or allied, reprints of
ideologically approved classics, or contributions to popular genres from
new source languages (such as detective novels translated from Italian
and Norwegian).
Elimination and the ‘bad translation’
The institutions of translation censorship

The mechanisms that shaped this mixed picture for translation were
multiple, and far from monolithic. Despite the careful diagrams published
for the book trade – Figure 3.3 shows the title pages of a work introducing
booksellers to the ‘World of the Book’, where the book appears to grow
organically out of the soil of the Volk spirit and to return there through
the efforts of the ideologically purified book production and distribu-
tion professions – the context was in fact confusingly fragmented.10 The
range of institutions competing for control over literature included Party
bodies such as the Parteiamtliche Prüfungskommission or PPK11 and Alfred
Rosenberg’s especially vocal office for the nurture of German writing, the
Amt Schrifttumspflege;12 the SS’s intelligence-gathering Sicherheitsdienst (see
Barbian 1995a: 386); the Gestapo (ibid.: 535) or local police forces (Aigner
1971: 954); and in rare cases a direct intervention by Hitler (Barbian
1995a: 541). The key institution governing literature was, however, the
Figure 3.3 ‘The World of the Book’: Frontispiece of Langenbucher (1938)
Propaganda Ministry, through both the Ministry’s literary policy depart-

ment, ‘Section VIII’, and the RSK, one of the constituent chambers of
the Reich Chamber of Culture (Reichskulturkammer) set up in late 1933 to
regulate the cultural professions.
In this confused setting, friction and boundary skirmishes were com-
mon13 and publishers found explicit guidance hard to come by. In gen-
eral, censorship of the book trade proceeded not via the pre-publication
procedures of the Spanish case (see Vandaele in this volume) but via
the constant threat of confiscation of existing books, after 1935 par-
tially regulated by the index Liste 1 des schädlichen und unerwünschten
Schrifttums (Index 1 of harmful and undesirable writings) produced by
the RSK and later the Propaganda Ministry literature section (see Aigner
1971). The Liste’s approximately 4000 individual titles and more than
500 bans on complete works included writing by exiles and anti-Nazi
authors as well as categories such as Christian writing, pornography,
modernist literature, books on contraception and various others;14
what it did not include as a category was translated literature per se.
Although individual unacceptable foreign authors in translation (such
Kate Sturge 61
as Maxim Gorki, John Dos Passos or Karin Michaelis15) were officially

blacklisted, then, translations were not banned in general in the pre-war
period.
Unlike literary publishing in general, however, for which pre-
publication censorship was not enforced until the advent of wartime
paper rationing,16 translation became one of two groups of material
subject to pre-publication permission procedures as early as 1935 (tell-
ingly, the other group was ‘political writings’, controlled by the PPK).
Before translation rights could be purchased, the proposed translation
was to be submitted for approval by the RSK, with a summary, a sample
of the translation, and details of the author’s racial background and
the translation’s contribution to German understanding of the foreign
nation (Strothmann 1963: 197; Hall 1994: 205).
It seems that this procedure may have been rather loosely handled
up to the outbreak of war (Strothmann 1963: 195)17 and used chiefly
to filter out Jewish authors from the translation market (Dahm 1993:
186). It is, though, unlikely that the bulky pre-publication procedures
had no off-putting effect at all. Added to this, translations suffered indi-
rectly from state literary intervention, by being disadvantaged in the
processes of selection and promotion that criss-crossed the distribution
of literature in terms, especially, of the education system and the pub-
lic libraries. In these two vital institutions of reading life, translations
had little chance of competing with domestic production, since few
of them were considered worthy of joining the ‘arsenal’ of intellectual
weapons which the literary policymakers were aiming to amass. The
recommendation lists collected by Hopster, Josting and Neuhaus (1994)
show how ‘suitable’ literature was proposed by state or Party policy-
makers to everything from the smallest hospital library to the huge
public library purchasing scheme, and in these lists, translations fared
badly. Librarians were often reminded that foreign books should never
be recommended to readers, and translations were rarely included on
the centralized lists of library purchases. Thus, after the initial black-
listing campaign of 1933 decimated library holdings including many
translated works, the list of prescribed ‘urgent acquisitions’ to refill the
shelves contained no translations at all.18 Likewise, translations largely
disappeared from highly regulated school syllabuses (see Kamenetsky
1984; Lauf-Immesberger 1987). In the selection offered to the frontline
bookshops, probably the most highly politicized locus of recommended
reading later in the period, translations are poorly represented, with
mainly the usual suspects – Lagerlöf, Timmermans, Streuvel, Claes or
Hedin – on the list for approved purchases (see Bühler 2002, who details
the controversy on how far the troops should be allowed to read their
preferred light entertainment as opposed to indigestible fascist fare).
‘Self’-censorship and the agents of translation

The fact that the Liste, the main index of banned works, was marked
‘strictly confidential’ indicates an important building block of National
Socialist policy. The ‘cleansing’ of literature and its redirection into use-
ful channels was ideally to occur not through overt pressure but through
the gesundes Volksempfinden – the healthy Volk instinct of the book trade
itself. As the RSK handbook put it in 1938, ‘We do not want censorship
and nor, therefore, do we want dependent publishers who do not know
what they have to do […] we want publishers who are loyal helpers in
our shared task, and who are genuinely capable of fulfilling their service
to German literature on their own responsibility’ (Warmuth 1938: 61).19
The implication of a voluntary participation – which we might refer to
as ‘self’-censorship – of course belies the reality of publishers’ situation:
those who published works that were subsequently banned stood to
make huge losses. Thus, Zsolnay had to have 30,000 copies of its best-
selling H. G. Wells translations remaindered after a ban was imposed
on the author in 1935 (Hall 1994: 262), and the potential damage was
not only financial but political. Those who were not seen to be acting
as loyal helpers were liable to lose their livelihood, freedom or even life.
‘Self’-censorship in this context meant the state’s delegation of part of
the work of selection onto a publishing industry required to acquiesce
‘voluntarily’ in the state’s requirements; the outward face was to be one
of spontaneous popular revulsion for the ‘Jewish’ products of the past.
For this to work, publishers had to be kept close at heel. The system of
Gleichschaltung – the ‘alignment’ of professional organizations with the
state – applied to publishers and booksellers as much as to librarians and
the teaching profession. The Börsenverein der Deutschen Buchhändler, the
professional association of the book trade, declared its support for the
National Socialist cause in spring 1933. In Barbian’s view, it was the dev-
astating impact of the Depression on book sales and the sluggish recov-
ery that paved the way for this quick assent: in exchange for its political
support, the book trade was promised – and in due course received –
large-scale economic support from the state (Barbian 1995a: 96–102,
853 n. 15). The process of aligning the writers’ unions and Academy
of Arts was not dissimilar: membership of the appropriate section of
the Reich Chamber of Culture became a prerequisite for professional
writers, publishers or booksellers, allowing the exclusion of dissidents,
and later Jews, through the vetting procedures on membership. As a
Kate Sturge 63
result, numerous translators and translation publishers lost their right

to earn a living and were forced into exile (among many examples, Leon
Schalit, the long-time translator of Galsworthy for the Viennese pub-
lisher Zsolnay, had to emigrate to London in 1939) (Hall 1994: 90).20
In their daily work, publishers of translations faced a further obstacle
in the shape of restrictions on the availability of foreign currency. Any
request for foreign currency – whether for rights, legal fees, royalties,
translation fees or visits abroad – was to be decided upon by the finance
ministry, but only, as the RSK Handbook points out, after approval
by the RSK itself (Warmuth 1938: 212). If a currency application was
refused, relations with foreign authors could easily become strained,
especially as publishers were not permitted to reveal the reasons for
their reluctance to reprint or to pay out royalties. A memorandum to
the Zsolnay house from the Propaganda Ministry dated 22 August 1939
refers to Zsolnay’s request for a reprint of Pearl S. Buck’s novels; Buck’s
sales had been boosted by her Nobel Prize in 1938, but her critical com-
ments had ruled her out for co-option by the Nazi regime. ‘In response
to your request’, runs the note, ‘we inform you that a reissue of the
books of Pearl S. Buck is out of the question. We wish you, however, not
to make this fact known to the author. You will act towards the author
as if the print run were not yet quite sold out’21 (facsimile in Hall and
Ohrlinger 1999: 73).
The wartime bans

The context of war simplified control of translations from some source
languages. While translation was still not banned as such, a December
1939 ruling specifically forbade all translations of works from Britain,
and other countries attracted blanket bans as they joined the war. The
books were not necessarily to be destroyed, but had to be kept out of
reach for the duration of the war (Großdeutsches Leihbüchereiblatt 23,
1942: 335). The fact that not source language but ‘nationality’ and ‘race’
were the criteria for bans becomes clear in the Verzeichnis englischer und
nordamerikanischer Schriftsteller [Register of English and North American
writers] (1942), a list published by the Propaganda Ministry to help
librarians identify which English-sounding authors were British, which
American, which Irish (and hence permitted), and which either politi-
cally undesirable or else Jewish and thus under no circumstances to
be published or sold (Reichsministerium 1942). A further category was
authors out of copyright, who were exempt from the blanket bans: the
rationale for this set of restrictions on translation is to be found at least
partially in the financial aspect of translation as a channel for payment
into the originating economy.22 Specific exemptions also applied to

authors or, more commonly, individual works considered to be useful
for the war effort, apparently due to their denunciatory quality, whether
by pro-Nazi (as in the case of Wyndham Lewis for Der mysteriöse John
Bull, 1939) or anti-capitalist authors (as in Sinclair Lewis for Babbitt,
1942).
In summary, from 1939 translations from enemy countries were,
with few exceptions, more easily categorized as undesirable influences
and their publication and distribution much more easily regulated than
before, especially as the paper rationing of the later war years ratcheted
up pre-emptive censorship to eliminate all but the most ‘useful’ items
from publication (Barbian 1995a: 553–61). In the 1933–39 period, in
contrast, the management of translation was not clear-cut, and the
literary market showed a certain amount of continuity, in line with
the unbroken importance of other ‘imported’ culture in advertising,
film and music (see Bavaj 2003: 153–66). Hollywood film, for example,
remained part of everyday life – in the cinemas, but also in magazines
and advertising – until the German boycott of US films from 1939/40,
with 250 US films receiving permission for screening in the period
(Spieker 1999: 331), in the original or dubbed, although the censors
imposed cuts or bans often based on the participation of Jewish stars,
directors or producers.
Restriction and appropriation
Apart from those closest to the regime, such as the Party publisher
Eher, publishers in Nazi Germany were caught between two sets of
requirements which did not always coincide: at least a notional political
conformity was needed for their personal safety and the continuation
of their business – but commercial survival also had to be secured. As
has been noted frequently (for example by Ketelsen 1992), the reading
public was far less likely to be enthralled by panegyrics to the Führer
than by its pre-1933 favourites, and to achieve solid sales reader taste
could not simply be ignored.
Recontextualization
However, as both Toury (1995) and Lefevere (1992) show, the position
of translations in a particular literary context can be manipulated not
only through the restriction of authors and texts for translation but
also by the way those translations are framed and presented to the
public, both externally and in their textual detail. One means to absorb
Kate Sturge 65
‘undesirable’ source texts into an acceptable target-culture norm is

recontextualization of the text, for example via anthologization, where
texts are selected and arranged to present a particular line of thought
(see Bödeker 1997). In her study of literature in the educational sys-
tem, Kamenetsky (1984: 74) notes that the anthologization of Old
Norse tales as part of ‘Germanic’ literary heritage effectively swallowed
them up into domestic literature; classics from Scandinavia or the Low
Countries, too, could be repackaged in a German framework (ibid.:
139).
But recontextualization can also take the form of publishers’ own
efforts to nudge their products closer to political acceptability. One
such method found in the Nazi setting is the use of titles. A well-chosen
title could invite an assumption that a work was particularly close to
Nazi literary norms, such as the ‘blood and soil’ elaboration added by
Zsolnay to the Swedish writer Vilhelm Moberg’s Sömnlos translated as
Schlaflos. Roman eines Mannes der Erde, 1938 [Sleepless: Story of a man
of the earth] or Raskens: en soldatfamiljs historia, as Kamerad Wacker.
Roman eines schwedischen Bauernsoldaten, 1935 [Comrade Valiant: Story
of a Swedish peasant soldier] (Ahé 1982: 93, 134; Hall 1994, 195–7).
Adding the geographical label here helps highlight the book’s prov-
enance within a politically acceptable region; the same strategy is found
in Marie Gevers, Madame Orpha, ou la Sérénade de mai translated as Frau
Orpha. Ein flämischer Roman (1935) [Mrs Orpha: A Flemish novel]. The
most-translated work of the Francophone Belgian Charles de Coster
already labels its Flemish provenance in the source text, La Légende
et les aventures héroiques, joyeuses et glorieuses d’Ulenspiegel et de lamme
Goedzak au pays de Flandres et ailleurs, but the various translations circu-
lating in the Nazi period range from a de-nationalizing one from Insel,
Uilenspiegel und Lamme Goedzak. Ein fröhliches Buch trotz Tod und Tränen,
first published by Insel in 1910 and reprinted up to 1939 [Ulenspiegel
and Lamb Goedzak: A cheerful book despite death and tears], to the
hyper-politicized Tyll Ulenspiegel und Lamm Goedzak. Ein Kampf um
Flanderns Freiheit – the new subtitle ‘A struggle for the freedom of
Flanders’ was added by Diederichs in 1936 to a pre-Nazi translation.
As Gisèle Sapiro (2008) points out, the use of series, too, can help to
locate translations within a particular frame: the series label or reputa-
tion asks readers to classify individual titles in terms of a particular cate-
gory such as ‘classic’ or ‘educational’. Unsurprisingly, few series in the
period announce a translated origin, but a series like Reclam’s ‘Deutsches
für Deutsche’ [German Reading for Germans] firmly positioned its
few selected translations in a domestic context, while Franke’s Frankes
Klassiker-Ausgaben [Franke’s Classics Editions] asserted membership of a

canon without reference to foreign origins. At the other end of the scale
we find the penny ‘pulp’ pseudotranslations or, more properly, imita-
tions, where series titles often made an unjustified claim to translated
status through the use of foreign names and settings (for example Tom
Shark: König der Detektive or Bob Hunter auf Indianerpfaden, two pulp
series written in German and published by Freya of Heidenau).
Textual intervention
Within the covers of the book, the judicious use of paratexts might
also help to boost a translation’s acceptability. The officially promoted
Juan in Amerika ( Juan in America, 1931) by Eric Linklater, published by
Frankh in 1942, for example, includes a substantial translator’s preface.
This reassures the reader that though it may seem strange to read about
the enemy nation at such a time, this entertaining novel is actually
highly instructive, because realistically unflattering, in its depiction of
the US.
As in all translations, the text itself offers a large degree of room for
manipulation. I have discussed elsewhere the subtle and often inconsist-
ent interventions made in some narrative fiction of the period (Sturge
2004: Chapters 5 and 6); many of these shifts are difficult to attribute
to censorship, whether pre-emptive or retrospective, and can as easily
be explained by genre expectations, a taste for moral clarity, or simply
space constraints. The exceptions are explicit references to Germans,
which, in the texts I examined, are consistently removed or recast in a
more positive light. In one case, that of Nora Waln’s memoir of travels
in China, Süße Frucht, bittre Frucht China, 1935 (The House of Exile, 1933),
this is achieved through the insertion of a whole new chapter praising
the Germans and their excellent education system.
Translations for stage and screen, too, offer scope for adaptation to
domestic requirements. The Hollywood film It Happened One Night
was remade in German (Glückskinder, 1936) with toned-down sexual
references, irony and social critique (Witte 1976). The source film’s
ideological framework remained intact, but its playful subversion was
lost, resulting in a more unambiguous, clear-cut text. Rainer Kohlmayer
(1996) traces equally interventionist translations in his study of Oscar
Wilde’s plays in the period. In view of the craze for Wilde, in full flow
since the 1920s, the author was worth recuperating for the regime,
and ‘ideological retouching’ (ibid.: 397) worked to this effect in some
cases by politicizing, in others by depoliticizing the plays: Karl Lerbs’
adaptations added heroic femininity and brisk masculinity, while other
Kate Sturge 67
versions playing at the same time defused Wilde’s anarchism and indi-
vidualism by focusing on fun and safely marginalized entertainment.
For the plays of Ibsen, Uwe Englert’s detailed investigation (2001) again
highlights how difficult it is to evaluate the reception of translated work
by means of the number of titles alone. He points out that in quantita-
tive terms, Ibsen’s importance on the German stage remained more or
less undented after 1933, and indeed that core elements of the period’s
reception of Ibsen went back to patterns established before the First
World War (ibid.: 301). But within this continuity Englert identifies
a shift of preference towards particular pieces (especially Peer Gynt in
Dieter Eckart’s anti-modern, sentimentalized translation; ibid.: 303–4)
and an attempt to locate them within a fascist paradigm. Thus, the local
Party paper praised a 1934 Dresden production of Peer Gynt, attended
by Hitler, as a ‘warrior-like deed for German theatre and for the pure
Germanic world view’.23
The points and agents of intervention at a micro level are now
difficult to reconstruct, but Englert studies the stage manager’s and
director’s notes for the 1935 production of Die Kronprätendenten
(Kongs-Emnerne) in Cologne’s Schauspielhaus. He finds that the highly
praised production undertook a range of small alterations to the 1870s
print translation by Adolf Strodtmann. By removing some characters
from the dramatis personae and streamlining parts of the plot, the
theme of civil conflict is downplayed in favour of a more unified folk
community that seems to tend naturally towards a sense of order, com-
munity and leadership (Englert 2001: 153–4). Individual word choices
move away from both Ibsen’s Norwegian and Strodtmann’s German,
introducing a ‘Nordic’ tone evidently intended to draw the play more
closely into the Nazi fold: where Strodtmann had translated rigsmødet
as Reichsversammlung [imperial assembly] the Cologne production pre-
ferred the Nazi-inflected equivalent Thing (ibid.: 156); Strodtmann’s
Häuptling [chieftain] for høvdinger was replaced by Führer (ibid.: 157), and
so on. We see that translation can filter and adjust the foreign product
at all levels, from the selection of the text, to its framing and contextu-
alization, to its macrostructure and characterization, to the very choice
of individual lexical items that support or subvert particular world
views.
Promotion and the ‘good translation’
This plethora of forms of adaptation to the regime indicates that

‘translation censorship’ should not be thought of as a move towards
concealment or elimination alone. It includes modes of adaptation and

cultivation – in the sense of making fruitful for the regime – that do not
differ in absolute terms from many other phases in translation history,
and it includes modes of promotion that, again, are in no way alien to a
present-day translation market. A regime of translation cannot, after all,
be built on repression alone, but is bound to work with the productive
power of status for individuals, prizes, and so on. Added to this is the
fact that translations – at least those of a certain shade – promised to
keep a battered economic sector afloat. If, as Kamenetsky (1984: 34) tells
us, 70,000 tons of books were removed from library shelves in Berlin
alone after the book-burning of 1933, it is clear that works which were
both readable and acceptable would become essential for the continued
existence of the publishing industry.
Nor were the regime’s attitudes to translation unambiguously nega-
tive. The ‘good translation’ into or out of German was to be encouraged
at quite some cost, whether by supporting individual translations aris-
ing from the home market or by specifically demanding translations
from abroad.
The ‘good translation’ and its promotion

The specific propaganda items that made up the exceptions to the war-
time bans on British and US authors have already been mentioned; their
role seems to have been to enlighten the reading public on the social
ills of America (for example the compilation Jack London in den Slums) or
Britain (such as Wyndham Lewis’s Der mysteriöse John Bull). Hall shows
that the 1941 decision to promote A. J. Cronin’s anti-capitalist Die
Sterne blicken herab, 1935 (The Stars Look Down, 1935) created a much-
needed financial boost for Cronin’s beleaguered publisher, Zsolnay (Hall
1994: 265). Hoping the novel would demonstrate to readers the paral-
lel between England’s corruption and that of Weimar Germany, Party
offices ordered huge numbers of reprints and in 1942 and 1943 made
the German version the basis of translations designed to aid the war
effort in the occupied areas, for example into Latvian (ibid.: 267–8).
While official requests for reprints – and indeed, in a wartime atmos-
phere of censorship combined with a public hungry for reading, even
mere permission – guaranteed high sales, there were other, indirect, forms
of promotion for some translations as well. Lists of recommended titles
proliferated, mostly with little mention of translations but in some cases
recommending individual titles, primarily Flemish and Scandinavian
works (such as the lists published by Rosenberg’s journal Bücherkunde
[Book Lore]). The many positive reviews of translations in the period
Kate Sturge 69
again gave prominence (though not exclusively) to these source areas,

stressing that ‘good’ translations from Norwegian or Swedish, for
example, could foster Germans’ sense of racial kinship with the North:
‘Whoever reads the story of Gisli [and other Norse sagas] senses across
the centuries the identity of Germanic blood’ (Die Weltliteratur [World
Literature], April 1941: 122).24 The criterion of blood, and its correlate
soil, dominates positive reviews of more modern Scandinavian work as
well, as will be detailed later.
Of course, a desirable source language did not necessarily mean that
a translation expressed desirable national characteristics. The person of
the writer is paramount in the state-approved reviewers’ argumentation,
since, just as un-German Germans could exist (and were to be eliminated),
in other countries too not every citizen was a true member of the nation:
‘A Jew who writes and who lives in Sweden is far from being a Nordic
writer’, wrote Heinrich Jessen, a functionary of the Nordic Society (see
Ahé 1982: 66) in Bücherkunde (1937: 95).25 Reviewers frequently stressed
the danger that unsuitable translations from a ‘kindred’ source language
could enter and contaminate the German literary landscape, and called
for translations, like literature in general, to represent only the ‘genuine’
soul of the originating Volk. Far from a blanket rejection of the foreign,
the general (though by no means unanimous) tenor of Nazi-approved
reviews was to reject what was considered not truly representative of
the source Volk. Within a particular source language, the core of truly
national literature was to be extracted and the non-specific left aside;
Hungarian literature is targeted in a Die Weltliteratur editorial (November
1941: 281) as an area where the ‘genuinely national’ tradition must be
translated instead of the nondescript or international work that has
previously dominated Hungarian translation into German (Sturge 2004:
109). The worst kind of translation, therefore, was the ‘cosmopolitan’,
the indigestible ‘literary salad’26 served up by rootless democrats, identi-
fied by implication or explicitly as Jewish.
Translation out of German: Nazi literature abroad

When praising ‘good’ translations, reviewers rarely failed to point
out that these were exceptions in a sea of ‘excessive’, ‘low-grade’ and
‘superfluous’ translation. The argument that high numbers of transla-
tions imply superfluity or excess depends on a notion of ‘fair exchange’
or, in the language more often adopted by the Italian authorities (see
Rundle in this volume), a ‘trade balance’ between translations in and
translations out. The complaints of Nazi commentators were twofold.
On the one hand they cited the sheer statistics – translations into
German outweighed those of ‘suitable’ authors out of German, and this

alone seemed to indicate an overly enthusiastic attitude towards cultural
imports among the population. On the other hand, they deplored the
types of work being translated out of German: foreign readers persisted
in preferring anti-Nazi or otherwise officially condemned authors and
shunning the work of the ‘new German’ writers (see Rubino in this
volume). As Will Vesper put it in his journal Die Neue Literatur [The New
Literature]:
One of the most important tasks for the Reich Chamber of Writers
seems to me to be a kind of intellectual planned economy towards and
in agreement with other countries, a kind of foreign exchange con-
trol which would prevent other nations sealing themselves off from
Germany while we still continue to take in their literature. In many
countries at the moment, only Jewish emigrant literature is received
and respected as ‘German Literature’, e.g. in Italy! We must make it
clear to these countries that we can do without their literature for
just as long as they shut out ours.27
This concern was shared by other commentators, especially as the

period progressed. For example, in summer 1939 the official organ of the
works librarians, Die Werkbücherei, cites in some detail the publication
statistics for translation into and out of German as a reason to demand
‘that foreign writing in German translation must only be deployed in the
same measure to which German writing in foreign translation is taken
up and properly appreciated abroad’.28 Clearly, the issue is felt to imply
both a commercial injustice and a slight to national pride, the denial of
‘proper appreciation’, and action to promote ‘suitable’ translation out of
German became a relevant task.
Aside from efforts to promote sales of German books abroad through
price cuts and advertising campaigns (Barbian 1995a: 648, 661; see also
1995b: 174), the RSK’s founding of the Europäische Schriftstellervereinigung
[European Writers’ Association] in autumn 1941 was a significant, if
rather short-lived,29 policy move (see especially Hausmann 2004). An
ideologically harnessed replacement for the banned PEN Club, the
ESV brought together authors from 15 different countries in read-
ing tours, networking and translation promotion. Endeavouring to
further the ‘European mission of German literature’ (Hermann Burte,
cited in Hausmann 2004: 49), the ESV marked an interest in exporting
German culture throughout the envisaged ‘new Europe’ (see Barbian
1995a: 440) that was considerably more systematic than the raging of
Kate Sturge 71
individual journalists against the translation trade imbalance. Authors

including Felix Timmermans, Robert Brasillach, Svend Fleuron and
Ernesto Giménez Caballero participated in the propaganda events and
in return enjoyed preferential treatment in obtaining German transla-
tion contracts.
If the ESV tried to cultivate an appearance of interest in intellec-
tual exchange, its promotion of translation was clearly a propaganda
investment. Translation in this context was a channel for German influ-
ence, and the absorption of foreign literatures a conquering expedition,
inextricable from agendas of cultural expansionism. As Moritz Jahn put
it in an early ESV speech: ‘In a secret corner of his heart, every German
is a Viking. The experience of foreign humanity and foreign landscapes
has a magical attraction for him’ (cited in Grössel 1997: 77).30
Brotherly exchange: The bilateral cultural agreements

Another instrument used to promote translation in this vein was the
bilateral cultural agreement. In his study of the cultural agreements of
the late 1930s onwards, Barbian traces the lobbying for German cultural
centres across Europe to compete with the British Council and Institut
français in promoting German language and literature. The cultural
agreements covered not only the establishment of such institutions and
a range of language-teaching measures but often also the creation of a
list of suitable books for translation into the foreign language concerned
(on Hungary, see Barbian 1992: 422; on France, see Hausmann in this
volume). In turn, the availability of ‘undesirable’ German culture of all
kinds was to be restricted. Agreements were signed with Hungary in
1936, Bulgaria in 1940, Romania in 1941 and Slovakia in 1942, as well
as with the Axis powers Italy and Japan (both 1938). Attempts were
made to ratify similar agreements with Spain and Portugal in the late
1930s, though these failed (Barbian 1992). The agreements promised to
boost the Nazi contribution to the culture of the other nation, while in
terms of the German cultural market, they could ensure that the politi-
cally desirable elements of the other literature (and they alone) were
guaranteed entry, there to strengthen affiliations and enhance accept-
able ‘ethnographic’ knowledge among the population.
In Barbian’s view, the cultural agreement between Germany and
Italy of 23 November 1938, followed as it was two days later by that of
Germany and Japan, may have been designed above all as a symbolic
foreign policy gesture to trumpet the Axis relationship at home and
abroad (Barbian 1992: 441), though Petersen (1988) finds indications of
frequent practical interventions, especially on the German side, based
on the agreement. In particular, Petersen notes the attempts, only par-

tially successful, to implement article 26, which obliged both sides
to prevent the translation or distribution of works that use falsifica-

tion of the historical truth to attack the other country, its state form
or its leadership, and of distorting works (tendentious literature) by
political emigrants of the other country.
(Cited in Petersen 1988: 59)31
This article, pushed through by the German side, was used to remove
anti-Nazi authors from the Italian market with some success, although
the hoped-for rush of interest in pro-Nazi German work in Italian trans-
lation did not occur. The article had not been designed with translation
into German in mind, and the much smaller area of Italian literature
in German attracted less attention. Even so, the number of fiction titles
translated from Italian (whether new translations or reprints) trebled
between the 1933–38 period and the 1939–44 period, from an average
of around nine per year to an average of around 30 per year (Sturge
2004: 60). These were not commercial successes, and it may be specu-
lated that for their publishers they promised more of a political than
a financial bonus (though publisher A. Müller, for example, seems to
have aimed for a combination effect with its focus on detective novels
by d’Errico, de Angelis and Scerbanenco).
Literary commentators, too, had a difficult task in reconciling
their existing national stereotypes with the need for rapprochement.
A reviewer writing in Die Weltliteratur reminds us that literary translations
‘without a doubt contribute to the German and the Italian Volk getting
to know and understand each other better’.32 What this understanding
should consist of is hinted by Die Neue Literatur’s review of Ettore Cozzani’s
Marmor und Erde, 1940 (Un Uomo, 1934). The book, says the reviewer, is
highly instructive because ‘it shows in its hero the active Italian of today,
with all his passionate devotion to all the technological possibilities and
with that attitude which has no fear of “crises”’.33 But when it came to the
need to preserve German ‘blood’ uncontaminated, a line had to be drawn,
as was made clear at a Propaganda Ministry press conference in 1941:
For the nurture of German-Italian relations the publication of short

stories is, of course, very useful. However, if at the end of a story the
result is a German-Italian marriage, then fundamental principles are
being violated which are even more important than those relations.
(24 January 1941, cited in Geyer-Ryan 1987: 199)34
Kate Sturge 73
Ideology meets the market: A Scandinavian bestseller
If cultural commentators showed some reluctance in their politically

necessitated praise for Italian literature, the case was different for transla-
tion from Scandinavian languages. Official reception of these authors was
highly selective but enthusiastic, at least among those parts of the regime
wedded to the concept of ‘Nordicity’ as a racial and cultural ideal (in par-
ticular those in the circle of Rosenberg and of the SS; see Ahé 1982). The
‘best’ Scandinavian authors – those writing in an anti-modern style and
not known to have publicly attacked the Nazi regime – seemed to some
reviewers to embody a range of virtues that combined literary value with
the racially purifying or nation-building role accorded to German literature
itself (see Gilman 1971). Thus, translated authors like Gunnar Gunnarsson,
Knut Hamsun, Barbra Ring, Selma Lagerlöf or Svend Fleuron were praised
as demonstrating the ruggedness of the northern soul and eschew-
ing modern, urban decadence. Such works were frequently reprinted,
and Aleksis Kivi’s high-selling Die sieben Brüder (Seitsemän veljestä), for
example, was even made available to soldiers in two different German
translations despite the wartime paper shortages (Kujamäki 2001: 60).35
The numbers of translations from the Scandinavian languages rose
as the war began and translations from English and French became
subject to blanket bans. This should probably not be viewed as a solely
regime-induced phenomenon, since translation from Norwegian, and
to a lesser extent Swedish, enjoyed a strong tradition of popularity
dating from the late nineteenth century. In her study of Albert Langen
(1869–1909), Helga Abret (1993) shows that in the Wilhelmine period,
a huge growth in the market for middlebrow fiction combined with the
failure of the Scandinavian countries and Russia to sign up to the Berne
copyright convention to create excellent conditions for translations
from Norwegian and Swedish (ibid.: 158, 273–4). Although not achiev-
ing the commercial success that translations from French did in the
nineteenth century, translations from Scandinavian languages set deep
roots (ibid.: 314). Publishers focused on works of the romantic revival,
so that, as Ahé points out in his study of Swedish literature in Germany,
the rural setting became the trademark of translations from Swedish;
works not fitting that category would fail to find a wide readership (Ahé
1982: 75). In the case of the more modernist writer Knut Hamsun, Nazi
literary commentators were eager to fit him into that rural mode as an
illustration of Nordic communion with nature (see Naess 1980) – a task
all the more urgent because Norwegian writers prepared, as Hamsun
was, to praise National Socialism were extremely rare.
The official reception of another Norwegian, Trygve Gulbranssen,

was more mixed, and may illuminate some of the contradictions of
the Nazi literary landscape. Gulbranssen’s three novels Og bakom synger
skogene (1933), Det blåser fra Dauingfjell (1934) and Ingen vei går utenom
(1935) were translated into German as Und ewig singen die Wälder (1935)
and Das Erbe von Björndal (1936) by Ellen de Boor in an ‘authorized’
translation – the tag perhaps harking back to earlier days of translations
from Norwegian, where a lack of copyright restrictions meant multiple,
pirated translations frequently appeared (see Abret 1993: 274). Langen-
Müller had made an excellent choice: by 1944, the last year of central-
ized bibliographical records before the regime’s collapse, Und ewig singen
die Wälder had been printed in 565,000 copies, its sequel in a further
430,000 – nearly a million in all. The same translation continued to
sell after the war and was reprinted well into the 1960s, its success
enhanced by the popular 1959 and 1960 German film adaptations. It
seems that the novels received far more acclaim in their German ‘after-
life’ than they had done in Norwegian.
Langen-Müller, the biggest publisher of translations in the Nazi period
according to data collated from the German National Bibliography
(Sturge 2004: 71), had been a conservative and nationally minded
house since the merger that formed it in 1932; it had been integrated
into the German Labour Front in 1933 and was later affiliated to the
Party publisher Franz Eher (Abret 1993: 431). The Gulbranssen novels
should have been politically highly desirable: a tale of man’s struggle
with the mountains and of love between the rugged, inarticulate men
of the Björndal homestead and a pure-hearted soldier’s daughter from
town. Much of the novel is spent contrasting the effeminate weak-
ness of urban life with the harsh nobility of the mountain-dwellers –
although the heavy ideological aspect does not prevent the text from
reading primarily as an exciting romance in a picturesque setting.
Despite their ideological suitability, however, reviews of these two
translations in the state-approved literary and librarians’ journals were
rare and mixed. This mismatch indicates an uncertainty on where to
locate a bestselling translation, in a political context where the configu-
ration of the entertainment industry was being readdressed by the state
in pursuit of ideological goals. Entertainment – and popular culture
in general – was being redefined as an educational resource inside the
sphere of state control, in the course of which the agents of literary man-
agement were frequently faced with problems of attribution of which
this is an interesting example: should the Gulbranssen translations be
Kate Sturge 75
positioned in the valued category of culture-as-education, or in the

potentially programme-fleeing one of culture-as-entertainment?
The translation certainly seems to fulfil the criteria for an edifying
text in Nazi terms. Putting these criteria in the policymakers’ order of
priority: its author was not Jewish, nor was his publisher or translator;
the author was reputed to have fascist sympathies; the German pub-
lisher was an established bastion of the ‘conservative revolution’. All
these criteria relate, as we see, to the agents of translation as opposed to
the text itself. Then, the book came from a cultural sphere considered
‘racially kindred’ to Germany, and it matched up closely with Nazi ide-
als of nature, manhood and womanhood. Gulbranssen’s work fitted into
an existing tradition of reception prepared by the ‘Nordic Renaissance’
of 1920s and 1930s Germany: the blood-and-soil romanticism of
‘Viking kitsch’ had been the foremost mode for Scandinavian literature
in German for several decades, propagated not least by Gulbranssen’s
publisher Langen-Müller, traditionally and very successfully specialized
in translations with a particular emphasis on Scandinavian languages
(see Abret 1993).
Finally, the novel sequence quite consciously positions itself on the
edge of a very high-status genre, indeed the canonized genre of transla-
tion in Nazi Germany: the Old Norse saga. By aligning itself with these,
Gulbranssen’s novel could hope to profit from an aura of laudability
among both the reading public and the institutions of literary policy-
making. That Langen-Müller tried to make the most of this association
is clear from the blurbs and advertisements, which highlight the novel’s
geographical origins, timeless truths and other valued genre features.
The back matter of the frontline edition of Das Erbe von Björndal,
for example, advertises other Nordische Dichtung (Nordic writing)
from Langen-Müller, listing the Nazi-approved big-hitters Gunnarsson,
Hamsun, von Heidenstam and Lagerlöf.
On the negative side, Gulbranssen lacked the virtue of extreme age
which was one of the key positive attributes of Norse saga literature –
the attribute which many of the regime’s literary commentators
believed would help produce a pan-Germanic cultural pedigree and
foster a sense of racial roots. It is no coincidence that his publisher was
Langen-Müller, not the more highbrow proponent of the Nordic ideal,
Diederichs of Jena, which had initiated the Nordic wave with its edi-
tions of the Icelandic sagas in the first decades of the twentieth century
(Stark 1981: 237). Gulbranssen’s work in Germany benefited from the
fact of being translated from Norwegian, but at the same time its very
translatedness also brought it into the line of fire. In the view of the
prophets of ‘flooding’, the very fact of Norwegian novels’ popular suc-
cess made them suspect, since it seemed to imply that the public was
turning on principle to foreign products – an ideological failure for the
new regime, but also, of course, a financial one for German authors,
who indeed were the most vociferous critics of the translation ‘craze’
of the late 1930s. At the same time, from a conservative point of view,
huge sales seemed to disbar the novels from the high-prestige realm
traditionally marked by exclusivity or ‘discerning taste’.
There is no doubt that translations from Scandinavian languages,
headed by Norwegian, were popular hits in the Nazi period, with
large numbers of authors, frequent reprints and even occasional
pseudotranslations.36 Literary policymakers generally described this as
a problem, and many of the anti-translation reviewers blamed a band-
wagon effect among commercially minded publishers. Certainly Und
ewig singen die Wälder seems to have made a reputation and perhaps
a modest fortune for its translator Ellen de Boor, whose commissions
began to pour in after her Gulbranssen success.37 Yet the real band-
wagon, the home of pseudotranslations and by far the bigger source of
actual translations until the war, was popular fiction translated from
English, especially detective novels and westerns but flanked by a whole
range of successful light or middlebrow fiction. These translations
really did offer an alternative reality to the blood and soil of home, and
Gulbranssen’s association with them – simply by way of being an easy-
reading bestseller and a foreign import – may have been partly what
lowered his status in the eyes of the state and Party commentators.
That is to say, Gulbranssen’s excellent sales, although not in themselves
disapproved by the regime, undermined his claim to a central position
close to the edifying saga genre. His novels failed to achieve canonical
status, but this did not remove them from the attention of literary poli-
cymaking. On the contrary, a key feature of Nazi policy was the attempt
to co-opt popular culture to its own aims. For the case of Gulbranssen,
this is exemplified by the 1940 inclusion of Und ewig singen die Wälder
in the soldiers’ frontline editions. As already mentioned, the selection
of books for the front raised arguments between Party ideologue Alfred
Rosenberg and the Propaganda Ministry (see Bühler 2002). The traces of
disagreement can be seen throughout the pre-war period in the journals
attached to the different sides, and, aside from issues of power politics,
can be interpreted partly as a disagreement on how widely to peg the
boundaries of the highly politicized field of education – Goebbels’ fac-
tion proposing the absorption of popular culture into the educational
Kate Sturge 77
field while Rosenberg (and the librarians’ and teachers’ associations)

insisted on a conservative retention of strict quality criteria, a narrower
zone of inclusion and thus larger zone of exclusion.
In this conflict, the Gulbranssen translations were politically
ambiguous: they conformed with key ideological requirements yet were
above all commercial successes. Whereas the novels raised hackles with
the purists as exploiting a ‘craze’ for foreign work, for the Ministry it
seems that Und ewig singen die Wälder, though a translation, in many
ways perfectly fulfilled the aim of merging ideological and entertain-
ment functions. The translation helped to buttress officially sanctioned
‘knowledge’ of the true, Germanic Norway and proposed acceptable
interpretations of the human condition. As light reading, it could also
take on a pacifying role, as an escape from the criminal realities of
everyday life. Not least, healthy sales in an important sector of the
economy were not to be despised – and this is probably among the most
important reasons for the continued publication of other, much less
acceptable translations in the period.
Popular literature and pseudotranslation
I would like to conclude this chapter by looking at an area of particular

complexity in the field of translated fiction. The success of Gulbranssen
indicates a public interest in reading as adventure, entertainment
and exoticism, but whereas these attitudes could be tolerated in an
ostensibly ‘Nordic’ and ideologically consonant genre, they attracted
opprobrium in the context of translations of an even more popular
type: formulaic detective fiction translated from English. The contin-
ued success of translation from English has been noted earlier; it was
quashed only with the advent of the wartime bans. Of translations
from English, a good quarter were detective novels, headed up by Edgar
Wallace and Arthur Conan Doyle in reprints that are not clearly num-
bered but almost certainly reached many hundreds of thousands by the
end of the period.
The detective novel had emerged as a mass genre in Germany during
the Weimar Republic, driven by modern techniques of marketing and
distribution. Its connection with the hated Weimar period alone suf-
ficed to make the genre suspect to the new Nazi regime, but there were
more specific criticisms as well. Literary and librarians’ journals attacked
its embeddedness in the city, its playfulness and, especially, its associa-
tion with Anglo-American rationalism. While not new to the German-
language area (see Nusser 1992), the genre had burgeoned in the mid
to late 1920s, riding the wave of the large-scale importation of foreign

models primarily from Britain and America. The detective novel ‘craze’
was sparked by the Munich publisher Goldmann’s translation and
innovative marketing of the Edgar Wallace detective stories from 1927
(Goldmann 1962: 15ff.). Goldmann used series-based marketing, mas-
sive advertising campaigns and tie-ins to help make Wallace very likely
the most-sold author translated from English in the late 1920s. Wallace’s
success was followed by further imported detective novels from Britain
and America, and increasingly by domestic production that imitated
them, using British or American sounding pseudonyms, characters and
settings (hence, for example, Percy Brook. Der Fall Westminster-Abbey of
1938, or Willy Reese’s Ein Kabel an Scotland-Yard of 1939). Sold cheaply,
or distributed via the commercial lending libraries at ten or 20 pfennigs
an item, the detective novels fell outside the sphere of the public librar-
ies and their conservative pedagogic goals (see Stieg 1992).
By 1933, when the Nazi Party took power with an officially anti-
capitalist programme, detective fiction had thus come to exemplify the
Weimar Republic’s modern, commercial marketing and consumption of
literature. At the same time, in form and content the genre epitomized
what the völkisch ideologues of Nazism saw as Weimar writing’s failure
to address the high moral issues of the day. Hardly surprising, then,
that it was regularly and often venomously attacked in the Nazi press as
foreign to the truly German soul and a ‘threat to the moral and ethical
backbone of the nation’.38 Yet in contrast to ‘undesirable’ literature in
the sense of anti-Nazi texts and work by Jewish authors, most of which
was more or less successfully suppressed, the detective novel became
subject to attempts at adaptation and appropriation rather than simple
bans. Even the main index that covers detective fiction, the Liste der für
Jugendliche und Büchereien ungeeigneten Druckschriften [Index of printed
works unsuitable for young people and libraries] of 1943, requires items
not to be destroyed, but to be kept out of displays and secreted from
youngsters.
In terms of new publications, the elimination of the translated
genre and its numerous pseudotranslated imitations was completed
only during the regime’s very last years, and the availability of exist-
ing publications was probably undented for much of the period. This
was partly due to the particular position of the commercial lending
libraries that, in contrast to their highly regulated state cousins, special-
ized in entertainment-oriented literature, especially sentimental novels,
adventure or science fiction, and detective novels. To the chagrin of
many commentators, this focus remained strong until well into the war.
Kate Sturge 79
Raimund Kast traces the holdings of the forty commercial libraries reg-
istered in Hannover in 1937, where of the 90,000 books on offer, over
85 per cent were entertainment fiction and two thirds of those belonged
to the three groups mentioned. These were rubrics – especially the latter
two – where translations were very well represented: Kast (1991: 274–5)
names Zane Grey, Max Brand and Edgar Wallace as typifying the authors
in these categories.
Undoubtedly, the survival of translated detective fiction was partly
a failure of the system of regulation. Huge practical difficulties were
involved in monitoring a large segment of book production which,
additionally, took place outside those areas of literary life that were
completely subject to Nazi control. As Geyer-Ryan (1987: 183) points
out, the majority of writers of popular fiction were part-time amateurs,
thus not subject to the leverage of enforced RSK membership, and the
sheer numbers of detective stories published made detailed attention
to individual texts logistically unfeasible. Geyer-Ryan also remarks that
the complete removal of so commercially important a segment of the
publishing industry would have been damaging for an economy that,
despite its anti-capitalist rhetoric, depended on a capitalist market of
sorts (ibid.: 184).
The picture is complicated by the fact that within the mass of compet-
ing Party, government and professional bodies which staked a claim to
cultural policy, not every branch was equally adamant on the removal
of popular fiction. The Propaganda Ministry, in particular, was ready
to tolerate, even encourage, the availability of light entertainment as
an escapist luxury, cheap to produce and serving as a pragmatic ‘safety
valve’ within a highly regulated cultural economy (see Barbian 1995a:
720). Bollenbeck (1999: 325) calls it a ‘tolerated plurivocality’ ( geduldete
Mehrstimmigkeit) in the field of literature and cultural journalism, con-
trasting strongly with the precise and merciless control to which the
news media were subjected (see also Hale 1964).
From this point of view, popular culture and consumerism may be
considered as having offered the regime a more than viable handle on
the ‘hearts and minds’ of the day (see, especially, Schäfer 1981). On the
other hand, perhaps the anxious librarians were right to worry about
the effects of light-hearted literature in translation. Despite the nar-
rowing of the market, translation publishing was still failing in what
the RSK considered ‘its true task’, namely its responsibility to mediate
between Germans and foreign nations on the basis of ‘culturally valu-
able writing that serves understanding between the nations and respect’
(Warmuth 1938: 197).39
There is also a sense (not, of course, a quantifiable one) in which

reading translations – even such well-aligned ones as the Gulbranssen
romances – did have a certain subversive potential. At the very least,
as Helga Geyer-Ryan (1978: 274) has pointed out, reading remained a
private activity in a society which refused the possibility of privacy; and
in that private space foreign literature surely had at least the potential to
move its readers beyond the narcissistic mirror (Venuti 1998) of transla-
tion, to take on a momentum of its own and begin to offer a window
onto the outside world. Such was the fear expressed by the president of
the RSK, quoted at the beginning of this chapter’s title: the public craze
for translations might amount to a turn away from the much-vaunted
will of the Volk, the ‘programme of National Socialism’.
Notes
1. ‘Flucht vor dem Programm des Nationalsozialismus’, Hanns Johst, president of
the Reich Chamber of Writers (RSK), cited in Die Neue Literatur, August 1939:
418.
2. ‘[E]inen überaus seltsamen und abzulehnenden Hang zu einer besonderen
Hochschätzung des ausländischen Schrifttums lediglich deshalb, weil es nun
einmal aus dem Ausland kommt.’ Here and in the following, translations
from German are my own.
3. ‘Diese sehr oft als besonders weitgehendes geistiges Interesse ausgelegte
Neigung ist in der Vergangenheit gerade vom Nationalsozialismus stets
als “geistige Überfremdung” bekämpft und eindeutig als Ausdruck eines
völkischen Minderwertigkeitsgefühls gekennzeichnet worden. Nachdem nun
im Verlauf der Jahre seit der nationalsozialistischen Revolution das deutsche
Schrifttum selbst einer gründlichen Reinigung unterzogen und alles in seinen
Bereichen vorhandene Wesensfremde ausgemerzt worden ist, befinden wir
uns heute wiederum einer Entwicklung gegenüber, die uns auf dem Umwege
über die ausländische Übersetzungsliteratur in vielen Fällen wieder genau mit
den gleichen negativen Werten vertraut zu machen sucht, die wir erst müh-
sam aus dem deutschen Schrifttum selbst ausgeschieden haben.’
4. On the discourse on translation in official literary and booktrade journals of
the period, see Sturge (2004: Chapter 3); on the journal Die Neue Literatur see
also Berglund (1980).
5. These exclude translated children’s literature, which was listed separately,
as were most translations from Latin and Ancient Greek, which were listed
as ‘Classical Studies’. For details of the sources and definitions used in the
following bibliographical data and the limitations on their reliability in a
context of state intervention, see Sturge (2004: 47–56).
6. A supplement to the German National Bibliography was published after the
war, listing the works of all categories received by the copyright library in
Leipzig but rejected for inclusion in the bibliography and hence for public
attention: Deutsche Nationalbibliographie, Ergänzung I (1949).
Kate Sturge 81
7. Even Virginia Woolf remained in print for the special case of her dog novel
Flush: Geschichte eines berühmten Hundes, 1934 (Flush: A Biography, 1933).
8. The degree of freedom or restriction in literary publishing during the Nazi
period continues to be contested. Ketelsen (1992) gives an introduction to
the scope of the debate.
9. This distinction does not, however, appear to have been institutionalized in
a manner comparable to that outlined for the case of Portugal in Seruya’s
and Coelho’s chapters in this volume.
10. A comprehensive and thorough discussion of the institutions of literary
censorship can be found in Barbian (1995a). As it relates to translation, see
Sturge (2004: Chapter 2).
11. In full the Parteiamtliche Prüfungskommission zum Schutze des nationalsozial-
istischen Schrifttums, or Party examination commission for the protection of
National Socialist writing (see Barbian 1995a: 298ff.).
12. See Bollmus (1970), Barbian (1995a: 270ff.).
13. See, for example, the discussions in Barbian (1995a: 187, 267, 308), Barbian
(1995b), Bollmus (1970).
14. For a detailed analysis, see Aigner (1971: 983ff.).
15. Listed in Sturge (2004: 43).
16. Barbian notes that quite apart from policy considerations, the sheer volume
of the German book market precluded comprehensive pre-emptive censor-
ship: neither the personnel nor the organizational resources were available
for such a task (Barbian 1995b: 173).
17. Though see Barbian (1995a: 568) for a differing view, based on Wilhem
Goldmann’s failure to gain permission for the purchase of further rights to
British and American detective novels.
18. Memorandum to librarians in Bücherei und Bildungspflege 13, 1933: 116–21,
reprinted in Andrae (1970: 167–75).
19. ‘Wir wollen keine Zensur und daher auch keine abhängigen Verleger, die nicht
wissen, was sie tun sollen […] sondern wir wollen Verleger, die uns treue Helfer
sind am gemeinsamen Werk, und die auch wirklich in der Lage sind, aus eigener
Verantwortung heraus den Dienst am deutschen Schrifttum zu vollziehen.’
20. In the case of translators of popular literature, this net may have been less
effective, since many were part-time or ‘amateurs’ not obliged to join the
RSK (Geyer-Ryan 1987: 183).
21. ‘Auf Ihr Schreiben […] wird Ihnen mitgeteilt, dass eine Neuauflage der
Bücher Pearl S. Buck [sic] nicht in Frage kommt. Eine Bekanntgabe dieser
Tatsache an die Autorin ist jedoch nicht erwünscht. Der Autorin gegenüber
verfahren Sie so, als ob die Auflage noch nicht ganz ausverkauft sei.’
22. The importance of this aspect of translation practice emerges particularly
clearly in Rundle’s chapter in this volume.
23. ‘[K]ämpferische Tat für das deutsche Theater und für reine germanische
Weltanschauung’, Der Freiheitskampf 30 May 1934, cited in Englert (2001:
190).
24. ‘Wer die Geschichte Gislis des Geächteten […] liest, der spürt über die
Jahrhunderte hinweg die Gleichheit germanischen Blutes.’ It should be
noted that this insistence on the role of Germanic blood in translation
quality was not universal: the SS-dominated Weltliteratur differed in this
respect from journals closer to the Propaganda Ministry, which stressed the
unfortunate propensity of Scandinavian authors to reject the new Germany
and its ideals (see Sturge 2004: 90 and more generally Chapter 3, on transla-
tion reviews).
25. ‘Ein Jude, der dichtet und in Schweden wohnt, ist noch bei weitem kein
nordischer Dichter.’
26. ‘Literatursalat’; Die Weltliteratur October 1937: 385. See Sturge (2004: 104–16).
27. ‘Eine der wichtigsten Aufgaben für die Reichsschrifttumskammer scheint
mir eine Art geistige Planwirtschaft gegenüber und im Einverständnis mit
dem Ausland, eine Art geistige Devisen-Kontrolle, zu sein, die es verhindert,
daß andere Völker sich geistig gegen Deutschland absperren und wir den-
noch ihre Literaturen aufnehmen. In vielen Ländern findet zur Zeit nur
die jüdische Emigrantenliteratur als “Deutsche Literatur” Aufnahme und
Beachtung, z.B. in Italien! Wir müssen diesen Ländern deutlich machen, daß
wir es so lange gleichfalls ohne ihre Literatur aushalten, wie sie die unsere
aussperren’ (Vesper 1935: 45).
28. ‘[D]aß ausländisches Schrifttum in deutscher Übersetzung nur in dem
Verhältnis einzusetzen ist, wie deutsches Schrifttum fremder Übersetzung im
Auslande aufgenommen und gewürdigt wird’, Die Werkbücherei, June 1939,
no page numbers.
29. The ESV’s last meeting was in 1943, although the related journal Europäische
Literatur, an anthology of translated and original German work in a 50:50
ratio, destined mainly for distribution abroad, continued publication until
1944 (Hausmann 2004: 78–79).
30. ‘In einem geheimen Winkel seines Herzens ist jeder Deutsche ein Wiking.
Das Erlebnis fremden Menschentums und fremder Landschaft hat für ihn
magischen Reiz.’
31. ‘[D]ie Übersetzung oder Verbreitung von Werken, die sich unter Verfälschung
der geschichtlichen Wahrheit gegen das andere Land, gegen seine
Staatsform oder seine Staatsführung richten, und von entstellenden Werken
(Tendenzliteratur) politischer Emigranten des anderes Landes verhindern.’
32. ‘[Z]weifellos dazu beitragen, daß sich das deutsche und das italienische Volk
gegenseitig besser kennen und verstehen lernen’, Die Weltliteratur, February
1942: 31.
33. ‘[Z]eigt im Helden des Buchs den aktiven Italiener von heute, samt seiner
leidenschaftlichen Hingabe an alle technischen Möglichkeiten und mit jener
Gesinnung, die sich vor “Krisen” und ähnlichem nicht fürchtet’, Die Neue
Literatur, January 1942: 9.
34. ‘[Z]ur Pflege der deutsch-italienischen Beziehungen ist natürlich auch die
Publikation von Kurzgeschichten sehr nützlich. Wenn aber an Schluß der
Kurzgeschichte eine deutsch-italienische Heirat dabei rauskommt, so ver-
stößt man damit wohl gegen Grundsätze, die noch wichtiger sind als jene
Beziehungen.’
35. Nazi discourse, where ‘racial’ were more important than linguistic categories,
defined Finnish as a Scandinavian language.
36. Such as Nordlands rauschende Wälder [The Whispering Forests of Northland]
(Leipzig, Godwin, 1940), by ‘Gunnar Sigarssen’ – according to the German
National Bibliography’s compilers, this was a pseudonym for Otto
Goldbach.
Kate Sturge 83
37. Only one of Ellen de Boor’s (1896–1960) numerous translations from

Scandinavian languages was published before the Gulbranssen novels took off.
38. ‘[E]ine Gefährdung des moralischen und sittlichen Rückenmarks der Nation’
(Großdeutsches Leihbüchereiblatt, April 1940: 42).
39. ‘[I]n seinem wahren Auftrag […] nämlich der Verantwortung sowohl vor
dem deutschen Volk als auch dem Schrifttum der Völker. Damit sei unzwei-
deutig gesagt, daß sein Blick auf das kulturell wertvolle, der Verständigung
der Völker, der Achtung dienende Schrifttum gerichtet bleiben muß’
(original emphasis).
4
It Was What It Wasn’t: Translation
and Francoism
Jeroen Vandaele
Francoism and Spanish Fascism
It would be wrong to call Francoism a fascist regime (see Paxton 2004,

especially Chapter 6), though between 1936 and 1945 it bore many
features of fascism (see Richards 1998). Francoism (1936/39–75) was an
idiosyncratic mixture of (ultra-) Catholicism, fascism and other reaction-
ary ideologies or ingredients. Before the Civil War of 1936–39 and after
General Miguel Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship, which ended with his
death in 1930, Spain’s democratic Second Republic (1931–36/39) saw
two periods. In the first (1931–33), a left-wing government redistributed
wealth in drastic ways and engaged in anti-clerical action. In the next
(1934–36), a right-wing government suspended the social reforms. When
the Republic organized new elections in 1936, which were won by the
left-wing coalition Frente Popular, political polarization was complete. In
such a climate bonds were created between reactionary opponents of the
Second Republic: Spanish fascists, the Catholic Church, and other groups.1
Those who fought with Franco in the Civil War, including the fascists
and the Church (see Casanova 2005), were in fact fighting against the
Republic and the opportunities it had given to progressive forces. During
and after the Civil War, Franco managed to unify these anti-Republican
forces in a party called FET y de las JONS, which stood for Falange Española
Tradicionalista y de las Juntas de Ofensiva Nacional Sindicalista.2 It uni-
fied the ‘Falangists’ proper (Spanish fascists), monarchists (defenders of
Fernando XIII), Carlists (reactionary and Catholic defenders of a different
monarchic line of descent), military leaders, and formerly ‘legalist’ (that
is, non-revolutionary) ultra-Catholics (Preston 1998: 245).
FET y de las JONS was the result of many previous mergers. Alongside
the Unión Monárquica Nacional (1930) of José Antonio Primo de Rivera
84
Jeroen Vandaele 85
(the son of Miguel), Ramiro de Maeztu and Calvo Sotelo, there was the
proto-fascist group of Giménez Caballero,3 Aparicio4 and Ledesma5 that
gathered around the review La Conquista del Estado. The latter group spoke
out against Marxism and Communism, against the ‘liberal bourgeois’
state, against ‘the pharisaical pacifism of Geneva’ and in favour of
‘hierarchical values’, ‘the national idea’, ‘Hispanic values’, ‘the imperial
spread of our culture’, ‘the intensified use of mass culture’, ‘nationaliza-
tion of the large estates’, ‘syndicalism’, ‘revolutionary action’, targeting
anyone who might obstruct the new State, and so on.6 The paradox that
Spain’s grandeur was to be re-established by means of the principles
of Italian Fascism was soon resolved by Giménez Caballero: Spain was
400 years older than Italy and Germany, and Catholicism was the
essence of its true imperial spirit (Carbajosa and Carbajosa 2003: 55).
In 1931 both Unión and Conquista joined forces with the leader
of Juntas Castellanas de Acción Hispánica, the corporatist Catholic
Onésimo Redondo, to create the JONS, ‘an overtly pro-Nazi organiza-
tion’ (Rodgers 1999: 173). It was a fascist organization, yet had a strong
Catholic component (Payne 1997). In 1933, a political meeting between
José Antonio Primo de Rivera, Franco’s later ministers Rafael Sánchez
Mazas7 and Raimundo Fernández Cuesta, and other para-fascist person-
alities resulted in the Falange Española (FE), the programme of which
was centralist, imperialist, Catholic, military, elitist, anti-Marxist and
anti-liberal (Ellwood 1984: 37; Payne 1984: 59). Though the FE was
less violent and fascist than the JONS (Ellwood 1984: 46), JONS and
FE united in 1934 to form FE de las JONS, with José Antonio Primo de
Rivera (conventionally abbreviated to José Antonio) as its undisputed
leader. In the famous elections of 1936 which led to the Francoist upris-
ing, FE de las JONS lost on all fronts (Ellwood 1984: 70). According to
Payne (1985), Spain was too rural and too regionalistic for fascism to
take root in its population. FE de las JONS was all too willing to rise
against the Republic. When Franco seized power and José Antonio was
killed by Republicans, Franco transformed FE de las JONS into FET y
de las JONS, with the T standing for Tradicionalista. Francoism’s single,
‘mixed bag’ Party was now complete and could serve as a basis for
the Francoist doctrine of ‘national-Catholicism’, a mixture of all the
ideological elements mentioned earlier. From the late 1940s onwards,
many of Franco’s civil servants came to follow this somewhat nebulous
doctrine, which blended traditional authoritarianism (‘respect for the
Caudillo’), para-fascist ultra-nationalism (‘respect for Spain, possibly as
an empire’), ultra-Catholic moralism (‘respect for the Christian God and
the Pope’) and opportunistic capitalism.
86 Translation and Francoism
Hence, although fascism was never very popular in Spain, the

viejofalangistas, or old-school fascists who had originally belonged to
FE de las JONS (without the T ), did wield a good deal of institutional
power before 1945, both in the Party (that is, in FET y de las JONS) and
in the government. After Hitler’s final defeat, however, much power was
transferred back from Party to government and both Party and govern-
ment were presented as part of one Movimiento. In the words of Michael
Richards (1999: 364),
Franco’s Movimiento was the body to which one had to adhere in

order to participate in the narrowly confined arena of official ‘politics’
during the dictatorship. However, the use of the term ‘Movimiento’
came to be interchangeable both with the name of the state party
itself […] and with the regime in a general sense. This ambiguity […]
permitted a grandiose falsifying terminology to be employed.
Indeed, when in 1958 the capitalist technocrat López Rodó wrote his
Declaración de Principios Fundamentales del Movimiento Nacional, he had
nothing to say about the FET y de las JONS – all had become Movimiento
(Preston 1998: 837–9; see also Paxton 2004: 149–50).
If there was one consistent feature from the 1933 Falange to the
1958 Movimiento, this was their anti-Communism. On a national level,
Communism or Marxism would remain a useful enemy to unite
Francoists and Francoist subideologies over many decades. A victim of the
leftist Second Republic, the Spanish Catholic Church shared anti-Marxist
feeling with the Falangists proper and with any group which had lost its
privileges after 1931. On an international level, Franco was able to use
anti-Communism to manoeuvre himself back into a position of geopoliti-
cal influence, thanks to North American concerns during the Cold War.
There were evident links between Franco’s international and domestic
politics. Franco could retain great personal power on a national level as
long as he was perceived to be the referee deciding which Francoist ‘sub-
group’ (often called ‘ideological family’) – fascists, ultra-Catholics, mon-
archists, and so on – was to have most influence at any given moment
in any given matter; Franco skilfully made this balance dependent upon
his own international survival. At any one moment he gave more power
to those who currently served the international image he needed. Thus,
when Germany and Italy lost the war, Spanish fascists lost much power in
Spain because Franco had to rebuild his image as a non-fascist. More gen-
erally, the ideological subperiods of Francoist politics often reflect or are
responses to political and socio-economic changes on an international
Jeroen Vandaele 87
level, however much Franco isolated Spain from the rest of the world. In
terms of censorship, Francoism can be tentatively periodized as follows.
(1) Censorship during the Civil War (1936–39): This was necessarily a
nonsystematized and noncentralized affair because other – military –
matters were more urgent and because the whole of Spain was not
yet conquered. Franco’s censorship boards employed a military
censor, a religious censor and other censors. This period of cen-
sorship needs much more research and is hard to study precisely
because it was not as centralized and systematic as subsequent
periods.
(2) Censorship during the Second World War (1940–45): In this period
the Spanish fascists who originally belonged to FE de las JONS
gained influence in the censorship boards as in other spheres of
life; there was no longer a specific censor for the military.
(3) Censorship in transition (1945–50): The State censorship board
was transferred back from the fascism-dominated Party (FET y
de las JONS) to the more Catholic-dominated government (also
appointed by Franco). Fascists remained present in State boards
but they were losing power. It was a period of public and internal
conflicts over moral issues between Catholic censors (present in
the State board and in private Catholic censorship boards) and
para-fascist censors (in the State board).
(4) Censorship in the ultra-Catholic decade (1950–63): In this period
ultra-Catholic censors took power in the State board. Immorality
was their main concern – and it was everywhere. Censorship became
less political in the strict sense of the word, although Communism
and liberalism remained important concerns as well. In this period,
Francoist censorship alienated itself completely from large sections
of the Spanish population, especially since new masses of tourists
showed glimpses of lifestyles which the Spaniards were not allowed
to see represented in literary discourse and film.
(5) The period known as the Apertura, or ‘opening’ (1963–69): Franco
gradually lost his personal grip on the Francoist subgroups. A new
group of capitalist ‘technocrats’ now tried to renovate the Spanish
economy, stimulating tourism and admitting more flexible censor-
ship criteria. In cultural policy, they were helped by ex-, post-, or
‘liberal’ fascists, who had also grown tired of Catholic moralism
(see Gracia 1996, 2004). The infamous Ley de Prensa [Press Law] was
passed in 1966. It abolished pre-publication censorship but rein-
forced post-publication censorship and self-censorship, because
authors were made ‘responsible’ for what they wrote (Abellán

1980; Pegenaute 1999).
(6) Late Francoism (1969–75): Church (private) censorship was abol-
ished because it had lost all social relevance. State censorship
became anonymous. In terms of cultural policy, this period was
partly a continuation of the Apertura, though some liberal censors
strove for a relatively high degree of liberty while others (disgusted
Catholics) wanted less flexibility than the Apertura allowed.
A future synthesis of research on translation and Francoism may confirm,

refine or contradict the applicability of this chronology to translation, but
much more research on Francoist translation is needed before such a work
could be written. The present overview has a different structure. The first
section introduces some general ideas from translation studies which will
be helpful to understand ‘Francoist translation’, that is, translation as prac-
tised from 1939 until 1975. The next section shows that it makes sense to
structure a discussion of Francoist translation in terms of discourse genres
or realms (press, philosophy, prose, theatre, film), and briefly indicates
which source languages were dominant in each discourse realm. In the
subsequent sections I summarize existing research in more detail, identify
gaps and paths for research in a variety of discursive realms, and indicate
whenever possible the degree to which research on Francoist transla-
tion may shed light on the fascist or non-fascist character of Francoism.
What translation studies offers to Franco studies
The following is a set of research questions which are typically asked in

comparative literature and translation studies:
• Which ideas and practices (repertoires) circulate in a given culture?

Where do they come from? Are they the result of tradition(s), impor-
tation and/or translation? Who is responsible for the importation
and translation of new repertoires and for the continuation of tradi-
tional repertoires, and why?
• Which ideas and practices do not circulate? Why not? Are they inhib-
ited or prohibited? How? By whom? Why?
• Which ideas and practices are stimulated? By whom? How? In which
parts of a culture?
• Which repertoires are neither stimulated nor prohibited and die a
silent death?
(see Lambert 1980; Even-Zohar 1990; De Geest 1992)
Jeroen Vandaele 89
Within translation studies, the Tel Aviv School of Poetics (Itamar Even-
Zohar, Gideon Toury) has been particularly influential in framing these
questions and proposing concepts for partial answers. Specifically, Even-
Zohar’s (1990) general cultural theory emphasizes the role of translation
in the shaping of cultures.8
For the study of Francoist culture, a focus on translation offers two
major advantages. First, what makes translation special among other
interpretive ‘acts of meaning’ is its relative explicitness. In translation,
a written or spoken end product bears testimony to the interpretation
that has taken place; for a researcher in cultural studies a translation has
the advantage of constituting a materialized trace of interpretation not
provided by other forms of cultural production. The original text offers
an explicit point of comparison against which to measure cultural (in
this case, translational) practice.
Secondly, translation allows us to study what does not exist in a given
system, although it could in principle have existed. Translation is a
means to study the non-dit, the cultural unsaid. This is especially relevant
for Francoist culture, since Francoism’s continued inability to formulate
an affirmative cultural project is well established. If we are interested in
the ‘implicit’ or ‘negative’ ideological practices of Francoism, we must
study how Francoism used translation (see Pegenaute 1999 for a similar
argument). While this can also be done by studying Francoist censor-
ship of Spanish (‘intrasystemic’) cultural goods, translation research has
something extra to offer: whereas Spanish artists and non-fiction writers
had to practise private, mental self-censorship from the very start, the
international repertoires were already fully developed cultural prod-
ucts. The international democratic repertoire was not restrained by the
politics of fear that dominated the Spanish cultural field, and Francoist
reception and censorship had to intervene in a different way. At the
same time, once their immigration was authorized, the fully elaborated
repertoires obviously had a stronger innovative potential than the inter-
nal goods because they could build on many liberal, freely inventive
traditions outside the Francoist system. I will return to these ideas in
the Conclusion of this chapter.
Realms of discourse, countries of origin
As Abellán (1980) has already noted on an intrasystemic level, Franco’s

cultural agents feared innovation to different degrees according to the
realm of discourse. Reality-bound discourse (press, academic writing)
immediately came under strict control. As for translated fiction, the
regime’s fear was greater for film than for performed theatre (see, e.g.,
Vandaele 2006), it was greater for modern literature than for the classics
(see, e.g., Bandín 2007), it was greater for performed theatre than it was
for written theatre (Merino 1994: 60), and it was probably greater for
prose than for poetry. These divisions, which will structure my chapter,
find their origins in what I will call the ‘neoplatonic’ – and generally
patronizing or paternalistic – idea that some parts of the population (the
uneducated masses, children, often women) are more easily influenced
than members of the elite (educated males) and that, therefore, some
dangerous realms of discourse should be restricted to the elite. For each
realm of discourse, I will summarize the insights of existing translation
research and, if appropriate, indicate paths for future research.
The ‘neoplatonic’ fear of film and spectacle was certainly more typical
of Catholicists9 than of Falangists. On an international level, Catholics
had early on become aware of the power of film, as can be seen from
the 1936 encyclical Vigilanti Cura. In 1940, the Falangist García Viñolas,
who had become a leading member of the Party’s Subsecretaría de Prensa
y Propaganda [Under Secretariat for Press and Propaganda] two years
earlier, created the popularizing film review Primer Plano as a response
to Catholic views on film (Diez Puertas 2002: 134, 153; Monterde 1997:
188). The Falangist Primer Plano and the Catholic film critics devel-
oped very different poetic norms and views regarding Hollywood (see
Vandaele 2006). Spanish fascists participated in the creation of Francoist
institutions from 1936 onwards, and Catholicists used the institutions
for new ideological purposes from the late 1940s until 1962–63, when
cultural countermovements (including ‘liberal neo-fascists’ or ex-fas-
cists) forced them to apply their criteria in a more flexible manner (see
Gracia 2004). In the early days of Francoism, certain Falangist censors
also had different nationalist sensibilities to those of the Catholicists.
What were the main source languages and cultures from which
discourse types were imported under Francoism? As the TRACE
(Translation and Censorship) project of the universities of León and
the Basque Country demonstrates statistically, the anglophone domi-
nance is overwhelming in all discourse realms except philosophy,
where translations from German are dominant almost until the end of
Francoism (Uribarri 2005, 2007b, c). There were various reasons for the
anglophone hegemony in fiction, and often these reasons reinforced
each other. In the 1940s Spanish fascists were attracted to Hollywood’s
violent and sexy film noir. More generally, in Francoist times Hollywood
escapism was an easy, tacit modus vivendi between large parts of the
population and the Francoist bureaucrats, since the regime’s culture
Jeroen Vandaele 91
itself was unable to satisfy the cultural appetite of the Spanish people.
Furthermore, it was fortunate for the Spanish regime that Hollywood
applied its own Catholic censorship code, the Hays Code, between 1930
and 1966 (see Black 1998). Less fortunately for the intransigent censors,
Hollywood’s lobby exerted institutional and economic pressure on an
impoverished Spain, forcing Francoists to import American repertoire
in large quantities even when it did not comply with Spanish norms
(Vandaele 2006).
As for written fiction, twentieth-century Spaniards were not very avid
readers, as Behiels (2006) notes. Most popular under Francoism were
escapist genres, where translations held a strong position. This even led
to a flourishing market of pseudotranslations: escapist novels in special
collections (‘Extra Oeste’ and ‘Selecciones FBI’, for example) written by
Spanish authors using pseudonyms such as ‘Lou Carrigan’, ‘Silver Cane’,
‘Mortimer Cody’, ‘Linda Malvill’ or ‘Curtis Garland’ (Rabadán 2000b;
see also Santamaría López 2007). In the realm of theatre, Pérez López
de Heredia’s excellent thesis (2004) shows that the wave of ‘anglophilia’
had already reached Spain in the years before the Spanish Civil War.
Regarding philosophy, Uribarri (2005, 2007a, b, c) reminds us that
German influences were part of the well-studied cultural phenomenon
of Krausismo. After studying for two years with Christian F. Krause of
Heidelberg, the Spanish philosopher Julián Sanz del Río (2005: 366)
had returned to Spain in 1844 and translated this minor German phi-
losopher’s work in a conscious attempt to modernize Spanish thinking,
making Krause much more important for Spain than for any other
country – including Germany. This event reoriented the Spanish philo-
sophical scene, away from France and towards Germany.
The hidden realm: ‘Private’ translations
Some translations were not meant to be published. They only circu-

lated within limited groups. For instance, the State censorship files
kept in the Archivo General de la Administración (in Alcalá de Henares,
Madrid) sometimes contain translations of conservative film reviews
from the US, so that the State Censorship Board could assess the sup-
posed danger of a film from an international conservative point of
view. These translations could be documents typed on separate sheets,
often including the film rating by the US-based Legion of Decency.
According to my research, they were especially frequent after the cul-
tural Apertura of 1963. It is possible that the Legion of Decency actively
provided this data to the Spanish board; more generally, it is very likely
that institutional connections existed between the Catholic Legion of

Decency and Franco’s State and Church censorship – whether via trans-
lation or other forms of communication.
The Francoist elites often enjoyed personal and intellectual privileges –
the opportunity to travel, read expensive intellectual books, or be mem-
bers of boards who could view unauthorized films. Rich, regime-aligned
artists such as the writer, film director and critic Edgar Neville were rela-
tively free to travel abroad. Eminent ‘liberal’ thinkers, such as Luis Díez
del Corral, lived wealthy lives and could afford limited editions – both
originals and translations. In this context, one potentially valuable type
of research would be to try to map how these national Spanish elites
used their international networks to circulate foreign information in
private circles. To pursue research on this important area would mean
working with personal testimonies (interviews, diaries, memoirs, and so
on) rather than on officially archived documents, since the circulation
of foreign intellectual works was often a clandestine matter (see Behiels
2006). Certainly, though, the clandestine nature of much international
literature will not have prevented it being used by Francoist elites of dif-
ferent ideological families as a way to position themselves on a domestic
level. For example, Spanish fascists – followers of José Antonio Primo de
Rivera, Giménez Caballero, Aparicio, Redondo and Ledesma – were very
powerful between 1936 and 1945 but simply lost their international
connections in 1945, at a time when Catholicism was highly organized
on a global scale.10 One could study whether (or to what extent) the
ideological shift from falangismo to ultra-Catholicism between 1945 and
1950 was supported by the agents’ power to import, translate and quote
international discourse in private circles or in the corridors of power.
Other Francoists were national-Catholicists from the onset, in the sense
that they combined ingredients from fascism with ultra-Catholicism
without a clear preference for either fascist or Catholic ideas or lifestyles.
Nevertheless the ideological discourse of national-Catholic individuals
may have evolved over time. The ultra-Catholic Jesuit Ortiz Muñoz,
for instance, was a high-profile censor from 1939 until 1962 in several
discursive realms. He had already served as a censor when State censor-
ship first answered directly to the government (1938–October 1941) but
also operated between 10 October 1941 and 27 July 1945, when State
censorship came under control of the Vicesecretaría de Educación de FET
y de las JONS. A study of Ortiz Muñoz might cast light on the influence
of Catholicism under fascist rule. Was he more present and influential
in 1939–41 and 1945–62 than in 1941–45? Did his discourse change
over time? Of course, there was much osmosis between Falangists and
Jeroen Vandaele 93
Catholics – Gabriel Arias Salgado, a reactionary Catholic, was the head

of State censorship in the ultra-Catholic decade (1950–62) but also
when the FET y de las JONS was in control of censorship (1941–45).
Nonetheless some censors were clearly more Catholic and others obvi-
ously more para-fascist, and it would be interesting to see if foreign
repertoires helped to shape their domestic discourse. Possibly their dis-
course was itself a personal ‘translation’ of foreign repertoires.
Reality-bound discourse: The press
Beyond the occasional anecdote in general historiographical works, very

little seems to be known about the role of translation in the Francoist
press. The translation or nontranslation of international political
speeches for the Spanish press may nevertheless be a very important
research topic. When Preston (1998: 725–6), for example, discusses the
Janus-faced nature of Franco’s political discourse after the Second World
War, he explicitly refers to the nontranslation in Spain of a pro-American
interview Franco gave the New York Times in 1948. In times of uncer-
tainty and isolation, after Hitler’s defeat, Franco spoke out for America in
English, but made sure his words were not translated into Spanish for the
Spanish newspapers. Did selective and manipulated translations of for-
eign press articles, or even pseudotranslations in the Spanish press, play
a significant role in the propaganda of State and Church? Interesting as
these questions may be, I do not know of any research into the role of
press translation in Spain between 1936 and 1975.
From my own archival research it is clear that specialized Catholic
film journals tried to lend credibility to their views via well-chosen
translations and references to foreign authors. In the 1950s, for
instance, the Revista Internacional de Cine, which was also published in
other languages (at least French, Italian and English), regularly featured
Spanish translations of foreign conservative essays and ‘studies’ on the
influence of film (Vandaele 2006). A comparative study of the different
versions of this magazine could well yield interesting results. Similar
research agendas could be specified for the Falangist press too, and such
research could be especially promising if focused on high-profile foreign
news sources quoted in a variety of Francoist newspapers.
Reality-bound discourse: Philosophy
Philosophy is also non-fictional, like journalism, but unlike journal-

ism it is written exclusively for the educated. This is very clear in the
reception of Jean-Paul Sartre (Behiels 2006) and Immanuel Kant (studies

by Ibon Uribarri, e.g. 2005). Uribarri (2007b, c) notes that philosophy
came under tight Francoist control, but also that Kant was not a thinker
who caused the regime too much concern because he was so difficult
that he was only accessible to the intellectual elite. Similarly, Sartre’s
existentialist but hermetic L’être et le néant was less problematic than his
more accessible literature and theatre (Behiels 2006).
Behiels and Uribarri remind us that Neothomism was the official
philosophical doctrine under Franco but that deviant thinkers were
sometimes tolerated for the specialized reader. Here are some examples
of the censors’ positive decisions on work by Kant:
1957: On an Argentinian translation of Kritik der Reinen Vernunft:

‘Some copies may be imported for the use of learned persons
who have the ability to read forbidden books’ [‘Se puede per-
mitir la importación de algunos ejemplares para uso de las per-
sonas estudiosas que tienen facultad para leer libros prohibidos’]
(Uribarri 2005: 373).
1957: A new Spanish edition of Kritik der Urteilskraft is acceptable for
two reasons: it does not contradict Scholastic philosophy in
‘dogmatic matters’ [‘cuestiones dogmáticas’] and it is a work
that is ‘only within the intellectual range of the educated’ [‘sólo
está al alcance intelectual de personas formadas’] (ibid.).
1962: A Spanish translation of Kritik der Praktischen Vernunft is author-
ized because it is a ‘text for specialists in philosophy, known
throughout the world’ [‘texto para especialistas de la disciplina
filosófica, mundialmente conocido’] (ibid.).
Before 1969 the authorization of Kant was always requested (and

granted) for a very limited number of copies, as may be seen from
Table 4.1. One censor was ‘concerned’ when in 1969 Alianza requested
permission to print 10,000 copies of Kant’s Religión dentro de los límites
de la razón pura (Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloβen Vernunft)
but authorization was given (ibid.).
Only two Kant translations were directly censored. In 1955 a transla-
tion of Über eine Entdeckung, nach der alle neue Kritik der reinen Vernunft
durch eine ältere entbehrlich gemacht werden soll was not imported, but the
file does not state why. More interestingly, a translation of Zum ewigen
Friede (by Rivera Pastor) was banned in 1943 (Uribarri 2007b) because,
according to the censor, Kant was ‘influenced by the French Revolution’
when he stated that the constitution of any state should be republican.
Jeroen Vandaele 95
Table 4.1 Numbers of copies permitted for Kant translations
Year Title Copies

1939 Kritik der Praktischen Vernunft 1,500
1945 Kritik der Reinen Vernunft 200
1957 Kritik der Urteilskraft 1,000
1957 Kritik der Reinen Vernunft 50
1962 Kritik der Praktischen Vernunft 1,000
Source: Based on Uribarri 2007a: 183–7.
In fascist times – Period (2) of my categorization, the years of the Second

World War – censorship of Kant thus became overtly political.
No less interesting are Uribarri’s remarks on the Spanish reception of
Kant in the 1920s and early 1930s, when new translations were made by,
for example, Manuel García Morente and the logician and Republican
President of Parliament (1931–33) Julián Besteiro. In Spain, all major
intellectuals at last started to reflect on Kant in that period, whether
Ortega y Gasset, Besteiro, Unamuno or Antonio Machado. Another
reader of Kant was Ramiro de Maeztu. By 1930 Maeztu had abandoned
his socialist and liberal ideas and, with José Antonio and Calvo Sotelo,
founded the Unión Monárquica Nacional against the Second Republic
(Ellwood 1984: 23; Payne 1985: 49), spreading the idea of ‘Hispanidad’,
the ‘solidarity among Hispano- and Lusophone nations under the guid-
ance of Spain’ (Rosendorf 2006: 405). As Aguilar and Humlebaek write
(2002: 136):
In the 1930s the ultra-right-wing writer Ramiro de Maeztu popular-

ized the concept of Hispanidad, linking it to the fascist imagery
and emphasizing the ideas of ‘historical destiny’ and Volksgeist.
Hispanidad is conceived of as the community of Hispanic nations
founded on the religious spirit of Spanish colonization, a specifically
anti-liberal and traditionalist idea that was adopted by the Francoist
regime as one of its ideological pillars. The concept was instrumen-
talized to exalt the heroic image of the old Spanish empire and the
period when Spain was amongst the most important powers of the
world, stressing the religious and political aspects much more than
the cultural and literary ones.
Strange as it might seem, Maeztu writes, he owed to Kant the ‘the rock-
solid foundation of my religious ideas’ [‘fundamento inconmovible de
mi pensamiento religioso’] (quoted in Uribarri 2005: 379). The existence
of a priori synthetic knowledge showed him that truth is found in the

soul [espíritu] not in matter [naturaleza material]. This idea would return
in Kant’s reception during the late Franquismo (1969–75, Period (6) of
my categorization).
Behiels quotes a 1948 essay on Sartre which illustrates that phenom-
enology was only recommended if it concerned good existentialism –
Heidegger’s:
The greater analytic capacity of our present era is one of the reasons
why our times are different from previous ones. Proof of it is found
in phenomenology and its consequences (such as, for instance, the
teaching of good existentialism – that is, Heidegger’s, not Sartre’s
stupid version), the atom bomb and so on.11
(Alonso del Real, quoted in Behiels 2006)
Given Heidegger’s special relation to Nazi Germany, it would certainly

be interesting to study Francoist translations of this ‘good phenom-
enologist’. Was he promoted (via translation for example) by fascists
and/or national-Catholicists? Maeztu’s notion of Hispanidad (1931) can
certainly be interpreted as an instance of Heidegger’s Ur-sprung, ‘a his-
torically originary decision or founding act that provides a people with
its “destiny” or truth’ (in Galt Crowell’s paraphrase; 1999: 291). Uribarri
(2007a) notes that there are only ten censorship files on Heidegger
(compared with the 45 on Kant), most of which came rather late.
Piñeiro’s 1956 translation of Das Wesen der Wahrheit was controversial,
because it was done into Galician (Da esencia da verdade). Uribarri does
not explain, however, if the controversy was somehow anticipated or
reflected in the censorship file. More generally, Uribarri writes (2007a:
189) that Heidegger was unproblematic for Franco’s State censors.
Although Jean-Paul Sartre was considered a pernicious influence for
Catholics (La nausée had been banned by the Vatican), he was nonethe-
less tolerated in Spain as a philosopher for the specialists – just like Kant –
and especially as time passed: although unsympathetic to Sartre, one
censor observed in 1964 that ‘the Church condemned the book in
1948. Perhaps existentialism was considered more dangerous at that
time’.12 According to Carlos Díaz (1983; quoted by Behiels 2006) Sartre
was known as an existentialist in Spain, and hardly as a Marxist; his
Communist ideas became available only in the late 1960s. The recep-
tion of existentialism deserves further research, including translational
analysis of its basic philosophical texts. What happened, for instance,
to Camus’ more popularizing anti-religious humanism?
Jeroen Vandaele 97
Even after the 1966 Press Law, officially presented as being a relaxa-
tion of the rules, many intellectual works were banned after they
had been printed and distributed. Cisquella, Erviti and Sorolla (1977)
mention several works that were censored after publication (known
as ‘secuestro’): Humanismo y terror by Merleau-Ponty, El valent soldat
Schweik by Jaroslav Hasek, Sobre política y lingüística by Noam Chomsky,
Sobre el hachís by Walter Benjamin, El pensamiento de Lenin by Henri
Lefebvre, Filosofía y política by Antonio Gramsci, El pensamiento de Hegel
by Roger Garaudy, Diccionario filosófico by Voltaire and La cuestión merid-
ional by Gramsci. Sociología de Marx by Lefebvre was authorized in 1969,
Introducción a la filosofía de la praxis by Gramsci in 1970, Materialisme
dialèctic by Leo Apostel in 1971, Espacio y política by Lefebvre in 1976.
Lázaro (2005b) further mentions selective translations of Orwell’s liter-
ary essays, which will be discussed later.
Marx himself remained absent from 1936 until 1966. In the last dec-
ade of Franco’s rule, however, 200 censorship files were opened on him.
The years 1967–8 saw an avalanche of requests (Uribarri 2007b). In the
1970s, official requests were made to re-edit Marx translations from
the period between 1872 and 1936, a period in which the Communist
Manifesto had been published in Spanish in 47 different versions.
Uribarri has discovered only one or two censorship files on Lessing,
Fichte, Schelling, Schopenhauer, Feuerbach and Hegel, an absence
which he finds especially conspicuous for a philosopher of Hegel’s
stature. Nietzsche is the other German philosopher subject to as many
censorship files as Marx, but Nietzsche’s reception has a different
chronology (Uribarri 2007b). Like Marx, Nietzsche had been translated
before 1936 – and even before 1900 – but unlike the pre-Francoist Marx
translations, some Nietzsche translations were republished between
1939 and 1942, when the falangistas had control in large sectors of Party
and government. Between 1942 and 1964 all attempts to publish the
infamous author of the phrase ‘Gott ist tot’ failed; between 1964 and
1970 Nietzsche was tolerated in limited and expensive editions; and
between 1970 and 1975 circulation became more democratic, even cre-
ating a short-lived neo-Nietzschean countercultural movement. Censors
justified this shift by labelling Nietzsche as an ‘existentialist’ rather than
an anti-Christian (Uribarri 2007b).
There is quite a difference, I believe, between this inaccurate categoriza-
tion among the censors (Nietzsche the existentialist) and similar catego-
rizations extra muros (in published prefaces, prologues, introductions to
works, and so on). A censor’s own categorization intra muros can readily
be understood as his (not often her) way to defend a controversial author
in the terms given by the Francoist regime, even though the censor knew
that the author was in fact much more complex (or even controversial)
than was suggested in his report. It is even possible to interpret these
moves and the prominence given to framing prefaces or introductions as
‘open-mindedness’, as a will to publish. Thus, when a second censor of
Kant’s Religión dentro de los límites de la razón pura commented that ‘the
translator’s prologue is very good in the sense that it frames the work
within the thought of Kant’13 (quoted in Uribarri 2007a: 185–6), he may
have been trying to ease the process of publication as much as expressing
a genuine opinion on the accuracy of the ‘frame’.
It is more difficult, on the other hand, to interpret these framings as
acts of resistance if they were actually published. As Uribarri (2007a)
argues, in the late 1960s Franco’s agents tried to domesticate Kant in an
attempt to protect Catholic ideology from the constant invasion of the
materialist world, which reminds us of Maeztu’s musings on the impor-
tance of Kant for his own conservative ideas. Furthermore, in 1964 and
1967 the Aguilar house published La paz perpetua (Zum ewigen Friede),
which had been forbidden in 1943. In his approval, the censor quoted
the final words of the introduction to the edition, which explained that
Kant really preferred monarchy to democracy (Uribarri 2007a: 185).
One element is missing from Uribarri’s current work: he does not
reveal the identity of the censors discussed. It is unclear to me whether
their names have been omitted because their signatures were illegible,
the reports were anonymous, or as a conscious decision by Uribarri (in
line with some existing research on franquismo). I would argue that iden-
tity is important when we try to make sense of words as cultural speech
acts, that is, as discourse endowed with agency. As Foucault (1982: 187)
explains, disciplinary power ‘is exercised through its invisibility; at the
same time it imposes on those whom it subjects a principle of compul-
sory visibility’. If we want to understand Francoist censors, we have to
do what they attempted to avoid: we have to make them visible.
Thus, I welcome Behiels’ (2006) note that the 1964 censor of La
nausée is Father Saturnino Álvarez Turienzo, an eminent Augustinian
and prior of El Escorial in 1964 who two years later became professor of
ethics at the Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca. For one thing, this
information contributes to our understanding of the otherwise invisible
players and networks of Francoism. For another, it shows that Abellán’s
(1980: 110) distinction between a first ‘época gloriosa’ and ‘académica’
of censorship and a subsequent era of mediocrity14 should be called
into question – Álvarez Turienzo belongs to Abellan’s second period, yet
he was ‘gloriously academic’. Behiels’ information also casts doubt on
Jeroen Vandaele 99
the claim that censors were merely ‘ruedecitas’ [tiny wheels] in ‘la gran
maquinaria’ (Neuschäfer 1994: 52).15
Fiction film
It would be wrong to think that only non-fiction was (or is) felt to be
a threat by censors. To different degrees, fiction is also considered a
reality-bound type of discourse. The classical formulation goes back to
Plato’s Republic:16
Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of

fiction, and let the censors receive any tale of fiction which is good,
and reject the bad; and we will desire mothers and nurses to tell their
children the authorised ones only. Let them fashion the mind with
such tales, even more fondly than they mould the body with their
hands; but most of those which are now in use must be discarded.
(Plato, The Republic, trans. Benjamin Jowett)
In Pourquoi la fiction, Jean-Marie Schaeffer (1999) points out that this

platonic idea usually returns whenever a new medium is introduced to
groups which are considered vulnerable. The invention and circulation
of narrative film fiction met with strong paternalistic resistance among
Catholics around the world – and especially in Francoist Spain (see also
Vandaele 2006).
A first illustration of this fear is the Spanish decision of 23 April 1941
to impose dubbing by law, a practice Franco had copied from Mussolini
(Gubern et al. 1995: 454; Ávila 1997: 73). This measure was taken in
‘Falangist’ times and, although the law would be rescinded in 1946
(Gubern et al. 1995: 456), from 1941 until the present day, dubbing has
been the standard technique in commercial film translation in Spain:
once a choice of either dubbing or subtitling has been made, the option
chosen tends to impose and replicate itself as the obvious practice. Even
though decisions in favour of dubbing have typically been inspired by
nationalism (Danan 1991, 1994), Spanish Catholics would soon make
use of dubbing in a battle inspired by extreme moral paternalism. From
1945 onwards, and especially between 1950 and 1963 (what I have
called Periods (2) and (3)), they promoted the ‘ideal film’ and banned
anything counter to dogma – very effectively in the Catholic decade
(Period (3)).
In this decade, a feeble counterculture would begin to grow, in the
‘Cine-Clubs’ of the SEU (the Falangist Sindicato Español Universitario),
which were created in 1951 (Gubern 1980: 19). The SEU’s Salamanca
Cine-Club organized the 1955 Conversaciones de Salamanca, a watershed
conference that would eventually contribute to the establishment of
the more tolerant censorship code and practice of 1963. In turn, this
new code and practice would lead to the creation in 1967 of officially
‘minoritarian’ Salas Especiales, which showed original (but censored) ver-
sions with subtitles (Gutiérrez Lanza 2007: 228). Unlike the members-
only Cine-Clubs, the special theatres were in principle open to all adult
audiences. This reveals, once more, that (ex-)Falangists were important
countercultural agents in ultra-Catholic times, as Gracia (2004) argues.
Before and during the Second World War (Periods (1) and (2)), the
Falangists had more official power due to their presence in central
administrative institutions, although the Church was also represented
in all relevant institutions. During the Civil War, censorship was
centralized first in Seville and La Coruña, then in Salamanca (Diez
Puertas 2002; Gubern et al. 1995: 454). Nominally there was no cen-
sorship board until 1938, but in practice the Departamento Nacional
de Cinematografía (headed by Falangist García Viñolas) of the Dirección
General de Propaganda (headed by the viejofalangista Ridruejo) worked as
a film board. The Comisión de Censura and the Junta Superior de Censura,
created in 1938, merged in 1940 into the Junta Superior de Orientación
Cinematográfica. As mentioned earlier, this junta had to answer to the
Party between 1941 and 1945. To my knowledge, film translation for
these periods has not yet been studied.
My own research on Billy Wilder (Vandaele 2002, 2006, 2007) shows
that there is a significant difference between pre- and post-1951 film
censorship in Spain. Not only did the number of Catholicist Junta
members increase between 1946 (the year the first Billy Wilder file was
opened) and 1963 (the year of the Apertura) but the Catholicists stead-
ily grew more confident in the debates. Before 1951 Billy Wilder’s films
were reviewed by two administratively and ideologically different State
boards – the first in 1946 and the second in 1947. In 1946 The Major
and the Minor (1942) was authorized by State censorship, while exter-
nal Church censorship found it morally dangerous for Catholics. The
ultra-Catholic State censor Ortiz Muñoz did not complain about the
junta’s decision (at least not in writing). Alfonso de la Rosa, the official
representative of the army, who would disappear from the files the next
year, had nothing negative to say about the sexual issues in Wilder’s
Hollywood debut.
The next Francoist period (1946–51) was one of great conflict between
fascist and Catholicist film poetics. The notorious fascist censor David
Jeroen Vandaele 101
Jato, for example, believed that Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944), a

violent and sexy film noir, was ‘suitable for the masses’ (preview of
11 February 1947).17 Although the Spanish Church forbade the film,
and though a 1946 decree lent more power to the ecclesiastic censor
in moral matters (Gubern 1981: 98), Double Indemnity was authorized
in a dubbed version, as Perdición. Jato was backed by Joaquín Soriano,
the first director of Franco’s Nazi-oriented news service NO-DO, and
by Domínguez de Igoa, a film director working with Bardem (Vandaele
2006: 122–3). Many other foreign films caused a stir between 1947 and
1950. For instance, Gilda (1946, Charles Vidor) was a wonderful film
according to the Falangist Primer Plano (28 December 1947) and a veri-
table scandal for the external Church censorship.
Paxton (2004: 17) reminds us that fascism’s ‘deliberate replacement
of reasoned debate with immediate sensual experience transformed
politics, as the exiled German cultural critic Walter Benjamin was the
first to point out, into aesthetics’. This penchant for aesthetics and
sensuous experience can also be identified in Falangist discourse on for-
eign repertoire. The Spanish Falangists loved the Hollywood aesthetic
that brought sex, speed and violence to Spain. They hated Hollywood,
however, when it produced anti-German propaganda films like Wilder’s
Five Graves to Cairo (1943). Jato’s verdict was that the film was ‘wor-
thy of a shopkeepers’ nation, without a shred of spiritual elegance’18
(2 September 1947). Here, spirituality or the spirit of a nation suddenly
turns out to be the paramount criterion.
Even in ultra-Catholic times, however, Francoist Catholicism remained
national-Catholicism, Franco’s strange blend of Falangist nationalism
and moral reactionary Catholicism. Thus, Wilder’s anti-Nazi PoW
comedy Stalag 17 (1953) was banned by State censorship. Although
Catholicists were by now more powerful in most issues, other censors
had not completely forgotten their fascist roots and they were able to
press their point. Falangist Mourlane Michelena explicitly asked for a
‘revision’ of the film’s ‘deformations’, ‘prejudices’ and ‘caricatures’.19
According to Pío García Escudero,20 a national-Catholicist who was more
Catholicist than nationalist, such camps ‘should be Russian’ instead of
German – a comment which shows how Francoist Catholicists and
nationalists found common ground in anti-Communism. The journal-
ist and otherwise relatively moderate censor Mariano Daranas and Vice-
President Alonso-Pesquera, who had spent much time in Germany and
Italy between 1933 and 1940 (CILEH 1990: 38), made similar remarks,
while Father García del Figar and Father Villares simply acknowledged
the reasoning of the other members that evaded comment on German
atrocities. In a positive 1964 re-evaluation, the revisionism implicit in

the 1953 ban – which alluded to the allegedly over-negative representa-
tion of Germans in the film – would finally fade but some of the film’s
political satire would still be censored (see Vandaele 2007).
Whereas State censorship gradually changed its criteria, the transla-
tors’ habitus, their way of doing things,21 remained very similar from
the beginning. The translators – the film-script translators, the synchro-
nizers, the dubbers, the import and distribution companies – wanted
to achieve commercial success and do the best job they could in the
circumstances, and they knew what kind of norms circulated in the
Francoist system: God, Franco and Spain. Furthermore, they communi-
cated with each other on previous problems with cultural products.
Gutiérrez Lanza’s (1999) study of five scripts22 and my study (Vandaele
2006) of 23 Billy Wilder films show some common findings. Firstly, the
translators were very skilled at negotiating between target and source
norms. They knew how to execute constant linguistic manipulations,
which were often hardly visible. Ideological translation was clearly part
of their habitus as translators. Their dubbing made political and reli-
gious shifts wherever necessary, and exhibits several constant features:
if the ‘good guys’ of the film are also those of Francoist ideologies, then
they are made even ‘better’ in the Francoist translation; ideologically
negative sides are erased and ideologically positive elements empha-
sized (Vandaele 2006: 454ff.; Gutiérrez Lanza 1999; see also Ballester
2001). Careful attention is paid to language, with dialects, sociolects,
slang and any type of indecent language avoided. Finally, film titles
are changed for moral reasons (even in pre-Catholicist 1947, Double
Indemnity became Perdición)
Gutiérrez Lanza takes a quantitative approach (that is, systematically
tagging translation units with labels such as ‘image improvement’,
‘reduction of sexual content’, ‘euphemism’, ‘enhancement of the socio-
political and/or moral values of the regime’, and so on) and shows con-
vincingly that subtle manipulation pervaded the five specific Francoist
film script translations. My own work (Vandaele 2006), in contrast, has a
qualitative focus on narratively and culturally relevant fragments, exam-
ining the implications of certain tiny adjustments in crucial moments of
the projected film narrative such as rewritings of the morally important
endings and subtle shifts in the translation of subversive humour (ultra-
Catholic and fascist censors had different senses of humour).
On the other hand, even manipulated dubbings were potential
forces of innovation at any time in the period between 1939 and 1975.
Gutiérrez Lanza writes that her five translated film scripts, all authorized
Jeroen Vandaele 103
during the Apertura (1963–9), offered ‘a range of infidelities, adulterous

love affairs, broken marriages, broken families, etc.’ (Lanza 1999: 412).
She argues that quite often they were finally authorized precisely because
they were foreign and thus demonstrated the spiritual nobility of Spain
(ibid.). Ex negativo they illustrated Franco’s lifelong mantra that Spain
was ‘Europe’s spiritual sanctuary’. For Wilder’s The Apartment (1960), the
ex negativo argument was specifically adduced in a letter of appeal by the
import and distribution company CB Films (Vandaele 2006: 227), and
the film was accordingly subjected to a range of thematic cuts (ibid.:
260). Regarding the censors’ response to films of this kind, I argue that
we should distinguish between conservative censors, who banned as
much immoral film material as possible, irrespective of its origin, and
more tolerant censors who used pretend, pseudo-Francoist arguments
to authorize high-quality film repertoires (a similar case was discussed
earlier, for the case of Kant). This distinction between authentic and
dissimulated commentaries crucially depends on the censor’s identity
as extrapolated from other sources.
When film distributors pointed out the ‘inherently comic nature’ of
the film, or the ‘unavoidability’ of a character’s behaviour in certain
circumstances, moderate or tolerant censors were happy to accept these
explanations. In the case of humour, moreover, even the more conserv-
ative censors found it difficult to ban a film that they themselves had
laughed at (Some Like It Hot, for instance). Another extenuating circum-
stance could be that the things represented were merely nightmarish
recollections (Repulsion, Gutiérrez Lanza 1999: 317) or far-fetched
daydreams (The Seven Year Itch, Vandaele 2007) in a fictional world,
even if these scenes were ‘crudely’ represented, as some ultra-Catholics
complained. And although this was hard to accomplish for film, dis-
tributors even suggested framing the story by adding a prologue (The
Fugitive Kind, Gutiérrez Lanza 1999: 213). Conversely, Wilder’s original
prologue to The Seven Year Itch was found too obscene and therefore cut
(Vandaele 2007). It jokingly drew a parallel between the male sexual
obsessions of modern New Yorkers and similar erotic preoccupations of
precolonial Native Americans.
The more tolerant censors of the Apertura (1963–9), who laughed and
played along with the distributors’ pretences, generally had a Falangist
background: Fernández Cuenca, Gómez Mesa, José María García
Escudero, Arroita-Jáuregui, Aúz Castro (director of the Teatro Español
Universitario and the Teatros de Cámara y Ensayo; see later in the chapter).
Some Falangist censors of the national-Catholicist era (1951–62) were
noticeably more tolerant in moral issues than their ultra-Catholic
colleagues, but they lacked internal power. Interestingly, in 1960 the

old-time fascist macho Patricio G. De Canales was the only one who
dared to find Sidney Lumet’s and Tennessee Williams’ The Fugitive Kind
acceptable, despite its adulterous theme (Gutiérrez Lanza 1999: 209,
referring to Canales’ vote in November 1960). In January 1961, how-
ever, Some Like It Hot’s cross-gendered and homosexual overtones were
completely unacceptable for Canales, who condemned the two main
male characters as ‘poofs’ [maricas].
It is well known that a new surge of moral ‘integrism’ or ultra-
conservatism arose from 1969, when Minister Sánchez Bella took over
power from the aperturista Fraga Iribarne (who had, in turn, succeeded
Arias Salgado). The Billy Wilder files also became much more anony-
mous in the 1970s. Furthermore, according to Abellán (1980: 10), one
of the first researchers to gain access to the censorship files, between
1975 and 1977 much information seems to have been deleted. In this
sense it is fortunate that Gutiérrez Lanza was able to present a full list
of censors for a 1974 evaluation of Repulsion. Some names are familiar –
Gómez Mesa,23 Fernández Cuenca24 – but others are new: Father
Eugenio Benito, Sáenz de Heredia (director of Raza [Race], 1942),25
José María Ramos, Rafael Gil,26 Guillermo Fernández López Zúñiga and
Pablo Martín Vara. The Hays Code had been abolished in 1966, so that
more violent and erotic films were now being produced in the US and
exported. During the five years 1962–66, the film censorship norms of
the Francoist state and Hollywood’s poetics had converged, but between
1969 and 1975 they started diverging more than ever before. More
research is required on the translation dynamics of this period which
was full of norm conflicts between agents who wanted to increase,
maintain, halt or even reverse the Apertura. These conflicts may have
been a source of retrospective embarrassment for the more reactionary
censors, who later wanted to avoid their names being associated with
conservative norms and the conflicts surrounding them.
In any event, it is clear that Francoism was never able to create a suc-
cessful repertoire of its own. Culturally and economically, it was too poor
to cater for the first Spanish generation born after the Civil War, who
reached adulthood around 1960. State censorship fought the symptoms,
but could not address the underlying cause of the demand for ‘unde-
sirable’ repertoire, which was a cultural hunger for creative products.
Even ex-fascists preferred American films to national-Catholic auster-
ity. Unsurprisingly, then, 3107 foreign films were shown in the period
between 1951 and 1975, of which 73 per cent were North American,
22 per cent British, and 4 per cent from other countries (Gutiérrez Lanza
Jeroen Vandaele 105
1999: 411; 2000). It remains to be verified whether the figures are very
different for the war years (1941–45) and the post-war autarkic years
(1945–51). However, since the wave of anglophilia in theatre had already
reached Spain in the years before the Spanish Civil War (Pérez López de
Heredia 2004), it is quite likely that anglophone film also dominated in
periods before 1951.
Theatre
Around the First World War, Pérez López de Heredia (2004) argues,
American works gradually replaced French as the most dominant for-
eign presence in the Spanish theatrical system. Political factors were not
irrelevant to this cultural reorientation. When Spanish modernists sided
against the Germans, they also sided with the English-speaking allies
(Pérez López de Heredia 2004: 38). Pérez shows that the US provided
Spaniards with two different sorts of theatre, conservative and innova-
tive, because Francoism could not offer audiences what they wanted.
Thus, on the one hand, the regime’s first main theatres (María Guerrero
and Español) were meant to serve the nation, as Ridruejo said (ibid.: 49),
as well as its morality, as Nicolás González Ruiz stated (ibid.: 50).27 Also,
theatre had to be performed in Spanish, and not in Catalan, Galician
or Euskera (Basque) – this fascist decision was taken in 1941, when
film dubbing into Spanish was also imposed by law (ibid.: 54–5). On
the other hand, translations gradually imported innovative elements.
While conservative American theatre entered Spain from the 1940s, the
more realist and transgressive sort of performances had to wait ten more
years. Using Robyns’ terminology (1994), Pérez López de Heredia calls
the Spanish theatre system ‘defective’ in the sense that it consciously or
unconsciously sought abroad what it lacked at home. In the aftermath
of the Civil War, given the paper shortage, it even had to search for
publishable translations abroad – in Argentina (ibid.: 61ff.). In Merino’s
(2004: 50) corpus of Spanish theatre translations from the English, only
nine per cent of the editions come from Argentina, but this may be
partly due to her choosing the period 1958–85, that is, including ten
post-Francoist years.28
The historical links between theatre and film are very relevant here.
Around the First World War, Broadway became an inventor and exporter
of repertoire rather than an importer of European bourgeois comedy
and detective melodramas (Pérez López de Heredia 2004: 35). The new
repertoire (Eugene O’Neill, Elmer Rice, Maxwell Anderson, Thornton
Wilder and later Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams and Edward Albee)
was based on a new hero, the common man, and was spoken in a
more spontaneous register. The most successful pieces were automati-
cally adapted by the Hollywood studios, which also meant that they
were censored according to the Hays Code. In Spain both conservative
and modern theatre would profit from the Hollywood connection.
Hollywood had a very strong lobby in Francoist Spain because Spain
always remained one of its ten most important markets worldwide (see
Vandaele 2006). Much more than Broadway, it was an institutional
lobby that spoke in one voice and could thus impose its products. In
the case of Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the film version
that had been censored by Hollywood was used as an extra source text
to help create a (necessarily domesticated) Spanish theatre version. By
means of this one specific example, Pérez López de Heredia argues that
authorization of a text in the realm of film was a strong argument for
an administrative nihil obstat in the realm of theatre.
It seems that Francoism generally applied the same normative codes
to film and theatre (Merino 2001: 235), although Catholics feared the
former more than the latter. Thus, even though the Church’s extra
muros censorship showed a special fear of film (urged by the 1936
encyclical Vigilanti Cura), the code it published in 1950 applied to the
performing arts in general (Instrucciones y Normas para la Censura Moral
de Espectáculos). The 1963 code of the Apertura also applied to both dra-
matic art forms. From the beginning of Francoism, there were a special
Departamento, Junta and Comisión for film, but they all answered to the
same Dirección General de Propaganda. In the Party (1941–45) there was
a Delegación Nacional de Cine y Teatro (headed by Fernández Cuenca, see
n. 24) including a Junta, which worked for the Vicesecretaría de Educación
Popular headed by Arias Salgado (see Chueca 1983: 229).
This structure for film and theatre (that is, a Delegación and a Junta)
was transferred back to the government in 1945. From 1951 onwards,
the Delegación became a Dirección but its competences remained the
same. Unfortunately, neither Pérez López de Heredia (2004) nor Bandín
(2007) mention the censors’ names, which makes it difficult to see if
there were many members common to the theatre and the film board,
although it may be safe to assume that this was the case. We know that
Víctor Aúz (born 1935), for example, was an aperturista on the 1963
film board, a theatre director of TEU (Teatro Español Universitario)
and a TEU official in 1966 (Vandaele 2006: 512). The Director General
was automatically President on both boards. Shakespeare translator
Nicolás González Ruiz occasionally worked as a film censor too (e.g.,
for Wilder’s Sabrina in 1955). The moderate Florentino Soria (censor of
Jeroen Vandaele 107
Irma La Douce) censored Fernando Arrabal’s El gran ceremonial (Arrabal

in Tiempo; 6 March 1995).
The connections between cinema and theatre do not stop here. As in
the realm of film, but earlier perhaps, a special circuit was created for
more progressive theatre, the Teatros de Cámara y Ensayo. Pérez López
de Heredia (2004: 59) says in this respect that a 1955 decree merely offi-
cialized a practice that had been in existence since the late 1940s. And
as in film translation, self-censorship – the translational habitus – was
so effective in the theatrical realm that the Board did not often have to
impose its own ‘external’ censorship. 71.5 per cent of the works submit-
ted for censorship were authorized for adults over 18, and only eight per
cent were prohibited (ibid.: 125). For the period studied by Pérez López
de Heredia (1936–62), Table 4.2 shows the 11 most requested plays in
translation, some of which were clearly innovative.
Of what Pérez López de Heredia calls the ‘conservative scene’, only
one play was banned: Romance by Edward Sheldon (1913) was impos-
sible to authorize in 1943 and 1949 because it was about a protestant
bishop falling in love (Pérez López de Heredia 2007: 191). Although the
ecclesiastic censor had no qualms about the plot (because the bishop
does not succumb to his passion), others decided that Catholic audi-
ences might misinterpret the play as a tale of inappropriate lust. As for
innovative theatre, A Streetcar Named Desire was severely criticized by the
1950 Board (which called it an almost eschatological play about social
decay)29 yet one year later a re-written version was authorized in which
Table 4.2 The translated plays most frequently presented to the censors,
1936–62
Files Title Author

10 Angel Street Patrick Hamilton
8 The Trial of Mary Dugan Bayard Veiller
6 Baby Mine Margaret Mayo
6 Our Town Thornton Wilder
6 A Streetcar Named Desire Tennessee Williams
5 Desire Under the Elms Eugene O’Neill
5 The Glass Menagerie Tennessee Williams
4 Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Tennessee Williams
4 Death of a Salesman Arthur Miller
4 A Hatful of Rain Michael Gazzo
4 Tea and Sympathy Robert A. Anderson
Source: Based on Pérez López de Heredia (2004: 120).

the final scene between Blanche and Stanley was deleted, and references
to homosexuality became negative (Pérez López de Heredia 2004: 163).
Generally speaking, it seems that theatre was easier to mould than
film because it did not come with pictures on celluloid.30 Thus, the
(already censored) Hollywood version of Streetcar (directed by Elia
Kazan) was not authorized by the Spanish Board in 1952 (ibid.: 166) –
although it would be in 1956. Yet in spite of the drastic rewriting of the
stage version and the other types of censorship, Pérez López de Heredia
argues, Un tranvía llamado deseo pushed the limits of what could be
shown in theatres at the time. Pérez López de Heredia also points out
that North American drama – especially Miller’s Death of a Salesman –
strongly influenced the Spanish theatre (ibid.: 174).31 American works
were as omnipresent on the stage as they were in film. From the mid-
1950s there were nine or more American premieres per year in Spain:
17 in 1957, 19 in 1959, 14 in 1960, 12 in 1961 and 15 in 1962 (ibid.:
122). One major difference between film and theatre, however, was the
apparent influence of theatre directors and producers on the Censorship
Board’s decisions. In 1941, 1942 and 1945, for example, the Board did
not find a translation of Jimmy Samson by Paul Armstrong (1914) suit-
able for the stage, yet still in 1945 its performance was authorized when
another company with better connections submitted the same transla-
tion to the same board (ibid.: 131).
Regarding the relation between theatre and book, Pérez López de
Heredia (2004: 123–4) has calculated that 35 per cent of the staged ver-
sions in her corpus were also published, and that almost 90 per cent
of all published versions had previously been staged (in other words,
65 per cent of the performances were not published and 10 per cent of
the book versions were not performed). Bandín (2007), like Pérez López
de Heredia a researcher on the TRACE project, moreover explains that
classical theatre belonged more to the written circuit, whereas modern
theatre was almost exclusively geared toward performance. She shows
that classical English drama – perhaps even classical works in general –
were considered less disruptive than modern theatre.
Unsurprisingly, in classical English drama Shakespeare accounts for
by far the most database entries, with performances of Hamlet, Romeo
and Juliet, Macbeth, Othello, The Merchant of Venice, King Lear and Julius
Caesar. A Shakespeare translation was presented over 500 times to the
State censorship authority in Francoist times. Bandín affirms that all of
these requests were authorized without any kind of restriction, except
Troilus and Cressida, translated by the brilliant, anti-fascist, homosexual
poet Luis Cernuda and submitted by Insula in 1953 (Bandín 2007: xvii).
Jeroen Vandaele 109
As for staged versions, nine per cent of the plays were censored from a
conservative point of view (ibid.: xviii), often targeting eroticism and
‘indecent’ language (ibid.: xxxi).
Bandín’s English summary of her work32 does not offer textual
analyses, but it does include one culturally important example, relat-
ing to Hamlet. Shakespeare’s masterpiece was translated in the period
by Astrana Marín (1940), Enrique Guitart (1945), José María Pemán
(1949), Nicolás González Ruiz (1960) and Antonio Buero Vallejo (1961).
Bandín writes that the critics would not accept that ‘Buero sent Ophelia
to a brothel’. However, there is in fact still widespread disagreement as
to whether nunnery was also slang for ‘brothel’ and whether such innu-
endo was intended by Shakespeare (see, e.g., Evans 1986); translator
Buero Vallejo’s choice may thus not have broken any ‘prevailing norm’
(as Bandín claims, 2007: xxxv). The fact, for example, that a word like
hideputa (from hijo de puta) was acceptable in 1945 (Guitart’s version)
and not acceptable in 1961 (Buero’s translation) may hint at a censor’s
personal antipathy toward a translator or at idiosyncratic decisions yet
simultaneously also at a change in normative poetics (from Falangist to
Catholicist).
In fact, Bandín’s study (2005) of Ben Jonson’s Volpone may testify to
a similar normative conflict between the poetics of its translator, the
rightwing humorist Tomás Borrás (author of the anti-Republican novel
Chekas de Madrid), and the norms of some Catholic censor who banned
the word cornudo from the Borrás translation (Bandín 2005: 34). In 1942
Borrás was certainly more of a Falangist than a Catholicist. The founder
of the Sindicato Nacional del Espectáculo, he believed that by nationaliz-
ing the playhouse Teatro Español he had taken ‘the right course’ in ‘the
Spain of the Falange’ because ‘theatre is an art for the people’ (Borrás
1942 quoted in Wahnón 1996: 208).
Literature
Written literature was considered less dangerous than visually per-

formed fiction, though perhaps not when the literature was meant for
children, as Fernández López’s (2000, 2007) research shows. More than
half of the books translated for young Spanish people in the period
were originally written in English. Worldwide, and until the 1960s, such
writings were restricted by taboos on violence-for-fun, death of children
or parents, divorce, alienation, and killers (Fernández López 2000).
In Spain the legislation was ambiguous until 1955 (Fernández López
2007: 20), yet censorship actually decreased once the procedures were
officialized – what Fernández calls the ‘bureaucratization’ of children’s

literature censorship (ibid.: 44). Fernández found 118 censorship files
for the 1940s (12 of which dealt with cases which were morally and/or
politically ‘problematic’), 48 for the 1950s (with 4 ‘interventions’),
20 for the 1960s (no problems) and 8, all unproblematic, cases for the
1970s (ibid.: 26). Of three British bestselling authors (Blyton, Dahl,
Crompton), only Crompton encountered problems in Spain (7 bans;
see also Craig 1998). Regarding genre, until late in the 1960s adventures
and moralizing books written by members of the clergy were particu-
larly widely distributed (ibid.: 21).
Distinguishing three different periods – Autarquía (1940–54), desarrol-
lismo (‘developism’, 1955–69) and late Francoism (1970–5)33 – Fernández
López’s 2000 study surveys the editorial and administrative landscape
and the often drastically adaptive translation strategies. Similarly, Craig
(1998: 157) claims that the censorship was ‘harsher than Francoist liter-
ary censorship generally’. Original gender roles were confirmed, racist
stereotypes were enhanced, and some types of irony were forbidden
(Fernández López 2000). Fernández López finds that the values underly-
ing Francoist censorship more closely resembled Italian Fascist poetics
than German Nazi aesthetics, because Francoism focused on family and
gender roles.34 In future research, this claim may need to be refined and
substantiated. As always in Francoist Spain, translators were supposed
to accept the moral guidance of the Roman Catholic Church (Fernández
López 2007: 29). The ‘grand Inquisitor’ of children’s literature was
Enrique Conde. Other readers included Valentín García Yebra, Leopoldo
Panero and Darío Fernández Flórez (ibid.: 41).
As a censor, Darío Fernández Flórez did not limit himself to chil-
dren’s fiction. A ‘university friend of the prominent Falangists Antonio
Tovar, Dionisio Ridruejo […] and Pedro Laín Entralgo’, he was ‘less
firmly Falangist’, Jacqueline Hurtley writes (2007: 63). Fernández Flórez
censored D. H. Lawrence’s story ‘None of that!’ because it contained
such sentences as ‘He was not clever at all, he was not even clever
enough to become a general’, or ‘She is as easy to embrace as an octo-
pus, her gate is a beak. What man would put his finger into that beak?
She is all soft with cruelty towards a man’s member’ (ibid.: 66). Yet at
the same time he used his knowledge to write a 20-page review of the
story for the pro-Falangist Escorial (1942).35
Fernández Flórez worked for a long time at the Delegación Nacional
de Propaganda but gradually became alienated. In Catholic times, he
yearned for ‘flesh and blood characters’ (quoted in Hurtley 2007: 69).
Hurtley hypothesizes that this lost – but still lingering – poetics originally
Jeroen Vandaele 111
led Fernández Flórez in 1945 to authorize Rosamond Lehmann’s The

Weather in the Street (1939), a novel about divorce, adultery and even
abortion (translated as Intemperie; note that even in 1945, divorce
and abortion would have been impossible in film, and any adultery
would have had to be severely punished). It was the Janés house which
published Lehmann’s work, as part of its constant challenge to the
regime (Hurtley 2007: 73). In 1942 another highly adapted translation
promoted by Janés, Charles Morgan’s Retrato en un espejo (Portrait in a
Mirror), was authorized by the Falangist Patricio G. De Canales – who
would later say that Some Like It Hot was about ‘poofs’ – and praised in
a press article by Fernández Flórez.
A study by Alberto Lázaro (2005b: 123) also stresses the role played by
Janés in bringing Huxley, Joyce, Woolf and many more writers to Spain.
In 1951 a censor rejected Janés’ proposal to publish Orwell’s Down and
Out in Paris and London because the language was too crude, despite ‘the
literary and thematic interest’ (to wit, class exploitation). Four years
later, however, an Argentinian translation of the book was author-
ized without restrictions, perhaps because only 300 copies were to be
imported or because the censors considered it a work of fiction. Lázaro
rhetorically asks if these censors were actually aware that Orwell had
been a member of the Marxist POUM (Partido Obrero de Unificación
Marxista) and had fought Franco’s forces on the Aragon front (ibid.:
124). Yet, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, his collections of essays
could not be published until the pieces on the Spanish War and the
‘Notes on Nationalism’ had been deleted, and until ‘fascist’ had been
replace by ‘francoist’, ‘loyalist’ by ‘government-supporting’, and ‘revolt’
by ‘uprising’ (ibid.: 127ff.).
Discussing the Francoist reception of James Joyce, Lázaro (2001)
quotes the Spanish novelist Torrente Ballester, who explained that it
was hard to get hold of Argentinian versions of Joyce in the 1940s
because private purchasers were not allowed to share them (Lazaro
2001: 40). Actually, Lázaro explains, Joyce’s work encountered relatively
few problems with Spanish censors. Ulysses came late to Spain (1947),
in an Argentinian translation, but was favourably received. It was the
Argentinian translation of Stephen Hero (as Steban héroe) that led to nega-
tive reports because it was about ‘a rebel against the ideas, traditions
and religious feelings of his homeland, Ireland’ (Lázaro 2001: 47; his
translation of a 1960 report).
The treatment of A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man gives us an
unflattering picture of the Franco administration. On 13 February 1963,
Editorial Biblioteca Nueva was allowed to publish an unabridged second
edition of the 1926 translation, whereas three months later Editorial

Vergara was obliged to make deletions before publishing its version of
the same translation (an example was the sentence ‘Did the idea ever
occur to you, Cranly asked, that Jesus was not what he pretended to
be?’ ibid.: 52). It is unclear whether pure chaos, administrative discon-
tinuity or a change of guard was the cause of this incoherent stance.
After Francoism, Spanish cultural producers often complained about
the supposed arbitrariness of Francoist censorship criteria, which gener-
ally diminished confidence in the publication process and hence the
desire to produce. While this claim is truthful as an insiders’ account
of Francoist production, it should be handled with caution in a schol-
arly study of macrocultural processes: in fact, Francoist censorship
norms were much more robust and predictable than cultural criticism
in pluralist societies (or, indeed, than in the regimes of Fascist Italy
and Nazi Germany; see Rundle’s and Sturge’s chapters in this volume).
However, since the Francoist norms determined the very presence of
particular repertoires, whereas criticism in open societies could at most
contribute to determining their success in certain sectors, any deviance
from absolute predictability could be experienced under Francoism as
a personal and financial trauma, whereas in a democracy it might be
merely a surprising or disappointing (or even negligible) part of a work’s
reception. Cristina Gómez Castro (2009) finds a high degree of predict-
ability in the censorship criteria applied to translations of US bestsellers,
at least towards the end of the period. And for film, too, reception under
Franco is remarkably consistent.
However, much remains to be discovered in the literary field. Apart
from important work by Behiels (2006), for example, translations from
the French are conspicuously absent from current investigations.
Conclusions
Many have warned against sloppy use of the terms ‘fascism’ and ‘fascist’.
In Spain Rodríguez Puértolas has been severely criticized for calling his
volume on Francoist literature Literatura fascista española (1986). On the
other hand we should not avoid these terms if they are useful. Fascism
was not a movement for export, Paxton (2004) argues, yet fascism also
allowed (or obliged) each ‘people’ to choose its own ‘destiny’. Some
sectors of the Falange had clearly chosen religion as the destiny of the
Spanish but the Falange was also imperialist, anti-Marxist, corporatist,
male chauvinist and violent. It copied Italian laws and institutions, and
modelled its translation and language laws on Mussolini’s politics. In
Jeroen Vandaele 113
this sense, the early Falange was at least ‘para-fascist’. The Falange was
unsuccessful in the 1936 elections but it took part in government in
early Francoism (1940–45) and harboured fascists and religious para-
fascists who exerted much control over the importation of foreign
repertoires.
It is perhaps too early to say how Spanish para-fascism differed from
(national-) Catholicism in its treatment of the foreign. But Falangist
censorship of foreign repertoires certainly seems to have been less
moralizing and more political than Catholicist poetics. The period
between 1945 and 1950 shows many examples of these conflicting
‘poetics of importation’. While Catholicists feared modernity (especially
in 1950–62), Falangists loved it if it had ‘good origins’ or if it did not
attack them or their friends – remembering Eco’s (1995) claim that per-
ceived humiliation-by-enemies is an essential trait of ur-fascism. As a
paradoxical result of these norm conflicts, old or ‘converted’ or ‘liberal’
fascists contributed to the formation of a counterculture in the 1950s
which would lead to a relative broadening of the repertoires during the
Apertura (1963–69).
Biographies of censors and of agents in general – their ties and their
religious affiliations – help us understand their cultural agency; con-
versely, their cultural acts throw light on who they were – despite the
apparent circularity of such hermeneutics. As Paxton (2004) argues, we
should study what (para-) fascists did, not just what they said they would
do. What Francoist censors did in matters of translation and importa-
tion seems to have been determined by their ideological affiliation:
Falangist or Catholicist (or both, as national-Catholics). Or, inductively:
what Francoist censors did may tell us more about their ideology.
By studying translational acts (translation, selective translation,
translation for a selective audience, and nontranslation) we begin
to see differently the ‘negativities’ or non-dits of Francoist cul-
tural politics. Francoist culture in general was what it was not, but
Catholicists excluded more and different repertoires than Falangists or
ex-Falangists. Different exclusions were, arguably, based on different
ideologies.
Notes
1. To be more precise, the Second Republic was installed after elections organ-
ized by King Alfonso XIII in a vain attempt to find democratic support for a
monarchy.
2. The ‘Spanish Traditionalist Phalanx and [Phalanx] of the Assemblies of the
National Syndicalist Offensive’.
3. Invited to Rome in 1928 for a series of academic lectures, the writer and
diplomat Giménez Caballero found in Fascist Italy what the humiliated,
ex-colonial Spanish nation needed: an athletic appeal, a Duce and disci-
plined enthusiastic masses (Carbajosa and Carbajosa 2003: 53, paraphrasing
Giménez Caballero).
4. An Andalusian journalist and politician, Aparicio wrote for Giménez
Caballero’s Gaceta Literaria (published between 1927 and 1932). He was also
the person who later proposed that the Falange adopt the yoke and arrows
as its main symbol (Carbajosa and Carbajosa 2003: 53). See note 10 for the
link between Francoist censorship and Giménez Caballero and Aparicio.
5. Ledesma (2003: 47), the author of ¿Fascismo en España? (1935), was in
Carbajosa and Carbajosa’s view ‘the most genuinely fascist’, Germany-
oriented and revolutionary of the leaders of Spanish fascism. He was exe-
cuted by the Republicans in 1936.
6. The group’s manifesto in La Conquista del Estado, 14 March 1931, No. 1,
pp. 1–2, was published one month before the elections which would force
the King into exile and install the Second Republic. The manifesto is avail-
able at www.filosofia.org/hem/193/lce/lce011b.htm.
7. The writer, ex-reporter of the Rif War (like Giménez Caballero), and (later)
politician Sánchez Mazas was a correspondent for the monarchic newspaper
ABC in Rome between 1922 and 1929, where he also fell for Mussolini’s
Fascism (Carbajosa and Carbajosa 2003: 44).
8. Even-Zohar speaks of ‘system’ rather than ‘culture’. His cultural theory is
known as Polysystem Theory (or Polysystem Hypothesis). There are at least
two reasons why Even-Zohar prefers ‘system’ to ‘culture’. First, the notion
of system comes with the assumption that there are always important
links between the elements (here: cultural repertoires) of a system (e.g. a
‘hispano-fascist’ system), and that there are possible links between systems
(e.g. fascism, ultra-Catholicism) of a broader polysystem (e.g. the Francoist
polysystem). Polysystem theory is thus a working hypothesis of manifold
relatedness – an initial assumption to be tested empirically. Although
I will not always use ‘system’ for ‘culture’, in this essay culture is generally
intended in a similarly systemic way. Second, unlike ‘culture’, the concept
of ‘system’ is less prone to exclude political, economic and social issues from
scholarly investigation into cultural products. In other words: as a cultural
theory, system theory is contextual.
9. I will use ‘Catholicist’ in the following to refer to persons or practices that
turn Catholic religion into an active state ideology. A person can be Catholic
or ultra-Catholic without being Catholicist. Conversely, under Franco a
Catholicist was usually an ultra-Catholic.
10. Among these followers I count high-profile personalities who strongly
influenced the importation (or not) and translation (or not) of foreign
films. The following are among the most important of these: Dionisio
Ridruejo (in 1938 a fascist and the first director of the Dirección General de
Propaganda, answerable to the Minister of Internal Affairs Serrano Súñer),
Augusto Manuel García Viñolas (director of the Departamento Nacional de
Cinematografía, answerable to Ridruejo), the viejofalangista or ‘old-school
Falangist’ Patricio G. de Canales (first director in 1936 of Falange Española
[Payne 1985:143]), Javier de Echarri (director of the Falangist journal Arriba
Jeroen Vandaele 115
between 1939 and 1949), Carlos Fernández Cuenca (who in 1942 wanted
to model the film review Primer Plano on the Italian Cinema, lead by
‘none less than Vittorio Mussolini, the son of the Duce’; Primer Plano, s.n.,
1045, 23 October 1960), Luis Gómez Mesa (film censor representing the
Falange between 1938 and 1942; a critic writing for Giménez Caballero’s
La Gaceta Literaria), David Jato (‘histórico fundador del Sindicato Español
Universitario’ [Gracia 1996: 39], ‘Escuadrista de la Vieja Falange’ [Primer
plano 290, May 1946]), Pedro Mourlane Michelena (writer for Vértice. Revista
Nacional de la Falange; one of the literary predecessors of Spanish fascism
[Rodríguez Puértolas 1986: 75]; very close to Rafael Sánchez Mazas, founder
of the Falange; after the Civil War Mourlane Michelena had ‘una sucesión de
cargos en los medios más relevantes del periodismo falangista y del Régimen’
[Carbajosa and Carbajosa 2003: 257]), Jesús Suevos (‘Participa en 1933 en el
mitin de Villagarcía, al lado de [=standing next to] José Antonio’; Suevos was
considered ‘uno de los oradores clásicos de la Falange’ by Primer Plano and
as a Galician youngster he was the ‘primer jefe territorial de la región, con la
camisa azul de combatiente de la guerra de la Liberación’ [Primer Plano 543,
11 March 1951]). These agents would not necessarily remain fascist but most
of them did not become ultra-Catholic after 1945.
11. ‘Una de las cosas en que nuestra época se distingue de las anteriores es por su
mayor capacidad analítica. La fenomenología y sus consecuencias (por entre
ellas, si quieres, la instrucción del buen existencialismo, el de Heidegger, no
el del imbécil de Sartre), la bomba atómica y todo lo demás, son una prueba
de ello.’ All translations from the Spanish are my own unless otherwise
noted.
12. ‘La condenación de la Iglesia es del año 1948, quizá entonces la filosofía
existencialista se consideró más peligrosa.’
13. El prólogo del traductor está muy bien en el sentido de encuadrar esta obra
en el pensamiento del autor.
14. Abellán’s otherwise groundbreaking study of Francoist censorship (1980)
suggested that the ultra-Catholic and other censors of 1950–75 were some-
how intellectually mediocre compared to the gloriously academic censors
operating before 1950.
15. See Vandaele 2006 for a critique of these frequently quoted views.
16. In fact, not even Plato was free from Francoist suspicion. Uribarri (2007a:
156) mentions that Diálogos de Platón (Ediciones Ibéricas) were manipulated
(file 3209–68). However, no date or further details are given.
17. File number 36/3279 in the AGA, Archivo General de la Administración.
18. ‘digna de un pueblo de tenderos, incapaz de la menor elegancia espiritual’.
19. See File number 36/3453 in the AGA, Archivo General de la Administración;
board ‘preview’ of 28 April 1953.
20. Not to be confused with the more important José María García Escudero (see
later).
21. In Bourdieu’s sense (1972: 178–9). Translators also have such a habitus, a dis-
position to follow certain norms in practice – in Simeoni’s words, a servitude
volontaire (1998: 23).
22. Sidney Lumet’s The Fugitive Kind (1959), Henry King’s Beloved Infidel (1959),
Marc Robson’s From the Terrace (1960), Marc Lawrence’s Nightmare in the Sun
(1965), and Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965).
23. Gómez Mesa was a high-profile censor and journalist with strong Falangist
connections. Film critic of the Falangist Arriba and La Gaceta Literaria, deputy
of Falangist García Viñolas in the Junta Superior de Censura Cinematográfica,
and a censor from 1939 onward, Gómez Mesa is praised for his ‘militante
pluma’ [militant pen] in the Falangist film journal Primer Plano (286, April
1946). He also worked for the non-Falangist press, such as the newspaper
ABC and the ultra-Catholic Revista Internacional de Cine (Vandaele 2006).
24. Fernández Cuenca was a very high-profile censor, journalist, writer and
professor at the Escuela Oficial de Cinematografía. From March until June
1942, he was the director of the Falangist Primer Plano. In 1954, he became
director of the Instituto de Investigaciones y Experiencias Cinematográficas, and
remained an important censor during the Apertura.
25. Raza is a celebration of Francoist Spain, based on a scenario by ‘Jaime de
Andrade’, the pseudonym of Francisco Franco. The para-fascist symbolism
of its 1942 version (including fascist-inflected greetings) was censored in a
new 1950 version.
26. A prolific Spanish filmmaker (1913–86) whose repertoire was clearly accept-
able for Francoism.
27. González Ruiz was also a film censor.
28. Francoist censorship was abolished between 1976 and 1978 (González
Ballesteros 1981: 195–8). Nonetheless the TRACE project includes the period
1975–85 because – according to project leader Rosa Rabadán – some ‘control’
was still exerted until 1985 (Rabadán 2000a: 9). I believe, however, that a
clear distinction should be made between the practice of censorship and
some irrelevant administrative remnants of it.
29. ‘pieza casi escatológica y de descomposición social’.
30. In Francoist theatre adaptations, a crucifix might, for instance, be added to
the set.
31. See also Merino (1994: 96) on Miller’s A View from The Bridge (1955).
32. At the time of writing, the full Spanish version of Bandín (2007) was not yet
available.
33. Fernández’ periods follow Francoism’s economic evolution. The periodiza-
tion offered in this paper (and Vandaele 2006: 46–7) is slightly different,
focusing on censorship ideology. Although culture is of course connected
to the economy, the evolution of Francoist cultural ideology is not a mere
reflection of economic changes.
34. According to Paxton (2002: 215), however, ‘[t]he macho restoration of a
threatened patriarchy […] comes close to being a universal fascist value’,
even though ‘Mussolini advocated female suffrage in his first program, and
Hitler did not mention gender issues in his 25 Points’. Although their gender
policies were comparable in many respects, a cardinal difference between
Nazism and Falangism was the latter’s insistence on female shame. Girls and
women were to be modest and shameful (Richmond 2003: 26).
35. On Francoist censorship of D. H. Lawrence, see also Lázaro (2004).
5
Translation in Portugal during
the Estado Novo Regime
Teresa Seruya
Introduction
The invisibility of Portugal in translation history

Without denying responsibility on the part of Portuguese scholars, it is
a fact that the history of translation in Portugal remains non-existent
to most translation studies experts. The most striking example are the
two editions of Mona Baker’s Encyclopedia of Translation Studies (2009),
in the second part of which, ‘History and Traditions’, Portugal is totally
absent. The present brief study aims to help fill this gap in the world
map of relations between cultures and traditions, although on the
relatively small scale of a four-decade period. Research on translation
and censorship in fascist systems started several years ago without a
Portuguese contribution, although some work has now begun to make
up for this conspicuous absence.1
In view of the lack of existing research, I will first outline the politi-
cal and cultural frame of the study, before moving on in the second
section to a general survey of the translation of literature published in
book form between 1940 and 1970, including the status of translation
and translators in the period. The third section addresses the censorship
system and its impact on translation in general, including the legal
framework and the modus faciendi of the Censoring Commission. I will
offer an overview of banned books and discuss the criteria applied by
the censors, based on the findings of former studies (Seruya and Moniz
2008b) and argue that these convey a realistic picture of the period’s
dominant values. Some comments on the efficacy of censorship in the
Estado Novo will close the chapter.
117
118 Translation during the Estado Novo
The Estado Novo, 1933–74

The few, and very unstable, years of the first Republic in Portugal
(1910–26) ended with the coup d’état which led to a military dictatorship
in the subsequent seven years. The founding moment of the Estado Novo,
as the regime called itself, was the new Constitution approved in 1933,
the legal basis of Western Europe’s longest dictatorship in the twentieth
century. Salazar himself ruled as Prime Minister from 1932 to 1968,
when he was replaced by Marcelo Caetano due to ill health. For more
than a decade the Estado Novo was contemporary with German National
Socialism (which found followers in Portugal among certain politicians
and especially youth organizations) and Italian Fascism. As regards
Spain, official Portuguese support was accorded to Franco, both during
and after the Civil War (1936–39), which is not surprising, considering
their common enemy, Communism. Whether the Estado Novo should be
termed a fascist regime or not was for a long time a controversial issue,
discussed mainly according to political positions (after 1974, former
opponents of the regime would always refer to the period as fascist).
Nowadays, after extensive historical and sociological research, there is
a consensus that the Portuguese situation was a dictatorship, but also
that it does not fully match the characteristics of European fascisms (for
example, the sole party, União Nacional, founded in 1930, was not a fas-
cist party, and programmatic, organized anti-Semitism did not exist; see
Costa Pinto 1992).2 It was Salazar himself who, as early as 1930, referred
to ‘our Dictatorship’ as ‘an event similar to many others that, at this
moment, either with or without the participation of parliaments, are
taking place all over the world. For the object of all these movements
is to invest the ruling powers with prestige and force, enabling them
to withstand disorder, and to provide suitable working conditions for
the nation’ (Salazar 1939: 91).3 A few years later, in 1936, he made
himself very clear as regards the features of the ‘New Portuguese State’:
‘We are anti-parliamentarians, anti-democrats, anti-liberals, and we are
determined to establish a corporative State’ (ibid.: 29). The political
police repressing political, social and moral deviance, official propa-
ganda mainly concerned with a national identity and with the regime’s
image abroad, and institutionalized censorship were crucial instru-
ments in the implementation of the regime’s policies. Historians also
mention ‘social Catholicism’ as a spiritual basis of Salazar’s thought and
action.4 The nation’s identity is Christian and Catholic, which holds
true even today: according to a survey on national identity carried out
by the International Social Survey Programme in 2008, 68.5 per cent of
Portuguese respondents said that to be Portuguese is to be Catholic.5
Teresa Seruya 119
Salazar’s thought was deeply shaped by devotion to the ideal of the

nation, which underlay all theory and political praxis of the period
and was expressed in 1929 in the famous slogan: ‘All for the nation –
nothing against the nation’ (Salazar 1939: 59).6 Salazar justified the
nation’s greatness by the historical fact of its being the oldest state in
Europe. In a 1936 interview with The Daily Telegraph, he said:
Portugal is the only state in Europe existing for eight centuries which
can be proud of still being today how it was at its beginning; its
frontiers have not changed since the first kings drew them with the
sword in the 12th and 13th centuries in the Iberian Peninsula: it is
how it was.
(In Henriques and Mello 2007: 42)
The priority given to the nation meant rejecting all political pluralism:
‘Anyone who is placed on national ground has neither parties, nor
groups, nor schools: he/she takes advantage of all materials […] to recon-
struct the country’ (Salazar 1935: 263).7 Salazar ruled alone over the
National Union, as he did over the state. The Caetano years (1968–74)
did not change much on the whole. They are today considered a ‘failed
transition’ (Rosas and Oliveira 2004).
The overseas territories (or Ultramar) were considered part of the
national whole, part of the Portuguese Empire derived from the Golden
Age of Discoveries. Its military defence, when the colonial war started
in 1961, had never been questioned at governmental level, either after
the end of the Second World War or in the late 1950s, when the African
independence movements emerged. In 1974 the colonial question had
come to a deadlock. The significance of its role in the regime’s identity
is indicated by the fact that the regime’s overthrow was mainly caused
by the military’s organized protest against the war (called the Captains’
Movement, which led to the coup d’état on 25 April 1974).
Culture and politics under Salazar and Caetano

In his discussion of the concept of culture planning, Gideon Toury (2003:
403) does not mention the case of dictatorships, where very deliberate
acts of ‘intervention in a current state of affairs within a social group’
occur at state level. By definition, the Estado Novo sought to create a
new order, Salazar having defined the situation he had encountered as
‘disorder’ in all domains (Salazar 1935: 47).8 With the help of legislation
and the establishment of several institutions on the one hand, and the
launch of a fight against illiteracy on the other, the new order was to be
extended to the domains of education and culture. Nevertheless, very

soon – already in the early 1940s – some oppositional groups resisted
being integrated into the regime’s ‘intervention’ and advanced their own
plans. We can speak therefore of a dichotomy of ‘Establishment’ versus
‘opposition’ with their respective strategies of culture planning. What
Portuguese literary history calls ‘neo-realism’ (1943–53) – the ‘hegem-
onic culture of the 1940s in Portugal’ (Lourenço 1994: 288), ideologi-
cally shaped by Marxism, albeit an emotionally oriented Marxism (ibid.:
288–9) – is an interesting case of an anti-culture coexisting with the
official culture. Salazar’s ‘dark shadow’, it was kept under surveillance
but not considered subversive by the dictator (ibid.: 290–1).
Based on its nationalist ideals, the regime had been aspiring to institu-
tionalize its portugalidade [Portugality] since the early 1930s. The success
of this lofty goal depended on an identification between the rulers and
the people and mutual acknowledgement. The rulers, beginning with
Salazar himself, propagated this identification at the discourse level,
using the first person plural as a subject to signal a shared viewpoint,
the absence of conflict. But there were other, more concrete instruments
at the service of Portugality. The Propaganda Secretariat (SPN, later SNI)9
had ‘the great mission of raising the spirit of the Portuguese people in
the knowledge of its identity and of its own worth as ethnic group [and]
as civilizing capacities’ (SPN, cited in Ó 1996: 894) The ‘amiable aspects’
of a rural country were to be represented, deploying what Salazar, in a
speech in 1936, called ‘the comfort of the great certainties’: ‘We do not
call in question God and virtue, the country and its history, authority,
and its prestige, the family and its moral rights and obligations, nor the
glory and the responsibilities of the worker’ (Salazar 1939: 287).10 Both
the emphasis on rural values and the cluster of values to be followed at
all levels appeared in the concept of ‘regionalism’, the new key orienta-
tion for cultural policy (Ó 1996: 895; see also Ó 1999; Rosas 1994). This
concept, pointing to a ‘particular Portuguese style’, was not only to
be applied to the domains of ballet, theatre and cinema but also to be
clearly displayed in posters, public events and even in window-dressing
(Ó 1996: 895). Books are not mentioned in the policy statements on
regionalism, probably because the regime was well aware of the dif-
ficulty of winning over writers and intellectuals to its ideology. It nev-
ertheless tried to exert some influence on the production of arts and
literature by creating awards in all artistic and literary genres. The SPN/
SNI Prizes 1934–66, initially promoted by António Ferro (1895–1956)
as head of the Propaganda Secretariat and in the context of his Política
do Espírito [intellectual policy], were meant to launch new authors and
Teresa Seruya 121
make them famous, but Ferro himself later admitted that many con-
temporary writers had other ways to achieve success and did not need
official prizes. Analysing the lists of the SPN/SNI Prizes in the different
genres, the historian Ramos do Ó concludes that ‘only very late and
slowly did the regime manage to present works by authors who created
exclusively at its service’ (Ó 1999: 128).
Illiteracy, one of the main reasons for Portugal’s backwardness, was a
problem which brought shame on the regime. The policies to diminish
it were relatively successful: between 1930 and 1970 the literacy rate rose
from below 39 per cent to about 76 per cent (Melo 2004: 68). In the 1950s
the Ministry for National Education started to implement the ‘Plan for
the People’s Education’ and in 1957 the Gulbenkian Foundation initiated
its itinerant library service. Both events contributed to the increase in
reading over the next decade, though in the early 1970s a certain decline
could already be observed. The Foundation tried to transfer its responsi-
bilities regarding public reading to the state when oil receipts declined
(ibid.), and the success of the book collection Livros RTP – Biblioteca Básica
Verbo, a joint venture between a publishing house and the state televi-
sion, may be explained by the void left when the Gulbenkian’s influence
faded (Faria and Campos 2007: 12; Seruya 2007).
Translation and translators
Ideas about translation

The field of translation in the Estado Novo comprises, besides literature
(in a broad sense), the translation of human and social sciences, transla-
tion in all fields of natural science and technology, films (the practice of
subtitling, not yet researched, as well as the ‘cuts’ prescribed by censor-
ship; see António 2001), theatre performances (see, for example, Santos
2004), and translations published in newspapers and magazines and on
the radio. It would also be interesting to consider the peculiar case of the
translation of Salazar’s speeches or of tourist brochures from Portuguese
into European languages, where translation out of Portuguese was
clearly a vital propaganda tool regarding the regime’s image abroad.
The present study will only deal with translated literature published
in book form. I will look at translation as an ‘institution’. Although
at the time there were neither translators’ associations nor translators’
training institutes, which would later come to attach prestige to the
profession, the ‘public face’ of translation can be studied: I consider
translation a social action linked to a form of behaviour called ‘translat-
ing’, with agents – translators – who are ‘active decision-maker[s] within
complex structures of power’ (Hermans 1997: 5–6). My intention is

to take a historicized approach that tries to analyse ‘how translations
and ideas about translation relate to their socio-cultural environment’
(ibid.: 6).
It is certain that publishers and booksellers on the one hand, crit-
ics and writers in the press and in prestigious magazines on the other,
were well aware of the strong presence of translations on the market.
The ‘ideas about translation’ they expressed varied according to their
specific interests. Publishers and booksellers complained of the scarcity
and low quality of domestic production (Seruya 2005a: 39), a judge-
ment which was, incidentally, shared by Salazar himself, who deplored
the lack of national artistic talent:
I much regret that Portugal is at present so poor in the field of arts.

I am pleased with the progress achieved by our sculptors and people
in the decorative arts, but I have to admit that nowadays we don’t
have famous painters or architects who have won converts, and both
the theatre and the literary production have been unable to enlarge
their horizons.
(Salazar cited in Garnier 1952: 191)11
Writers and critics, in contrast, more often regarded translation as

a means of internationalizing Portuguese literary life and taste (for
example Simões 1937).
In the first half of the 1940s translation was a visible fact, but not nec-
essarily seen by all as a blessing – Epidemia de traduções (epidemic of trans-
lations) was the title of an article in the monthly Ocidente denouncing
the ‘denationalizing impulse’ [‘ímpetos desnacionalizadores’] and the
‘mental laziness’ [‘preguiça mental’] revealed by the increasing volume
of translations.12 Not only was the number of translations conspicuously
high, complained Ocidente, but their path onto the market not always
particularly commendable. What was considered unfair competition
led the publishers and booksellers’ corporation, the Grémio Nacional
de Editores e Livreiros (GNEL), to draft a ‘translation statute’ (Livros
de Portugal, hereafter ‘LP’, 15–16/1943).13 The preamble described one
problematic aspect of the situation clearly: ‘translations of the same
work are published by several publishing houses at the same time’ (final
text of the Statute, LP, 17–18/1943: 5). To obviate this, the GNEL requ-
ired publishers to report the list of books outside copyright that they
wished to publish in the following 12 months (ibid.: Article 1). Having
received this information, the GNEL would organize a file containing all
Teresa Seruya 123
the requests, and decide according to the order of submission (Article 3).
In the case of duplicates, the competing publishers had to seek agreement
on which of them would publish the translation, and all this ‘in order
to avoid commercial competition’ (Article 4) – commercial competition
being contrary to the economic doctrine of a corporative state. Another
article in the statute unintentionally reveals something about the ‘state of
the art’ in translation publishing: it requires books in translation to
include data on the original title and ‘if it is missing, the title of the
French or English translation’ (Article 11). This indicates the common
disrespect for original works, a habit dating back at least to the nineteenth
century and one reflected in the tendency to ‘domesticate’ foreign works
as a method of translation. It also confirms which source languages were
predominant (see also Figures 5.1 and 5.2).
In the 1960s the negative view of translation had not changed
substantially. An LP editorial in 1960 includes a remarkable statement
by the leaders of the publishers and booksellers, expressing a very
negative opinion on the translation of literature, which is considered
to be often ‘incredibly’ unfaithful to the original. This is ascribed to the
linguistic incompetence of translators. Cuts, additions, wilful reinter-
pretations on the one hand, bad Portuguese and a lack of concern for
the text’s aesthetic value on the other, were said to be further aspects
of current translation practice, which should be faced as a problem by
the publishing houses (LP 19/1960). A second problem was addressed
in the regional press as well, which commented on the small number of
readers – or at least of readers who chose ‘good’ literature; other genres
were very successful. In an article from the regional press reprinted in LP,
the lament runs as follows: ‘The Iberian Peninsula is becoming a paradise
for dealers of bad literature’, meaning ‘collections of small, cheap books
[…] so badly written, lacking imagination and all artistic prudence […]
that they are a permanent danger’ (A. P. da Silva 1967: 15). Silva was
probably referring to the large number of Wild West, detective, senti-
mental and war novels, mostly from Spain and Britain, that had been
flooding the Portuguese market since the 1940s (see below).14 There
was also concern that films, football and TV were already the preferred
means of leisure: ‘The book is forgotten; lying on dusty shelves, it keeps
its cover pristine’15 (A. da Silva 1967: 17). Finally, book prices were con-
sidered too high by many; much hope was placed in paperback books
by journalists of the era (Pereira 1967: 13ff.).
Translations were obviously present in the literary universe described.
The quality of translations – which tended to sell more copies per title
than Portuguese books (see LP 108/1967: 11) – was now being discussed
more openly – in those days, translations had the greatest share in

book production (Rosa 1968: 17). In 1969, the evening daily A Capital
surveyed publishing houses and translators ‘in order to clarify this
important aspect of Portuguese cultural life’, namely ‘the problem of
translations’. The answers of important publishing houses like Ulisseia,
which published many translations (including highbrow titles), express
a concern with the low quality of translations, ascribing this to prob-
lems with the selection of translators (LP 123/1969: 14–15). This is a
significant point, as it shows a growing awareness of a need to improve
the status of the translation profession. Right at the beginning of the
decade, publishers had noted that translating was not a regulated pro-
fession, that there were no professional translators, and that translating,
while widespread, was not undertaken from artistic motivations but as
a means of earning extra money (see LP 19/1960: 2).16 At the end of the
decade, they were still trying to increase the prestige of the activity and
its agents. Bearing in mind that only in the second half of the 1960s did
university-level translator training begin, we may consider the 1960s as
a sort of turning point in Portuguese ideas about translation.
The translators of literature in this period include anonymous people
(this is the case for translators of Spanish and English titles in the field
of adventure and sentimental novels), well-known writers and personal-
ities (Aquilino Ribeiro, José Saramago, Maria Lamas, Fernanda Botelho,
Urbano Tavares Rodrigues, poets like Vitorino Nemésio, Jorge de Sena,
Alexandre O’Neill, Ruy Belo, Ramos Rosa; painters like Lima de Freitas
and many others), or professionals from other areas, such as the soci-
ologist Vasco Pulido Valente or the philosopher of culture Agostinho da
Silva (see Pinho 2006).
Translation of literature between 1940 and 1970

In the present chapter I consider a corpus pertaining to the three main
decades of the Estado Novo, 1940–70.17 It covers translations of literature
published in book form (regardless of whether a first or subsequent
edition), without making distinctions between ‘high’ or ‘popular’
literature. This inclusive concept of literature accepts detective novels
and science fiction as well as adventure stories and sentimental novels.
The following points draw on data collected for the project Intercultural
literature in Portugal 1930–2000: A critical bibliography, an ongoing bib-
liographical study within the Portuguese Catholic University’s Centre
for Communication and Culture Studies, in collaboration with the
University of Lisbon’s Centre for English Studies.18 In my initial analysis
of the available information only the question of the dominant foreign
culture could be addressed: which were the main source cultures for
Teresa Seruya 125
translation? In our data authors are identified geographically, by their

country of origin. The implicit identification of a culture with a country
is debatable, but the traditional Portuguese perception of foreign influ-
ences as coming from certain countries means that the country crite-
rion seems acceptable as one way of measuring the ‘dominant’ source
culture. The key category to do so is the number of titles by author and
country.19 Figures 5.1 and 5.2 show the evolution of the main source
culture for translations between 1940 and 1970, considering the seven
most influential countries only.20 The practice of Portuguese publishers,
along with the political history of the Estado Novo, justify the distinc-
tion made here between Britain (noted in the figure as ‘GBR’) and the
USA, as opposed to considering one anglophone culture. Whereas the
ancient Anglo-Portuguese Alliance (dating from 1373) was always a
decisive priority in Portuguese foreign policy, the US was, until 1944
and the creation of the American military base in the Azores, merely
a ‘marginal, overseas reference point’ (Antunes 1991: 22). Moreover,
Salazar himself and parts of the regime elite held a deep anti-American
prejudice, which went along with a widespread ignorance about the US
among the population, as attested by American official sources.21 The
two countries have therefore been considered separately (for more detail
on methodology, see Seruya 2009: 69–86).
If we now compare the numbers of translated titles per country over
the three decades, illustrated in Figure 5.2, the following development
can be observed. France and Britain started in the 1940s with the
Authors per decade

600
1940s 1950s 1960s
500
400
300
200
100
0
GBR FRA SPA USA ITA GER RUS
Figure 5.1 Number of translated authors published per decade

Titles per decade

4000 1940s 1950s 1960s
3500
3000
2500
2000
1500
1000
500
0
SPA GBR FRA USA ITA RUS GER
Figure 5.2 Translated titles per decade
highest rate, together accounting for 31 per cent of translated titles and
followed at some distance by the US (13%) and Spain (7%), whereas
Russia and Italy only reached 5 per cent and Germany 3 per cent. In the
1950s, the outstanding feature is the increase in the titles of Spanish ori-
gin (now 38%), a higher proportion now than Britain (24%) and the US
(9%) (although in terms of the number of different authors, Britain still
leads). France decreases significantly, with 21 per cent of translated titles;
Italy remains stable at 5 per cent; Russia and Germany fall to 2 per cent
each. In the 1960s, Britain continues to lead clearly in terms of the
number of authors (507), followed by France (378), Spain (317) and the
USA (168), but the highest proportion of translated titles is provided by
Spain (53%) and only far behind by Britain (19%), France (12%) and the
US (10%). The countries with the lowest rates of the top ten are Italy,
Russia and Germany, each with 2 per cent.
If we look at the period as a whole, then, the dominant source culture
for translation into Portuguese is Spain, at least after the 1940s. This
result clearly questions the common perception of a French hegemony,
a hegemony which in fact was mainly restricted to intellectuals, artists
and the universities. It should be noted that the predominance of Spain
arose from translations of popular literature, not the canonical authors,
who, apart from Cervantes, were rarely translated until the 1980s (see
Soler 1999).
Which authors and what kind of literature were translated? To start
with the 1940s, the over one hundred French authors translated in this
Teresa Seruya 127
period include some traditional canonical ones such as Zola, Balzac,

Maupassant, Hugo, Mérimée, Voltaire, Flaubert and in one case Sartre.22
Other genres are more significantly represented, above all the sentimen-
tal novel (Delly, Magali, Albert Bonneau, Léo Dartey, Déo Duvic, Max
du Veuzit), followed by children’s and youth literature (Comtesse de
Ségur, Berthe Bernage) and adventure stories (Ponson du Terrail, Dumas
père and fils).
While the number of English authors far exceeds the number of
French, the number of titles is slightly lower. Among the canoni-
cal authors we find Stevenson, Wilde, Dickens, Austen, Mansfield,
Somerset Maugham, Shaw, the Brontë sisters, Conrad, Jerome, and so
on. Detective stories are a very strong presence in the decade. The many
pseudotranslations (that is, books by Portuguese authors using English
pseudonyms and purporting implicitly or explicitly to be translations)
are not counted in the statistics, though they are accounted for by the
prestige of the English (and American) source culture in the genre; trans-
lated detective fiction in the narrower sense includes Agatha Christie,
Arthur Conan Doyle, Richard A. Freeman, Dorothy L. Sayers, Edgar
Wallace, and so on. The sentimental novel shows an English contribu-
tion through Hall Caine and others. Other genres less easy to categorize
are also represented, for example by Charles Richter, H. S. Keeler and
E. Philips Oppenheim, or Freya Stark’s travel narratives.
Most American titles appear in the second half of the 1940s, showing
an interesting correspondence with the change of role played by the US
within Portuguese foreign policy. Jack London, William Saroyan, Pearl
S. Buck and Erskine Caldwell are the most frequently named authors,
followed by Mark Twain, Vicky Baum (writing in English), Thomas
Maine Reed, Poe, Hawthorne, James, and so on. Detective fiction is
represented by Ellery Queen, Erle Stanley Gardner and Carter Dickson.
Spanish contemporary authors are not particularly visible in the 1940s,
with the exception of Pio Baroja and Miguel de Unamuno (d. 1936),
who had developed a special relationship to Portugal and Portuguese
literature, and W. Fernandez Florez. The most frequently named author
is a nineteenth-century one, Blasco Ibañez, followed by Concha Linares-
Becerra (who wrote sentimental novels) and another well-known
nineteenth-century author, Enrique Pérez-Escrich.
What is interesting about German authors, considering the sympathy
of certain sectors of the regime for Nazi Germany, is the fact that of those
usually linked to the ‘Conservative Revolution’ and later to National
Socialism, only Rudolf Binding was translated at the time. Canonical
authors include those from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
(Raspe, Goethe, Grimm, Hölderlin, Hauptmann, Otto Ludwig, Storm)

and from the twentieth century (Carossa, Fallada, Huch, Kellermann,
Klabund, Thomas Mann, Remarque, Rilke, and others).
As it is not possible to go into detail on all decades, I will now
briefly address the 1960s, with selected comments on the 1950s in the
background. In the 1960s, new French authors arrived, such as Henri
Troyat, Proust, de Sade, de Beauvoir, Elsa Triolet, Boris Vian, Duras,
Claude Simon; the number of titles by Robbe-Grillet, Françoise Sagan,
Sartre and Camus increased significantly from a low number in the 1950s.
Classics like Voltaire, Hugo and Zola remained steady, but Balzac titles
rose from 9 to 20. Children’s and youth literature included new French
authors such as René Guillot, Jean Bruce, Georges Bayard and Henri
Vernes. In the field of detective fiction Simenon rose from 17 to 59 titles
and Maurice Leblanc from 2 to 12, whereas the sentimental novel saw a
decline of the French presence.
British highbrow authors like Somerset Maugham, Graham Greene,
Lawrence Durrell, H. G. Wells and Aldous Huxley are well represented in
the corpus, but detective and spy stories (the first John Le Carré, Agatha
Christie, Carter Brown, John MacDonald, Leslie Charteris, to name only
those with 18 or more titles), youth literature (led by Enid Blyton) and
science fiction are the domains where British sources stand out.
The 1960s were the decade for those American writers nowadays con-
sidered canonical. In order of the number of titles, the list is headed by
Erskine Caldwell, followed by Steinbeck, Pearl S. Buck, Faulkner, Arthur
Miller, Poe, Hemingway and Dos Passos. However, pulp writers are also
strong, with Frank Gruber the most frequent. In the field of adventures
and Westerns, Zane Grey alone occupies a whole series of the popular
publishing house AGP (Agência Portuguesa de Publicidade); while the
most translated detective novelists are Erle Stanley Gardner, Richard
Deming, Mickey Spillane, Jack London and Ed Lacy. American science
fiction also helps to compensate for the lack of domestic Portuguese
production, with names such as Clifford Simack, Paul Anderson, Isaac
Asimov and Ray Bradbury.
As mentioned before, Spain leads in terms of the number of titles, but
among nearly 4000 titles there are only five canonical authors: Calderón
de la Barca, Cervantes, José Cela, Felix Cucurull and Alfonso Sastre share
nine titles altogether. The rest are spread over three domains: the sen-
timental novel (Corin Tellado with 329 titles, Sérgio Duval with 116,
Trini de Figueiroa with 70, Maria Adela Durango with 51), the Western,
a surprisingly large presence (for example M. A. Lafuente Estefania with
231 titles and Keith Luger with 109), and detective stories, where several
Teresa Seruya 129
authors had dozens of titles translated (Lou Carrigan, Mortimer Cody,

Donald Curtis). Most contributors to the latter two genres used English
pseudonyms, which stresses the prestige of the anglophone culture in
the field and at the same time raises the interesting question of the cir-
cumstances under which the Portuguese publishers decided to import
them.
Translation and censorship
The legal and institutional frame of censorship

As far as the legal and institutional frame of censorship is concerned,
the most relevant legislation was produced in the 1930s and 1940s (see
Rodrigues 1980; Ó 1999). Although the Constitution proclaimed in
1933 granted ‘freedom of expression by any means whatever’, Decree
No. 22469, issued on the very same day, maintained that censorship
had a necessary social function
to prevent the perversion of public opinion as a social force; it shall

be carried out in such a way as to defend public opinion from all
factors that may misguide it against truth, justice, morals, efficient
administration, and the common good, and to prevent any attack on
the basic principles of the organization of society.23
Previously, censorship had applied to periodical publications, leaflets

and bills whenever they dealt with political or social matters, and the
new legislation was initially directed against the press, but as early as
1933 Salazar himself showed great concern about books, having asked
the director of the Censorship Office, Major Álvaro Salvação Barreto,
to write a report on the matter. This document, ‘Leituras Imorais –
Propaganda Política e Social Contrária ao Estado Novo – sua Repressão’
[Immoral Readings – Political and Social Propaganda against the Estado
Novo – Its Repression], was to become the frame for the censorship pro-
cedures affecting non-periodical publications.24
The Censoring Commission for books (Portuguese books, foreign books,
and translations) started its work in 1934. Unlike the press, books were not
subject to pre-publication censorship, so they reached the Commission
after publication through the active collaboration of the political police
PIDE/DGS (who ‘visited’ bookshops, for example), the Post Office and,
occasionally, the regular police (PSP). Sometimes, publishers and authors
themselves would present their works, more or less willingly, to the
Commission.
Salazar clarified his thinking as early as 1933, when he inaugurated

the Propaganda Secretariat (SPN):
Men, individually and collectively, see and interpret things in the

light of their own interests, but there is only one entity which can
see everything in the light of its duty and capacity to serve the inter-
ests of all.
(Salazar 1939: 183)25
Indeed, many censors made a habit of using the first person plural
in their verdicts, so as to convey the impression of a unified national
thought. The 1933 decree was reinforced three years later by Decree
No. 26589, published together with a Regulamento dos Serviços de Censura,
which forbade
the distribution and sale in Portugal of newspapers, magazines and

any other foreign publication dealing with matters the diffusion of
which would not be allowed in Portuguese publications.
(Rodrigues 1980: 71)
The members of the Censoring Commission were mainly army officers.

This role had been carried out by the military since the 1926 coup
d’état.26 Only long after the Second World War did some civilians join
the censors’ team (Gomes 2006: 12).
Censorship became an official organ of political training and propa-
ganda in 1944, as from this date it was subject to the renamed SPN, now
SNI, which in its turn reported directly to Salazar (Decree No. 33545).
The last important change in the legislation occurred after Salazar’s death
in 1968, when Marcelo Caetano was appointed his successor. Despite
the hopes of some liberalization placed in the ‘Primavera Marcelista’ or
Marcelist Spring, Decree No. 150/72, of 5 May 1968, while abolishing
the main censorship organ (Direcção Geral dos Serviços de Censura),
maintained the whole philosophy of the social role of censorship – ‘the
need to defend the highest interests of the nation’ – as established in
1933 (Azevedo 1999: 463ff.). Nevertheless a real change in the censors’
decisions concerning some authors and subjects, for example Marxism,
can be observed in the 1970s.
Censorship and foreign books in Portugal

Research on censorship during the Estado Novo has included some more
or less systematic work on Portuguese books (Azevedo 1999; Livros
Teresa Seruya 131
Proibidos no Regime Fascista, 1981), the press (Carvalho 1999; Franco

1993; Tengarrinha 2006), theatre performances (Santos 2004), radio
(Ribeiro 2005) and cuts in films (António 2001; to my knowledge noth-
ing has been published on subtitling). The censorship of translation is a
wholly new research area, which nonetheless has produced some results
(Seruya and Moniz 2008b, especially Chapter 1; Seruya, Moniz and Rosa
2009). However, those results are restricted to literature, failing to reflect
the fact that the percentage of literary works among the foreign books
submitted to the Censoring Commission is actually quite low. It is
therefore important to discuss all foreign books when assessing the
situation of translation censorship in the Estado Novo. The Commission
reports show that the decision to approve or ban a foreign book was a
decision on whether it could be circulated, and hence in most cases on
whether it would ever be translated.
If quite a lot has already been written about the censorship of domestic
literature (for example Azevedo 1999), very little is known yet about the
decisions to ban or approve foreign books, except for some lists of banned
books (Azevedo 1999; Comissão do Livro Negro 1981) and an illustrated
exhibition catalogue (Livros Proibidos no Estado Novo, 2005). Foreign books
presented to the Commission covered such important fields as politics,
ideology, social sciences, religion, and others that have not yet been
addressed by translation studies in Portugal. One reason for this dearth
of research may be the lack of organized archives at the National Archives
in Torre do Tombo. Considering the deficiencies of the documentation
on the Censoring Commission’s work, the results of the present research
can only be provisional.27 However, the corpus can be considered
representative: the percentage of missing reports is not high – 22.4 per cent
of the 10,011 reports written between 1934 and April 1974 – and the
continuity of procedures and criteria across the four decades indicate that
what is missing should not significantly change the conclusions.
The procedures of the Censoring Commission

Reading the Censoring Commission reports has shed some light on the
question of how, and how systematically, PIDE and CTT (and the Customs
Services from 1953 onwards) gathered information on which books could
potentially be dangerous. It seems that the police and customs focused
on books displayed in advertisements or bookshops (for example Sá da
Costa and Bertrand in Lisbon), where the title, topic and cover of the
book could be decisive. The role of the Post Office in bringing books to
the censors’ attention must lead us to assume that private mail was regu-
larly violated on the basis of ‘suspicious’ signs: either the recipient or the
source of the book (publishing houses, like the French Éditions Sociales,
or countries like the Communist countries of Eastern Europe). In some
cases, the name and address of the recipient are specifically mentioned
in the report, often names with no public relevance. Sometimes delivery
of a book was permitted in spite of a ban. Some books originally written
in Portuguese (either from Portugal or Brazil) had to be ‘presented’ for
censorship, that is, publishers, as well as authors themselves, sent their
books for approval before publication. Alternatively, the Commission
itself might ‘request’ that books in Portuguese or Portuguese translations
be submitted for consideration.
The subjects and individual books likely to be censored, whether
through cuts or outright bans, can be inferred from the frames of refer-
ence in the laws and decrees concerning censorship, and also from such
central ideological sources of the regime’s political praxis as Salazar’s
speeches. Throughout the decades, the three main areas attracting the
censors’ attention never really changed, apart from shifts in emphasis
according to the political moment (for example the Spanish Civil War,
the Second World War, the beginning of the colonial war, Salazar’s death
and the subsequent changes in power). These were ‘politics/ideology’,
‘morality/sex’ and ‘religion’. They were feared as the most dangerous
and, if treated in ways that did not suit the regime, they were labelled
as topics which encouraged ‘social dissolution’.
Criteria for banning books in the censors’ reports

The censors wrote their reports on the basis of specific legal requirements:
the rationale for their verdicts was meant to reveal which contents
in the books opposed the Estado Novo’s values, either as set down in
law or as known from the regime’s daily political praxis. As trustworthy
readers of ‘suspicious’ books, the censors were not supposed to make
subjective judgements or apply personal criteria. As a result, despite
some minor stylistic differences, they eventually came to use much the
same discourse.
One very general assessment criterion of the Censoring Commission
must be noted at the outset: no author or theme was a priori and cat-
egorically to be rejected, that is, each case was specific. Examples are
D. H. Lawrence, Jean-Paul Sartre and Bertolt Brecht, or even the more
‘harmless’ Paul de Kock in the 1930s: these were banned or approved
according to the work in question. Several factors were taken into con-
sideration besides the chief goal of not shaking the regime’s founda-
tions, such as the damage a ban could cause to the regime’s external
image,28 the fact that certain topics were already known through the
Teresa Seruya 133
press, the fact that a film based on the book was being or had already
been shown in Portugal (see R6942/6129 on Howard Fast’s Spartacus
or R6991/62 on Moravia’s A Ciociara), the fact that the author was an
acknowledged ‘classic’, like Hemingway or Gorki, or a famous person,
like Einstein. The latter argument would also apply in the 1960s to
authors such as Camus, Bertrand Russell and G. B. Shaw.
Turning more specifically to translation, it was clearly considered
subversive since, unlike foreign-language work, it could give ‘the many’
access to dangerous reading. In fact, the cultural gap between the ‘elites’
or ‘the educated’ and ‘the many’ was acknowledged and supported by
the authorities, who would sometimes (unwillingly) allow the circula-
tion of a foreign book on the grounds that it was published in a foreign
language. This was the case with some of Françoise Sagan’s works, such
as Les Merveilleux Nuages, which was circulated in French but the transla-
tion of which was expressly forbidden (R6944/61); Colette’s Chéri was
‘most unworthy of publicity, at least in a Portuguese translation, which
would promote the expansion and assimilation of the work’s intrinsic
evil’ (R8567/69). In fact, from the early 1960s, the belief that ‘educated’
people were not easily influenced led the censors to tolerate even the pos-
session of banned books by certain professional groups such as doctors,30
jurists, and well-read and educated people in general, ‘as long as they are
neither Communist nor sympathize with Communist ideas’ (R6932/61,
on Patrice Lumumba’s Le Congo, terre d’avenir, est-il menacé?).
The initial phase of the censors’ work (1934–40) already reveals the
basic arguments for decisions about a book’s circulation. Politically,
the most relevant context was the Spanish Republic and the Spanish
Civil War, followed by the beginning of the Second World War. Few
titles from and about Spain were presented to the censors in this period
(13.5% of all titles presented for censorship, of which 41% were politi-
cal titles) but apart from a few ‘lapses of attention’, the censors always
decided against Republican writings, which not unexpectedly made up
the bulk of texts submitted to the Commission, since texts supporting
Franco were not considered suspicious and could circulate freely (see
Seruya 2008). Books on Marxist theory (considered to be spreading
‘advanced ideas’, hence labelled as ‘propaganda’) met with a mixed
response. For example, one text by Lenin was approved (R207/36),
another was approved with cuts (R281/36), and a third was banned
altogether (R340/36). In the area of sexuality, the verdicts were inflex-
ible when it came to any perceived defence of abortion, birth control
or homosexuality, or to sexual diseases or sadism – though in cases
where these topics were considered to have been treated in a ‘scientific’,
hence ‘serious’, manner, they were allowed to circulate. Charles Royer

and Pitigrilli were the most frequently banned literary authors in the
period from 1934–40. The ban on some canonical authors is worth
mentioning: André Malraux’s L’éspoir (R551/38), Heinrich Mann’s
O Anjo Azul (R585/38), George Bernanos’ Les cimetières sous la lune
(R638/38) and D. H. Lawrence’s L’Amant de Lady Chatterly (R940/39).31
The latter is evaluated as ‘a rather pornographic book’, containing ‘over-
realistic descriptions of love scenes’ which ‘are not counterbalanced by
a sound moral in the conclusion’. The main source language for banned
books in this decade is clearly French, but there are also many Spanish
titles about sexuality and married life arriving in the censors’ office.
The most striking reports of the first half of the 1940s are those on
propaganda writings from Germany and Britain (rarely from France,
and even more seldom from Italy and Japan).32 It must be recalled that
Salazar defined a policy of ‘geometric neutrality’ towards the belligerent
countries33 and that, in those years, Lisbon was a privileged centre for
the intelligence services of both sides in the conflict (Telo 1990). If there
was an undeniably strong current within the regime that sympathized
openly with National Socialism (the youth and workers’ organizations
Mocidade Portuguesa and Fundação Nacional para Alegria no Trabalho,
for example, were overtly inspired by their Nazi counterparts), the
censors tried to maintain an equidistant position between Britain and
Germany: each party could defend and praise its own policies, but not
attack or slander its enemy (see R1528/42). Hitler must not be offended
(R1192/40), but neither must the Germans offend Britain or Churchill
(R2324/43; R2336/43). Sometimes the German Embassy would object to
the Commission’s decisions, and the Commission would comply with
an Embassy request (R1217/40; R2319/43). In fact, the Commission
could not help revealing its preference for the German regime (not
even allowing books on the persecution of Catholics by the Nazis, see
R2417/43)34 or its mistrust of democracy: Emil Ludwig’s La Nouvelle
Sainte-Alliance was banned because ‘it attacks authoritarian regimes and
extols democracy’ (R771/39) – words such as ‘anti-fascism’ or ‘pacifism’
meant a negative judgment on a book, as both positions were con-
sidered ‘Communist propaganda’. As far as fiction is concerned, this
made up only a rather low percentage of all the books presented to
the Commission, and included several canonical authors such as Dos
Passos, Vittorini and Ehrenburg (see Seruya 2006: 326).
The 1950s (discussed in more detail in Seruya and Moniz 2008a)
were called the ‘Years of Lead’. The expression refers to the apparent
political calm after 1949, when the regime, through the outcome of
Teresa Seruya 135
that year’s presidential elections achieved the establishment of ‘order in

the streets’ and ‘peace in the minds’ after ruthless police action (Rosas
1994: 408). Once the opposition had been defeated and an apparent
unity re-established, and under the effects of the Cold War, the ‘grey
and apparently almost apolitical drowsiness of a monotonous life’ was
restored (ibid.: 503). On the other hand, Rosas shows that, thanks in part
to Western support for Portugal’s foreign policy and for the dictatorship
itself, Salazar’s regime gained a certain political and ideological arro-
gance, which went hand in hand with a revival of the ‘anti-Communist,
corporative, Catholic, nationalist and ultra-conservative’ discourse (ibid.).
The ideological climate of the ‘Years of Lead’ led to a certain reduction
in politics and ideology as subjects submitted for censorship (now 15%),
with a corresponding increase in literary and cultural works (now 50%).
There is less difference in the rate of bans (38% for political works, 32%
for literary works) (Seruya and Moniz 2008a: 9). Books dealing with mor-
als and sex made up only 3 per cent of the titles submitted, but 18 per cent
of the banned titles.
The most common arguments for a ban derived from the official
labels discussed earlier. The label ‘propaganda’ was attributed to books
dealing with Marxism and the USSR, and to fiction writers like Paul
Éluard (R5215/54) or Pablo Neruda (R5273/55). Anti-Communist propa-
ganda was of course welcome, so that a book like Ainsi fut assassiné
Trotsky, by S. Salazar and J. Gorkin, was allowed to circulate in French.
In the field of politics, the discomfort of the censors in relation to the
topics of National Socialism, democracy and war should be underlined,
as it shows continuities with the 1940s and indicates that the defeat of
National Socialism was never really digested by most members of the
Censoring Commission. Kaputt, by Curzio Malaparte, seen as a ‘vigor-
ous opponent of fascism’, was considered unsuitable by the censors
because it did not seem ‘appropriate to bring to light again facts that
should be forgotten in the context of current international politics’
(R5481/55). Pacifism and anti-militarism are unwanted issues as well:
the first pages of Louis Aragon’s L’Enseigne de Gersaint ‘consist of an
apology for the concept of humanity overcoming the concepts of
Fatherland and Nationality. The book also conveys lax, morbid defeat-
ism and numerous anti-militarist and pacifist ideas influenced by
Communism’ (R5208/54).
Like the 1940s, the 1950s saw bans on literature considered porno-
graphic and otherwise offensive in the light of Christian morality, on
the grounds that it constituted a doctrine of social dissolution. Two
frequently banned authors were Louis-Charles Royer and the Italian
Pitigrilli, whose Caras Pintadas prompted the censor to write: ‘it is

full of dissolute social thoughts and narrations’ (R4613/51). Another
stigmatizing judgement often applied to literature was its ‘realism’.
Authors like Niven Busch, D. H. Lawrence, Jean Genet and John Dos
Passos had some of their books banned because they described, in the
censors’ view, how things ‘really are’. This association of realism with
immorality reveals the censors’ purpose of imposing a fanciful, alien-
ated image of the world, which always plays an important role in the
political agendas of dictatorships. The manipulation of words, as in
‘propaganda’ and ‘realism’, is thus a recurrent and striking feature in
the censors’ reports.
The 1960s opened a new historical phase with the beginning of the
colonial war in Angola in 1961. Anti-colonialism emerges as a new
subject in the Censoring Commission. For the most part,35 it was con-
sidered Communist propaganda (pertaining to Cuba or to the Algerian
Revolution, for example) that aimed to slander the Portuguese colonies.
The label ‘propaganda’, which was also attributed to a very large number
of Marxist works during the decade, meant an immediate ban of the
book. ‘Propaganda’ was the opposite of ‘history’, which was deemed
to record facts beyond all subjectivity and prejudice (see, for example,
R7828/66 on Joel Carmichael). As the censors were hardly naïve – they
cannot have ignored the fact that they themselves were working in
a propaganda department – we must read their distinction between
propaganda and history as an assertion of their power to determine the
‘correct’ viewpoint on ‘facts’. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Oeuvres, pub-
lished in French by Éditions du Progrès in Moscow and brought to the
Censoring Commission by PIDE (unsurprisingly, in view of the edition’s
geographical provenance), was approved for circulation in French: ‘In
today’s Russia, educated people want to read something different from
Communist propaganda. That is proved by this book, since it was clearly
not supposed to be available to everybody, and therefore was published
in French for a very restricted readership’ (R7855/66). Clearly, as in the
1950s, there was also ‘good’ propaganda, the anti-Communist version.
There is a striking irony in the argument made in favour of Lucien
Goldmann’s Introduction à la philosophie de Kant: ‘The right to culture
and to thought justifies the free circulation of this book’ (R8554/69).
‘Realism’ continued to be a stigmatizing label in the 1960s, still associ-
ated with immorality. It was now often applied to Italian neo-realists.
The books in question dealt with poverty, ‘moral distress and derange-
ment’, and were thus ‘socially ill-natured’ (R6621/60, on Elio Vittorini’s
Consideram-se mortos e morrem, a banned translation). The same applied
Teresa Seruya 137
to Simone de Beauvoir’s memoir La force de l’âge: ‘the whole book mir-

rors the author’s immorality and anti-social ideas, which she displays
condescendingly’ (R7066/62). Political subjects in neo-realist works met
with the censors’ strongest disapproval. Their rationale for banning the
translation Um herói do nosso tempo by Vasco Pratolini is a paradigmatic
example:
[I]t analyses critically the Italian people’s life at the end of the last
war […] terrible fights, usually between Communists and Fascists […]
moreover, we meet speculation concerning sexual liberties, hence
the novel seems immoral, but it is not pornographic […] the main
part is an intense political speculation, extolling the Communist
guerrilla groups as being the best elements from the social, political
and human viewpoint, whereas Fascists and the youth brought up
and shaped by fascism are the worst elements from all viewpoints.
(R7806/66)
The quotation shows not only the continued discomfort in relation to

Fascism, National Socialism and the war – more than 20 years after its
end – but also the continued use of the negative label of ‘speculation’
for sexual matters deemed too liberal or political positions sympathiz-
ing with Communism. But the censors’ use of language also included
subtleties such as the distinction between sexualidade [sexuality] and
sexualismo [sexualism]. Books labelled as being about sexuality are con-
sidered to reveal usually serious, scientific approaches to the subject and
are therefore not objectionable (La sexualité, by Dr Willy and C. Jamont,
is described as ‘a thorough study of sexuality, conceived in purely sci-
entific terms’, R8349/69), whereas ‘sexualism’ tends towards immorality
or even pornography: Nymphomania, by the American authors Albert
Ellie and Edward Sagarin, ‘deals with sexualist matters’, but is approved
because, having been presented to the Censoring Commission in its
German translation, ‘it is beyond the reach of most readers’ (R8368/69).
We can observe a certain liberalization of censorship in this field – as
indicated, for example, by the approval of Wilhelm Reich’s La fonction
de l’orgasme (R8477/69).
Very little fiction was assessed in the second half of the 1960s, but
the most striking cases were those that fell under the suspicion of
‘sexualism’, such as Henry Miller, repeatedly presented for censor-
ship and almost always banned.36 John Updike was another author
who did not benefit from the more liberal atmosphere. In contrast,
Graham Greene (R8363/69) and Jorge Amado (R7882/66; 7889/66) were
permitted, at least in some cases, and despite their realism and sexual
themes, apparently because of the quality of their writing.
How effective was translation censorship?

An evaluation of the effectiveness of the censorship of translations will
require further, more systematic study of the fortunes of individual
banned books. Their origin was diverse: in terms of the prospective
circulation of a foreign book, it made a difference whether the book
presented for censorship had been ordered by an individual reader (who
probably wanted to read it in the original, not translate it) or by a pub-
lishing house hoping to translate the book. If a translation was envis-
aged, how far would a publisher ‘obey’ the censors’ decision, whether
cuts or a ban?
For the moment, as long as the missing reports of the Censoring
Commission are not found, no definitive statements about the fate
of banned books in general is possible, but some points may indicate
limits to the efficacy of censorship. First, book confiscation was such a
complex procedure that, years after a particular book was banned, the
police could still be looking for copies in bookshops. Booksellers would,
additionally, always find a way to hide and keep banned or suspect
books for special clients, so that private libraries were likely to evade
censorship to a significant extent.37 As for publishers, the absence of
pre-publication censorship on books meant it was quite a risk to order
translations in certain fields or by certain authors. Publishing houses
did take the risk, however: after all, the police could not always be
everywhere. When Françoise Sagan’s Bonjour tristesse was banned for
circulation and translation in 1954, ‘many copies had already been
sold’ (Azevedo 1997: 203). The ‘Rififi’ series, a mixture of detective and
erotic stories that was a great commercial success, angered the cen-
sors for its ‘incredible impudence’. They could not understand how it
was possible ‘regularly to publish such works in our country’; ‘if a few
volumes of this series were banned, one wonders about the quality of
all the others that were not examined’ (R7834/66). Erskine Caldwell’s
Gretta was approved in Portuguese with the following argument: despite
the fact that ‘the work is not pornographic, but rather obscene’, it ‘was
translated into Portuguese […] and is now in its fourth edition, with-
out having given rise to any protest so far’ (R7847/66). The Censoring
Commission is admitting its own inability to control the whole book
market, and the censors were well aware of the many ways used to
evade their judgements, at times attributing them to Communist forces.
When Burchett’s Vietnam, Segunda Resistência was banned in 1966, it
Teresa Seruya 139
was already in its second edition, ‘although only now has it been put
on sale in bookshops. Ever since I heard of the book I tried to buy it, but
I was not successful. Later, I discovered that books published by Seara
Nova are first distributed to their subscribers and supporters, to whom
they are sent without advance payment, because such propaganda is
financed by the Communist Party’ (R7925/66).
Although we have access to lists of banned books and banned transla-
tions, the real impact of the censors’ decisions still has to be carefully
assessed, title by title. If, for example, George Bernanos’ Les grands
cimetières sous la lune was banned in its French version (R638/38) and
not translated until 1974, other banned works were translated quickly
despite an explicit prohibition. Such was the case for Caryl Chessmann’s
Cellule 2455. Couloir de la mort, a book translated in 1959 (as 2455 –
A Cela da Morte) in contravention of a 1956 ban (R5618/56) and yet
enjoying lasting success with both readers and the press.38
Conclusion
In writing the history of translation in Portugal’s Estado Novo regime,

it must be borne in mind that translation covers many domains other
than literature, domains that played a crucial role in informing and
supplying the Portuguese public with a scientific production they could
not find at home. One eloquent example is ‘BAB – Biblioteca Arcádia de
Bolso’ (1962–70), a paperback series published by Arcádia, which filled
entire sections, such as philosophy, psychology, pure and applied sci-
ences and social sciences, with translations (see Seruya 2005a).39 In fact,
the percentage of translations in these domains was very high during
the Estado Novo – perhaps 50 per cent or above, although reliable statis-
tics are not readily available. As regards literature the rate is likely to have
been at least 40 per cent. Further research must be undertaken to arrive
at more conclusive results. There is no doubt, however, that genres such
as detective and adventure stories, science fiction and the sentimental
novel saw very high percentages of translations; in the case of science
fiction, even 100 per cent for a long period. The main source culture
for translations, in quantitative terms, was Spain, followed by Britain
and the US, a somewhat surprising fact, as the common perception,
even at the highest political level, was that France was the epitome of
culture.40
As regards censorship, if we follow the official information about
banned books, we come to about 3550 titles banned (Comissão do Livro
Negro 1981), out of a total of 10,011 reports issued by the Censoring
Commission. Bearing in mind that fiction was not the major area of work
submitted to the Commission, and that a high number of translations of
literature were published, it seems that, quantitatively, literature was not
particularly affected. Doctrinal or ideological (especially Marxist) writings
and, secondarily, sex-related matters tending towards eroticism or por-
nography were the main sources of disapproval by the censors. Whether
a ban meant that Portuguese readers had no access to Marxist or erotic/
pornographic writings still has to be carefully assessed – for example, we
know that at least seven translations of Stalin’s works were published in
Portugal before the April Revolution of 1974.
Compared with censorship of the press and other media, the censor-
ship of foreign and Portuguese books (including translations) was on
a much smaller scale. This is not surprising, considering how the two
reading publics differed both numerically – newspapers, radio and tele-
vision obviously had a much greater impact on public opinion, which
was one of Salazar’s great concerns41 – and in terms of the high illiteracy
rate, unfavourable to book consumption. The fact that books were not
subjected to pre-publication censorship, as were the media, also signals
their relative unimportance. For the Portuguese case, the strong pres-
ence of non-translated foreign books is important: these were only
accessible to a minority, hence were not a major source of concern for
the authorities. PIDE did play an important role in confiscating books
and delivering them to the Censoring Commission, but in Pimentel’s
(2007) history of the political police this activity was not worth a
chapter.
Notes
1. More systematized research on translation studies in Portugal started in 1998
with the project ‘Literary history and translations. Representations of the
Other in Portuguese Culture’, which has resulted in five books (Seruya and
Moniz 2001; Seruya 2001; Lopes and Oliveira 2002; Seruya 2005b, 2007).
Previously, individual scholars such as Almeida Flor, Ferreira Duarte and
Fernanda Gil Costa had contributed through some case studies. As far as cen-
sorship and fascism is concerned, I refer to the conference at the University
of Bologna (Forlì campus) in April 2005, ‘Translation in Fascist Systems: Italy,
Spain, Germany’.
2. Costa Pinto himself (among others) reserves the designation ‘Portuguese
Fascism’ for the National Syndicalist Movement, based on the Integralismo
Lusitano, a political and intellectual movement founded on the eve of the
First World War, whose ‘most obvious inspiration’ was Charles Maurras’s
Action Française (Costa Pinto 1991: 238). After some failed attempts at a
compromise with Salazar, the ‘Blue Shirts’, as the ‘integralistas’ were known,
Teresa Seruya 141
were banished in 1934 and became part of the opposition against the regime
(see Costa Pinto 1994: Chapter 5).
3. I quote here from the English translation (Salazar 1939), to which Salazar
himself wrote an explanatory preface dated 1936. The original is dated
30 June 1930, and reads: ‘a Ditadura […] é um fenómeno da mesma ordem
dos que por esse mundo, nesta hora, com parlamentos ou sem eles, se obser-
vam, tentando colocar o Poder em situação de prestígio e de força contra as
arremetidas da desordem, e em condições de trabalhar e de agir pela nação’
(Salazar 1935: 73). Unless otherwise indicated all translations from the
Portuguese are my own.
4. According to Jaime Nogueira Pinto the first influential source in Salazar’s
thought was ‘organic democracy’ or ‘Christian Democracy’, a world view
departing from a religious position. Its doctrinal corpus are the papal encyc-
licals of the second half of the nineteenth century. Its enemies are laicism,
Freemasonry, anti-clericalism, internationalism, Communism, democratic
government. It must be remembered that Salazar had a vivid recollection
of the persecution of Catholics and the Catholic Church during the first
Republic in 1910–26 (Nogueira Pinto 2007: iv–v).
5. Público 10 June 2008: 6.
6. ‘Nada contra a Nação, tudo pela Nação’, from a speech of 21 October 1929
entitled ‘Política de verdade, política de sacrifício, política nacional’ (Salazar
1935: 34).
7. ‘Quem se coloca no terreno nacional não tem partidos, nem grupos nem
escolas: aproveita materiais conforme a sua utilidade para reconstruir o
país’, from a speech of 26 October 1933 at the inauguration of the SPN
(Propaganda Office) (Salazar 1935: 263).
8. ‘Antes de haver entrado no trabalho de reorganização, uma palavra só –
desordem – definia em todos os domínios a situação portuguesa’, from a
speech of 28 May 1930 to commemorate the fourth anniversary of the
National Dictatorship.
9. The Propaganda Secretariat SPN was renamed SNI – Secretariado Nacional
da Informação, Cultura Popular e Turismo in 1944, and SEIT – Secretaria de
Estado da Informação e Turismo in 1968.
10. ‘Às almas dilaceradas pela dúvida e o negativismo do século procurámos
restituir o conforto das grandes certezas. Não discutimos Deus e a virtude;
não discutimos a Pátria e a sua História; não discutimos a autoridade e o seu
prestígio; não discutimos a família e a sua moral; não discutimos a glória do
trabalho e o seu dever.’ This speech, called ‘As grandes certezas da Revolução
Nacional’, was delivered in Braga to commemorate the tenth anniversary of
the National Dictatorship (Salazar 1937: 130).
11. Christine Garnier was a well-known French journalist who interviewed
Salazar several times and was for a while on very friendly terms with him.
Her book Férias com Salazar [Holidays with Salazar] was first published in
1952 and was frequently reprinted.
12. This view of translation as exerting a negative influence on a national lit-
erature is neither original nor specific to Portugal. One of many examples is
Korpel (1993: 116–19).
13. Livros de Portugal was a monthly magazine belonging to the booksellers’
association GNEL.
14. In 1968 this kind of literature was described by one of the official dailies, O
Século, as ‘distorting and highly dangerous literature’, especially because it
was read by children and young people (Livros de Portugal 116/1968: 22–3).
15. ‘O livro, esquecido, descansa a lombada nas estantes empoeiradas’.
16. This justification for resorting to translations is not uncommon in the his-
tory of translation, and is no doubt one of the reasons for the lack of prestige
often attached to translation. Again, this is not a specifically Portuguese
phenomenon.
17. The last volume of Gonçalves Rodrigues’s translation bibliography
A Tradução em Portugal (Rodrigues 1999) ends in 1930. Data on translations of
literature pertaining to the five years 1930–35 is currently being collected by
the project Intercultural literature in Portugal 1930–1974: A critical bibliography.
The years 1935–40 are already covered, but as the decade is not complete it
will not be considered here. The same applies to the first half of the 1970s,
‘naturally’ divided by the April Revolution of 1974. It would be interesting
to observe the evolution of the translational landscape after the dictatorship,
but for methodological reasons I will retain the decade criterion.
18. There is no exhaustive data collection, but the data on which the present
comments are based is nonetheless representative. The sources consulted are:
the Boletim de Bibliografia Portuguesa, the Index Translationum, the National
Library catalogues, second-hand booksellers and a few private libraries.
19. Within the research project mentioned above we defined 12 criteria as to
what counts as a single title (see Seruya 2009: 79–80). They are based on
Toury’s view of translation as causing change in the target culture: ‘Being an
instance of performance, every individual text is of course unique; it may
be more or less in tune with prevailing models but in itself it is a novelty.
As such, its introduction into a target culture always entails some change,
however slight, of the latter’ (Toury 1995: 26). For example, if one title is
published twice in the same year, with the same translator, but in different
publishing houses, it counts twice. The slightest difference in the context of
a title is considered a change and thus a ‘novelty’.
20. This necessary selection hides relevant authors and countries such as the
Austrian Stefan Zweig, who had been an enormous success in Portugal since
the 1930s and across five decades. Countries are identified by the Standard
Code designation, which raises some problems, for example concerning
Germany (so far we have not distinguished the Federal Republic from the
GDR) or the name ‘Russia’, still prevailing over ‘USSR’ due to the strong pres-
ence of classical Russian authors.
21. José Freire Antunes quotes an ‘Office of Strategic Services Report 1942’, from
the National Archives in Washington DC: ‘In Portugal there is a most com-
plete ignorance about America and the Americans. Most people only know
Americans from what they see in films and read in sensationalist newspapers
about millionaires, gangsters, scandals with movie stars, etc. Neither those
films, which shock the conservative Portuguese morals, nor the contact
with American companies have favoured the image of the USA in Portugal’
(Antunes 1991: 22).
22. Authors and genres are listed in descending order of the number of titles.
23. In the English translation by António de Figueiredo (2001).
24. I am grateful to Joaquim Cardoso Gomes for this information.
Teresa Seruya 143
25. ‘Os homens, os grupos, as classes vêem, observam as coisas, estudam os

acontecimentos à luz do seu interesse. Só uma entidade, por dever e posição,
tudo tem de ver à luz do interesse de todos’ (Salazar 1935: 260).
26. ‘António Costa Pinto has pointed out the important military component of
the censorship machine during the Military Dictatorship and the Estado Novo,
as well as in other areas of public administration […] such as the lead of the
political police. […] As regards censorship, he refers to the maintenance of
a “very strong group of Army officers”, which he traces back to the military
origins of the Estado Novo and its very low demilitarization. Already in 1933
Salazar had made clear how convinced he was that the “military origin of the
Portuguese Dictatorship would always confer a special quality on our revolu-
tion”, a statement which particularly suits Portuguese censorship as compared
to Italian Fascism, National Socialism or even Francoism’ (Gomes 2006: 97).
27. The reports of the Censoring Commission concerning Portuguese and for-
eign books, which have been examined and sorted by Maria Lin Moniz (to
whom I am most grateful) and myself, are kept in large cardboard boxes
identified as ‘Caixas da Censura’. The reports are all numbered and signed
by two censors, the author of the report and the decision-taker. They are not
yet catalogued.
28. For example, Colette’s Chéri (translated by José Saramago) was banned in
1950 because it contained ‘pornography and illustrations’ (R 4484/50), but
when it was presented again 15 years later (6/5/1965), the reason was not
only that the era was more ‘daring in the field of immorality’, but also the
fact that ‘she is a very famous writer, a member of the Goncourt Academy
and of the Royal Academy of Belgium, to whom the French government
paid homage through an official funeral’. This did not persuade the decision-
taker to rescind the ban, which was later reinforced: acknowledged as a
masterpiece, the novel was, however, ‘a masterpiece of immorality and
shamelessness’ (R8567/69).
29. The numbering of the censors’ reports indicates report number and issuing
year. In the following, the book titles will be reproduced as they appear on
the reports; when in Portuguese an English translation will be provided.
30. In the late 1960s a book about male impotence (Wilhelm Stekel’s Impotência
masculina, a Brazilian translation), was allowed to circulate but only if ‘des-
tined for the medical profession’ (R8595/69).
31. The titles are given as they appear in the censors’ reports, which may have been
based on original source texts or intermediary translations.
32. The whole corpus of propaganda writings deserves special attention, not so
much on account of the content, but rather because they are either transla-
tions made in Germany/Britain (or already in the embassies in Lisbon), or
originally written in Portuguese. In all cases, the question of their authorship
is interesting.
33. Later replaced by ‘cooperative neutrality’ favourable to the Allies.
34. Although anti-Semitism was not part of the regime’s ideology, it is a subject
worth investigating within the Censoring Commission. There is no doubt,
however, that information about the persecution of Jews by the Nazis was
banned (for example Victor Gollancz’s Let my People Go, R2295/43).
35. Of course there were also respectable African leaders, such as Sékou Touré
(R6473/59).
36. The exception is The Air Conditioned Nightmare. The novel’s Brazilian
translation, confiscated by PIDE, was passed by the censors for circulation
(R8574/69).
37. In fact, the source mentioned for front covers reproduced in the catalogue
Livros Proibidos no Estado Novo (2005) is usually ‘private collection’.
38. The strong impact of Chessmann’s novel led the Portuguese Writers’
Association to write an open letter to the US ambassador in Lisbon stating
the country’s opposition to the death penalty and asking the American
authorities to grant Chessmann the right to live (LP 12/1959).
39. Among the book series of repute in well-known publishing houses, the
‘Biblioteca Cosmos’ (1941–8) was a rare case in which translations were the
exception.
40. When asked by Serge Groussard in 1958 if ‘the French culture still maintains
its traditional influence in Portugal’, Salazar replied: ‘Definitely, not only
because French is compulsory in the secondary school, but also because it is
the vehicle for translation of foreign scientific and literary works. I myself
am deeply indebted to the French culture’ (Salazar 1967: 42).
41. Public opinion was often used by Salazar as an argument for censorship. One
telling example is an interview with the French newspaper Le Figaro, given to
Serge Groussard on 2 and 3 September 1958. When asked when censorship
might end Salazar answered: ‘Anyone who accepts, as we do, that public
opinion is, according to the Constitution, a fundamental element of politics
and the administration of our country, can’t help assigning to the state the
duty of defending it against all factors that could mislead it about truth
and justice. The big problem is to know which is the best defence, since the
press, which is, together with the radio and television, the principal means
of training public opinion, operates as a capitalist company, where private
interests may surpass the public interest’ (Salazar 1967: 45; my translation).
Part III
Case Studies
6
Literary Exchange between
Italy and Germany: German
Literature in Italian Translation
Mario Rubino
In May 1933, just a few months after Hitler’s coming to power, there
was a ‘purification’ of public libraries, and in the quadrangles of most
German universities all the books by ‘un-German’ authors, either Jews or
anti-Nazis, were burnt. Strangely enough, however, in 1933 Fascist Italy
was the country which translated and published the greatest number of
books by these same authors.
The present study began with the intention of examining the causes of
this apparently paradoxical situation, identifying the background which
gave rise to it, and then following its evolution, which was greatly condi-
tioned by international affairs, especially by the Italian attack on Ethiopia
and the Italian-German alliance that followed, a situation that would
have been judged highly unlikely only a few years before. With these aims
in mind I have attempted to build up an idea of the Erwartungshorizont
(the ‘horizon of expectation’, the key idea of Gadamer and Jauss) of the
Italian public regarding contemporary German fiction during and after the
Weimar Republic. I have identified some of the reasons behind the extraor-
dinary success of German fiction despite the innumerable difficulties
created by Fascist censorship. This has involved investigating the various
stages of the progressive restrictions applied to the importation of books
after the German-Italian cultural agreement of 1938 and the racial laws
adopted in Italy that year. I also describe some examples of the sort of pas-
sive resistance enacted by Italian publishers between 1940 and 1945 against
the philo-Nazi fiction that Germany attempted to impose on its ally.
German literature in Italian in the late 1920s
Looking back at the beginnings of her activity as a mediator between

the German and Italian cultures in a paper published in the collection
147
148 German Literature in Italian Translation
Die andere Achse (1964), the Italian scholar of German Lavinia

Mazzucchetti1 gave an outline of the presence of German literature in
Italy before 1920:
At the time, contemporary German literature was given very little

consideration. It was the period of D’Annunzio, and Italy’s own
literature was renaissance-oriented and decadent. In Italy, German
literature was considered to be heavy and difficult, not something
to be read for entertainment. For both France and Italy, countries
with Latin roots, the land over the border was truly foreign: hic sunt
leones. […] It is true that a few ambitious youngsters devoured works
by Stirner and Nietzsche, Nordau and Weininger, translated and pub-
lished by the excellent Bocca (Turin) editions (with black-and-white
covers), but that was not literature! Still less so were the numerous
books by Marlitt and her friends, nor were the slightly better novels
produced by other women, such as Clara Viebig or Helene Böhlau,
published by the Milanese publishers Treves.2
(Mazzucchetti 1964: 10)
Objectively, Mazzucchetti’s observations on the few translations of con-

temporary German literature in early twentieth-century Italy could easily
be extended to almost all foreign modern literature, with the exceptions
of French and Russian works. French was the only foreign language
taught in schools and was relatively widely studied, at least among the
educated classes, while Russian literature was normally retranslated
into Italian from the French versions available. For the rest of foreign
literature it was first necessary to educate a new generation of experts in
the language and contemporary culture of the other countries, people
with enough in-depth knowledge to be able to render unnecessary any
mediation through the French publishing houses and reviews. This is
what actually took place in the period before and immediately after the
First World War – when publishing houses, newspapers and magazines
took on a good number of young scholars or candidates for future uni-
versity posts who had lived abroad for their studies or more personal
reasons. These young people had been in direct contact with the literary
novelties of other nations. They could bring these to the attention of
editors and, if required, also translate them competently.
For the diffusion of foreign literature, however, the presence of quali-
fied cultural mediators is not enough. There must also be the interest of
the publishing world and, above all, an audience of readers.
Mario Rubino 149
The experience of war, among other things, awakened a new desire

to be informed of what was happening inside and outside the nation,
a mass phenomenon absolutely new in Italy which brought about
a trebling of the circulation of newspapers between 1915 and 1918
(Paccagnini 1997: 261). Books too, aroused greater interest than ever
before, both for information and for entertainment. In 1918, the
Florentine publisher Piero Barbera observed that
today people who didn’t read in the past have begun to do so: in
families, reading distracts the mind from obsessive worrying due to
the war, and the cinema is not sufficient for this; books are read in
the trenches in the pauses, behind the lines, in the hospitals.3
(Barbera 1997: 279)
The Italian publishing industry responded to this new thirst for lit-
erature partly with ‘escapist literature’ by Italian authors who ‘limited
themselves to transpositions for the lower and middle classes of literary
models inspired by the late romanticism of D’Annunzio’4 (Giocondi
1978: 14). This was the moment of authors such as Guido da Verona,5
Pitigrilli6 or Mario Mariani,7 the most representative of the schools
of ‘obscene or armistice or Milanese literature’8 (Albonetti 1994:
23–27), which continued to be ‘longsellers’ until after the Second World
War.
However, Italian authors rarely if ever produced any of the many
genres of ‘escapist fiction’, such as detective, adventure or colonial nov-
els, and it was necessary to draw from the enormous library of foreign
narrative, especially English and French, in order to satisfy the growing
demand for this type of ‘literary imagination for the masses’9 (Ragone
1999: 112). Gian Dàuli,10 who lived through this period, described the
situation in the following terms:
In authors such as London, Conrad and Kipling, there is a spirit of

adventure, action and life lived dangerously that corresponds deeply
with the state of mind of the new Italian, and that can give a valid
contribution in educating our young folk to the ‘strenuous life’
required by the new age.11
(Quoted in Billiani 2007a: 98)
Robert Louis Stevenson, Joseph Conrad, Maurice Leblanc, Rudyard

Kipling, Gaston Leroux, G. K. Chesterton, Jack London and Pierre
Benoît were the most frequently translated authors, but often the trans-
lations were rather approximate and there was no precise strategy on
the part of the publishers. Kipling’s Kim, for example, was published
by six different publishing houses in the space of a few years (Vallardi
in 1913, Quintieri in 1920, Corticelli in 1922, Monanni in 1928, Bietti
in 1928 and Barion in 1929), and London’s The Call of the Wild by five
(Modernissima in 1924, Sonzogno in 1928, Bietti in 1928, Corticelli in
1929 and Delta in 1929) (Billiani 2007a: 314–20).
Despite the rather experimental and haphazard nature of the publish-
ers’ initiatives up to then, the readers’ response was extremely positive.
By the end of the 1920s and the beginning of the 1930s, the conditions
were right for the first series specifically dedicated to contemporary
foreign literature, organized by publishers, editors and translators of
proven experience.
In 1926, on the initiative of Alfredo Polledro,12 the Slavia publish-
ing house was founded in Turin. Availing itself of the collaboration of
young scholars of Balkan literature such as Ettore Lo Gatto and Leone
Ginzburg, Slavia started to present the works of authors in unabridged
versions translated directly from the originals, an absolute novelty for
an Italian book market inundated, as far as Balkan literature was con-
cerned, with rewrites, extracts and manipulations of French translations
which in themselves were often rather dubious.
However, 1929 was the year that saw the real launch of the new pub-
lishing strategy, with the appearance of three new series of foreign litera-
ture: ‘Scrittori di tutto il mondo’ [Writers of the World], directed by Gian
Dàuli on behalf of the Milanese publisher Modernissima, ‘Narratori nor-
dici’ [Northern Narrators], edited by Lavinia Mazzucchetti for Sperling &
Kupfer, Milan, and ‘I romanzi della vita moderna’ [Novels of Modern Life]
published by Bemporad, Florence.
One of the novelties of these three series was that alongside the usual
English, American and French authors, the works of contemporary
German novelists were also to be offered to the public. Between 1919
and 1928, only eight works of contemporary German literature had
been published,13 perhaps due to the impression of German literature
that Italian readers had formed on the basis of pre-war works written
in the Germany of Kaiser Wilhelm: deep and complex, but certainly
not very accessible to the average reader. Furthermore, even after the
war, Italian tastes in literature still prioritized elegance and harmony
of form, and remained hostile to the experiments of the expression-
ist avant-garde.14 By the end of the 1920s this attitude had undergone
radical changes.
Mario Rubino 151
The interest in German literature was evident in the very name of

the ‘Northern Narrators’ series published by Sperling & Kupfer. In the
space of a single year, 1929, the series included the following German
works: Leonhard Frank’s Carlo e Anna (Karl und Anna, 1926), Thomas
Mann’s Disordine e dolore precoce (Unordnung und frühes Leid, 1926) and
Cane e padrone (Herr und Hund, 1919), Wassermann’s Le orecchie del signor
marchese (Sturrenganz, 1922) and Werfel’s La morte del piccolo borghese
(Der Tod des Kleinbürgers, 1927).
More telling still was the choice of Volume 2 of Bemporad’s ‘Novels of
Modern Life’ series (‘Modern novels for modern readers’ was the adver-
tising slogan): Ernst Glaeser’s Classe 1902, 1930 ( Jahrgang 1902, 1928).
The editor’s note in the Appendix reads as follows: ‘A true and meaning-
ful book: one may observe the downfall of imperial Germany and the
birth, behind the scenes, of the new German spirit.’15 In the same series,
Glaeser’s work was followed, between 1930 and 1933, by Vicki Baum’s
Grand Hôtel, 1932 (Menschen im Hotel, 1929), which became a bestseller
partly due to Edmund Goulding’s 1932 film of the same name and Tre
di tre milioni, 1933 (Von drei Millionen drei) by Leonhard Frank, a novel
published in Germany in 1932 which dealt with the tragic phenom-
enon of mass unemployment.
The very first volume of Modernissima’s ‘Writers of the World’ series
was a translation from German: Il diavolo, 1930 (Der Teufel, 1926) by
Alfred Neumann, a historical novel set in fifteenth-century Flanders
and written in a flowing style that created few difficulties for the
reader. This was immediately followed by Süß, l’ebreo ( Jud Süß, 1925)
by Lion Feuchtwanger and Thomas Mann’s La montagna incantata (Der
Zauberberg, 1924), both published in 1930. One of the major successes
of the series was Berlin-Alexanderplatz (Berlin Alexanderplatz, 1929) by
Alfred Döblin, published in 1931.
The public’s interest in German literature becomes very clear if we
consider that between 1929 and 1934, 15 out of the 35 translations
published in the ‘Writers of the World’ series were of German literature,
while only eight were of American novels (among these, Lewis’ Babbitt
and Don Passos’ Manhattan Transfer give an idea of the literary quality
of the series), four English, three French (including Céline’s Voyage au
bout de la nuit), three Hungarian and two Russian.16
Italian views of Weimar Germany
All this demonstrates the interest of the Italian public, and consequently
of the publishing world, towards contemporary German literature at
the end of the 1920s and the beginning of the 1930s. Something had
changed in the expectations of Italian readers. A passage from Emilio
Castellani’s17 memoirs may help enlighten us:
And contemporary Germany? The news we receive from there is very

confused. We were stuck with the idea of a nation impoverished by
inflation, still haunted by the ghost of Wilhelm II and his hateful
spiked helmets. Obviously we had heard of a revolt, of desperate
social risings and their failure, but we were still unable to imagine
the new reality over on the other side of the Alps. We were told there
was a certain Stresemann who dominated the political debates, but
for us he was really just one more of that multitude of gentlemen in
top hats and tails who all met up at international conferences, but in
whose usefulness we had long ceased to believe.
Friends who came back from periods of study at Munich, Frankfurt
or Heidelberg told us of strange contradictions: free love and duels
between students, Georg Grosz and Max Liebermann, lectures on
psychoanalysis and endless debates on the revision of Marxism.
The Ufa studio’s films – Lang’s Dr Mabuse, Pabst’s Kameradschaft,
Pommer’s Der Kongreß tanzt – gave us a vision of a world that went
from the paroxysm of hallucination to an exaltation of human
solidarity, abandoning itself the next minute to the most carefree
hedonism.18
(Castellani 1964: 29–30)
In this passage Castellani succinctly describes some of the basic ele-

ments of the idea young Italians (and not only Italians) had formed of
the new Weimar Republic. Even more than the elements themselves,
however, what is important are the contradictions between them, as
Castellani correctly observed. It is these which stimulate the reader’s
curiosity. Another fundamental ingredient is the reference to the brand
new world of cinema, to which I will give more attention later in the
chapter – it was the period of maximum glory of the German film
industry and many legendary films were produced. For the first time
cinema took its place alongside literature in shaping the ideas foreign-
ers had of Germany, and from then on gradually pushed literature into
the background.
The disquieting and enigmatic contradictions of Weimar reality were
a characteristic which also emerged in another, much more traditional
form of communication, the journalistic report. The turbulent social,
economic and political events of post First World War Germany, such
as inflation or the liberalization of social behaviour in Berlin, the ‘new
Mario Rubino 153
Babylon’, were considered all the more ‘sensational’ when compared

with the stereotype of Prussian order and rigour associated with pre-war
Germany; this gave rise to the presence of hordes of correspondents
whose job was to inform Italian newspaper readers of what was going
on on the other side of the Alps. Of the authors of the period’s numer-
ous newspaper and magazine articles,19 I have chosen two of the most
significant, the first of whom wrote on the beginnings of the Weimar
Republic and the second on the years in which the signs of its decline
and fall were becoming evident. Articles like these played a fundamen-
tal role in destroying the old stereotypes regarding Germany and the
Germans, sparking off a lively curiosity for what was happening there.
Journalism
One of the most famous correspondents from Germany in the first
half of the 1920s was Paolo Monelli.20 Monelli made a clear distinction
between Berlin, described as ‘modern to the point of neurosis’ (Monelli
1927: 27) and as ‘a bilge of the most filthy vices’ (ibid.: 169), and the
rest of Germany, ‘the Germany we used to love’, with ‘its naive medi-
eval feeling, its beer-brewing bourgeoisie, its romantic young lasses’
(ibid.: 182), ‘the easy-going Germany liked so much by our shrewd and
ironic fathers’ (ibid.: 257).21 Even a large city like Munich seemed to
him ‘exceedingly sweet and perfect’, ‘a delicious refreshment for the
eye and for the spirit of those fleeing from Berlin, a Babylon gone bad,
a republican trollop with a ragged Frisian beret covering her unkempt
hair’22 (ibid.: 253). In his descriptions of the ‘Babylonic capital’23 (ibid.:
257), many pages of one chapter are dedicated to the ‘business of the
perverts, the sinners and the abnormal’24 (ibid.: 108), with anecdotes
and atmospheric details of ‘a thousand ambiguous little coffee shops
in western Berlin, full of men dressed as women, women with cara-
mel-coloured locks and trousers, many Russians, many artists, many
professors, many adolescents’25 (ibid.: 109). After a further denunciation
of the explosion of licentious writings, he felt obliged to deduce that
‘there is something rotten in the land of Brandenburg’26 (ibid.: 237). On
the other hand, and here Monelli is struck by the same contradictions
that struck the young Castellani, even in the ‘exceedingly sweet’ and
‘easy-going’ provinces he could not help but notice the anachronistic
student traditions, the student duel or Mensur being the most conspicu-
ous among these, which ‘not even the new era and the experience of
the war’ had managed to do away with, ‘let alone the recent laws which
forbid it, given that they are the laws of the much hated democratic
republic with its headquarters up in red Berlin’27 (ibid.: 259).
Corrado Alvaro,28 who wrote articles for the weekly L’Italia letteraria,
the Stampa of Turin and L’Ambrosiano of Milan, made several visits to
Germany between 1928 and 1931. Unlike Monelli’s witty and conversa-
tional pieces, Alvaro’s articles are more thoughtful – asking, and trying
to answer, a number of serious questions. The two did concur on several
points: the Americanization of the Berlin lifestyle, the prominence of
the Jews in the intellectual and financial worlds, the parallel growth of
anti-Semitism, the novelty of German cabaret, and more.
From the very first, however, Alvaro did not express the self-satisfied
presumption of the Italian Fascist Monelli towards the Germans’ unre-
solved problems. His attitude was a more reflective one:
I was offered the chance to visit one of the parts of Europe that peo-
ple say are tormented by the thousand demons of modernity, the
result of experiences totally different, completely opposite in nature,
from our own, open to all that the world has brought to life in the
last ten years, nationalism, Communism, industrialization, and to
that American lifestyle that seems strangely to sum up all the tenden-
cies of the modern world: Germany with its new internationalist and
Europeanist myth.29
(Alvaro 1995: 233)
In Alvaro’s eyes, this condition of being the sole true European home
of the ‘thousand demons of modernity’ put Germany on a par with
the US and Soviet Russia. The Germany-Russia-America and the Berlin-
Moscow-New York trio appeared often in his reports on the culture of
the Weimar Republic whenever he wished to indicate a sort of geo-
graphical area of the ‘modern’: ‘Anyone who compares the literature
of Russia, Germany and America will be surprised to find the same
tendencies towards realism and the documentary: topical, it’s true;
but temporary’30 (ibid.: 226–7). Regarding the new ‘photographic art’:
‘Many of these examples are to be found only in Berlin, Moscow and
New York; together they create a completely new atmosphere’31 (ibid.:
253). Summarizing his views, he notes: ‘In Germany these characteris-
tics [of the art of modernity] are similar to those of Russia and America,
two bourgeois nations with the same sort of approach to life as a prole-
tarian nation. Something to bear in mind’32 (ibid.: 225). The new forms
of art which have emerged are described as follows:
In art and in literature: realism, concreteness, documentary value, art as

a mirror of the surrounding reality, but fundamentally confrontational
Mario Rubino 155
and critical; the same revisionism with respect to the old world that can
be observed in social customs and behaviour. All this is the antithesis of
the art of the Latin nations, where art is seen rather as an escape from
the world of today.33
(Alvaro 1995)
We have perhaps paid too much attention to the reports of Monelli and
Alvaro, but this is because they may be taken as containing an almost
complete compendium, including most of the nuances, of the elements
on which the Italian public based its ideas of the Weimar Germany.
Cinema
Alongside this type of article, however, the new films arriving from the
Weimar Republic also played an important role.
It is well known that films can contain and transmit far more informa-
tion than print. The reception of this information, as Walter Benjamin
observed, takes place in a peculiar ‘dimension’, in which a ‘distracted
passivity’ (Benjamin 1966: 46) combines with an unconscious proc-
ess of elaboration in some ways similar to a dream. Films, therefore,
communicate sensations and emotions which, though he or she is not
always aware of it, become part of the spectator’s life experience with
the same intensity as his or her own personal experiences (ibid.: 41). A
sense of the new German reality was transmitted by the Weimar film
directors and reached an enormous audience, offering easy entertain-
ment in the countless cinemas of Italy, not only in big cities but also
in the provinces.
At first, in a phase that Alvaro calls ‘Hoffmannian’ (Alvaro 1995: 265),
the hallucinatory expressionist fantasies of films such as Das Cabinet des
Dr Caligari (Robert Wiene, The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, 1920), Dr Mabuse, der
Spieler (Fritz Lang, Dr Mabuse: The Gambler 1922), Das Wachsfigurenkabinet
(Paul Leni, The Three Wax Works, 1924) and Metropolis (Fritz Lang, 1926),
were interpreted, at least by the better educated viewers, as stereotyped
popular expressions of the Northern strangeness, or ‘German morbidity’
typical of that homeland of Romanticism; for Croce, following in the
footsteps of Goethe, Romanticism represented without doubt a patho-
logical degeneration of idealism (Croce 1948: 43–4).
Yet despite this attitude, in Metropolis, notwithstanding its fantasti-
cally surreal language, the viewer could not escape the impact of ques-
tions far more directly linked to a menacing and realistic modernity
than the symbolic omens of future catastrophe expressed in previous
films. The message of films like Der letzte Mann (The Last Laugh, 1924)
by Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau or Die freudlose Gasse ( Joyless Street, 1925)

by Georg Wilhelm Pabst could be perceived by spectators as referring
directly to the tragic reality of the former Central European Empires in
that period. In Der letzte Mann, the magnificently uniformed porter of
the Hotel Atlantic in Berlin is demoted to bathroom attendant, becom-
ing a clear symbol of the loss of prestige and identity of a defeated
Germany; the psychological drama of the main character, impressively
interpreted by Emil Jannings, reflects the human drama of the entire
population. Die freudlose Gasse, in turn, was considered scandalously
realistic in its gloomy representation of Vienna and the unemployment,
hunger and consequent moral corruption even of those middle classes
that had been so proud of their respectability.
The films which came out in the following years show a Weimar
Germany which was once again stable from an economic point of view,
but subject to sinister threats rooted in society itself, as in the notorious
M: Eine Stadt sucht einen Mörder (M, 1931) by Fritz Lang. Other kinds
of obscure menace may be concealed in the individual, as in the case
of the young brigadier Albert Holk in Asphalt (1929) by Joe May. Holk
allows himself to be seduced by a fascinating female thief and fails in
his duty as a defender of law and order, all in the setting of a Berlin
dedicated to sensuality and the achievement of pleasure at any cost. Elsa
Kramer, the seductress, is just one more variation on the theme of insa-
tiable femmes fatales, like Lulu in Pabst’s Büchse der Pandora (Pandora’s
Box, 1928) and Lola Lola in Josef von Sternberg’s Der blaue Engel (The
Blue Angel, 1930). The male characters who regularly succumbed to their
destructive beauty became emblematic representatives of a world which
had lost its traditional reference points and which was going though
a deep crisis. The same sense of dissolution and questioning of tradi-
tional social conventions is also present in Mädchen in Uniform (Girls
in Uniform, 1931) by the Viennese director Leontine Sagan, in which a
girls’ college founded on the rigid educational principles of traditional
Germany is turned upside down by a new wind of romantic but trans-
gressive homosexual sentiments.
Italian cinema-goers were thus subjected to scenes in which the old
Prussian order and legendary sense of discipline had completely disin-
tegrated. The opinions expressed by soldier Karl and his comrades in
the trench in Pabst’s Westfront 1918 (Comrades of 1918, 1930) certainly
did not concur with the cliché of the legendary military qualities of the
Germans, and neither did the example of solidarity between French
and German troops in Kameradschaft (Comradeship, 1931), by the same
director.34
Mario Rubino 157
According to the journalistic articles at the time, these films offered

an illustration of change. The emotive form of the film together with
the more detached and analytical newspaper articles reinforced each
other in documenting these changes and the rebellion against ancient
stereotypes.
The Weimar myth

Defeated Germany, and above all Berlin, appeared to have completely
eliminated all the values that had permitted the establishment and
growth of Wilhelm’s Reich. While some conservative elements still
resisted in the provinces, in the ‘red’ capital Berlin pacifist, internation-
alist and hyper-libertarian ideas were introduced and became rapidly
established, with very obvious effects in both social conduct and artistic
expression. Despite military defeat, inflation and unemployment, the
vitality of the German manufacturing and commercial systems stood
up to the test; for industry especially, ‘Americanization’ had progressed
compared to the pre-war situation. By now, the Berlin metropolitan
population differed very little from that of Moscow or New York. Its
intellectuals were more than open to any novelty from the US or the
Soviet Union, and especially in the fields of cinema and literature their
innovations began to have an influence on these two advanced coun-
tries; more importantly, these new art forms were more comprehensible
for the general public than the expressionism which had preceded it.
In this aspect and in many others, the metropolis of Berlin emerged,
despite all its contradictions and its atmosphere of temporariness, as a
sort of laboratory of all that was modern. In politics, Germany appeared
to Italians as a sort of long-term experiment with the tensions between
the right and the left, an experiment that had been abruptly broken
off in Italy after the advent of Fascism. For 11 years after this event,
Germany was regarded as an enormous stage on which the various coups
de théâtre between right and left were played out in a drama on which,
in Italy, the curtains had long been drawn.
Despite some distinguishing factors, this mythical idea of the Weimar
Republic held many points in common with the idea being formed by
Italians in the same period about the ‘American myth’. The new forms of
social behaviour and the new literature, whether German, American or
Soviet Russian, began to be seen as a possible alternative to the narrow-
minded and backward-looking horizons of Italian politics and culture,
tied as they were to the old-fashioned values and ideas of a classical,
Roman and Catholic universalism and the Fascist pseudo-revolution this
had produced.
The pioneer phase of translation from German
This, then, was the context in which the Italian public viewed the new
German literature which started to appear in increasing quantities in
Italian bookshops from the late 1920s onwards.
As I have noted, if we limit ourselves to literature by authors born
after 1875, the ten years between 1919 and 1928 saw only eight works
of German literature translated into Italian. Suddenly, however, in 1929,
ten works were translated in a single year, and 16 in 1930. There were
12 translations in 1931, eight in 1932, while 1933 was a peak year with
35 works of German literature translated into Italian. The translations
then continued until 1938 at an average of around 20 a year (Rubino
2002: 109–19).
It is true that in this period there was a generalized increase in pub-
lishing, with three times as many books being published in 1930 as in
1928,35 but the increase of German fiction translations far exceeded
this average. This is also the period in which Italian publishing houses
were transformed from their handcrafted artisan origins into a true
cultural industry, constantly monitoring the tendencies of the market,
always ready to follow these tendencies and indeed often giving rise to
them. The older establishments, such as Treves and Sonzogno, did not
manage to change with the times, while three new publishers emerged,
Mondadori, Rizzoli and Bompiani, which all maintained a dominant
position almost until the present day.36 One of the key sectors in this
renewal and in the emergence of new masses of readers was popular
literary fiction, which marked a turning point in the translation of for-
eign works. In practice, German literature could begin to compete with
French, English and American literature only once the Neue Sachlichkeit,
or New Objectivity, writers had started offering novels accessible to
a large public – whose new interest in social and political events in
Germany had grown for the reasons I have just discussed.
In importing so many foreign works, it seems clear that the publish-
ing houses identified a profound lack of interest of the general public
in contemporary Italian literature.37 This was probably due to an exces-
sive emphasis on style, expressed in the language of the return of the
Strapaese or the flight towards the Stracittà, almost always arrogantly
smug in satisfying the ambition of a ‘beautiful page, closed within its
own circle of formal perfection’ (Manacorda 1980: 237).
However, it should not be forgotten that this ‘invasion of translations’
(Rundle 2004: 292) happened in a country ruled by a dictatorship –
perhaps not quite from 1922, but certainly from 1925–26 onwards, after
Mario Rubino 159
the dismissal of Parliament. Fascist censorship initially paid attention

mostly to journalism, but at the same time it started extending its con-
trol to cover the publication of books as well, with a series of progressive
restrictions culminating in the constitution of the ‘Commission for the
Purifying of Books’ in 1938 (Rundle 2000: 75). This obliged publishers
to undertake constant work of negotiation and compromise with the
Fascist authorities. Especially in the field of translations, publishers fre-
quently carried out preventive self-censorship, making cuts or changes
to the original text in order to avoid topics, such as abortion, incest or
suicide, that did not meet with the approval of ‘Fascist morality’.
The first literary genre to begin to demolish Italian prejudices regard-
ing German literature was the war novel, and it was the most famous
war novel of them all, Im Westen nichts Neues (All Quiet on the Western
Front) by E. M. Remarque, that provoked the most serious incident
between a publisher and Fascist censorship, as we will see below. In
April 1929, the critic Pietro Solari, writing from Berlin for the weekly
review L’Italia letteraria [Literary Italy], announced the most recent
successes on the German book market: Im Westen nichts Neues by E.
M. Remarque, a war diary Solari calls ‘the monument to the German
Unknown Soldier’, with ‘half a million copies in six months’; Jahrgang
1902 by Ernst Glaeser, ‘a synopsis of the war on the internal front’; and
Krieg by Ludwig Renn, ‘a photographic report of life in the trenches’38
(Solari 1929: 1).
In his preface to his own translation of Renn’s Krieg (1928), Paolo
Monelli implicitly identifies one of the reasons behind the success in
Italy of German literature dealing with war, the recent shared experi-
ence of war, but seen through the eyes of the enemy:
Naturally, we must not forget that this is a German book, written by

a German soldier. […] The Italian reader should keep this in mind: if
he too participated in the war, he will penetrate behind the mysteri-
ous enemy lines and see how those mysterious enemies acted and
reacted, invisible as they almost always were behind a mortal barrier
of fire, at most perceived as inanimate targets to be shot at.39
(Monelli 1929: IX–X)
Furthermore, there was also the unexpected discovery that some Germans
were not only pacifists but also authors able to write ‘without artifi-
cial devices, psychologizing or rhetorical emphasis’40 (Vincenti 1929),
with a ‘style that in itself was an elementary form of analysis, like a dry
stone wall, made up of short sentences, no imagery, all instantaneous
sensation, all fact’41 (Benco 1929: 765–6), a ‘faithful mirror of the facts,
places and times that are to be portrayed’42 (Raimondi 1930: 100).
Together with earlier stereotyped ideas of Prussia and the Prussians, what
fell now were the prejudices about the unreadability of German fiction. In
a report from Berlin, Giovanni Battista Angioletti registered this change
of attitude: ‘It’s time to change the obsolete clichés that tell us that eve-
rything German is heavy, that everything from Northern countries must
lack in grace. Time moves on, and men with it’43 (Angioletti 1932: 3).
In the second half of the 1920s the German Kriegsromane [war novels]
were written after a time lapse sufficient for the experiences of ten years
earlier to have been digested; they became one of the most important
genres of the Neue Sachlichkeit literary school, born as a reaction against
the neurotic subjectivism of the earlier expressionist literature. These
volumes had the function of documenting, recording and accepting
both the events that had characterized recent German history and the
state of affairs these had generated. Together with the war novels there
were, until the establishment of the Nazi dictatorship in 1933, several
other genres with similar functions: Großstadtsromane [metropolitan
novels] such as Berlin Alexanderplatz by Döblin and above all Zeitromane
[novels of the era] such as Menschen im Hotel by Vicki Baum or Kleiner
Mann – was nun? by Hans Fallada. The term Zeitromane was used for
fiction in which attention was focused not only on the characters but
also on the situation of a certain period and how this situation was
experienced. In contrast to the historical novel, the setting was that of
the period in which the novel was written, so Zeitromane could thus
be translated as ‘novels of the present day’. The realistic, rapid and
nervous style of these genres, as well as their documentary intentions,
demonstrate the great influence of American post-naturalist works such
as Sinclair’s Oil!, Lewis’ Babbitt, Dos Passos’ Three Soldiers and Manhattan
Transfer, Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey or Hemingway’s Fiesta and
A Farewell to Arms. The German derivatives, however, were more famil-
iar and digestible, and allowed for a greater degree of identification and
personal memory than the ‘exotic’ American novels. For the Italian
reader, the new Weimar novels provided not only marked realism but
also a quantity of information on the contradictions of the Germany of
the time, which were so difficult to comprehend.
As the idea of the unreadability of German literature as a whole was
gradually superseded, other genres of contemporary German literature
started to be introduced in Italy – those which appeared less inclined
towards an investigation of the sentiments of the defeated enemy
(Germany), as in the war novels, and did not glorify themselves in the
Mario Rubino 161
seductive but infernal light of a surprising and scandalous present, as in

the metropolitan novels. Readers and publishing houses were infected
by an impatient fervour respecting this vast but unexplored literary
territory, which seemed to possess an almost inexhaustible reserve of
truly engrossing fiction. It was as though the discovery of the antimili-
tary and scandalous German texts had given rise to a desire for deeper
understanding of other aspects of a country in precarious equilibrium
between contradictions that never ceased to surprise.
To give just a few examples of the more successful publications, the
period between 1931 and 1934 saw the arrival of the fictional legal
chronicle and generational conflicts of Wassermann’s Il caso Maurizius,
1931 (Der Fall Mauritius, 1928), the Jewish problem and its historical
roots in Feuchtwanger’s Süss, l’ebreo, 1930 (Jud Süß, 1925) or in one of its
contemporary aspects in Roth’s Giobbe, storia di un uomo semplice, 1932
(Hiob, 1930), and the tragedy of unemployment outside Berlin, as in
Frank’s Tre di tre milioni, 1933 (Von drei Millionen drei, 1932). Furthermore,
most of Thomas Mann’s works, the early works of Hermann Hesse and
one of the first European translations of Franz Kafka’s Il processo, 1933
(Der Prozeß, 1925) were published in the same period.44
German fiction and the publishing industry
By the beginning of the 1930s this pioneering phase had run its course.
A substantial number of passionate translators and specialists had
enabled editors such as Polledro, Dàuli and Mazzucchetti to create for-
eign literature series that could compare with those of other European
countries. From this time onwards, much the same thing happened
with other literary genres or with single authors: small and medium-
sized publishing houses were the first to explore the new territory, after
which, as in many industrial processes, the time became ripe for the
larger houses to join the fray.
Until 1930 the Arnoldo Mondadori house, which in the following
decade was to become the largest publisher of foreign works, had about
60 translations in its catalogue, but these were mostly books on his-
tory, fictional memoirs, travel diaries, a few books of poetry or theatre
scripts by writers such as G. B. Shaw or Maxim Gorky: ‘it could be said
that in these early years that was it, or almost’45 (Decleva 1993: 154).
The year 1929 saw the arrival of the first four translations of works by
S. S. Van Dine, Edgar Wallace, R. L. Stevenson and A. K. Green in the
new, bestselling ‘Libri gialli’ [Yellow Books] series of detective novels,
which still exists today. In the first month 50,000 copies were sold,
an absolute record for the Italian book market. The publisher totally
ignored the field of contemporary foreign novels, however, at least as
far as middle or highbrow literature was concerned, giving preference
to Italian authors – for example by acquiring the exclusive rights to all
of D’Annunzio’s and Pirandello’s works.
However, after the success of the publication of Renn’s Krieg by Treves
(1929) and Glaeser’s Jahrgang 1902 by Bemporad (1930), Mondadori
initiated a whole new series, ‘I romanzi della guerra’ [War Novels],
dedicated to this type of work. The first volume of the series was
Arnold Zweig’s La questione del sergente Grischa, 1930 (Der Streit um den
Sergeanten Grisha, 1927), followed closely by Remarque’s Niente di nuovo
sul fronte occidentale, 1931 (Im Westen nichts Neues, 1929) and La via del
ritorno, 1932 (Der Weg zurück, 1931) and Adrienne Thomas’ Caterina va
alla guerra, 1931 (Die Katrin wird Soldat, 1930).
Fascist censorship imposed cuts of about 150 pages on Zweig’s
book and confiscated Remarque’s Niente di nuovo sul fronte occidentale
(Albonetti 1994: 61–6), which a critic faithful to the regime had con-
demned for its ‘decomposing, dissolving, fomenting, anarchic and
nihilist spirit’46 (Piazza 1929). At this point Mondadori engaged in a
legal battle with the Prime Minister’s Press Office, one of the bodies
dealing with book censorship, arguing that a large number of prohib-
ited works were already circulating in Italy in their French versions,
for which the restrictions on sales were less rigid. In this way, Italian
publishers and their workers were losing work and profit. Mondadori
claimed, perhaps with a little exaggeration, that he had lost the profits
on 200,000 copies of Remarque’s book alone. This recourse to nation-
alistic feelings was evidently more of a pretext than anything else, but
the battle against the importation of French translations was one of the
main foundation stones of Mondadori’s expansion in the foreign litera-
ture section. The same idea is to be found in his Editor’s Note in the
Almanacco della ‘Medusa’, the noteworthy volume published to celebrate
the first anniversary of the ‘Medusa’ series:
The ‘Medusa’ is, in fact, above all an important work of Italian patriot-
ism, contributing to effectively free our country from its subjugation to
other European languages, through which the Italian public normally
came to know the books published in the rest of the world, often only
after a long time and chosen according to rather dubious criteria.47
(Mondadori 1934: 9–10)
The ‘Medusa’, which began in 1933, took its place beside Mondadori’s
other foreign literature series ‘Romanzi della palma’ [Palm Tree Novels],
Mario Rubino 163
a well-bound illustrated magazine which started to invade newsagents

and bookshops in 1932, at first monthly and then, in response to its
initial success, twice a month. The difference between the ‘Medusa’ and
‘Palma’ series lay not so much in the authors they included, nor even in
their literary quality, as in what today we would call its ‘target audience’.
The works published in the ‘Palma’ series were more ‘readable’: well-
constructed stories full of tension and surprises on themes capable of
entertaining the reader, especially the female reader. The typical reader
of a ‘Medusa’ title was more interested in literature as such, and was
prepared to read about more profound ideals or social and historical
issues. That the difference was not between ‘high’ and ‘trivial’ literature
becomes obvious when we observe that the ‘Palma’ authors included
authors of the status of Saint-Exupéry, Mauriac, Maurois, Hauptmann,
Shaw and Scott Fitzgerald. The real difference – the target audience –
becomes evident when we look at the type of publication and the price:
3.50 lire for a copy of a ‘Palma’ novel in magazine format, 10 lire or
more for a ‘Medusa’ bound volume. However, each with its own audi-
ence, both publications enjoyed a similar level of success: the ‘Palma’
novels were soon being printed regularly in about 30,000 copies, and the
‘Medusa’ in 20,000 (Albonetti 1994: 100–1).
The ‘Medusa’ series started dramatically: in the Almanacco della
‘Medusa’, printed in late November 1933, 27 volumes were listed as
having been published, a figure which implies a rate of three books a
month if we consider that the first volume, Henri Alain-Fournier’s Il
grande amico (Le grand Meaulnes, 1913) was only published in March of
the same year.
The interest aroused by German fiction among the Italian readership,
and hence in the publishing world, is illustrated by the fact that in this
series, which presented itself as the leader in foreign literature, eight
of the 27 volumes, almost a third, were by German authors (Fallada,
Feuchtwanger, A. Zweig, H. Mann, Wassermann, Hesse, T. Mann); the
series also included eight translations of French works (by Alain-Fournier,
Mauriac, Maurois, de Lacretelle, Morand, Colette, Gide), seven English
(Galsworthy, Huxley, Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, O’Flaherty), two Danish
(Lauesen, N. Petersen) and only two American (Buck, Dos Passos).
The literary events of 1933 as they impacted upon German literature
in translation can only be explained as the result of the two major factors
I have presented: the widely felt desire to grasp the sense of the new
political and social scenario in Germany, and the idea that the novels
written by German authors could be an important tool to understand
the deeper psychological motives that had given rise to these changes.
The bestselling book among the first few of the series, in fact, was
Fallada’s E adesso, pover’uomo? (Kleiner Mann – was nun? 1932),48 which

in the publisher’s presentation of the fourth reprint was described as
‘the most humane and moving story to be set against the dramatic
background of unemployment in Germany’.49
Between 1932 and 1935, Mondadori rapidly became Italy’s leading
publishing house, but at the same time two other publishers, Bompiani
and Frassinelli, opened new series of contemporary foreign literature.
Bompiani concentrated its attention essentially on the works of Erich
Kästner, publishing four of his books, among them Emilio e i detectives
(Emil und die Detektive, 1928) and Fabian (Fabian, 1931), between 1931
and 1935. It also had a major success with Transatlantico, 1932 (Die
Überfahrt, 1931) by Gina Kaus. Frassinelli launched Franz Kafka in Italy,
with translations of Il processo, 1933 (Der Prozeß, 1925) and Il messaggio
all’imperatore, 1935 (Eine kaiserliche Botschaft, 1931).
The unassailability of Mondadori’s position is, however, evident if we
examine the statistics. Of the 234 books, identified during this research,
of contemporary German literature translated into Italian between 1922
and 1945, 95 were published by Mondadori. Its closest competitor was
Sperling & Kupfer, with 30, followed by Modernissima/Corbaccio with
20, while Bompiani and Frassinelli published ten books of German lit-
erature each (Rubino 2002: 109–22). As for the most translated authors,
the undoubted leader is Stefan Zweig, with 19 books translated, fol-
lowed by Jakob Wassermann and Vicki Baum with 13, including one
translated and published by two different publishers, Thomas Mann
with ten plus one that was translated twice, Erich Kästner and Hans
Fallada with eight each, Franz Werfel with six, and Hans Carossa, Lion
Feuchtwanger, Leonhard Frank, Bernhard Kellermann, Joe Lederer and
Ernst Wiechert with five each. Except for Mann, Carossa and Wiechert,
all the other authors wrote books which read easily and quickly.
The impact of 1933
Looking at this list, the first thing that strikes one is that among the
authors most frequently translated into Italian, the vast majority
(S. Zweig, Baum, T. Mann, Werfel, Feuchtwanger, Frank, Lederer) had
been obliged to leave Germany in 1933, being either Jewish or anti-
Nazi. Jakob Wassermann, a Styrian Jew, died in Austria in 1934, but
in Germany his works had already been burnt. Among the authors
translated into Italian, those who remained in Germany were either
boycotted (Kellermann, Wiechert) or maltreated, for example with tem-
porary arrests, as in the case of Kästner. Only Hans Carossa and Hans
Mario Rubino 165
Fallada were partially exempt from persecution, given their ambiguous

position after the consolidation of the Nazi regime.
In this context we should remember that the relations between Italian
Fascism and German National Socialism underwent several modula-
tions during the 1920s and 1930s.50 In the first stages, during the mid-
1920s, the Italian Fascists nurtured a thinly veiled superiority complex
regarding Hitler’s new party, as can be seen in the sarcastic description
of Hitler in one passage of Paolo Monelli’s reports from Germany, dis-
cussed earlier:
This Viennese ex-upholsterer and painter has the typical face of his
profession, and that crested upturned nose that is the ideal of blond
Germans as opposed to the meditative hooked nose typical of the
Jews, and under that nose two blond toothbrushes mount the guard,
with Austrian obsequiousness, to a fish-like mouth. […] Hitler is
often described as a clown. Certainly, the outcome of his November
adventure [1923, the attempted coup d’état with Ludendorff] does
not encourage us to form a better opinion. It is however necessary to
consider that the moral status of Hitler is irreparably damaged by the
comparison that both his supporters and his adversaries draw with
Mussolini. These comparisons are crushing, and the man who began
as a good but modest imitator has become a grotesque impostor.51
(Monelli 1927: 56–7)
Even after Hitler rose to power in 1933, and if the two dictatorships held
many points in common, among other things the way they presented
themselves, there were profound differences between them in their ide-
ological motivations for pursuing dominance: the Germans believed in
the superiority of the German race, while in Italy the appeal was to the
imperial universalism of the Roman empire of antiquity, and was devoid
of racial connotations. One example of this difference and of how it
was perceived by the European public can be found in the fact that in
1933 a large number of German Jews persecuted by the Nazis (among
whom the writers Alfred Neumann, Joe Lederer and Franz Werfel were
perhaps the most famous) chose to emigrate to Mussolini’s Italy. The
Fascist regime gave them a new home and ‘in contrast to the majority
of countries, allowed them to work legally’52 (Voigt 1989: 26), at least
until 1938. During this period there were some moments of tension,
such as that in 1934, immediately after the assassination of Chancellor
Dollfuß by Austrian Nazis, when Mussolini moved four divisions of
the army to the Brennero border in order to discourage Germany from
annexing Austria. Relations between Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany

started to move in the direction of a future alliance only in 1936, when
Italy attacked Ethiopia and subsequently resigned from the League of
Nations, and when Italy along with Germany joined the Spanish Civil
War on the side of Francisco Franco’s Falangist Party.53 The alliance was
eventually concluded in 1938. Before this date, however, in the period
between 1931 and 1937–38, there was a particularly favourable climate
for the diffusion of contemporary German literature in Italy: publish-
ing houses were interested in exploiting this extremely successful line,
and did not have to trouble themselves about the ethnic origins of the
authors, while Fascist censorship posed no particular problems as yet
apart from the safeguard of ‘moral standards’.
If we restrict our enquiry only to the field of so-called Emigranten-
Literatur, the works of authors obliged to abandon Germany due to
the Nazi dictatorship, the Index Translationum of the League of Nations
Institute for Intellectual Cooperation reveals that in the period between
1933 and 1938, Italy was in third place in the world for the number of
translations of works prohibited by the Nazis, with 59 such books pub-
lished, as compared to 66 in the US and 64 in Poland. Italy was followed
by Hungary with 58, and then by France and Britain with 53 translations
each. In 1933 Italy actually led the table, having published 19 works of
Emigranten-Literatur compared to 14 in Poland and France and 11 each
in the US and Czechoslovakia (Berendsohn 1946: 156).
This is no real surprise, given the irrelevance and lack of international
appeal of openly Nazi authors like Erwin Guido Kolbenheyer or Werner
Beumelburg. Arnoldo Mondadori was fully aware of this situation from
the start. In a letter dated October 1933 and addressed to Enrico Rocca, one
of his editors in the translation sector, he wrote: ‘Writers of international
fame in today’s Germany are few and far between – most of them have fled
or have been sent away’54 (quoted in Albonetti 1994: 86). The result was
that, from 1933 onwards, the translation rights of works by authors such as
Lion Feuchtwanger, Vicki Baum, Heinrich Mann, Arnold Zweig, Gina Kaus,
Irmgard Keun or Katrin Holland were acquired by Mondadori from the
publishing houses – such as Querido and Allert de Lange of Amsterdam,
Paul Zsolnay of Vienna, and Bermann-Fischer of Stockholm – which had
published the German originals by authors banned in Nazi Germany (ibid.:
249–471); and the Fascist censorship authorities made no objections.
After this first season of translations, however, the changes that took
place both in the political climate in Italy and in the relations between
Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany inevitably had serious consequences for
the reception of German literature.
Mario Rubino 167
The turning point of 1938
For contemporary German authors in Italian translation, the situation

came to a head in November 1938, after the stipulation of a specific
agreement between Italy and Germany, the ‘German–Italian Cultural
Agreement’, which was part of the growing solidarity between the
two totalitarian states, the ‘Rome–Berlin Axis’ imagined by Mussolini
in 1936, and given international status with the ‘Pact of Steel’ in May
1939. The preparations for this pact and the new Italian racial laws
of autumn 1938 rapidly cleared the Italian bookshops and publishing
houses of any publication by Jewish authors or those who might in any
way cause displeasure to the German allies.
Article 26 of the Cultural Agreement explicitly stated that both par-
ties ‘should block the translation or the diffusion of works that, in
falsifying historic truth, attack the other country, its form of govern-
ment or people in government, and also deforming works (tenden-
tious literature) by authors exiled from the other country’55 (Petersen
1988: 59). Certain books, however, did continue to circulate covertly
for some time, and this aroused the fury of German diplomats.56
The Italian authorities were therefore obliged, during the meeting of
the Italian-German Cultural Commission, to ask for patience, since ‘the
economic situation of the book sector did not allow for such radical
and sudden changes’57 (Voigt 1989: 103), and since the Italian publish-
ing houses needed to finish selling the books they had already printed.
By November 1940, however, the German Ambassador in Rome, Hans
Georg von Mackensen, was able to assure his superior, the Minister for
Foreign Affairs, that ‘even the last few books [had] disappeared from
the bookshops’58 (ibid.). By now Fascism was obsequiously following
the German National Socialist example. Between 1938 and 1939, the
number of translations of foreign literature fell to half the number pub-
lished in 1934 (Ragone 1989: 1100).
The evolution of Fascism and the developments in its international
policies, then, disrupted the balance that the publishers had man-
aged to maintain for almost ten years, between their commercial
interests and the public’s demand for entertainment and information
on the one hand, and the requirements of the censor on the other –
requirements which the publishers had learnt to negotiate with considera-
ble shrewdness. What is significant in this context is that the main targets
for restriction were translations of contemporary German literature: the
titles published diminished from 19 in 1937 to 11 in 1938, seven in 1940
and six in 1941 (Rubino 2002: 117–22). As the successful fiction of Jewish
or anti-Nazi writers was now forbidden, the only ‘legal’ source of new lit-
erature became the literature deemed admissible within the Third Reich.
The substitution of Emigranten-Literatur with pro-Nazi works was what the
German authorities had long desired and now, on the basis of the Cultural
Agreement, demanded. Lecture tours of writers close to the regime and
exhibitions of ‘The German Book’ were organized by the Foreign Ministry
and the Ministry for Propaganda, with a naïvely stubborn refusal to accept
the fact that certain authors were simply not exportable. They made
huge efforts to publicize, in Italy and in the rest of Europe, ‘authentically
German literature’59 (Petersen 1988: 67) that would be capable of offering
an ‘undistorted’ idea of the new Germany (see Barbian 1995a: 431–6).
In 1937, Will Vesper, a member of the literary committee of the Prussian
Academy of Arts, had already made a heartfelt appeal:
Can we allow ourselves to hope that Italian intellectuals will finally,

finally, understand that they must, to a greater degree than they
have so far, make every effort to get to know the intellectual side of
Germany today, and [will they understand] how seriously they are
offending the new Germany in insisting on presenting to the Italian
people, as though they were the only ‘German writers’, Jews, associ-
ates of Jews, and exiles?60
(Quoted in Petersen 1988: 67)
Within the publishing houses a sort of passive resistance to the pressure

exerted by Nazi Germany began, and this was hardly surprising given
the low expectation of success for philo-Nazi fiction on the Italian
market, as well as the fact that many of the editors’ consultants and
translators, who played a vital role in this strategy – people like Luigi
Rusca, Lorenzo Montano, Lavinia Mazzucchetti, Barbara Allason or
Enrico Rocca – all harboured profound anti-Fascist convictions, while a
few were anti-racist due to their Jewish origins.
This resistance consisted above all in choosing, from all the works
distributed in Germany, those which were least ‘political’, sometimes
even by authors who had adopted a sort of critical standpoint within
the Nazi state. This was the case for Ernst Wiechert, of whom Lavinia
Mazzucchetti wrote in her reader’s report on La vita semplice, 1940 (Das
einfache Leben, 1939): ‘A man of the right in internationalist times,
he was carried to fame by the new regime, but then rendered himself
impossible with his sincerity in refusing to deny his past and ended up
in a concentration camp; he now once again lives in peace with today’s
Germany’61 (quoted in Albonetti 1994: 480–1).
Mario Rubino 169
Another case was that of the conservative writer Hans Grimm who,
because of his dissent with some aspects of the development of Nazism,
was threatened with imprisonment by Propaganda Minister Joseph
Goebbels and withdrew from public life. In proposing the translation
of his collection of short stories Il tribunale nel Karru, 1939 (Der Richter
in der Karu, 1930), Mazzucchetti describes him as ‘an author who would
be an excellent […] flag without the swastika but purely and simply
German, and at the same time artistically truly respectable’.62 She added
that ‘on the other hand, in Germany itself there seem to be no readable
and exportable authors. The authorities put up with Fallada, but if we
take him it would certainly not meet the approval of the Kulturkammer!
And we cannot throw National Socialist bricks on the guiltless heads of
Italian readers’63 (quoted in Albonetti 1994: 443).
Another approach was to accept authors close to the Nazi regime,
but to translate only their least ideological works. In 1942 Mondadori
and Bompiani finally published some of Ernst Jünger’s works, but
significantly these were his least militaristic: Sulle scogliere di marmo
(Auf den Marmorklippen, 1939) and Giardini e strade (Gärten und Straßen,
1942). Hanns Johst, an SS general and from 1935 to 1945 President of
the Reichsschrifttumskammer, was famous in Germany for his decidedly
nationalist and anti-Semitic plays and stories. In 1943 Frassinelli of
Turin translated, of all his works, one of his few pre-Nazi sentimental
novels, Un amore stravagante (Die Torheit einer Liebe, 1931).
There were sporadic exceptions to this boycotting campaign. Between
1942 and 1944 several works by notoriously Nazi authors, such as Ina
Seidel, Bruno Brehm, Rudolf Binding, Hans Friedrich Blunck, Richard
Billinger and Ernst von Salomon, were published by small houses such
as Corticelli, Salani or Guanda (Rubino 2002: 120–2). In 1943, short of
resources, Mondadori managed to bring out Il villaggio sepolto nell’oblio
(Das vergessene Dorf, 1934) by Theodor Kröger, a terrifying ‘psychopathic
and nationalistic’ novel which had already aroused Mazzucchetti’s dis-
approval: ‘If we wanted to put together a collection of documents that
proved all the most irritating and hateful qualities of Germans, this
would work very well’64 (quoted in Albonetti 1994: 341).
Among these concessions, though, every so often there were a few
courageous sorties which managed to find gaps in the siege of censor-
ship. For example, in 1942 Mondadori published Las Casas, l’apostolo
degli Indios (Las Casas vor Karl V. Szenen aus der Konquistadorenzeit, 1938)
by Reinhold Schneider, a member of the Catholic opposition to Nazism
whose publications had been forbidden in Germany in 1940. In 1943
Albrecht Haushofer’s Scipione. Sulla. Augusto (Scipio, 1934; Sulla, 1938;
Augustus, 1939) also saw publication, again by Mondadori. Haushofer

had been arrested for the first time in 1941, and was part of the con-
spiracy to assassinate Hitler on 20 July 1944.
In 1942, Bompiani published Germanica, an anthology edited by the
German scholar Leone Traverso, as one of the ‘Pantheon letterario’
series of anthologies, the same in which the more famous Americana
appeared, edited by Elio Vittorini. The ‘transgression’ represented by
Germanica began with the illustrations, in which contemporary German
painting was represented solely by reproductions of Emil Nolde, Franz
Marc, Albert Müller and Oskar Moll, all artists whose ‘degeneration’ had
been officially certified by their inclusion in the Entartete Kunst exhibi-
tion organized by Goebbels in Munich in July 1937. The most recent lit-
erature was represented only by Rilke, Hofmannsthal and Binding, only
the last of whom could lay claim to any official Nazi approval. The limit
was reached, however, in the critical introduction to the series titled
‘Vie nuove’ [New Roads], in which Traverso, without attempting much
in the way of diplomacy, sang the praises of authors such as the Mann
brothers, Döblin, Frank, Werfel, Toller, Brecht, and so on, as ‘restless in
revolt’, products of a ‘renewed “Sturm und Drang”’; for this reason ‘the
majority of these authors have been banned by the political movement
which later assumed the command of the Reich, for whom the idea
of internal revolution must be coupled with the desire for a national
revanchism’65 (Traverso 1942: 105). Immediately after this, however,
he went on to praise the ‘fluid human pleasantness of a Werfel’ and,
above all, ‘the painful nakedness of a Kafka and the Kantian rigour
with which, in his hallucinated prose, he denounces the impossibility
of living in this way on this earth, and appeals for a justice from other
spheres’66 (ibid.).
Traverso concludes with what would seem a heavy verdict, only thinly
veiled by a sort of coded language: ‘Of the most recent and accepted
literature, which includes names such as Carossa and Wiechert, Strauss
and Hesse, Mell and Kolbenheyer, as well as a dozen others – we can only
say that it follows honestly and cautiously the indicated path’67 (ibid.).
In the last few years of Nazism, as the course of the war progressively
blocked international literary circuits, the series dedicated to foreign
literature took on a strange appearance. The agencies within the ‘new
European order’ started proposing almost unknown authors from
European countries already subjected to the Nazi regime or which had
remained neutral but with generally pro-Nazi positions. These authors
held pro-Nazi opinions or at least were not obviously against Nazism.
Some of these belonged to the Europäische Schriftstellervereinigung
Mario Rubino 171
[European Writers’ Association] founded by Goebbels in 1941, whose

members came from 14 nations sharing the ‘then fairly widespread anti-
Bolshevism, anti-Semitism and anti-Americanism’68 (Hausmann 2004:
12). In the intentions of the Germans at least, the European Writers’
Association was to ‘convince Europe of the spiritual power of the new
Germany’ and ‘reinforce the domination achieved at the military
level’69 (Barbian 1995a: 440–1).
Then came the turn of the Danish, Hungarian and Norwegian
authors of novels set in exotic backgrounds, as well as Spanish follow-
ers of Franco (for example, Venceslao Fernandez Flores) or previously
unknown Turkish writers such as Yakup Kadri. As demonstrated by the
names of the translators, books in the less common languages were
translated directly from the German editions.70 For a public ever more
hungry for entertainment or distraction, these authors were in some
way the equivalent of the various coffee substitutes, wooden clogs or
rabbit wool with which one had to make do, given the lack of the genu-
ine products from before the war.
Everybody’s hopes, however, were already turning towards the future.
On 22 February 1943, Luigi Rusca, one of the editors of ‘Medusa’, added
an extremely significant note in the margin of Mazzucchetti’s report on
Werfel’s Das Lied von Bernadette, 1941. She found the subject matter ‘new
and fascinating’, defining the book as ‘a noteworthy work which it would
give us great pleasure to publish if possible, and which would find a wide
audience’.71 Rusca added a hand-written note: ‘Could we not buy it and
then wait for better times?’72 (quoted in Albonetti 1994: 479–80). In 1946,
Bernadette was one of the first post-war volumes of the ‘Medusa’ series.
Notes
This chapter, ‘Literary Exchange between Italy and Germany: German Literature
in Italian Translation’, has been translated by Neil Walker.
1. In the first half of the twentieth century, Lavinia Mazzucchetti (1889–1965),

translator and editorial consultant for Mondadori, Sperling & Kupfer and
Sansoni, was the most important cultural mediator for German literature in
Italy.
2. ‘An die zeitgenössische deutsche Belletristik dachte man damals kaum. Es
war ja die Epoche D’Annunzios, Italien exportierte selbst Renaissance- und
Dekadenz-Literatur, las aber nicht zum Vergnügen die als schwerfällig und
abstrus geltenden Werke der Teutonen. Für Frankreich und Italien, die latei-
nischen Schwestern, war das Nachbarland im Norden mehr oder weniger
terra incognita: hic sunt leones. […] Zwar lasen ehrgeizige Jünglinge durchein-
ander Stirner und Nietzsche, Nordau und Weininger, die damals in den
weiß-schwarzen Bänden des verdienten Verlags Bocca in Turin in italienischer

Übersetzung erschienen, aber das war keine Literatur! Und noch weniger
zählten zur Literatur die zahllosen Erzeugnisse der Marlitt und Genossinnen
oder die Romanreihen der immerhin noch etwas besser schreibenden Frauen
wie Clara Viebig oder Helene Böhlau, die auf italienisch meistens in den pop-
ulären Reihen des Mailänder Verlags Treves landeten’. Here and throughout,
all translations from German and Italian are my own.
3. ‘Oggi leggono anche coloro che prima non leggevano: si legge nelle famiglie
per divagare la mente dall’ossessione delle preoccupazioni dipendenti dalla
guerra, non bastando a tutti gli spettacoli cinematografici; si legge nelle trin-
cee, durante le soste; si legge nelle retrovie, negli ospedali.’
4. ‘Si limitò a svolgere opera di volgarizzazione e di trasposizione a livello pic-
colo e medio borghese dei modelli letterari tardo-romantici e dannunziani.’
5. Guido da Verona (pseudonym of Guido Verona, 1881–1939), was a ‘stylish’
writer of novels oscillating between eroticism and sentimentalism: Mimì
Bluette, fiore del mio giardino (1916), Sciogli la treccia, Maria Maddalena (1920).
6. The favourite theme of Pitigrilli (pseudonym of Dino Segre, 1893–1975) was
the love lives of the upper classes with intonations of moralistic humour:
Mammiferi di lusso (1920), Cocaina (1921), La vergine a 18 carati (1924).
7. Mario Mariani (1884–1951) was the author of often rather risqué novels in
which he intended to underline the moral corruption and the hypocrisy
of the bourgeoisie: Le smorfie dell’anima (1919), Le adolescenti (1919), Purità
(1920).
8. ‘Letteratura oscena o d’armistizio o milanese’.
9. ‘Immaginario letterario di consumo’.
10. Gian Dàuli (pseudonym of Giuseppe Ugo Nalato, 1884–1945) was a prolific
novelist and translator from English. Above all, however, he was known for
his activity as an editor (Modernissima) and editor’s consultant. An ‘explorer
of unknown literary worlds’ (David 1989: 32), he was the first to bring
authors such as Döblin, Celine, Dos Passos and Sinclair Lewis to the atten-
tion of the Italian public.
11. ‘Vi è poi in autori come il London, il Conrad, il Kipling uno spirito
d’avventura, d’azione, di vita vissuta pericolosamente che trova profonde
corrispondenze nello stato d’animo dell’italiano nuovo e che molto può
giovare ad educare i giovani alla “strenuous life” che richiedono i tempi
nuovi.’
12. ‘Ex revolutionary unionist, journalist, author [together with his wife, an
exile from the Empire of the czar] of a Russian grammar book, translator of
Russian writers’ (Vittoria 1997: 214).
13. These were Die Armen and Der Untertan by Heinrich Mann (1919), Das
Grauen (1921) and Absonderliche Geschichten (1927) by Hanns Heinz Ewers,
Der Mensch ist gut by Leonhard Frank (1922), Fairfax by Carl Sternheim
(1922), Tonio Kröger and Erzählungen und Novellen by Thomas Mann (1926)
(Rubino 2002: 109).
14. For a very detailed essay on the lack of acceptance of German expressionism
in Italy during the 1920s, see Mazzucchetti (1966: 307–17).
15. ‘Un libro vero e significativo: vi si assiste al tramonto della Germania impe-
riale e alla nascita, nelle retrovie, del nuovo spirito tedesco.’
Mario Rubino 173
16. Here, and throughout, the bibliographical data regarding the book series
have been extracted from the publishers’ catalogues or from the last pages
of the first editions.
17. Emilio Castellani (1912–87) was an essayist, literary critic and translator
from German. After the Second World War he edited the Italian edition of
the complete works of Bertolt Brecht on behalf of the Einaudi publishing
house.
18. ‘Und das zeitgenössische Deutschland? Was an Nachrichten darüber zu uns
drang, war reichlich verworren. Mehr oder weniger hielten wir noch bei
der Vorstellung von einem durch die Inflation verarmten Land, in dem das
Gespenst Wilhelms II. und seiner gräßlichen Pickelhauben umging. Wir hat-
ten wohl etwas von einer deutschen Erhebung, von verzweifelten sozialen
Aufständen und ihrem Scheitern gehört, doch von der neuen Wirklichkeit
dort jenseits der Alpen vermochten wir uns kein Bild zu machen. Wir
wußten, es gab einen Stresemann, der die politische Bühne beherrschte,
allein für uns war er nur einer unter den so und so vielen Herren in Gehrock
und Zylinder, die auf internationalen Konferenzen zusammenkamen, an
deren Nutzen wir längst nicht mehr glaubten.
Von Freunden und Freundinnen, die von einem Studienaufenthalt in
München, in Frankfurt oder Heidelberg zurückkamen, vernahmen wir
sonderbar Widersprüchliches: freie Liebe und Studentenduelle, Georg
Grosz und Max Liebermann, Vorträge über Psychoanalyse und unendliche
Debatten über Revision des Marxismus. Die Ufa-Filme – Langs Dr. Mabuse,
Pabsts Kameradschaft, Pommers Der Kongreß tanzt – brachten uns Visionen
von einer Welt, die vom Paroxysmus der Halluzination zur Verherrlichung
der menschlichen Gemeinschaft überging, um sich zuletzt einem gedanken-
losen Genießen zu überlassen’ (Castellani 1964: 29–30).
19. As well as the two to which I refer in this chapter, there were many more
important reports from the ‘new’ Germany, including Guido Stacchini’s
Straordinarie avventure nella nuova Germania, Milan, Modernissima, 1924;
Luciano Magrini’s La Germania d’oggi, Milan, La Promotrice, 1926; Corrado
Pavolini’s ‘Germania svegliati’, Rome, Libreria dl Littorio, 1931; Pietro Solari’s
Berlino, Milan, Agnelli, 1932. It is significant that these items were almost
immediately grouped together in a volume aimed at a huge audience of
interested readers. For a summary of the publications not contained in this
volume, see Rubino (2002: 12–40).
20. Paolo Monelli (1891–1984) was a journalist and writer. He was an officer in
the Alpine regiment during the First World War and afterwards he wrote of
this experience in a memoir, Le scarpe al sole (1921) [Shoes in the Sun], which
was a great success. An expert in German (he translated Ludwig Renn’s Krieg
for Treves in 1929), he visited Germany several times between 1922 and
1926, sending articles to the Stampa, the Corriere della Sera and Illustrazione
Italiana. These articles were published in 1927, in a book titled Io e i Tedeschi
[The Germans and I].
21. ‘Moderna fino alla nevrastenia’, ‘sentìna dei più sozzi vizii’, ‘la Germania
che amammo’ con ‘il suo medioevo ingenuo, i suoi borghesi birraioli, le sue
ragazzòle romantiche’, ‘la Germania bonacciona che piacque ai nostri vecchi
saputi ed ironici’.
22. ‘Soavissima e perfetta’, ‘refrigerio enorme all’occhio ed allo spirito di chi

venga da Berlino, Babilonia inacidita, virago repubblicana con il berretto
frigio male acconciato sulle chiome sfatte’.
23. ‘Babelica capitale’.
24. ‘Faccenda dei pervertiti, dei viziosi, degli anormali’.
25. ‘Mille caffeucci equivoci dell’ovest di Berlino, dove bazzicano uomini vestiti
da donna, donne in caramella zàzzera e pantaloni, molti russi, molti artisti,
molti professori, molti adolescenti’.
26. ‘C’è del putrido nella marca di Brandenburgo’.
27. ‘Nemmeno il nuovo tempo e l’esperienza della guerra’, ‘e tanto meno le nuo-
vissime leggi che la proibiscono, visto che son leggi dell’odiata repubblica
democratica che siede lassù nella rossa Berlino’.
28. Corrado Alvaro (1895–1956) was a novelist and essay writer who achieved
international fame with a book of short stories inspired by the region of his
birth, Calabria, Gente in Aspromonte (1930), which was followed by several
other works of fiction. His works were also translated into English (Revolt
in Aspromonte, Man is Strong). His newspaper articles from Germany have
recently been re-published in a volume collecting all his articles, to which
I refer in this paper. See Rundle in this collection for his contribution to
the campaign against a perceived invasion of translations in the mid-
1930s.
29. ‘Mi si offriva l’occasione di vedere una di quelle parti d’Europa che dicono
travagliata dai mille demoni della modernità, uscita da esperienze tutte
diverse dalle nostre, per natura addirittura agli antipodi, aperta a tutto
quello che nel mondo si è agitato negli ultimi dieci anni, nazionalismo,
comunismo, industrialismo, e a quella forma di vita americana che strana-
mente riassume tutte le tendenze del mondo moderno: la Germania col suo
nuovo mito internazionalista ed europeista.’
30. ‘Chi confronti la letteratura della Russia, della Germania, dell’America, rima-
rrà sorpreso dalla stessa tendenza realistica e documentaria: attuale, sì, ma
provvisoria.’
31. ‘Molti di questi esempi corrono soltanto fra Berlino, Mosca e New York,
e formano tutto un clima insospettato.’
32. ‘Questi caratteri [dell’arte della modernità] sono comuni alla Germania come
alla Russia e all’America: due nazioni borghesi che si trovano sullo stesso
piano di orientamento di una nazione proletaria. Fatto da considerare.’
33. ‘In arte e in letteratura: realismo, concretezza, documentarismo, arte come
specchio della realtà immediata, ma in fondo di contenuto polemico e crit-
ico, lo stesso revisionismo del vecchio mondo che si sta compiendo nel cos-
tume; e questo è all’antitesi con l’arte dei paesi latini dove essa è un’evasione
dal mondo di oggi.’
34. On German cinema before Nazism some useful sources are Kracauer (1947),
Griffagnini and Quaresima (1978), Spagnoletti (1993).
35. The number of books published doubled every year between 1925 and 1931,
with an acceleration particularly in 1929–30, the years of the great revival of
the novel (from 478 books in 1928 to 1469 two years later) (Ragone 1989:
1060). See also figures in Rundle in this volume.
36. On the development of the book market in the 1920s and 1930s see Ragone
(1989: 1047–78), Forgacs (1992: 84–94), Rundle (2004: 305).
Mario Rubino 175
37. A fact that inspired more than one note in Gramsci’s Quaderni: he talked of
‘the intellectual and moral hegemony of other populations’, asking himself,
for example: ‘Is it true that there are no really widely read books? They
do exist, but they are foreign, and there would be still more if they were
translated, books such as Remarque’s. […] In Italy there is a gap dividing
the public and writers; the public looks for “its” literature abroad, in that it
feels more “their own” than the literature produced in their own country’
(Gramsci 1975: 2252–3; my translation).
38. ‘Il monumento del Milite Ignoto tedesco’, ‘mezzo milione di copie in sei
mesi’; ‘ragguaglio della guerra sul fronte interno’, ‘un fotografico rapporto
della vita delle trincee’.
39. ‘Non si deve naturalmente dimenticare che questo è un libro tedesco, scritto
da un soldato tedesco. […] Il lettore italiano tenga presente questo: e se è
stato combattente, penetrerà con emozione nelle misteriose linee nemiche,
vedrà come agivano e reagivano questi misteriosi avversari quasi sempre
invisibili oltre una mortale barriera di fuoco, o simili tutt’al più a inanimate
sàgome di bersaglio.’
40. ‘Senza artifizi, senza psicologismi, senza tumidezze’.
41. ‘Stile di forma analitica elementare, murato a secco, di periodi brevi, senza
immagini, tutto sensazione istantanea, tutto fatto’.
42. ‘Specchio fedele dei fatti, dei luoghi, e dei tempi che vuol ritrarre’.
43. ‘E’ tempo di correggere il decrepito assioma, per il quale tutto ciò che è
tedesco dev’essere pesante, tutto ciò che è nordico deve mancare di grazia.
Il tempo cammina, e gli uomini lo seguono’. Giovanni Battista Angioletti
(1896–1961) was a novelist and essay writer.
44. The Italian edition was published in 1933, the same year that the French and
Norwegian translations were published. The British and American transla-
tions appeared only in 1937.
45. ‘Si può dire che per i primi anni questo fosse stato tutto, o quasi.’
46. ‘Spirito decompositore, dissolvitore, sobillatore, anarchico e nichilista’.
47. ‘La Medusa infatti ha, in primo luogo, compiuto un’alta opera di italianità,
contribuendo efficacemente a liberare il nostro paese dalla soggezione verso
altre lingue europee attraverso le quali il pubblico era solito conoscere, sovente
con grande ritardo e dubbi criteri di scelta, i libri pubblicati nel mondo.’
48. ‘E adesso pover’uomo by Hans Fallada, the second volume of the series […]
was reprinted in five editions and sold 20,000 copies in the following four
years, and other editions appeared still later’ (Decleva 1993: 189–90). From
the publicity note on the fourth edition, published in the 3° supergiallo on
8 June 1935, we learn that of the 27 volumes in the ‘Medusa’ series, only
three had so far been reprinted in a second edition: La buona terra by Pearl
Buck; Giovane donna del 1914 by Arnold Zweig (‘This novel, part of the same
phase as La questione del Sergeant Grischa, is dedicated to the second year of
the World War’); L’avvocato Laudin by Jakob Wassermann (‘The most humane
novel of the great novelist, recently deceased’).
49. ‘La più umana, suggestiva vicenda inquadrata sullo sfondo drammatico della
disoccupazione tedesca’.
50. On the parallels and differences between Fascism and National Socialism, see
De Felice (1974: 418–533), Nolte (1963: 288–99), De Grand (1999: 81–109)
and Ben-Ghiat (2000: 207–77).
51. ‘L’ex tappezziere e verniciatore viennese ha la faccia della sua professione,

e quel naso a cresta e all’insù che è l’ideale dei biondi germani in contrasto
con l’uncino meditabondo dei nasi ebrei, sotto il quale naso due spazzolini
biondi montan la guardia, con untuosità austriaca, alla bocca di pesce. […]
Hitler è volentieri descritto come un pagliaccio. Certo l’esito della sua impresa
novembrina non incoraggia ad attenuare questo giudizio. Ma bisogna notare
qui che la posizione morale di Hitler è guastata irrimediabilmente dal para-
gone che i suoi, e gli avversari, ne fanno con Mussolini. Ci son confronti
che schiacciano. Chi poteva essere un modesto e bravo imitatore diventa un
grottesco impostore.’
52. ‘[...] und bot ihnen im Gegensatz zu den meisten anderen Ländern zugleich
legale Arbeitsmöglichkeiten’.
53. On the first conflictual phase of the relations between Fascist Italy and Nazi
Germany, see Petersen (1973).
54. ‘Gli scrittori della Germania d’oggi che abbiano fama internazionale sono pochi –
la maggior parte è rappresentata da quelli che sono fuggiti o allontanati.’
55. ‘Die Übersetzung oder Verbreitung von Werken, die sich unter Verfälschung
der geschichtlichen Wahrheit gegen das andere Land, gegen seine Staatsform
oder Staatsführung richten, und von entstellenden Werken (Tendenzliteratur)
politischer Emigranten des anderen Landes verhindern würden’.
56. For a complete description of the methods and history of anti-Semitic
censorship in Italy, see Fabre (1998).
57. ‘Um Nachsicht baten, weil die wirtschaftliche Lage des italienischen
Buchgewerbes keine plötzlichen und einschneidenden Veränderungen
zulasse.’
58. ‘Auch die letzten wenigen Werke aus den Buchhandlungen verschwunden
sind.’
59. ‘Das wirklich deutsche Schrifttum’.
60. ‘Dürfen wir hoffen, daß endlich, endlich auch das geistige Italien begreift,
daß es sich redlicher als bisher bemühen muß, das geistige Deutschland von
heute kennenzulernen, und daß man das neue Deutschland beleidigt, wenn
man immer noch Juden, Judengenossen und Emigranten dem italienischen
Volk als die einzigen “deutschen Dichter” präsentiert?’
61. ‘Uomo di destra in tempi internazionalisti, fu accolto alla fama dal nuovo
regime, ma poi si rese impossibile con la sua sincerità nel non voler sconfes-
sare il passato, finì persino in campo di concentramento, rifece poi la pace
con la Germania di oggi.’
62. ‘Un autore che sarebbe un’ottima […] bandiera non crociuncinata, ma schi-
ettamente tedesca e nello stesso tempo artisticamente rispettabilissima.’
63. ‘D’altra parte nella stessa Germania non riescono a scoprire narratori leg-
gibili e esportabili. Tollerano Fallada, ma non si fa certo cosa grata alla
Kulturkammer prendendo quello! E non possiamo gettare mattoni nazional-
socialisti sulla testa incolpevole dei lettori italiani.’
64. ‘Se si volessero raccogliere documenti per provare tutte le doti più irritanti
ed odiose dei tedeschi, sarebbe un ottimo libro.’
65. ‘Inquieti in rivolta’; ‘“Sturm und Drang” rinnovato’; ‘il bando dato alla
maggior parte di questi autori dal movimento politico impostosi successiva-
mente alla testa del Reich, il quale all’idea di rivoluzione interna accoppia la
volontà di riscatto nazionale’.
Mario Rubino 177
66. ‘La fluida simpatia umana di un Werfel’; ‘la nudità dolorosa di un Kafka, il
rigore kantiano con cui nella sua allucinata prosa si denuncia l’impossibilità
di vivere così, su questa terra, e si reclama una giustizia d’altre sfere’.
67. ‘Della letteratura più recente e accettata, che conta nomi come Carossa e
Wiechert, E. Strauss e H. Hesse, M. Mell e Kolbenheyer, accanto a una dozzina
d’altri – si può qui solo dire che segue onesta e cauta la via indicata.’
68. ‘Aus einem damals weit verbreiteten Antibolschewismus, Antisemitismus
und Antiamerikanismus’.
69. ‘Europa von der Geistesmacht des neuen Deutschland zu überzeugen’; ‘die
militärisch errungene Hegemonie des Deutschen Reiches in Europa [abzu-
sichern]’.
70. This is the case of Marku e la sua stirpe, by the Finn Unto Seppänen, trans-
lated by Cristina Baseggio, or Terra matrigna, by the Turkish author Yakup
Kadri and translated by Alessandra Scalero. Both books were published in
1942 by Mondadori in the ‘Medusa’ series.
71. ‘Nuovo e affascinante’; ‘una bell’opera che sarebbe molto bello poter pub-
blicare e che avrebbe un gran pubblico’.
72. ‘Non si potrebbe acquistare e poi attendere tempi migliori?’
7
The Einaudi Publishing House and
Fascist Policy on Translations
Francesca Nottola
The history of the Einaudi publishing house, particularly the relation-

ship between Giulio Einaudi – as a citizen and a publisher – and the
regime, has been widely explored and discussed (Turi 1990; Mangoni
1999; d’Orsi 2000). Important information about the publishing house
in its early years can also be gathered from some of the memoirs of
the people involved (Einaudi 1988, 1998, 2001; Ginzburg 1963, 1988;
Cesari 1991) and from the many individual works about editors, writers
and translators who worked with Casa Einaudi. In this chapter, I will
analyse the way in which Giulio Einaudi managed to publish transla-
tions in Fascist Italy and the influence of domestic and foreign policies
on the translation and publishing process.
One of my purposes is to compare Einaudi with other Italian pub-
lishers that have been studied in this respect, mainly Mondadori and
Bompiani (Rundle 1999, 2000, 2010; Billiani 2007a). The impact of
political power significantly affected the plans of publishers, and the
history of each publisher tells a unique story of freedom from or obedi-
ence to the state. Giulio Einaudi’s relationship with political power was
not smooth, and it evolved over time. A direct consequence of this trou-
bled relationship was his exclusion on the many occasions when the
regime supported publishers through public funding, especially in the
early 1930s. It is important to stress, however, that rather than Einaudi’s
actual political positioning, what is relevant here is how the publishing
house was perceived by the regime, since his being able to continue pub-
lishing largely depended on the perceptions the Fascist apparatus had
of him. Of course, politics is only one aspect affecting the production
of culture. Research on the culture industries (particularly Forgacs 1990)
has reminded us that publishing under Fascism was affected most of all
by the taste and interest of readers. Einaudi – like publishers Gobetti
178
Francesca Nottola 179
and Laterza – chose to avoid strictly commercial products and limited

his production to quality fiction and non-fiction, with modest print
runs but targeting the widest possible reading public.
The other focus of this study is on the ways in which translation was
affected by the intervention of censorship and by the ideological pres-
sure put on translators and publishers. The Einaudi archive provides
us with interesting clues about how translations had to be carried out
in order to produce ‘authorizable’ texts. As we will see, Fascist policies
influenced publishing both in the choice of authors and texts and
in the process of translation and adjustment of texts for a mediated
reception.
My chapter will therefore address the following questions: In what
ways did Einaudi differ from other publishers? To what extent did
Einaudi and his collaborators’ political status affect the work of the
publishing house? To what extent did Einaudi accept the regime’s inter-
ference? How did the war affect his publishing and, specifically, transla-
tions? What were the criteria for choosing texts and modifying them
to make them acceptable? How did Einaudi translators manage their
ambivalent role as both promoters of foreign culture and instruments
of censorship? What was the translation policy at Einaudi?
Einaudi’s early production and the importance

of translations
It was Luigi Einaudi, Giulio Einaudi’s father, who passed on to his son
an interest in translation, long before the project of the publishing
house was conceived. An important scholar and journalist who was
well known abroad, Luigi had seen translation as a crucial means for
promoting cultural exchange and keeping Italian culture up to date. It
was no coincidence that the publishing house was co-founded by two
important translators, Cesare Pavese and Leone Ginzburg. The lack of
data on print runs for the years 1933–45 means we cannot form any
accurate evaluation of the economic importance of translations for
the publishing house. However, from the huge number of translations
planned and discussed in the correspondence, we must infer that the
house relied on them heavily. Documents in the Einaudi archive provide
evidence of a much larger number of translations being planned, carried
out and submitted to censorship offices than those that were actually
published. Proposals usually came from translators, editors and external
collaborators, but Giulio Einaudi himself also participated actively in
the choice of texts.
180 Einaudi and Fascist Policy on Translations
Einaudi’s early production included many books by authors from

Luigi Einaudi’s entourage – either fellow economists or journalists – in
the series ‘Problemi contemporanei’ (1934–44), a quarter of whose titles
were translations.1 In June 1934, the first text published in the soon-
to-be-aborted series ‘Ricordi e documenti di guerra’, Diario di guerra by
Leonida Bissolati, was seized because the author had criticized the behav-
iour of Italian generals during the First World War (though it was later
authorized with no modifications, probably thanks to Luigi Einaudi’s
intervention).2 The historical series ‘Biblioteca di cultura storica’ was
launched in 1935 and had been planned by Leone Ginzburg before he
was arrested in 1934 for involvement in anti-Fascist activities. According
to Turi, Einaudi’s ‘Biblioteca’ was of exceptional prestige and academic
value; it had also received Gramsci’s praise in his Prison Notebooks.
However, some books in the collection which appear to be out of tune
with the rest of the series have been interpreted by historians as a neces-
sary compromise with the regime, at a moment when the very existence
of the publishing house could no longer be taken for granted.3 Up until
1945, 50 per cent of the series was made up of translations.
Other important series launched in those years were ‘Saggi’ (from
1937 to the present) and ‘Biblioteca di cultura scientifica’ (1938–55).
‘Saggi’ was an eclectic collection which included essays about literature,
history, philosophy, science, visual arts, psychology, current events
and memoirs. About half the series were translations (the first literary
translations to be published by Einaudi), from both European and non-
European languages. ‘Saggi’ gives us an important indication of the pub-
lishing strategies the house was developing and testing. Its eclecticism
was, however, also due to the fact that it included titles which did not
fit into any other series and texts with complicated authorization proc-
esses (Mangoni 1999: 36–40). The series ‘Biblioteca di cultura scientifica’
(launched in 1938 and mostly made up of translations – 11 out of the
13 titles) was the expression of a growing interest in scientific issues in
the publishing house, especially physics, and would later (1940) result
in the scientific journal Il Saggiatore. The series which is more interest-
ing for our purposes, however, is ‘Narratori Stranieri Tradotti’ [Foreign
Authors Translated]. This series began with a translation of Goethe’s
Werther, and included four translations from German in the period up
to 1945, although most translations in the series were from English,
followed by French and Russian. The ‘Poeti’ series (from 1939) and
the ‘Narratori contemporanei’ [Contemporary Authors] series (from
1941), included only one translation each: a collection of Rainer Maria
Rilke’s poems (1942) and a novel by Vercors (pseudonym of Jean Marcel
Bruller), Le Silence de la mer. Finally, the series with the largest number
of translations before 1945 was ‘L’Universale’, which was launched in
1942 and mainly directed by editor Carlo Muscetta. Half of its titles
were translations from modern languages, including fiction and non-
fiction. Einaudi’s translations of fiction, in both the ‘Saggi’ and ‘Narratori
Stranieri Tradotti’ series, were chosen mainly from the European classics
of the nineteenth century and, less frequently, from North American
literature.
This brief overview shows that by the outbreak of war Casa Einaudi,
despite only having been created in 1933, was already competing with
the giants of Italian publishing – if not in terms of sales (for Einaudi
print runs rarely exceeded 5000 copies), then certainly in terms of pres-
tige and the positive feedback its volumes received from reviewers and
readers. Einaudi aimed high and from the very beginning appointed
many of the most important and well-known Italian authors, scholars
and translators. The publisher’s purpose was to combine pleasurable
reading with quality content, and his policy for both fiction and non-
fiction was to choose texts that were relevant to the new readership
growing and developing in those years. The house expressed this aim
by offering classic texts but also promoting talented new authors, both
Italian and foreign.
The effects of Fascist policy on translations at Einaudi
One of the earliest documents in the Einaudi archives concerning trans-

lations is a 1938 authorization of Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of
Alice B. Toklas (1933), translated by Pavese and included in the ‘Saggi’
series in 1938. It is remarkable that in the months when the Fascist
government was preparing to enforce the anti-Jewish laws, and long
after lesbianism had become a matter for police investigation, a book
written by a writer originally from a German Jewish family and part
of one of the most famous lesbian couples in the history of literature
was authorized for publication. Interestingly, Stein’s book was in fact
temporarily blocked, in 1942, for being written by an American author,
as we can see in a letter by Mario Alicata to Giulio Einaudi in which
Alicata suggests, probably following advice from some functionary
at the Ministry of Popular Culture, that they should not mention it
was a new edition but should instead claim it was a reprint.4 This case
introduces a series of themes: problems with American authors, a cer-
tain degree of flexibility regarding reprints, and the common praxis of
negotiating authorizations with MCP functionaries. As far as reprints
are concerned, since September 1940 MCP minister Pavolini had asked
publishers to send a list of all their publications; his intention was to
draw up a survey of what was being published in Italy at the time in
an attempt to curb the high number of translations. Reprints, were,
however, excluded from the report.5 As to the problems with American
authors, these began when Italy declared war on the US in December
1941. From that date, the anti-American criterion for censorship
became semi-official at Einaudi. Works by authors from countries that
had applied the League of Nations sanctions against Italy following
the 1935 invasion of Ethiopia, such as Britain and the US, had been
considered ‘unwelcome’ even before the Second World War (Bonsaver
2007: 116–19). Nevertheless, until 1940 American texts had not, in fact,
posed major problems, and Einaudi had written to translator Luigi Berti
proposing Melville’s White Jacket and saying that Pavese was translat-
ing Benito Cereno; he was also waiting for an authorization for Pierre: or
The Ambiguities, which was indeed granted.6 However, there is evidence
that Einaudi was already applying considerable caution with American
authors some months before the hostilities started. In the Einaudi corre-
spondence, the first mention of a ‘ban’ on British and American authors
appears in March 1941, though no evidence of a specific government
directive has been found to date. It was, then, an unofficial ban, though
Bonsaver (2007: 223–4) reports that a number of books were rejected by
the censor around this time, ‘many of which [were] American’, some-
thing that Bompiani, too, mentioned in his memoirs (ibid.). In the same
month, the translator Aldo Camerino had written to Einaudi proposing
Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Hardy and the autobiography of the ‘greatest
living architect’, Frank Lloyd Wright. Einaudi replied:
I really like the idea of Wright’s autobiography, which I have heard

spoken very well of. But, we will have to get around the ban on
British and American works, both contemporary and classic! In the
worst case we can prepare the texts and then publish them at the
end of the war.7
The interesting point is that Einaudi was more confident about the pos-
sibility of publishing the biography of the American architect than a
British classic: ‘Given that Tess has already been translated in full, given
that Hardy is subject to a ban, considering all this, I would definitely go
for Wright at the moment.’8
According to Circular no. 1135 of 26 March 1938, issued by Minister
Alfieri (the first document aimed at monitoring translations), universally
recognized classics were exempt from the need to seek prior approval
(Fabre 2007: 28), but this exception was rarely applied to Einaudi’s pro-
posals. In his letter of June 1941, Einaudi said that Hardy was subject
to censorship, yet The Mayor of Casterbridge was easily authorized in
December of the same year. The arbitrariness, unpredictability and
inconsistency in the granting or denying of permission has been
recorded for other publishers, too, and has mainly been attributed to the
desire of functionaries and ministers to retain the possibility for them-
selves of applying ad hoc solutions in specific circumstances (Rundle
2010: 90–1; Bonsaver 2007: 261–6). It would appear, however, that
other publishers were treated with a greater flexibility than that shown
towards Einaudi, at least where this unofficial ‘anglophobic’ ban was
concerned. This is indicated by the surprised reactions of translators,
who did not seem to understand why Bompiani could publish contem-
porary American authors while Einaudi could not publish British clas-
sics. In May 1941, Einaudi confirmed the unofficial ban on British and
American authors, even classics, in some letters to the translators Carlo
Linati, who also worked for Mondadori and Bompiani, and Luigi Berti.
Linati suggested to Einaudi that he should remind the functionaries that
many contemporary American authors were currently being published
by other houses and that, after all, Henry James could be considered a
‘classic’, was a great admirer of Italy and had written a beautiful book
about the country. In his reply, Einaudi explained that books published
by other firms had been authorized before the war.9 The translator Aldo
Camerino was also perplexed by Einaudi’s claim that Anglo-American
authors could not be published. Camerino asked him to clarify the
criteria he was applying and whether Spanish texts could be translated.
Einaudi replied confirming that any translation proposal was fine except
for British and American texts.10
Sometimes Einaudi’s self-censorship itself was inconsistent. In spring
1941, in response to Paolo Schweitzer’s suggestion of translating sev-
eral American authors, Einaudi replied: ‘we can’t take translations
from English into consideration right now’,11 but at the same time he
accepted Schweitzer’s proposal of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels some
time between May and July, probably considering him safe because of
his ‘classic’ status.12 In a subsequent letter, Einaudi added that the
authorization for Swift had not been granted,13 and Schweitzer replied
that the publisher should tell the Ministry that Swift was Irish and had
died two centuries earlier.14 Einaudi in turn told Schweitzer that he
ought to be aware of the problems with translations from English by
now and that he would do better to propose something from German
instead.15 To be sure, we should not assume that everything Einaudi said

to translators was true: he may have had other reasons for declining a
proposal. However, the number of letters in which he mentions this
anti-Anglo-American criterion seems to support the hypothesis that the
unofficial ban was enforced quite strictly in his case. In early 1941, the
house was planning the new ‘Universale’ series and, in the discussion
about which translations might be included, Einaudi wrote to Alicata
saying that, having to exclude American and British works, they should
count only on Russian and German authors.16 Yet in the autumn, in
response to Muscetta’s argument that they should include more British
and Russian authors,17 Einaudi replied:
FOREIGN AUTHORS. … Your eagerness to publish Russian and

British authors, right now, seems inappropriate to me. […] As to
British and French authors, be careful, for I would not be surprised if
they rejected Goldsmith (whom they probably do not know at the
Ministry) and Gobineau, despite the fact that they would perfectly
align the Universale series [with Fascist ideology].18
In fact, the Ministry had become even stricter than this. To novelist and
translator Elsa Morante, who had offered to translate Lewis Carroll’s
Alice in Wonderland, Einaudi replied, through Mario Alicata, that they
should wait until they had the authorization, since the MCP function-
ary Bruno Gaeta had become increasingly inflexible.19 Italy was almost
at war with the US, and wartime propaganda was fierce. Accordingly,
another censorship criterion concerned any text that criticized war.
Stephen Crane was rejected by Einaudi for precisely this reason.20
Another interesting instance of rejection of anglophone authors took
place in the spring of 1942 and involved Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the
President of the Indian National Congress. Einaudi wanted to pub-
lish a collection of writings by Nehru and he had thought that, as an
opponent of the British government (with which Italy had been at war
since June 1940), Nehru should have been approved immediately. He
was wrong: the Fascist censors denied authorization and the publisher
suggested that Mario Alicata should try and persuade Bruno Gaeta ‘by
means of press cuttings’ that Nehru’s policy was very close to Gandhi’s
and, therefore, in opposition to the British government. Not even this
strategy worked, and Nehru was not published.21
In subsequent months Einaudi continued to try to publish American
authors, and Cesare Pavese was particularly interested in having
Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology authorized (in Fernanda Pivano’s
translation). Einaudi (or Pavese) – anticipating difficulties – wrote to

Alicata: ‘Dear Alicata, we are going to send to the Ministry the manu-
script of a selection from Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. We opted
for this method because otherwise, without a persuasive introduction,
the book would have been doomed.’22 The MCP refused authoriza-
tion, as expected, but was eventually persuaded to reverse this decision
thanks to the intervention of the literary critic Emilio Cecchi, who was
also a reader for the Ministry.23
The correspondence between Giulio Einaudi and anti-Fascist scholar
Ernesto Rossi, writing from his internal exile in Ventotene (Italy), provides
us with further evidence of the ‘anglophobic’ criterion being applied to
Einaudi’s requests for authorization. In July 1942 Rossi sent Einaudi a
long list of texts about economic planning and the Soviet experiment.
Einaudi replied that, as they were written by Anglo-American or French
authors, they were unlikely to be authorized, but that the house should
consider translating some of them at the end of the war.24
In late 1942 and early 1943, more anglophone authors were being
considered by Einaudi for publication. Hawthorne had been rejected,
and Einaudi asked Luigi Berti and Aldo Camerino to translate Edgar
Allan Poe’s critical essays. Einaudi considered D. H. Lawrence impos-
sible to publish in spring 1943, but Lidia Storoni Mazzolani had pro-
posed to translate a selection of Lawrence’s letters – stressing the fact
that if Einaudi did not publish them, Mondadori or Bompiani would.
Significantly, Storoni Mazzolani supported her argument by noting
that Lawrence might be authorized since he often criticized Britain and
praised Italians.25
The unofficial ban on anglophone authors and the disregard of the
official exemption of ‘classics’ or ‘scientific texts’ is also recorded in the
correspondence of other publishers like Bompiani (D’Ina and Zaccaria
1988: 126–30), but the severity and consistency with which this prob-
lem was experienced at Einaudi is not comparable to other publishers, as
is apparent from the puzzled reactions of translators. Somehow, Einaudi
was more seriously affected than other publishers, and the reason for
this is not easy to interpret given that Einaudi translated considerably
less than these very same publishers, who managed to publish contem-
porary American authors – the famous case of Bompiani’s Americana
anthology is the most striking example – even in the most dramatic
years of the conflict.26 Further evidence that Einaudi was a special case
comes from an episode in early 1942. The house had been harshly
attacked by the classicist Goffredo Coppola in the Fascist paper Popolo
d’Italia of 15 January in an article titled ‘Guerra di religione’ [Religious
War]. Coppola criticized the publishers for promoting the literature of

enemy states, and a vitriolic remark targeted Einaudi in particular for
having just published War and Peace by Tolstoy, or rather, ‘Lev Tolstòi, as
Einaudi has printed it with the Jewish scrupulousness of a foreigner’.27
Luisa Mangoni, commenting on the episode, writes:
[T]he reference to Leone Ginzburg, who had been deprived – due to

the racial laws – of his Italian citizenship, was clear for those who
could read between the lines. And it was even more significant since
the name of Ginzburg, who had edited the translation bought from
Slavia and written the foreword, could not be written on the book
for obvious reasons. It was a warning that the Einaudi house still
had the same association with Cultura, Ginzburg and Turinese anti-
Fascism.28
Mangoni is referring to the political background of Einaudi, his col-

laborators and especially Leone Ginzburg, which had created serious
problems with the regime in the early years of the publishing house’s
life. Einaudi and many of his collaborators were arrested in May 1935
for suspected anti-Fascist activities connected to the literary journal
Cultura, managed by Giulio Einaudi. After the arrests, the publisher
decided to personally cease all direct political involvement (despite
joining the Resistance a decade later) and to officially ‘ignore’ the anti-
Fascist activities his collaborators were involved in. Nevertheless Giulio
Einaudi and his entourage were kept under strict police surveillance
until the fall of the regime and even afterwards, during the Cold War,
due to his connections with the Italian Communist Party.29
Coppola’s article triggered an immediate reaction in the house, and
Einaudi recommended that a prompt reply be published in the journal
Primato, founded in 1940 and co-directed by the Education Minister,
Giuseppe Bottai.30 Despite the seriousness of the attack, which is quite
revealing also of Einaudi’s growing commercial success and his strong
connections with Bottai, editorial work continued to be planned and,
indeed, Einaudi was still looking for new translations. With a refer-
ence to Coppola’s article and a possible meeting with Gherardo Casini
(the head of the General Directorate for the Italian Press at the MCP),
Alicata reported that Casini had promised to approve the list of French,
British and Russian classics they had presented, but had stressed that
they should forward requests for Italian authors first, and only then for
translations – from ‘friendly’ and neutral nations first and only then,
with caution, others – and place no advertisements in the press.31
As is apparent from much of the available documentation, the actual

contents of books were a minor issue that could be easily solved with
some careful editing. Despite the circulars aimed at monitoring texts and
censoring contents contrary to the principles of Fascism,32 the issue was
rather that the high number of translations being published created an
image of Italy as a receptive country, something that was unacceptable for
Mussolini.33 The regime encouraged publishers to support and promote
Italian culture, at home and abroad. Publishers had to be nationalists
first, and then they could indulge in their cosmopolitanism – in mod-
eration. Nevertheless despite Einaudi’s effort to promote Italian culture,
classic and contemporary, at home and abroad – out of a genuine inter-
est in Italian culture rather than out of obedience to Fascist requests –
this did not result in any practical advantage for him. The criterion of reci-
procity which emerges from Rundle’s study of Mondadori and Bompiani
is confirmed for Einaudi as well, and many letters insist upon reciproc-
ity as a condition to obtain authorizations for translations.34 Following
Mondadori’s example, Einaudi had learnt that it could prove fruitful to
echo Fascist rhetoric and underline his own merits in promoting Italian
culture as a way of obtaining authorizations for the translations he
wanted to publish. The reason for the increasing difficulty in obtaining
authorizations was that the debate about translations had resulted in the
approval, in 1942, of a measure that required publishers to include no
more than 25 per cent of translations in their catalogues.35
As far as translations from Russian are concerned, a tangible hostility
on the part of censors can be seen in the Einaudi documents only after
the Nazi invasion of the USSR and the consequent state of war with the
Axis powers, that is, after June 1941. Until April 1941, as we have seen,
the choice of translations was indeed limited to Russian and German
texts. The first relevant piece of evidence emerges in a letter dated
26 November 1941 from Alicata to Einaudi, a letter rich in information
on translations. Alicata informed Einaudi of the rejection of Berdyaev’s
Dostoevsky, which was not due to the text itself, but to the fact that other
books by the same author published by Laterza had been withdrawn
from bookshops following a seizure order. Berdyaev’s rejection was con-
firmed a few days later and the text was not published until 1945.36 In
the same letter, however, we are told that Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov
could be reprinted. In 1942, several translations from Russian were in
progress, among which were some essays about Dostoevsky by Vissarion
Belinsky and an edition of Leo Tolstoy’s correspondence with Alexandra
Andreevna Tolstoy by Olga Resnevic Signorelli and Alfredo Polledro.37
In a letter to translator Eva Kuhn Amendola, a reader for the MCP,
Einaudi wrote that he could not publish Russian novels at the time.
We do not know which titles Kuhn had proposed, but this letter pro-
vides us with evidence of an unofficial ban on Russian texts, at least
for Einaudi.38 Further difficulties with publishing Russian authors are
demonstrated by the correspondence with translators Alfredo Polledro
and Renato Vecchione, and by a letter from Mario Alicata to Einaudi in
which Alicata reports on a meeting with MCP functionaries Tosti and
Mezzasoma and mentions a ‘rigorous’ government measure to limit
texts of Russian literature and about Russia. In the same letter, Alicata
urges Einaudi to write to the Minister explaining that, given the prob-
lems following the bombing of Turin (where the house was, and is,
based), it would have been useful to be able to publish at least some
reprints, perhaps including William Henry Chamberlin’s book about
the Russian Revolution.39
As for translations from French, until 1941 no special instance of cen-
sorship occurred, and canonized nineteenth-century novelists (Hugo,
Flaubert, Stendhal) were published without problems. However, a curi-
ous criterion for censorship involved Napoleon, presumably because
of the potential for drawing comparisons with the Duce.40 The case
that held the publishing house in suspense and fed the correspond-
ence among editors was Memoires by Madame de Rémusat, proposed
by Einaudi to Aldo Camerino in July 1941 with the warning that the
Ministry would authorize the translation only with the required changes
and with all negative comments on Napoleon removed.41 The book was
authorized, but after a few months the authorization was revoked.42
Things were complicated by the fact that in September 1942, at the
Book Division of the MCP, many members of the office had been called
to arms and the staff turnover had resulted in a chaotic change in the
praxis regulating the work of readers, functionaries and publishers but
also, and most importantly, a disruption of the network of trusted func-
tionaries upon whom the house had relied in the last few years, such as
Bruno Gaeta. Alicata replied that the denial had come from outside the
office and that, therefore, it was ‘useless to insist upon the reprint of
Rémusat: a warning [had] come from outside the Ministry’.43
It is noteworthy that even a nineteenth-century book of memoirs
about Napoleon received such a degree of attention, to the extent of
going even beyond the censorship office. It is not clear from whom the
objection came, but it may possibly have been Mussolini, given that –
according to Bonsaver – he often intervened personally in censorship
matters (Bonsaver 2007: 201). Some French texts were rejected for being
too licentious (Laclos, probably Les liaisons dangereuses; La Princesse de

Clèves by Madame de La Fayette; and La vie des dames galantes by Pierre
de Bourdeilles). Sometimes it was the translators that would censor
themselves, like Elsa Morante with Le chant de Maldoror by Lautréamont.
On another occasion it was Einaudi who decided not to request authori-
zation for Le bal du Comte d’Orgel by Raymond Radiguet.44 Another
criterion that made texts ‘unwelcome’ seems to have been related to
authors from the French Enlightenment (Diderot, Voltaire) or relating
to their philosophy in a broader sense, like Tocqueville, rejected in
December 1941.45 Other French authors who proved very complicated
to publish were Guy de Maupassant and Proust, who was published
after the Second World War.46
Somewhat similar to the Napoleon taboo might be any mention of the
fall of the Roman Empire, to which Fascist Italy liked to compare itself.
Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
for which Einaudi had appointed the translator Storoni Mazzolani in
1941, was rejected by censorship offices. In this case though, authori-
zation may have been denied due to the author’s nationality. In fact,
in the letter in which the publisher informs the translator that the
book has been blocked, he (or Pavese) also confirms the problems with clas-
sic British/anglophone authors (Peacock, Shelley, Browning, Conrad).47
Contrary to the usual practice of not restricting reprints, essays,
classics or scientific texts, Einaudi found that even essays he sought
to publish could be denied authorization. Even Thomas More had
been rejected in 1940, as is clear from the correspondence with Mario
Vinciguerra.48 In 1942, more essays were denied approval, among them
History of Civilization in England by Henry Thomas Buckle, leading
Alicata to suggest Einaudi arrange another meeting with Minister Bottai
to save some of their texts for the historical collection.49 It was not the
first time that Einaudi would ask for Bottai’s help to rescue books.50
The publisher was particularly worried about the high number of essays
that were failing to be authorized, so he wrote to Alicata urging him to
improve relationships with the new staff.51 Another letter from Carlo
Muscetta to Alicata confirms the praxis of negotiating in person with
MCP functionaries to obtain authorizations:
As far as authorizations are concerned, we have to insist. The rejec-

tion of Chesterfield is too much! We have to ask them to clarify the
reasons for the rejection and try to persuade the functionaries. Do
you remember that we succeeded, eventually, with Robertson?52
Confident that scientific books would undergo smoother procedures,

Einaudi had planned a new series with Ludovico Geymonat. However,
new problems arose, since one of the authors under consideration,
Karl Popper, was Jewish and therefore his works could not be pub-
lished, despite the exceptions listed in the regulations established by
the Commission for the Purging of Books [Commissione per la Bonifica
Libraria] that was supposed to ‘purge’ Italian culture of Jewish influ-
ence.53 Several scientific texts were denied authorization, such as Science
and the Modern World by mathematician and philosopher Alfred North
Whitehead and The Foundations of Arithmetic by Gottlob Frege, because
they had both received a negative review by the Royal Academy of Italy
(Reale Accademia d’Italia), from which the Ministry had requested an
opinion.54 The MCP functionary Amedeo Tosti had explained to Alicata
that it was true that scientific books did not require authorization, but
that it would have been better if the publisher kept away from texts that
combined scientific and philosophical issues, which were likely to draw
attention to themselves and be criticized.55 Tosti’s remark introduces
us to another censorship criterion emerging from the correspondence:
‘Freudism’.56 In 1941, Einaudi had planned to publish a German author,
Kilian Kerst (pseudonym of Wilhelm Fath). Alberto Spaini – who had
received the book from the Ministry for evaluation – sent a positive opin-
ion to the Ministry saying that the book could be published, since ‘the
psychological analysis in the book did not necessarily mean approval of
Freudism’.57 However, as Einaudi had foreseen, despite a second positive
report, the book was blocked due to a suicide in the plot.58
Another author who raised censorship issues in 1942 was Jung. His
essays had been proposed to Einaudi by Giovanni Bollea in October
1940 since no Italian translations were available at that point. In January
1942, Einaudi had sent Psychologische Typen to the MCP for evaluation,
and Alicata was confident it would be authorized because Bruno Gaeta
was particularly friendly in that period. Some months later, Alicata wrote
that, among other books, most scientific books had been approved, but
that ‘G.’, probably Gaeta, had thought it would be difficult to get Jung
authorized. One month later, Alicata confirmed this pessimistic fore-
cast, but Einaudi encouraged him nevertheless to do his best to get the
approval. Einaudi published Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart in 1942 and
Psychologische Typen was printed by publisher Astrolabio in 1948.59
It would be reasonable to think that Mussolini’s alliance with Nazi
Germany would have resulted in easier authorizations for German or
Austrian texts compared to English or French ones.60 That was Giulio
Einaudi’s judgement, and he tried to exploit the political alliance
by planning several translations from German. However, against all

expectations, and despite the close relationships with important
Germanists like Gherardo Casini and Alberto Spaini, translations from
German also faced difficulties. The correspondence with Spaini is inter-
esting for our purposes because he was inside the censorship system
and knew well what would be authorized and what would not. In
1941, Einaudi asked him to translate Schiller’s Geschichte des Abfalls der
Niederlande, which he had proposed some years before. While translat-
ing it, Spaini wrote to Einaudi that he thought the work was untranslat-
able due to the many sensitive references in the text, especially to ‘the
Church, Germany, the Reich, the Empire, the Army and the Navy’.61 He
commented that he had had to cut so many references that only the
title was left, and the title too was ‘quite heretical’. He also added that
he thought the book would anyway be rejected by the Ministry.
In the same year, Einaudi was very interested in publishing a much-
debated book, Volk ohne Raum by Hans Grimm, a ‘renowned German
colonial novel’62 (and a bestseller in Germany), and proposed it to the
translator Schweitzer. In November 1941, Einaudi wrote to Alicata saying
that Spaini had been asked by the Ministry to evaluate their proposals and
that Spaini had written to Einaudi confirming he had approved Grimm’s
work, with the warning that the author’s comments on Italian military
intervention in the First World War and the mention of a massacre by the
Portuguese would have to be cut. Spaini recommended that the book be
re-checked by the translator for any dangerous references he might have
missed during his first reading of the book. The letter reminds us that
another sensitive issue for the Ministry was any criticism of the regime
of Antonio de Oliveira Salazar in Portugal. Five months later, Schweitzer
handed in the manuscript, specifying that he had been very respectful of
the text, but had modified it in several points and had also cut a long ref-
erence to German domestic policy that would not have interested Italian
readers. Schweitzer asked the publisher not to publish his name in the
translation, and signed the letter ‘P. Elvezio’, probably one more victim
of the racial persecution in Italy. Schweitzer’s comments are interesting
because they coincide with those made by Spaini, which indicates that,
despite the lack of official documents about the way translations had
to be modified and censored, the translators were clearly aware of what
the sensitive issues might be. In April 1942, however, Volk ohne Raum
was blocked for unspecified political reasons and Einaudi asked Alicata
to have the author, Grimm, write to Minister Pavolini expressing praise
for Fascist Italy. The authorization was obtained in September 1942 but
despite all these efforts, the book did not appear in any Einaudi series.63
Conclusion
The quantity and availability of documents in the Einaudi archive

from its foundation to the fall of the regime is considerable if com-
pared to other Italian publishers, even though there is little trace of
any correspondence with the MCP, the government, other publishers
or the Publishers Federation, and no data on print runs or sales figures.
Nevertheless the correspondence between publisher, editors and trans-
lators allows us to draw a reasonably clear picture of the process of pub-
lishing translations in Italy in the 1930s and early 1940s.
As research on publishing and censorship has shown, the regime did
not feel the need to establish any new censorship procedures concern-
ing books until April 1934, when the regime made it a requirement to
obtain prior authorization before the distribution of a new publica-
tion.64 Translations started to receive special treatment only from March
1938. Research on Fascist nationalism, racial policies and translation has
shown that there was a close connection between the measures regard-
ing publications and the development of a strong nationalist, colonial
and racial agenda. In fact, even if publishers’ primary concern was the
response from readers and, as we have seen, the Fascist government
strongly supported the growth of the publishing industry and especially
those publishers who aligned themselves with the regime, in the 1930s
politics became an increasingly ‘disturbing’ factor in publishers’ plans.
Both domestic and foreign policies deeply affected, on the one hand,
the planning of series and the choice of texts and authors and, on the
other, the texts themselves, with heavy intervention through cuts and
modifications of the original texts. Fascist domestic policies provided
publishers, including Einaudi, with a series of official and unofficial
censorship criteria: anti-Fascism, socialism, Communism or anything
culturally related to the Enlightenment or the French Revolution, liber-
alism or the bourgeois revolutions; disrespect for the Savoy royal fam-
ily or the Roman Catholic Church; incompatibility with Fascist moral
principles or policies on family, birth control and sexuality. There could
be no negative reference to the Roman Empire or to Napoleon and
no criticism of war. Finally, Freud and psychoanalysis were regarded
with suspicion. Foreign policy also provided publishers and translators
with new censorship criteria: no criticism of allies (Germany, Portugal,
Spain), no praise of enemy states, particularly Britain and the US, espe-
cially after they supported and implemented the League of Nations
sanctions against Italy in 1935. No criticism of Italy or any mention of
its economic and social problems could be made by both national and
foreign authors. Authors unwelcome in Nazi Germany because they

were Jews or political dissidents, officially became unwelcome in Italy
as well.65 Thus, the documents at Einaudi mostly confirm what has been
written about other publishers in terms of the effects of Fascist policies
on translations.
However, the case of Einaudi highlights something which has not
emerged in studies on other publishers. Despite a general disapproval
from the regime of their tendency to publish too many British and
American authors, other publishers were able to publish them even
during the early years of the Second World War. Documents from the
Einaudi archive, in contrast, mention an explicit ban on Anglo-American
authors – particularly apparent from spring 1941 onwards – which has
not been recorded for other publishers explored to date. The strictness
with which this restriction was applied for Einaudi is surprising, and it
did have a significant impact on the choice of texts Einaudi was able to
publish, as we have seen from the correspondence. In addition, the ban
applied not only to fiction but also to non-fiction texts, contrary to all
the usual exceptions applied to recognized literary classics and scientific
texts. The puzzled reactions of many translators who also worked for
other publishers testify to the uniqueness of the restrictions applied to
Einaudi. If, in some cases, it was Giulio Einaudi himself who avoided
risks by rejecting proposals for translations from English, it is also true
that many proposals the house sent to the Ministry were rejected,
regardless of century, author, country of origin, genre and content. Even
non-fiction texts that should have been politically acceptable, such as
anti-Soviet or anti-British texts, were rejected just because they were
written by English-speaking authors.
Interestingly, although this anglophobic criterion was applied very
frequently, it was not always consistent, since sometimes – and inexpli-
cably – texts from English were authorized. Fascist censorship, in general,
was inconsistent and rejections and approvals were often arbitrary, and
no publisher could anticipate what the decision would be, since the
regime never provided publishers with a well-defined system of rules
and instructions to which they could conform in order to have their
texts authorized. There were some well-known general criteria to com-
ply with, but each problematic case could be discussed and negotiated
with authorities depending on the circumstances, the publisher and the
functionary involved. The lack of an explicit set of rules was part of an
intentional and effective strategy that allowed functionaries to modulate
their intervention according to the degree of collaboration established
with each publisher. This implied, though, that publishers were exposed
to considerable uncertainty and risks and they would often try to balance
this by voluntarily seeking prior authorizations or, even more frequently,
through self-censorship, in order to avoid financial loss. Good personal
relationships were therefore essential, and Einaudi was able to estab-
lish close relations with Gherardo Casini, Giuseppe Bottai and Bruno
Gaeta, especially in the 1940s after the opening of the Rome branch of
the house, which allowed him to manage negotiations through Mario
Alicata. A change in the MCP staff, however, could create considerable
confusion and previously granted authorizations would be withdrawn
without explanation. In contrast, at times apparently risky books would
be authorized without problems.
As far as translation practices are concerned, many documents refer
to ministerial directives as to how to write prefaces and how to adjust
translations, but no evidence has been retrieved yet, even though it is
apparent that translators knew perfectly well what was acceptable and
what was not and would censor themselves autonomously. In terms of
general translation practice, there were two policies at Einaudi: Ginzburg
adopted an author-oriented policy which was very respectful of the
original text, while Pavese had a ‘freer’ approach to translation and
would often intervene heavily on original texts and appropriate them
to develop his own writing style as an author. However, ‘respectful’
translation of the original text was what Einaudi most frequently
required from translators, although letters from translators show how,
at the time, they had the most disparate translating styles, ranging
from word-by-word translations to arbitrary transformations of the
original. Sensitivity towards authors’ styles or source cultures was often
a minor issue and the changes required by censorship certainly did
not help. The position of translators at the time was, then, ambivalent
because they were often committed promoters of foreign culture, but
were at the same time censors themselves. This did not seem to be a
major cause for concern, however, given that the political, social and
economic issues, particularly after the approval of the racial laws and
during the war, were the priority even for translators, who, as freelance
professionals, were among the most precariously situated of cultural
workers. Nevertheless Einaudi documents show that Giulio Einaudi
considered translation and translators to be very important, despite a
lack of financial reward lamented by most translators.
To conclude, what does the Einaudi case tell us about Fascist policy
on translations? If, based on what emerges from the correspondence,
censorship criteria were largely the same as those applied to other
publishers, the particularly harsh treatment Einaudi and his publishing
house suffered reminds us that the anti-Fascist mark cast on the house
was never really forgotten by the Fascists.
While most other publishers openly sided with the regime (or main-
tained a polite neutrality), Einaudi, his family and his collaborators were
well-known anti-Fascists and this is the feature that makes him stand
out. The number of anti-Fascist and Jewish workers Einaudi employed
was significant, and, being the son of Luigi Einaudi, Giulio Einaudi’s
choices were not invisible.66 Everybody knew whom he worked with,
despite his personal ‘official’ political neutrality following his arrest and
subsequent release in 1935. Einaudi was closer to the liberal positions of
philosopher Benedetto Croce and publishers Laterza and Gobetti than
to Mondadori or Bompiani, and his good relationships with Bottai and
Casini could not make up for the ‘bad’ reputation he had acquired by
recruiting most of the dissident publisher Piero Gobetti’s anti-Fascist
collaborators.67
One factor, in my view, is not to be underestimated. Einaudi was a
young publisher who was able to establish himself as a leading light of
the publishing industry in just ten years by proposing a cultural project
centred on quality and accessibility. This might be worth taking into
consideration when wondering why Einaudi was subjected to so many
restrictive measures: he was not far from becoming threatening for
those publishers that had sealed their alliance with the regime, and it
is probable that proposals coming from a publisher who was so clearly
unaligned will have been considered differently from those coming
from more openly compliant publishers.
On the other hand, it is interesting that, despite all the difficulties
we have described, for a whole decade Einaudi was indeed able to pub-
lish not only translations but also the works of dozens of anti-Fascists.
Could it be that, targeting a limited and loyal audience, Einaudi was not
particularly threatening from a political point of view? It is possible that
the retention of ‘pockets’ of anti-Fascism gave support to Mussolini’s
claim that Fascist Italy was a free country. The explanation could also be
that, unlike openly anti-Fascist publisher Piero Gobetti, Giulio Einaudi
had shown that he understood the warning he was given in 1935 and,
after his arrest, he wisely kept within the boundaries of ‘acceptable’
behaviour.
One element from the editorial correspondence is significant: most
letters, particularly those from Giulio Einaudi and particularly in the
war years, seem to suggest an awareness that the Fascist regime would
not last long. The evidence for this is the ongoing strategic planning
of new series, new translations and translation deals with forbidden
authors – as if Einaudi and his board knew that the war was going to
end and Italy was soon going to be free. The seeds of what Casa Einaudi
became after the war were sown under Fascism, and many of the
projects postponed because of the war would later help make Einaudi
one of the most prestigious cultural enterprises in post-war Italy.
Abbreviations
AE Archivio Einaudi
PNF Partito Nazionale Fascista
MCP Ministero di Cultura Popolare
DGSI Direzione Generale della Stampa Italiana
inc. incartamento (file)
Notes
1. On Luigi Einaudi’s contribution in the early years of the publishing house, see
Turi (1990: 26–61).
2. D’Orsi (2000: 300), Mangoni (1999: 19–20), Turi (1990: 85), Bonsaver (2007:
137–8).
3. Turi (1990: 76, 86), d’Orsi (2000: 300–1), Mangoni (1999: 20–2, 77), Vittoria
(2005: 58); Bonsaver (2007: 139–40).
4. Prefettura to Einaudi, 2 March 1938, AE, inc. Pavese; Alicata to G. Einaudi, 30
March 1942, AE, inc. Alicata. Quoted in Mangoni (1999: 136–7) and Billiani
(2007a: 226–7). For further information about the anti-Jewish laws approved
in November 1938, see De Felice (1961: 290–1, 350–2). On Fascism and lesbi-
anism, see Passerini and Milletti (2007: 135–70). Milletti reports the case of a
woman who had been sentenced to internal exile in 1928 for being lesbian.
Mario Alicata was an editor in the publisher’s Rome branch, which Einaudi
had founded in 1941 in order to be closer to the political centre and enlarge
his range of collaborators. It was mainly managed by Mario Alicata and Carlo
Muscetta, who also wrote on Primato, La Ruota and Oggi (Turi 1990: 109–27;
Mangoni 1999: 70–87).
5. Fabre (1998: 32; 2007: 27–8).
6. Einaudi had proposed Pierre in 1939. Einaudi to Berti 25 May 1939, 29 March
1940, 16 May 1940, AE, inc. Berti. The correspondence is discussed in Billiani
(2007a: 269–70, 290–1).
7. ‘Mi piace molto l’idea dell’autobiografia di Wright, di cui avevo già sentito
dir molto bene. … Sarà necessario poi vincere l’ostacolo del divieto di opere
inglesi e americane, sia moderne che classiche! Al peggio prepareremo con
calma i lavori, e vareremo i volumi a guerra finita.’ Letter from G. Einaudi
to A. Camerino, 25 March 1941, AE, inc. Camerino. See also Camerino to
Einaudi, 21 March 1941, AE, inc. Camerino. Aldo Camerino also translated
for Bompiani. See Billiani (2007a: 2234). Here and in the following, all trans-
lations from Italian are my own.
8. ‘Visto che Tess è già tradotto integro, visto che Hardy è soggetto a cen-
sura, visto tutto quanto, starei senz’altro per ora per il Wright.’ Einaudi to
Camerino, 16 June 1941, AE, inc. Camerino.
9. Einaudi to Berti, 16 May 1941, AE, inc Berti; Linati to Einaudi, 13 November
1939, 23 May 1941, Einaudi to Linati, 16 November 1939 and 27 May 1941,
AE, inc. Linati.
10. Camerino to Einaudi, 28 June 1941 and Einaudi to Camerino, 1 July 1941,
AE, inc. Camerino (also quoted in part in Billiani 2007a: 283, 296–7). In
1939, as we saw, there was no ban on American authors. When Linati pro-
posed a non-literal translation of Henry James, Einaudi replied that, however
reasonable the modifications the translators wanted to make, he wanted his
audience to read accurate and respectful [integrali] translations of novels.
Henry James had also been rejected by the ministry for Bompiani in January
and August 1941 (Bonsaver 2007: 223).
11. Schweitzer to Einaudi, 24 April 1941, and Casa Einaudi’s reply is undated,
but presumably between late April and early May 1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
12. Schweitzer’s letter is undated, but the reply from the publishing house
accepting his proposal is dated 29 July 1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
13. Casa Einaudi to Schweitzer, 19 August 1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
14. Schweitzer to Einaudi, 23 August 1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
15. Casa Einaudi to Schweitzer, 12 September 1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
16. Einaudi to Alicata, 26 April 1941, AE, inc. Alicata.
17. Muscetta to Einaudi, 21 November 1941, AE, inc. Muscetta.
18. ‘STRANIERI … La tua smania di far russi e inglesi, proprio ora, mi pare fuori
posto. […] Per gli inglesi e francesi sii molto cauto, ché non mi stupirei di
veder bocciare proprio Goldsmith (che al Ministero non conosceranno)
e Gobineau, sebbene sembrino fatti apposta per mettere in linea anche
l’Universale.’ Einaudi to Muscetta, 25 November 1941, AE, inc. Muscetta.
19. Alicata to Einaudi 14 November 1941 and Einaudi to Alicata, 18 November
1941, AE, inc. Alicata. For more information on Bruno Gaeta, see Bonsaver
(2007: 197) and, on the MCP structure in general, Ferrara (1992).
20. Einaudi to Camerino, 25 June 1941, AE, inc. Camerino. For censorship of
anti-militarist texts, see Fabre (2007: 48–9) and Bonsaver (2007: 52, 90).
21. Einaudi to Alicata, 28 April 1942 and 27 June 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi.
22. ‘Caro Alicata, oggi mandiamo al Ministero la versione dattiloscritta di una
scelta dell’ Antologia di S. River di Lee Masters. Abbiamo scelto questo metodo
giacché senza una prefazione arrufianante [sic] il libro era condannato’,
Einaudi to Alicata, 27 August 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi.
23. Alicata to Einaudi, 21 November 1941, 24 October 1942, AE, inc. Alicata;
Pavese to Pivano, 7 January 1943 in Pavese (1966: 663), quoted in Mangoni
(1999: 115).
24. Rossi to Einaudi, 1 January 1942, and Einaudi to Rossi, 31 November 1942,
AE, inc. Ernesto Rossi.
25. Unsigned letter, probably Muscetta to Aldo Camerino, 10 December 1942,
Camerino to Muscetta, 22 December 1942, AE, inc. Camerino; Storoni
Mazzolani to Pavese, 4 March 1943, AE, inc. Storoni Mazzolani.
26. On the censorship of Americana, see Rundle (2000, 2010), Bonsaver (2003:
176; 2007: 221–31), Fabre (1998: 294), Billiani (2007a: 218–19).
27. ‘Lev Tolstòi come casa Einaudi stampa con giudaica scrupolosità di foresti-
ero’, Coppola 1942, quoted in Mangoni (1999: 121–2).
28. ‘Il riferimento a Leone Ginzburg, privato dalle leggi razziali della cittadi-
nanza italiana, era chiarissimo per chi sapesse leggere ed era tanto più signifi-
cativo dal momento che il nome di Ginzburg, che aveva rivisto la traduzione
rilevata dalla Slavia e steso la prefazione, non appariva, per ovvie ragioni,
nel volume. Era un ammonire gli ambienti interessati che la casa editrice
Einaudi era pur sempre quella della ‘Cultura’, di Ginzburg, dell’antifascismo
torinese’, Mangoni (1999: 121–2).
29. On the political activities of Giulio Einaudi and his collaborators, see De
Luna (1996), Turi (1990), Mangoni (1999), d’Orsi (2000), Bobbio (2000),
Cesari (1991).
30. Einaudi to Alicata, 21 January 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi (also quoted in
Mangoni 1999: 121–3).
31. Alicata to Einaudi, 25 February 1942, AE, inc. Alicata. Quoted by Mangoni
(1999: 123), Billiani (2007a: 226) and Bonsaver (2007: 246).
32. Bonsaver (2007: 174).
33. Rundle (2010: 5, 45–54, 182–4, 209–10), Bonsaver (2007: 116–19).
34. See also Einaudi to Muscetta, 8 April 1942, AE, inc. Muscetta, part of which
is cited in Mangoni (1999: 125). On the importance attributed by the regime
to the export of Italian books abroad see Rundle (1999), and Rundle (2010:
Chapters III, IV and V) on Mondadori and Bompiani, and Bonsaver (2007:
224) on Bompiani.
35. See Rundle in this volume for more details on the imposition of
a quota.
36. Alicata to Einaudi, 26 November 1941 and 7 December 1941, AE, inc. Alicata.
37. Einaudi to Polledro, 17 September 1942, AE, inc. Polledro. The publisher
had asked for Polledro’s help, not being able to count on Ginzburg, who was
then an exile in Pizzoli, in Southern Italy.
38. Einaudi to Amendola Kuhn, 18 February 1942, AE, inc. Amendola Kuhn.
39. Casa Einaudi to Polledro, 20 June 1942, AE, inc. Polledro; Muscetta to
Vecchione, 23 July 1942 and Vecchione to Muscetta, 3 January 1943, AE, inc.
Vecchione; Einaudi to L. Ginzburg, 13 October 1942. AE, inc. L. Ginzburg;
Alicata to Einaudi, 26 November 1942, AE, inc. Alicata.
40. Bonsaver (2007: 204) quotes an entry from Bottai’s diary supporting this
hypothesis. Another book dealing with Napoleon which was rejected
for publication was Souvenirs et Anecdotes de l’île d’Elbe by André Pons de
l’Hérault. See Einaudi to Alicata, 18 November 1941, AE, inc. Alicata.
41. Einaudi to Camerino, 7 July 1941, AE, inc. Camerino. Quoted in Billiani
(2007a: 223–4).
42. Einaudi to Alicata, 8 October 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi quoted in Mangoni
(1999: 136–7).
43. ‘Per la ristampa della Rémusat è inutile pensare ad insistere: è venuta una
segnalazione extra-ministeriale’, Alicata to Einaudi, 21 October 1942, AE, inc.
Alicata. Parts of this correspondence are quoted in Mangoni (1999: 136–7)
and in Billiani (2007a: 223–7). On 5 March 1942, the trusted Gherardo
Casini had been replaced by the stricter Fernando Mezzasoma (Mangoni
1999: 139; Bonsaver 2007: 205). For more information about the structure
of the Ministry of Popular Culture, see Ferrara (1992).
44. Alicata to Einaudi, 26 November 1941 and 20 November 1942, AE, inc.
Alicata; Einaudi to Alicata, 13 January 1942 and 21 January 1942, AE, inc.
G. Einaudi; and Morante to Einaudi, 15 July 1942, AE, inc. Morante. See also
Mangoni (1999: 118).
45. Einaudi to Natoli, 31 August 1943, AE, inc. Natoli; Einaudi to Berti, 22 June
1943, AE, inc. Berti; Alicata to Einaudi 7 December 1941, AE, inc. Alicata.
This criterion might be at the origin of the seizure (later revoked) of Manlio
Ciardo’s Illuminismo e rivoluzione francese published by Laterza and men-
tioned in Bonsaver (2007: 216, 352).
46. Pavese to Alicata, 14 March 1942, AE, inc. Pavese; Alicata to Einaudi, 21
February 1942 and 30 March 1942, AE, inc. Alicata; Einaudi to Alicata,
1 April 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi. Also quoted in Mangoni (1999: 115) and
Billiani (2007a: 272).
47. Casa Einaudi to Storoni Mazzolani, 22 September 1941, AE, inc. Storoni
Mazzolani. On this, see also Mangoni (1999: 107–8).
48. Einaudi to Vinciguerra, 24 September 1942, and Vinciguerra to Einaudi,
25 September 1942, AE, inc. Vinciguerra.
49. Alicata to Einaudi, 24 October 1942, AE, inc. Alicata. Also quoted in Mangoni
(1999: 147–51).
50. As mentioned in a letter from Einaudi to Pavese dated 16 October 1941, AE,
inc. Pavese.
51. Einaudi to Alicata, 4 September 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi.
52. ‘Per la faccenda dei permessi bisogna insistere. La bocciatura di Chesterfield
è un’esagerazione. Bisogna chiedere spiegazioni in merito e cercare di persua-
dere i solerti funzionari. Ti ricordi che per Robertson, in fine, la spuntammo!’
Muscetta to Alicata, 3 September 1942, AE, inc. Muscetta. The correspond-
ence is also quoted in part by Mangoni (1999: 147–51). For essays and scien-
tific texts, see Fabre (1998: 32) and Fabre (2007: 27–8).
53. Einaudi to Geymonat, 30 August 1941, AE, inc. Ludovico Geymonat. See Fabre
(1998) for a detailed account of the anti-Jewish legislation and its effects on
publishing, and Rundle in this volume for more details on the commission.
54. Einaudi to Schweitzer, 4 October 1941 and 19 November 1941, AE, inc.
Schweitzer; Einaudi to Alicata, 27 October 1941, 31 July 1942, and 27 August
1942, AE, inc. Giulio Einaudi; Pavese to Geymonat, 25 September 1942, Casa
Einaudi to Geymonat, 30 October 1942, Geymonat to F. Severi and A. Carlini
of Reale Accademia d’Italia, 14 November 1942, AE, inc. Ludovico Geymonat;
Pavese to Alicata, 9 October 1942, AE, inc. Pavese; Alicata to Einaudi,
21 October 1942, AE, inc. Alicata.
55. Alicata to Einaudi, 7 December 1941, AE, inc. Alicata. Tosti was the head of
Division III, or Book Division, at the MCP. See Ferrara (1992), cited in Fabre
(1998: 3) and Bonsaver (2007: 196).
56. Freud would later be included in the list of unwanted authors sent by the
MCP to all prefectures and publishers on 23 March 1942. Interestingly, he
did not appear in the list of unwanted authors prepared by Nazi Germany
and distributed in October 1941 to Italian publishers (Fabre 1998, quoted
in Bonsaver 2007: 209–12). See Sturge in this volume on Nazi attempts to
influence what was translated in Italy.
57. ‘L’analisi psicologica non significa di necessità, anzi non può significare,
freudismo.’ Spaini’s comment appears in a letter from Alicata to Einaudi,
14 November 1941, AE, inc. Alicata. Alberto Spaini was a literary critic, trans-
lator and journalist, and an appointed reader for MCP. On Spaini and the
reception of German literature in Italy between the wars, see Giusti (2000)
and Rubino (2002); also Mangoni (1999: 21–2).
58. See Einaudi to Alicata, 18 November 1941, and Alicata to Einaudi,
26 November 1941 and 7 December 1941, AE, inc. Alicata. Quoted in Billiani
(2007a: 243) and Bonsaver (2007: 346).
59. For more information about Jung at Einaudi, see Mangoni (1999: 103) and
the following correspondence: Einaudi to Alicata, 13 January 1942, Alicata
to Einaudi, 3 February 1942, document no. 172 (undated but probably 22–24
April 1942), Alicata to Einaudi, 22 May 1942, AE, inc. Alicata; Einaudi to
Alicata, 26 May 1942, AE. inc. G. Einaudi.
60. This was Bompiani’s opinion, but even a German anthology was censored
and modifications added because of a comment by Thomas Mann and
because of the inclusion of a short story by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff
titled Die Judenbuche (Bonsaver 2007: 225).
61. ‘La Chiesa, la Germania, il Regno, l’Impero, l’Esercito e la Marina’, Spaini to
Einaudi, 31 July 1941, AE, inc. Alberto Spaini. Quoted in Mangoni (1999: 22),
Billiani (2007a: 223) and Bonsaver (2007: 203, 345).
62. ‘Celeberrimo romanzo coloniale tedesco’, Einaudi to Schweitzer, 31 October
1941, AE, inc. Schweitzer.
63. Einaudi to Schweitzer, 31 October 1941 and 13 April 192, and Schweitzer to
Einaudi, 6 April 1942, AE, inc. Schweitzer; Spaini to Einaudi, 6 November
1941, AE, inc. A. Spaini; Einaudi to Alicata, 24 November 1941, 28 April
1942 and 4 September 1942, AE, inc. G. Einaudi. See also Mangoni (1999:
115, 138) and Bonsaver (2007: 204).
64. Circular No. 442/9532, dated 3 April 1934. See Fabre (1998: 22–8; 2007: 31).
65. See Rubino’s and Sturge’s chapters in this collection.
66. Liberal senator Luigi Einaudi, despite early mild support of the Fascist move-
ment because of its anti-Bolshevist stance, became an anti-Fascist as soon as
the early signs of the anti-democratic and illiberal tendencies of the move-
ment appeared. He had been deprived by Mussolini of most of his public
appointments and had chosen, in 1931, to swear loyalty to the regime in
order to keep lecturing at the University of Turin – certainly not because he
supported the Duce.
67. The Turin publisher Piero Gobetti, active in the 1920s, was an inspiring
model for Giulio Einaudi (Cesari 1991: 14–18) and his legacy was passed on
to him through Leone Ginzburg, who had worked with Gobetti as translator
from Russian. Gobetti and his wife, Ada Prospero, had also translated from
Russian. Gobetti’s production – both his journals and books – was heavily
censored and frequently seized by the Fascist police for its boldly anti-Fascist
content (Fabre 1998: 450–1), and he himself was repeatedly threatened and
physically attacked by Fascist squadristi. He moved to France to pursue his
editorial career, but died soon after his arrival in Paris due to ill health. For
more information about Piero Gobetti, Leone Ginzburg and the relation-
ship between the two publishers, see Frabotta (1988), Turi (1990: 21), d’Orsi
(2000: 53–8, 67–78, 101–2).
8
French–German and
German–French Poetry
Anthologies 1943–45
Frank-Rutger Hausmann
The Anthologie de la poésie allemande
In autumn 1943, the Parisian publisher Stock brought out a bilingual

Anthologie de la poésie allemande des origines à nos jours1 compiled by the
Germanist and translator René Lasne in collaboration with Georg Rabuse,
an employee of the German Institute in Paris.2 Lasne, a teacher at a Paris
lycée who for a while had fought with the Wehrmacht on the eastern
front,3 had translated most of the poems into cautiously metrical French
prose. Where respected translations already existed, for example by Gérard
de Nerval, Édouard Schuré, Catarina Pozzi and others, he restricted him-
self to reprinting these. The anthology opens with the ninth-century
German Wessobrunn Prayer, the ‘Lorscher Bienensegen’ charm and other
Old High German incantations,4 and closes with the Nazi poets Hans
Baumann and Herybert Menzel.5 It was the first comprehensive collec-
tion of its kind, allowing French readers to gain familiarity with what the
Institute considered to be the most important currents of German poetry
from the Middle Ages to the present day. To be sure, no Jewish or other
proscribed poets were included – no Heine, Wolfskehl, Brecht or Becher,
no Else Lasker-Schüler or Gertrud Kolmar, to name but a few significant
omissions. Instead, we find particularly numerous contributions from
Hölderlin, Nietzsche, Rilke, George and Weinheber, and even Richard
Wagner with excerpts from Tristan und Isolde in his own translation,
along with several folk songs. Even so, within the narrow limits set by
the political circumstances of the day the anthology is to a certain degree
representative and objective, giving a voice to renowned representatives
of the strand of German writing that would later be called the ‘inner
emigration’ (see Schnell 1976) such as Hans Carossa, Rudolf Alexander
Schröder, Ina Seidel, Werner Bergengruen and Friedrich Georg Jünger.
201
202 French–German and German–French Poetry Anthologies
The proportion of clearly Nazi poetry is fairly limited, though most of the
contemporary poets are represented. If the volume was published by Stock
and not Gallimard or Grasset, the more illustrious belles-lettres specialists
at the time, this was because since 1921 Stock had been part-owned by
the poet Jacques Boutelleau, alias Jacques Chardonne,6 who had entered
deeply into collaboration with the German cultural institutions within
occupied France. Accordingly, the driving force behind the anthology was
Karl Epting, from 1941 to 1944 the director of the German Institute in
Paris, an institution which acted as the centre of active German–French
cultural cooperation – then as now described as ‘collaboration’.
A certain amount of research is available on the history of the Institute
in Paris.7 It was the second of 16 Institutes that were established in all
continental European capitals – whether occupied, dependent or neutral –
from 1940 to 1945. Their administration was shared between the Reich
Ministry for Education, Science and Popular Instruction, the Foreign
Ministry, and the Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.
These German Institutes, sometimes called German Scientific Institutes
(Deutsche Wissenschaftliche Institute), were intended to act as an inter-
face for scholarly and cultural exchange with Nazi Germany, while also
gathering together all the bilateral initiatives that had previously been
undertaken by the cultural sections of the German embassies and vari-
ous academic and international associations. Before 1933, Epting had
worked for the international student association in Geneva, then for
the Paris branch of the German Academic Exchange Service DAAD,
and had headed the Paris ‘Goethehaus’. He was a close associate of
the ambassador, Otto Abetz, and in the first months of the occupation
administered the embassy’s cultural section. His ideal was that after the
French defeat a new form of cooperation between Germany and France
would emerge, one where, at least initially, Germany would be the giver
and France the taker: not relations franco-allemandes, then, but relations
germano-françaises. German intellectuals close to National Socialism
often argued that German culture was superior to French; if history was
taken into account, they added, French culture in fact owed more to
the Germanic than to the Latin race.8 It was for this kind of enrichment
that Epting organized the many activities of the various sections of the
German Institute, in association with the branches in larger provin-
cial cities such as Rennes, Bordeaux, Marseille and Besançon. Together
with the language assistants exchange service, they organized German
language classes (popular enough to attract around 12,000 Parisians in
1941), arranged concerts, theatrical events, commemorative events, exhi-
bitions, poetry readings and academic lectures, looked after exchange
Frank-Rutger Hausmann 203
visits from artists, professors, language assistants, students, apprentices

and craftsmen, and edited the journal Deutschland–Frankreich with an
associated series of monographs (Cahiers de l’Institut Allemand, published
by the collaborationist house Sorlot) that reprinted the lectures held at
the German Institute. The Institute also prepared translations of ‘suitable’
German books; in fact, all the German Institutes set up committees to
select German authors, both classic and Nazi-approved contemporary
writers, for translation into the language of the country concerned.
As for translation into German, propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels
insisted that only those foreign writers who were prepared to join the
‘Europäische Schriftsteller-Vereinigung’ [European Writers’ Association],
the German counterpart to the PEN Club that Goebbels set up in Weimar
in 1941, should be translated (see Hausmann 2004: 73–80).
The transmission of German culture was served not only by transla-
tions themselves, but also by a large-scale bibliography of German–French
translations, compiled by Liselotte Bihl and Karl Epting from the holdings
of the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris though not published until 1987
(Bihl and Epting 1987). The German–French poetry anthology compiled
and published by the Institute, as well, aimed to boost cooperation within
the framework of the re-conceived Franco–German collaboration. In
his foreword Epting emphasized, in the style of the time, the necessity
of building bridges between the intellectual elites of the ‘New Europe’,
which must draw closer together in the ongoing ‘struggle for survival’
by Western civilizations against the threat of Bolshevism. The true soul
of the German Volk, which was spearheading this battle, could only
be grasped through its poetry, continued Epting. Regrettably, German
poetry had never really found a home in France, a lack attributable to the
complexity of the German language. ‘Over and above its common and
practical meaning, each word has a deeper sense, one that is rooted in the
metaphysics of the language and can only be illuminated by the light of
poetry. A genuine translation must not only render the word in itself, but
also re-create the mystical world view that lies hidden beneath its surface.’9
The much-cited axiom of the untranslatability of poetry here hardens
into the claim that German poetic language is in principle untranslatable.
However, Epting noted, the anthology had tried to achieve the impossible
and built a bridge to reach every average, uninitiated Frenchman. In view
of this, it is not so surprising that the anthology’s first print-run was 6000
copies, a remarkably high number for a crisis period which accorded strict
priority to books serving the war effort.
A hardback edition using standard paper was accompanied by a
numbered, india-paper special edition with a full leather binding that
alluded to the prestigious classics of Gallimard’s Édition de la Pléiade.

These costly volumes were sent out to friends of the German Institute,
a veritable ‘who’s who’ of the political, artistic and cultural circles of
Franco–German relations. A collection of expressions of thanks and
acknowledgements of receipt can be found in the estate of Karl Epting,
kept in his old holiday home in the Black Forest at Murg-Hänner. As far as
the French recipients are concerned, these proved rather disappointing;
Epting did not achieve the goal he had set himself. It is all too clear that
the recipients had at most leafed through the anthology and quickly
set it aside. Their polite notes, most of them miniature diplomatic mas-
terpieces, do not go beyond general praise. The German addressees, for
whom the anthology was intended only secondarily, reacted with much
more interest, read the bilingual texts in detail and made substantial
suggestions for improvement in a potential second edition. Epting’s
immediate superior, the ambassador Otto Abetz, was full of praise. The
Wagner conductor Franz von Hoesslin, who was in Paris in late 1943,
expressed the hope that ‘as a counterpart an anthology of French poetry
with German translations will also soon appear’.10
French poetry in German translation
After the success of the first anthology, Epting took up this wish – also
expressed by other friends of the German Institute and recipients of
complimentary copies – for a French–German anthology. The undertak-
ing was less innovative than the German–French version, since many
such anthologies already existed.11 Neither did this kind of project tally
with the trend of the cultural policy of the day, which, as I have said, was
directed at promoting the German contribution to French culture rather
than the other way around. Furthermore, the important Symbolists of
the second half of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth
century were defined by Nazi ideologues as decadent poètes maudits, no
longer to be countenanced in Germany – decadence being understood
by leading, ‘decent-minded’ Nazis as the glorification of sexual debauch-
ery, while Hitler himself in Mein Kampf had already attacked some
Germans’ ‘nauseating’ praise for the ‘great culture-nation’ as erbärm-
liches Französeln, a ‘wretched pandering to France’ (Hitler 1933: 30).
And yet an anthology of French poems that entirely omitted these
poets’ work would be unthinkable. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the cata-
logue of French translations into German, the counterpart to the
Institute’s bibliography of German translations into French (Bihl and
Epting 1987), was drawn up only after the war.12
Yet if poetry translation was viewed as a contribution to improved

understanding of foreign-language texts and an aid to the interpreta-
tion of foreign cultures, then the publication of a French–German
anthology during wartime could be justified even in the face of pressure
from a xenophobic Nazi ideology. A key goal, of course, had to be the
clear demonstration to the French of just how deficient their reception
of German literature had previously been, by contrasting it with the
rich tradition of German translation – and particularly of German trans-
lation of French literature. Germany is generally considered one of the
nations most dedicated to translation, and not only the great French
poets but also the minores have almost without exception been trans-
lated into German, most of them repeatedly. The challenge of translat-
ing the great names of French poetry has been taken up time and again
by distinguished German poets – Franz Blei, Rudolf Borchardt, Emanuel
Geibel, Stefan George, Hermann Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke, Rudolf
Alexander Schröder, Paul Zech or Stefan Zweig being among the most
prominent. One of the reasons for the wealth of German translations of
French poetry can doubtless be found in Goethe’s famous appeal, made
in conversation with Eckermann on 31 January 1827:
I like to look at foreign nations and advise everybody to do the same.

National literature no longer means very much; the age of world
literature is beginning, and everybody should contribute to hasten
its advent.
(In Eckermann 1955: 278)
Since no one can know every language, this call inevitably implies the
call to translate – including, or perhaps especially, to translate poetry.
Epting again entrusted Rabuse and Lasne with the task of assem-
bling this second anthology, a project that was begun in the spring
of 1944 but remained unfinished due to the liberation of France and
the resultant closure of the German Institute in late August the same
year. By chance we have a considerable amount of information on the
anthology’s evolution, in particular a collection of letters to the Coburg-
born poet Georg Schneider (1902–72).13 Several of these, from various
correspondents (Karl Epting, Gerhart Haug [1896–1958], Bernt von
Heiseler [1907–66], Wolf von Niebelschütz [1913–60], Kurt Reidemeister
[1893–1971],14 Georg Rabuse [1910–76] and Franz von Rexroth
[1900–69]), concern the French–German anthology, although they do
not allow us to fully reconstruct the thinking behind it.15 In addition
to these letters there is the lively 30-year correspondence between
Schneider and the writer and librarian Helmut Bartuschek (1905–84),

now located in the Munich city library.16 All Schneider’s correspondents
named above were supposed to participate in the planned anthology,
but the search for a suitable German publisher in the final phase of the
war proved extremely difficult.
Schneider, initially a teacher in his hometown of Coburg, made his
debut as a poet in 1925 with the volume Die Barke. In 1933 the Nazis
banned him from publishing because of his liberal ideas, but the ban
was not consistently enforced as he did not openly attack the regime,
and in 1937 he was able to publish an anthology of poems about
Franconia with a somewhat völkisch tinge, Franken – Hochklang einer
Landschaft.17 Basing himself on Joseph Nadler’s monumental liter-
ary history Literaturgeschichte der deutschen Stämme und Landschaften,
Schneider applies the concept Franken in a very wide sense, expand-
ing it to cover not only poets from the actual region of Franconia but
also numerous authors who might more usually be defined as coming
from the Rhineland, Hesse or the Upper Palatinate. At the same time
Schneider was preparing a collection of his own translations from
French, which appeared only after the war and then in a greatly reduced
form.18 He had previously sent manuscript versions of his translations
to friends and interested acquaintances asking for their comments, and
had published various pieces in journals and newspapers.19
As a poet, translator and editor of anthologies,20 stationed as a
Wehrmacht soldier in Provence not too far from Paris, Schneider was
an interesting figure for Epting. Epting had heard of him through Wolf
von Niebelschütz, a poet and writer of stories and novels who had
been sent to Etampes near Paris in 1940 and who exchanged poems
with Schneider. In a letter of 17 February 1944, Niebelschütz praised
Schneider for his poems, promising to put him in contact with the
German Institute in Paris.21 The collection in question was entitled
Zwanzig Gedichte [Twenty Poems]22 and was rather traditional in form
and content, its themes being nature through the seasons and the dif-
ferent phases of human life.
As director of the Institute, Epting suggested to Rabuse and Lasne
that Schneider might be a possible associate in the second anthology
project, and that they should contact him. The contact in fact came via
two personal letters from Epting dated 1 March23 and 1 May 1944. In
his letters Epting congratulated Schneider on his translations of poems
by Valéry, Verlaine and Desbordes-Valmore, all of which were to be
included in the anthology, and asked him to come to Paris to discuss
matters of detail in person. A letter on the same topic from Lasne to

Schneider, dated 6 May,24 was included in the envelope, Rabuse having
already written on 19 April 1944.25
It seems that this anthology, like its German–French predecessor, was
designed to present the history of French poetry from its beginnings in
the twelfth century to the present day by means of selected ‘exemplary’
translations. However, Schneider and his correspondents, with the
exception of Rexroth (1946) and Bartuschek (1957),26 had mainly trans-
lated nineteenth- and twentieth-century poets, with a special focus
on Verlaine and Valéry. The discussion in the letters concerned on the
one hand the selection criteria to be applied, and on the other the
comparison and critique of existing translations, the principles behind
the correspondents’ own translations, and general questions of poetry
translation. Schneider, Rexroth and Bartuschek all published their own
anthologies in a burst of anthologizing activity immediately after the
war27 that seems to have responded to a long-frustrated demand for
translated poetry – foreign poetry having been rarely published in the
Nazi period. Their publications clearly show the fruits of their work
on the unfinished German Institute anthology.28 In fact, Schneider
may well already have been planning a large-scale anthology of his
own when Epting approached him.29 Because Rabuse had been sent to
the Italian front as an interpreter, it is also possible that Epting gave
Schneider the main editorial responsibility for the German Institute’s
anthology, although there are only indirect indications of this, such as
the fact that in the summer of 1944, after Epting, Rabuse and Lasne had
all written to him, Schneider sent round a successful set of requests to
renowned translators for permission to use suitable pieces for a ‘planned
anthology’.30 He seems also to have considered recruiting the Verlaine
expert Gerhart Haug as a co-editor.31
Schneider’s poetics of translation
Schneider was particularly fascinated by Valéry’s poetry. It had previ-

ously been accessible to the German-speaking public chiefly through
Rilke’s translations – which, however, were mainly restricted to the
collection Charmes.32 Schneider actually visited Valéry, either in his
hometown Sète on the Mediterranean coast or in Paris. Unfortunately
the correspondence between them is lost except for one letter, which
concerns the plan to translate Valéry’s most famous poem, previously
untranslated into German, ‘La jeune Parque’ (the poem would later,
in 1960, find a sympathetic translator in Paul Celan).33 In his letter to

Schneider Valéry writes:
As regards ‘La jeune Parque’ and ‘L’Abeille’, I would be happy to have

you translate them into German.34 They are difficult texts, particu-
larly ‘La jeune Parque’, which has been called the most obscure poem
in the French language.35 If you require any clarifications, you need
only ask me by letter. I am very glad to authorize you to undertake
this work and will be obliged if you could send me two copies once
the book has appeared.36
Valéry’s high opinion of Schneider is worth discussing. Schneider had

already translated some shorter poems by Valéry – ones not translated
by Rilke, against whom it seems he did not wish to have himself
measured.37 In his work he had tried ‘to convey something of that origi-
nary darkness […] into my own language’ (Schneider 1947: 21). He goes
on, using the third person to describe his own activity:
The image, the metaphor, the sound, the sense, the form were
sacred to him, and sacred too was the poet’s word, that in its deepest
mystery has nothing to do with philological faithfulness.38
(Ibid.)
Schneider read his translations to Valéry, who spoke no German, in the

course of a later visit.39 He comments that the master approved their
sound and rhythm, which is saying a lot for a writer like Valéry, for
whom individual words functioned equally through both sound and
meaning in order to become poetry.
The mediator between Valéry and Schneider appears to have been
the Franco-Romanian poet and philosopher Pius Servien. Schneider
had also translated some of his poems, including ‘Sibylle’, and Servien
complimented him on his work:
I have seen these lines live a new life, like a new work, like a work
written directly in your beautiful language. A line like this, which is
more yours than mine, and which is yet essential to that new life:
Gehen durch die Wohnungen der Götter deine Schritte [Walk through
the apartments of the gods thy steps; French original: Parcourant les
demeures / Tes pas pèsent la terre et se sont mesurés] – conjures up for
me the limpid gravity of Goethe’s Iphigenia.40
From conversations like this Schneider derived a vibrant translational

poetics:
Every true translation is a vita nuova, or else it is unreal like a wilted

leaf and does not exist. There are no other measures or weights for
the translator.41
(Schneider 1947: 22–3)
Testing his theory against the few poems he translated in the Album
des vers anciens and comparing these with various other German
translations,42 it soon becomes clear that Schneider has translated
into a slightly archaized, ceremonious language which remains close
to the original in content and form. Take for example the opening of
‘Orphée’:
Je compose en esprit, sous les myrtes, Orphée

L’admirable
It is translated by Schwanz as:
Unter Myrten bild ich in Gedanken mir den Ohnegleichen,

Orpheus
[beneath myrtles I picture for myself in thought the incomparable,
Orpheus]
and as Schneider more elegantly as:
Orpheus, Bewundernswürdiger … dich formt mein Geist

im Myrthenhain
[Orpheus, thou admirable … my mind shapes thee in the myrtle
grove].
Despite the quality of Schneider’s work, space constraints imposed by

the publisher meant that these and the other poems Schneider selected,
by Victor Hugo, Stéphane Mallarmé, Alfred de Musset, José-Maria
Heredia, Tristan Corbière, Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, Paul-Jean
Toulet, Charles Maurras, Paul Fort and Jean Cocteau (in addition to
Valéry and Servien), remain solitary samples: two hands reached into
the dark urn, as he put it, and drew out the lots ‘like leaves from a great,
dark beech’ (Schneider 1947: 22) The chaos of the last phase of the war
severely impeded all sustained intellectual work. Schneider arranged for
an edition of his Valéry translations, under the title Rein steigt der Geist
[Pure rises the spirit], to be published by the Coburg house Winkler,
founded in 1945 and later merged with Artemis of Zurich, but it never
appeared.43 Valéry’s death on 20 July 1945 robbed Schneider of any
further dialogue with the poet.
Conclusion
A full history of German–French and French–German poetry anthologies

has yet to be written.44 Such a history would teach us much about
Franco-German intellectual exchange and the changing cultural rela-
tionships between the two countries. In it, Karl Epting and the German
Institute he headed during the Nazi occupation of Paris would certainly
play an important role. The German–French anthology of 1943 that
he initiated appeared in France and was of relatively little interest to
the German censors – who, incidentally, were advised by Epting. The
French–German counterpart did not appear, though it would have been
able to benefit from a change in policy: after the debacle of Stalingrad
in February 1943, German propaganda designed a ‘New European’ alli-
ance against Bolshevism, the price of which was a more liberal attitude
to foreign cultures.
If the German–French anthology is still strongly informed by the
spirit of National Socialist hegemony and collaboration, the unfinished
French–German one begins to point the way to a democratic future: it
acknowledges the exceptional quality of French poetry and tries to help
it gain its rightful place. At the same time, the planned anthology shows
how even in those dark days German poets and translators worked with
French poetry, took inspiration from it and tried to share it with those
Germans who could not read French.
Notes
This chapter, ‘French–German and German–French Poetry Anthologies 1943–45’,
has been translated by Kate Sturge.
1. Lasne and Rabuse 1943. The volume is subtitled as follows: ‘Avec le concours
de J.-F. Angelloz, Eugène Bestaux, Maurice Betz, Maurice Boucher, Marcel
Camus, Jean Chuzeville, G. Claretie et S. Joachim-Chaigneau, Maurice
Colleville, Pierre du Colombier, André Gide, Pierre Grand, E.P. Isler, André
Moret, Robert Pitrou, Armand Robin, J. Rouge, Albert-Marie Schmidt, Jean
Tardieu, André Thérive, Patrice de La Tour du Pin, Alexandre Vialatte et
des traductions de Catherine Pozzi, Gérard de Nerval, N. Martin, Édouard
Schuré, Richard Wagner. Préface de Karl Epting, Éditions Stock, Delamain
et Boutelleau, 6, Rue Casimir Delavigne, 6 Paris, 560 S. [⫽ double pages]

Achevé d’imprimer sur les Presses de l’Imprimerie Darantière, à Dijon, le
trente juillet M.CM.XLIII. Cet ouvrage a été tiré dans le format in-16 double
couronne, réimposé en un volume, sur vélin Bible des Papeteries Prioux,
à 1650 exemplaires numérotés, plus 50 exemplaires, hors commerce, mar-
qués H.C. sur les presses de l’Imprimerie Darantière à Dijon.’ The present
article is based on Exemplaire No. 1355.
2. Rabuse took over Karl Heinz Bremer’s role at the German Institute in Paris in
1941; from 1965 he taught Romance Studies in Vienna. See Loewe 2002.
3. The relevant reference books do not list Lasne. Deutschland-Frankreich
Vol. 1, No. 3, 1943, 54, contains an essay of his, ‘Trois mois avec une unité
allemande’, and names him as Professor René Lasne, Paris XVIIIe, 3, rue
Etienne-Jodelle; cf. Burrin (1995: 356–7).
4. In contrast, the German anthologies commonly used today begin only with
the New High German period (see, for example, Reiners 1955; Conrady
1991; Krolow 1982).
5. The best overview of literature in German in the Nazi period is Sarkowicz
and Mentzer (2002) (on Baumann: 80–82, on Menzel: 309–11).
6. On Chardonne, and in general on the collaboration of French poets and
writers, see Hausmann (2004: 389, passim).
7. In some detail in Michels (1993) and Hausmann (2002: 100–30). On Epting,
see also Hausmann (2008).
8. See Hausmann (2007: 293–364).
9. ‘Outre sa signification courante et pratique, chaque mot a un sens intérieur,
qui relève de la métaphysique du langage et ne s’éclaire qu’à la lumière de
la poésie. Une véritable traduction devrait non seulement rendre le mot
lui-même, mais recréer le monde mystérieux qui est caché sous l’apparence’
(Lasne and Rabuse 1943: XI). Page X includes a short note of appreciation
for the existing French anthologies of German poetry.
10. Unpublished ms., Hänner, NL Karl Epting, Briefe 67/1–3.
11. See the overview in Kuhk, Schöning and Schulze (2002).
12. The Bibliographie deutscher Übersetzungen aus dem Französischen: 1700–1948
was made by Hans Fromm, a specialist in early German literature and Finno-
Ugric studies, mainly using the collections of the Bavarian State Library
(Fromm 1950–57).
13. On Georg Schneider, see Kosch (1993: 562–3), Pörnbacher (1981: 1011–14,
1076), Schuldt-Britting (1999: 214–15, with a photo on 220).
14. Reidemeister’s translations of Valéry were to have been represented in
the anthology, but there is no mention of them in Kuhk, Schöning and
Schulze (2002). See Autogr. 86 (Marburg, 7 July 1944): ‘Herr von Heiseler’s
explanation is not quite correct in that I only translated two poems by
Valery [sic] […] I have passed these lines, along with others of my own,
to the publisher Suhrkamp and can thus no longer really dispose over
them.’ (Marburg, 17 December 1945): ‘Suhrkamp has not yet been back
in touch here in western Germany. My poems have not yet appeared.’
Reidemeister’s own poems were published in 1947, under the title Von
dem Schönen: Essays, Gedichte, by Claassen & Goverts of Hamburg. Kuhk,
Schöning and Schulze (2002) do not mention any Valéry translations by
Reidemeister.
15. In 2004, Eberhard Köstler, a specialist in antiquarian books in Tutzing,

describes the 115 lots for sale in an excellent online catalogue: www.auto-
graphs.de/pdf/Schneider_Korr1.pdf (Autographen. Die Sammlung des Dichters
Georg Schneider). Unfortunately, apart from the correspondence with Gerhart
Haug all the lots were sold to buyers who remain anonymous due to data
protection regulations. However, as Köstler’s descriptions include crucial
passages of text, the story of the French–German poetry anthology can be
reconstructed at least in outline. I would like to thank Eberhard Köstler for
helpful discussions and for permission to cite from his catalogue. The letters
are cited using Köstler’s numbering as ‘Autogr. (Sammlung Georg Schneider)’.
I was able to buy Haug’s letters (Autogr. 42). This collection is particularly
fruitful for the history of poetry translation. It consists of six letters from
Haug to Schneider (Ingolstadt 17 July 1944; Munich 20 October 1945;
Munich 21 November 1945; Munich 17 December 1945; Munich 29
December 1945; Munich 15 January 1946). See Hausmann (2009).
16. Munich city library, Monacensia Bibliothek und Literaturarchiv. My thanks
to Frank Schmitter from the Munich city library for his help.
17. Würzburg: Triltsch, 1937.
18. Schneider 1947. The volume is only 24 pages long.
19. See three letters from the Monacensia Bibliothek und Literaturarchiv,
Munich city library, in the Schneider estate. In a letter to him dated 29
February 1944, the head of the cultural policy department of the newspaper
Brüsseler Zeitung, Dr Erwin Wäsche, writes that he has ‘retained the two
Verlaine poems about Brussels for possible future publication’ (these can be
found in Schneider 1947: 9). On 15 April 1944 Wäsche thanks Schneider for
a fresh manuscript submission; he says he will publish ‘In Arles’ by Paul-Jean
Toulet (the poem can be found in Schneider 1947: 10). Dr Albert Buesche
of the Pariser Zeitung, writing on 14 April 1944, is less definite, but he too
expresses great interest in Schneider’s poetry translations and promises to
make a selection with the help of his colleague Schaeffer.
20. Schneider later planned an anthology of facsimile manuscript poems,
and set out to collect sample texts from numerous fellow poets, who were
generally more than ready to oblige. This collection was published only
in part (Penzold 1946; the reference to Schneider is in the bibliographical
information on the inside back cover), but was later summarized in another
of Eberhard Köstler’s well-researched sales catalogues, www.autographs.
de/pflegetool/Dokumente/Kat06_Sommer_web.pdf. Schneider also achieved
reasonable success with his anthologies Chansons: Altfranzösische Liebes- u.
Volkslieder (1955) and Salut Silvester: Deutsche Neujahrsgedichte (1960).
21. Autogr. 80 (Etampes, 17 February 1944): ‘I will take your poems with me to
Paris. I will also give your name to the German Institute, which is preparing
a two-volume parallel-text edition of the best German translations of French
poetry (analogous to the Anthologie de la poésie allemande published by
Stock). […] I imagine they will contact you.’
22. Schneider (1940). I used the copy held in the Deutsche Bücherei Leipzig,
1948B1497. The poems are dedicated to Schneider’s wife.
23. Autogr. 37 (Paris, 1 January 1944). At the same time Epting was contact-
ing Schneider’s military superior asking for permission for Schneider to
make a journey to Paris to discuss the translations. The original of this

letter was bought by the bookseller Rainer Feucht of Munderkingen, but is
now lost.
24. Ibid.
25. Autogr. 84 (Wiesbaden, 19 April 1944): ‘I have read your translations and
congratulate you warmly on the new Toulet and Verlaine pieces. The other
suggestions I have passed on to Lasne. As soon as fate allows me, I plan to
set about assembling the counterpart to our German anthology, and am glad
already to be able to consider you a very valuable associate in this matter’.
Toulet is misspelled ‘Tonlets’ in the internet version of the letter. Schneider
translated some of Paul-Jean Toulet’s (1867–1920) Contrerimes.
26. In an afterword, Bartuschek describes the anthology as the fruit of decades
of work. Metrical accuracy and faithfulness to the meaning were, he writes,
particularly important to him. Already as a soldier he sent handwritten
versions in calligraphy to Schneider. Some of them were sold and are still
being sold, once again by Eberhard Köstler. I was able to buy ‘Der Liebende’,
a translation of ‘L’Amant’ by Jean Vauquelin de la Fresnaye (1536–1606),
which is found in an identical form in Bartuschek (1957: 96–7). It bears the
note ‘28 July 1944 in the field (Pyrenees)’. The two men maintained a lively
correspondence on problems of poetry translation; only Bartuschek’s letters
survive. Bartuschek worked as a librarian in Leipzig during the GDR regime.
See Hausmann (2009).
27. See Kuhk, Schöning and Schulze (2002).
28. See the letter from Rexroth dated 7 January 1949 (Autogr. 87): ‘What a
shame that I didn’t meet you in 43/44 in Paris, where I was an interpreter
right till the end! You mention your plans for a French anthology. Naturally
I will be glad to participate, especially since the one I created is out of print
and will probably not be reissued. […] To give you some orientation I am
sending you the table of contents from my anthology. The underlined titles
are the ones I translated. […] By the way, what is happening with [Wilhelm]
Hausenstein’s planned nineteenth-century anthology? He wrote to me last
year about it, but it doesn’t seem to have been published yet after all, which
is hardly surprising given the miserable state of the publishing sector. By the
way, will you not come into conflict with Insel [publishers] about Valery
[sic], since as far as I know they own the rights?’ Hausenstein’s bilingual
anthology Das trunkene Schiff appeared in 1950.
29. See the letter from Wäsche (15 April 1944) cited in note 19: ‘As we are greatly
interested in the French–German anthology which is being prepared, I
would like to ask you to give us a review copy when it is ready. We published
a detailed review of the German–French anthology when it appeared.’
30. Autogr. 42, Haug to Schneider (17 July 1944); see Hausmann (2009).
31. See Hausmann (2009); original Autogr. 42, Haug an Schneider, 15 January
1946. The year 1947 saw the publication of Haug’s full translation
Illuminations (Rimbaud 1947). Best known is his book on Verlaine (Haug
1944), which combines biography, interpretations and translations. The
book could not be published within Germany due to the war, but Haug
found a Swiss publisher, Benno Schwabe, and clearly wished to remain loyal
to him once the war was over.
32. See Valéry (1988), Lang (1960), Wais (1967) (which offers a comprehensive
view of the topic and reconstructs the correspondence between the two
poets).
33. This letter from Valéry, dated 2 April 1944, was sold by Köstler to the Paris
bookshop Thierry Bodin, which subsequently auctioned it.
34. ‘L’Abeille’ was translated by Schneider as ‘Die Biene’ in Das XX. Jahrhundert
1944, reprinted in Rasche (1947: 36). On p. 37 there is a translation by
Schneider, found nowhere else in print, of ‘Les Grenades’. It is the only
Valéry poem which was translated by both Rilke and Schneider.
35. Valéry is here quoting Albert Thibaudet, ‘Poésie de Paul Valéry’, Revue de
Paris, 15 June 1923: ‘La Jeune Parque passe pour le poème le plus obscur de la
poésie française, beaucoup plus obscur que l’Aprés-midi d’un Faune’.
36. ‘En ce qui concerne la Jeune Parque et l’Abeille, je serai heureux de vous les
voir traduire en allemand. Ce sont des textes difficiles, la Jeune Parque en
particulier, dont on a dit que c’était le poème le plus obscur de la langue
française. Si vous aviez besoin de quelque éclaircissement, vous n’aurez qu’à
me les demander par lettre. Je vous autorise donc bien volontiers à faire ce
travail.’
37. In Schneider 1947 we find ‘Helena’ (‘Hélène’), ‘Die Badende’ (‘Baignée’),
‘Gesicht’ (‘Vue’), ‘Ein deutliches Feuer’ (‘Un feu distinct’), ‘Orpheus’
(‘Orphée’) from the Album des vers anciens, which are linguistically simpler
than the Charmes poems translated by Rilke. There are also some poems
from Charmes omitted by Rilke: ‘Die Biene’ (‘L’Abeille’) and ‘Die Granaten’
(‘Les Grenades’) (see Rasche 1947).
38. ‘Das Bild, die Metapher, der Klang, der Sinn, die Gestalt waren ihm heilig,
und heilig war ihm das dichterische Wort, das in seinem tiefsten Geheimnis
nichts mit philologischer Treue gemein hat.’
39. To determine the location we would have to know where Schneider was
stationed. His post was sent to the poste restante in Paris. On the question
of where Valéry stayed during the German occupation, see the ‘Introduction
biographique’ in Valéry (1957: 11–71, here 67).
40. ‘J’ai vu ces vers vivre ainsi d’une vie nouvelle, comme une œuvre nouvelle,
comme une œuvre écrite directement dans votre belle langue. Tel vers, qui est
plutôt vôtre que le mien, et qui est pourtant essentiel a cette vie nouvelle: –
Gehen durch die Wohnungen der Götter deine Schritte – me fait songer à la
gravité limpide de la gœthéenne Iphigénie.’
41. ‘Jede wahre Übertragung ist eine vita nuova, oder sie ist unwirklich wie ein
welkes Blatt und existiert nicht. Andere Maße und Gewichte gibt es für den
Übersetzer nicht.’
42. Blüher and Schmidt-Radefeldt (1992, here in Peter Schwanz’s translation).
43. Reference on the last page of Schneider (1947). According to Gabriele
Kalmbach of the publisher Patmos, which now owns Artemis Winkler, no
correspondence on this issue could be found in the publisher’s archive.
I received the same information from Erika Grimme of Heinrich Ellermann,
Hamburg.
44. Existing work on the subject includes Bark and Pforte (1969, 1970), Essmann
and Schöning (1996), Bödeker and Essmann (1997).
9
Safe Shakespeare: Performing
Shakespeare during the Portuguese
Fascist Dictatorship (1926–74)
Rui Pina Coelho
‘Censorship’ has become a common-sense catchword; since

everyone knows what it means, merely to name it is to
proclaim it.
Janelle Reinelt, ‘The Limits of Censorship’ (2006: 3)
Ignoring, blocking and surveilling the experiment
The beginning of the twentieth century witnessed diverse and abun-

dant changes in theatre throughout Europe. New experiments and ideas
that contributed to the renewal of theatre practice came from all over
Europe – Paris, Moscow, Berlin, and London, among others. In Portugal,
these efforts to renovate were constantly ignored, blocked or subjected
to surveillance. At the beginning of the century there were some brief
theatrical adventures (in both a naturalistic and a slightly experimental
vein), such as Araújo Pereira’s Teatro Livre (1904) and Teatro Moderno
(1905); the outdoor experience of the Teatro da Natureza (1911) and
Teatro da Juvénia (1924), an amateur theatre school again directed
by Araújo Pereira, who is considered by many to be the first modern
Portuguese director; and Teatro Novo (1925), a controversial though
ephemeral initiative created by António Ferro (the future director of
Salazar’s Ministry of Propaganda) in 1933. But they were all soon for-
gotten. The Portuguese cultural situation would not change for many
decades to come.
Throughout the first half of the twentieth century and, more pre-
cisely, right up to the mid 1970s when democracy was restored, Portugal
only came into contact with experimental theatre through the work of
amateur or student groups. During this period many plays remained
215
216 Safe Shakespeare
unwritten and performances unstaged, while venues continued to be

dominated by bourgeois dramas and comedies that neither posed any
questions nor allowed for any questioning of the status quo or prevail-
ing moral values. The tastes and preferences of the audience also helped
maintain this situation. Portuguese critic Armando Martins brutally
described this public as ‘a poor ignorant animal that, depending on
what it has eaten for supper, wants to be moved and shed a tear or to
have a good belly laugh’ [‘um pobre animal ignorante que, consoante o
que comeu ao jantar, quer enternecer-se e espremer uma lágrima, ou
apanhar uma pançada de riso’] (Martins 1951: 20). The audiences’
resistance to new aesthetic ventures led to financial disasters, financial
disasters led to cautious repertoires, and so forth.
A productive way to look more closely at the situation of Portuguese
theatre during the fascist dictatorship (1926–74) is to consider the
presence of William Shakespeare’s plays, since these were, all around
Europe, a fertile field for the introduction of new staging techniques
and for debate on new theatrical concepts. Possibly the most significant
and long-lasting innovation across Europe was the altered role of the
so-called history plays and their reflection of political trends and theatri-
cal ideas (especially through the influence of Brecht’s theatre). However,
in Portugal this rediscovery of Shakespeare was neither possible nor
permitted. Although the backwardness of Portuguese theatre cannot be
entirely attributed to the mechanisms of censorship, these were crucial
and laid the foundations for many future crises.
In this chapter I aim to evaluate the presence of Shakespeare’s plays on
the Portuguese stage during the fascist dictatorship, in the light of restric-
tions on theatre performances and the consequences of those restric-
tions for repertoire choices. I will consider the staging of Shakespeare’s
plays in Portugal in the context of wider trends in Shakespearean drama-
turgy all around Europe. My aim is to contribute to a characterization of
Portuguese theatre during this period and to observe how the ideas of
theatrical renovation were translated by the Portuguese scene.
Definitions of ‘censorship’
Concerned with the imprecise uses of the concept of censorship and its
limitations, Janelle Reinelt (2006) has attempted to establish a defini-
tion that might prove effective in dealing with this transhistorical and
transnational phenomenon. According to Reinelt:
Today it seems prudent to acknowledge both a narrow and a broad

definition of censorship. Narrowly defined, it is state suppression of
Rui Pina Coelho 217
expression or information where state surrogates might be oversight

panels and bodies or governmental agencies. […] A broader defini-
tion, however, would see censorship as suppression of expression
or information by anybody, including even the potential creator
(‘self-censorship’).
(Reinelt 2006: 3–4)
Setting out to systematize different categories of censorship, Reinelt also

illuminates the processes by which censorship may be carried out. In
her analysis, there are five different categories of censorship: (1) mili-
tary, in times of war; (2) political, in times of peace; (3) moral; (4) reli-
gious; and (5) corporate. The first category involves ‘acts of sedition […]
but also control of information on public airways’; the second category
includes blocking ‘criticism of regimes in power’, while moral censor-
ship ‘appeals to public decency’. Religious censorship prevents ‘certain
groups from worshipping in their own way’, and corporate censorship
‘uses economic power to protect its interests’ (ibid.: 6).
Although Reinelt deals mainly with contemporary artistic production
and events, her categorization may lead to a better understanding of
mechanisms of censorship under the repressive regime of the dictator
António de Oliveira Salazar (1889–1970).
The Portuguese dictatorship began on 28 May 1926 and lasted until the
Carnation Revolution on 25 April 1974. Salazar joined the government
as Minister of Finance in April 1928 and was appointed Prime Minister
in 1932–33. In 1933 the censorship legislation was passed and the SPN
(National Propaganda Secretariat) created. Salazar fell ill in 1968 and was
replaced by Marcelo Caetano, who governed until 25 April 1974.
It was only after Salazar was named Prime Minister that surveillance
and censorship became truly severe, but years before, on 6 May 1927,
Decree Law No. 13564, published in the Diário do Governo, had created
the Inspecção Geral dos Teatros [General Inspectorate of Theatres]. The
Inspectorate was empowered to inspect all theatres and public enter-
tainment venues, and had the authority to prohibit any event deemed
offensive to the law or public morality, in some cases preventing the pre-
miere of a play or even banning it outright. Furthermore, even though
Salazar was succeeded in 1968, Marcelo Caetano’s rule (1968–74) was
still overshadowed by his figure. I will therefore not just focus on the
years when Salazar was Prime Minister (1933–68) but will also consider
the full extent of the Portuguese dictatorship, from 1926 to 1974.
Censorship was a time-honoured Portuguese practice (if we recall
the Catholic Inquisition, for instance), and during this period it came
to embody almost all the meanings listed by Reinelt. It worked with a
nationalist and propagandistic agenda to control and block the expres-

sion of every dissident opinion1 and enforce religious and political unity.
It was supported by the ruling class, namely the upper-middle class, who
owned the most important industrial units and banks and felt safe with
a domestic policy that clearly assisted the process of capitalist accumula-
tion. A strict – though unwritten – code of moral behaviour was imposed,
and political surveillance prevented authors from creating in full liberty,
inducing a habit of ‘self-censorship’. Censorship in this instance fulfils
both Reinelt’s narrower and broader definitions of the term.
The influential Portuguese theatre historian and playwright Luiz
Francisco Rebello (1977) categorizes Portuguese censorship as ‘ideologi-
cal’, ‘economic’ and ‘geographical’: ideological censorship because the
authors, texts, directors and practitioners that the regime considered
offensive or subversive were banned; economic because repertoire
options and expensive theatre tickets excluded the working class and
peasantry; and geographical because theatrical activity was mainly based
in Lisbon (1977: 25–6).
Teresa Seruya and Maria Lin Moniz, dealing with the procedures
of the Censoring Commission and the discourse of censorship in the
1950s, have listed the most common criteria for banning authors and
their works. These were ‘propaganda’ (including ‘proselytizing’ and
‘apologia’), a lack of sexual morality or a ‘doctrine of social dissolution’,
‘realism’ (a negatively weighted judgement in this case), a distinction
between the ‘learned’ or elite and ‘the many’, ‘speculation’, and unac-
ceptable references to National Socialism, democracy or war (Seruya and
Moniz 2008a: 3–20). In this study, part of a wide-ranging investigation
of literature translated under the Portuguese dictatorship, Seruya and
Moniz are referring specifically to the 1950s, but the censorship pro-
cedures would remain in place for many years to come. The emphasis
given to the different categories may have changed according to his-
torical circumstance (war or peace time, international pressure, internal
opposition), but we find them all at one time or another during the
period of dictatorship.
These criteria – and censorship itself – had two important con-
sequences for the staging of Shakespeare’s plays. First, an unwillingness
to represent political issues led to the almost complete absence of the
‘history plays’ from Portuguese theatres during the dictatorship, and
second, the regime’s almost obsessive preoccupation with the apparent
lack of sexual morality and the corresponding danger of social dissolu-
tion meant that certain plays were stripped of their more ‘questionable’
passages, thus giving rise to a farcical, ‘dumbed-down’ Shakespeare.2
Rui Pina Coelho 219
The threat posed by Shakespeare’s history plays
If we consider which of Shakespeare’s plays were performed during the

1926–74 period by Portuguese groups,3 the absence of the ‘history plays’
is quite remarkable.4 In fact, Portuguese audiences were only able to see
these plays performed by foreign groups: the prestigious English theatre
group Old Vic’s Henry V, directed by Tyrone Guthrie, was presented in
Lisbon in 1939 during a European tour sponsored by the British Council
and organized by Lewis Casson, which visited cities such as Lisbon,
Milan, Florence, Rome and Cairo. In Lisbon, the tour also included
performances of Sheridan’s The Rivals and Shaw’s Man and Superman. In
1939 British public opinion did not favour having the Old Vic perform in
fascist countries such as Portugal or Italy, but the company claimed ‘that
art has no frontiers’ (Tempera 2004: 115). Notwithstanding the prestige
of the event – the President of the Republic and the Minister of National
Education attended the performance – it resulted in several awkward
(or rather, amateurish) episodes. Soon after arriving, the group watched
perplexed and powerless as their stage scenery sank into the River
Tagus. Anthony Quayle, performing the leading role, confessed that the
Portuguese extras’ chain mail ‘hung down beyond their fingertips’ and
their ‘helmets rested on their shoulders like coal scuttles’ (ibid.: 115).
During the period this was the play’s only staging in Portugal, and it was
never performed by a Portuguese group.5
In 1964, the New Shakespeare Company Limited presented Twelfth
Night, directed by Collin Graham, and a public reading of extracts from
various plays including Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Richard III, Henry V,
The Taming of the Shrew, Antony and Cleopatra, As You like It and Henry
IV, all devoted to the theme of ‘Love’. Celebrating the quatercente-
nary of Shakespeare’s birth and sponsored by the Calouste Gulbenkian
Foundation, the performances were presented at the Lisbon University
Arts Faculty, and were accompanied by a series of conferences in
the Universities of Lisbon, Oporto and Coimbra. The Gulbenkian
Foundation, responsible for hosting the productions, explained to the
Commission for Examining and Classifying Performances that they pos-
sessed ‘an interest that is limited to a enlightened and qualified audience’
[‘um interesse que se limita a um público esclarecido e qualificado’].6
Being delivered in English and consequently reaching only a very small,
elite audience, the performances did not present the threat to the estab-
lishment that a Portuguese translation would have done. The same did
not, however, seem to apply in the case of Julius Caesar: a ‘Roman play’
with some points of contact with the English history plays, even if only
metonymically. Also in 1964, the Teatro do Ateneu de Coimbra sought per-

mission to stage this tragedy, where the noble Roman leader is stabbed to
death by his fellow citizens, an act that will lead to a fratricidal war. If the
Roman senators who assassinate Julius Caesar begin by advocating liberty
and democracy, thus freeing Rome from a dictator, Shakespeare’s play goes
on to denounce the abuses and misuses of their new power. Nevertheless
the Commission for Examining and Classifying Performances refused per-
mission to stage the play, using a rather paradoxical argument: ‘This play
[…] could only be authorized after severe cuts. It is commonly agreed that
texts by authors such as this one ought not to suffer cuts.’7
There are two kinds of arguments implicit in the Commission’s words:
one is the status of the Shakespearean canon, and the other is the threat
that a play dramatizing the assassination of a political leader must rep-
resent for a dictatorship. On the one hand, Shakespeare is presented as
an author who grants prestige to the actors or the groups which stage
him (a perceptible legacy of the Romantic staging tradition). This author
is also understood as a synonym for high culture and as a safe choice
in box-office terms. On the other hand, the rediscovery of the history
plays (especially through the Brechtian lens) might permit a debate on
contemporary political leaders and social circumstances, leading to the
censors’ more cautious approach to the Shakespearean text in this case.
It was the rediscovery of the history plays that altered significantly
the way Shakespearean dramaturgy was perceived in post-war Europe.
As Dennis Kennedy explains:8
Shakespeare’s history plays have been taken as a grand epic of the

English Theatre, especially in the period after World War II. […] As a
group, these works investigate and question the meaning of author-
ity, kingship, and nation in an unparalleled way.
(Kennedy 2005: 319)
Kennedy recognizes that the history plays, unlike the comedies and trag-
edies, do not straightforwardly establish a dialogue with a non-British
public, but argues that this changed with the advent of Bertolt Brecht’s
‘epic theatre’ and, especially, the publication of Jan Kott’s Shakespeare our
Contemporary, which appeared in Polish in 1961 with a French transla-
tion in 1962 and an English translation in 1964. James N. Loehlin pro-
poses a range of factors that contributed to this new interest:
The Shakespeare quatercentenary in 1964 prompted directors to

explore lesser-known plays. A trend in the European theatre away
Rui Pina Coelho 221
from star-centred commercial production and toward ensemble

companies facilitated the staging of such large-scale works. Jan Kott’s
influential essay ‘The Kings’, in Shakespeare our Contemporary, pro-
vided a vivid modern reading of the plays as a study of the cyclical
nature of tyranny, relevant to a Europe struggling with the legacy of
Hitler and Stalin. But perhaps the single greatest factor in the redis-
covery of the Henry VI play was the widening influence of Bertolt
Brecht on the European theatre of the 1960s.
(Loehlin 2004: 133)
Loehlin considers one of the key moments of this turn to have been
the tour of Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble in 1956, though he argues that
despite the tremendous importance of Brechtian theatre in the revi-
sion of Shakespeare’s history plays, ‘Kott’s work had, perhaps, a more
immediate and obvious impact’. Kott’s essay ‘The Kings’, with its ‘view
of history that is bleak, cyclical and grimly fatalistic’ (ibid.: 135), clearly
influenced three of the most important performances of the 1960s –
important, that is, in respect of the re-evaluation of the history plays:
Peter Hall and John Barton’s The War of the Roses (Royal Shakespeare
Company, 1963), Giorgio Strehler’s Il gioco dei potenti (Milan, 1965) and
Peter Palitzsch’s Der Krieg der Rosen (Stuttgart, 1967).
After these seminal productions, others rediscovered the possibilities
and potential of Shakespeare’s history plays. As Kennedy puts it: ‘A wide
European re-evaluation of Shakespeare followed in Kott’s wake, and he
and Brecht continued to affect Shakespeare production in general well
into the 1980s’ (Kennedy 2005: 324).
Translating the political and theatrical renovation
In Portugal this new reading of Shakespeare was not possible. First of all,
Bertolt Brecht’s plays were banned, and the censors made every effort
to hold off the major changes that were occurring all around Europe in
the late 1950s and during the 1960s. Despite all the restrictions, men
and women in the Portuguese theatre did struggle to translate the new
theatrical ideas that were flourishing throughout Europe. But these
changes had to be made indirectly. As I have argued elsewhere (Coelho
2008), the introduction of Brechtian epic theatre had to be made with
considerable caution. One example is Luzia Maria Martins’ adaptation
of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet as Anatomia de uma História de Amor
[Anatomy of a Love Story] in 1969 with her Teatro Estúdio de Lisboa. This
was presented as a performance of epic or narrative theatre, where the
analysis of the social conflicts involved in the play was the determining
dramaturgical key, and most critics today acknowledge Brecht’s decisive
influence on the production.
Some other significant approaches to epic theatre were also under-
taken. Three years before Martins’ production, in 1966, the Brazilian
student theatre group from the Catholic University of São Paulo, TUCA,
had presented the play Morte e vida Severina, by the Brazilian poet João
Cabral de Melo Neto, in Lisbon, Oporto and Coimbra. This ‘nativ-
ity play’ narrates the misfortunes of the poor peasant Severino as he
searches for a better life. It inflamed a Portuguese theatre hungry for
renewal and renovation. The performance echoed Brecht’s principles:
it had Chico Buarque’s original songs performed live by a chorus that
commented while singing; it was presented without any sets; all the
characters were dressed in white; the lighting was white, with moments
in green or red. This was one of the high points of Portuguese theatre
in the 1960s. The enthusiastic critical reception can be summarized in
the words of theatre reviewer Almeida Faria: ‘I must confess that I have
never seen in Portugal a theatrical event like this one. Even abroad only
Brecht’s Leben des Galilei and Peter Weiss’s Marat-Sade can be compared
to it’9 (Faria 1966: 213).
But the struggle for renovation did not only take place on stage; theatre
criticism was also an important field for renewal. Luiz Francisco Rebello,
reviewing Peter Zadek’s staging of Shakespeare’s Henry V – entitled
Henry the Hero (Theatre of Bremen, 1964)10 – praises a performance that
‘wrenches Shakespeare from the flat, dead pages of the chronicle and
places him squarely in the uninterrupted course of history’ (1971: 105).
Rebello underlines the modernity of the performance and establishes
parallels with Beckett and Brecht, labelling Shakespeare as ‘the most
modern of classical dramatists’ (ibid.: 102). The influence of Kott’s well-
known work is unmistakeable.
Translation, too, provided a locus for renovation. Some theatre prac-
titioners adopted a didactic approach, translating and disseminating
the most significant texts – not only plays but also theoretical works.
They organized talks, published essays and wrote guides and manuals.
Their aim was to enlighten their professional peers. Pursuing this almost
educational goal, in 1962 António Pedro published his Pequeno Tratado
de Encenação [Small Essay on Theatre Direction], which soon became
de rigeur for anyone who advocated experimentation. This same prin-
ciple underlies work such as the publications of the Grupo de Teatro
Moderno do Clube Fenianos Portuenses, A encenação e a maioridade
Rui Pina Coelho 223
do teatro [Theatre Direction and the Adulthood of Theatre], 1959, and

Panorama do teatro moderno [Overview of Modern Theatre], 1961, both
by Redondo Júnior; or História do Teatro Europeu: Desde a Idade Média e
até aos nossos dias [History of European Theatre: From the Middle Ages
to the Present Day] by G. N. Boiadzhiev et al., translated by the actor
and director Rogério Paulo (1960), among others. Two of the most sig-
nificant works were probably Redondo Júnior’s O teatro e a sua estética
[Theatre and its Aesthetic] of 1963/4 and Luiz Francisco Rebello’s Teatro
Moderno: Caminhos e figuras [Modern Theatre: Paths and Figures] of
1957. The first is an anthology of writings by several authors who wrote
on subjects such as theatre aesthetics, theatre architecture, decoration,
direction and actors’ work. All of the texts were selected, translated,
introduced and commented on by Redondo Júnior, a journalist, drama
critic, theoretician and playwright. Rebello’s Teatro Moderno: Caminhos
e figuras was a seminal work that introduced, collected, translated and
explained some of the most important authors of twentieth-century
theatre, using a compilation of essays, prefaces, plays, illustrations and
performance pictures. Redondo Júnior also translated and presented
to Portuguese readers Adolphe Appia’s The Work of Living Art (1963),
Gordon Craig’s On the Art of the Theatre (1964), and a French anthology
of Meyerhold, Le Théâtre Théâtral (1962). All these efforts stemmed
from the same motivation: to introduce modern theatrical ideas and to
promote innovation on the Portuguese stage. With this same agenda,
Norberto Ávila, a playwright and poet, translated Jan Kott’s Shakespeare
our Contemporary in 1968, with a foreword by Peter Brook.
These are just some examples of the significant efforts to change the
Portuguese theatrical landscape. Although they were almost all frus-
trated, they represented an urge to translate and implement in Portugal
the new ideas that were flourishing in contemporary theatre through-
out post-war Europe.
Chronological overview of Shakespeare’s plays under

Portuguese fascism
Examining the Shakespearean plays performed between 1926 and 1974 in

Portugal by Portuguese companies, we can conclude that there was little
variety – only 11 plays were staged.11 These were A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, Othello, The Taming of the Shrew, King Lear, Macbeth, Twelfth Night,
Much Ado About Nothing, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, Measure
for Measure and Hamlet. If the most striking feature is the absence of the
history plays, it is noticeable that there is a strong presence of comedies –

well suited for inclusion in a popular repertoire – and some tragedies,
excellent ways of conferring prestige on their performers.
In the first two decades of the twentieth century, the paradigm had
been the French and Italian actors who travelled around the main
European capitals interpreting the major Shakespearean characters.
Ermette Zacconi, Ernesto Rossi or Sarah Bernhardt came to inspire
Portuguese actors such as Eduardo Brazão or Ângela Pinto – thus con-
tinuing the Romantic tradition of a system where the actor was the
most important element. Despite this interest in the classics, however,
during these years Portuguese theatre was hamstrung by the repetition
of overworked formulas and imported repertoires, mostly of Spanish or
French origin, adapted to an ambiguous ‘Portuguese taste’. A reaction
against this state of affairs was one factor in the almost complete dis-
appearance of Shakespeare’s plays from Portuguese stages in the follow-
ing decades, 1920–40.12
The 1940s
The first significant production of a Shakespearean play by a Portuguese
group after 1926 thus premiered as late as 1941. The Companhia Rey
Colaço-Robles Monteiro gathered a cast that included some of the best
known actors of the time and presented Sonho de uma noite de Verão
(A Midsummer Night’s Dream) in an open air performance. During the
1940s there were only two more productions of a Shakespearean play.
Othello ou o Moiro de Veneza (Othello, the Moor of Venice) was directed
by Amélia Rey Colaço and Robles Monteiro in 1945 at the National
Theatre Teatro Nacional D. Maria II. This production made use of stun-
ning visual effects and complex sets remarkable for the time, in a bid
to compete commercially with the cinema. In 1949, again in a garden,
this time at the British Embassy, the Lisbon Players – an amateur group
of English players based in Lisbon – performed A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, directed by Charles Fyfield.
This apparent lack of interest in Shakespeare’s plays can be explained
in two respects: first, the Shakespearean canon – synonymous with a
much revered, untouchable author – did not lend itself easily to mod-
ernization; and second, after the Second World War – a time when the
Iberian dictatorships softened their politics with the defeat of Fascist
Italy and Nazi Germany – theatre practitioners seized the opportunity to
explore more experimental paths, trying out new texts and new staging
with a focus on authors such as Lorca, Priestley, O’Neill, Shaw, Anouilh,
Giraudoux and José Régio. This experimental movement was led by
Rui Pina Coelho 225
amateur groups formed by intellectuals, students, artists and young

actors. Their area of influence was naturally restricted due to the fact
that they worked in small venues, and this limited scope allowed them
to work with greater freedom than their professional colleagues. The
amateur-led ‘experimental movement’ was to have an enormous impact
on the professional theatre. Many actors trained in these experimental
groups would later become professional actors who made a contribu-
tion to the much awaited renewal of Portuguese theatre. Their influ-
ence meant that repertoire options would not necessarily give priority
to Shakespeare. For example, Fernando Amado, the director of Casa da
Comédia and one of the leading figures of the experimental movement,
never attempted to direct a Shakespeare play, excusing himself on the
grounds that his players needed to learn more and ‘evolve’ before deal-
ing with the Shakespearean word.
The 1950s
After some apparently permissive years, the 1950s saw a hardening of
censorship and political vigilance. Interest moved back to the ‘harmless’
Shakespeare. In 1952, A fera amansada (The Taming of the Shrew) was
staged by Virgílio Macieira for the Empresa Vasco Morgado, a company
with evidently commercial interests. Also in 1952, the Companhia Rey
Colaço-Robles Monteiro staged Sonho de uma noite de Verão (A Midsummer
Night’s Dream) once again. This time it was performed at the National
Theatre, under the direction of Erwin Meyenburg. In 1955, Rei Lear
(King Lear) was directed by Francisco Ribeiro for the Teatro do Povo, the
theatrical vehicle for António Ferro’s cultural agenda. With the dissolu-
tion of the group in that same year the play passed into the repertoire
of its successor company, the Teatro Nacional Popular. Again we see a
manifest desire to simplify or ‘dumb down’: according to Francisco
Lage’s statements on the programme notes, his version aimed to reduce
dialogue and lighten the play without changing its essential structure.
Macbeth, performed in 1956 by the most long-lived experimental
Portuguese group, Teatro Experimental do Porto (TEP), is quite a differ-
ent case. This performance echoed some European aesthetic landmarks
(the work of Gordon Craig and Adolphe Appia, for example) and it
inaugurated the Teatro de Algibeira (the future Teatro de Bolso), a small
venue where the production values of simplicity and intimacy could be
achieved. The freedom given to this group by the regime can in part be
explained by its being based in Oporto and not in Lisbon, the capital.
Throughout the 1950s, the TEP was the only significant group from the
experimental boom of the late 1940s to survive.
In 1957, Noite de Reis (Twelfth Night) was performed by Francisco

Ribeiro’s Teatro Nacional Popular. The adaptation, from a French version,
was made by Ribeiro and Lage, but the play did not benefit from their
attempts at simplification. To the influential Portuguese scholar, author
and critic Jorge de Sena (1919–78), the result was ‘a text that we cannot
consider as Shakespeare’s because all that remains of the author and his
thoughts is merely the sequence of the scenes and the immediate mean-
ing of the lines’ (Sena 1988: 170).13 For Sena, the 1959 performance by
the Oxford Playhouse Company in the Ajuda Palace Park was infinitely
superior. Even if it did not arouse great enthusiasm among the majority
of the critics, it was clear to Sena that this performance had nothing in
common with the customary Portuguese staging of Shakespeare:
This marks the difference between an authentic text and a poor liter-
ary adaptation; […] it also shows the difference between a powerful
stage presence, characteristic of whoever steps on to an English stage,
and our own actors’ air of ‘masked players’ whenever they perform
the classics.
(Sena 1988: 252)14
The 1960s
Throughout the 1960s and up to the end of the regime, two directions
in Portuguese theatre were followed: ‘a theatre that we can conven-
tionally designate as the Theatre of the Absurd and epic theatre with
a Brechtian form’ (Rebello 2000: 148).15 In the Portuguese context, we
should regard Beckett’s absurdist and Brecht’s epic forms not as antago-
nistic, but as complementary. The difficulties in pursuing a politically
engaged theatre led theatre practitioners to take refuge in the ellipti-
cal texts of authors like Samuel Beckett, Fernando Arrabal, Eugene
Ionesco and Harold Pinter. Political comment was made in an oblique
manner.16 Once again Shakespeare’s plays did not present themselves
as the most obvious way of fulfilling this urgent task. As for ‘epic thea-
tre’, the Shakespeare-Brecht relationship centred on the history plays,
which were notably absent from the Portuguese stage. In both respects,
therefore, Shakespeare seemed ill-suited to the pursuit of innovative
agendas.
Nevertheless the 1960s were the decade when the greatest number of
Shakespeare plays were performed. This was due especially to the qua-
tercentenary celebrated in 1964. There were eight performances in the
course of that year: The Taming of the Shrew was directed by Luís de Sttau
Monteiro with the Empresa Vasco Morgado; Romeo and Juliet was staged
Rui Pina Coelho 227
by the amateur group from the Sociedade de Instrução Tavaredense; and

Measure for Measure was adapted by Luiz Francisco Rebello under the
title Dente por Dente (echoing the Biblical ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth’, Exodus 21: 23–5), directed by António Pedro for the Teatro
Moderno de Lisboa and marked by a strongly Brechtian verve; A Tragédia
de Macbeth was presented by the Companhia Rey Colaço-Robles Monteiro
and directed by Michael Benthall. Following this premiere, awaited with
considerable interest, the generally accepted view was that a perform-
ance had finally been staged in Portugal that did justice to its author. In
1964, the theatre group Teatro de Ensaio Raul Brandão presented a collage
of translated passages from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet and The
Merry Wives of Windsor. There were also three other English-language
performances by foreign groups of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The
Merchant of Venice (both The Shakespeare Festival Company), and
Twelfth Night (New Shakespeare Company Limited). It was an outstand-
ing year for productions of Shakespeare plays.
In the 1960s Portuguese audiences could also see Tanto barulho para
nada (Much Ado about Nothing), directed by Bessa de Carvalho and broad-
cast by RTP in 1960, at a time when live broadcasts were the norm. Romeu
e Julieta (Romeo and Juliet) was performed by the Companhia Rey Colaço-
Robles Monteiro in 1960. Cayetano Luca de Tena directed the play. In 1963,
O mercador de Veneza (The Merchant of Venice) was directed by António
Manuel Couto Viana in his Companhia Nacional de Teatro. Goulart
Nogueira’s 1963 translation of this play underwent some changes that
‘lightened’ the text and emphasized its farcical aspects. In 1969, Pedro
Lemos directed Rei Lear (King Lear) for Proscenium, an amateur group.
Closing the decade, in 1969, Pedro Martins directed Norberto Ávila’s
adaptation of Othello made for Portuguese State Television’s own theatre
company. 1969 was also the year of the ‘Brechtian’ Luzia Maria Martins’
adaptation of Romeo and Juliet as Anatomia de uma história de amor.
The early 1970s

In the next decade, the need for renewal in the theatre was perceived as
both urgent and inevitable. The oblique political comments provided
by absurdist texts were no longer enough. As the fascist regime moved
towards its close, theatre critics and practitioners hardened their posi-
tions and started to demand more explicit social intervention – and in
some cases, Shakespearean texts provided fertile soil for such endeav-
ours. Sonho de uma noite de Verão (A Midsummer Night’s Dream) was
performed in 1970, by the Coimbra University theatre group CITAC,
directed by the Argentinian Juan Carlos Oviedo, followed by their
controversial adaptation of Macbeth as Macbeth: que se passa na tua

cabeça? [Macbeth: What’s Going on in Your Head?] (1970). Their transgres-
sive and provocative production challenged the law and public moral-
ity, drawing the attention of the PIDE (the ‘International Police for the
Defence of the State’) and eventually causing several rifts within the
group. Indeed, CITAC ceased its activities and only resumed perform-
ances after 25 April 1974. In 1971, the Coimbra University student
company TEUC performed Hamlet, directed by Carlos Cabral, in a
production that foregrounded the ‘need to act against an unjust order’
(Porto 1973: 265). Also in 1971, Ruy de Matos directed The Taming of
the Shrew for the amateur theatre group of Plinay/Plessey Automática
Eléctrica Portuguesa.
Conclusion
Despite these subversive ventures, during the period from 1926 to 1974
in Portugal, Shakespeare’s plays were synonymous with the innocuous
and the non-threatening, far removed from the re-evaluation taking
place elsewhere in Europe. The favourite repertoire options were those
comedies or other plays that could favour a noteworthy leading role or
a lavish production. But even these did not escape the surveillance of
the censors.
Article 4 of Decree Law No. 13564 stated that all performances that
were offensive to the law, morals and good conduct should be banned.
It was these vague criteria that gave rise to a major concern with sexual
morality. According to Seruya and Moniz (2008a: 11), this affected not
only literature that was considered ‘pornographic’ but also ‘everything
taken as offensive in the light of Christian morality, regarding marriage,
homosexuality, adultery and divorce (but concerning women alone),
sexual satisfaction, birth control’. Thus in the 1960s Romeo and Juliet was
approved only for adults (over 17 years old) with small cuts from
Mercutio’s speech (II.1): ‘By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering
thigh/and the demesnes that there adjacent lie’, and ‘Now we will sit
under a medlar tree/and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit’. These
examples show an almost obsessive concern with sexual innuendo.
In 1960, Othello, too, was subjected to censorship in the passages
where its moral values were questionable. As the censors put it, some
cuts were required, ‘but also the death scenes of Desdemona and Othello
should be treated with dignity in order (this is a mere suggestion) not
to upset public sensibilities’.17 In 1964 The Taming of the Shrew, trans-
lated by Luis Sttau Monteiro, lost the line ‘Madam, undress you, and
Rui Pina Coelho 229
come now to bed’ (Induction, scene 2) and a later reference by Grumio

to finding someone to get Katherina into bed is also removed (I.2).18
In Much Ado about Nothing, translated by Manuel Lereno, in 1960, the
following line was cut: ‘But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns
on the sensible Benedick’s head?’(V.1).19 And the TEP’s 1963 attempt to
stage The Merry Wives of Windsor in a translation by Domingos Ramos
was subjected to several cuts due to obscenity – this production never
premiered.20 Censoring sexual innuendos, allusions to adultery, cuck-
oldry or obscenities, even if in the guise of wordplay, indicates a mor-
alistic strategy to control behaviour. However, as these few examples
indicate, it was carried out rather naïvely.
In conclusion, during the Portuguese fascist dictatorship the pres-
ence of Shakespeare’s plays on the Portuguese stage was maintained
essentially through the comedies and some tragedies, deprived of their
‘spicier’, more suggestive or salacious lines. The most remarkable fact
is the complete absence of any of Shakespeare’s history plays: a clear
indication of the backwardness of Portuguese theatre during this
period.
On 25 April 1974, a military uprising that became known as the
Carnation Revolution put an end to all these constraints. That same
year, on 14 May, the theatre professionals issued a manifesto. Portuguese
theatre was about to change – at last:
The undersigned, having learned of the MFA (Movement of the

Armed Forces) Programme and supporting the abolition of the prior
examination of plays and censorship, hope to begin their profes-
sional and artistic activity immediately and under the conditions
they had been deprived of since 1926.
Those among us who belong to the generation that was sacrificed
by the outgoing regime during their most creative years salute the
new generations who are coming of age and fervently desire that
their recently won freedom will never be lost again.21
Notes
I would like to thank Dr. Patricia Odber de Baubeta for her insightful advice and
thorough revision of this work. I am also indebted to Professor Maria Helena
Serôdio for her thoughtful suggestions. This chapter reprises some of the argu-
ments addressed in Coelho (2008).
1. One example of this situation is the prohibition of Time Magazine in Portugal,

after the publication of an article that was harshly critical of the Portuguese
government (titled ‘How Bad is the Best?’), in the issue of 22 July 1946,
featuring on the cover a picture of Salazar and a rotten apple. The case is well
documented in Comissão do Livro Negro Sobre o Regime Fascista (1982).
2. For a study of Shakespeare’s theatre in Portugal within the area of perform-
ance and translation studies, see the recent contributions by Francesca
Rayner, João Almeida Flor, João Ferreira Duarte, Maria Helena Serôdio, Paulo
Eduardo Carvalho and Rui Carvalho Homem, among others.
3. Therefore excluding the performances presented by foreign groups on
Portuguese stages, such as Twelfth Night (Oxford Playhouse Company, 1959),
A Midsummer Night’s Dream (The Shakespeare Festival Company, 1964),
The Merchant of Venice (The Shakespeare Festival Company, 1964), Twelfth
Night (New Shakespeare Company Limited, 1964), Othello (Haileybury
College Student Group, 1965), Hamlet (Dramatic Group of the University of
St Andrews, 1970). For further information on each of these performances,
see the Lisbon University Centre for Theatre Studies database on Portuguese
theatre history at www.fl.ul.pt/CETbase/default.htm.
4. For all statistical claims in this paper, see the Centre for Theatre Studies data-
base at www.fl.ul.pt/CETbase/default.htm.
5. This play was not staged until 1993, directed by Pedro Wilson with Cénico de
Direito, the university group from the Lisbon University Law Faculty.
6. Arquivos da Comissão de Exame e Classificação de Espectáculos [Commission
for Examining and Classifying Performances Archives] (Torre do Tombo /
Museu Nacional do Teatro), Record no. 7588. Here and in the following, all
translations from the Portuguese are my own.
7. ‘Esta peça […] só poderá ser aprovada com inúmeros cortes. Considera-se
pouco conveniente fazer cortes em textos de autores como este’. Ibid., Record
no. 7620.
8. See also Hoenselaars (2004: 1–8).
9. ‘Por mim, devo confessar que nunca vi, em Portugal, acontecimento de tea-
tro comparável a este. E que mesmo no teatro visto lá fora, só o Galileu Galilei
de Brecht e o Marat-Sade de Peter Weiss se lhe poderiam comparar.’
10. This review was published in the literary supplement of the newspaper
Primeiro de Janeiro and later in a collection of Rebello’s writings, in 1971.
Rebello attended this production in Paris as part of the French celebrations
of the Shakespearean quatercentenary.
11. I exclude from this analysis operas based on Shakespeare’s plays presented
in Portugal (1926–74). For further information, see the Lisbon University
Centre for Theatre Studies database on Portuguese theatre history at www.
fl.ul.pt/CETbase/default.htm.
12. To my knowledge only three performances were undertaken: O mercador de
Veneza/The Merchant of Venice (Companhia Dramática da Sociedade Theatral,
1920), La mégere apprivoisée (by a French company on tour, 1923) and the
Old Vic Theatre’s Henry V (1939).
13. ‘um texto que não podemos considerar de Shakespeare, visto que deste, e do
seu pensamento na peça, apenas ficaram a sequência das cenas e o sentido
imediato das deixas’.
14. ‘É toda a diferença que vai de um texto autêntico a uma adaptação sem
categoria alguma de ordem literária […] de uma presença em cena, que é
apanágio de quem pisa um palco em Inglaterra, ao ar de ‘mascarados’ que os
nossos actores têm quase sempre quando representam clássicos.’
Rui Pina Coelho 231
15. ‘a de um teatro que poderemos convencionalmente designar por teatro do

absurdo e a de um teatro épico, de matriz brechteana’.
16. See the groundbreaking work by Fadda (1998).
17. ‘mas também de que as cenas da morte de Desdémona e de Otello [sejam]
tratadas com toda a dignidade e de modo a (por simples sugestão) não
ferir a sensibilidade dos espectadores.’ Arquivos da Comissão de Exame e
Classificação de Espectáculos, Record no. 8751.
18. Ibid., Record no. 7507.
21. ‘Tendo tomado conhecimento do Programa do MFA, os abaixo assinados,
apoiando os pontos referentes à abolição do exame prévio e da censura,
esperam poder desde já exercer a sua actividade profissional e artística em
condições de que estão privados desde 1926.
Os que entre nós pertencem à geração sacrificada pelo regime cessante
no período de vida de maior criatividade saúdam as novas gerações que
começam a entrar na maioridade e fazem calorosos votos para que a liber-
dade agora conquistada não volte a perder-se.’
Part IV
Response
10
The Boundaries of Dictatorship
Matthew Philpotts
The title of this concluding chapter alludes to a collection of essays

which I first read more than ten years ago when I was working on the
cultural politics not of the fascist dictatorships, but of the German
Democratic Republic (GDR). By focusing attention on what they termed
Die Grenzen der Diktatur – the ‘boundaries’ or ‘limits of dictatorship’ –
Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen (1996) were breaking new ground, not
only in the social history of the recently defunct East German state but
also in the study of dictatorships more generally. At that time, emphasis
on the limits of the dictatorial power was unusual. The fall of the Soviet
Bloc in 1989 had prompted a renaissance in totalitarian theory and a
revival of the accompanying preoccupation with the mechanisms of dic-
tatorial power and control. Above all, the astonishing revelations con-
cerning the sheer extent of the GDR state security service, the Stasi, had
rekindled superficial, top-down comparisons with the Hitler dictatorship
and reinforced perceptions of two states fundamentally different from
the western liberal democracies. The comparison is a highly instruc-
tive one. For all the very fine scholarship which has emerged on the
cultural practices of dictatorial regimes, this inflationary usage of highly
problematic labels remains commonplace, especially in more traditional
strands of literary studies and art history. Whether it is ‘totalitarianism’
or ‘fascism’ – and the introduction to this volume refers directly to the
problems associated with this latter term – categories are deployed which
privilege the claims made by the regimes themselves, rather than the
cultural-historical reality on the ground. The result is an often distort-
ing emphasis on control and coercion and a marked reluctance to treat
cultural production as anything other than at the service of political
235
236 The Boundaries of Dictatorship
power, or else heroically raised up against it. For a young researcher

seeking to elaborate a comparative cultural history of the GDR and the
Third Reich, the methodological impetus signalled by Bessel and Jessen’s
programmatic title and, above all, by the insightful essays of Thomas
Lindenberger and Mary Fulbrook left a profound impression. Exploring
the ‘limits of dictatorship’ became a guiding principle.
The significance of these ideas for the study of the cultural history
of dictatorships should be clear enough, especially in a comparative
volume such as this. There remains an understandable and abiding fas-
cination with the highly politicized cultural mechanisms established in
dictatorships – typically forms of propaganda and censorship – so that
the political boundaries placed on cultural production (another way of
understanding the Grenzen der Diktatur) continue to exercise considera-
ble influence on the writing of cultural history. One need only think, for
example, of the periodization of German culture in the twentieth century
to realize how starkly those boundaries can be drawn and how persistent
they can be in literary histories and textbooks. It is the political turning
points of 1933 and 1945 which usually function as chronological bound-
aries between periods. It is political categories – the Weimar Republic, the
Third Reich or exile, the GDR or the Federal Republic – which continue
to dominate our conceptualizations of German culture in the twentieth
century. But, as a wealth of research has shown (see Parker, Davies and
Philpotts 2004), those chronological boundaries were anything but rigid,
and it is cultural continuities across the boundaries which emerge as one
of the most important limitations on the capacity of the German dicta-
torships to shape culture. In fact, cultural practice reveals a particularly
striking tendency to escape the political boundaries imposed upon it.
In this sense, the boundaries of dictatorship carry a double meaning in
cultural history. They are at once the limits imposed on culture by the
regimes in their attempts to instrumentalize it and, at the same time, the
limits which culture places on the realization of that aim.
There is a further sense in which this collection of essays problematizes
the ‘boundaries of dictatorship’. Analysing translation activity associated
with Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, Francoist Spain and the Estado Novo in
Portugal, this volume encourages reflection on the viability of comparison
between four fundamentally different historical entities. In other words, it
prompts us to consider the boundaries of legitimate comparative analysis.
With considerable justification, for example, one might argue that the
uniqueness of National Socialism precludes meaningful comparison even
with its closest relative and contemporary, Italian Fascism, let alone with
the semi-fascist or para-fascist Iberian dictatorships. The capacity of the
Matthew Philpotts 237
two latter regimes to settle down and reproduce apparently stable and
essentially conservative governmental systems into the 1970s is scarcely
comparable to the self-destructive revolutionary dynamism of the Hitler
regime. But to draw our conceptual boundaries so narrowly around spe-
cific instances of dictatorship would be to deny ourselves the insights
which can accrue from the comparative or, perhaps better, contrastive
method. If we understand the notion of ‘fascism’ as a provisional start-
ing point for the contrastive analysis of intuitively similar entities, rather
than as a final and constraining categorization, then the chapters col-
lected here are able to throw into sharp relief the distinctive peculiarities
of each regime, as well as their commonalities.
Indeed, in the course of this chapter I shall go further and argue that
the boundaries of comparison here have been set too narrowly. While
generic fascism places emphasis on ideological commonalities among
ultra-nationalist dictatorships (see Griffin 1991), a host of alternative cat-
egories focus attention on the organizational dynamics of regimes and
open up comparison with ideologically divergent, socialist dictatorships.
Certainly the most recent scholarship on totalitarianism is scarcely rec-
ognizable from its crude, Cold War incarnation and provides a range of
more variegated terminology to conceptualize regimes which made com-
parable ‘total’ claims, even if those aims could never be realized in prac-
tice. As we shall see, historiographical comparisons between the Third
Reich and the GDR can be particularly instructive in this respect: the
charismatic and dynamic ‘totalitarianism’ of the former contrasts starkly
with the bureaucratic ‘totalitarianism’ of the latter, which increasingly
developed into a post-totalitarian or authoritarian form of rule. To go
further still, one might even argue that we should erase such bounda-
ries altogether, that treating the culture of dictatorships as a separate
object of enquiry only hinders our attempts to understand how these
systems functioned. It may be that the broadest axis of comparison –
that between dictatorial and non-dictatorial cultural systems – offers the
most productive perspectives, particularly from a theoretical point of
view. As I shall suggest later, the work of cultural theorists such as Michel
Foucault and Pierre Bourdieu, preoccupied for the most part with the
intersection between culture and power in ‘free’ societies, has much to
offer to cultural historians of dictatorship.
This is the territory that I wish to cover in the two sections that
follow, using the pliable notion invoked in my title – the boundaries of
dictatorship – as a central point around which to organize my response
to the eight studies which make up this volume. In the first section,
I shall draw out the most significant common ground between the
chapters, primarily from an empirical point of view. All the time the
focus will be on the extent to which the four regimes were able to
set limits on translation activity and the extent to which translation
escaped those limits. From there, in the second section, I shall seek to
develop a variety of theoretical perspectives which open up approaches
to cultural production under the distinctive conditions of dictatorial
rule. Here, particular emphasis will lie on an application of Bourdieu’s
work, stressing the value-laden exchange across national bounda-
ries which these dictatorships could not prevent, so that translation
emerges as an embodiment of the cultural limits which operate on all
instances of political dictatorship.
So, to pose our central question directly: what do the chapters in this
volume seem to reveal about the commonalities of translation activity in
these four regimes? First and foremost, and at the risk of stating the obvi-
ous, the contributions here show clearly that translation activity did not
function free of state intervention. Rather, it was in each case directly and
overtly steered through a variety of mechanisms of power, often institu-
tional, and in each case this led to quantitative and qualitative reductions
in the range of translations which circulated. More specifically, heavily
ideologized discourses about the threat posed by translation were pro-
moted by senior cultural figures, usually in the context of more general
nationalist rhetoric originating from the individual dictator himself. To
judge from the chapters in this volume, these were at their fiercest in
the racialized discourse of the Third Reich, which was concerned with
‘cleansing alien elements’ and combating an ‘intellectual swamping’
(Sturge in this volume: 52), but even in the less ideological case of the
Estada Novo, there was a reaction against a perceived ‘epidemic of transla-
tions’ and their accompanying ‘denationalizing impulse’ (Seruya in this
volume: 122). Similarly, the two campaigns against translation in Italy
in 1933–34 and 1936–38 were characterized by public pronouncements
in periodicals and in speeches denouncing the flood of foreign titles
(Rundle in this volume: 23–6, 26–9). Interestingly in both these latter
cases, the poor quality of translated literature was also invoked by those
with a professional stake in the debate. In turn, legal and institutional
frameworks were established or existing frameworks mobilized to counter
the influx of translation. As the Overview Essays indicate, the Ministry
for Propaganda in Germany, the Ministry for Popular Culture in Italy,
the Propaganda Office in Portugal and the Censorship Board in Spain
acted as the principal state institutions which restricted translation.

In addition, writers’ unions, booksellers’ organizations and publishers
were aligned in a more or less formal way with the regime, and often it
was these institutions which took the lead. As Teresa Seruya (122) and
Christopher Rundle (27) make clear, this was certainly the case for the
‘translation statute’ drafted by the GNEL in Portugal in 1943 and the
campaign orchestrated by Marinetti through the Writers Union in Italy.
A variety of lists, registers and commissions sought to regulate transla-
tion activity across the four regimes, both before and after publication.
And as Seruya describes in the Portuguese case, a variety of other state-
aligned agencies were mobilized to enforce anti-translation measures,
notably in that instance the political police, the regular police, the
customs service and even the postal service. These were the typical
mechanisms of dictatorial power brought to bear against the perceived
threat posed by translation, a threat which was felt particularly acutely
by regimes driven by ultra-nationalist ideologies.
What the chapters also demonstrate is the very significant effect that
these measures had on translation activity. In this respect, Kate Sturge’s
chapter on Nazi Germany is systematic in its analysis of the quantita-
tive and qualitative trends in translation during the periods in question.
In quantitative terms, the regime’s opposition to the alien influence
of translation was clearly felt in the pronounced dip in translations in
1934, the year following Hitler’s seizure of power, and in the collapse of
translation after 1939 when the most direct measures were introduced,
namely the blanket bans on translation from the English-speaking
world. More interesting, though, are the qualitative trends which Sturge
uncovers in the remainder of the period, when the numbers of translated
works seem to belie official policy. The shift towards reprints and towards
safe, conservative choices of source text to fill the gaps left by modern-
ist literature or works which were ideologically unacceptable testifies to
the impact of National Socialist cultural policy on translation. Here, the
failure to promote translation through libraries and school curriculums
after the purges of 1933 is as important as the mechanisms of exclusion
and control discussed earlier, and the result is a marked stagnation, or
‘provincialization’ to use Sturge’s term, of the German literary field. More
than anything this stagnation is the common element between the four
cultural systems. To take a specific example, Rui Pina Coelho’s chapter
on stagings of Shakespeare in Portugal reveals a surprisingly healthy
quantitative picture, but also a striking qualitative shift towards ‘safe’
choices of play and traditional forms of staging. The result is a cultural
sphere largely isolated from the formal innovations of post-war theatre.
This, too, is the central thrust of Jeroen Vandaele’s detailed considera-

tion of censorship in Spain. The Francoist cultural field was a defective
system which lacked innovative repertoires. By blocking translation into
Spain, censors were blocking sources of cultural innovation and renewal,
and the same could clearly be said of Italy after the mid-1930s. Francesca
Nottola’s careful analysis of the archives of the Einaudi press offers a
vivid picture of the restrictions imposed in this period, most obviously
on anglophone authors but also on French and Russian authors and in
specific areas of content such as Freudian psychology or Enlightenment
philosophy.
And yet for all this, the abiding impression from these studies is the
shortfall between an inflexible rhetoric of exclusion and a rather more
inconsistent reality of cultural practice. In particular, a common strand
running through the chapters in this book is the apparent toleration
of officially unacceptable forms of translation in the elite intellectual
domain where circulation was small. Vandaele, for example, considers
research on the translation of philosophy under Franco’s regime, con-
cluding that ‘deviant thinkers were sometimes tolerated for the special-
ized reader’ (Vandaele in this volume: 94). A number of Spanish-language
translations of Kant were authorized over a 30-year period, all in editions
of fewer than 1500 copies. Similarly, although Sartre’s writing had been
prohibited by the Catholic church, he was translated and published as
a philosopher under Franco. A distinction seems to have been made
between his existentialist thought, accessible only to specialists, and his
more directly politically committed writing, which did not circulate in
Spain until the late 1960s. Here one might also mention lenient censor-
ship decisions taken on Nietzsche – ‘tolerated in limited and expensive
editions’ (Vandaele: 97) – and Orwell (111), where the size of print-runs
seems to have had a decisive influence on the outcome. Significantly,
Seruya makes the same claim in relation to Portuguese censorship of
imported texts. Works which had been expressly prohibited in transla-
tion were allowed to circulate among educated elites in the original
source language. And, within certain limits, ‘the belief that “educated”
people were not easily influenced led the censors to tolerate even the
possession of banned books by certain professional groups’ (Seruya: 133).
This is also reflected in the staging of Shakespeare in Portugal, where the
most problematic and innovative performances were permitted only by
foreign groups in English. The range of performances and events staged,
for example, at Lisbon University in 1964 were justified to the control-
ling cultural apparatus precisely on the grounds that they were of inter-
est only to a limited, educated audience. As Vandaele suggests, there is
clear evidence for theorizing a hierarchy of discourse realms according

to different levels of intervention by the authorities, and it was in the
elite sub-domains of cultural production that intervention to block the
circulation of imported texts was least pervasive.
However, it is clear too that a shortfall between rhetoric and practice
characterized translation policy in the more popular cultural realms,
especially in relation to anglophone culture. Indeed, the widespread avail-
ability of popular translated genres in both film and fiction, in marked
contrast to the exclusionary rhetoric of cultural officials, emerges as one
of the most striking features of this collection. Above all, Sturge’s chapter
suggests strongly that continuities in popular literature across the politi-
cal date boundary of 1933 are not to be underestimated. Of the three
most translated English-language authors of the period 1895–1934 –
Oscar Wilde, Edgar Wallace and Arthur Conan Doyle – only the first
disappeared from the literary scene under National Socialism; the other
two benefited from large numbers of reprint editions, at least until 1939.
More generally, Sturge sees translated detective fiction and its array of
domestic imitations as a significant line of continuity with the 1920s
and 1950s, ‘giving the lie to the common notion that Nazi repression all
but obliterated outside influences or non-fascist cultural products’ (58).
The publication of new titles is seen to have been successfully elimi-
nated only in the very final years of the regime, while the circulation of
existing titles, predominantly through commercial lending libraries, is
judged to have been ‘undented for much of the period’ (78). In the case
of Fascist Italy, Mario Rubino also makes much of the continuities in
translated fiction which existed between the 1920s and the 1930s, this
time from Germany as the source culture. Above all, Mondadori’s transla-
tions of such authors as Stefan Zweig, Thomas Mann, Erich Kästner and
Hans Fallada stand out. Apparently the fascist regimes of both Germany
and Italy could do little to seal the chronological and geographical
boundary with the Weimar Republic, and there are parallels here also
with the Iberian dictatorships. In particular, the flood of popular pseu-
dotranslations from Spain into Portugal is highly reminiscent of the
wave of imitations which characterizes popular fiction in Germany in
the 1930s. And the many strategies of adaptation and appropriation
through which detective fiction was made acceptable in Nazi Germany
have obvious counterparts in the strategies adopted by Francoist cen-
sors when dealing with Hollywood film. In both film and performed
theatre, two of the more highly regulated domains in Vandaele’s hier-
archy, innovative discourses clearly did permeate into Spain through
translation.
In all cases, these shortfalls raise a central question in the study of

culture and dictatorship. To what extent is the survival of non-official
cultural production the result of conscious and tactical toleration,
to what extent evidence of blockages and inefficiencies beyond the
control of the authorities? Certainly, the authors in this volume tend
to be united in viewing the survival of non-official phenomena in elite
culture as a question of pragmatic tolerance, rather than as a breakdown
of the system of control. Such relative permissiveness could clearly
serve a function in ventilating intellectual non-conformity. In the more
popular realms, too, pragmatism clearly had a major role to play. As
Sturge suggests, the commercial interests of the publishing industry in
Germany could not afford to be ignored, while non-ideologized popular
entertainment was often encouraged by the Propaganda Ministry as a
‘safety-valve’ in an otherwise closely regulated public sphere. At the
same time, this was only part of the picture. For Sturge, the success of
translated detective fiction has to be viewed, in part, as ‘a failure of the
system’ (79). The logistical difficulties involved in attempts to monitor
and control translation were considerable, all the more so when the
system of control was so confused and fragmented. As is well known, the
Nazi governmental system was polycratic, even chaotic. Overlaps and
tensions between rival officials and agencies created an often arbitrary
and inconsistent reality on the ground where gaps and spaces could
often be exploited. But it is not just in Nazi Germany that translation
exposes the messy contradictions of dictatorship in practice. Despite
stressing the relative consistency of censorship practice in Spain,
Vandaele also places considerable emphasis on factional conflict and
divergent poetics between Falangist and Catholicist censors. Indeed, a
number of examples cited by Vandaele indicate elements of confusion
and personalized arbitrariness in censorship decisions, not least those
surrounding two different editions of Joyce’s Portrait of an Artist as a
Young Man in 1963, which are attributed either to ‘pure chaos’ or to
‘administrative discontinuity’ (112). Similarly, Nottola highlights for
the Italian case the ‘arbitrariness, unpredictability and inconsistency’
(Nottola in this volume: 183) of publication authorizations which
derived largely from the personal will of functionaries and ministers.
Given the ‘limits to the efficacy of censorship’ highlighted by Seruya
in Portugal (138), where publishers exploited the practical limitations
of post-publication censorship, it should be clear that confusion and
inconsistency characterized all these ‘fascist’ systems of control. Or, to
put it another way, translation practice very clearly exposes the bounda-
ries of dictatorial power.
A number of historians have expressed profound scepticism about

systemic comparisons between the two twentieth-century German
dictatorships, the GDR and the Third Reich, a comparison which is
usually framed around the notion of ‘totalitarianism’. When applied
across ideological and chronological boundaries, such a comparative
category can appear stretched beyond any meaningful insight. With
justification, for example, Ian Kershaw (1993) limits the applicability
of the term to the short-lived and destructive phases of rule typified by
the Hitler regime and by high Stalinism in the 1930s. When applied to
post-Stalinist Communist systems like the GDR, the comparison ‘rapidly
approaches futility if not downright absurdity’ (Kershaw 1993: 39). Even
Jürgen Kocka, a historian who has pursued this comparison systemati-
cally, has to acknowledge that the two German dictatorships represent
fundamentally different types of totalitarianism (Kocka 1995: 187). The
‘totalitarian’ terror and destructive dynamism of National Socialism
contrasts starkly with the more effective ‘totalitarian’ manipulation of
culture and society achieved under East German socialism. For Corey
Ross (2002: 36), meanwhile, the absence of ideological orientation in the
GDR marks it out in its established phase as a regime more ‘authoritar-
ian’ than ‘totalitarian’ in nature. If the latter term has any value at all in
relation to the GDR and comparable post-war Soviet regimes, then it is
in the related sense of ‘post-totalitarianism’ (ibid.: 25), a coinage which
captures the loss of its initial ideological dynamism and the persistence
of certain features of Stalinist rule. Indeed, Ross (ibid.: 39–40) sees greater
value in the related notion of ‘post-Stalinism’, its ideological specificity
offering analytical insight into a system of rule which continued to be
shaped by the legacy of that particular form of highly centralized social-
ist despotism. In all cases, a conceptual gulf separates the pre- and post-
1945 iterations of German dictatorship.
More promising in Ross’s view (2002: 172) is the prospect of ‘sectoral’
comparison between the GDR and the Third Reich. And when limited
to the cultural realm, it seems clear that comparison between the two
regimes can be fruitful in highlighting the common total claim made
by the two regimes. While that claim may have been dropped elsewhere
in GDR society after the mid-1960s, it was repeatedly and forcefully
re-asserted in the public intellectual sphere. As I have argued elsewhere
(Philpotts 2003: 67–70), this observation allows us to distinguish between
two variants of totalitarian cultural policy with very different ideological
dynamics: the radicalizing, charismatic variant embodied by National
Socialism; and the stagnating, bureaucratic variant embodied by the

GDR. In the latter case, ideological atrophy is accompanied by a mush-
rooming of the apparatus of control, and the total claim is increasingly
a pragmatic one made simply in defence of the system itself. Similarly,
and as we have seen earlier, the specific comparison in the realm of
translation does highlight a common ‘total’ claim against translation
as a highly undesirable element in the four otherwise divergent fascist
systems. In turn, that comparable claim had similar and far-reaching
implications for all those involved in translation activity under the four
regimes. At the same time, the ideological dynamics of the four regimes
differed starkly and, as is the case for the Third Reich and the GDR, there
is a significant conceptual boundary to be drawn between the dictator-
ships of the 1930s and their post-1945 successors. The ‘total’ ideological
claim made on culture under National Socialism eventually resulted in
a situation in the early 1940s where the publication of new translated
texts of Jewish or anglophone origin or of modernist orientation was not
possible. However, this relatively short-lived, radicalizing, and personal-
ized form of cultural politics differs sharply from the largely predictable
and consistent workings of the censorship apparatus in Spain as it is
described by Vandaele over a 30-year period after 1945. In particular, the
Francoist cultural bureaucracy was not driven and deformed by a radical
transformative ideology. Rather, much of the censorship and exclusion
practised against translation in Spain seems to have been motivated by
much more conventional, conservative attitudes, by a Catholic morality
which, tellingly, found a like-minded partner in the Hays Code that gov-
erned Hollywood output up until the late 1960s. In Italy and Portugal,
too, the exclusionary practice of the ‘fascist’ regimes appears more like a
defence of conservative social morality than a drive towards the realiza-
tion of the utopian political myth of national rebirth which underpinned
fascism. In its latter stages, the former regime may have become drawn
into the radical, racial project of National Socialism, but the picture of
translation activity which emerges from Rubino’s chapter is, for the most
part, not one shaped by the distinctive, all-encompassing dynamic of
totalitarian ideology. In particular, the Iberian dictatorships seem to be
much more readily comparable in this respect with the post-1953 Soviet-
style dictatorships of the Eastern Bloc than with Nazi Germany. Perhaps
by analogy with these ‘post-Stalinist’ socialist dictatorships, it is more
productive to think of the Iberian regimes as instances of ‘post-fascist’
dictatorships, bearing the mark of the radical ultra-nationalism of the
mid-1930s in their underlying attitude to the foreign but long since lack-
ing the ideological vigour to wage total war against it.
However, even when applied to the National Socialist regime, the

term ‘totalitarian’ is apt to mislead, not least because, as we have seen,
outcomes of translation policy were so often incomplete and haphazard.
Perhaps more importantly, there is evidence that, even in Nazi Germany,
the total ideological claim was dropped when it came to translation activ-
ity outside the direct auspices of the regime. Finally, the term remains
trapped in a methodological paradox. On the one hand, totalitarianism
places emphasis on the regime’s own claims. As such, it invites a mode
of analysis which is inherently top-down, focusing on mechanisms of
mobilization and exclusion. On the other, and as we have seen repeatedly
in the earlier analysis, those mechanisms could never operate so as to
be effective across the full range of cultural production, especially when
the self-destructive nature of totalitarian rule deformed the capacity of
the system to operate effectively. Situated in a climate of heavy repres-
sion and high risk, but lacking clearly transmitted and specific regulation,
cultural agents tended to operate not in top-down patterns of conformity,
but in mechanisms which often functioned from the bottom up. Kershaw
(1997), for example, has identified ‘working towards the Führer’ as the
central mechanism by which the Nazi system operated. Whether out of
ideological commitment or pragmatic self-interest, individuals did not
follow precise instructions but rather sought to interpret and anticipate
Hitler’s will on any particular matter. In Sturge’s chapter, this mechanism
manifests itself in the ‘voluntary’ self-censorship practised by the book
trade, largely out of economic self-interest, or in the many processes
of appropriation and adaptation by which source texts were rendered
acceptable in translation, normally by translators or publishers on their
own initiative. As Sturge points out (68), some of these processes ‘do not
differ in absolute terms from many other phases in translation history’
and include many strategies which ‘are in no way alien to a present-day
translation market’. Paradoxically, then, the extreme asymmetry of power
present in the exceptional circumstances of totalitarian dictatorship actu-
ally places a particular emphasis on cultural strategies which belong to
the more symmetrical power relationships of market-led democracies.
In this way, the key to understanding the relationship between cultural
practice and dictatorial power may lie in methodologies which are not
specific to the context of dictatorship. Indeed, in a host of cases discussed
earlier, the dividing line between the exercise of dictatorial power and the
subordination of cultural practice is not at all clear. The locus of power
shifts to these much more complex and ambiguous processes of self-
censorship and adaptation. In this context the micro-discursive theories
of a post-structuralist thinker like Michel Foucault may be more useful
than the macro-political models of political science. To take one specific

example from the chapters, Seruya provides an intriguing insight into the
discourse of Portuguese censors when she highlights the manipulation of
language as a ‘recurrent and striking feature in [their] reports’ (136). This
is a linguistic micro-system where the razor-fine and arbitrary distinction
between ‘sexuality’ and ‘sexualism’ defines the difference between inclu-
sion and exclusion. However, in highlighting the denunciatory use of
such terms as ‘realism’ or the construction of a binary opposition between
‘propaganda’ and ‘history’, Seruya is not exposing a system of language
specific to the conditions of dictatorship. Rather, what is laid bare here
is the functioning through discourse of the systems of exclusion which
Michel Foucault (1981) sets out in his essay ‘The Order of Discourse’, the
‘will to truth’ through which dominant discourses also exercise power in
liberal, democratic societies. The implications of this insight are twofold.
First, it suggests strongly that we need to look beyond the obvious insti-
tutional and physical mechanisms of exclusion in order to understand
how dictatorships shape culture, beyond an artificial distinction between
culture and power in order to tease out more subtle interactions between
the two. Innovation and subversion, for example, may often emerge from
the very discourses of repression and coercion. Second, it suggests that
by looking at culture in the context of dictatorship we might be able to
understand better how culture acts as a vehicle for the exercise of power
in our own societies. Different not in absolute terms but in degree, discur-
sive mechanisms of power are rendered visible in conditions of dictator-
ship where in democracy they can often remain hidden.
Many of the chapters in this volume offer an empirical base for this
twin undertaking, but, in Vandaele’s treatment of Francoist censorship,
this volume also offers an extremely promising theoretical bridge across
the conceptual boundaries of dictatorship. More specifically, Vandaele
(102) invokes Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of ‘habitus’ to help describe
and explain the consistency of translation practice in the dubbing of
imported films. The durable and transposable dispositions of the transla-
tor’s habitus, argues Vandaele, account for the comfort with which those
translators negotiated the ideological translation inherent in their role.
Although Vandaele does not develop this further, it can be immensely
productive to extend this insight and to view the cultural spaces of dic-
tatorial regimes through the lens of Bourdieu’s wider sociology of culture
(see Bourdieu 1993, 1996). To undertake translation in these cultural
fields is to have to negotiate constantly between the specific cultural
capital of the field, the political capital of the dictatorial regime, and
the economic capital of the market. Often understood as ‘a feel for the
game’, the translator’s habitus might be expected to adjust well to the

demands of ideology, but the limitations on dictatorial power we have
discussed earlier also make it clear that domestic political capital is not
always the overriding concern in these exchanges. And again, transla-
tion has a particular significance here. Translation activity ensured that
these cultural fields were not closed, that is to say, that capital in its
various forms continued to flow across the boundaries of dictatorship
and between national fields. Most importantly of all, Bourdieu reminds
us that cultural goods are, by definition, goods with symbolic value, and
this conceptualization helps us to understand the significance attached,
for example, by the Italian regime to its translation deficit. As Rundle
points out (42), it was precisely the symbolic value of translation which
so preoccupied senior Italian cultural figures. For all its rhetoric of cul-
tural autarky, the Italian regime could not help but recognize that it
operated within an international cultural field, and the symbolic capital
validated in that field was a currency which it prized.
Here, Pascale Casanova’s concerted work to theorize the role of trans-
lation as a process of unequal capital exchange in an international liter-
ary field carries particular resonance. As Casanova argues, translation is
an essential part of the ongoing struggle for prestige, or symbolic capital,
between different national cultures in the international field. Following
Bourdieu, the international literary field is conceived in terms of an
opposition between dominant (international) and dominated (strictly
national) literary fields:
The international field is organized according to the opposition

between, on the one hand […] the literary fields which are the most
endowed with capital, and on the other hand, the most deprived
national fields or emergent fields which are usually dependent
on national political authorities. […] The national fields are also
structured according to the opposition between an autonomous
cosmopolitan pole and a heteronomous national and political pole.
The opposition is seen in the rivalry between ‘international’ and
‘national’ writers.
(Casanova 2010: 288)
When literature is translated from dominant cultures into dominated

ones, it is a process of accumulation by which those dominated cultures
seek to make up for deficiencies in their own domestic culture. When
texts from dominated cultures are translated into dominant languages,
it is a process of consecration through which those dominant cultures
reassert their dominance in the international field. To be translated is

to be an author with international standing and to stand apart from
national authors who are restricted to the dominated domestic field.
This is important for the cultural production of dictatorships, because
a cultural field which is subordinated to political interests is one which
immediately sacrifices its international standing. Irrespective of its
prior status, a cultural field under the conditions of dictatorship is a
dominated field. Here we can invoke once more the GDR and the inter-
national standing of its culture relative to that its western counterpart,
the Federal Republic. While both states were potential inheritors of the
established prestige of German as an international literature, the sacrifice
of its autonomy by the East German field ensured that only a very small
number of its authors could claim that international status. And those
that could – Bertolt Brecht, Christa Wolf, Volker Braun – were precisely
those who had a reputation for innovation and non-conformity which
challenged the inflexible values of the stagnating domestic field.
Here again, the chapters collected in this volume provide persuasive
evidence of the role translation plays in these processes of symbolic
exchange. The ‘provincialization’ of the German literary field under
National Socialism, as it is described by Sturge, reflects very clearly the
impoverishment of the field and its marginalization from the prestig-
ious world centres of the international literary field. In a more sustained
manner, Rubino’s chapter on cultural exchange between Italy and
Germany provides compelling evidence of how translation patterns
reveal the loss of status experienced by the politicized cultural fields of
dictatorship. In the perceptions of Italian journalists and the key cultural
mediators who shaped the publishing field, the vibrancy and modernity
of Weimar Berlin lent it the status of a world capital, a centre of cultural
innovation. And if Germany in the 1920s represented a ‘laboratory of all
that was modern’, then the culture of Fascist Italy was restricted by its
‘narrow-minded and backward-looking horizons’, by ‘its old-fashioned
values’ (Rubino: 157). To use Casanova’s analogy, Berlin stood on the
cultural meridian at which the temporality of the international cultural
field was defined; Rome languished, a provincial backwater behind the
times. The result was the flood of translation detailed by Rubino, as the
Italian literary field sought to make good that cultural lag. As Casanova
(2010: 293) puts it, a process of ‘temporal acceleration’ can be observed
in dominated European fields, when translations become ‘instruments
of struggle of the most autonomous writers’. Wishing ‘to break away
from the norms governing their literary fields’, those agents introduce
‘works of modernity as defined in the literary centres’. Used in this way,
translations enable ‘the importing of central norms which decree and

attest to modernity’ (ibid.), and, to judge from the evidence presented
by Rubino, it seems apparent that this process was at work in Italy in
the late 1920s and early 1930s among the more autonomous publish-
ing houses. Of course, the Nazi seizure of power changed the status
enjoyed by Germany as an international cultural centre, and Rubino’s
evidence again indicates that contemporary observers were only too
aware that the politicized writing from the new German field was of
strictly national interest. Mondadori, for example, very quickly noted
that ‘writers of international fame in today’s Germany are few and far
between – most of them have fled or have been sent away’ (Rubino: 166).
Or as Rubino himself puts it, in terms which offer a stark confirmation of
Casanova’s claims, ‘certain authors were simply not exportable’ (168).
If the fascist regimes themselves had been willing to accept this situ-
ation, then this might be little more than a brief theoretical footnote.
After all, these were ultra-nationalist regimes whose rhetoric was apt to
deny the values of the international cultural field, falling back instead on
conservative and inward-looking vernaculars. However, there is plenti-
ful evidence in this volume not only that cultural officials understood
this process of provincialization but also that it was a matter of con-
cern for them. What marks the fascist dictatorships out is precisely the
importance they attached to culture. To put it another way, the struggle
for cultural capital in the international cultural field was a struggle for
political capital too. In this way, these regimes which steadfastly rejected
internationalism were paradoxically eager to accrue the national prestige
which could often only be granted through international recognition.
Certainly, this is the context in which to understand the spectacle of the
1936 Berlin Olympics or, on a smaller scale, the cultural diplomacy of
the Europäische Schriftstellervereinigung which is charted by both Sturge
(70–1) and Rubino (170–1) in this volume. This is also the impetus
which lay behind the Franco-German cultural exchange embodied in
the poetry anthology projects detailed by Frank-Rutger Hausmann. As
the respective authors make plain, the aim of German cultural officials
was to make other countries accumulate German culture through trans-
lation, in the process recognizing Germany’s dominant status. Above
all, Hausmann’s chapter provides a vivid picture of attempts to invert
the established dominance of France as a literary nation. The high-qual-
ity production and presentation of the German-French volume and its
strategic circulation among cultural opinion-formers is strongly reminis-
cent of the elite cultural diplomacy undertaken by East German cultural
officials during the Cold War.
In the cases of cultural diplomacy discussed earlier, the aim was to

secure international cultural capital which could then be converted into
much-needed political capital on the world stage, but in these cases that
process of capital exchange and conversion was denied. The autonomy
of the international cultural field, underpinned by the underlying
principle of disinterestedness from the external forces of the economy
or politics, ensured that such overt attempts to make political capital
out of cultural production were doomed to fail. It may seem curious to
deploy Bourdieu in the context of dictatorships where the autonomy
of the cultural field was limited. However, the language of capital flows
and exchange focuses attention on this vital, and often understated,
international dimension of their cultural activity. And the fundamental
incompatibility between the autonomous values of the international
field and the heteronomy of the respective national fields captures the
underlying dilemma of any attempt to generate credible international
culture from such a position. As should be clear, the autonomous power
of that international field acts as a very significant boundary which
constrains dictatorial power, and it is translation, more than any other
cultural activity, which exposes this limitation.
The interface between culture and dictatorship remains highly contested

scholarly terrain. The opposition between cultural production and
political power continues to lead to often polarized and evaluative judge-
ments. The chapters collected in this volume chart this territory with
admirable care and precision, but even here there can persist an implicit,
and sometimes more explicit, valorization of ‘democratic’ culture which
is only reinforced by its juxtaposition with the paucity of fascist cultural
production. Whether it is the sheer quality of the French poetic tradition
or the dynamic modernity of Weimar culture, the interaction through
translation of non-dictatorial culture with the fascist other maintains the
essential superiority of the former. Indeed, perhaps it is precisely the task
of the cultural historian to insist on such stark distinctions. All the same,
translation offers fascinating empirical material for those seeking to blur
the hard boundaries which are so often drawn around the culture of
such regimes. To return to our starting point in this chapter, the perme-
able boundaries of the GDR – both spatial, through the artificial national
boundary with West Germany, and chronological, through the mytholo-
gized new beginning of 1945 – functioned as two of the most significant
constraints on the exercise of power by the ruling socialist regime.
However, this is not a phenomenon restricted to the GDR context. The

chapters in this volume demonstrate clearly that the questioning of
these boundaries is an immensely productive comparative category for
the study of culture and dictatorship. The study of translation cannot
help but reveal the intrinsic permeability of the national, linguistic and
cultural borders across which it flows. In this way, translation holds a
particular attraction from the methodological standpoint which I have
adopted in this chapter. As an object of enquiry, translation problema-
tizes the conventional boundaries of dictatorship. Studied through the
lens of translation, the ‘closed’ societies of dictatorship become, if not
exactly open, then at least intriguingly porous.
Bibliography
Abellán, Manuel L. (1980) Censura y creación literaria en España (1939–1976),

Barcelona, Península.
Abret, Helga (1993) Albert Langen: Ein europäischer Verleger, Munich, Langen Müller.
Aguilar Fernández, Paloma, and Carsten Humlebaek (2002) ‘Collective Memory
and National Identity in the Spanish Democracy: The Legacies of Francoism
and the Civil War’, History & Memory 14, nos 1–2: 121–64.
Ahé, Karl-Rainer von der (1982) Rezeption schwedischer Literatur in Deutschland,
1933–1945, Hattingen, Verlag Dr Bernd Kretschmer.
Aigner, Dietrich (1971) Die Indizierung ‘schädlichen und unerwünschten Schrifttums’
im Dritten Reich, Frankfurt/Main, Buchhändler-Vereinigung.
Albonetti, Piero (1994) Non c’è tutto nei romanzi. Leggere romanzi stranieri in una
casa editrice degli anni ’30, Milan, Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori.
Alvaro, Corrado (1995) Scritti dispersi. 1921–1956, Milan, Bompiani.
Andrae, Friedrich (ed.) (1970) Volksbücherei und Nationalsozialismus. Materialien
zur Theorie und Politik des öffentlichen Büchereiwesens in Deutschland 1933–1945,
Wiesbaden, Otto Harrasowitz.
Angioletti, Giovanni Battista (1932) ‘Folle e scenari berlinesi’, L’Italia letteraria, IV,
7 February 1932.
António, Lauro (2001) [1978] Cinema e Censura em Portugal 1926–1974, Lisbon,
Biblioteca Museu República e Resistência.
Antunes, José Freire (1991) Kennedy e Salazar: O Leão e a Raposa, Lisbon, Difusão
Cultural.
Ávila, Alejandro (1997) La censura del doblaje cinematográfico en España, Barcelona,
CIMS.
Azevedo, Cândido de (1997) Mutiladas e proibidas: para a história da censura
literária em Portugal nos tempos do Estado Novo, Lisbon, Caminho.
Azevedo, Cândido de (1999) A Censura de Salazar e Marcelo Caetano, Lisbon,
Caminho.
Baker, Mona, and Gabriela Saldanha (eds) (2009) [1998] Encyclopedia of Transla-
tion Studies, 2nd edn, London, Routledge.
Ballester Casado, Ana (2001) Traducción y nacionalismo: La recepción del cine
americano en España a través del doblaje (1928–1948), Granada, Comares.
Bandín Fuertes, Elena (2005) ‘La recepción de Volpone en la España franquista:
Traducción, versión y adaptación para la escena española’ in Raquel Merino
Álvarez, J. M. Santamaría, and E. Pajares (eds) Trasvases Culturales: Literatura, Cine y
Traducción 4, Vitoria, Servicio Editorial de la Universidad del País Vasco: 27–38.
——— (2007) Traducción, recepción y censura de teatro clásico inglés en la España de
Franco. Estudio descriptivo-comparativo del corpus TRACEtci (1939–1985), Ph.D.
thesis, English summary, Universidad de León.
Barbèra, Piero (1918) ‘Rinascenza bibliografica’, in Il Marzocco, 21 April.
Barbian, Jan-Pieter (1992) ‘“Kulturwerte im Zeitkampf”: Die Kulturabkommen
des “Dritten Reiches” als Instrumente nationalsozialistischer Außenpolitik’,
Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 72, no. 2: 415–59.
252
Bibliography 253
——— (1995a) Literaturpolitik im ‘Dritten Reich’. Institutionen, Kompetenzen,

Betätigungsfelder (rev. edn), Munich, Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag.
——— (1995b) ‘Literary Policy in the Third Reich’ in Glenn R. Cuomo (ed.)
National Socialist Cultural Policy, New York, St Martin’s Press: 155–96.
Bark, Joachim, and Dietger Pforte (eds) (1969) Die deutschsprachige Anthologie,
vol. 2: Studien zu ihrer Geschichte und Wirkungsform, Frankfurt/Main,
Klostermann.
——— (eds) (1970) Die deutschsprachige Anthologie, vol. 1: Ein Beitrag zu ihrer
Theorie und eine Auswahlbibliographie des Zeitraums 1800–1950, Frankfurt/Main,
Klostermann.
Bartuschek, Helmut (1957) Der Gallische Hahn: Französische Gedichte von der
Zeit der Troubadours bis in unsere Tage. In deutscher Nachdichtung von Helmut
Bartuschek, Berlin, Aufbau-Verlag.
Bavaj, Riccardo (2003) Die Ambivalenz der Moderne im Nationalsozialismus: Eine
Bilanz der Forschung, Munich, Oldenbourg.
Behiels, Lieve (2006) ‘La recepción de Sartre en España: el caso de La nausée’,
Espéculo. Revista de estudios literarios (www.ucm.es/info/especulo/numero32/
sartrees.html).
Benco, Silvio (1929) ‘Ludwig Renn: La guerra’, Pegaso I, no. 5.
Ben-Ghiat, Ruth (2000) La cultura fascista, Bologna, Il Mulino.
——— (2001) Fascist Modernities: Italy, 1922–1945, Berkeley, University of
California Press.
Benjamin, Walter (1966) L’opera d’arte nell’epoca della sua riproducibilità tecnica,
translated by Enrico Filippini, Turin, Einaudi.
Berendsohn, Walter A. (1946) Die humanistische Front. Einführung in die deutsche
Emigranten-Literatur. Vol. I: Von 1933 bis zum Kriegsausbruch 1939, Zurich,
Europa Verlag.
Berglund, Gisela (1980) Der Kampf um den Leser im Dritten Reich, Worms, Georg
Heintz.
Berman, Russell (1983) ‘Literarische Öffentlichkeit’ in Alexander von Bormann
and Horst Glaser (eds) Weimarer Republik – Drittes Reich: Avantgardismus,
Parteilichkeit, Exil. 1918–1945, Reinbek bei Hamburg, Rowohlt: 51–60.
Bessel, Richard, and Ralph Jessen (1996) Die Grenzen der Diktatur: Staat und
Gesellschaft in der DDR, Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Bihl, Liselotte, and Karl Epting (1987) Bibliographie französischer Übersetzungen
aus dem Deutschen 1487–1944. Bibliographie de traductions françaises d’auteurs
de langue allemande, edited by the Universitätsbibliothek Tübingen with Kurt
Wais, 2 vols, Tübingen, Niemeyer.
Billiani, Francesca (2007a) Culture nazionali e narrazioni straniere: Italia
1903–1943, Florence, Le Lettere.
——— (ed.) (2007b) Modes of Censorship and Translation, Manchester, St Jerome.
Black, Gregory D. (1998) The Catholic Crusade Against the Movies, 1940–1975,
Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
Blinkhorn, Martin (ed.) (1990) Fascists and Conservatives: The Radical Right and the
Establishment in Twentieth-Century Europe, London, Unwin Hyman.
Blüher, Karl Alfred, and Jürgen Schmidt-Radefeldt (eds) (1992) Paul Valéry 1 –
Dichtung und Prosa, Frankfurt/Main, Insel.
Bobbio, Norberto (2000) ‘Introduzione’ in Scritti, Leone Ginzburg, ed. Domenico
Zucàro, Turin, Einaudi: xlvii–lxvi.
254 Bibliography
Bödeker, Birgit (1997) ‘Weltliteratur im Dritten Reich: Zur Rezeption nicht-

deutschsprachiger Literatur 1933–1945’ in Birgit Bödeker and Helga Essmann
(eds) Weltliteratur in deutschen Versanthologien des 20. Jahrhunderts, Berlin,
Schmidt: 297–313.
Bödeker, Birgit, and Helga Essmann (eds) (1997) Weltliteratur in deutschen
Versanthologien des 20. Jahrhunderts, Berlin, Schmidt.
Bollenbeck, Georg (1999) Tradition, Avantgarde, Reaktion: Deutsche Kontroversen
um die kulturelle Moderne 1880–1945, Frankfurt/Main, S. Fischer.
Bollmus, Reinhard (1970) Das Amt Rosenberg und seine Gegner: Studien zum
Machtkampf im nationalsozialistischen Herrschaftssystem, Stuttgart, Deutsche
Verlags-Anstalt.
Bonsaver, Guido (2003) ‘Fascist Censorship on Literature and the Case of Elio
Vittorini’, Modern Italy 8, no. 2: 165–86.
——— (2007) Censorship and Literature in Fascist Italy, Toronto, University of
Toronto Press.
Borrás, Tomás, (1942) ‘Movimiento teatral’, Cuadernos de Literatura Contemporánea,
nos 3–4: 167–73.
Bourdieu, Pierre (1972) Esquisse d’une théorie de la pratique, Geneva, Droz.
——— (1993) The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature, edited
by Randal Johnson, Cambridge, Polity Press.
——— (1996) The Rules of Art: The Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field, trans-
lated by Susan Emanuel, Cambridge, Polity Press.
Bühler, Hans-Eugen (2002) Der Frontbuchhandel 1939–1945: Organisationen,
Kompetenzen, Verlage, Bücher: Eine Dokumentation, Frankfurt/Main, Buchhändler-
Vereinigung.
Burrin, Philippe (1995) La France à l’heure allemande 1940–1944, Paris, Seuil.
Cannistraro, Philip V. (1975) La fabbrica del consenso: Fascismo e mass media, Bari,
Laterza.
Carbajosa, Mónica, and Pablo Carbajosa (2003) La corte literaria de José Antonio.
La primera generación cultural de la Falange, Barcelona, Crítica.
Carvalho, Alberto Arons de (1999) A Censura à Imprensa na Época Marcelista,
Coimbra, Minerva.
Casanova, Julián (2005) La Iglesia de Franco, Barcelona, Crítica.
Casanova, Pascale (2010) ‘Consecration and Accumulation of Literary Capital:
Translation as Unequal Exchange’, translated by Siobhan Brownlie, in Mona
Baker (ed.) Critical Readings in Translation Studies, London, Routledge: 287–304.
Casini, Gherardo (1938) ‘Bonifica della cultura in Italia’, Giornale della libreria
51, no. 8, 19 February: 57–9 and Giornale della libreria 51, no. 9, 26 February:
65–8.
Castellani, Emilio (1964) ‘Was und wie wir lasen …’ in Lavinia Jollos-Mazzucchetti
(ed.) Die andere Achse. Italienische Resistenza und geistiges Deutschland, Hamburg,
Claassen: 25–39.
Catalogo storico Arnoldo Mondadori editore (1912–1994) (1995) Milan, Fondazione
Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori.
Cesari, Severino (1991) Colloquio con Giulio Einaudi, Rome, Theoria.
CILEH (Centro de Investigaciones Literarias Españolas e Hispano-americanas)
(1990) Quién es Quién en el teatro y el cine español e hispanoamericano, Barcelona,
CILEH.
Bibliography 255
Cisquella, Georgina, José Luis Erviti, and José A. Sorolla (2000) [1977] La represión
cultural en el franquismo. Diez años de censura de libros durante la Ley de Prensa
(1966–1976), Barcelona, Anagrama.
Coelho, Rui Pina (2008) ‘Shakespeare Surveilled by Salazar: Anatomy of a Story
of Censorship’ in Teresa Seruya and Maria Lin Moniz (eds) Translation and
Censorship in Different Times and Landscapes, Newcastle, Cambridge Scholars
Press: 47–60.
Comissão do Livro Negro sobre o Regime Fascista (1981) Livros Proibidos no
Regime Fascista, Lisbon, Presidência do Conselho de Ministros.
——— (1982) Proibição da Time no regime fascista, Lisbon: Comissão do Livro
Negro Sobre o Regime Fascista.
Conrady, Karl Otto (1991) Das große deutsche Gedichtbuch von 1500 bis zur
Gegenwart, Munich, Artemis & Winkler.
Coppola, Goffredo (1942) ‘Guerra di religione’, Il Popolo d’Italia, 15 January
1942.
Costa Pinto, António (1991) ‘The Literary Aspirations of Portuguese Fascism’, in
Stein U. Larsen and B. Sandberg (eds) Fascism and European Literature. Fachismus
und europäische Literatur, Berne, Peter Lang: 238–53.
——— (1992) O Salazarismo e o Fascismo Europeu: Problemas de Interpretação nas
Ciências Sociais, Lisbon, Editorial Estampa.
——— (1994) Os Camisas Azuis: Ideologia, Elites e Movimentos Fascistas em Portugal
1914–1945, Lisbon, Editorial Estampa.
——— (1995) Salazar’s Dictatorship and European Fascism: The Problems of
Interpretation, Boulder, Columbia University Press.
Costa Pinto, António, Roger Eatwell, and Stein Ugelvik Larsen (eds) (1995)
Charisma and Fascism in Interwar Europe, London, Routledge.
Craig, Ian (1998) ‘Translation and the Authoritarian Regime: William and the
Caudillo’ in Peter Bush and Kirsten Malmkjær (eds) Rimbaud’s Rainbow: Literary
Translation in Higher Education, Amsterdam, John Benjamins: 157–70.
Croce, Benedetto (1948) Storia d’Europa nel secolo decimonono, Bari, Laterza.
Cuomo, Glenn R. (ed.) (1995) National Socialist Cultural Policy, New York,
St Martin’s Press.
D’Ina, Gabriella, and Giuseppe Zaccaria (eds) (1988) Caro Bompiani: Lettere con
l’editore, Milan, Bompiani.
d’Orsi, Angelo (2000) La cultura a Torino tra le due guerre, Turin, Einaudi.
Dahm, Volker (1993) Das jüdische Buch im Dritten Reich (rev. edn). Munich,
C. H. Beck.
Danan, Martine (1991) ‘Dubbing as an Expression of Nationalism’, Meta 36,
no. 4: 606–14.
——— (1994) From Nationalism to Globalization: France’s Challenges to Hollywood’s
Hegemony, Ph.D. thesis, Michigan Technological University.
David, Michel (1989) ‘Gian Dàuli scrittore vicentino?’ in Gian Dàuli, editore,
traduttore, critico, romanziere, Milan, Libri Scheiwiller: 9–76.
De Begnac, Yvon (1990) Taccuini mussoliniani, Bologna, Il Mulino.
De Donato, Gigliola, and Vanna Gazzola Stacchini (1991) I bestseller del ventennio:
Il regime e il libro di massa, Rome, Editori Riuniti.
De Felice, Renzo (1974) Mussolini il Duce. I. Gli anni del consenso 1929–1936,
Turin, Einaudi.
256 Bibliography
——— (1993) [1961] Storia degli ebrei italiani sotto il fascismo, (rev. edn), Turin,
Einaudi.
De Geest, Dirk (1992) ‘The Notion of “System”: Its Theoretical Importance and
its Methodological Implications for a Functionalist Translation Theory’ in
Harald Kittel (ed.) Geschichte, System, Literarische Übersetzung/Histories, Systems,
Literary Translations, Berlin, Erich Schmidt: 32–45.
De Grand, Alexander J. (1999) L’Italia fascista e la Germania nazista, Bologna, Il
Mulino.
De Luna, Giovanni (1996) ‘Una cospirazione alla luce del sole’ in Nicola
Tranfaglia (ed.) L’itinerario di Leone Ginzburg, Turin, Bollati Boringhieri:
12–39.
Decleva, Enrico (1993) Arnoldo Mondadori, Turin, UTET.
Delabastita, Dirk, and Lieven D’hulst (eds) (1993) European Shakespeares.
Translating Shakespeare in the Romantic Age, Amsterdam, John Benjamins.
Deutsche Nationalbibliographie, Ergänzung I. Verzeichnis der Schriften, die 1933–1945
nicht angezeigt werden durften (1949) Leipzig, Verlag des Börsenvereins der
Deutschen Buchhändler.
Díaz, Carlos (1983) ‘Los españoles y Sartre: crónica de un retraso’, Arbor 114,
April 1983: 452–62.
Diez Puertas, Emeterio (2002) El montaje del franquismo: la política. cinematográfica
de las fuerzas sublevadas, Barcelona, Laertes.
Divisão de Edições, Assembleia da República (2005) Livros Proibidos no Estado
Novo, Lisbon, Assembleia da República.
Eckermann, Johann Peter (1955) Goethes Gespräche mit Eckermann in den letzten
Jahren seines Lebens, Berlin, Aufbau-Verlag.
Eco, Umberto (1995) ‘Ur-Fascism’, The New York Review of Books 42, no. 11:
12–15.
Einaudi, Giulio (1988) Frammenti di memoria, Milan, Rizzoli.
——— (1998) Lezione Magistrale, Discorso tenuto da Giulio Einaudi il 14 ottobre
1998 all’Università degli Studi di Torino, in occasione del conferimento della laurea
honoris causa in Lettere, Turin, Einaudi.
——— (2001) Tutti i nostri mercoledì – interviste di Paolo Di Stefano, Bellinzona,
Casagrande.
Eliot, Simon, and Jonathan Rose (2009) A Companion to the History of the Book,
Oxford, Blackwell.
Ellwood, Sheelagh (1984) Prietas las filas: Historia de Falange Española, 1933–1983,
Barcelona, Crítica.
Englert, Uwe (2001) Magus und Rechenmeister: Henrik Ibsens Werk auf den deutschen
Bühnen des Dritten Reiches, Tübingen, A. Francke.
Essmann, Helga, and Udo Schöning (eds) (1996) Weltliteratur in deutschen
Versanthologien des 19. Jahrhunderts, Berlin, Schmidt.
Evans, G. Blakemore (1986) ‘Two Notes on Hamlet’, The Modern Language Review
81: 34–6.
Even-Zohar, Itamar (ed.) (1990) Polysystem Studies, Special issue of Poetics Today 11,
no. 1.
Fabre, Giorgio (1998) L’elenco: Censura fascista, editoria e autori ebrei, Turin,
Zamorani.
——— (2007) ‘Fascism, Censorship and Translation’ in Francesca Billiani (ed.)
Modes of Censorship and Translation, Manchester, St Jerome: 27–59.
Bibliography 257
Fadda, Sebastiana (1998) O teatro do absurdo em Portugal, Lisbon, Edições

Cosmos.
Faria, Almeida (1966) ‘Morte e vida Severina’, Seara Nova, no. 1449, July: 213.
Faria, Margarida Lima de, and Ana Margarida Campos (2007) ‘Contextos sociais
de edição e de leitura da colecção Livros RTP – Verbo. Percursos de livros e de
leitores, 1970–2005’, in Teresa Seruya (ed.) Estudos de Tradução em Portugal.
Colecção Livros RTP – Biblioteca Básica Verbo – II, Lisbon, Universidade Católica
Editora: 9–30.
Faucci, Riccardo (1987) Luigi Einaudi, Turin, UTET.
Fernández López, Marisa (2000) ‘Comportamientos censores en literatura infantil
y juvenil: Traducciones del inglés en la España franquista’ in Rosa Rabadán
Álvarez (ed.) Traducción y censura inglés-español: 1939–1985: Estudio preliminar,
León, Universidad de León: 227–53.
——— (2007) ‘Comportamientos censores en la literatura infantil y juvenil tra-
ducida del inglés en la época franquista: Establecimiento de un corpus textual’
in Raquel Merino Álvarez (ed.) Traducción y censura en España (1939–1985):
Estudios sobre corpus TRACE: cine, narrativa, teatro, Bilbao: Universidad del País
Vasco (UPV/EHU)/Universidad de León, 19–48.
Ferrara, Patrizia (1992) L’amministrazione centrale pubblica dall’Unità alla Repubblica.
Le strutture e i dirigenti. V. Il Ministero della cultura popolare, Bologna, Il Mulino.
Figueiredo, Antonio de (2001) ‘Portugal’, in Derek Jones (ed.) Censorship: A World
Encyclopedia, London, Fitzroy Dearborn: 1912–19.
Forgacs, David (1990) Italian Culture in the Industrial Era, 1880–1980: Cultural
Identities, Politics and the Public, Manchester, Manchester University Press.
——— (1992) L’industrializzazione della cultura italiana (1880–1990), Bologna, Il
Mulino.
Foucault, Michel (1981) ‘The Order of Discourse’, translated by Ian McLeod, in
Robert J. C. Young (ed.) Untying the Text: A Post-Structuralist Reader, London,
Routledge & Kegan Paul: 48–78.
——— (1982) Discipline and Punish, translated by Alan Sheridan, London, Penguin.
Frabotta, Maria Adelaide (1988) Gobetti: L’editore giovane, Bologna, Il Mulino.
Franco, Graça (1993), A Censura à Imprensa (1820–1974) Lisbon, Imprensa
Nacional-Casa da Moeda.
Fromm, Hans (1950–1957) Bibliographie deutscher Übersetzungen aus dem
Französischen: 1700–1948, Baden-Baden, Verlag für Kunst und Wissen, 7 vols.
Fulbrook, Mary (1996) ‘Methodologische Überlegungen zu einer
Gesellschaftsgeschichte der DDR’ in Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen (eds) Die
Grenzen der Diktatur: Staat und Gesellschaft in der DDR, Göttingen, Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht: 274–97.
Galfré, Monica (2005) Il regime degli editori: Libri, scuola, fascismo, Bologna, Il
Mulino.
Gallagher, Tom (1990) ‘Conservatism, Dictatorship and Fascism in Portugal’
in Martin Blinkhorn (ed.) Fascists and Conservatives. The Radical Right and the
Establishment in Twentieth-Century Europe, London, Unwin Hyman: 157–75.
Galt Crowell, Steven (1999) ‘Phenomenology and the Question of Being:
Heidegger’ in Simon Glendinning (ed.) Edinburgh Encyclopaedia of Continental
Philosophy, Edinburgh University Press: 283–95.
Garnier, Christine (1952) Férias com Salazar, Lisbon, Parceria António Maria
Pereira.
258 Bibliography
Geyer-Ryan, Helga (1978) ‘Trivialliteratur und Literaturpolitik im Dritten Reich’,

Sprache im technischen Zeitalter 67: 267–77.
——— (1987) ‘Wunschkontrolle – Kontrollwünsche. Die Gleichschaltung der
Populärliteratur im Dritten Reich’ in Jörg Thunecke (ed.) Leid der Worte.
Panorama des literarischen Nationalsozialismus, Bonn, Bouvier: 177–206.
Gilman, Sander (ed.) (1971) NS-Literaturtheorie: Eine Dokumentation, Frankfurt/
Main, Athenäum.
Ginzburg, Natalia (1963) Lessico famigliare, Turin, Einaudi.
——— (1988) ‘Memoria contro memoria’, Paragone no. 462, August 1988: 3–9.
Giocondi, Michele (1978) Lettori in camicia nera: Narrativa di successo nell’Italia
fascista, Messina and Florence, D’Anna.
Giulio Einaudi editore (1983) Cinquant’anni di un editore: Le edizioni Einaudi negli
anni 1933–1983, Turin, Einaudi.
——— (2003) Le edizioni Einaudi negli anni 1933–2003, Turin, Einaudi.
Giusti, Lucia (2000) ‘Aspetti e ricezione della letteratura tedesca moderna in Italia
negli anni Venti-Trenta’ in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) Editori
e lettori. La produzione editoriale in Italia nella prima metà del Novecento, Milan,
Franco Angeli: 226–59.
Goldmann, Wilhelm (1962) Wilhelm Goldmann Verlag 1922–1962, Munich,
Goldmann.
Gomes, Joaquim Cardoso (2006) Os Militares e a Censura. A Censura à Imprensa na
Ditadura Militar e Estado Novo (1926–1945), Lisbon, Livros Horizonte.
Gómez Castro, Cristina (2009) Translation and Censorship of English-Spanish
Narrative Texts in Francoist Spain and the Transition Years towards Democracy:
TRACEni (1970–1978) (English summary), Ph.D. thesis, Universidad de Léon.
González Ballesteros, Teodoro (1981) Aspectos jurídicos de la censura cinematográ-
fica en España, Madrid, Editorial de la Universidad Complutense.
Gracia, Jordi (1996) Estado y cultura: El despertar de una conciencia crítica bajo el
franquismo (1940–1962), Toulouse, Presses Universitaires du Mirail.
——— (2004) La resistencia silenciosa: Fascismo y cultura en España, Barcelona,
Anagrama.
Gramsci, Antonio (1975) Quaderni dal carcere, edited by V. Gerratana, Turin,
Einaudi.
Griffagnini, Giovanna, and Leonardo Quaresima (eds) (1978) Cultura e cinema
nella Repubblica di Weimar, Venice, Marsilio.
Griffin, Roger (1991) The Nature of Fascism, London, Pinter.
Grössel, Hanns (1997) ‘Nordische Hintergedanken – Nordische Aftergedanken.
Die dänische Literatur und das Dritte Reich’, Text & Kontext 20, no. 1: 58–95.
Gutiérrez Lanza, Camino (1997) ‘Spanish Film Translation: Ideology, Censorship
and the Supremacy of the National Language’ in Marian B. Labrum (ed.)
The Changing Scene in World Languages. Issues and Challenges, Amsterdam,
Benjamins: 35–45.
——— (1999) Traducción y censura de textos cinematográficos en la España de Franco:
doblaje y subtitulado inglés-español (1951–1975), Ph.D. thesis, Universidad de
León.
——— (2000) ‘Proteccionismo y censura durante la etapa franquista: Cine nacio-
nal, cine traducido y control estatal’ in Rosa Rabadán Álvarez (ed.) Traducción
y censura inglés-español: 1939–1985. Estudio preliminar, León, Universidad de
León: 23–60.
Bibliography 259
——— (2002) ‘Spanish Film Translation and Cultural Patronage: The Filtering
and Manipulation of Imported Material during Franco’s Dictatorship’ in Maria
Tymoczko and Edwin Gentzler (eds) Translation and Power, Amherst, University
of Massachusetts Press: 141–59.
Hale, Oron J. (1964) The Captive Press in the Third Reich, Princeton, Princeton
University Press.
Hall, Murray G. (1994) Der Paul Zsolnay Verlag. Von der Gründung bis zur Rückkehr
aus dem Exil, Tübingen, Niemeyer.
Hall, Murray G., and Herbert Ohrlinger (1999) Der Paul Zsolnay Verlag 1924–1999:
Dokumente und Zeugnisse, Vienna, Paul Zsolnay.
Haug, Gerhart (1944) Verlaine. Die Geschichte des Armen Lelian: Leben, Dichtung,
Bekenntnisse, Briefe, Basel, Benno Schwabe.
Hausenstein, Wilhelm (1950) Das trunkene Schiff und andere französische Gedichte
von Chénier bis Mallarmé. Deutsch von Wilhelm Hausenstein, Freiburg, Karl Alber.
Hausmann, Frank-Rutger (2002) ‘Auch im Krieg schweigen die Musen nicht’: Die
Deutschen Wissenschaftlichen Institute im Zweiten Weltkrieg, 2nd edn, Göttingen,
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
——— (2004) ‘Dichte, Dichter, tage nicht!’ Die Europäische Schriftsteller-Vereinigung
in Weimar 1941–1948, Frankfurt/Main, Vittorio Klostermann.
——— (2007) ‘Deutsche Geisteswissenschaft’ im Zweiten Weltkrieg. Die ‘Aktion
Ritterbusch’ (1940–1945), 3rd, rev. edn, Heidelberg, Synchron.
——— (2008) L.-F. Céline et Karl Epting: Édition établie par Irina Istratova, Brussels,
Édition Le Bulletin célinien.
——— (2009) ‘Französisch-deutsche und deutsch-französische Gedichtanthol-
ogien (1943–1945) und ihre Rezeption in Frankreich und Deutschland. Mit
einem Anhang ungedruckter Briefe’ in Roswitha Böhm, Stephanie Bung, and
Andrea Grewe (eds) Observatoire de l’extrême contemporain. Studien zur franzö-
sischsprachigen Gegenwartsliteratur, Tübingen, Gunter Narr: 191–212.
Henriques, Mendo Castro and Gonçalo de Sampaio e Mello (eds) (2007) Salazar.
Pensamento e Doutrina Política, Lisbon, Verbo.
Hermans, Theo (1997) ‘Translation as Institution’, in Mary Snell-Hornby, Zuzana
Jettmarová and Klaus Kaindl (eds) Translation as Intercultural Communication.
Selected Papers from the EST Congress Prague 1995, Amsterdam, Benjamins: 3–20.
Hitler, Adolf (1933) My Battle, abridged and translated by E. T. S. Dugdale, Boston
and New York, Houghton Mifflin (Mein Kampf, 1925).
Hoenselaars, Ton (ed.) (2004) Shakespeare’s History Plays: Performance, Translation
and Adaptation in Britain and Abroad, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
Hopster, Norbert, Petra Josting and Joachim Neuhaus (1994) Literaturlenkung
im ‘Dritten Reich’. Band 2. Eine annotierte Bibliographie von Bibliographien,
Hildesheim, Olms.
Hurtley, Jacqueline (2007) ‘Tailoring the Tale: Inquisitorial Discourses, and
Resistence, in the Early Franco Period (1940–1950)’ in Francesca Billiani (ed.)
Modes of Censorship and Translation, Manchester, St Jerome: 61–92.
Index Translationum, published by International Institute of Intellectual
Cooperation of the League of Nations 1932–40, and by UNESCO from 1948
to the present day.
Johnson, David (2007) ‘Translation, Performance and the New Historicism’ in
Maria João Brilhante and Manuela Carvalho (eds) Teatro e Tradução: Palcos de
Encontro, Lisbon, Campo das Letras: 9–30.
260 Bibliography
Kallis, Aristotle A. (2000) ‘The “Regime-Model” of Fascism: A Typology’, European

History Quarterly 30, no. 1: 77–104.
——— (2003) ‘“Fascism”, “Para-Fascism” and “Fascistization”: On the Similarities
of Three Conceptual Categories’, European History Quarterly 33, no. 2: 219–49.
Kamenetsky, Christa (1984) Children’s Literature in Hitler’s Germany: The Cultural
Policy of National Socialism, Athens, Ohio University Press.
Kast, Raimund (1991) ‘Das deutsche Leihbuchhandel und seine Organisation im
20. Jahrhundert’, Archiv für Geschichte des Buchwesens 36: 165–349.
Kästner, Herbert (ed.) (1987) 75 Jahre Insel-Bücherei, 1912–1987, Leipzig, Insel.
Kennedy, Dennis (2005) ‘Shakespeare: Histories and Nations’, European Review
13, no. 3: 319–26.
Kershaw, Ian (1993) The Nazi Dictatorship: Problems and Perspectives of Interpre-
tation, 3rd edn, London, Edward Arnold.
——— (1997) ‘“Working towards the Führer”: Reflections on the Nature of the
Hitler Dictatorship’, in Ian Kershaw and Moshe Lewin (eds) Stalinism and
Nazism: Dictatorships in Comparison, Cambridge, CUP: 88–106.
Ketelsen, Uwe-K. (1992) Literatur und Drittes Reich, Schernfeld, SH-Verlag.
Kocka, Jürgen (1995) Vereinigungskrise: Zur Geschichte der Gegenwart, Göttingen,
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Kohlmayer, Rainer (1996) Oscar Wilde in Deutschland und Österreich, Tübingen,
Niemeyer.
Korpel, Luc (1993) ‘The Discourse on Translation in the Netherlands
(1750–1800)’, in José Lambert and André Lefevere (eds) La Traduction dans
le Développement des Littératures / Translation in the Development of Literatures,
Berne, Peter Lang: 115–25.
Kosch, Wilhelm (ed.) (1993) Deutsches Literatur-Lexikon: Deutsches biographisch-
bibliographisches Handbuch, 3rd edn, vol. 15, Berne, Saur.
Kracauer, Siegfried (1947) From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the
German Film, Princeton, Princeton University Press.
Krolow, Karl (1982) Deutsche Gedichte, Frankfurt/Main, Insel, 2 vols.
Kuhk, Angela, Udo Schöning, and Stefan Schulze (eds) (2002) Anthologien mit
französischen Dichtungen, Stuttgart, Hiersemann.
Kujamäki, Pekka (2001) ‘Finnish Comet in German Skies: Translation,
Retranslation and Norms’, Target 13, no. 1: 45–70.
Lambert, José (1980) ‘Production, traduction et importation: Une clef pour la
description de la littérature et de la littérature en traduction’, Canadian Review
of Comparative Literature / Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée 7, 246–52.
Lang, Renée (1960) Rilke, Gide e Valéry nel carteggio inedito, Florence, Sansoni.
Langenbucher, Hellmuth (ed.) (1938) Die Welt des Buches. Eine Kunde vom Buch. Mit
einem Geleitwort von Hanns Johst, Ebenhausen, Wilhelm Langewiesche-Brandt.
Lasne, René, and Georg Rabuse (eds) (1943) Anthologie de la poésie allemande des
origines à nos jours, Paris, Stock.
Lauf-Immesberger, Karin (1987) Literatur, Schule und Nationalsozialismus. Zum
Lektürekanon der höheren Schule im Dritten Reich, St Ingberg, Röhrig.
Lázaro, Alberto (2001) ‘James Joyce’s Encounters with Spanish Censorship,
1939–1966’, Joyce Studies Annual 12: 38–54.
——— (2004) ‘Las novelas de D. H. Lawrence ante la censura española’ in José M.
Barrio and Pilar Abad (eds) Estudios de Literatura en Lengua Inglesa de los Siglos
XX y XXI, no. 7: 23–36.
Bibliography 261
——— (2005a) ‘H. G. Wells and the Discourse of Censorship in Franco’s Spain’ in
Patrick Parrinder and J. S. Partington (eds) The Reception of H. G. Wells in Europe,
London, Thoemmes Continuum: 236–52.
——— (2005b) ‘The Censorship of Orwell’s Essays in Spain’ in Susana Onega
and Annette Gomis (eds) George Orwell: A Centenary Celebration, Heidelberg,
Universitätsverlag: 121–41.
——— (2006) ‘The Reception of George Moore in Spain: Silence, Censorhsip
and Distortion in Spain’ in Mary Pierse (ed.) George Moore: Artistic Visions and
Literary Worlds, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press: 64–74.
Lefevere, André (1985) ‘Why Waste Our Time on Rewrites?’ in Theo Hermans
(ed.) The Manipulation of Literature: Studies in Literary Translation, Beckenham,
Croom Helm: 215–43.
——— (1992) Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame,
London, Routledge.
Levi, Mario Attilio (1936) ‘Il sindacato e i problemi del libro’, Autori e scrittori I,
no. 5, September: 5–7.
Lindenberger, Thomas (1996) ‘Alltagsgeschichte und ihr möglicher Beitrag zu
einer Gesellschaftgeschichte der DDR’ in Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen
(eds) Die Grenzen der Diktatur: Staat und Gesellschaft in der DDR, Göttingen,
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: 298–325.
Loehlin, James N. (2004) ‘Brecht and the Rediscovery of Henry VI’ in Ton Hoenselaars
(ed.) Shakespeare’s History Plays: Performance, Translation and Adaptation in Britain
and Abroad, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 133–50.
Loewe, Siegfried (2002) ‘Georg Rabuse: Vom Deutschen Institut an das Institut für
Romanische Philologie’ in Robert Tanzmeister (ed.) Zeichen des Widerspruchs:
Kritische Beiträge zur Geschichte des Wiener Instituts für Romanistik, Vienna,
Institut für Sozio-Semiotische Studien: 135–53.
Lopes, Alexandra, and Maria do Carmo Oliveira (eds) (2002) Deste Lado do Espelho.
Estudos de Tradução em Portugal, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora.
Lourenço, Eduardo (1994) [1982] ‘A ficção dos anos 40’ in O Canto do Signo.
Existência e Literatura (1957–1993), Lisbon, Presença: 284–91.
Manacorda, Giuliano (1980) Storia della letteratura italiana tra le due guerre.
1919–1943, Rome, Editori Riuniti.
Mangoni, Luisa (1999) Pensare i libri: La casa editrice Einaudi dagli anni trenta agli
anni sessanta, Turin, Bollati Boringhieri.
Martins, Armando (1951) O teatro moderno, Porto, Livraria Simões Lopes.
Mayer, Paul (1967) Ernst Rowohlt, Reinbek bei Hamburg, Rowohlt.
Mazzucchetti, Lavinia (1964) ‘Geschmuggelte Freundschaften’ in Lavinia Jollos-
Mazzucchetti (ed.) Die andere Achse. Italienische Resistenza und geistiges
Deutschland, Hamburg, Claassen: 7–24.
——— (1966) ‘Primo ingresso dell’espressionismo letterario in Italia’ in Lavinia
Mazzucchetti (ed.) Cronache e saggi, Milan, Il Saggiatore: 307–17.
Melo, Daniel (2004) A Leitura Pública no Portugal Contemporâneo 1926–1987,
Lisbon, Imprensa de Ciências Sociais.
Merino Álvarez, Raquel (1994) Traducción, tradicíon y manipulación: teatro inglés en
España 1950–1990, León: Universidad de León.
——— (2001) ‘Traducción, adaptación y censura de productos dramáticos’ in
F. Chaume and Rosa Agost (eds) La traducción en los medios audiovisuales,
Castelló, Universitat Jaume I: 231–8.
262 Bibliography
——— (2005) ‘From Catalogue to Corpus in DTS: Translations Censored under

Franco. The TRACE Project’, Revista canaria de estudios ingleses 51, 85–104.
——— (2007) Traducción y censura en España (1939–1985). Estudios sobre corpus
TRACE: cine, narrativa, teatro, Bilbao, Universidad del País Vasco (UPV/EHU)/
Universidad de León.
Merino Álvarez, Raquel, and Rosa Rabadán Álvarez (2002) ‘Censored Translations
in Franco’s Spain: The TRACE Project – Theatre and Fiction (English-Spanish)’,
TTR: traduction, terminologie, rédaction 15, no. 2: 125–52.
Michels, Eckard (1993) Das Deutsche Institut in Paris 1940–1944. Ein Beitrag zu
den deutsch-französischen Kulturbeziehungen und zur auswärtigen Kulturpolitik des
Dritten Reiches, Stuttgart, Steiner.
Mondadori, Arnoldo (1934) ‘Nota dell’editore’ in Almanacco della ‘Medusa’,
Milan, Mondadori.
Monelli, Paolo (1927) Io e i Tedeschi, Milan, Treves.
——— (1929) ‘Prefazione’ in Guerra, Ludwig Renn, translated by Paolo Monelli,
Milan, Treves.
Monterde, José Enrique (1997) ‘El cine de la autarquía (1939–1950)’/‘Continuismo
y disidencia (1951–1962)’ in Román Gubern, José Enrique Monterde, Julio
Pérez Perucha, Esteve Riambau and Casimiro Torreiro (eds) Historia del cine
español, Madrid, Cátedra: 181–293.
Murialdi, Paolo (1986) La stampa del regime fascista, 2nd, rev. edn, Rome–Bari, Laterza.
Ní Chuilleanáin, Eiléan, Cormac Ó Cuilleanáin and David Parris (eds) (2009)
Translation and Censorship: Patterns of Communication and Interference, Dublin,
Four Courts Press.
Naess, Harald (1980) ‘Der Fall Hamsun’ in Reinhold Grimm and Jost Hermand
(eds) Faschismus und Avantgarde, Königstein, Athenäum: 66–82.
Nogueira Pinto, Jaime (2007) ‘Prefácio à 2ª Edição’ in Mendo Castro Henriques
and Gonçalo de Sampaio e Mello (eds) Salazar. Pensamento e Doutrina Política,
Lisbon, Verbo, i–xvii.
Nolte, Ernst (1963) Der Faschismus in seiner Epoche, 5th edn, Munich, Piper.
Nusser, Peter (1992) Der Kriminalroman, 2nd, rev. edn, Stuttgart, Metzler.
Nutz, Walter (1983) ‘Massenliteratur’ in Alexander von Bormann and Horst
Glaser (eds) Weimarer Republik – Drittes Reich: Avantgardismus, Parteilichkeit, Exil.
1918–1945, Reinbek bei Hamburg, Rowohlt: 200–11.
Ó, Jorge Ramos do (1996) ‘Secretariado de Propaganda Nacional (SPN)/
Secretariado Nacional da Informação, Cultura Popular e Turismo (SNI)/
Secretaria de Estado da Informação e Turismo (SEIT)’ in Fernando Rosas and
J. M. Brandão de Brito (eds) Dicionário de História do Estado Novo, vol. II, Lisbon,
Círculo de Leitores: 893–6.
——— (1999) Os Anos de Ferro. O Dispositivo Cultural durante a ‘Política do Espírito’
1933–1949, Lisbon, Editorial Estampa.
Paccagnini, Ermanno (1997) ‘Il giornalismo dal 1860 al 1960’ in Giuseppe
Farinelli (ed.) Storia del giornalismo italiano. Dalle origini ai giorni nostri, Turin,
UTET Libreria: 163–310.
Paetel, Karl (1974) ‘Das deutsche Buch in der Verbannung’ in Heinz Ludwig
Arnold (ed.) Deutsche Literatur im Exil 1933–1945. Dokumente und Materialien,
Frankfurt/Main, Athenäum: 56–60.
Parker, Stephen, Peter Davies, and Matthew Philpotts (2004) The Modern
Restoration: Re-Thinking German Literary History 1930–1960, Berlin, de Gruyter.
Bibliography 263
Passerini, Luisa, and Nerina Milletti (eds) (2007) Fuori della norma, Turin,
Rosenberg & Sellier.
Pavese, Cesare (1966) Lettere 1924–1944, edited by Lorenzo Mondo, Turin,
Einaudi.
Paxton, Robert O. (2004) The Anatomy of Fascism, London, Penguin.
Payne, Stanley G. (1985) [1961] Falange: Historia del fascismo español, Madrid,
Ruedo Ibérico.
——— (1995) A History of Fascism 1914–1945, Madison, University of Wisconsin
Press.
——— (1997) Franco y José Antonio: El extraño caso del fascismo español, Barcelona,
Planeta.
——— (1999) Fascism in Spain, 1923–1977, Madison, University of Wisconsin Press.
Pedullà, Gianfranco (1997) ‘Gli anni del fascismo: imprenditoria privata e inter-
vento statale’ in Gabriele Turi (ed.) Storia dell’editoria nell’Italia contemporanea,
Florence, Giunti.
Pegenaute, Luis (1996) ‘Traducción, censura y propaganda: Herramientas de
manipulación de la opinión pública’, Livius: Revista de Estudios de Traducción
8: 175–83.
——— (1999) ‘Censoring Translation and Translation as Censorship: Spain under
Franco’ in Jeroen Vandaele (ed.) Translation and the (Re)Location of Meaning,
Leuven, CETRA: 83–96.
Penzold, Ernst (ed.) (1946) Gedicht und Geschrift: Lyrik der Gegenwart in
Handschriften, Krefeld, Scherpe.
Pereira, Arnaldo (1967) ‘O Preço do Livro é Problema de Venda?’ ( Jornal de
Notícias, 17/8/1967), Livros de Portugal 107/1967: 13–19.
Pérez López de Heredia, María (2004) Traducciones censuradas de teatro norteameri-
cano en la España de Franco (1939–1963), Bilbao, UPV/EHU.
Pérez, Janet (1989) ‘Fascist Models and Literary Subversion: Two Fictional Modes
in Postwar Spain’, South Central Review 6, no. 2, 73–87.
Petersen, Jens (1973) Hitler-Mussolini: Die Entstehung der Achse Berlin-Rom.
1933–1936, Tübingen, Niemeyer.
——— (1988) ‘Vorspiel zu “Stahlpakt” und Kriegsallianz: Das deutsch-italienische
Kulturabkommen vom 23. November 1938’, Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte
36, no. 1: 41–77.
Philpotts, Matthew (2003) The Margins of Dictatorship: Forms of Assent and Dissent
in the Life and Work of Bertolt Brecht and Günter Eich, Oxford, Peter Lang.
Piazza, Giuseppe (1929) ‘Il mondo di Remarque’, La Stampa, 11 May 1929.
Pimentel, Irene Flunser (2007) A História da PIDE, Lisbon, Círculo de Leitores,
Temas & Debates.
Pinho, Jorge Almeida e (2006) O Escritor Invisível. A Tradução Tal Como é Vista
pelos Tradutores Portugueses, Matosinhos, Quidnovi.
Pörnbacher, Karl (ed.) (1981) Die Literatur im 20. Jahrhundert, Munich,
Süddeutscher Verlag.
Porto, Carlos (1973) Em Busca do Teatro Perdido, vol. 1, Lisbon, Plátano.
Preston, Paul (1998) Franco: Caudillo de España, translated by Teresa Camprodón
and Diana Falcón, Barcelona, Grijalbo Mondadori (Franco. A Biography,
London, HarperCollins 1993).
Prezzolini, Giuseppe (1928) ‘Il problema delle traduzioni’, Il Marzocco, 10 July
1928: 2.
264 Bibliography
Rabadán Álvarez, Rosa (2000a) ‘Prólogo’ in Rosa Rabadán Álvarez (ed.) Traducción
y censura inglés-español: 1939–1985. Estudio preliminar, León, Universidad de
León: 9–11.
——— (2000b) ‘Modelos importados, modelos adaptados: pseudotraducciones
de narrativa popular inglés-español 1955–1981’ in Rosa Rabadán Álvarez
(ed.) Traducción y censura inglés-español: 1939–1985. Estudio preliminar, León,
Universidad de León: 255–77.
Ragone, Giovanni (1989) ‘Editoria, letteratura e comunicazione’ in Alberto Asor
Rosa (ed.) Letteratura italiana: Storia e geografia, vol. III, L’età contemporanea,
Turin, Einaudi: 1047–61.
——— (1999) Un secolo di libri: Storia dell’editoria in Italia dall’Unità al post-mod-
erno, Turin, Einaudi.
Raimondi, Giuseppe (1930) ‘Ernst Glaeser: Classe 1902’, Solaria V, nos 5–6.
Rasche, Dr Friedrich (ed.) (1947) Die goldene Brücke: Nachdichtungen ausländischer
Lyrik, Hanover, Adolf Sponholtz.
Rebello, Luiz Francisco (1971) O Jogo dos Homens: ensaios, crónicas e críticas de
teatro, Lisbon, Ática: 101–6.
——— (1977) ‘O combate contra a Censura’ in Combate por um teatro de combate,
Lisbon, Seara Nova: 25–40.
——— (2000) [1968] Breve História do Teatro Português, 5th edn, Mem Martins,
Publicações Europa-América.
Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda (ed.) (1942) Verzeichnis
englischer und nordamerikanischer Schriftsteller, Leipzig, Börsenverein der
Deutschen Buchhändler.
Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda, Abteilung Schrifttum
(ed.) (1943) Liste der für Jugendliche und Büchereien ungeeigneten Druckschriften,
2nd, cumulative edition, Leipzig, Börsenverein der Deutschen Buchhändler.
Reichsschrifttumskammer (1979) [1938–41] Liste des schädlichen und unerwün-
schten Schrifttums 1938–1941, facsimile reprint, Vaduz/Liechtenstein, Topos.
Reinelt, Janelle (2006) ‘The Limits of Censorship’, Theatre Research International
32, no. 1: 3–15.
Reiners, Ludwig (1955) Der ewige Brunnen: Ein Hausbuch deutscher Dichtung,
Munich, C. H. Beck.
Rexroth, Franz von (1946) Französische Lyrik aus 8 Jahrhunderten. Französisch-
deutsch, Saarbrücken, Saar-Verlag.
Ribeiro, Nelson (2005) A Emissora Nacional nos Primeiros Anos do Estado Novo
1933–1945, Lisbon, Quimera Editores.
Richards, Michael (1998) The Time of Silence: Civil War and the Culture of Repression
in Franco’s Spain, 1936–1945, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
——— (1999) ‘National Movement’ in Eamonn Rodgers (ed.) The Routledge
Encyclopaedia of Contemporary Spanish Culture, London, Routledge: 364–6.
Richmond, Kathleen (2003) Women and Spanish Fascism: The Women’s Section of
the Falange, 1934–1959, London, Routledge.
Rimbaud, Arthur (1947) Illuminationen, translated by Gerhart Haug, Hamburg,
Ellermann.
Robyns, Clem (1994) ‘Translation and Discursive Identity’, Poetics Today 15,
no. 3: 405–28.
Rodgers, Eamonn (1999) ‘Falange’ in Eamonn Rodgers (ed.) The Routledge
Encyclopaedia of Contemporary Spanish Culture, London, Routledge: 173.
Bibliography 265
Rodrigues, A. A. Gonçalves (1999) A Tradução em Portugal, 5 Volume – 1901–1930,

Lisbon, ISLA – Instituto Superior de Línguas e Administração.
Rodrigues, Graça Almeida (1980) Breve História da Censura Literária em Portugal,
Lisbon, ICLP.
Rodríguez Puértolas, Julio (1986) Literatura fascista española, Madrid, Akal.
Rosa, J. A. Peniche (1968) ‘A Tradução Literária e os seus Problemas’ (Diário de
Lisboa, 29/2/1968), Livros de Portugal 113/1968: 17–19.
Rosas, Fernando (1994) O Estado Novo (vol. 7 of História de Portugal, edited by José
Mattoso), Lisbon, Editorial Estampa.
Rosas, Fernando, and Pedro Aires Oliveira (2004) A Transição Falhada:
O Marcelismo e o fim do Estado Novo (1968–1974), Lisbon, Notícias.
Rosendorf, Neal Moses (2006) ‘Be El Caudillo’s Guest: The Franco Regime’s Quest
for Rehabilitation and Dollars after World War II via the Promotion of US
Tourism to Spain’, Diplomatic History 30, no. 3: 367–407.
Ross, Corey (2002) The East German Dictatorship: Problems and Perspectives in the
Interpretation of the GDR, London, Edward Arnold.
Rubino, L. Mario (2002) I mille demoni della modernità: L’immagine della Germania
e la ricezione della narrativa tedesca contemporanea in Italia fra le due guerre,
Palermo, Flaccovio Editore.
Rundle, Christopher (1999) ‘Publishing Translations in Mussolini’s Italy: A Case
Study of Arnoldo Mondadori’, Textus 12, no. 2: 427–42.
——— (2000) ‘The Censorship of Translation in Fascist Italy’, The Translator 6,
no. 1: 67–76.
——— (2004) ‘Resisting Foreign Penetration: The Anti-Translation Campaign in
Italy in the Wake of the Ethiopian War’ in Flavia Brizio-Skov (ed.) Reconstructing
Societies in the Aftermath of War: Memory, Identity and Reconciliation, Boca Raton,
Bordighera Press: 292–307.
——— (2010) Publishing Translations in Fascist Italy, Oxford, Peter Lang.
Salazar, António de Oliveira (1935) Discursos 1928–1935, Coimbra, Coimbra
Editora Limitada.
——— (1937) Discursos e Notas Políticas II 1935–1937, Coimbra, Coimbra Editora
Limitada.
——— (1939) Doctrine and Action, translated by anonymous, London, Faber and
Faber.
——— (1967) Discursos e Notas Políticas VI 1959–1966, Coimbra, Coimbra Editora
Limitada.
Santamaría López, José Miguel (2007) ‘Censura y género “Western” en la época
de Franco: traducciones genuinas y pseudotraducciones’ in Raquel Merino
Álvarez (ed.) Traducción y censura en España (1939–1985): Estudios sobre corpus
TRACE: cine, narrativa, teatro, Bilbao: Universidad del País Vasco (UPV/EHU) /
Universidad de León: 105–52.
Santos, Graça dos (2004) O espectáculo desvirtuado: O teatro português sob o reinado
de Salazar (1933–1968), Lisbon, Caminho.
Santoyo, Julio César (1999) ‘En Torno a Ortega y Gasset: Miseria y Esplendor de
la Reflexión Traductora’ in Julio César Santoyo (ed.) Historia de la Traducción:
Quince Apuntes, Universidad de León: 237–50.
Sapiro, Gisèle (2008) ‘Translation and the Field of Publishing: A Commentary
on Pierre Bourdieu’s “A Conservative Revolution in Publishing”’, Translation
Studies 1, no. 2: 154–66.
266 Bibliography
Sarfatti, Michele (2007) Gli ebrei nell’Italia fascista. Vicende, identità, persecuzione,
Turin, Einaudi.
Sarkowicz, Hans, and Alf Mentzer (2002) Literatur in Nazi-Deutschland: Ein bio-
grafisches Lexikon, 2nd edn, Hamburg, Europa Verlag.
Schaeffer, Jean-Marie (1999) Pourquoi la fiction, Paris, Seuil.
Schäfer, Hans Dieter (1981) Das gespaltene Bewußtsein: Deutsche Kultur und
Lebenswirklichkeit 1933–1945, Munich, Carl Hanser.
——— (1991) ‘Amerikanismus im Dritten Reich’ in Michael Prinz and
Rainer Zitelmann (eds) Nationalsozialismus und Modernisierung, Darmstadt,
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft: 199–215.
Schlösser, Anselm (1937) Die englische Literatur in Deutschland von 1895 bis 1934,
Jena, Verlag der Frommannschen Buchhandlung Walter Biedermann.
Schneider, Georg (1940) Zwanzig Gedichte: Als Handschrift gedruckt, Coburg,
Roßteutscher.
——— (1947) Kleine französische Anthologie, Hamburg, Ellermann (Das Gedicht,
vol. 13).
——— (1955) Chansons: Altfranzösische Liebes- u. Volkslieder, Munich, Langen/
Müller.
——— (1960) Salut Silvester: Deutsche Neujahrsgedichte, Munich, Langen/Müller.
Schnell, Ralf (1976) Literarische innere Emigration: 1933–1945, Stuttgart, Metzler.
Schuldt-Britting, Ingeborg (1999) ‘Sankt-Anna-Platz 10’: Erinnerungen an Georg
Britting und seinen Münchner Freundeskreis, Munich, Buchendorfer.
Sena, Jorge de (1988) Do teatro em Portugal, Lisbon, Edições 70.
——— (ed.) (2001) Estudos de Tradução em Portugal: Novos Contributos para a
História da Literatura Portuguesa, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora.
Seruya, Teresa (2005a) ‘Colecções e bibliotecas entre os anos 40 e os anos 70:
apontamentos para uma história da colecção Livros RTP – VERBO’ in Teresa
Seruya (ed.) Estudos de Tradução em Portugal. Colecção Livros RTP – Biblioteca
Básica Verbo – I, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora: 31–52.
——— (ed.) (2005b) Estudos de Tradução em Portugal, Colecção Livros RTP –
Biblioteca Básica Verbo – I, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora.
——— (2006) ‘Zur Koexistenz von nationaler Kultur und internationaler Literatur
unter dem Estado Novo Salazars’, in Michaela Wolf (ed.) Übersetzen – Translating –
Traduire: Towards a ‘Social Turn’? Berlin, LIT: 317–28.
——— (ed.) (2007) Estudos de Tradução em Portugal, Colecção Livros RTP – Biblioteca
Básica Verbo – II, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora.
——— (2008) ‘Spain “Filtered” through Censorship in Portugal (1934–1940)’,
paper presented at the I International Conference on Censorship and
Translation: Text Reception in Southern Europe, Universidad de León, 15–17
May 2008.
——— (2009) ‘Introdução a uma bibliografia crítica da tradução de literatura
em Portugal durante o Estado Novo’, in Teresa Seruya, Maria Lin Moniz, and
Alexandra Assis Rosa (eds) Traduzir em Portugal durante o Estado Novo, Lisbon,
Universidade Católica Editora: 69–86.
Seruya, Teresa, and Maria Lin Moniz (eds) (2001) Histórias Literárias Comparadas,
Lisbon, Edições Colibri/CLCPB, Universidade Católica Portuguesa.
——— (2008a) ‘Foreign Books in Portugal and the Discourse of Censorship in the
1950s’ in Teresa Seruya and Maria Lin Moniz (eds) Translation and Censorship in
Different Times and Landscapes, Newcastle, Cambridge Scholars Press: 3–20.
Bibliography 267
——— (eds) (2008b) Translation and Censorship in Different Times and Landscapes,
Newcastle, Cambridge Scholars Publishing.
Seruya, Teresa, Maria Lin Moniz, and Alexandra Assis Rosa (2009) Traduzir em
Portugal durante o Estado Novo, Lisbon, Universidade Católica Editora.
Sfondrini, Francesca (1997) Autori e libri inglesi tradotti in Italia nel ventennio
1920–1940: Elio Vittorini traduttore di D. H. Lawrence, unpublished dissertation,
Scuola Superiore delle Lingue Moderne per Interpreti e Traduttori (SSLMIT),
University of Bologna.
Silva, Antunes da (1967) ‘A Crise do Livro’, Livros de Portugal 106/1967:16–18.
Silva, Armando Pereira da (1967) ‘O Aspecto Social da Leitura’, Livros de Portugal
99/1967: 15–16 (first published in Jornal do Fundão 9 October 1966).
Simeoni, Daniel (1998) ‘The Pivotal Status of the Translator’s Habitus’, Target 10,
no. 1: 1–39.
Simões, João Gaspar (1937) ‘Livros da Semana’, Diário de Lisboa 26 August 1937.
Solari, Pietro (1929) ‘Meridiano di Berlino’, L’Italia letteraria I, 28 April 1929.
Soler, Dionisio (1999) A Tradução de Literatura Espanhola em Portugal 1940–1990,
Master’s dissertation, University of Lisbon.
Spagnoletti, Giovanni (1993) Schermi germanici: Ufa 1917–1933, Venice,
Marsilio.
Spieker, Markus (1999) Hollywood unterm Hakenkreuz: Der amerikanische Spielfilm
im Dritten Reich, Trier, Wissenschaftlicher Verlag.
Stark, Gary (1981) Entrepreneurs of Ideology. Neoconservative Publishers in Germany,
1890–1933, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press.
Stieg, Margaret F. (1992) Public Libraries in Nazi Germany, Tuscalosa, University
of Alabama Press.
Stone, Marla Susan (1998) The Patron State: Culture and Politics in Fascist Italy,
Princeton, Princeton University Press.
Strothmann, Dietrich (1963) Nationalsozialistische Literaturpolitik. Ein Beitrag zur
Publizistik im Dritten Reich, rev. edn, Bonn, Bouvier.
Sturge, Kate (2004) ‘The Alien Within’: Translation into German during the Nazi
Regime, Munich, iudicium.
Talbot, George (2007) Censorship in Fascist Italy, 1922–43, Basingstoke, Palgrave
Macmillan.
Telo, António José (1990) Propaganda e Guerra Secreta em Portugal 1939–1945,
Lisbon, perspectivas & realidades.
Tempera, Mariangela (2004) ‘Rent-a-Past: Italian Responses to Shakespeare’s
Histories (1800–1950)’ in Ton Hoenselaars (ed.) Shakespeare’s History Plays:
Performance, Translation and Adaptation in Britain and Abroad, Cambridge,
Cambridge University Press: 115–32.
Tengarrinha, José (2006) Imprensa e Opinião pública em Portugal, Coimbra,
Minerva.
Thunecke, Jörg (1987) ‘NS-Schrifttumspolitik am Beispiel der Vertraulichen
Mitteilungen der Fachschaft Verlag (1935–1945)’ in Jörg Thunecke (ed.)
Leid der Worte: Panorama des literarischen Nationalsozialismus, Bonn, Bouvier:
133–52.
Toury, Gideon (1995) Descriptive Translation Studies and Beyond, Amsterdam, John
Benjamins.
——— (2003) ‘Culture Planning and Translation’, in Susan Petrilli (ed.)
Translation Translation, Amsterdam, Rodopi: 399–412.
268 Bibliography
Tranfaglia, Nicola, and Albertina Vittoria (2000) Storia degli editori italiani:
Dall’Unità alla fine degli anni Sessanta, Rome-Bari, Laterza.
Traverso, Leone (ed.) (1942) Germanica: Raccolta di narratori dalle origini ai nostri
giorni, Milan, Bompiani.
Turi, Gabriele (1990) Casa Einaudi: Libri uomini idee oltre il fascismo, Bologna, Il
Mulino.
Uribarri Zenekorta, Ibon (2005) ‘Traducciones de filosofía alemana. El caso de
la Kritik der reinen Vernunft de Immanuel Kant’ in Nicolás Campos Plaza,
Miguel A. García Peinado, Emilio Ortega Arjonilla and Cécile Vilvandre De
Sousa (eds) El español. Lengua de cultura, lengua de traducción, Granada, Atrio:
365–80.
——— (2007a) ‘Estudio preliminar sobre traducción, filosofia y censura. El caso
de Immanuel Kant’ in Raquel Merino Álvarez (ed.) Traducción y censura en
españa (1939–1985). Estudios sobre corpus TRACE: cine, narrativa, teatro, Lejona,
UPV/EHU and Universidad de León: 151–91.
——— (2007b) ‘Las traducciones de textos filosóficos alemanes’ in Belén Santana,
Silvia Roiss, and Maria Ángeles Recio Salamanca (eds) Puente entre dos mundos:
Ültimas tendencias en la investigación traductológica alemán-español, Ediciones
Universidad Salamanca (DVD).
——— (2007c) ‘Traducción de la filosofía alemana y censura (Kant, Marx,
Nietzsche; Heidegger)’ in Isidro Pliego (ed.) Traducción y manipulación: el poder
de la palabra, Seville, Bienza: 319–54.
Valéry, Paul (1957) Œuvres, edited by Jean Hytier, Paris, Gallimard.
——— (1988) Gedichte: Französisch und deutsch, translated by Rainer Maria Rilke,
Frankfurt/Main, Suhrkamp.
Vandaele, Jeroen (2002) ‘Funny Fictions: Francoist Translation Censorship of
Two Billy Wilder Films’, The Translator 8, no. 2: 267–302.
——— (2006) Estados de Gracia: Trasvases entre la semántica franquista y la poética
de Billy Wilder (1946–1975), Ph.D. thesis, Leuven University.
——— (2007) ‘Take Three. The National-Catholic Versions of Billy Wilder’s
Broadway Adaptations’ in Francesca Billiani (ed.) Modes of Censorship and
Translation, Manchester, St Jerome: 279–310.
Venuti, Lawrence (1995) The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation,
London, Routledge.
——— (1998) The Scandals of Translation, London, Routledge.
Verde, C. (1934) ‘L’editoria e i suoi critici’, Giornale della libreria 47, no. 22,
2 June: 141–2.
Vesper, Will (1935) ‘Unsere Meinung’, Die Neue Literatur, January 1935: 45–6.
Vincenti, Lionello (1929) ‘Classe 1902’, La Stampa, 9 May 1929.
Vittoria, Albertina (1997) ‘“Mettersi al corrente con i tempi”: Letteratura straniera
ed editoria minore’ in Ada Gigli Marchetti and Luisa Finocchi (eds) Stampa e
piccola editoria tra le due guerre, Milan, Franco Angeli: 197–218.
——— (2005) ‘Fascist Censorship and Non-Fascist Literary Circles’ in Guido
Bonsaver and Robert Gordon (eds) Culture, Censorship and the State in Twentieth-
Century Italy, Oxford, Legenda: 54–63.
Vogt-Praclik, Kornelia (1987) Bestseller in der Weimarer Republik 1925–1930,
Herzberg, Verlag Traugott Bautz.
Voigt, Klaus (1989) Zuflucht auf Widerruf: Exil in Italien 1933–1945, vol. I,
Stuttgart, Klett-Cotta.
Bibliography 269
Wahnón, Sultana (1996) ‘The Theatre Aesthetics of the Falange’ in Günter

Berghaus (ed.) Fascism and Theatre: Comparative Studies on the Aesthetics and
Politics of Performance in Europe, 1925–1945, Oxford, Berghahn: 191–208.
Wais, Karin (1967) Studien zu Rilkes Valéry-Übertragungen, Tübingen, Max
Niemeyer.
Wallrath-Janssen, Anne-M. (2007) Der Verlag H. Goverts im Dritten Reich, Munich,
Saur.
Warmuth, Dr Ludwig (ed.) (1938) RSK Taschenbuch für den deutschen Buchhandel
1938, Berlin: Otto Elsner Verlags-Gesellschaft.
Weil, Marianne (ed.) (1986) Wehrwolf und Biene Maja: Der deutsche Bücherschrank
zwischen den Kriegen, Berlin, Ästhetik und Kommunikation.
Witte, Karsten (1976) ‘Die Filmkomödie im Dritten Reich’ in Horst Denkler and
Karl Prümm (eds) Die deutsche Literatur im Dritten Reich, Stuttgart, Reclam:
347–65.
Wolf, Michaela, and Alexandra Fukari (eds) (2007) Constructing a Sociology of
Translation, Amsterdam, John Benjamins.
Index
Note: where a name is followed by (publ.) this indicates a reference to a publishing

house.
Abetz, Otto 202, 204 Antunes, José Freire 142

Action Française 140 Aparicio, Juan 92, 114
adventure fiction 20, 58, 77, 78, Apertura see censorship
110, 124, 127, 128, 139 Apostel, Leo 97
agreements, bilateral cultural 71 Appia, Adolphe 223, 225
Alain-Fournier, Henri 163 Aragon, Louis 135
Albee, Edward 105 Arcádia (publ.) 139
Alfieri, Dino 31–2, 35–7, 182 Arias Salgado, Gabriel 93, 104, 106
Alfonso XIII, King 113 Arrabal, Fernando 107, 226
Alicata, Mario 181, 184–91, 194 Artemis (publ.) 210, 214, 225
Allason, Barbara 168 Astrolabio (publ.) 190
Allert de Lange (publ.) 166 Aubry, Octave 58
Alonso-Pesquera, José María 101 Aufwärts (publ.) 58
Álvarez Turienzo, Father Saturnino 98 autarky
Alvaro, Corrado 24, 154, 174 economic autarky 22–3, 51
Amado, Fernando 225 cultural autarky 8, 26–7, 30–1, 34,
Amado, Jorge 137 247
American literature in translation see also reciprocity
into Portuguese 125, 127, 128, 137 Authors and Writers Union 17, 33,
into German 8, 19, 55, 56, 59, 63, 36, 38, 39
68, 77–8, 151, 158, 160 anti-translation campaign 26–31
into Italian 11, 41, 50, 151, 170, see also Autori e scrittori
181–3, 184, 193–4, 196 Autori e scrittori 27
into Spanish 91, see also theatre Ávila, Norberto 223, 227
translation Axis 71, 167, 187
Amt Schrifttumspflege see censorship in
Germany Balkan literature in translation 150
Anderson, Maxwell 105 Balzac, Honoré de 57, 127, 128
Angelis, Augusto de 72 Barreto, Álvaro Salvação 129
animal stories 57 Barton, John 221
Anouilh, Jean 24 ‘Battle for Wheat’ 47
anthologies 11, 57, 170, 201–2, 204, Baum, Vicki 127, 151, 160, 164,
206–8, 210–2, 214 166
anti-Communism 86, 101 Baumann, Hans 201, 211
anti-Nazi authors 8, 44 n.7, 60, 70, Beauvoir, Simone de 128, 137
72, 101, 164 Becher, Johannes R. 201
Emigranten-Literatur 166, 168 Beckett, Samuel 222, 226
anti-Semitism 5, 7, 9–10, 35–7, 41, Belinsky, Vissarion 187
42, 110, 118, 154, 169, 171 Belo, Ruy 124
see also purges, racial laws Bemporad (publ.) 150, 151, 162
270
Index 271
Benito, Father Eugenio 104 ‘Narratori Stranieri Tradotti’ 180–1

Benjamin, Walter 97, 101, 155 ‘Poeti’ 180
Benoît, Pierre 150 ‘Ricordi e documenti di
Benthall, Michael 227 guerra’ 180
Berdyaev, Nikolai Alexandrovich 187 ‘Rififi’ 138
Bergengruen, Werner 201 ‘Romanzi della Palma’ 32, 39, 162
Berliner Ensemble see Brecht ‘Saggi’ 180–1
Bermann-Fischer (publ.) 166 booksellers 30, 52, 59, 62, 122–123,
Bernanos, George 134, 139 138, 141, 239
Bernhardt, Sarah 224 Boor, Ellen de 74, 76, 83
Berti, Luigi 182, 183, 185, 196, 197, Borchardt, Rudolf 205
199 Borrás, Tomás 109
Besteiro, Julián 95 Börsenblatt für den deutschen
bestsellers see statistics Buchhandel 44
Beumelburg, Werner 166 Börsenverein der Deutschen
Bibliographie de la France 44 Buchhändler 62
Billinger, Richard 169 Botelho, Fernanda 124
Binding, Rudolf 127, 169, 170 Bottai, Giuseppe 34–5, 47–8, 186,
Bissolati, Leonida 180 189, 194–5, 198
Blei, Franz 205 Bourdeilles, Pierre de 189
Blue Shirts, the 140 Bourdieu, Pierre 115, 237–8, 246–7,
Blunck, Hans Friedrich 169 250, 254
Blyton, Enid 110, 128 Boutelleau, Jacques see Jacques
Böhlau, Helene 148, 172 Chardonne
Boiadzhiev G. N. 223 Brand, Max 79
Bollea, Giovanni 190 Brasillach, Robert 71
Bollettino delle pubblicazioni Brazão, Eduardo 224
italiane 44 Brecht, Bertolt 132, 170, 201, 247,
Bompiani (publ.) 10, 41, 158, 164, 316
169–70, 183, 185 Berliner Ensemble 221
Bompiani, Valentino 26, 49, 182, epic theater 220, 221–2, 226
195, 196, 197 in Portugal 221–2, 227
Bonaparte, Napoleon 188–9, 192, Brehm, Bruno 169
198 British Council 71, 219
bonifica see purges Broadway 105–6, 268
Book Corporation (Italy) 24, 44 Brook, Peter 224
Book Division/Division III see Buarque, Chico 222
Ministry for Popular Culture Buck, Pearl S. 63, 127, 128, 163,
book prices 123 175
book series Buckle, Henry Thomas 189
‘Biblioteca Arcádia de Bolso’ 139 Buero Vallejo, Antonio 109
‘Biblioteca Cosmos’ 144 Burchett, Wilfred G. 138
‘Biblioteca di cultura storica’ 180 Bureau International pour la protection des
‘Deutsches für Deutsche’ 65 Oeuvres littéraires et artistiques 44
‘[I] libri gialli’ 20, 23, 32, 39, 49,
161 Cabral, Carlos 228
‘I romanzi della guerra’ 162 Caetano, Marcelo 11, 118–19, 130,
‘L’Universale’ 181, 197 217
‘Medusa’ 162–3, 171, 175, 177 Caldwell, Erskine 127–8, 138
272 Index
Camerino, Aldo 182–3, 185, 188, institutions: Parteiamtliche

196–8 Prüfungskommission 59, 61;
campaigns against translation see Amt Schrifttumspflege 59;
translation Sicherheitsdienst 59; Gestapo
Camus, Albert 96, 128, 133 59; Propaganda Ministry 60, 63,
Cardoso Gomes, Joaquim 142 72, 76, 79, 242; Reich Chamber
Carlists 84 of Writers 51, 60–3, 70, 79–80,
Carnation Revolution 119, 217, 229 82, 169
Carossa, Hans 128, 164, 170, 177, of left-wing authors 56
201 of popular fiction 78–9
Carroll, Lewis 184 permission for translations 61
Carvalho, Bessa de 227 pre-publication versus post-
Casa da Comédia 225 publication 61, 64
Casanova, Pascale 247–9, 254 self-censorship 62
Casini, Gherardo 33, 36, 47, 186, wartime bans 53, 56, 58, 59, 63–4
191, 194, 195, 198, 254 censorship in Italy
Casson, Lewis 219 and reprints 181–2, 188, 189
Castellani, Emilio 152–3, 173, 254 anti-Semitic see purges
Catholic Church 84, 86, 141, 192, criteria 182, 184–90, 193
240 institutions see Ministry for Popular
Catholic opposition 169 Culture
Catholicism 84–5, 92, 101, 113, 118 of classics see classics
Catholicists 90, 92, 96, 100–3, 109, translation quota 37–8, 39–40
113–14, 242 translation restrictions 37–40,
CB Films 103 186–8
Cecchi, Emilio 185 ban against Anglo-American
Céline, Louis Ferdinand 151, 172 literature see Einuadi
Cénico de Direito theatre group 230 ban against Russian literature see
Censoring Commission see censorship Einaudi
in Portugal Mussolini’s involvement 188
censorship 6–7, 238–9 preventive 23, 47 n.37
definitions of 216–17 censorship in Portugal
preventive 7 abolition of 229
quantitative and qualitative criteria 132, 217–8, 228:
research methods 102 anti-colonialism 136; anti-
self-censorship 89, 107, 159, militarism 135; ideological/
183–4, 194, 218, 245 political dissidence 135,
see also purges 218; political neutrality 134;
Censorship Board see censorship in pornography 135–6, 137;
Spain realism 136; morality
censorship in Germany and religion 217, 228;
and adaptation 67–8 sexuality 133–4, 137, 228
and copyright 57, 63 effectiveness of 138–9
and publishing strategy 53, 57 flexibility towards elite 133
and reprints 54–5, 239 history of 217–8
anti-Semitic see purges institutional framework 129
blanket bans 56, 63, 73, 239 institutions: Censoring
failures of 58–9, 78–9 Commission 129–30, 131–8,
indexes/blacklists 60–3, 78 140; Censorship Office 129;
Index 273
Commission for Examining Christian Democracy 141

and Classifying Performances Christian literature 60
219–20, 230; General Inspectorate Ciardo, Manlio 199
of Theatres 217; [National] Ciarlantini, Franco 26, 29, 36
Propaganda Secretariat 120, see also Publishers Federation
130, 217 cinema/film 99–105, 155–157
of books 129 in Germany 7, 74, 152, 174
of Shakespeare 218, 221–3, 228–9 in Italy 41, 172
of translation 131, 138–9 in Portugal 120, 121, 123, 131,
no a priori ban on authors 132 133
Regulamento dos Serviços de in Spain 87, 88, 90, 91–2, 99, 105,
Censura 130 106–7, 115
reports 131–8 see also dubbing, film industry
censorship in Spain Claes, Ernest 61
Apertura 87–8, 103–4, 106, 113 classics 25, 33, 46, 59, 183, 185, 186,
censors 90, 92–3, 97–9, 101, 189, 193, 196, 204, 222
103–4, 106–7, 113 from Scandinavia 65
Cine-clubs 99–100 ‘internal’ translations 40
children’s literature 109–10 recognized ‘classics’ 57, 183
Conversaciones de Salamanca theatre classics 224, 226
conference 100 Cocteau, Jean 209
Falangist and Catholic Coimbra University student company
standards 103, 113 (TEUC) 228
imposition of dubbing 99, 246 Coimbra University theatre group
imposition of Spanish in CITAC 220, 227–8
theatres 105 Cold War 86, 135, 186, 237, 249
institutions: Censorship Board 87, Colette 133, 143, 163
91, 100, 108, 238–9; Comisión de collaboration 35, 129, 193, 202–3,
Censura 100; Delegación Nacional 210
de Cine y Teatro 106; Dirección colonialism 8, 26–7, 41, 95, 132,
General de Propaganda 100, 106; 136
Junta Superior de Censura 100; Italian East Africa 9, 23, 26–7, 147,
Junta Superior de Orientación 166, 182
Cinematográfica 100; Delegación Portuguese Empire 119, 136
Nacional de Propaganda 100, 106, Roman Empire 165, 189, 191–2
110, 114; Subsecretaría de Prensa y comic fiction 57, 103, 105, 216, 224,
Propaganda 90 228, 229
of Hollywood see Hollywood Comisión de Censura see censorship in
periodization of in Francoist Spain
Spain 87–8 Commission for Examining and
Salas Especiales 100 Classifying Performances see
see also Ley de Prensa censorship in Portugal
Censorship Office see censorship in Commission for the Purging of Books
Portugal see Ministry for Popular Culture
Cernuda, Luis 108 Communism 85–7, 96–7, 118,
Chardonne, Jacques 202, 211 132–9, 141, 186, 192, 243
Chessmann, Caryl 139, 144 Communist Manifesto 97
Chesterton, G.K. 149 Companhia Dramática da Sociedade
Chomksy, Noam 97 Theatral 230
274 Index
Companhia Nacional de Teatro 227 cultural renewal 8, 20, 158, 215,

Companhia Rey Colaço-Robles 222, 227
Monteiro 224–5, 227 cultural/racial purity 9, 35–6, 41
Conan Doyle, Arthur 55, 77, 127, currency, foreign 30, 63, 247
241 Customs Services (Portugal) 131
Conde, Enrique 110
Confederation of Professionals and D’Annunzio, Gabriele 148–9, 162,
Artists (Italy) 28, 31, 37 171
Confiscation 60, 138 D’Errico, Ezio 72
Conrad, Joseph 127, 149, 172, 189 da Silva, Agostinho 123–4
conservative revolution 75, 127, Dahl, Roald 110
265 Daily Telegraph, The 119
contamination see translation, Danish literature in translation 58,
metaphors of 163, 171
continuity with pre-fascist Daranas, Mariano 101
traditions 55, 58, 64, 67, 241 Dàuli, Gian 149–50, 161
Coppola, Goffredo 185–6, 198, 255 De Canales, Patricio G. 104, 111,
copyright 28, 57, 63, 73–4, 80, 122 114
Corbaccio see Modernissima (publ.) de Kock, Charles Paul 132
Corbière, Tristan 209 De Vecchi, Cesare 47
Corporation for Paper and Printing Declaración de Principios Fundamentales
(Italy) 44 del Movimiento Nacional 86
Corporation of Professions and Arts degenerate art 170
(Italy) 34 Delegación Nacional de Cine y Teatro
corporativism 12 n.2, 85, 118 see censorship in Spain
Corticelli (publ.) 150, 169 Delegación Nacional de Propaganda
cosmopolitanism 53, 169, 187, 247 see censorship in Spain
Coster, Charles de 65 Departamento Nacional de
Couto Viana, António Manuel 227 Cinematografía 10
Cozzani, Ettore 72 Desbordes-Valmore, Marceline
Craig, Gordon 223, 225 206
Crane, Stephen 187 detective novels see crime fiction
crime fiction 6, 40, 52, 58, 77–9, dictatorship, limits of 118, 235–8
127–8, 241–2 Diederichs (publ.) 54, 57, 65, 75
‘I libri gialli’ see book series Díez de Corral, Luis 92
Critica fascista 34, 47, 49 Dine, S.S. van 161
Croce, Benedetto 26, 155, 195, 255 Dirección General de Propaganda see
Crompton, Richmal 110 censorship in Spain
Cronin, A. J. 68 Döblin, Alfred 151, 160, 170, 172
cross-gendering see sexuality Domínguez de Igoa, Luis F. 101
cultural autarky see autarky Dos Passos, John 61, 128, 134, 136,
cultural exchange 5, 8, 20, 28, 33–5, 160, 163, 172
43, 179, 202, 248, 249 Dramatic Group of the University of
cultural expansion 8, 15, 20, 34–5, St Andrews 230
42–3, 71, 85 Droit d’Auteur 44
cultural policy 3–5, 8, 10, 51–2, 79, Droste-Hülshoff, Annette von 200
87–8, 120, 204, 212, 239, 243 dubbing 99, 102, 105, 245, 246
cultural prestige 9, 15–16, 26, 30, Dutch literature in translation
35, 40, 41, 42 55–6
Index 275
Echarri, Javier de 101 Falange Española (FE) 5, 113–14

Eckart, Dieter 67 falangism 92, 116
economic autarky see autarky Falangist Party 166
Editorial Biblioteca Nueva Falangists 84, 86, 97, 101, 110–112,
(publ.) 111 166
Editorial Vergara (publ.) 112 impact on Spanish censorship 87,
Eher (publ.) 64, 74 90–5, 98–100, 103, 109, 113, 242
Einaudi (publ.) 10, 178–96, 240 Fallada, Hans 128, 160, 163–5, 169,
authorization denied 187–90 241
ban against Anglo-American Faria, Almeida 222
literature 11, 182–5, 193 fascism 3–5, 236–8
ban against Russian literature and aesthetics 101, 110
187–8 and renewal 5, 7–8, 33, 36, 244
Einaudi, Giulio 11, 26, 178–96 and totalitarianism 7, 235–7,
Einaudi, Luigi 26, 179, 180, 195 244–5
Einstein, Albert 133 defined by anti-Communism 86
elites, allowed more freedom 7, 90, expansion 8–9
92, 240–2 gap between rhetoric and
Ellie, Albert 137 reality 113, 240–1
Éluard, Paul 135 in Spain 84–86, 112–13, 244
emigrant literature see anti-Nazi in Portugal 118, 137, 244
authors para-fascism 4, 85, 93, 113, 236
Empresa Vasco Morgado 225–6 semi-fascism 4, 236
English literature in translation 6 ultra-nationalism 237, 244, 249
into German 54, 55–6, 58, 59, 63, Fascist Grand Council 26, 34
73, 77–8, 239, 241 Fascist Party (PNF) 26, 34, 43, 118,
into Italian 149, 150, 151, 163, 196
183, 193 Fast, Howard 113
into Portuguese 123, 127, 128 Faulkner, William 59, 128
into Spanish 105, 108–9 FE de las JONS 85–7
see also Shakespeare Fernández Cuenca, Carlos 103–4,
entertainment 20, 58, 67, 74–5, 77, 106, 115
78, 155, 167, 171, 217, 242 Fernández Cuesta, Raimundo 85
see also escapism Fernandez Flores, Venceslao 171
epidemic see translation, Fernández Flórez, Darío 110–1
metaphors of Fernández López Zúñiga,
Epting, Karl 202–7, 210–2 Guillermo 104
escapism 79, 91, 149 Fernando XIII, King 84
Escorial 110 Ferro, Antonio 120–1, 215, 225
Escuela Oficial de FET y de las JONS 84–7, 92–3
Cinematografia 116 Feuchtwanger, Lion 151, 161, 163–4,
Estado Novo 12, 117–19, 121, 124–5, 166
129–32, 139, 236 Feuerbach, Ludwig 97
Ethiopia, invasion of see colonialism Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 97
European Writers Association 170, Fiera Letteraria, La 23, 44
249 film distribution companies 102–3
expansionism 7–8, 27, 41, 71 film industry 22, 152
expressionism 150, 155, 157, 160, Weimar Republic 155
172 US see Hollywood
276 Index
film industry – continued Garcia Escudero, José Maria 103

Spanish 92–3, 99, 101–3 Garcia Escudero, Pio 101
see also cinema García Morente, Manuel 95
film noir 90, 101 García Viñolas, Augusto Manuel 90,
film translation 99–100, 107 100, 114, 116
First World War 67, 105, 140, 148, García Yebra, Valentín 110
152, 173, 180, 191 Garnier, Christine 122
Flemish literature in translation 57, Gazzetta del Popolo 134
65, 68 Geibel, Emanuel 205
see also Dutch literature General Directorate for the Italian
Fleuron, Svend 58, 71, 73 Press see Ministry for Popular
Fort, Paul 209 Culture
Foucault, Michel 98, 237, 245–6 General Inspectorate of Theatres
Fraga Iribarne, Manuel 104 see censorship in Portugal
Francisco Lage 225–6 George, Stefan 201, 205
Franco, Francisco 3, 8, 84–7, 89, German Democratic Republic
92–3, 96–9, 101–3, 104, 118, 133, (GDR) 142, 213, 235–7, 243–4,
166, 171 248, 250–1
his rule 94, 97, 111, 240 German Institute, Paris 11, 201–7,
Franco-German relations 202–4, 210
210, 249 German literature in translation 8,
Francoism 84, 87–91, 98, 104–6, 18–20, 69–71, 248–9
110, 112–13, 116, 143 into Italian 10, 70, 72, 147–51,
fascist nature of 4, 84–5 157–171, 180–1, 187, 190–3, 241
Frank, Leonhard 151, 161, 164, 170, in occupied areas 11, 201–4, 210,
172 249
Franke (publ.) 65–6 into Portuguese 125–127, 128
Frankh (publ.) 66 into Spanish 90–1, 96–7
Frassinelli (publ.) 164, 169 Gestapo see censorship in Germany
Frege, Gottlob Friedrich Ludwig 190 Gevers, Marie 65
Freitas, Lima de 124 Gibbon, Edward 189
French literature in translation 250 Gide, André 163, 210
into German 6, 55–6, 58, 73, 201, Gil, Rafael 104
204–210 Giménez Caballero, Ernesto 71, 85,
into Italian 148–51, 162–3, 180, 92, 115
184–6, 188–9, 240 Ginzburg, Leone 150, 179–180, 186,
into Portuguese 105, 126–7, 128, 194
133–4, 139, 144 Ginzburg, Natalia 178
into Spanish 105, 226 Giornale della Libreria 30, 43–4, 45,
Frente Popular 84 46, 47, 48, 49
‘Freudism’ 190 Giornale di politica e di letteratura 24
Freya (publ.) 66 Giraudoux, Jean 24
Fundação Nacional para Alegria no Giustizia e Libertà 26
Trabalho 134 Glaeser, Ernst 151, 159, 162
Gleichschaltung 62
Gaeta, Bruno 184, 188, 190, 194 globalization 6
Galsworthy, John 54, 63, 163 Gobetti, Piero 178, 195
Garaudy, Roger 97 Goebbels, Josef 76, 169–71, 203
García del Figar, Father Antonio 101 see also Propaganda Ministry
Index 277
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 52, history plays see Shakespeare

128, 155, 180, 205, 208 Hitler, Adolf 3, 59, 67, 86, 93, 116,
Goldmann (publ.) 54, 58, 78, 81 134, 147, 165, 170, 204, 221, 239,
Goldmann, Lucien 136 245
Gollancz, Victor 114 his regime 235, 237, 243
Gómez Mesa, Luis 103–4, 115 Hoesslin, Franz von 204
Goncharov, Ivan 187 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 170
Goncourt Academy 143 Hölderlin, Friedrich 128, 201
González Ruiz, Nicolás 105–6, 109 Holland, Katrin 166
Gorki, Maxim 61, 133 Hollywood 64, 66, 90–1, 100–1, 104,
Gorkin, Julían 135 106, 108, 241, 144
Govoni, Corrado 31, 33 homosexuality see sexuality
Gramsci, Antonio 97, 175, 180 Hugo, Victor 127, 128, 209
Gray, Ezio Maria 34 Hungarian literature in
Green, A.K. 161 translation 171
Greene, Graham 128, 137 into German 55, 69
Grey, Zane 79, 128 into Italian 151
Grimm, Hans 128, 169, 191 Huxley, Aldous 111, 128, 163
Groussard, Serge 144
Grupo de Teatro Moderno do Clube Ibsen, Henrik 67
Fenianos Portuenses 222 Il Saggiatore 180
Guanda (publ.) 169 Il Bargello 37
Guitart, Enrique 109 Il Torchio 23
Gulbenkian Foundation 121, 219 illiteracy 119, 121, 140
Gulbranssen, Trygve 58, 74–7, 80 Index Translationum see statistics
Gunnarsson, Gunnar 73, 75 Indian National Congress 184
Guthrie, Tyrone 219 industrialization of publishing 6, 16,
22, 26, 192
Hall, Peter 221 Insel (publ.) 65, 213
Hall, Radclyffe 55, 59 Institut français 71
Hamsun, Knut 73, 75 Institute for Cultural Cooperation,
Hardy, Thomas 182–3 Paris 43
Hašek, Jaroslav 97 Instituto de Investigaciones
Haug, Gerhart 205, 207, 212 y Experiencias
Hauptmann, Gerhart 128, 163 Cinematográficas 116
Haushofer, Albrecht 169–70 Instrucciones y Normas para la Censura
Hawthorne, Nathaniel 127, 185 Moral de Espectáculos 106
Hays Code 91, 104, 106, 244 Insula (publ.) 108
Hedin, Sven 61 Integralismo Lusitano 140 n.2
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 97 invasion of translations see
Heidegger, Martin 96 translation, metaphors of
Heine, Heinrich 201 Ionesco, Eugène 226
Hemingway, Ernest 59, 128, 133, Italian Communist Party 186
160 Italian Copyright Agency (SIAE) 28
Heredia, José-Maria 209 Italian literature in translation 8, 16,
Hesse, Hermann 161, 162, 170, 205, 18–20, 27–8, 30, 34, 36–40, 42–3,
206 187, 198, 247
‘Hispanidad’ 95–6 into German 55, 59, 72, 162
historical romance 58–9, 151, 160 into Portuguese 135–6
278 Index
Italian–German relations 72, 165–7 Lagerlöf, Selma 61, 73, 75

Italo-German Association 40 Lain Entralgo, Pedro 110
Lamas, Maria 124
Jahn, Moritz 71 Lang, Fritz 152, 155–6
James, Henry 127, 183, 197 Langen, Albert 73
Janés (publ.) 111 Langen-Müller (publ.) 58, 74, 75
Jato, David 101, 115 Lasker-Schüler Else 201
Johst, Hanns 51, 169 Lasne, René 201, 205, 206–207,
JONS see FE de las JONS and FET y de 210–211, 213
las JONS Laterza (publ.) 26, 179, 187, 195,
Jonson, Ben 109 199
Joyce, James 59, 111, 242 Lauesen, Marcus 163
Jung, Carl Gustav 190 Lautréamont, Compte de (Isidore
Jünger, Ernst 169 Lucien Ducasse) 189
Jünger, Friedrich Georg 201 Lawrence, D. H. 110, 116, 132, 134,
Júnior, Redondo 223 136, 163, 185
Junta Superior de Censura see Lawrence, Marc 115
censorship in Spain Le Figaro 144
Junta Superior de Orientación League of Nations 27, 43, 166
Cinematográfica see censorship in sanctions against Italy 23, 182,
Spain 192
Juntas Castellanas de Acción Leblanc, Maurice 128, 149
Hispánica 85 Lederer, Joe 164, 165
Ledesma, Ramiro 85, 92, 114
Kadri, Yakub 171 Lefebvre, Henri 97
Kafka, Franz 161, 164, 170 Lefevere, André 4, 51, 64
Kant, Immanuel 94–6, 98, 103, 136, Legion of Decency 91–92
170, 240 Lehmann, Rosamond 111
Kästner, Erich 57, 164, 241 Lemos, Pedro 227
Kaus, Gina 164, 166 Lereno, Manuel 229
Kellermann, Bernhard 128, 164 Leroux, Gaston 149
Kerst, Killian 190 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 97
Keun, Irmgard 166 Lewis, Sinclair 64, 151, 160
King, Henry 115 Lewis, Wyndham 64, 68
Kipling, Rudyard 149–50 Ley de Prensa 87, 97
Kivi, Aleksis 73 Liala (Amalia Liana Cambiasi
Kolbenheyer, Erwin Guido 166, 170 Negretti Odescalchi) 22
Kolmar, Gertrud 201 liberal bourgeoisie 85
Kott, Jan 220–3 libraries 51, 61–3, 70, 74, 77–9, 138,
Krause, Christian F. 142, 147, 206, 213, 219, 241
krausismo 91 ‘Libri gialli’ see book series
Kröger, Theodor 169 Linati, Carlo 183, 197
Linklater, Eric 66
La Fayette, Madame de 189 Lisbon Players, The 224
la Rosa, Alfonso de 100 literary series see book series
La Sera 24 Livros de Portugal (LP) 122–24, 144
La Stampa 24, 44, 154, 170 Lloyd Wright, Frank 182
Laclos, Pierre Choderlos de 189 Lo Gatto, Ettore 150
Lacretelle, Jacques de 163 Loehlin, James N. 220–1
Index 279
London, Jack 68, 127–28, 149–50, metropolitan novel

172 (Großstadtroman) 160–1
longsellers 149 Meyenburg, Erwin 225
López Rodó, Laureano 86 Meyerhold, Vsevolod E. 223
see anti-Communism Mezzasoma, Fernando 188, 198
Lorca, Federico Garcia 224 Michaelis, Karin 61
Loriga, Francesco 48–49 Miller, Arthur 105, 107, 108, 128
Luca de Tena, Cayetano 227 Miller, Henry 137
Ludwig, Emil 134 Ministry for National Education
Lumet, Sidney 104, 115 (Portugal)
Lumumba, Patrice 133 Ministry for Popular Culture
(Italy) 31–3, 37–8, 45 n.25
Macieira, Virgílio 225 Book Division/Division III 188
Maeztu, Ramiro de 85, 95–96, 98 Commission for the Purging of
Malaparte, Curzio 135 Books 35–7, 190
Mallarmé, Stéphane 209 General Directorate for the Italian
Malraux, André 134 Press 33
Manifesto of Portuguese theatre Prime Minister’s Press Office 40,
professionals 229 45 n.25, 162
Mann, Heinrich 134, 166, 172 State Under Secretariat for Press and
Mann, Thomas 128, 151, 161, Propaganda 45 n.25
163–4, 170, 172, 200, 241 Ministry for the Press and
Marcelist Spring 130 Propaganda 29, 45 n.25
Mariani, Mario 149, 172 Ministry for Propaganda see
Marín, Astrana 109 censorship in Germany
Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso 27, 31, Ministry for the Press and Propaganda
33, 37, 239 see Ministry for Popular Culture
marketing 77–78 Ministry of Education (Italy) see Bottai
Marlitt, Eugenie 148 miscegenation see translation,
Martín Vara, Pablo 104 metaphors of
Martins, Armando 216 Moberg, Vilhelm 65
Martins, Luzia Maria 221–2, 227 Mocidade Portuguesa 134
Martins, Pedro 227 Modernissima (publ.) 150–1, 164,
Marxism 85–86, 96, 111–2, 120, 130, 172, 173
133, 135–6, 140, 152 modernist literature 57, 59–60, 73,
mass culture 6–7, 22, 77, 85, 101, 105, 239, 244
149, 158 modernization of publishing see
Masters, Lee 184–5 industrialization of publishing
Matos, Ruy de 228 Mondadori (publ.) 20, 40, 158,
Maupassant, Guy de 127, 189 161–4, 169–70, 183, 185, 187,
Mauriac, François 163 241
Maurois, André 163 see also book series
Maurras, Charles 140, 209 Mondadori, Arnoldo 26, 48 n.45,
May, Joe 156 49 n.52, 166, 195, 249
Mazzucchetti, Lavinia 148, 150, 161, minimizes no. of trans. 32, 39
168–9, 171 Monelli, Paolo 153–55, 159, 165
Melville, Herman 182 Montano, Lorenzo 168
Menzel, Herybert 201 Monteiro, Luís Infante de Lacerda
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 97 Sttau 226, 228
280 Index
morality 105, 110–1, 113, 132, 135, Nietzsche, Friedrich 97, 148, 171,
159, 172, 190, 217–18, 228, 244 201, 240
moralism 85, 87 NO-DO News Service 101
Morand, Paul 163 Nogueira, Goulart 227
Morante, Elsa 184, 189 Nordic ideal 67, 69, 73, 75, 77, 150,
Moravia, Alberto 133 175
More, Thomas 189 Norwegian literature in translation
Morgan, Charles 111 into German 52, 59, 67, 69, 73–6
Mourlane Michelena, Pedro 101, into Italian 171
115
Movimiento 86 O Século 142
Müller, A. (publ.) 72, 170 O’Flaherty, Liam 163
Mura (Maria Volpi) 22 O’Neill, Alexandre 124
Murnau, Friedrich Wilhem 156 O’Neill, Eugene 105, 107, 224
Muscetta, Carlo 181, 184, 189, 196 occupied nations 8, 59, 68
Musset, Alfred de 209 France 11, 202
Mussolini, Benito 3, 22, 26, 59, 99, Oggi 196
113, 165, 167, 176, 187–88, 190, Old Norse literature in
195, 200 translation 54, 57, 65, 75
Old Vic 219, 230
National Socialism 5, 51–2, 73, 118, Ortiz Muñoz, Francisco 92, 100
127, 134–5, 137, 165, 167, 169, Orwell, George 97, 111, 240
202, 218, 236, 241, 243–5, 248 Oviedo, Juan Carlos 227
policies of 62, 239 Oxford Playhouse Company 226,
programme of 51, 80 230
National Union (Portugal) 118–19
national-Catholicism 85, 92, 96, Pabst, Georg Wilhelm 152, 156
101, 103, 104, 113 Palitzsch, Peter 221
nationalism 5, 9, 23, 27, 90, 99, 101, Panero, Leopoldo 110
111, 120, 135, 154, 162, 169, 187, paper shortages 53–4, 61, 64, 73,
192, 238 105
cultural nationalism 33 para-fascist see fascism
ultra-nationalism 85, 237, 239, paratexts 66
244, 249 Parteiamtliche Prüfungskommission see
Nazi Party (NSDAP) 78 censorship in Germany
Nehru, Pandit Jawaharlal 184 Partido Obrero de Unificación
Nemésio, Vitorino 124 Marxista (POUM) 111
neo-Nietzschean movement 97 passive resistance 147, 168
neo-realism 120, 136–7 Paulo, Rogério 223
Neothomism 94 Pavese, Cesare 179, 181, 182, 184,
Neruda, Pablo 135 185, 189, 194
Nerval, Gérard de 201, 210 Pavolini, Alessandro 31, 37–40, 182,
Neto, João Cabral de Melo 222 191
Neumann, Alfred 151, 165 racialized view of translation 40–2
New Europe/New European 70, 170, pressured by Mussolini 48 n.49
203, 210 Pedro, António 222, 227
New Shakespeare Company Ltd 219, Pemán, José María 109
227, 230 Pereira, Araújo 215
Niebelschütz, Wolf von 205, 206 permission procedures 54, 61
Index 281
Petersen, Nis 163 Primer Plano 90, 101, 115, 116

philosophy, translation of 26, 40, Primo de Rivera, José Antonio 84,
88, 90, 91, 93–7, 136, 139, 190, 85, 92
240 Primo de Rivera, Miguel 84
Pinter, Harold 226 print runs see statistics
Pinto, Ângela 224 private translations 91
Pirandello, Luigi 162 promotion of translations see
Pitigrilli (Dino Segre) 22, 134, 136, translation
149 Propaganda Ministry see censorship in
Pivano, Fernanda 184, 197 Germany
‘Plan for the People’s Education’ 121 Propaganda Secretariat see censorship
Plato 99, 115 in Portugal
Plinay/Plessey Automática Eléctrica Proust, Marcel 128, 189
Portuguesa amateur theatre provincialization 54, 55, 239,
group 228 248–9
Poe, Edgar Allan 127, 128 pseudonyms 6, 58, 78, 91, 127, 129
Polanski, Roman 115 pseudotranslations 6, 58, 66, 76,
Polledro, Alfredo 150, 161, 187–8 77–8, 91, 93, 127, 241
pollution see translation, metaphors of Publishers and Booksellers
Polverelli, Gaetano 40–1 Corporation (Portugal) 122–3,
Pons de l’Hérault, André 198 239
Popolo d’Italia 185 Publishers Federation (Italy) 17,
popular fiction 224, 241–2 24–6, 28, 35, 40, 192
in Germany 54, 58, 59, 76–7, 79, manipulates statistics 30
81, 241 preemptive purge 36–7
in Italy 6, 16, 20, 22, 25, 27, 32, translation quota 37–8, 39–40
33, 38, 39, 158 under attack 29–32
in Portugal 123, 124, 126 see also Giornale della Libreria
in Spain 91 purges 238
pornography 60, 137, 140, 143 of German literature 52, 56, 61,
Portugality (portugalidade) 120 64, 78
Portuguese Empire see empire of Italian literature 33, 35–7, 42,
Portuguese First Republic (1910–26) 190
118 of Italian educational literature 35
Portuguese police (PSP) 129 see also anti-Semitism, censorship,
Portuguese political police (PIDE/ racial laws
DGS) 118, 129, 131, 136, 140,
228, 239 Quayle, Anthony 219
Portuguese State Television Theatre Querido (publ.) 166
Company 227
Pozzi, Catarina 201 Rabuse, Georg 201, 205–7
Pratolini, Vasco 137 racial laws 9–10, 35, 42, 147, 167,
press, translation in the 93 181, 186, 194
Prezzolini, Giuseppe 23 see also anti-Semitism, purges
Priestley, J. B. 224 Radiguet, Raymond 189
Primato 186, 196 Ramos, Domingos 229
Prime Minister’s Press Office see Ramos, José María 104
Ministry for Popular Culture realism 136, 138, 154, 160, 218,
Primeiro de Janeiro 230 246
282 Index
Rebello, Luis Francisco 218, 222–23, Royal Academy of Italy 190

226–27 Royal Shakespeare Company 221
receptiveness see translation, royalties 63
metaphors of Royer, Charles 134, 5
reciprocity 28, 34, 38,187 Rusca, Luigi 168, 171
Reclam (publ.) 57, 65 Russell, Bertrand 133
recontextualization 64, 65 Russian literature in translation 172,
Redondo, Onésimo 85, 92 240
Régio, José 224 into German 55
regionalism 120 into Italian 148, 151, 180, 184,
Reich Chamber of Writers (RSK) 186, 187–8
see censorship in Germany
Reich, Wilhelm 137, 157 sadism see sexuality
Remarque, Erich Maria 128, 159, Sáenz de Heredia, José Luis 104
162 Sagan, Françoise 128, 133, 138
Rémusat, Madame de 188 Sagan, Leontine 156
Renn, Ludwig 159, 162 Sagarin, Edward 137
repertoires 88–9, 91, 93, 101, 103–5, Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de 136, 163
112–13, 114, 116, 216, 218, Salani (publ.) 169
224–5, 228, 240 Salazar, António de Oliveira 3, 7, 8,
representation of cultures 4, 10, 102, 10, 11, 118–20, 129, 134, 140,
140 191, 215, 217
reprints 53–5, 57, 59, 63, 68, 72, his regime 7, 135
76–7, 164, 181–2, 188–9, 239 his speeches translated 121–2,
Resnevic Signorelli, Olga 187 130, 132
Revista Internacional de Cine 93, 116 Salazarism 4
Rexroth, Franz von 205, 207 Salomon, Ernst von 169
Ribeiro, Aquilino 124 Sánchez Bella, Alfredo 104
Ribeiro, Francisco 225–6 Sánchez Mazas, Rafael 85, 114–15
Rice, Elmer 105 Sánchez Salazar, Leandro A. 135
Ridruejo, Dionisio 100, 105, 110, Sanz del Río, Julián 91
114 Saramago, José 124, 143
Rilke, Rainer Maria 128, 170, 180, Sarfatti, Margherita 22, 48
201, 205, 207–8 Sartre, Jean-Paul 94, 96, 115,
Rimbaud, Arthur 209, 213 127–28, 132, 240
Ring, Barbra 73 Scerbanenco, Giorgio 72
Rivera Pastor, Francisco 94 Schalit, Leon 63
Rizzoli (publ.) 158 Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Josef 97
Robson, Marc 115 Schiller, Friedrich 191
Rocca, Enrico 166, 168 Schneider, Georg 205–10
Rodrigues, Urbano Tavares 124 Schneider, Reinhold 169
Rodríguez-Puértolas Julio 112, 115 schools 35, 38, 61, 65–6, 76, 119–20,
romances 6, 20, 80 144, 148–49, 239
Rosa, António Vítor Ramos 124 Schopenhauer, Arthur 97
Rosenberg, Alfred 59, 68, 73, 76–7 Schröder, Rudolf Alexander 201,
Rossi, Ernesto 185, 224 205
Roth, Joseph 161 Schuré, Édouard 201, 210
Rowohlt (publ.) 57, 59 Schweitzer, Paolo 183, 191
Royal Academy of Belgium 143 Scott Fitzgerald, F. 163
Index 283
Second World War 5, 8, 87, 95, 100, into Portuguese 6, 124, 125–9
130, 133, 182, 193, 220, 265, 224 pseudotranslations 91, 93
Seidel, Ina 169, 201 Spanish Second Republic 84, 86, 95,
self-censorship see censorship 114
semi-fascist see fascism Sperling & Kupfer (publ.) 150, 151,
Sena, Jorge de 124, 226 164, 171
Servien, Pius 208, 209 Stalin, Josef 57, 140, 221
sexual diseases 133 post-stalinism 243, 244
‘sexualism’ see sexuality Stalingrad 210
sexuality 134, 192 State Under Secretariat for Press and
cross-gendering 104 Propaganda see Ministry for
homosexuality 108, 133, 228 Popular Culture
lesbianism 181, 196 statistics
sadism 133 bestsellers 22, 75, 112
‘sexualism’ 137, 246 Germany 53–4, 69–70
Shakespeare Festival Company 227, Index Translationum 6, 25, 142
230 n.18, 166
Shakespeare, William Italy 16–22, 43 n.4, 164, 181
in Portugal 215–29: comedies Portugal 121, 125–9, 139
223; history plays 216, 219–21; Spain 95, 107–10
impact of censorship on Stein, Gertrude 181
staging 218; only eleven plays Stekel, Wilhelm 143
performed 223; quatercentenary Sternberg, Josef von 156
celebrations 226–7; status of Stevenson, Robert Louis 127, 149,
canon 220; tragedies 223 161
Shaw, G.B. 127, 133, 161, 163, 219, Stirner, Max 148, 171
224 Stock (publ.) 201, 202, 212
Sheldon, Edward 107 Stopes, Marie 57
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 219 Storoni Mazzolani, Lidia 185, 189
Sicherheitsdienst see censorship in Strapaese/Stracittà 158
Germany Strehler, Giorgio 221
Sinclair, Upton 160 Streuvels, Stijn 57
Sindicato Español Universitario 99, 115 Strodtmann, Adolf 67
Sindicato Nacional del Espectáculo 109 Subsecretaría de Prensa y Propaganda
Slavia (publ.) 150, 186 see censorship in Spain
social Catholicism 118 Suevos, Jesús 115
Sociedade de Instrução Tavaredense 227 Suhrkamp 211
Solari, Pietro 159, 173 Swedish literature in translation
Sonzogno (publ.) 150, 158 into German 9, 55, 65, 69, 73
Soria, Florentino 106 Swift, Jonathan 183
Soriano, Joaquin 101 Symbolism 204
Sorlot (publ.) 203
Sotelo, Calvo 85, 95 Teatro da Juvénia 215
Soviet Union 43, 142, 157, 187 Teatro da Natureza 215
Spaini, Alberto 190, 191 Teatro de Algibeira (later Teatro de
Spanish Civil War 1936–39 132, 133, Bolso) 225, 255
166 Teatro de Ensaio Raul Brandão 227
Spanish literature in translation Teatro do Ateneu de Coimbra 220
into Italian 183 Teatro do Povo 225
284 Index
Teatro Español 109 as subversion 80, 133, 228, 246

Teatro Español Universitario as threat 6, 8–9, 10, 16–17, 20–3,
(TEU) 103, 106 40–2, 51–3, 78, 219–21, 238–9
Teatro Estúdio de Lisboa 221 as unfair competition 122
Teatro Experimental do Porto campaigns against 22–3, 23–6,
(TEP) 225 26–9, 52–3, 69–70, 77, 238–9
Teatro Livre 215 commercial success of 6, 9, 16,
Teatro Moderno 215, 222 20–2, 38, 42, 54, 73, 76–8, 138,
Teatro Nacional D. Maria II. 224, 149–51, 162–4, 242
225 craze for 52, 66, 76–8, 80
Teatro Nacional Popular 225, 226 deficit, trade balance 16, 18, 69,
Teatro Novo 215 247
Teatros de Cámara y Ensayo 103, 107 from enemy nations 27, 53, 56,
Theatre of Bremen 222 64
Theatre of the Absurd 226 idea of 15, 41
theatre translation in wartime 53, 56, 58, 59, 63–4,
in Spain 105–9 205
in Portugal 222–3 ‘internal’ translations 40
see also Shakespeare of classics see classics
Third Reich see National Socialism promotion of 56, 58, 61, 67–71
Thomas, Adrienne 162 propaganda effect of 8, 18, 40,
Time Magazine 229 42–3, 68–71
Timmermans, Felix 57, 61, 71 quality of 20, 23, 28, 31, 122,
Toller, Ernst 170 123–4, 163, 179, 181, 210, 238,
Tolstoy, Alexandra Andreevna 187 249
Tolstoy, Leo 186, 187 quota see censorship in Italy
Torrente Ballester, Gonzalo 111 reciprocity of see reciprocity
Tosti, Amedeo 188, 190 translation statistics see statistics
totalitarianism 7, 167, 235, 237, translation studies
243–5 and historiography 3
Toulet, Paul-Jean 209, 212, 213 contribution to fascism
tourist brochures, translation of 121 studies 88–9
Tovar, Antonio 110 Polysystem Theory 89, 114 n.8
TRACE (Translation and Censorship Portugal neglected 117
Project) 90 translation, metaphors of
translation as bridge-building 203
as danger for the masses 133 as contamination/pollution 8–10,
as instrument of cultural 35, 40–2, 69, 72
exchange 8, 10, 19–20, 210, as epidemic 122, 238
238, 247–8 as invasion 16, 20, 23–6, 34,
as instrument of cultural 39–40, 158
penetration 8, 35, 49 n.61 as miscegenation 9, 35, 52
as instrument of as penetration 8, 35, 49 n.61
internationalization 121–2 as poison 40–1, 52
as political problem 23–6, 36, as receptiveness 9, 18, 187
38–9, 124 as seduction 52
as safety valve 79, 242 as smuggling 52
as sign of weakness 16, 20, 25, 27, as source of knowledge 30, 56,
30, 40–1 71, 77
Index 285
translators Wagner, Richard 201, 204, 210

competence of 123–4, 181, 194 Wallace, Edgar 54, 58, 77, 78, 79,
contribution of 16, 150, 168, 179, 127, 161, 241
210 Waln, Nora 66
habitus of 102, 107, 246–7 Walschap, Gerard 57
persecution of 62–3 war novels 123, 160, 162
register of see Authors and Writers Wassermann, Jakob 151, 161, 163,
Union 164
Traverso, Leone 170 Weimar Republic
Treves (publ.) 148, 158, 162 bestsellers in 54, 77
TUCA 222 Italian views of 147, 151–5, 157,
160, 241, 248
Ulisseia (publ.) 124 Weinheber, Josef 201
ultra-Catholicism 84, 85, 87, 92, 93, Weiss, Peter 222
101, 102, 114 Wells, H.G. 62, 128
ultra-conservatism 104 Werfel, Franz 151, 164, 165, 170,
ultra-nationalism see nationalism 171
Unión Monárquica Nacional 84, 95 westerns 6, 76, 128
Updike, John 137 Whitehead, Alfred North 190
Wiechert, Ernst 164, 168, 170
Valente, Vasco Pulido 124 Wilde, Oscar 55, 66–7, 127, 241
Valéry, Paul 206, 207–8, 209–10 Wilder, Billy 100–3, 104, 106
Vallardi (publ.) 25, 26, 150 Wilder, Thornton 105, 107, 160
Vallardi, Antonio 25, 46 Williams, Tennessee 104, 105, 106,
Vallecchi (publ.) 26 107
Vercors (Jean Marcel Bruller) 180 Wilson, Pedro 230
Verlaine, Paul 206, 207, 209, 212 Winkler (publ.) 210
Verona, Guido da (Guido Wolfe, Thomas 59
Verona) 22, 149 Wolfskehl, Karl 201
Vesper, Will 70, 168 Woolf, Virginia 81, 111, 163
Vicesecretaría de Educación de FET y de
las JONS 92 xenophilia 31, 34
Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular 106 xenophobia 5, 24, 27, 51, 205
Victor Aúz, Víctor 106
Vidor, Charles 101 ‘Years of Lead’ 134–5
Viebig, Clara 148
viejofalangistas 86 Zacconi, Ermette 224
Vigilanti Cura 90, 106 Zadek, Peter 222
Villares, Father Manuel 101 Zech, Paul 205
Vinciguerra, Mario 189 Zeitromane 160
Vittorini, Elio 41, 134, 136, 170 Zsolnay (publ.) 54, 62, 63, 65, 68,
Volk 9, 52, 62, 69, 72, 80, 83, 203, 206 166
spirit of 53, 59, 95 Zweig, Arnold 162, 163, 166, 175
Voltaire 97, 127, 128, 189 Zweig, Stefan 142, 164, 205, 241

Rundle Sturge Translation Under Fascism

Cargado por

Información del documento

Derechos de autor

Formatos disponibles

Compartir este documento

Compartir o incrustar documentos

Opciones para compartir

¿Le pareció útil este documento?

¿Este contenido es inapropiado?

Copyright:

Formatos disponibles

Rundle Sturge Translation Under Fascism

Cargado por

Copyright:

Formatos disponibles

Translation under Fascism

Also by Kate Sturge

REPRESENTING OTHERS: TRANSLATION, ETHNOGRAPHY AND

List of Figures and Tables vii

Notes on Contributors viii

Part IV Response 233

3.1 Numbers of translated titles by year 53

2.1 Total book production and number of translations

Frank-Rutger Hausmann is the author of a respected study of the Nazi-

Francesca Nottola is currently preparing her Ph.D. dissertation in Italian

Matthew Philpotts is a senior lecturer in German Studies at the

Mario Rubino is Professor of Modern German Literature at the University

Italy. He has edited and translated works by Schönberg, Enzensberger,

Christopher Rundle is a researcher in Translation Studies at the Faculty

Teresa Seruya is full professor in the Department of Germanic Studies at

Kate Sturge, Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at University College,

Jeroen Vandaele, Ph.D. in Romance Languages and Literatures at the

cultural institutions or ideological patterns and practices in the periods

drive towards national and cultural regeneration based on an imagined

The history of publishing is an important component of both cultural

Another historical issue in which research on translation has an important

Renewal and expansion

characteristics of a fascist political programme (regardless of how suc-

remained in self-imposed isolation until the late 1950s. There is no evi-

One very important distinction between the regimes lies in their

regime first started to formulate a specific policy against translation.

by the studies contained in this volume and evaluating the interdis-

If there is one thing that to my mind characterizes the history of

The birth of a translation industry

One of the interesting features of the debate on translation in Italy in

by the Publishers Federation [Federazione nazionale fascista degli editori

Italy France Germany

number of translations published in Italy, France and Germany from

Italy France Germany

*Note: Figures for France are for years 1929–1930 only.

cultural exchange, or even as a form of cultural expansion. In the eyes

All translations Translated narrative literature only

Translation and the ‘culture wars’

available statistics which, as we have seen, showed Italy to be both the

The translation invasion

[T]he list of recently published works is no more than a list of the

whatever subject you may be looking for in a publishing business

Another phenomenon which deserves our attention is that of trans-

art, history, jurisprudence and philosophy, and in didactic literature,

Translations and cultural autarky

All translations by authors from enemy countries should be banned,

with the Publishers Federation, intended to ‘discipline both translations

As the campaign gained momentum these two ideas evolved, over a

[N]ot protectionism then; but nevertheless […] a form of cultural

foreign countries, and leaving it to a specifically competent corporate

Despite the Authors and Writers Union’s insistence, however, the

[Our aim is] to arrive at an exact knowledge of everything that is

When the Publishers Federation met in November 1937 to elect a

that could compete on the international market, rather than trying to

It is possible to achieve a special autarky in the publishing field as

Have [our esteemed adversaries and denigrators] considered that, in the

We think it indispensable for a literary autarky that three quarters

The Union followed this up in February with a second motion which

smodate che abbiamo visto’]. In their reply published in their journal,

1) As of 1 April [1938] only this Ministry is entitled to authorize the

5) No prior approval is required for purely scientific treatises […] or

It is difficult to evaluate the exact significance of this measure. On the

But we do not believe that it would be fruitful to close the borders

It would, however, be wrong to assume that in this debate the publishers