Translation and Paratexts

TRANSLATION AND PARATEXTS
As the ‘thresholds’ through which readers and viewers access texts, paratexts
have already sparked important scholarship in literary theory, digital studies and
media studies. Translation and Paratexts explores the relevance of paratexts for
translation studies and provides a framework for further research.
Writing in three parts, Kathryn Batchelor first offers a critical overview of
recent scholarship, and in the second part introduces three original case studies
to demonstrate the importance of paratextual theory. Batchelor interrogates
English versions of Nietzsche, Chinese editions of Western translation theory,
and examples of subtitled drama in the UK, before concluding with a final part
outlining a theory of paratextuality for translation research, addressing questions
of terminology and methodology.
Translation and Paratexts is essential reading for students and researchers in
translation studies, interpreting studies and literary translation.
Kathryn Batchelor is Associate Professor of Translation and Francophone

Studies at the University of Nottingham, UK. She is the author of Decolonizing
Translation (Routledge, 2009) and has co-edited four volumes of essays, including
Translating Frantz Fanon Across Continents and Languages (Routledge, 2017) and
Intimate Enemies: Translation in Francophone Contexts (Liverpool University Press,
2013).
Translation Theories Explored
Series Editor: Theo Hermans, UCL, UK
Translation Theories Explored is a series designed to engage with the range and
diversity of contemporary translation studies. Translation itself is as vital and as
charged as ever. If anything, it has become more plural, more varied and more com-
plex in today’s world. The study of translation has responded to these challenges
with vigour. In recent decades the field has gained in depth, its scope continues
to expand and it is increasingly interacting with other disciplines. The series sets
out to reflect and foster these developments. It aims to keep track of theoretical
developments, to explore new areas, approaches and issues, and generally to extend
and enrich the intellectual horizon of translation studies. Special attention is paid to
innovative ideas that may not as yet be widely known but deserve wider
currency. Individual volumes explain and assess particular approaches. Each
volume combines an overview of the relevant approach with case studies and
critical reflection, placing its subject in a broad intellectual and historical
context, illustrating the key ideas with examples, summarising the main
debates, accounting for specific methodologies, achievements and blind spots,
and opening up new avenues for the future. Authors are selected not only on their
close familiarity and personal affinity with a particular approach but also on their
capacity for lucid exposition, critical assessment and imaginative thought. The
series is aimed at researchers and graduate students who wish to learn about new
approaches to translation in a comprehen-
sive but accessible way.
Stylistic Approaches to Translation

Jean Boase Beier
Representing Others
Kate Sturge
Cosmopolitanism and Translation

Esperança Bielsa
Translating as a Purposeful Activity 2e

Christiane Nord
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Theories-Explored/book-series/TTE
INTRODUCTION
Paratextuality . . . is first and foremost a treasure trove of questions without

answers.
Gérard Genette, Palimpsests (1997a, 4)
A few months ago, I had the privilege of hearing the Hallé Orchestra perform
Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. Before lifting the baton, the conductor told
the audience about Mussorgsky’s close friendship with Viktor Hartmann, an archi-
tect and artist. Mussorgsky and Hartmann were roughly the same age, and both
were struggling to achieve success in their careers. When Hartmann died, aged
39, his friends organised a posthumous exhibition of his work, and it was this
that Mussorgsky turned into music, writing the piece as a memorial to
Hartmann. The conductor explained that the works on display at the exhibition
were not as we might imagine: most of them were small simple sketches or
drawings rather than the more significant kinds of art works that – knowing
Mussorgsky’s lengthy and masterful music – most listeners assume. With this
at the front of my mind, I heard the final movement in a completely new way:
the majestic return of the promenade theme was no longer simply Mussorgsky
striding through the exhibition, but an exhilarating celebration of his friend’s
life, however unsuccessful a life in other people’s eyes; and the carillon bell of
the Great Gate of Kiev that sounds alongside the promenade became the bell
tolling Hartmann’s death. The meaning of the movement, in other words,
changed for me: it became about celebrating life in grief, and by extension about
living life alongside the knowledge of our own deaths – a memento mori of sorts.
How valid this interpretation of Mussorgsky’s piece might be is not the point that I
want to explore here; rather, I want simply to show that the threshold through
which I entered the piece – the conductor’s introduction – influenced how I
interpreted it.
2 Introduction
When thinking about the final form that this book might take, I was keen for
the front cover to feature Hartmann’s design for Kiev’s Great Gate. My reasons
for this were multiple: the image of the gate indicates something about the topic
of the book, gesturing in particular to the key metaphor of the threshold; the fact
that it is specifically Hartmann’s gate rather than any other lends further texture
to the story told in the previous paragraph; having an image-based cover rather
than a blank or generic one makes the book more attractive (an aesthetic
motivation) and appealing to readers (a commercial motivation). Like the
conductor’s introduction, I was aware that the cover of this book would serve as a
threshold, and I wanted that threshold to serve its various purposes effectively.
If there has long been a basic awareness that we form opinions about texts based
on surrounding or apparently superficial elements, it was not until the
publication of Gérard Genette’s book Seuils [Thresholds] in 1987 that scholars
began to pay sustained attention to them. Genette labels such elements paratexts
and, with great wit and erudition, analyses their importance to literary texts,
anchoring his discussion in French publishing practices. Scholars have
subsequently adapted Genette’s term and theoretical framework to other kinds of
texts, affirming the importance of the concept in allowing us to account more
fully for the way in which texts are both produced and received.
While the notion of the paratext has gained some currency in translation stud-
ies, this book represents the first in-depth attempt to explore Genette’s concept
and its importance for translation studies research. The book is divided into three
parts. Part I introduces Genette’s theory, paying particular attention to the role
accorded to translation within it (Chapter 1), and summarises existing research
into paratexts in translation studies (Chapter 2) as well as in neighbouring dis-
ciplines (Chapter 3). The proliferation of research into paratexts in digital and
media studies is particularly striking, and one of the goals of this book is to bring
it to the attention of translation studies scholars in the hope of stimulating fur-
ther interdisciplinary dialogue. Part II presents three case studies of paratexts in
translation contexts, deliberately selecting genres that are relatively unexplored
in existing translation studies research into paratexts. Chapter 4 thus interrogates
connections between authorised translations and paratextual relevance and
explores the strategies used to claim or contest authorisation in the paratexts of
philosophical translations; Chapter 5 demonstrates the usefulness of paratexts for
interrogating the discourses that surround the importation of scholarly works,
combining this with a meta-reflection on the discipline of translation studies
itself; and Chapter 6 investigates the shift in paratexts around subtitled films in
the UK, drawing on concepts developed in media studies. The final part of the
book draws together the insights gained in Parts I and II in order to propose a
theory of paratextuality for translation studies, addressing questions of terminology
and typologies (Chapter 7) and research topics and methodologies (Chapter 8).
Like all volumes in the Translation Theories Explored series, this book has been
written with both graduate students and researchers in mind. The topic of
paratexts cuts across a wide range of research domains, and many students and
researchers
Introduction 3
may find themselves wanting to devote a relatively small part of their thesis or
research work to a discussion of paratexts, rather than making paratexts the main
focus of the enquiry. In such cases, it is unlikely that they will be able to spend a
year researching and reflecting on relevant scholarship and developments, as I have
had the privilege to do. I hope that the theory outlined in this book will offer
such scholars a framework that is, in a basic sense, usable and useful. To this
end I have proposed definitions and terminology that are underpinned by
sustained critical reflection, and have addressed methodological issues that are
relevant to a range of research topics. At the same time, the book is intended to
serve as an invitation to further discussion, much like Genette’s own work,
which sees itself as ‘an introduction, and exhortation, to the study of the
paratext’ (Genette 1997b, 404). In particular, I hope that scholars working in areas
of translation studies touched upon only briefly in this book will take up Genette’s
exhortation, even if its promise and reach seem less obvious there. These include
the domains of translation process research, news translation, and interpreting.
As the framework continues to be debated and adapted in light of cultural
differences and technological developments in these and other domains, it should
continue to serve as a treasure trove of questions, to the further benefit of our
discipline.
References
Genette, Gérard. 1997a. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa
Newman and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press.
——. 1997b. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Translated by Jane E. Lewin.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
PART I
Genette’s concept of
the paratext and its
development across
disciplines
1
GENETTE’S PARATEXT
Seuils in context
A major figure in the French academic establishment since the 1960s, Gérard
Genette has published almost twenty monographs or collections of essays over
six decades and made key contributions to literary criticism and aesthetics.
While it is difficult to summarise the achievements of such a long and
productive career, it is perhaps helpful – as an introduction to this book, at least
– to think of them as dividing into three broad domains, with three
corresponding points of focus. The first point of focus is the literary text; the
second (and the one with which we will be concerned) is the relation of the
literary text to other texts around it; and the third is the relation between
literature and the arts. The first corresponds roughly to Genette’s first four major
publications (Figures I (1966), Figures II (1969), Figures III (1972), Mimologiques
(1976)),1 in which Genette makes seminal contributions to poetics and narratology.
The second corresponds to the three works that followed (Introduction à l’architexte
(1979), Palimpsestes (1982), Seuils (1987)), in which Genette shifts the focus to
transtextuality, or in other words to ‘everything that brings [the text] into relation
(manifest or hidden) with other texts’ (Genette 1992, 81). The turn towards the
third domain was anticipated to some extent in Fiction et diction (1991) but
established more definitively in the two-volume L’Oeuvre de l’art (1994, 1997a);
in these and subsequent works, notably Figures IV (1999) and Figures V (2000),
Genette broadens out from literature to address questions on the nature of art and
aesthetic response, drawing on a vast range of material that includes music,
television, art and architecture.2
The work which is the focus of our concern, Seuils (1987), thus dates from
the second phase of Genette’s long career and is the third in a trilogy of works
exploring a range of types of textual ‘transcendance’ (Macksey 1997, xviii). In
Palimpsestes, Genette (1982) summarises the types of transcendence as intertextual-
ity, paratextuality, metatextuality, hypertextuality and architextuality, stressing that
these should not be viewed as ‘separate and absolute categories without any
reciprocal contact or overlapping’ (Genette 1997b, 7). He defines
paratextuality as the
8 The concept and its development
relationship that binds the text properly speaking . . . to what can be called
its paratext: a title, a subtitle, intertitles; prefaces, postfaces, notices, fore-
words, etc.; marginal, infrapaginal, terminal notes; epigraphs; illustrations;
blurbs, book covers, dust jackets, and many other kinds of secondary signals,
whether allographic [from a third party] or autographic [from the author].
Genette 1997b, 33
In Seuils, Genette (1997c) carries out an extensive study of the paratext, thus
foregrounding an aspect of literary texts which, as he argues, had hitherto been
‘disregarded or misperceived’ (14).4 Some work on individual paratextual features
did exist, as Genette acknowledges: Claude Duchet, Leo Hoek, Charles Moncelet
and others were working in the domain of ‘titrologie’ (55n1), studying titles of
literary works; Genette also acknowledges Jacques Derrida’s discussion of prefaces
(196n1) and justifies the brevity of the section on epitexts on the basis that ‘critics
and literary historians have long made extensive use of the epitext in commenting
on works’ (346).5 However, it is true to say that, particularly since the emergence
of New Criticism as the dominant paradigm in the early twentieth century,6 the
focus of literary criticism was on close reading of the text rather than
consideration of external factors.7
In Seuils, through the interrogation of myriad examples of texts and their
paratexts, Genette shows that reading of a text never occurs in isolation from the
paratext around it, since a reader never comes to a text, but always to a book;
and the book, furthermore, circulates in a context which also affects its reception.
Genette describes Seuils as a ‘synchronic and not a diachronic study’ (13), in
other words ‘an attempt at the general picture, not a history of the paratext’ (13),
and adopts a general, universalising terminology, speaking of ‘the paratext’,
rather than specifying the focus more precisely. However, his examples, which are
drawn for the most part from the French literary canon, together with his sketches
of developments in uses of particular paratextual elements, do edge his study
towards an ‘essay on the customs and institutions of the Republic of Letters’
(14) at several points, a tendency which he himself acknowledges. Aware of these
limitations, Genette (14–15) himself cautions that Seuils represents neither a
universal theory of the paratext, nor even, as a survey of French literary paratextual
practices, an exhaustive study: ‘what follows is only a wholly inceptive exploration,
at the very provisional service of what – thanks to others – will perhaps come
after’. As Chapter 3 in particular will make clear, Genette’s hope that his research
might prompt further enquiry has been more than fulfilled, giving rise to studies of
paratextual elements in other national literary traditions as well as in relation to other
domains of cultural expression.
Genette’s concept of the paratext
What is the paratext?

When getting to grips with any new theoretical framework, it is as well to start
with the simplest of questions. At first glance, the question ‘what is the
paratext?’
Genette’s paratext 9
would appear to have a straightforward answer. In the opening paragraph of

Seuils, Genette declares: ‘the paratext is what enables a text to become a book
and to be offered as such to its readers and, more generally, to the public’ (1),
something which ‘ensure[s] the text’s presence in the world’ (1). Even in
antiquity, when texts ‘often circulated . . . in the form of manuscripts devoid of
any formula of presentation’ (3), Genette argues that the notion of paratext is
still relevant, since ‘the sole fact of transcription . . . brings to the ideality of the
text some degree of materialization’ (3). The paratext, then, is what turns a text –
defined by Genette as ‘a more or less long sequence of verbal statements that are
more or less endowed with significance’ (1) – into a physical, material thing,
capable of being sold, distributed, read: it is the format of a book and its
binding, as well as the various elements that are placed around the text proper in
the process of turning the text into a book (title page, cover, blurbs etc.). This
emphasis on the physical aspect of the paratext finds expression in the series of
metaphors on which Genette draws to further explain the concept: the paratext is
a ‘threshold’ (2), a ‘vestibule’ (2), an undefined ‘zone’ (2) between the inside
and the outside, an ‘edge’ (2), a ‘fringe’ (2), a ‘privileged place of a pragmatics
and a strategy’ (2). This physical definition is the one most commonly used by
scholars in translation studies, as we will see in the next chapter.
However, at several points in the discussion, Genette evokes the possibility of
the immateriality of the paratext. For example, when setting out his approach to
the study of paratexts, Genette (4) states: ‘A paratextual element, at least if it
consists of a message that has taken on material form, necessarily has a
location’ (bold added; italics in original). In this scenario, Genette suggests that
we can identify something as a paratextual element even if it is invisible, and
indicates that the paratext is not a physical thing, but a ‘message’. That we are to
conceive of the paratext as a ‘message’ rather than a material element is given
further support when Genette describes the proliferation of peripheral elements
(‘the jacket, the band, and the slipcase’ (32)) not as an expansion of the paratext,
but as ‘an expansion – some will say an inflation – of at least the opportunities
(that is, of the possible supports) for a paratext’ (32). The difference between
what Genette might have said and what he does say here is significant, for with
this wording he asserts that the paratext is not the peripheral element itself; such
material elements simply provide opportunities for a paratext – a paratext being,
by implication, something else. With this statement, then, Genette appears to
complicate his earlier assertion that the paratext is ‘what enables a text to
become a book’ (1), for in a hypothetical situation in which the material elements
surrounding a text carried no paratextual message (a situation which Genette’s
description of peripheral elements as mere opportunities for paratexts would
appear to allow), there would be no paratext. It is not clear what the logical
conclusion of this position would be. (Would the text fail to become a book? What
should we call the material thing that we hold between our hands as we read?) In
actual fact, Genette’s careful analysis of the various messages conveyed through
peripheral or ephemeral elements – however minor or innocuous those elements
first appear – means that a hypothetical situation of this kind could never
become a
reality. As Genette confidently asserts, ‘a text without a paratext does not exist
and never has existed’ (3). Still, the question of what exactly a paratext is
remains.
To explore this further, let us consider Genette’s reflections on the substantial
status of the paratext. Genette notes that almost all of the paratexts that he con-
siders are ‘of a textual . . . kind’ (7), but stresses that ‘paratextual value . . . may
be vested in other types of manifestation’ (7), including the ‘purely factual’ (7)
such as the age or sex of the author, the era in which the text was written, or the
genre to which it belongs. Genette (7) explains: ‘By factual I mean the paratext
that consists not of an explicit message . . . but of a fact whose existence alone,
if known to the public, provides some commentary on the text and influences
how the text is received.’ In relation to what he terms ‘contextual affiliation’ (8),
Genette suggests that ‘in principle, every context serves as a paratext’ (8),
whether or not it is ‘brought to the public’s attention by a mention that, itself,
belongs to the textual paratext’ (8). These remarks on the factual paratext
indicate that the definition of a paratext depends not on materiality but on
function: anything that ‘provides some commentary on the text and influences
how the text is received’
(7) is part of the paratext.
The importance of this function-based criterion emerges at several other
points in Genette’s discussion, notably when he is discussing the dividing line
between paratext and text on the one hand, and paratext and external context on
the other. With regard to the first of these divisions, Genette discusses the case of
notes added to the text by the author and clarifies that if the note is connected to a
text ‘that is itself discursive and with which it has a relation of continuity and
formal homo- geneity’ (328), then the note ‘belongs more to the text, which the
note extends, ramifies, modulates rather than comments on’ (328, my emphasis). The
criterion used here for deciding whether notes of this kind belong to the text or the
paratext has nothing to do with their material realisation or physical location;
rather, the criterion is functional, or in other words based on what the note
does. In simple terms, if the note comments on the text, then it is part of the
paratext.
Genette uses the same criterion for the second type of dividing line, i.e. that
between paratext and external context. In his preliminary observations on the
epitext, defined as ‘the distanced elements . . . located outside the book’ (5) and
contrasting with the ‘peritext’, which is physically attached to the text, Genette
states that ‘the epitext – in contrast to the peritext – consists of a group of discourses
whose function is not always basically paratextual (that is, to present and comment on
the text)’ (345, my emphasis). When considering such discourses (which include,
for example, interviews or correspondence with the author), Genette speaks of
them as potentially containing paratextual information, as the following citations
make clear, but not as paratexts in and of themselves: ‘we must look on these
various exercises [authors’ conversations, correspondence, journals] as occasions
capable of furnishing us with paratextual scraps’ (346); ‘the . . . mass of
collected conversations constitutes a mine of paratextual evidence (364);
‘recordings . . . are a mine of paratextual information’ (370); ‘let us not conclude
. . . that the journal in general is paratextually destitute’ (392). The common
point that emerges is that
the paratext is not the element itself (the interview, correspondence, recording,
journal, etc.), but only that small part of the element which serves to present or
comment on the text in question.
If the answer to the question of what a paratext is, then, is functional rather
than material, why does Genette prioritise spatial metaphors and open his book
with a description of the paratext that encourages readers to conceptualise it in
terms of its physical qualities? Furthermore, why does he structure his book
along the same lines, constructing a typology that is based on the various verbal
manifestations of paratext (author attribution, title, dedication, preface, etc.)
rather than in terms of function or message? To attempt to answer these
questions, let us return to Genette’s observations on the epitext, cited above. In
his contrast of epitext and peritext, Genette slips in a crucial point, namely that,
whereas the epitext’s function ‘is not always basically paratextual’ (345), the
peritext’s is. He brings this point into explicit focus in the second half of the
sentence, as the following citation, now given in full, demonstrates:
the epitext – in contrast to the peritext – consists of a group of discourses

whose function is not always basically paratextual (that is, to present and
comment on the text), whereas the more or less unchanging regime of the
peritext is constitutively and exclusively inseparable from its paratextual
function.
345–6
The peritext, then, or in other words those elements which ‘enable a text to
become a book’ (1) and that ‘ensure the text’s presence in the world’ (1), is
always paratextual: it always serves to ‘present and comment on the text’ (345).
Peritext is paratext (but paratext is not just peritext). The inseparability of the
peritext from its paratextual function goes a long way to explaining not only
Genette’s emphasis on the various material manifestations of the paratext but
also the apparent inconsistency in the meaning of the term ‘paratextual’ as
employed in the course of his argument. This adjective collocates with no fewer
than forty- eight different nouns, ranging from ‘element’ (the most frequent
collocation) to one-off collocations including ‘drudgery’ (409), ‘game’ (284)
and ‘jumble’ (64). While many of these collocations fit a function-based
understanding of paratext, others require a material-based definition. When
Genette explains, for example, that his analysis of what he terms the ‘publisher’s
peritext’ (16) will not encroach on the discipline of ‘bibliology’ (16, italics in
original), but will concern itself only with the ‘strictly paratextual value’ (16) of
the relevant elements, it is clear that by ‘paratextual value’ he is referring to the
ability of those elements to carry out a particular set of functions. On the other
hand, when Genette describes the ‘paratextual evolution’ (63) of Marcel Proust’s
A la recherche du temps perdu, outlining the changes in number of volumes and
the prominence given to the overarching title relative to the individual volume
titles, he is speaking primarily of an evolution in the peritexts, or in other
words in the physical properties and presentation
of the text. Of course, such an evolution would also have an influence on the
way in which Proust’s text is read – this is the point of the inseparability of
peritext and paratextual function – but that is not the primary meaning of the
adjective ‘paratextual’ in this context.
In summary, then, and in answer to the question posed at the start of this sec-
tion, we can define Genette’s paratext as follows:
The paratext consists of any element which conveys comment on the

text, or presents the text to readers, or influences how the text is received.
Paratextual elements may or may not be manifested materially; where they
are, that manifestation may be physically attached to the text (peritext) or
may be separate from it (epitext). Any material physically attached to the text
by definition conveys comment on the text, or presents the text to readers,
or influences how a text is received. A peritext is therefore by definition
paratextual. Other elements constitute part of a text’s paratext only insofar as
they achieve one of the functions listed above, i.e. convey comment on the
text, present the text to readers, or influence how a text is received.
The paratext and authorial intention

Of course, with such a function-based definition, our question is still only
partially answered; in order to fully understand what Genette means by paratext,
we now need to address who is doing the presenting, commenting or
influencing. This question is one that Genette includes in the list of features that
a researcher needs to consider when ‘defin[ing] the status of a paratextual
message’:
Defining a paratextual element consists of determining its location . . .; the

date of its appearance and, if need be, its disappearance . . .; its mode of
existence . . .; the characteristics of its situation of communication – its
sender and addressee (from whom? to whom?); and the functions that its mes-
sage aims to fulfil.
4, italics in original
While Genette’s phrasing here would seem to suggest a relatively open answer
to the question of who is doing the commenting, influencing or presenting of a
text, he in fact limits the senders of the paratext to the author or those closely
connected to the author, and even goes so far as to make a connection with
authorial intention one of the defining aspects of the paratext itself. Genette
states, for example, that the paratext is ‘always the conveyor of a commentary
that is authorial or more or less legitimated by the author’ (2), and when he
argues that the paratext is a zone of influence on the public, he states that that
influence is ‘at the service of a better reception for the text and a more
pertinent reading of it (more pertinent, of course, in the eyes of the author and
his allies)’ (2).8 He goes on to declare: ‘to say that we will speak again of this
influence [of the author and his allies on the
public] is an understatement: all the rest of this book is about nothing except its
means, methods, and effects’ (2). According to this statement, studying the paratext
is not about studying material elements around a text; rather, it is the study of the
way in which authors (and their allies) look to shape the reception of their work.
Genette’s insistence on a connection between paratext and authorial intention
can be found throughout the book, and occasionally comes into play as the
deciding factor for determining whether a particular element is to be
considered part of the paratext. The following selection of quotations shows how
crucial the connection with authorial intention is for Genette’s discussion:
many future readers become acquainted with a book thanks to, for
example, an interview with the author (if not a magazine review or a
recommendation by word of mouth, neither of which, according to our
conventions, generally belongs to the paratext, which is characterized by an authorial
intention and assumption of responsibility).
3, my emphasis
the peritext of scholarly editions . . . sometimes contains elements that do

not belong to the paratext in the sense in which I define it. Examples of
such elements would be extracts from allographic reviews.
5n8
By definition, something is not a paratext unless the author or one of his

associates accepts responsibility for it, although the degree of
responsibility may vary.
9
The friendly inscription . . . always calls . . . for . . . a specification . . . For

example, from Zola to Flaubert for L’Assomoir: ‘To my great friend
Gustave Flaubert, in hatred of good taste.’ Obviously and necessarily, these
specifica- tions by motivation . . . include an (authorial) comment on the work
and thereby enter, by right and on an equal footing, the field of the
paratext.
140, my emphasis
I will not dwell on the publisher’s epitext: its basically marketing and ‘pro-
motional’ function does not always involve the responsibility of the author in a very
meaningful way.
347, my emphasis
The most essential of the paratext’s properties . . . is functionality.

Whatever aesthetic intention may come into play as well, the main issue
for the paratext is not to ‘look nice’ around the text but rather to ensure
for the text a destiny consistent with the author’s purpose.
407, my emphasis
In the final pages of his book, Genette presents a brief defence of his insistence
on authorial purpose, arguing that this aspect of his theory is in fact imposed by
the subject matter at hand:
The relevance I accord to the author’s purpose, and therefore to his ‘point
of view,’ may seem excessive and methodologically naïve. That relevance is,
strictly speaking, imposed by my subject, whose entire functioning is based –
even if this is sometimes denied – on the simple postulate that the author
‘knows best’ what we should think about his work.
408
Genette argues that ‘the correctness of the authorial (and secondarily, of the pub-
lisher’s) point of view is the implicit creed and ideology of the paratext’ (408),
one which has been ‘held almost unconditionally for centuries’ (408). Writing in
the mid-1980s, Genette acknowledges that the primacy of the author’s viewpoint
is under attack from a number of angles, but argues: ‘valid or not, the author’s
viewpoint is part of the paratextual performance, sustains it, inspires it, anchors it’
(408).
Contradictions and blurry edges

Genette’s insistence on authorial intention as a defining feature of the paratext
gives rise to certain contradictions within the concept of the paratext itself. First, the
insistence on a connection between authorial responsibility and paratext
conflicts with Genette’s reader-focused statement that any contextual or factual
information may serve as paratext: it is hard to see how such information could
come under the control of the author and his allies or how the author could assume
responsibility for it in any meaningful way. Second, there is an incompatibility
between the criterion of authorial responsibility and Genette’s statement that all
peritexts are paratextual, since it can easily be shown that there are some peritexts
that are not sanctioned by the author or which even go directly against his wishes,
as Genette himself acknowledges. While these contradictions might be
considered relatively minor in the context in which Genette’s typology was
originally elaborated, they are magnified as soon as we try to adapt Genette’s theory
to translated texts. We will begin to explore these difficulties in the following
chapter and return to them in Part III.
For now, let us remain with Genette’s theory and examine two questions to which
his statements on authorial intention give rise; namely, who the author’s allies are,
and how loose the connection with authorial responsibility or purpose can be
before the element is no longer considered paratextual. While Genette does
occasionally decline to dwell on a particular feature on the basis that the sender is
not authorial (as, for example, in the case of the publisher’s epitexts cited above),
he generally adopts an inclusive approach towards paratextual elements where
the link to authorial intention is only tentative, and appears to take a relatively
broad view of who might be considered the author’s allies. In general terms, for
example, and running slightly counter to the justification of superficial treatment
of the publisher’s epitext noted
above, Genette takes the publisher to be an authorial ally. Thus, in his introduction
to the chapter on the publisher’s peritext, Genette considers elements such as the
book’s material construction, cover page and title page to be paratextual elements,
stating that they are ‘executed by the typesetter and printer but decided on by the
publisher, possibly in consultation with the author’ (16, my emphasis). In a similar
vein, Genette takes the editors of posthumous works to be the author’s allies,
suggesting:
Being immutable, the text in itself is incapable of adapting to changes in

its public in space and over time. The paratext – more flexible, more
versatile, always transitory because transitive – is, as it were, an
instrument of adaptation. Hence the continual modifications in the
‘presentation’ of the text . . ., modifications that the author himself attends
to during his lifetime and that after his death become the responsibility
(discharged well or poorly) of his posthumous editors.
408
The possibility of disagreement between editor and author is evoked here

through the idea that the editor’s responsibilities might be discharged ‘well or
poorly’, and this potential for disagreement is something that Genette addresses
at various other points in his discussion. Even where the disagreement is
significant and the material at hand is therefore connected with the publisher’s
intention, rather than the author’s, however, Genette does not exclude the
material from the text’s paratext. For example, in the case of books that are
presented as part of a particular series or genre, Genette states:
With these sometimes very emphatic forays into the area of generic or
intellectual choices, the paratext that most typically derives from and
depends on primarily the publisher obviously encroaches on the
prerogative of an author, who thought himself an essayist but ends up a
sociologist, linguist, or literary theorist.
23
Similarly, Genette evokes the possibility for disagreement between author and
publisher with regard to title: ‘responsibility for the title is always shared by the
author and the publisher. It is shared in actual fact, of course, save when there
has been a complete and forceful takeover’ (74). Changes in authorial intention
over time are treated in a parallel manner: in the case of Marcel Proust’s A la
recherche du temps perdu, for example, Genette states that Proust initially had to
resign himself to having the work published in separate volumes rather than as a
single thick volume as per his original preference. Later on, Proust himself came
to envisage a work ‘much more distinctly segmented, and supplied with an
abundant titular apparatus’ (305). Genette argues that the paratextual evolutions
undergone by the work over time ‘obviously, even if fortuitously, conformed to
Proust’s original intentions but perhaps not to his final intentions’ (63), and
concludes:
In any case, the fact remains that since 1913 two or three generations of
readers will have had different perceptions of Proust’s work and
accordingly will doubtless have read it differently, depending on whether
they were receiving it as a set of autonomous works or as a unitary whole,
with a single title, in three volumes.
63
In this citation, and in many other places in Genette’s discussion, emphasis is placed
on the influence exerted by the paratext on the reader, rather than on the con-
nection between the paratextual element and the sender of the paratext.
Crucially, with none of these examples does Genette take these observations to
their logical conclusion as implied by the definitions of paratext that he
provides; namely, that in the case of such disagreements, the affected peritextual
elements would not be considered part of the paratext.
Instead, Genette introduces a number of nuances into his descriptions of para-
textual material, distinguishing, for example, between the ‘official and the unofficial
(or semiofficial)’ (9–10) paratext. While the official paratext is one for which
‘the author or publisher cannot evade responsibility’ (10), responsibility for the
unofficial or semiofficial paratext ‘can always more or less [be] disclaim[ed]’ (10)
by the author. Although Genette does not make much of this distinction
throughout the book – preferring, instead, to take a broad approach to the
identity of the author’s allies, as outlined above – it is nevertheless useful in
allowing him to still consider as part of the paratext those messages for which
the author claims no responsibility. Thus, in the case of allographic peritextual
material that straddles the line between paratext (e.g. preface) and metatext (e.g.
critical essay) and is often found in posthumous editions, he explains: ‘the fact
that the author has long been dead frees the preface from any sort of semiofficial
status’ (270). In other words, while an allographic preface written during the
author’s lifetime would be (at very least) semiofficial, having some connection,
however ambiguous, to the author’s responsibility, with the author dead the preface
becomes unofficial, and the preface writer thus unbound by any sense of
obligation to the author.
Another way in which Genette nuances the connections between authorial
intent and the paratext is by distinguishing between paratextual function, value
and effect. In his discussion of book titles, for example, Genette states that the con-
notative function of titles is ‘attached (whether or not by authorial intent) to the
descriptive function’ (93) but reflects: ‘perhaps we go too far in calling a sometimes
unintended effect a function, and it would no doubt be better to speak here of
connotative value’ (93, italics in original). Elsewhere Genette introduces the notion
of paratextual effect, once again with the aim of distinguishing between
deliberate authorial commentary, and that which is less controlled or potentially
ambiguous. For example, when discussing the ‘paratextual scraps’ (346) that may be
offered by authors’ journals and suchlike, Genette explains that ‘they must often
be sought with a magnifying glass or caught with rod and line: here once again,
we are dealing with paratextual effect (rather than function)’ (346, italics in
original).9
If readers are frustrated by the lengthy and at times contradictory answer to

the simple question of what a paratext is, it might be as well to stress that the
complexity of the response is in some senses a necessary part of the paratext’s very
definition. To try to define the paratext is always to negotiate around its blurry
borders, both inward- facing (towards the text) and outward-facing (towards the
broader context). While some elements can be relatively clearly and
unambiguously identified as part of the paratext, others sit less comfortably within
its parameters. Genette himself stresses this point on numerous occasions,10 but also
cautions against allowing the indeterminacy of the boundaries to lead to an
expansion of the paratext’s domain:
One of the methodological hazards attendant on a subject as multiform and

tentacular as the paratext, it seems to me, is the imperialist temptation to annex
to this subject everything that comes within its reach . . . Inasmuch as the para-
text is a transitional zone between text and beyond-text, one must resist the
temptation to enlarge this zone by whittling away in both directions.
407
The key to resisting this temptation, for Genette, is to insist on the function of
the paratext as being ‘to ensure for the text a destiny consistent with the author’s
purpose’ (407). While it is possible to appreciate Genette’s reasons for wishing
to contain the paratext, his insistence on a link to authorial intention creates sig-
nificant contradictions at the heart of the notion of the paratext, as I have argued
above. An alternative way of demarcating the paratext, more compatible with
translation contexts, will be proposed in Part III. In the remainder of this chapter,
I provide a brief overview of the essentials of Genette’s typology and, in a final
section, outline the place that he envisages for translation within his framework.
Genette’s typology
In the section on paratext and authorial intention above, I cited the list of ques-
tions that Genette states the researcher needs to ask in order to ‘define the status
of a paratextual message’ (4). These questions provide the variables for
Genette’s paratextual typology, allowing paratextual elements to be classed
according to their spatial, temporal, substantial, pragmatic and functional qualities. A
very brief summary of these variables and the main descriptors developed by
Genette is offered below; I will return to them and explore how they might be
supplemented or altered for translation studies research contexts in Part III.
Spatial variables
To determine the spatial variables, the researcher must determine the location
of the paratext, relative to the text; as we saw above, this leads Genette (4–5) to
identify two contrasting variables, peritext (within the same volume as the text) and
epitext (separate from it).
Temporal variables
Temporal variables allow us to class the paratext according to the date of its appear-
ance or disappearance relative to the appearance of the text itself: Genette (5–6)
suggests that paratexts might thus be classed as prior (appearing before the text),
original (appearing at the same time as the text), later (appearing after the text – for
example, on the occasion of a second edition) and delayed (appearing long after the
text). Genette also proposes a set of variables that allow us to categorise the tem-
poral aspect of paratexts relative to the author’s life (posthumous vs anthumous)
(6).
Substantial variables
Within Genette’s framework, which deals with printed literature, paratexts are
‘almost all’ (7) textual, and Genette pays limited attention to substantial variables as
a result. As we saw above, however, Genette does envisage paratexts that do not
take on material form, referring to these as factual paratexts (7).
Pragmatic variables
As discussed above, Genette limits the senders of paratextual messages to the author
and his allies, referring to material emanating from the latter as ‘allographic paratext’
(9, italics in original). When discussing the prefatorial situation of
communication, Genette adds another category, actorial, to denote situations in
which ‘the alleged author of a preface may be one of the characters in the action’
(179). To account for further complexities and ambiguities, Genette also
introduces a set of variables which he calls ‘regime’ (181), and which allow for
variations in the fictionality or authenticity of the preface sender. Genette is careful
to stress that, when identifying the sender of a paratext, it is not a question of
identifying its ‘de facto producer’ (8), but rather the one to whom the paratext is
attributed and who accepts responsibility for it. With regard to addressees,
Genette distinguishes between ‘the public in general’ (9) and the narrower
category of ‘readers of the text’ (9), both of whom are addressees of the public
paratext. He contrasts this with the private paratext, paratextual messages which
are not intended for a public readership, and which, in their most extreme form
as messages from the author to himself, are designated the intimate paratext (9).
Functional variables
Drawing on a concept developed in speech act theory, Genette argues that the
‘illocutionary force’ (10) of a paratextual message can encompass informing, mak-
ing known an intention or interpretation, conveying a decision, expressing a
commitment, giving advice, issuing commands, or even operating as performatives
(performing the action described). Beyond this broad sketch, however, Genette
suggests that the functions of paratexts need to be ‘brought into focus
inductively’
(13), since functional choices, unlike other variables, ‘can have several purposes at
once, selected – without exclusion of all the others – from the (more or less
open) repertory appropriate to each type of element’ (12). As he considers each
paratextual element (title, preface, epigraph, etc.), Genette outlines those
repertories, thereby sketching out lists of the most common functions, if not a
full typology for the reason given above. The most extensive repertory is that
provided for prefaces; here, Genette outlines the themes most commonly
addressed in authorial and allographic prefaces and groups them under
headings corresponding to the two key functions of prefaces: the ‘themes of the
why’ (198) connect with the function of ‘get[ting] the book read’ (197), while
the ‘themes of the how’ (209) link to the function of ‘get[ting] the book read
properly’ (197). Genette suggests that both sets of themes represent ‘a repertory
that is much more stable than one would believe a priori, and in particular much
more stable than authors themselves believe’ (163), thus indicating that outlining a
taxonomy of functions (if not a typology) may in fact be more possible than
originally anticipated.
Translation in Genette’s framework
Translation as paratext
The only place in which Genette directly addresses the question of how transla-
tion might fit into his typology is in the conclusion to his 400-page study. Here,
Genette outlines three practices that he has omitted from the discussion, yet
whose ‘paratextual relevance seems . . . undeniable’ (405): translation, serial
publication, and illustration. Genette sketches out the paratextual relevance of
translation in the following terms:
The first of the three practices is translation, particularly when it is more

or less revised or checked by the author, as Groethuysen’s German version
of Les Nourritures terrestres was by Gide; and all the more so when the entire
task is undertaken by the author alone, in keeping with the established
practice of a bilingual writer such as Beckett, each of whose translations
must, in one way or another, serve as commentary on the original text.
405
Genette is arguing here for an approach that would view a translated version of a
text as part of the paratext of the original text, by virtue of the fact that the way
the translation is done conveys some kind of commentary on the original or, in
other words, offers an elucidation of how the text itself (that is, the original) is to be
understood. If we reprise Genette’s description of the nature of the paratext, then
this view of translation would see translation as ‘a discourse that is
fundamentally heteronomous, auxiliary, and dedicated to the service of
something other than itself that constitutes its raison d’être . . . the paratext is
always subordinate to “its”
text, and this functionality determines the essence of its appeal and its existence’
(12). In this line of thinking, the translation is at the service of the original; it is a
text that points not to itself, but to the original from which it derived. For readers
to benefit from the translation’s ability to serve as commentary on the original text,
they would, of course, have to be aware of the distance and differences between
the original text and its translation, or in other words would have to read them
in a comparative mode. They would also need some awareness of the potential
alternative renderings not chosen by the translator – for a translation can only act
as commentary insofar as it reveals decision-making processes.
Genette builds a number of caveats into his sketch of translation’s paratextual
relevance: first, the translator would need to work closely with the author, or,
better still, be the author; second, if the translator is the author, then the
commentary is to be ‘used with care, for the right to be unfaithful is an authorial
privilege’ (405n2). The first caution derives from Genette’s insistence on the
connection between paratext and authorial intention, discussed above; the second
suggests that the author-translator may use his creative freedom to introduce
aspects into the translation that are not there in the original, or ignore those that
are. While each of these cautions is no doubt valid in some respects, Genette
argues himself here into something of a corner. If the author has the right to be
unfaithful to his own text, but the translator pure and servile by implication does
not, then in this sense translations produced without the author would be more
reliable commentaries on the text. Yet these translations are only loosely linked
to authorial intention, and their ability to serve as paratexts is accordingly limited.
In Genette’s reasoning, then, and despite his assertion of their ‘undeniable’ (405)
value, interpreting translations as paratexts is a process that is fraught with
difficulty and perhaps even fundamentally flawed. We will return to this issue at
several points in later chapters.
Translation as text, with its own paratext

Although Genette does not acknowledge it directly, there is another way in
which he envisages translated texts within his typology. By drawing on
examples from translated texts at various points in his study, he implies (though
never states directly) that the translated version can be considered a text in its
own right, with its own paratexts. In his discussion of cover design, for example,
Genette first highlights the case of yellow covers in France at the beginning of
the twentieth century, explaining that they were synonymous with
licentiousness; he then offers a ‘more subtl[e] and specific’ (25) example of the
paratextual significance of cover design, explaining that ‘not too long ago the
cover of the French translation of Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus . . . showed a
sheet of paper very faintly imprinted with a musical score’ (25). In Genette’s
discussion, the cover of the translated text is not treated any differently to the
cover of non-translated texts; both are considered to be part of the paratext,
conveying certain messages about the content of the book. Other examples
provided by Genette suggest that the possibility for viewing translations as texts
with their own paratexts is predicated not on a view of translations
as independent of their originals, but on a view of translations as synonymous

with originals. In other words, the translated text is considered to be the original
text; considering its paratext is no different from considering the paratext of a
new edition of an original work. This view emerges very clearly in Genette’s
discussion of epigraphs. Having established that epigraphs normally appear at the
same time as the first publication of the text in question, Genette evokes the
possibility of variation in subsequent editions:
it would no doubt be easy to find . . . cases of epigraphs delayed or deleted

by an author’s decision or a publisher’s oversight (not to mention changes
from one edition to another). I have a pocket edition of For Whom the Bell
Tolls in French translation (Pour qui sonne le glas), and the epigraph from
Donne, despite its fundamental importance, is missing.
150
In this citation, Genette provides the example of the French translation of For Whom
the Bell Tolls as an example of a later edition of John Donne’s text; the fact that it is a
French version rather than an English one is not accorded any relevance. Similarly,
in a discussion of prefaces that belong to the ‘later’ category, Genette explains:
Its canonical occasion is the second edition, which may come on the heels
of the original edition but which often presents a very specific pragmatic
opportunity . . . Or the occasion may be a translation – for example, the
preface to the French edition (1948) of Under the Volcano [Au-dessous du volcan]
(1947), or the preface to the 1982 American edition of Kundera’s The Joke
(1967).
174
Categorising prefaces that are provided for translations as later rather than original
unequivocally establishes translations as later versions of an original text, rather
than as new texts. Furthermore, according to this model, the author of the trans-
lated text is the author of the original text; the translator does not assume any
kind of authorship. Genette makes this point explicitly when he categorises prefaces
and notes written by translators to their translation as ‘allographic’ (263, 322), or
in other words as ‘written by [a] third party and accepted by the author’ (9).
There are, however, a couple of places in Seuils where Genette evokes the
possibility of some level of creative intervention by the translator. For example,
to his discussion of allographic prefaces written by translators, discussed above, he
appends the following note:
In the case of a translation, the preface may be signed by the translator, as

we have just seen. The translator-preface-writer may possibly comment
on, among other things, his own translation; on this point and in this sense,
his preface then ceases to be allographic.
264n22
Genette’s statement that the translator’s preface ceases be allographic when the
translator is commenting on his own translation is intriguing: although Genette
does not state as much explicitly, he is presumably implying here that the
preface becomes authorial in such places. This note thus suggests that the translator
is to be considered author of the translation process, but not of the final product;
the work of the translator, and the responsibility for it, is to some extent
embedded in the translated version, yet the text itself still belongs fully to the
author.
Another exception to Genette’s overall assumption that the translator is an autho-
rial ally rather than assuming any kind of authorship of his own is found in Genette’s
discussion of the way in which authors have historically appended ‘all kinds of
nobil- iary ranks and all kinds of functions and distinctions, honorific or real’
(54) to their names. One of the examples that Genette provides is that of Paul-Louis
Courier, who ‘gives himself the title “Winegrower, member of the Legion of
Honor, formerly a mounted gunner”’ (54) when ‘reediting and revising the
translation of Longus by “Monsieur Jacques Amyot, during his lifetime bishop of
Auxerre and master chaplain of the court of the kings of France”’ (54). Courier is
thus included here as one in a line of authors who give themselves status-
enhancing titles; yet unlike the others, Courier is not an author, but a translator.
The book to which Genette is presumably referring here is the ancient Greek
romance Daphnis and Chloe, by ‘Longus’ (probably not his real name); Jacques
Amyot provided the first translation into French in 1559; and the book under
discussion by Genette in this example is the revised version of 1813, produced
by Paul-Louis Courier. Courier is thus not even the first translator, but the
second – but the crucial point here is that Genette presents the case of Courier’s
self-given title as an example of a ‘possible appendage to the author’s name’ (54,
my emphasis). The elements of the paratext which derive from Courier are thus
treated as a part of the paratext, even though there is clearly no connection
between the second-century Longus and the nineteenth-century Courier. The
reasons for Genette’s shift in conceptualisation of authorship and translation here
are not clear and do not appear to have anything to do with the ancient nature of
the text in question; indeed, the other mention of the sixteenth-century translator
Amyot (263) describes him as an ‘allographic’ preface writer, or in other words
reverts to the view of the translator as third party rather than as author.
In summary, then, the role played by translation in Genette’s typology is
premised on a view of translation that does not completely ignore the possi-
bilities for meaning-laden decision-making that translation processes offer, but
which nevertheless adopts a conservative view of the changes wrought through
translation, viewing translations as synonymous with later editions of an original
text and involving no change to authorship. Needless to say, such a view runs
counter to the understanding of translation that currently holds sway in the
discipline of translation studies whereby translation is seen as a creative process
of rewriting. As we shall see in the following chapter, this has not prevented
the concept of the paratext from being widely taken up in translation studies,
but it has led to a certain glossing over of certain aspects of Genette’s definition
and approach.
Notes
1 To these could also be added Nouveau Discours du récit (1983), which reprises the discus-
sions in Figures III and submits them to further scrutiny, as well as Métalepse (2004),
which interrogates the relevance of the rhetorical figure of the metalepsis to
narratology.
2 Between 2006 and 2016, Genette also published the five-volume Bardadrac suite, a series of
diverse reflections that Genette (2014) describes as ‘un romanesque plus ou moins
fictionnalisé dans mon existence’ [a novelistic that has been more or less fictionalised into
my existence].
3 It should be noted that when Genette (1979, 87) first coins the term paratextualité in
Introduction à l’architexte, he uses it to denote relations between the original text and texts
of imitation and transformation such as pastiche and parody.
4 From this point on, all references to Seuils are by page number only. The page numbers
refer to the English version, Paratexts:Thresholds of Interpretation (1997c).
5 See Lane (1992, 13–15) for an overview of the terms used by literary theorists prior to
Genette to designate what Genette would term paratextual elements.
6 See Habib (2008, 621–6) for a summary of New Criticism and its influence.
7 Research which has some aspects in common with Genette’s concerns in Seuils was
also being carried out in other disciplines: in 1978, for example, Derrida (1978) pub-
lished a long essay on Kant’s Critiques interrogating the concepts of the ergon (work
of art) and the parergon (that which frames it) in the contexts of painting and
philosophy; book history, which is concerned with the book as material object, was
emerging as a field in the 1980s (see Finkelstein and McCleery, 2006); and scholars
researching mass communications and media in the 1970s and 1980s were already
drawing on the idea of frames, exploring their ‘tremendous power . . . to shape the
manner in which we interpret certain issues and situations’ (Kuypers 2009, 181).
Genette does not refer to any of these developments, perhaps because the motivation for
his innovations lay within his own discipline and the shortcomings that he perceived
within it.
8 The use of the masculine pronoun here and in all subsequent quotations from Genette
(1997c) reflects the approach taken in that volume, which is explained by the translator
as follows: ‘Possessive adjectives and personal pronouns that refer to authors in general,
or to publishers, editors, readers, and critics in general, are in the masculine’ (Lewin
1997, xxv).
9 See also Genette’s discussion of authors’ letters (1987, 373).
10 See, for example, Genette (1997b, 346).
References
Derrida, Jacques. 1978. La Vérité en peinture. Paris: Flammarion.
Finkelstein, David, and Alistair McCleery, eds. 2006. The Book History Reader. New
York and London: Routledge.
Genette, Gérard. 1966. Figures I. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1969. Figures II. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1972. Figures III. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1976. Mimologiques: voyage en Cratylie. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1979. Introduction à l’architexte. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1982. Palimpsestes. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1983. Nouveau Discours du récit. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1987. Seuils. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1991. Fiction et diction. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1992. The Architext: An Introduction. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Berkeley: University
of California Press.
——. 1994. L’Oeuvre de l’art: immanence et transcendance. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1997a. L’Oeuvre de l’art: la relation esthétique. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 1997b. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa Newman
and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press.
——. 1997c. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Translated by Jane E. Lewin.
——. 1999. Figures IV. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 2000. Figures V. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
——. 2004. Métalepse. Paris: Editions du Seuil.
Genette, Gérard, interview by Caroline Broué. 2014. “Théorie littéraire: dernier volet de
la suite Bardadrac”. La Grande Table (2ème partie). France Culture, 21 February. Accessed
22 November 2017 from www.franceculture.fr/emissions/la-grande-table-2eme-partie/
theorie-litteraire-dernier-volet-de-la-suite-bardadrac.
Habib, M.A.R. 2008. A History of Literary Criticism and Theory. Oxford: Blackwell.
Kuypers, Jim A. 2009. “Framing Analysis”. In Rhetorical Criticism, edited by Jim A. Kuypers,
181–204. Plymouth, UK: Lexington Books.
Lane, Philippe. 1992. La Périphérie du texte. Paris: Editions Nathan.
Lewin, Jane E. 1997. Translator’s Note. In Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, by Gérard
Genette. Translated by Jane E. Lewin, xxv. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Macksey, Richard. 1997. “Foreword”. In Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, by Gérard
Genette, xi–xxii. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
2
PARATEXTS IN TRANSLATION
STUDIES
The first significant engagement with Genette’s notion of the paratext in

Western Anglophone translation studies can be found in two essays that appeared
in the journal Target in 1996, one by Theo Hermans (1996) and the other by
Urpo Kovala (1996). The English version of Genette’s book would appear the
following year, boosting interest in the paratext and its potential importance for
research into translation. The two Target essays both consider paratexts of
translations, rather than viewing translations as paratexts to original texts, or in
other words focus on the second way in which translations fit into Genette’s
typology outlined in the previous chapter. As might be expected, these
translation studies scholars do not adopt Genette’s conservative view of translation
as transparent reproduction of an original, but pay attention to paratexts as sites of
translator intervention or adaptation of the text to its new environment. Although
these studies were the first to draw explicitly on the term paratext, interest in
paratextual elements goes back to the earliest days of translation studies as a
separate discipline. Translators’ prefaces, in particular, have been included in
anthologies of reflections on translation in the context of efforts to establish
translation studies as a discipline (see, for example, Lefevere (1977) or Schulte
and Biguenet (1992)). Early efforts to outline a consistent, systematic scheme for
describing translations also appealed to paratextual elements: José Lambert and
Hendrik van Gorp (2014 [1985]), for example, suggest that the first stage of analysis
should involve the gathering of information about the ‘general macro-structural
features’ (48) of the translation: ‘Is the translation identified as such (as a
“translation”, or as an “adaptation” or “imitation”)? . . . Is the translator’s name
mentioned anywhere?
. . .; Does the translator or the editor provide any meta-textual comment (preface,
footnotes)?’ (48). Answering these questions clearly requires the researcher to inter-
rogate the paratexts of the translation rather than the translated text itself.
Since the publication of Hermans’ and Kovala’s essays, over 100 articles making
explicit appeal to the concept of the paratext have been published in English
alone,
and two edited volumes devoted to the topic have appeared in recent years (see
Gil-Bardají, Orero and Rovira-Esteva (2012b) and Pellatt (2013a)). In addition,
scholars such as Mona Baker (2006), Theo Hermans (2007), Gaby Thomson-
Wohlgemuth (2009), Sharon Deane-Cox (2014) and Sameh Hanna (2016) have
incorporated the study of paratexts into their research monographs. The bulk of
the research is into literary fiction, in line with Genette’s own focus, but there is
a limited amount of research into other domains, including audiovisual
translation (Matamala 2011; Bucaria 2014; Bernabo 2017), news translation
(Zhang 2012), music (García Jiménez 2012; Taviano 2013), comics (Brienza
2009), interpreting (Jiang 2013), and various non-fiction genres such as
philosophy (Castro Ramírez 2012; Batchelor 2016), political texts (Delistathi
2011; Batchelor and Harding 2017), travel writing (Dybiec-Gajer 2013),
ethnographic literature (Batchelor 2018 in press) and religious texts (Hassen
2012; Kloppenburg 2013).
The most widely studied type of paratext is the translator’s preface, as Şehnaz
Tahir-Gürçağlar (2013, 91) also observes. This is perhaps fitting given that
Genette himself devotes more than a quarter of his book to exploring prefato-
rial material, encompassing within that category material which either precedes
or follows the text. Other popular areas of concern are translators’ notes (see,
for example, Sardin 2007; Lopes 2012; Xu 2012; Valdeón 2014); book covers
(e.g. Harvey 2003;1 O’Sullivan 2005; Frank 2007; Delistathi 2011; Gerber 2012;
Kung 2013; Nergaard 2013); book titles (e.g. Cachin 2006; Poldsaar 2010; Farø
2013); and factual information about the translations, such as which language
the book was translated from (e.g. Coldiron 2010; Agirrezabalaga 2012) and
who it was translated by (e.g. Simon 2000; Alvstad 2003; Hanna 2016). Many
studies treat several types of paratextual material together rather than focusing
on one type alone. Although there are some studies on epitextual material such
as translators’ memoirs (Kellman (2010)) and author–translator dialogue (Jansen
(2013)), it is fair to say that interest to this point has primarily been in analysing
peritextual material of translated texts, often in comparison with the peritexts
of the original. A number of scholars, notably Danielle Risterucci-Roudnicky
(2004), José Yuste Frías (2010) and Valerie Pellatt (2013c), focus on the transla-
tion of the original paratextual material, the latter two both drawing on the term
paratranslation for this activity, as I shall explain below.
Much of the research into paratexts combines analysis of paratexts with analy-
sis of translations themselves, presumably because there is widespread agreement
with Tahir-Gürçağlar’s (2011, 115) caution that paratextual analysis reveals ‘the
mediating features of the paratexts and show[s] how translations are presented
but not how they are. Examination of paratexts . . . cannot be a substitute for
textual translation analysis’ (italics in original). A similar point is made by
Alexandra Lopes (2012) in regard specifically to prefaces when she argues that,
‘regardless of what the translator actually did, prefaces and preface-like material are
constrained by the accepted discursive practices applicable to the format’ (129,
italics in original), and are thus a ‘rather poor indicator of the strategies employed
by translators’ (130).
Paratexts in translation studies 27
Definitions of paratext in translation studies and

engagements with Genette’s theory
Approximately half of the existing studies which make explicit appeal to the
paratext offer a definition of the term, while others use the term or its adjectival
variant, paratextual, without defining it or linking it to Genette. Those which do
provide a definition almost all describe the paratext in material terms, often
limiting the paratext effectively to Genette’s peritext. Thus Cecilia Alvstad’s
(2003, 274n1) definition of the paratext as ‘what presents the literary text and
makes it a book, e.g. title, name of the author, preface, illustrations’ is typical
(for further examples, see Koş 2008, 60; Borgeaud 2011, 32; and Bilodeau 2013,
1). A number of studies stress the mediatory aspect of the functional definition
provided by Genette, quoting Genette’s (1997, 2, italics in original) portrayal of
the paratext as ‘a zone not only of transition but also of transaction: a privileged
place of pragmatics and strategy’ (see, for example, Zhang 2012, 1; Deane-Cox
2014, 26). In the two edited collections mentioned above, the editors extend the
material aspect of the definition to include epitexts, combining this with a
functional definition. Thus Pellatt (2013b, 1) states:
In this volume we regard paratexts as any material additional to, appended

to or external to the core text which has functions of explaining, defining,
instructing, or supporting, adding background information, or the relevant
opinions and attitudes of scholars, translators and reviewers.
In a similar vein, Gil-Bardají, Orero and Rovira-Esteva (2012a, 7) argue that the
term paratext is associated with an ‘area of thinking’ in which
the text [is] conceived of as a continuum and as an extension of itself

which goes beyond the novel, the essay or poetry anthology to include not
only front and back covers, introductions, prologues, indices or
illustrations (or what Genette termed peritexts) but also reviews,
interviews with the author, literary criticism, etc. (or what Genette termed
epitexts).
They explain that external elements are considered to be paratexts when they
‘surround and extend’ (7) the text, citing in French Genette’s (1997, 1) words in
relation to this function: ‘precisely in order to present it in the usual sense of this
verb but also in the strongest sense: to make present’ (italics in original).
To my knowledge, none of the studies draw on the aspects of Genette’s
definition of the paratext that stress its connection with authorial intention, as
discussed in Chapter 1. Indeed, the way in which Genette’s functional definition
is typically quoted by translation studies scholars is emblematic of scholars’
deliberate elision of this aspect of Genette’s paratext. The full quotation from
Genette on the function of the paratext runs as follows:
Indeed, this fringe, always the conveyor of a commentary that is

authorial or more or less legitimated by the author, constitutes a zone
between text and off-text, a zone not only of transition but also of transaction:
a privileged place of a pragmatics and a strategy, of an influence on the public,
an influence that – whether well or poorly understood and achieved – is at
the service of a better reception for the text and a more pertinent reading of
it (more pertinent, of course, in the eyes of the author and his
allies).
Genette 1997, 2, italics in original, bold emphasis mine
Scholars in translation studies routinely abbreviate this passage, omitting the two
sections in bold and thus avoiding the need for a discussion of the extent to
which a definition based on authorial intention renders the concept problematic
for the study of translations. The use of Genette’s theoretical framework in
translation studies might thus be termed pragmatic: scholars tend to take those
aspects of his framework which can be readily adapted to the discipline without
any significant theoretical manoeuvring and move ahead with analysis of
paratextual elements in accordance with the key concerns of their research.
There are, however, a handful of scholars who do engage with Genette’s
theoretical framework in a more sustained manner. One of the key articles that
addresses the theoretical issues around the concept of the paratext is Tahir-
Gürçağlar’s (2002) ‘What Texts Don’t Tell: The Uses of Paratexts in Translation
Research’. This has been widely cited by translation studies scholars and often
forms the foundation for their use of the concept of the paratext. Tahir-Gürça ğlar
discusses Genette’s suggestion that translations might be viewed as paratexts
and argues that it will ‘serve translation research little’ (46), primarily on the
basis that it presupposes a subservient relationship between translation and
original. Citing Genette’s (1997, 12) description of the paratextual element as
‘always subordinate to “its” text’, Tahir- Gürçağlar (2002, 46) states:
the implications of this statement for translation research are clear. They
mean that translation, when regarded as paratext, will serve only its
original and nothing else – not the target readership who enjoys it, not the
target literary system that may be so influenced by it as to trigger a series
of translations of similar texts, not the translator who may enjoy a
reputation for having translated that specific text, not the publisher who
may make considerable money out of that specific title, and not the
source text itself whose ‘afterlife’ (Benjamin, 1968) is ensured by
translation.
By listing these key areas of translation research, Tahir-Gürçağlar indicates that

to view translations as paratexts is to close off productive avenues of research
and to turn back on advances made in the discipline over recent decades.
Furthermore, she argues that Genette’s conceptualisation of translation as
paratext ‘runs counter to a perspective that regards translation as initiated in the
target culture’ (46), cannot be reconciled with the claims of postcolonial
studies, fails to consider
how translations may alter original texts, and allows no room for consideration
of pseudo-translations. In summary, she strongly dismisses Genette’s suggestion that
viewing translations as paratexts represents a fruitful domain of enquiry, and
suggests that the usefulness of paratexts to translation research comes from
viewing translations as texts in their own right and conceiving of paratexts as
‘presentational materials accompanying translated texts and text-specific
metadiscourses formed directly around them’ (44). In so doing, and without
addressing the issue directly, she decouples the notion of paratext from authorial
intention, rendering it much more straightforward for use by translation studies
scholars.
While Tahir-Gürçağlar’s proposed definition of the paratext undoubtedly
increases the productivity of the concept with regard to translation-related research,
her dismissal of Genette’s suggestion that translations might be viewed as paratexts
is based to a certain extent on an overextrapolation of his outline of the subservi-
ence of the paratext, and also disregards certain aspects of Genette’s discussion.
While Tahir-Gürçağlar is correct to argue that viewing translations as paratexts is to
be interested in what they tell us about the source text, rather than what they may
say about the target culture, her claim that viewing translations in this way is to
assume that they ‘will serve only [their] original and nothing else’ (2002, 46) seems
exaggerated. Nowhere does Genette indicate in his study that any given element
that has paratextual value cannot also convey other things; on the contrary, as we
saw in Chapter 1, he stresses that the epitext – into which category translations-
as-paratexts would fall – ‘consists of a group of discourses whose function is not
always basically paratextual’ (Genette 1997, 345) and which should be looked
on as ‘occasions capable of furnishing us with paratextual scraps (sometimes of
prime interest), though they must often be sought with a magnifying glass or
caught with rod and line’ (Genette 1997, 346). To consider translations as
paratexts, then, is not to disregard the many other ways in which they may be of
interest to a researcher; rather, it is about scrutinising them for the ways in which
they may comment on or (make) present the original text.
Another aspect of Genette’s argument that Tahir-Gürçağlar overlooks is his
emphasis on the flexibility of the paratext and the way in which it serves to adapt
the text itself to new environments and concerns. As we saw in Chapter 1,
Genette (1997, 408) contrasts the immutability of the text with the mutability of
the paratext, suggesting that ‘the paratext – more flexible, more versatile, always
transitory because transitive – is, as it were, an instrument of adaptation’. If we
extrapolate from this description of the paratext to a description of translation,
following Tahir-Gürçağlar’s approach, then far from presenting a view of
translation that is unable to account for the ways in which translations may
manipulate a text or adapt it to a new environment, it allows for and even
encourages a view of translation as an ‘instrument of adaptation’, flexible
(transitory) and inevitably moulded to a particular target audience (transitive).
Admittedly, Genette’s continued insistence on the connection between
paratext and authorial intention places potential constraints on the extent to
which the paratext’s versatility can be played out, and in this sense the notion of
translation-as-paratext
undoubtedly remains problematic for translation studies researchers. Nevertheless,

this brief discussion shows that Genette’s view of the paratext’s relation to the text is
more nuanced and the idea of viewing translation as paratext potentially more
productive than Tahir-Gürçağlar’s analysis would suggest.
An alternative angle from which to critique Tahir-Gürçağlar’s criticism of
Genette is presented by Deane-Cox (2014). Arguing that Tahir-Gürça ğlar
overlooks the conditions placed by Genette on viewing translations as paratext –
specifically, the involvement of the author in the translation process, as discussed
above – Deane-Cox
(28) argues that Tahir-Gürçağlar is wrong to assume that Genette ‘posits a
widespread and subservient analogy of translation as paratext’, suggesting instead
that the parallel between paratext and translation collapses completely ‘once any
process of rewriting occurs beyond authorized or self-translation’.2 In Deane-Cox’s
view, then, considering translations as paratexts has limited scope not because
of Genette’s view of the paratext as subservient to the text, but because of the
need to maintain a close connection between the translator and the author. Like
Tahir-Gürçağlar, Deane-Cox’s overall approach is to move away from the notion
of the translation as paratext and instead to consider translations as texts, with
their own paratexts. Deane-Cox carves out a specific place for the translator
within Genette’s typology alongside the other non-authorial contributors to the
paratext identified explicitly by Genette (such as the publisher or third party
preface writers). She does this by positing the additional category of the
‘translatorial paratext’ (29), which denotes material authored by the translator as
opposed to the author, editor, or other third party. This echoes the solution put
forward by Tahir-Gürçağlar (2013, 93) in an article on prefaces to translated
works, in which she argues that translators’ prefaces are neither authorial nor
allographic but need to be ‘handled separately in a category of their own’.
Two Francophone critics who engage with Genette’s suggestion that transla-
tions can be viewed as paratexts are Maïca Sanconie (2007) and Evelyn Dueck
(2014). Sanconie examines Vladimir Nabokov’s self-translation of his 1932 novel
Otchaïnié, into English in 1966, asking whether the translation has to be
accompanied by prefatorial material for its commentating paratextual function
to be fully realised: ‘si la traduction sécrète du commentaire, il est légitime de se
demander s’il faut le canaliser dans la préface pour lui donner sa valeur “énarrative”
maximale’ [if translation secretes commentary, it is reasonable to ask whether
that commentary has to be channelled through the preface to achieve its full
exegetical potential] (Sanconie 2007, 178). Although Sanconie does not propose
any kind of general response to this question, her study suggests that the paratextual
messages or values that a translation conveys are far less easy to identify than
they are for many other kinds of paratextual elements. We will return to this
point in Chapter 8.
Dueck (2014) similarly picks up on the idea that a translation might be
considered paratextual in the sense that it conveys commentary on the source
text, but highlights different objections to this logic:
il y a au moins deux points qui mettent en question la définition de la tra-

duction comme paratexte: d’une part, le fait que la traduction est elle-
même
un texte littéraire (et non pas uniquement para-textuelle) et de l’autre, le

fait qu’elle est signée aussi bien par l’auteur que par le traducteur.
[There are at least two possible objections to defining translation as paratext:
first, the fact that the translation itself is a literary text (and not uniquely para-
textual) and second, the fact that it is signed by the author as well as by the
translator.]
214
With the first objection, Dueck is distinguishing between the type of writ-
ing that characterises text and paratext in Genette’s model: while the former
is literary (a poem, a novel), the latter is pragmatic and commercial (Dueck
2014, 215), destined above all to ensure a good reception of the literary text.
Designating a translated text as a paratext is from this perspective problematic,
since it clashes with the usually literary nature of the translated text. With the
second objection, Dueck points to complexities around questions of authorship
of translations, already evoked above. Ultimately rejecting Genette’s idea of
translation-as-paratext, the bulk of Dueck’s study is devoted instead to study-
ing the paratexts of translated texts, specifically those of the French translations
of Paul Celan’s work. Like Deane-Cox, Dueck argues in favour of creating
additional categories in order to study the paratexts of translated texts – though
rather than one additional category, Dueck creates four. These are the péri-
texte traductif [translatorial peritext], the péritexte traduit [translated peritext], the
épitext traductif [translatorial epitext] and the épitexte traduit [translated epitexts]
(see Dueck (2014, 213)). The distinction between ‘traductif’ [translatorial] and
‘traduit’ [translated] is made on the basis that the former encompasses peritextual
elements signed by the translator or publisher, while the latter refers to trans-
lated source text paratexts (see Dueck 2014, 213).
Key themes in paratext-related translation research

In this section, I identify the research themes with which analysis of paratextual
material most frequently intersects, with the aim of giving readers a sense of the
variety and richness of current research in this area. Separating key themes out from
each other in this way does not imply any clear divisions between them; on the
contrary, many of them overlap, and many of the studies could be treated under
more than one heading.
Paratexts as documentary sources for historical research

As noted above, unconnected with Genette’s elaboration of the importance of
the paratext, a significant part of the efforts to establish and consolidate translation
studies as a discipline and translation theory as a field of research lay in
constructing a historical tradition. This was achieved in part by producing
anthologies of translation theory that reached as far back into the past as possible,
drawing a significant amount of their material from translators’ prefaces and other
paratextual material – for, as Astradur Eysteinsson and Daniel Weissbort (2006, 6)
observe, ‘the primary writers on
translation, historically, have been the translators themselves’. Some of these

anthologies seek to construct regional traditions (‘Western’, ‘Asian’), while others
focus on national traditions (‘German’, ‘Chinese’). While such tradition-building
uses of paratexts are extremely significant, we should note that collections of
prefatorial material are also sometimes made with other goals in mind. Annie
Cointre and Annie Rivara’s (2006) collection of translators’ prefaces to French
translations of English novels, for example, aims primarily to explore the
phenomenon of Anglomania in France in the eighteenth and early nineteenth
century.
Paratexts have also been shown to offer extremely useful clues for literary
his- toriographers, allowing them to reconstruct the publishing histories of
particular authors or formulate clearer pictures of the flow of literary works
across borders. Anne Coldiron (2010, 339), for example, draws on a
combination of quantitative data, corpus content analysis and paratextual data to
challenge ‘central critical narratives about English Renaissance poetry’, while
Guyda Armstrong (2013, 197–211) shows that paratextual features such as print
types and decorative elements can prove crucial for reconstructing the transmission
histories of particular works, particularly when historical records on individuals
named explicitly in paratextual sites are non- existent and their identity therefore
obscure.
Paratexts as places of potential translation or translator visibility

In one of the first essays to adopt the term paratext in relation to translated texts,
noted above, Hermans (1996) connects common paratextual practices with the
prevailing cultural ideology of translation, arguing that the tendency for readers to
erase the translator’s intervention is premised largely on ‘the hierarchy implied
by the order (and, more often than not, the size) of the names on the title page’
(26). Despite the dominance of this ideology, Hermans argues that the translator is
always discursively present in the translated text, exploring in subsequent
publications the ways in which that presence may become manifest in both textual
and paratextual material. In The Conference of the Tongues (2007), for example,
Hermans shows that paratexts are one of the elements which can ‘puncture the
illusion’ (24) of originality in ‘covert translations’ (23), or in other words those
which ‘work hard to look like originals’ (24). More generally, when paratexts are
used to discuss translation choices, they become places where the inherent self-
referentiality of translation is ‘raised to self-reflexivity’ (51). Paratexts are also places
where translators can ‘signal their agenda’ (33) or their ideological sympathy or
antipathy towards the author or text (53ff.). Hermans suggests that this latter
process can be viewed as a way of putting the author’s words ‘as if between
quotation marks’ (56), setting up a critical distance between translator and text and
thus providing a frame within which the text itself is to be read. Hermans gives an
example of a particularly crude framing in the first English translation of the
Qur’an: the translator’s preface presents the text ‘as belonging to a hostile camp’
(58), and has the effect of casting ‘every word of the translation’ (59) ‘under the
cloud of the translator’s disdain for the original’ (59). While Hermans’ primary
concern in his research on paratexts is to show that the translator is always
discursively present, rather than to argue overtly for an increase
in visibility or a disruption of existing hierarchies through changes to paratextual

practices,3 other theorists take a more combative stance. In this, they are echoing
Venuti’s (1995) call for greater visibility for translators. Yuste Frías (2012, 132),
for example, explaining the merits of the concept of ‘paratranslation’ (an issue to
which I return in Chapter 7), argues: ‘Thanks to the concept of paratranslation,
translators can vindicate, once and for all, their visible figure within the books’
physical and material space.’ From a different theoretical perspective, but
nevertheless in the same vein, Siri Nergaard (2013) takes issue with the
‘marginalized position’ (203) of translators in the publishing process and argues in
favour of translators having more input, combined with ‘a politics of visibility of
translations and translators’ (204). A similarly prescriptive approach is taken by
Ellen McRae (2012), who recalls Peter Newmark’s declaration made in 1983
that ‘a translated novel without a translator’s preface ought to be a thing of the
past’ (17), arguing that ‘translators are in a unique position to act as ambassadors
between cultures . . . their prefaces are an excellent locus for disseminating their
understanding to readers’ (2012, 80). An important cross-cultural perspective on
these debates, and a reminder that low translator visibility in paratexts is not a
universal phenomenon, is offered by Isabelle Bilodeau (2013). In her study of
yakusha atogaki (translator afterwords) in literary translations, she notes the contrast
between Western publishing conventions and those in Japan, where there is
‘multiple naming of the translator in the peritext (particularly the cover)’
(2) and where publishers typically ‘reserv[e] space for translators to write in the first
person between the covers’ (2), concluding that ‘the production of commentary
is an integral part of these [Japanese] translators’ occupation’ (17).
A significant variation on the broad theme of paratexts and visibility is provided
by a cluster of studies which focus on issues that arise when a particular translator is
particularly visible within the target culture. Michelle Woods (2012), for
example, discusses the paratexts produced by Adolf Hoffmeister, Czech
translator of James Joyce, arguing that Hoffmeister’s ‘verbal and visual paratexts
are all experimental texts in themselves’ (2). She thus connects the issue of
visibility with questions of the boundaries between paratext and text and the
multiple simultaneous functions served by paratexts in the new context. While
Hoffmeister’s visibility serves to aid Joyce’s entry into the target culture, in the
case of the translator discussed by Mary Louise Wardle (2012), visibility has a
negative effect. Aldo Busi, translator of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, is a
controversial figure in contemporary Italian society, his views on paedophilia
causing a scandal some eight years after the publication of his Alice translation.
Wardle (40) suggests that
some of the scandal attached to Busi ‘rubs off’, as it were, on Carroll. This
effect is achieved not only because of the obtrusive translation strategies
adopted but also simply by virtue of the fact that it is Busi’s name – and all
that it stands for – that appears on the cover alongside Lewis Carroll’s.
This case raises questions around the power of translations to affect an author’s
image in the receiving culture, an issue that will be discussed further below.
In some studies, the visibility of translators is linked with reflections on

intercultural power dynamics. Sherry Simon (2000), for example, examines
Gayatri Spivak’s translation of short stories by Mahasweta Devi, Imaginary Maps,
noting the considerable paratextual apparatus that Spivak provides for the work,
which includes the prominent display of her own name on the front cover in the
same size font as the author’s. Simon (242) suggests that Spivak is using her
name ‘pour faire entrer cet auteur indien, bengali, dans les salons et bureaux des
féministes de l’Occident’ [to introduce this Indian, Bengali author to the salons
and offices of Western feminists]. Simon shows that while aspects of this
exploitation of the translator’s reputation can be interpreted positively, it is also
open to more negative readings:
La traduction des textes indiens vers l’anglais participe . . . d’un lourd

héritage . . . Peut-il être question d’appropriation, lorsque la médiatrice se
réclame d’un espace interstitiel d’appartenance . . .? . . . Quel genre de
porte la traduction ouvre-t-elle? A qui profite le passage?
[The translation of Indian texts into English is part . . . of a difficult leg-
acy . . . When the mediator claims to represent an interstitial space of
belonging, might it be a case of appropriation . . .? . . . What sort of gate
does the translation open? Who benefits from going through it?]
244
While Simon’s reflections are prompted by the respective positions occupied by

Spivak and Devi in global power relations, Rim Hassen’s (2012) study of
women translators of the Qur’an addresses the visibility–invisibility dichotomy on
the basis of gender. Hassen contrasts two translations by women living in Muslim
countries with two translations by women based in the United States, finding that the
translations by the former conceal the gender of the translator, while the latter
foreground it. Hassen suggests that translations which conceal the translator’s
feminine identity ‘consolidate the power and authority of the dominant
conservative discourse’ (73), while those that stress the translator’s feminine
identity use that fact to ‘negotiate between conservative Muslim conceptions of
femininity on the one hand, and Western perceptions of gender on the other’
(75). In a move that has undoubted parallels to Simon’s exploration of cultural
appropriation, Hassen suggests that the visibility of the feminine identity in the
translations by the translators based in the US ‘could have the effect of
“exoticizing” their positions’ (75), creating cultural products which conform to
Orientalist stereotypes. In both of these studies, visibility thus becomes linked
with questions of power dynamics in intercultural relations.
Paratexts and socio-cultural contexts (and consequences) of

translation
Context-oriented research accounts for a large part of the existing studies on
translation paratexts. In this sense, research into paratexts cannot be separated
from the various so-called ‘turns’ of translation studies, most notably the
cultural and
sociological turns.4 These turns have been associated with a variety of theoreti-
cal frameworks including postcolonial theory, Bourdieusian sociology, Gramscian
theories of hegemony, and narrative theory, all of which have been drawn on by
scholars in the context of research into translation paratexts. While the range of
studies in this category is very broad and does not lend itself to easy summaries, one
way of categorising the research is in terms of the interrelation between ideology
and society. Thus it is possible to distinguish between research into societies within
which there is a dominant ideology, forcefully imposed by the group in power,
on the one hand, and research into societies in which multiple ideologies openly
compete, on the other.
Research in the first category is concerned to explore the ways in which the
dominant ideology is asserted within paratextual material, and intersects with
the broader theme of translation and censorship. Gaby Thomson-Wohlgemuth’s
(2009) book-length study of translation in the GDR, for example, dedicates a
large part of the study to paratextual analysis, notably of epitexts in the form of
print permit files submitted by publishers to the censors and of afterwords to
published translated children’s literature. The overall aim of the study is to
assess the degree of ideological influence of the GDR system on literary output,
or in other words to use the paratextual material as documentary evidence
enabling a deeper understanding of the functioning of GDR society. Another
example of research in this category is Hou Pingping’s (2013) study of the
paratexts of the official English translations of the Selected Works of Mao Tse-
tung. As translations which were ‘organized by China’s Central Publicity
Department under the Central Committee of the CPC’ (37), the paratexts
reinforced Maoist ideology at every level. This included red covers, enthusiastic
dust cover endorsements, title pages prominently featuring Mao’s name together
with visual portraits, introductory notes containing ‘ideologically significant
judgements’ (38), and publication notes warning against unreliable alternative
(non-official) translations.
Examples of studies which fall into the second category include Deane-Cox’s
(2014) work on retranslation, which incorporates paratextual analysis in its effort
to understand how retranslations are ‘shaped by their socio-cultural conditions of
production’ (18) as well as whether – and how – they position themselves
relative to each other. Like Deane-Cox, Sameh Hanna (2016) draws on a
Bourdieusian framework, examining a wealth of peritextual and epitextual
material in order to understand the dynamics governing the ‘production,
dissemination and consumption of the Arabic translations of Shakespeare’s
tragedies’ (10). The idea that translators use paratexts to position themselves
ideologically is also explored by Mona Baker (2006), who draws on narrative
theory. Baker shows how narrative viewpoints are accentuated or suppressed
through spatial or temporal reframing in paratexts, demonstrating the potential for
close analysis of paratextual material to be incorporated into wider research on the
construction of narratives in and through translations. The concerns of research
that focuses on individual translations overlaps with those that are seen in these
broader studies. Examples include Christina Delistathi’s (2011) analysis of the
1933 Greek translation of The Communist
Manifesto, Martha Cheung’s (2010) discussion of the paratexts by Yan Fu in his

1898 translation of Thomas Huxley’s Evolution and Ethics and Roberto Valdeón’s
(2014) study of Nigel Griffin’s 1992 translation of the 1552 work, Brevísima relación
de la destrucción de las Indias, to name just three. Valdeón’s study is of note for the
way in which it evokes the possibility for different paratextual elements to
convey different ideological messages: the efforts of Griffin ‘to resist . . . the
ideological position of earlier English editions’ are to some extent undermined,
in Valdeón’s view, by the retention of an ideologically loaded engraving by
Theodor de Bry on the front cover. This study thus highlights the importance of
analysing verbal and visual paratexts together.
Paratexts and gender

As part of the fertile intersection between paratextual analysis and research con-
necting translation and socio-cultural and ideological contexts, recent years have
also seen the publication of a number of articles connecting paratexts with ques-
tions of gender. Such studies fall broadly into two groups. Those in the first
group explore the ways in which female translators use paratexts to create a space
for their voice or assert their own identity (often in historical or cultural contexts
which would suppress or exclude women’s voices), while those in the second
show how paratexts have often been used to assert dominant (misogynistic) views
and to contain women’s writing within boundaries considered acceptable.
An example of the first type of study is an article by Jessica Malay (2006)
that focuses on the paratexts produced by the sixteenth-century scholar and
cour- tier Elizabeth Cooke Hoby Russell for her translations. As ‘acceptable
avenues for female textual production’ (164), translation paratexts represented a
space in which Russell could construct an identity for herself, and Malay shows
that she exploited them to the full, even going so far as to ennoble herself (162).
While Russell featured her individual identity prominently, the female translator
whose paratextual contributions are analysed by Alison E. Martin (2011)
combined a much more ‘self-effacing’ approach (16) with one that nevertheless
allowed her to ‘construct an identity for herself as a competent translator and
amateur botanist’ (17). Martin shows that Reid made particular use of footnotes,
through which she ‘supplement[ed] and correct[ed] information’ (17) with a
level of mathematical precision which ‘implied that her annotations were well-
researched and accurate’ (17). Both of these historical studies of female
translators thus show that paratexts offered a means through which female and
translatorial subservience could be challenged in ways which on the surface posed
little challenge to the established hierarchies, but which were nevertheless
powerful.
An example of the second type of study is found in Valerie Henitiuk’s (2011)
analysis of the prefaces, introductions and notes to translations of The Pillow
Book by Japanese author Sei Shônagon. Henitiuk critiques the ‘regressive gender
attitudes’ (247) espoused by the translator of the canonical English version,
amongst others, arguing that ‘such paratextual materials provide evidence of the
central role
gender continues to play in the framing of a woman writer by her

(predominantly male) translators’ (240). Henitiuk points out that the canonical
version, together with its ‘undeniably misogynist response’ (247) to Sei
Shônagon, was until 2006 the only complete translation into English and was
also used as the source text for versions into other languages. It thus had far-
reaching implications for the worldwide reception of the Japanese writer.
Paratexts and image-formation

The shaping of Sei Shônagon’s authorial image through translation paratexts ties in
with another area of research with which paratextual studies frequently intercon-
nects; namely, explorations of the influence of paratexts on target culture images of
a particular source culture author or of the source culture more generally. Research
on the former includes Stella Linn’s (2003) study of the images of Federico
García Lorca in a range of target cultures, which shows that there are significant
‘national differences in . . . image building: Lorca’s heroic role as a “martyr for
freedom” is emphasised much more in the French paratextual discourse than in
the English and Dutch part of the translation corpus’ (2003, 60). Caroline
Summers’ (2017) study of East German writer Christa Wolf similarly explores
the contribution of translators, publishers and reviewers to the construction of
authorial identity through a range of translation paratexts. While Linn and
Summers are concerned with the image and reception of a literary author, Șebnem
Susam-Sarajeva’s (2006) Theories on the Move explores the ways in which
paratextual material of translations of work by Roland Barthes and Hélène Cixous
contributed to the images that the receiving cultures came to hold of these
French theorists and their associated theories.5 The shifts in authorial image
evidenced through such studies raise important questions in relation to Genette’s
insistence on the connections between paratext and authorial intention, an issue
to which I shall return in Part III.
Studies that engage with the related but distinct topic of how paratexts influ-
ence target culture images of source cultures span a range of language and
cultural pairings and are linked to analyses of cultural stereotyping in translation.
Szu-Wen Kung (2013), for example, finds that American cover designs of
Taiwanese literature aim to ‘trigger the readers’ initial interest towards the
translation through the stereotypical representation of foreignness or even
Orientalism’ (62). Phrae Chittiphalangsri’s (2010) study of nineteenth-century
English and French translations of the Sanskrit drama Śakuntalā similarly shows
that paratexts were key sites for the development of the Orientalist narrative, and
suggests that translators used them as places in which they could advertise their
own legitimacy as scholars able to represent the Orient to the English public (see
also Chittiphalangsri (2014) for further examination of this issue). The
possibility that such representations are not necessarily always imposed by the
receiving culture is evoked in Pellatt’s (2013c) comparison of the twin volumes
of Chinese Premier Zhao Ziyang’s memoirs edited by Bao Pu, one produced for
a Chinese-speaking audience and the other for an English-speaking audience. In
contrast with the Orientalism identified by
Kung and Chittiphalangsri, the Orientalism that Pellatt identifies in the English-
language version of Ziyang’s memoirs is an auto-Orientalism, or in other words, ‘a
new kind of Orientalist discourse which is created by none other than the
Chinese themselves’ (102).
Richard Watts’ (2005) analysis of Caribbean and North African literature in
US translations presents an interesting variation on the way in which publish-
ers appeal to stereotypes of foreign cultures through paratexts. Watts shows that,
while publishers do invoke the ‘timeless context of Caribbean colonialism’
(162), there is also a strong tendency to situate the texts within the broader
stereotypical category of ‘World Literature, one in which otherness is always in
play but often remains vague’ (168). In her study of African, Asian and Latin
American literature in Swedish translation, Cecilia Alvstad (2012, 82) draws
similar conclusions, stating: ‘these literatures are generally translated by the same
publishers and presented paratextually as belonging together as part of a larger
whole. In other words, there is a strong paratextual construction of sameness’.
As part of this construction of sameness, many publishers adopt exoticising as well
as universalising discourses, emphasising that foreign texts give access to
unfamiliar worlds whilst simultaneously stressing their potential to offer
universal insights. In a cogent discussion that draws on the work of David
Damrosch, Alvstad (2012, 90) argues that it is possible to see exotic and
universalist elements as ‘two sides of the same coin’. While Alvstad explores
this dual strategy with regard to publishers’ paratexts, it is also possible to see it
at work in the combination of translation approach and paratextual adaptation.
The study by Kung (2013, 62), for example, mentioned above, observes that in
the case of the Taiwanese fiction translated for the US market, the strategy
pursued in the paratext apparently clashes with the strategy pursued in the
translation, the latter ‘reduc[ing] the foreignness of the source culture items to a
great extent’. While Kung presents this as a contradictory strategy, Watts’ and
Alvstad’s discussions, as well as other research in the domain of postcolonial
translation studies, suggest that such an approach may in fact be typical and con-
sistent within itself: the foreignness of the text is made manageable for the target
reader through a simultaneous process of reduction of foreignness (through domes-
tication) and intensification of those aspects of foreignness with which the target
audience is already familiar (through exoticisation).6
Furthermore, studies of translation between Western cultures indicate that very
similar strategies can be observed here too, at least with regard to cultural
stereotyping through paratexts. Carol O’Sullivan’s (2005) study of paratexts of
Italian fiction in English, for example, notes the ‘startling’ (71) convergence in
cover design of both translations and pseudo-translations from Italian, observing that
the covers ‘show, as a rule, photographic images of conspicuously Italian buildings
and cityscapes’ (65). Studies of Australian children’s fiction in French and
German translation similarly conclude that the source culture is represented by a
limited number of tropes that correspond to longstanding cultural stereotypes (see
Frank (2007) and Gerber (2012), respectively). Reading these case studies
alongside each other allows us to hypoth- esise that the use of cultural
stereotyping through paratexts is a common – perhaps
even default – strategy in the marketing of foreign texts, rather than being something
that is reserved for distant (exotic) cultures.
Paratexts and agency

As the discussion of book covers suggests, research into paratexts pushes to the
fore questions around the agents involved in producing translated products.
Tahir- Gürçağlar’s (2013) study of allographic preface writers, for example,
demonstrates the importance of paying attention to the relative prominence and
power of those who contribute to translation paratexts if we are to understand
how those paratexts function. Writing from a Bourdieusian perspective, Tahir-
Gürçağlar argues that preface writers often ‘have a more established literary
position than the translators’
(98) and are able to use that discursive and symbolic power to ‘“consecrate” the
translator and create some literary capital for him or her’ (98–9).
While this kind of paratextual contribution relies on the identity of the
contrib- utor being made explicit, other studies focus on the work of hidden
contributors, notably editors. Nathalie Mälzer (2013), for example, draws on her
own experiences of working as a literary translator to sketch out in very
striking terms the extent of editorial interventions in both text and paratext. In
the case of Gaëlle Guernalec-Levy’s L’Amant inachevé, for example, the editor
took a number of measures to turn the book into a more explicitly erotic novel,
replacing the rather neutral cover image with one showing the naked legs of a
prostrate woman, and even extensively rewriting sex scenes in the text itself (see
Mälzer (2013, 159–64)). In her conclusion, Mälzer (170) suggests that translation
research would benefit from ‘shifting the focus from the study of cultural
adaptation in literary translations carried out by translators to the adaptations
made by the various agents of the publishing industry to bring these books to the
market’. That translators are often marginalised with regard to paratextual
publishing decisions is confirmed by other accounts by practising translators,
such as those by Nergaard (2013), Yuste Frías (2012) and, with regard to
dubbing, Anna Matamala (2011).7 While Nergaard and Yuste Frías argue for a
change to publishing practices that would allow translators greater input,
Matamala echoes Mälzer’s recommendation, emphasising the importance of
industry-based awareness in audiovisual translation research.
Concluding remarks: roads not yet (well-)travelled

As this summary of existing research shows, the concept of the paratext has opened
up rich seams of enquiry and offered original perspectives in product-oriented
and context-oriented research.8 It has also proved important to translation history
and to discussions of agency in translation. In light of these developments, few
would dispute the importance of Genette’s concept of the paratext for transla-
tion studies. Yet there is still much more to be done, both in terms of scope and
on a theoretical level. Most of the research to date has been into literary transla-
tion, with few excursions into other genres; hardly any scholars have taken up
Genette’s invitation to explore the notion of translation as paratext, and discus-

sions of Genette’s theory have been relatively brief. As the next chapter will
show, scholars in neighbouring disciplines have engaged more closely and arguably
more productively with Genette’s framework itself, proposing expansions and
alterations in light of technological developments and in relation to different
types of text, notably filmic, televisual, digital and internet-based ones. Many of
these developments hold particular relevance for scholars in translation studies,
and are likely to offer an important stimulus for research. Further reflections on
Genette’s theoretical framework and on other potentially productive directions for
translation studies research involving paratexts will be presented in Part III.
Notes
1 Note that Harvey (2003) uses the term bindings rather than paratexts to refer to titles, cover
photos and back cover blurbs.
2 As I will show in Chapter 4, the idea that authorised translations have any specific claim
on paratextual relevance is deeply problematic.
3 It is fair to say, however, that Hermans’s overall stance is in favour of greater vis-
ibility. This emerges, for example, when he argues: ‘This hierarchy . . . is nothing new.
Historically it has been construed in a number of ways, mostly around oppositions
such as those between creative versus derivative work, primary versus secondary, art
versus craft, authority versus obedience, freedom versus constraint, speaking in one’s
own name versus speaking for someone else . . . And in case we think these are after all
natural and necessary hierarchies, it may be useful to remind ourselves of the fact that
in our culture the male/female distinction, too, has been construed in terms of very
similar oppositions’ (Hermans 1996, 44).
4 For discussion of these turns, see, for example, Snell-Hornby (2006) and Wolf (2014).
5 We should note, however, that Susam-Sarajeva (2006, 15 passim) uses the term extratextual
material to denote such elements.
6 See Batchelor (2009, 206 passim) for a discussion of this issue in the context of postcolo-
nial translation studies.
7 It is arguably also the case that authors are frequently side-lined in similar ways, at least in
some sectors of the publishing industry. See, for example, Davis (2012), or blogs by writers
such as Thomsen (2017) or Eulberg (2014).
8 These terms are taken from Saldanha and O’Brien (2014).
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3
PARATEXTS IN DIGITAL, MEDIA AND
COMMUNICATION STUDIES
As we saw in Chapter 1, Genette developed the concept of the paratext in rela-

tion to literary texts, in an era in which print culture was dominant. Over the past
decades, the paratext has had what Dorothee Birke and Birte Christ (2013, 65)
term a ‘tremendously successful career in literary studies’, a point which is sup-
ported by Frederik Aström’s (2014) bibliometric survey of citations of Genette
as well as by Birke and Christ’s (2013, 65) own observation that ‘the distinc-
tion between text and paratext is now one of the basic analytical tools taught in
textbook introductions to the study of narrative and explicated in handbooks on
literary analysis’. Although Genette’s approach to key theoretical notions such
as author and meaning does not sit well with a number of influential literary
theoretical paradigms, notably poststructuralist ones,1 its value and appeal
remain strong. This is perhaps in no small part due to the openness that Genette
builds into his framework, describing it as a ‘wholly inceptive exploration’
(Genette 1997, 14), as noted in Chapter 1. This openness has allowed scholars to
adapt Genette’s framework to the digital era as well as to other kinds of texts,
notably film, television and videogames, and, to a lesser extent, news. Genette
(1997, 407) himself anticipates the expansion of his framework beyond literature
in the conclusion to Seuils, suggesting:
if we are willing to extend the term [paratext] to areas where the work
does not consist of a text, it is obvious that some, if not all, of the other
arts have an equivalent of our paratext: examples are the title in music and
in the plastic arts, the signature in painting, the credits or the trailer in film,
and all the opportunities for authorial commentary presented by catalogues
of exhibitions, prefaces of musical scores . . ., record jackets, and other
peritextual or epitextual supports. All of them could be subjects for
investigations paralleling this one.
Paratexts in digital and media studies 47
This invitation is, admittedly, accompanied by a caution against allowing the

concept of the paratext to expand too far, as noted in Chapter 1; nevertheless,
numerous scholars have taken up Genette’s invitation to build on his work, often
extending the definition of the paratext in ways that directly counter Genette’s
(1997, 407) insistence on ‘the most essential of the paratext’s properties’,
namely its function of ‘ensur[ing] for the text a destiny consistent with the
author’s purpose’. In this chapter, I outline the most significant developments
of Genette’s framework in the two disciplines that can be argued to have
developed the concept of the paratext most intensely, namely digital studies and
media studies. As these are disciplines with which translation studies often
intersects, they offer important avenues for thinking about the ways in which a
paratextual framework for translation may be elaborated. The concept of the
paratext has also been applied in a more limited manner to the analysis of print
and online newspapers, and I provide a brief overview of these developments at
the end of the chapter.
Paratexts of digitised and born-digital literature

Although the capability to digitise literary texts has existed for a couple of dec-
ades, it is only since the arrival of e-readers in the early 2000s, coupled with the
expansion of the internet, that digital channels have become a mainstream way
of accessing literature.2 At the same time, ‘born-digital’ (Desrochers and
Apollon 2014b, xxx) texts have grown rapidly in number and variety, as part of
what scholars have termed a ‘digital turn, shift, age or era (not to mention
revolution)’ (Desrochers and Apollon 2014b, xxx). The range of digitised and
born-digital literature currently extends from e-books which largely ‘mimic the
format and appearance of print books’ (McCracken 2013, 105) to ‘enhanced e-
books’ which retain the basic premise of a single verbal text but supplement it
with videos, photographs, games and other interactive elements. Moving still
further along the spectrum away from the format of traditional printed text,
digital literature also encompasses transmedia storytelling, where stories ‘unfold
across multiple media platforms, with each medium making distinctive
contributions to our understanding of the [story] world’ (Jenkins 2008, 293).
The texts in this mode of storytelling might include videogames, novelisations,
websites, online videos, and alternate reality games, with no one text typically
being considered central.
Scholars investigating the relevance of paratexts to this domain highlight the fast-
developing nature of the field and the academic reflections that accompany it:
Birke and Christ (2013, 79), for example, stress that scholarship on digitised and
digital texts is ‘still far from having developed a coherent conceptual vocabulary
to talk about digital narrative phenomena and its different forms and genres’.
While any attempts to elaborate typologies of paratexts pertaining to digital and
digitised literature must therefore remain provisional and incomplete,3 scholars
share a strong sense of the value of interrogating the paratextual productions that
accompany these new modes of reading. Patrick Smyth (2014, 331) posits, for
example, that ‘Genette’s Paratexts remains a necessary model for the reception,
contextualization, and interpretation of
texts – whether analog or digital’, while Birke and Christ (2013, 66) argue that
the paratext ‘can be a highly productive tool for the analysis of medial difference
and medial change’.
While affirming the ongoing value of Genette’s seminal work, scholars
nevertheless show that it is not only the typology of paratextual elements that
needs to be reviewed in light of the digital turn, but also the very concept of the
paratext itself. For the shift to the digital, particularly at the more innovative end
of the spectrum outlined above, calls into question the underlying concepts on
which the concept of the paratext rests, forcing interrogations of the notions of
text, author and reader before the paratext itself can be reconceptualised.
To take the first of these underlying concepts, e-books that mimic print story-
telling would appear at first sight to be able to rely on the same conceptualisation of
text used by Genette, i.e. to refer to a literary work expressed in verbal form,
generally clearly distinguishable from whatever may surround it, and generally
fixed.4 In other words, Genette’s view of the text aligns with the generally
accepted conceptualisation of the text on which print culture is classically
based, namely ‘static and authored content’ (Pressman 2014, 334). While e-
books appear to replicate the ‘text’ as associated with print culture, the text that
they make manifest is in fact far from static, as Smyth (2014, 322–3) explains:
Ebooks, unlike their print predecessors, tend to provide no substantive,

consistent record of their iterations. This is often spun for the positive: . .
. small corrections, additions, and updates can be slipped into ebooks quietly,
allowing authors to keep up with the curve in real time. However, these
practices become problematic when ebook authors use this capability to
remove criti- cized segments from their work or correct errors or mistakes
that have been commented on in writing . . . Earlier editions are typically
not recoverable without extraordinary efforts at preservation, comparison,
and collation. Thus, individuals or organizations who attempt to archive
an ebook may be left with a variance of texts, all bearing the same title
and with identical metadata.
The transience of e-book texts is made more acute by the digital rights manage-
ment (DRM) software through which they are made available: designed to
protect the e-book industry by preventing copying, the software also makes it
impossible to archive particular iterations of e-books, at least for institutions and
individuals who are not able or willing to enter the legal grey area of removing
DRM software (see Smyth (2014, 322) for further discussion). Furthermore, in
physical terms, there is also a difference between the text of print culture and the
text of digital culture: whereas texts in print culture can be saved (and, in this
sense, exist) only in combination with the material object through which the
verbal or pictorial utterances of which they consist are expressed, the text of
digital culture exists in binary code independently of whatever material object is
subsequently used to make it readable by a human being. In digital culture, in
other words, we have
moved from text to content, from ‘utterances fixed by writing’ (Ricoeur 1991, 135)
to ‘information divorced from form and physicality’ (Smyth 2014, 329),
‘rendered in code and stored as electrons’ (Pressman 2014, 342). The implications
of this shift for theories of paratextuality will be outlined below.
While e-books still present the illusion of a text that is on a par with the text
associated with print culture, other types of digital literature move more boldly
away from traditional formats, with consequences for conceptualisations of
reader and author, as well as text. In transmedia storytelling, for example, where
different parts of the story are told through different platforms, and readers play
a key role in constructing the resulting narrative through active engagement with
the various components, traditional definitions of text and reader become
unworkable: the story consists of multiple interconnected texts rather than a
single text; the story that results is not linear (there is no order in which readers
must access the various texts); and the reader plays a crucial role in putting
together the story, often engaging with interactive components (games,
problem-solving) along the way. There is no single author of the overall story;
different groups and individuals create different components and, in some
cases, further components which also contribute towards the building of the
story are produced by readers (for further discussion, see Nottingham-Martin
(2014) and Strehovec (2014)).
In order to make Genette’s concept of the paratext workable for the digital
milieu, scholars tend to take a fairly loose definition of the paratext as their
starting point, generally seeing it as ‘framing elements’ which ‘shape the reading
experience’ (McCracken 2013, 106), and as the ‘specific form’ (Birke and Christ
2013, 66) in which a text is presented or how it is ‘transform[ed] . . . into a
material, marketable object’ (Benzon 2013, 92).5 Their analyses then proceed
inductively, examining elements which can be seen to have a paratextual
function, and proposing further developments of Genette’s theory so that those
elements can be adequately described and their functions explored. In the
sections that follow, I shall describe the paratextual elements thus identified and
outline the new terminology and metaphors that are proposed.
Elements
In some respects, the paratext that surrounds e-books is not radically different
from the paratext surrounding print books: readers are not confronted by an alien
experience, unlike anything previously encountered, but rather access the texts
in a way which at least feels similar – even if this similarity is only an illusion.
As Ellen McCracken (2013, 118) observes, ‘many of the peritexts of e-books
strive to create simulacra of print texts and are primarily word-based’. Corey
Pressman (2014, 342) describes this illusion in further detail: ‘E-reading
platform apps and e-reading devices provide an explicitly skeuomorphic reading
experience, including skeuomorphs like page curl, animated flipping pages,
simulated dog-earing, and pen-mimicking colored highlighting.’ Nevertheless,
even at this end of the spectrum, there are significant subtle differences, all of
which have an impact on
the way in which the text is experienced. On the one hand, there are some para-
textual elements that fall away or become less prominent, such that Birke and
Christ (2013, 76) talk of a ‘scarcity of paratext’; on the other, there is a proliferation
of new and radically different ones. The further one moves along the spectrum
from e-books which mimic printed books to transmedia projects, the greater
these differences. Some scholars, notably Pressman (2014, 347), see these shifts as
part of a positive linear development, marking a journey ‘into secondary orality’
which ultimately enriches and represents an ‘opportunity of great enormity’
(342);6 others, such as McCracken (2013), view the changes negatively, describing
paratextual alterations as distortions, mutilations or sabotage. In an effort to
understand the divergence between Pressman’s position and McCracken’s, I shall
survey the range of paratextual elements that have emerged in the digital milieu,
structuring my discussion around the five key functions that they serve, 7 while
acknowledging that many elements serve more than one function simultaneously.
Functions
Making the text present in the world

One of the most basic functions of the paratext that is identified by Genette
(1997, 1) is to ‘make present’ the text, turning it into something that can be
bought or borrowed and ultimately read. The paratextual elements which
achieve this function are broadly termed the ‘publisher’s peritext’ (16) and
encompass such aspects as the format of the book (paperback or hardcover), the
font, the front cover design, and so on. As noted above, the process of making
present a text is fundamentally different in the digital context: binary code is made
present to the reader by being converted into words or images through an algorithm
and made accessible via an e-reading device or computer interface. Without
these elements – source code, metadata, algorithms and some kind of e-reading
device – digital texts cannot be present in the world, and for this reason scholars
such as Marcello Vitali-Rosati (2014, 113) have argued that they can legitimately
be viewed as a ‘dynamic paratext’ (see also Strehovec 2014). Others, such as Yra
van Dijk (2014) and Barbara Bordalejo (2014), are more hesitant, observing that a
feature such as the source code is not generally visible to the reader and therefore
cannot serve as a ‘vestibule’ (van Dijk 2014, 34) in Genette’s sense, even if the
text ‘could not exist without it’ (Bordalejo 2014, 130). If scholars are divided
over whether underlying features such as code should be viewed as paratexts, there
is general consensus that e-reading devices themselves can be considered to be
‘peritexts’, and several of the more sustained reflections on the topic offer
valuable interrogations of the way in which the design and functionalities of
these peritexts affect modes of reading and interpretation and require reworkings
of the concept of the paratext. These will be explored in further detail in the next
section.
Remaining with the materialisation of the text for a moment longer, let us con-
sider the process by which a reader comes to borrow or purchase a book.
Whereas in print culture in the era in which Genette was writing (i.e. preceding
the internet),
a reader would have gone into a library or bookshop, perhaps after reading a
review of a book or perhaps with the aim of browsing and selecting on the spot,
in today’s digital era consumers of digital literature are most likely to purchase
or borrow a book through a website such as Amazon or by using a search engine
such as Google. For this reason, scholars have argued that search engines, websites
and online archives such as the Electronic Literature Organization (ELO) can also
be seen as paratexts (see, in particular, van Dijk (2014) and Pressman (2014)).
This suggestion is further supported by the fact that these internet-linked features
also provide information which shapes how texts are received: in the case of the
anthologised work Lexia to Perplexia, for example, van Dijk (2014, 27) shows
how the Google hits for the work frame it ‘ineluctably . . . as “literature,” or at least
as part of a canon of some sort’ and suggests that even if the reader doesn’t click
on the hits, ‘the knowledge that there is an academic discourse about the work
greatly enhances its symbolic value’. In this sense, the search engine results serve
the same function as the various paratextual elements in printed literature that
affirm the work’s or the author’s status, such as dedications or series affiliations.
The key difference, as van Dijk (2014, 26) acknowledges, is that search engine
results are not influenced directly by the author or his associates; we will return
to the question of authorisation in the context of digital paratexts below.
Commercial
Genette pays relatively little attention to what he terms the ‘publisher’s epitext’
(1997, 347) on the basis that ‘its basically marketing and “promotional” function
does not always involve the responsibility of the author in a very meaningful
way’ (347). In the context of digital literature, however, the more open interpre-
tation of authorship and authorisation leads critics to include features that serve a
primarily commercial function in their analyses of the paratext. Indeed, Bhaskar
(2011, 27) argues that, ‘in the contemporary landscape of publishing . . ., mar-
keting is a fundamental aspect of the book publishing process’ and that
Genette’s framework needs to be adapted for ‘a digital-saturated and market-
oriented age of content dissemination’.
To illustrate the extent to which marketing permeates almost all aspects of the
paratext in digital contexts, we can observe that it is not only the more obvious
paratextual elements such as webpages and websites that serve a commercial
purpose,8 but that e-reading devices and even texts themselves also fulfil
commercial paratextual functions. In the case of e-reading devices, Smyth (2014,
317) shows that content providers are able to ‘log individualized reading
behaviours’ and that this information can be used by publishers and sellers for
targeted marketing of other books. In other words, the paratextual device that
serves to make present one text thus also becomes part of the commercial
paratext for other texts. Other facets of the design of e-readers also serve a
commercial function: whereas readers accessing a printed book would see the
original cover every time they pick it up, readers accessing books via one of the
‘special offers’ Kindles would instead, in McCracken’s
(2013, 111) formulation, see a ‘screensaver that advertises credit cards, anti-
aging cream, and luxury cars’. In this case, the paratextual device that makes
present the text serves as part of the commercial paratext for other, non-literary
products. With regard to the text itself, e-reading devices allow readers to download
free samples of e-books, typically comprising an excerpt from the beginning of
the text. These are intended to encourage readers to purchase the full e-book, and
the text extracts thus become part of their own commercial paratext. 9 Another
growing phenomenon allows for entire texts to serve as commercial paratexts to an
author’s other work, in addition to being texts in their own right: publishers,
notably Amazon, are promoting the publication of shorter-length works which
serve in part to encourage readers to purchase longer works by the same author
(see McCracken 2013, 111; Smyth 2014, 327–8). In light of the growing
importance of content that functions both as content and as marketing, Bhaskar
(2011, 26) proposes replacing Genette’s term paratext with the term paracontent,
arguing that the new notion is more adequately suited to the ‘specificities and
demands of contemporary content industries’. While Bhaskar builds a cogent
case for the new term, this and other attempts towards new semantic labels have
had limited take-up; as Nadine Desrochers and Daniel Apollon (2014b, xxxv) note,
scholars prefer instead to ‘refer back and with deference to Genette’.
Navigational
In e-books, the key navigational paratext of printed literature – the page number
– disappears, but the number of paratextual elements serving navigational
functions increases. On basic e-reading devices, these navigational paratexts include
the menus and sub-menus that allow readers to navigate to a particular place in
the text or to move outside the text (typically to the Kindle store). At the more
experimental end of the e-literature spectrum, works are typically presented as
‘mosaic screens of several components organized according to spatial and
temporal syntax’ (Strehovec 2014, 53), as opposed to sequential pages. A variety of
menus and instructions ‘facilitate orientation and progress’ (Strehovec 2014, 52),
allowing readers not only to find their way into and through the text, but also to
construct the text and its meaning. In light of these differences, scholars have
proposed moving away from Genette’s peritext–epitext distinction and replacing
it with distinctions more apposite to the digital context, as we will see below.
Community-building
One of the most obvious differences between the digital literary context and the tra-
ditional print context is the level of interactivity associated with the paratext.
With the exception of what we might term ‘professional’ readers – that is,
established intellectuals or literary journalists whose views might form part of
the allographic epitexts in Genette’s model – readers’ responses to print literature
would in the past have been expressed only privately, to a small group of friends,
and would not have
become part of a text’s paratext in any easily analysable sense. In the internet
era, however, ordinary readers of both print and digital literature are able to post
their responses to texts online, and these rankings, ratings and reviews form an
important part of the text’s threshold. In the case of e-books, reader responses
are further encouraged and incorporated into a text’s paratexts in even more
significant ways: e-readers such as Kindles allow readers to add highlighting and
notes to the text, and these become part of the ‘accumulated response of a whole
reading community’ (Birke and Christ 2013, 78) that is by default visible to all
readers of the text in question. Other readers’ responses thus become ‘part of the
e-book’s presentation’ (Birke and Christ 2013, 79), with implications for
authorship and authorisation, as we will see below. Other platforms take this
interactivity still further: Pressman (2014, 346) argues, for example, that the
Readmill e-reading application ‘incorporates social recommendations,
annotations, and geolocation services’ into its peritext, or in other words
‘design[s] community and dialogue directly into the paratext’, while fanfiction
sites include reader-generated statistics and interactive forums through which
authors and readers can communicate both privately and publicly (see Hill and
Pecoskie 2014). These interactive paratexts serve multiple functions
simultaneously, not only building up the community around a text, author or
genre, but also marketing the text, influencing readers’ interpretations of the text
and even, in some cases, shaping the evolving text itself.10
World-building/guiding interpretation
The shift towards a more interactive paratext would appear to go hand-in-hand
with a lessening of paratextual features that can easily be classified as efforts, on the
part of the author and his allies, to ensure a pertinent reading of the text, to return
once again to Genette’s theory. Indeed, some of the paratexts that can generally
be seen to fulfil this function become less prominent when the books in ques-
tion are accessed electronically rather than in print. E-books are programmed to
open at the first page of the main body of the text, or at the page the reader had
reached previously. Front covers, which communicate important messages about
a book’s content and go hand-in-hand with the publisher’s commercial strategy,
are therefore seen far less frequently than when a reader accesses a book in print;
furthermore, even on iPads, which have the potential to reproduce colour covers,
the original front cover is generally replaced with a generic one (see McCracken
2013, 111). Other parts of the publisher’s peritext also become optional and non-
default, in the sense that readers must actively think to click backwards to access
them, rather than reading them or at least flicking past them. As McCracken (2013,
113–14) observes, some writers count on readers engaging with these paratextual
elements before accessing the text, perhaps by ‘play[ing] with reality and fiction
in the dedication or epigraph’: for e-book readers, these paratexts may remain
hidden. On the other hand, the greater active role that is conceived for the
reader of more experimental digital texts means that many different elements
become paratexts serving what Amy Nottingham-Martin (2014, 297) terms a
‘world-building’
function. Such paratexts enable a reader to gain new insights into characters or plot
and thus shape the construction and comprehension of the narrative. Drawing on
a term used by Genette, Birke and Christ (2013, 73) label such paratexts
‘diegetic’ and similarly suggest that they serve interpretive functions by adding
to the fictional universe. Examples of world-building or diegetic paratexts are
provided by Nottingham-Martin (2014, 300–4) in her analysis of the transmedia
story The 39 Clues: here, both the collector cards and the alternate reality game
that are part of the transmedia project are seen as paratexts that serve world-
building functions (alongside various other functions), allowing the reader to
fill in gaps in the narrative or adding verisimilitude. To give another example,
in the case of the application e-book hybrid The Silent History studied by Smyth
(2014), readers wishing to fully comprehend the Field Reports that form part of
the e-book text are required to go to the physical location in which the Field
Reports are set. In Smyth’s (2014, 326) view, ‘the physical world itself becomes
a paratext, deliberately included within the bounds of the work by its authors’.
The question of where the boundaries between text, paratext and context lie is
one that recurs repeatedly in studies of contemporary, digital-based
entertainment culture, leading some critics to suggest that the concept of the
paratext reaches the limits of its usefulness in certain contexts, as we will see
below.
Characteristics
If the preceding section provides an overview of discussions raised by considera-
tion of Genette’s fifth methodological question, ‘to do what’ (Genette 1997, 4)
and simultaneously offers some responses to Genette’s third question, the ‘how’, or
‘mode of existence’ of the paratext, this section introduces us to some of the
terminology developed by scholars of digital literature in an effort to answer
Genette’s remaining three questions: where, when, and, most crucially, from
whom.
Supplementing where with where to: from a static to a

dynamic model
First, with regard to the where of the paratext, our discussions show that relying on
a classification that distinguishes in a relatively straightforward way between
text, peritext and epitext swiftly proves problematic in a digital context. For
some texts, such as the online digital text Inanimate Alice, Gavin Stewart (2010)
suggests that it is useful to distinguish instead between ‘off-site paratexts’ (60),
‘on-site paratexts’ (64), and ‘in-file paratexts’ (67), based on ‘apparent location
of the file (as designated by its URL)’ (60). While this works well for the
‘relatively centralized architecture’ (72) of a text like Inanimate Alice, Stewart
points out that it would be less useful for analysing ‘more fluid and distributed
types of digital texts’ (72) such as transmedia projects which have multiple online
texts on different sites.
In another reflection on the where of the paratext, McCracken (2013) effectively
reformulates Genette’s question as where to: she argues that, in light of the fact
that paratexts can ‘no longer be studied as singular fixed objects’ (106) but ‘exist
spatially within particular dynamic viewing practices’ (106), it is useful to focus
on ‘the centrifugal and centripetal motion to which they invite readers’ (106). In
this model, which, like Stewart’s case study, is based on digital literature for
which there is an identifiable core text, the core text is the centre, and the paratexts
are the ‘exterior and interior pathways leading readers both away from and more
deeply into the words at hand’ (106). Centrifugal paratexts might thus include
blogs, readers’ comments, or the author’s webpage, or even the menu options
that lead the reader to the e-book store. These same paratexts can, however, also
operate centripetally, propel[ling] readers toward the central reading experience
of the text itself’ (110) and ‘from there, further inward’ (110), as readers engage
with ‘format, font changes, word searching and other enhancements’ (107).
McCracken’s conceptualisation of paratexts as dynamic entities, moving the
reader towards or away from the text, leads her away from the threshold
metaphor developed by Genette and towards a space-based metaphor, speaking
of texts and paratexts as existing in ‘textual orbit’ (110). This metaphor is
strikingly similar to the one proposed by Steven Jones (2008) in the context of
videogame paratexts, as we will see below.
Replacing when with what if: a new view on paratextual

temporality
As we saw above, the digital text is far more fluid and transient than its print
coun- terpart: it can be quickly and easily updated, with the result that any one
digital text may go through many unsignalled iterations. The digital paratext is
similarly ephemeral, particularly if we allow for webpages and websites to be
considered as part of the paratext, as argued above. The transience of both text
and paratext makes very difficult any temporal mapping of one to the other
along the lines proposed by Genette. As Nottingham-Martin (2014) observes, it
is hard to track when paratexts appear relative to what she terms ‘anchor-texts’
(290) in transmedia storytelling, because ‘one of the affordances of digital media,
especially web content, is that it can be updated nearly continuously,
sometimes with no record of the previous content’ (293). Nottingham-Martin
also points out that digital texts offer multiple, non-obligatory points of entrance,
and that readers may therefore not access some paratexts at all; for this reason,
she suggests replacing Genette’s temporal framework with a conditional one, or
in other words, asking ‘“what if” the reader experiences a paratextual element
before, simultaneously with, or after he or she encounters the anchor-text’ (293),
rather than trying to map when each paratext is published relative to the text in
line with Genette’s model. Stewart (2010, 71) makes a similar suggestion, but
goes one step further by proposing that critics complement qualitative analysis
with quantitative analysis, studying flows to digital text sites in an effort to
understand which of the sometimes conflicting thresholds to the text are most
frequently used. The issue of ascertaining which paratexts viewers actually
access is also one which is increasingly preoccupying scholars in media studies,
as we will see below.
Replacing authorship with authorisation and editorialisation

In the introduction to their 400-page edited volume on the applications of para-
textual theory to digital contexts, Desrochers and Apollon (2014a, xxii) identify
the status and function of the author as ‘perhaps the thorniest element of
Genette’s theory, especially in digital culture’. As we will see below, the issue
of the connection between authorship and paratexts is one that is also raised
repeatedly in other media contexts, with the majority of scholars choosing to
weaken the link between authorial intention and paratextual status. Georg
Stanitzek (2005, 34) suggests that attempts to apply Genette’s framework to
contexts other than the traditional book force to the surface questions which
Genette ‘attempted to exclude systematically from his conception of the
paratext’, motivating a reconsideration of some of the weaker aspects of
Genette’s theory in the process. He sees Genette’s refusal to engage with
Foucault’s interrogation of the function of the author as providing a case in point
(see Stanitzek (2005, 35) for further discussion). As noted in Chapter 2, this issue
is one that is also of paramount importance to any attempt to adapt Genette’s
theory to translation, and we shall return to it at several moments in the
remainder of this book. In this section, I shall outline two of the most interesting
solutions proposed by scholars of digital literature in relation to this issue.
Authorisation
When addressing the phenomenon of reader-produced material which may serve
as a threshold to digital texts or influence other readers’ interpretations of them,
digital culture scholars are unanimous in their agreement that such material can
and should be considered part of a text’s paratext. While some argue this point
on the basis of the spatial or functional characteristics of such material,
discarding the relevance of any notion of authorship, 11 others build a case for
considering material posted on platforms specifically designed for the purpose of
enabling reader interaction as part of the paratext. Thus, in the case of
transmedia projects, Nottingham-Martin (2014, 296) argues that the nature of
such projects ‘“authorizes” readers to contribute to the narrative in an active
way, which implicitly also “authorizes” readers in the sense of granting them a
kind of authorial and authoritative status’. Similarly, in her study of e-books,
McCracken (2013, 112) considers popular highlighting and reader comments to
be part of an electronic text’s paratext on the basis that the platforms on which
these take place are built into the devices by the publisher. In their study of
fanfiction, Heather Hill and Jan Pecoskie (2014, 156) take this argument one
stage further, removing the need for a publisher or other text-creator to issue the
authorisation and arguing instead that it is the nature of the genre itself that
creates this authorisation:
Certainly Genette (1997) argues that epitexts and peritext must be con-
structed with authorial intention (p.2) . . . but the fact that the [fanfiction]
community itself is an authorial platform negates the confines of Genette’s
definition of authorial intention and widens its parameters.
Editorialisation
One of the most detailed discussions of the question of authorship is found in Vitali-
Rosati’s (2014) contribution to Desrochers and Apollon’s volume. In this essay,
Vitali-Rosati argues that the theory of the death of the author that was
proclaimed by Foucault and Barthes in the 1960s and 1970s ‘did not provide the
conditions for a shift towards a world without authors because of its inherent
lack of concrete editorial practices different from the existing ones’ (111), linked
with the economic model in which printed works circulate. He goes on to posit
that the ‘birth and dif- fusion of the Web . . . have allowed the concrete
development of a different way of interpreting the authorial function’ (111),
making the death of the author now possible. In order to demonstrate this,
Vitali-Rosati pinpoints the two main functions of the author, based on Genette’s
own analysis. These are, first, to legitimate the text and what it says by taking
responsibility for it and, second, to ‘produce the unique- ness of the text’ (115).
In the context of the web, Vitali-Rosati (111) argues that these functions are
fulfilled by a ‘set of editorialization elements’, making authors no longer
necessary. To understand his position, we need to understand what he means by
‘editorialization’. As Vitali-Rosati (2016) explains in another publication, he is using
this term not as a derivative of the English term editorialise, with its sense of
expressing an opinion in an editorial, but as a neologism from the re-semanticised
French term éditorialisation. In French, he explains, the word has acquired a broader
meaning and refers to the ‘set of dynamics that produce and structure digital
space’ (104). For example, in the case of Amazon,
the editorialization of content . . . is the result of the dynamic interaction

of the Amazon algorithm, the platform’s graphics and ergonomics, the
databases, the users’ actions, and all sorts of practices that take place
within the space. The totality of these interactions – always in motion and
always changing – is what structures the space.
104
In the digital milieu, it is editorialisation which ‘makes a text accessible and

determines its context’ (Vitali-Rosati 2014, 113), rather than the traditional
print publisher, working in collaboration with or in the interests of the author, as
in Genette’s model. Examples of editorialisation elements include the indexation
of a text by search engines using metadata, which ‘allows readers to trust and
find the text’ (Vitali-Rosati 2014, 123), and social networks, which vouch for a
text’s quality and interest. Vitali-Rosati (2014, 113) concludes that ‘paratext, as the
set of online editorialization devices surrounding a text . . . and providing its
meaning, can completely replace the traditional authorial function, which seems
obsolete in this context’. The efforts of Vitali-Rosati, Nottingham-Martin,
McCracken and others to adapt Genette’s framework to e-books and internet-
based literature have many points in common with the work of scholars in media
studies, particularly in the domains of film, television and videogames; it is to
these that we now turn.
Paratexts of film, television and videogames

Writing in 2010, Jonathan Gray (2010, 4) called for a ‘relatively new type of
media analysis’ which would focus on the media world’s equivalent of book
covers such as opening credit sequences, trailers, posters and promotional
campaigns. Gray adopts Genette’s terms paratexts and paratextuality to denote
such supposedly peripheral elements, arguing like Genette that they play a crucial
role in meaning- making for the films and other media products to which they
are thresholds. We should note that Gray was not the first to assert the relevance
of Genette’s concept of the paratext for film and television studies, even if it
was his book that prompted the boom in interest in studying media paratexts
in the UK and the US. Earlier efforts to draw links between Genette’s
paratextual framework and audiovisual genres can be found in de Mourgues
(1994) as well as in important studies by German scholars such as Klaus
Kreimeier and Georg Stanitzek (2004) and Alexander Böhnke (2007). In many
respects, these studies represent more focused attempts to engage with the detail of
Genette’s theory; unlike Gray (2010), they address some of the key difficulties
associated with adapting Genette’s concept of the paratext to audiovisual contexts,
notably his conceptualisation of the paratext as subservient to the text and its link
to authorial intention. Böhnke (2004, 228), for example, views both of these
aspects as severely restricting the transferability of the concept to the
audiovisual realm and argues that they need to be dropped. Although Gray does
not reference any of these earlier studies, the explicit conclusions reached by
Böhnke and others regarding the adaptations that are needed if Genette’s
concept of the paratext is to be adequate for media studies anticipate his
position, as we will see below.
In addition to these studies on film and television, Gray’s seminal publication
followed on from two significant studies of the videogame industry, both of
which stressed the usefulness of Genette’s concept to understanding the con-
temporary mediascape. Thus Mia Consalvo’s (2007) study of the phenomenon
of cheating suggests that, whereas the concept of intertextuality is unable to
account for the videogames system as a whole, Genette’s conceptualisation of
the paratext constitutes ‘a better way to think about the game industry and the
text (and industries) that surround it’ (21). Jones’s enquiry into the meaning
of videogames, published the following year, reaches a similar conclusion (see
Jones, 2008, 7). Like Gray and the majority of other media scholars, Consalvo
and Jones adopt the spirit rather than the letter of Genette’s framework, broad-
ening Genette’s definitions of the paratext to allow it to encompass a wide range
of material, including material produced by fans rather than by the makers of
the product or text itself.
We should note that, in Gray’s framework, a paratext is not something which
serves as threshold to a text, but to a work, and that it is paratext and work
together which make a text. In other words, Gray uses the term text in a different
manner to Genette, adopting a Barthesian view of text as something that is
neither concrete nor finite, but constructed by readers, ‘experienced only in an
activity of
production’ (Barthes 1977, 157). However, as Gray (Brookey and Gray 2017,
102) acknowledges in a later reflection on developments in media-related
paratextual analysis, this terminology has not been widely taken up, with most
media studies scholars opposing paratext to text rather than to work. In this section,
and for the sake of consistency with discussions elsewhere in this volume, I
therefore use text in a manner parallel to Genette, rather than in the Barthesian
sense preferred by Gray.
Elements
The list of tangible paratexts relevant to television shows, films, videogames and
‘natively digital texts’ (Pesce and Noto 2016, 2) such as web documentaries is long,
and reflects what Sara Pesce and Paolo Noto (2016, 3) term the ‘extraordinary
quantity of paratextual materials circulating on- and off-line’. An indicative but not
exhaustive list is as follows:
 posters or billboards
 trailers
 opening credit sequences
 DVD covers and other packaging material
 DVD bonus material
 prequels and sequels
 podcasts
 interviews
 websites
 spoilers
 recaps
 idents12
 iPhone apps
 merchandise and toys13
 alternate reality games14
 spinoff videogames15
 internet memes16
 animated GIFS17 (often produced by users)
 fan videos
 blogging
 reviews
 audience discussions
 pop-up ads
 online commentaries
 live tweeting (e.g. during TV shows)
 gaming magazines
 gaming strategy guides
 technological cheat devices such as enhancers (genies, sharks) and mod chips
 fan-created games.
In addition to these tangible paratexts, intangible aspects such as the genre of

a film can also function paratextually, 18 in much the same manner as the factual
paratext identified by Genette.
Functions
Many of the functions of media-related paratexts are similar to the functions of
literary paratexts discussed by Genette. For example, media-related paratexts
such as trailers offer viewers ‘the possibility of either stepping inside [the text] or
turning back’ (Genette 1997, 2), while paratexts such as TV recaps foreground
particular aspects of the show to ensure a ‘pertinent reading’ (Genette 1997, 2)
of what follows. Other media-related paratexts, like certain literary paratexts, may
seem at first glance to serve a particular function but in fact also serve others: for
example, the commentaries that are often supplied as DVD bonus material, rather
like the extensive additional material that forms part of literary scholarly
editions, serve on one level to guide interpretation of the text, but on another are
commercial in intent, included to encourage purchase of the DVD or book in
question.19
Media studies scholars also focus, however, on paratextual functions that are
distinct from those analysed by Genette. Paul Benzon (2013, 93), for exam-
ple, examines the complex functions of the compulsory paratexts to DVDs in
the present cultural and temporal context, explaining that they ‘hedge in mul-
tiple directions against the obsolescence of the very product to which they are
appended’. Other scholars focus on the links between paratexts and brands, often
as part of broader enquiries into the phenomenon of branding in media,
something which is growing in importance in line with the increase in channels
and online digital services and the associated pressure for media corporations to
win and keep viewers. Catherine Johnson (2012), for example, studies idents and
interstitials as well as various ‘extension[s] of programme content’ (144) such as
websites, additional short films, and promotional blogs, noting the usefulness of
‘think[ing] about the television programme as part of a network of paratexts’ (146). 20
Other functions highlighted in the context of media-related paratexts include
examining the effects of paratexts on a fictional world’s ‘life expectancy’ (Pesce
and Noto 2016b, 1); assessing the connections between paratexts and ways of
remembering or nostalgia (see, in particular, the essays in the second part of Pesce
and Noto’s (2016a) volume); and exploring the ‘orienting’ function of
paratexts (Mittell 2015, 261–91).
Characteristics
Some of the media-related paratexts listed above offer relatively clear parallels with
the literary paratexts studied by Genette: DVD covers and packaging operate in
much the same way as book covers and other parts of the publisher’s peritext
(see Birke and Christ 2013, 71), while interviews, reviews and online commentaries
are comparable to the authorial and allographic epitexts discussed by Genette.
Other media-related paratexts, however, are markedly different from literary
paratexts,
notably in their authorship, substance, temporality and relation to the text.

Rather than taking a chronological approach to media scholarship on paratexts,
structuring discussion along the lines of these points of divergence offers a
useful way of pinpointing the ways in which media theorists have developed and
expanded Genette’s framework.
Authorship
While user-generated paratexts would not count as paratexts under Genette’s
model, since they have no direct connection to the author of the text, media
studies theorists tend to federate all peripheral and threshold matter under the
term paratext and introduce a range of sub-categories to reflect the type of
originator.21 The labels given to these sub-categories vary from theorist to theorist,
but the gist of the distinctions remains the same. Thus Gray (2010, 143)
distinguishes between ‘industry-created’ and ‘viewer-’ or ‘audience-created’
paratexts, Jason Mittell (2015, 262) refers to ‘official and unofficial paratexts’ and
also speaks more specifically of ‘fan-created’ paratexts, and Martha Boni (2016, 213)
coins the term grassroots paratexts in opposition to official paratexts.22 Slightly different
terminology is developed by Consalvo (2007) in her study of videogames: she starts
off initially considering as paratext ‘all of the elements surrounding a text that
help structure it and give it meaning’ (21), but in the course of her analysis
develops a distinction between the ‘core game industry’ (10) on the one hand and
the ‘paratextual industry’ (10) on the other. In this dichotomy, the paratextual
industries are those which produce non-authorised material, such as strategy
guides, tip lines, cheat books, GameSharks and mod chips (9). In other words, in
direct opposition to the constraints on the paratext imposed by Genette, the
paratexts of Consalvo’s analysis are precisely those that do not have a connection
with authorial intention.23
It is important to note that none of the coinages outlined above involve the
word author, or in other words, do not oppose the viewer-/audience-/user-/fan-
created paratext to an author-created one. The absence of the word author is a
reflection of the complexities of authorship pertaining to the texts themselves.
As Mittell (2015, 88) explains, ‘film scholars, critics, fans, and the industry itself
have wrestled with authorship for decades’, arriving at a mode of authorship
attribution which he suggests might be termed ‘authorship by responsibility’
(88), as opposed to the model of ‘authorship by origination’ (87), generally
imagined for literary texts. The mode of attribution for television series is
different again, and can be conceptualised as ‘authorship by management’ (88),
a model which ‘emphasizes the additional role that television authors must take
in helming an ongoing series rather than a stand-alone work’ (89). Although
these models of authorship permit individuals such as the director, producer or
showrunner to be identified as the author of a particular film or TV series,
Mittell stresses that ‘given the intensely collaborative nature of the production
process, such notions of authorship, even in its managerial conception,
oversimplify the creative process and threaten to deny agency to the array of
contributors who help make television’ (95).24 At
the same time, Mittell argues that conceptions of authorship ‘still function in our
understanding of television narrative, are active within industrial, critical, and
fan discourses, and serve an important cultural role’ (95). In other words, as
Mittell shows, authorship is a product of the way in which television series and other
types of cultural entertainment are programmed and circulated, and serves a
range of important functions, including those of branding and reputation-
building.
Given the multiplicity of people involved in creating and circulating filmic
and televisual texts and the severing of the link between authorship and
origination, it is not surprising that media studies scholars have opted for
function- rather than originator-based criteria for deciding what might be
considered to constitute a paratext, and that terminology used to denote
originators is based on broad group- ings (industry, corporate, viewer, etc.)
rather than on terms which might denote individuals (e.g. director-produced
paratext, screen-writer-produced paratext, etc.). Such an approach allows
scholars to fully acknowledge and interrogate the meaning-producing and
meaning-changing power of all paratext producers, rather than restricting
analysis to those working with the official sanction of a production company.
Ephemerality
The notion of ephemerality is particularly relevant to the study of media-related
paratexts in two ways: first, many media paratexts are short in duration; second,
many media paratexts are only available for a short period. An example of the
first type of brevity is provided by channel idents, which are typically shown on
screen for fifteen to twenty-five seconds (Grainge 2011b, 91). However, as
Charlie Mawer, in interview with Paul Grainge (2011b, 94), points out, idents
are likely to be watched thousands of times, bringing their brevity into contrast
with the amount of time in total that any one individual might spend watching
them. The second type of brevity is encapsulated by the bus shelter, which, in
Gray’s (2016, 32) words, ‘over its lifetime may host hundreds of posters for movies
but each for no more than a week or two’. The ephemerality of these types of
elements means that historically far less scholarly attention has been paid to
them than to ‘the more solid and substantial film and television content’
(Grainge 2011a, 10).
Yet this lack of attention does not match the amount of finance typically
invested by production companies in these apparently peripheral elements (see
Ellis 2011, 68), and also has consequences for the validity of media scholarship,
as Gray (2016, 32) explains:
To some, the disappearance of ads, trailers, toys, merchandise, press

cover- age, and more may seem wholly unproblematic. After all, textual
analysis as a technique regularly fetishizes a solitary engagement with ‘the
thing itself,’ excluding the static and noise introduced by paratexts . . .
But . . . paratexts matter. The ads that graced my hypothetical bus shelter
did not just gesture at films: they created meaning for them.
Gray illustrates this point with a discussion of Mad Men, showing that, while many
academic articles focus on it as a feminist text, many of the paratexts that
currently surround the show are reducing or even ‘outright destroy[ing]’ (Gray
2016, 37) the show’s feminism by presenting the main actresses as objects of
sexual desire. Gray (2016, 39) argues that, given that ‘by and large . . . most
libraries hold on to the product itself, not the paratexts’, analysts trying to make
sense of what a text like Mad Men ‘was and what it did in social, cultural terms’ in
the future will not be able to access all of the relevant material; he concludes that
the reliability of their analyses – and indeed any current efforts to analyse media
products from the past – must therefore be cast into doubt.25
Temporality
Unlike Genette’s framework which distinguishes systematically and with rela-
tively little difficulty between original, later and delayed paratexts, as discussed in
Chapter 1, the paratexts associated with the contemporary entertainment industry
may be accessed at different moments relative to the text by different viewers,
similar to the paratexts of digital literary texts discussed above. Gray (2010, 23)
foregrounds the contrast between paratexts which ‘grab the viewer before he
or she reaches the text and try to control the viewer’s entrance to the text’ and
those which ‘flow between the gaps of textual exhibition, or that come to us
“during” or “after” viewing’. The former, which Gray (2010, 23) terms ‘entry-
way paratexts’, span elements such as genre, critical reviews, advertising, hype,
previews, trailers, spinoff merchandise, and so forth. As both Jones (2008, 152)
and Consalvo (2007, 8) observe, the paratexts that proliferate in anticipation of
new videogames are particularly numerous, far exceeding those that precede the
publication of a literary text.
The paratexts which appear during the viewing or playing of the text, which
Gray (2010, 23) terms ‘in medias res paratexts’, encompass such things as bonus
materials, websites, fan discussion forums, alternate reality games, spinoff novels,
and mini-episodes, all material through which viewers can continue engaging
with a series or regular show in between the actual episodes. The presence of in
medias res paratexts, in particular, has profound effects on meaning creation for
the text itself: rather than asking what a text is, Gray (2010, 41) suggests that we
need to know how it happens. With regard to serial programmes and films, for
example, Gray (2010, 42) argues that ‘it would be ludicrous to think that we
simply tuck away our interpretative efforts into small corners of our brains,
waiting until after the series finale to make sense of a text’. On the contrary,
much of our sense- making goes on in the moments between shows, moments
which ‘are often filled with paratexts’ (Gray 2010, 42) such as online discussions or
tie-in products. Jones (2008) formulates a similar argument in relation to
videogames, suggesting that, far from being contained, as it were, in the text
itself, meaning is created in the processes of game-playing and engaging with
the ‘teeming cloud of dynamically intermediated paratexts’ (46):
Video gamers already know in the most practical, mundane ways that
meanings are social and collaboratively constructed, that they reside not in
self-contained objects, narratives, plots, or dramatic arcs, but in procedurally-
enabled dynamic interactions, cooperative and competitive, improvised in
conjunction with other ‘intelligences’.
173
Hierarchy
The proliferation of paratexts that is a feature of the present-day media landscape
leads many theorists to question the supposed hierarchy between text and paratext
that is a key feature of Genette’s model. Thus Consalvo (2007, 8) argues that the
paratextual system that appears in anticipation of and alongside videogames ‘isn’t
the game industry but is closely related to it. To call it peripheral dismisses or
ignores its centrality to the gaming experience’. She continues: ‘Paratexts are . . .
anything but peripheral, and they grow more integral to the digital game industry
and player community with every year’ (182). In a later publication, she takes this
argument still further, analysing cases in which a supposedly peripheral or
supplementary element becomes central, and arguing for ‘flexibility in when a
game text (or any other media text) might become a paratext and vice versa’
(Consalvo 2017, 178). Gray (2010, 39) similarly argues that, in some cases,
‘paratexts overtake and subsume their texts’, providing as an example of such a
process the phenomenon of ‘fan vidding’ (155). Here, fans take clips from a film or
show and set them to lyrics of a background song in order to ‘offer an interpretation
of and/or argument regarding that show’ (154); these vids not only shape
viewers’ interpretations of a particular show or a character within it, but can
sometimes ‘become texts in and of their own right, watched closely, parsed for
meanings, eagerly anticipated, traded in fan communities, given commentary
tracks, and becoming the basis for their own conventions’ (159). In a similar
vein, in her study of the world of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – which
encompasses the Millennium Trilogy novels by Stieg Larsson, three Swedish films, a
feature film by David Fincher, a graphic novel and a radio drama, as well as various
ancillary media and derivative fan productions – Martha Boni (2016, 217) argues
that:
it is increasingly difficult to conceive of paratext in terms of a straightforward

correlation to a primary text. Paratexts should no longer be considered just
‘thresholds for the interpretation’ (as in Genette’s work): they have to be
considered as separate mini-worlds building up a media ‘ecosystem’.
Jones (2008, 69–70) proposes a similar shift in metaphorical conceptualisation,

speaking of a ‘cobbled-together universe’ composed of official and unofficial
elements:
almost any successful game exists in a system of many worlds, only some of
which are strictly story-worlds but all of which, I would argue, add to the
sum total of the game’s universe . . . If there is official story canon, then there
is likely
to be unofficial apocrypha, sectarian dispute, Gnostic reinterpretation – and

at the outer reaches, fan fiction and slash fiction, mashups and parodies –
all of which may be imagined as numerous other small planets or satellites or
artificial worlds orbiting along in the collectively cobbled-together universe
that contains but is not entirely coextensive with that smaller subset of orderly
authorial stories and characters, designs of maps and objects, not to mention
the rules and formal constraints on potential gameplay events that are
sometimes naively referred to as ‘the game itself’.
Nevertheless, scholars in these disciplines do not tend to discard notions of

centre and periphery completely. Instead, they stress that, while some paratexts
may fit the more traditional view of something that is in service of a core text,
others may not – or at least not for particular viewers or at particular moments in
time.
Variability
The range and physically disparate nature of paratextual elements associated
with films, television shows, and games make it unlikely that any given viewer
will encounter the same range of paratexts as another viewer. In recent years,
technological developments and more specifically the personalisation of on-
demand television interfaces have rendered the question of variability in paratextual
experience even more pressing. Gray outlines this issue in relation to Netflix,
but it can also be seen to be relevant to other on-demand services as they switch
to sign-in- only, personalised models:26
We’re all getting potentially really different experiences of texts and of the
textual world based on what the various algorithms around us think they
know about us. On my Apple TV, for instance, when I log into Netflix,
there is no category or menu of Netflix Originals . . . the flow that Netflix
gives me is not the flow that Netflix gives you or someone else.
Brookey and Gray 2017, 104–5
As with studies of digital paratexts, the issue of variability makes it more apposite to
replace the when of Genette’s model with a what if, as well as emphasising the need
to find empirical methods for investigating which paratexts are, in Gray’s (Brookey
and Gray 2017, 105) words, ‘loud’, rather than ‘quiet’, which cannot be avoided
and which are less likely to be accessed by significant numbers of viewers.
Tensions between industry-created and viewer-created paratexts

The move in media studies to extend the reach of the paratext to encompass
viewer- created paratexts in addition to industry-created ones, as outlined above,
leads inevitably to the possibility that paratexts might come into conflict with each
other in a way that is far less likely under Genette’s model. Indeed, Gray (2010, 39)
characterises
the dynamic of today’s paratext-rich media landscape as primarily conflictual rather

than complementary, stating, for example, that ‘with all sorts of random
paratextual or intertextual collisions threatening the encoded meaning of texts, and
with devious and critical paratexts or intertexts working to hijack their meaning-
making processes, the industry requires a strong frontline of paratexts’. The issue
of tensions between paratexts is often brought to the fore by scholars working in fan
studies, who stress the ways in which fans are active participants in the processes of
meaning production and negotiation that surround a text (see, for example, Henry
Jenkins’ (1991) seminal work, Textual Poachers). In a similar vein, Consalvo’s (2007)
study of cheating in videogames, mentioned above, devotes considerable attention to
conflicts between the paratextual industries and the core game industry, suggesting,
for example, that ‘hardware was the first consistent area of trouble for the paratextual
industry’ (64), with the game development industry fighting back against
companies involved in developing modifications for games without their
authorisation. In an interesting twist on this state of affairs, however, Consalvo
also considers the phenomenon of what she terms the ‘growing corporatization of
the paratextual industries’ (12), whereby game industry companies purchase
websites and other paratexts developed by fans (see Consalvo 2007, 175–90).
Paratexts of print and online newspapers

In comparison with the high levels of interest in the paratext in the domain of
digital and media culture, take-up of the concept in the domain of news analysis
has been much less pronounced. The Danish scholar Finn Frandsen (1992) was
the first to adapt paratextual theory to news analysis, and it is within Nordic
scholarship, and to a lesser extent German scholarship, that engagement with
the concept of the paratext in this field of study has found some level of
exploration. Frandsen’s discussion builds on the two seminal works published by
Teun A. van Dijk, News as Discourse (1988b) and News Analysis (1988a), even
though van Dijk himself does not apply the term paratext to material found in
newspapers.27 Frandsen (1992, 148) critiques ‘that part of van Dijk’s “new,
interdisciplinary theory of news in the press” . . . which concerns what I call the
paratextual structure of the news text’. He goes on to specify that he is taking the
paratext to denote ‘the headline system of news text (superheadline, main
headline, subheadline) as well as the so-called lead’ (149), though subsequently
argues that any material which functions as a threshold between reader and news
text can also be considered paratextual, including – and even particularly –
material which derives from section editors rather than the jour- nalist who
authors the news article itself (153).
Following on from Frandsen, a number of Scandinavian scholars have drawn
on the concept of the paratext in an effort to draw attention to the importance
of considering the format and structure of newspapers as part of an analysis of
news discourse. Yngve Benestad Hågvar (2012), for example, considers content
taxonomies (e.g. ‘News’, ‘Sports’, ‘Opinion’) and section names to be
paratexts,28 and explores the differences between these paratexts in print and
online editions of Norwegian newspapers. Hågvar situates the study of paratexts
within the field of
format studies, which is interested in ‘how a medium organizes its contents

physically and semiotically’ (28), and draws on a theoretical framework
developed by Ledin (2000), also based on Frandsen. 29 Hågvar explains that Ledin’s
format analysis model ‘combines multimodal paratext analysis with layout analysis’
(2012, 28, italics in original), thereby aiming to describe, respectively, ‘the
thresholds and construction of “semiotic rooms”’ (28, italics in original). Ledin’s
model proposes a categorisation of paratexts based on their levels of generality,
their scope and their function (see Hågvar 2012, 28–9).
What is particularly interesting about Hågvar’s study is his exploration of
the way in which the paratexts – or perhaps what might more accurately be
labelled the ‘paratextual structure’ – of online newspapers actually shape the
way in which the texts themselves are written. Hågvar provides the example
of a news story about an American mass murderer being sentenced to death. The
online newspaper Dagbladet.no reported on this story under the ‘Celebrity’ sec-
tion, foregrounding the celebrity status of the murderer in both the headline and
the opening sentence of the report itself. In contrast, another online paper, VG
Nett, published the story in their Foreign Affairs section, referring to the
murderer in the headline simply as a ‘serial killer’ rather than as a ‘dating show
suitor’ and foregrounding instead the foreign location of the events (see Hågvar
2012, 32). Furthermore, the very existence of a paratextual tab such as
‘Celebrity’ influences the generation of texts by journalists or, as Hågvar (30)
puts it, ‘the fixed nature of the menu invites a continuous production of texts
within each section’. This sets the relationship between paratext and text in
newspaper contexts somewhat at odds with the relationship envisaged by
Genette, in which the paratext is ‘only an assistant, only an accessory of the text’
(Genette 1997, 410). Here, the paratextual structure and the existence of the
paratextual tabs are the primary and prior feature, and the texts are produced to
match this paratextual frame.
As in studies of digital culture, distinguishing between text and paratext in
certain news contexts can prove difficult. This difficulty is indirectly illustrated
by Ulrich Schmitz’s (2014) study of print and online newspapers. While Schmitz
posits a relatively straightforward distinction between text and paratext in
printed newspapers, defining paratexts as ‘side texts, which accompany the main
text in an inviting, describing, orientating, commenting or subsidiary way’ (290),
he shows less certainty in distinguishing between them in the case of online
newspapers. Schmitz initially makes reference to ‘paratextual tabs at the top
and bottom of the entire site [of the Rheinische Post <www.rp-online.de>]’ (291)
and appears to consider everything else as texts, rather than paratexts, counting
seventy-seven texts on the scrollable site. However, Schmitz later refers to these
texts as ‘paratexts’, writing that ‘to a larger extent (especially at the bottom of
the page) there are only paratexts, i.e. titles of categories, headlines, the link
“mehr” [more], and similar link labels or pictograms’ (294), and reflecting
generally that ‘the majority of the front page consists of paratexts and visual
characters (e.g. pictograms)’ (294). Schmitz’s uncertainty over which elements
of online newspapers are to be considered ‘text’ and which ‘paratext’ indicates
the need for more extensive and
systematic reflection on the adaptation of Genette’s concept of the paratext to

the domain of contemporary mass media, a need which is openly acknowledged
by Hågvar (2012, 29).
Concluding remarks
As the above discussion makes clear, scholars in digital, media, and communica-
tion studies have moulded the notion of the paratext to fit the material at hand,
moving quite some distance from Genette’s constraining parameters in the
process. The extent of the changes to Genette’s original conceptualisation of the
paratext are encapsulated by the new metaphors proposed in place of Genette’s
metaphor of the threshold, which see texts and paratexts as part of an ‘ecosystem’
(Boni 2016, 217) or universe (Jones 2008, 69; McCracken 2013, 110). For the most
part, Stanitzek’s (2005, 41) optimism about the continuing relevance of the concept
of the paratext, expressed over a decade ago, has been shared: as Pesce and Noto
(2016a, xxxviii) observe, ‘even as the digital revolution causes upheaval and
disruption in the evolution of our conceptual tools, . . . something, in this notion
of paratext, remains astonishingly relevant’. Yet these sentiments have not been
unanimous. Thus Birke and Christ (2013, 79), for example, suggest that the
heuristic value of the paratext concept may reach its eventual limits with regard
to ‘“digital-born” narrative – narrative texts that are created in and for digital
media and that are, presumably, at least one step further removed from
concepts of the work, the author, and the text as object than are those texts that
are merely digitized’. They warn that ‘speaking of paratext in interlinked
digital environments . . . leaves scholars at the impasse that Genette himself
warned of, namely that of “rashly proclaiming that ‘all is paratext’”’ (80)
and conclude that, in such an environment, ‘we need new concepts and a
new vocabulary’. A similar position is taken by Annika Rockenberger (2014,
253), who questions the way in which Genette’s concept has been applied to
videogame studies, particularly the fact that it has become, in her view, ‘a vague
umbrella term with an extremely broad extension, covering almost everything
somehow “related to,” “referring to,” or “surrounding” the primary object
(the “video game itself”)’. Rockenberger (2014, 253) proposes an alternative
terminology which uses ‘framings’ as ‘the higher-order umbrella term’ and
restricts the use of paratext to ‘messages or communicative signals’ that meet
the criteria of being functionally subservient to the game proper and
authorised by ‘entitled members of the game’s production collective’. The
choice presented by Rockenberger – namely to extend Genette’s concept as the
majority of scholars have done, or to constrain the concept within the param-
eters established by Genette and look to other terms to denote the material,
functions or activities that are excluded from the concept as a result – is, as she
argues, ‘not a matter of truth and verification but a matter of practical adequacy’
(Rockenberger 2014, 271). This is, in many respects, the best summary of the
choice that this book is seeking to make with regard to translation studies – and
we will return to it in Part III.
Notes
1 For a discussion of this issue, see, for example, Poldsaar (2010).
2 See McCracken (2013, 105–6) for an overview of these developments.
3 For explicit reflection on this issue in relation to e–books, see Smyth (2014, 330).
4 On the latter, see Genette’s (1997) description of the text as having a ‘relatively immuta-
ble identity’ (408) – a description which he qualifies in a note:‘very relatively, of course,
and very diversely: one has only to think of those medieval works of which no two texts
are absolutely alike’ (408n10).
5 See also the chapters in Desrochers and Apollon (2014a), most of which sketch a work-
ing definition of the paratext based on Genette at the outset.
6 It should be noted that Pressman is writing as the founder of a software strategy and
design company (see Pressman 2014, 335). The term secondary orality is borrowed from
Ong (2012).
7 The suggested typology of functions is intended merely as a way of giving structure
to this introduction of a vast and potentially bewildering array of paratextual elements.
Alternative typologies of function for digital literature can be found in Nottingham-
Martin (2014, 296–7) and Birke and Christ (2013, 67–8), and will be discussed further in
Part III.
8 Regarding webpages, see, for example, Stewart (2010) on the production company page
for the digital text Inanimate Alice; regarding websites, see, for example, Smyth (2014)
and McCracken (2013).
9 We should note that printed books sometimes also adopt this practice, including at the
end of a book the first chapter of another book by the same author.
10 On this last point, see Hill and Pecoskie (2014, 150–1).
11 See, for example, van Dijk (2014, 25).
12 An ident is ‘a short sequence shown on television between programmes to identify the
channel’ (English Oxford Living Dictionaries n.d.).
13 For a compelling theorisation of the paratextual relevance of toys and action figures, see
Suzanne Scott (2017).
14 Alternate reality games are ‘a transmedia form of fictional play that is often (though not
always) tied into marketing campaigns’ (Jones 2008, 11). Jones further explains:‘In ARGs,
players engage in an elaborate game of make-believe out in the world; they may use
websites,TV shows or ads, payphones, text-messages via cell-phone, even mailed objects,
as tokens and forms of expression and communication’ (2008, 11).
15 Note, however, that games scholars generally consider games to be texts which have their
own range of paratexts.
16 An internet meme is a ‘concept or idea that spreads “virally” from one person to another
via the Internet’ (Beal n.d.).
17 An animated GIF (Graphics Interchange Format) file is ‘a graphic image on a Web page
that moves – for example, a twirling icon or a banner with a hand that waves or letters
that magically get larger’ (TechTarget n.d.)
18 Gray (2010, 6) touches on this point, but most of the focus on paratextuality in media
studies to date has been on tangible rather than intangible paratexts.
19 Genette does not make this point directly, although he does make witty reference to the
voluminous nature of the Pléiade series (Genette 1997, 403). On DVDs, see Benzon’s
(2013, 93) argument that the ‘paratextual surplus’ of DVDs ‘serve[s] a stark economic
imperative’.
20 We will return to the connection between branding and paratexts in Chapter 6.
21 For a succinct justification of this move, see Brookey and Gray (2017, 102–3).
22 It should be noted that these uses of the terms official and unofficial are different from
Genette’s: as explained in Chapter 1, Genette’s official, semiofficial and unofficial para-
texts all refer to material that is connected in some way with the author.
23 It is worth noting that this focus on viewer- or fan-produced paratexts results in a
certain level of overlap with enquiries into participatory culture. This phenomenon
has been
explored in particular in works by Jenkins (1991, 2006, 2008), and includes the study
of fan videos, massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs) and web
discussion forums, often with an emphasis on the tensions and controversies associated
with them. Consalvo’s notion of ‘paratextual industries’ also overlaps with what Grainge
and Johnson (2015) term ‘promotional screen industries’.
24 Gray (2016, 35) similarly stresses that ‘most directors and showrunners are single agents
in a large network of authorship, where the media corporation that owns their property
controls much of the rest of that network’.
25 A similar point is made by Boni (2016, 219) in relation to the paratexts of The Girl with
the Dragon Tattoo, particularly in light of the short-lived paratexts that were part of a ‘viral’
campaign.
26 For a discussion of the varying levels to which UK channels are personalising their
on- demand interfaces, see Johnson (2017, 131).
27 The wording used by Frandsen (1992) in his chapter is rather misleading. For example,
he writes that ‘van Dijk is very cautious in his definition of the paratext’ (149) and also
includes a section entitled ‘Objections to van Dijk’s Concept of the Paratext’ (152).
However, an examination of van Dijk’s work shows that van Dijk does not employ the
term paratext or cite Genette anywhere.To be fair to Frandsen, after presenting a defini-
tion of the paratext based on van Dijk, he does stress that ‘this wording cannot be found
directly in van Dijk’s two books’ (149), but overall he does not make it clear that the
concept of the paratext as such finds no direct expression in van Dijk at all.
28 From his summary of Ledin’s framework, however, we can see that he also considers such
elements as headlines, bylines and hyperlinks to be paratexts.
29 As Ledin’s original book is in Swedish, a language in which I have no expertise beyond
words picked up while watching Scandi-noir, this section limits itself to Hågvar’s sum-
mary of Ledin’s framework.
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PART II
Case studies
4
AUTHORISED TRANSLATIONS AND
PARATEXTUAL RELEVANCE
English versions of Nietzsche
In this chapter, I return to the idea that translations can be considered to be para-
texts to the work in the original language, as evoked by Genette and discussed in
Chapter 1. Genette’s (1997, 405) suggestion that the paratextual relevance of a
translation is particularly strong when there is a close connection between
translator and author can perhaps best be illuminated in theoretical terms by
analogy with another form of textual transfer, namely that from written text to
audiobook. In an article exploring the development of e-books and digital
paratexts, Patrick Smyth (2014, 324) makes a cogent case for viewing
audiobooks as paratexts to original works when those audiobooks are narrated
by the author:
From one perspective, [audiobooks] are simply an alternate way of

presenting or bounding a central text. This is a particularly useful way of
looking at recorded books narrated by their authors rather than by
professional actors. This practice . . . is paratextual in the sense that it
facilitates another level of interpretation – when reading his or her own
work, an author can give emphasis or nuance to particular sections of the
text, or may provide charac- terization or emotional interpretations that go
beyond what listeners might experience were they to consume the book in
a more conventional manner.
If we imagine a scenario in which an author translates his or her own work into
another language, or has significant input into that process, it should be possible
to recognise, in the translation, places where emphasis has been given to
particular aspects, nuances introduced, or new insights given into
characterisation and so on. This is presumably the mode of reading that Genette
is suggesting we follow when he argues the case for translations being a kind of
paratext, and it raises the question of whether authorised translations can lay claim
to particular paratextual relevance. In this chapter, I ask what the notion of
‘authorised translation’ means and take the
78 Case studies
English translations of Nietzsche’s works as a case study through which to

explore the questions raised by the phenomenon in more detail.
Authorisation of translations
Although the term authorised translation has a long history of use in English,
notably in connection with Bible translation, definitions of the term are dif-
ficult to find. Specialist reference books such as the Dictionary of Translation
Studies (Shuttleworth and Cowie 1997), the Routledge Encyclopedia of
Translation Studies (Baker and Saldanha 2008) and the Handbook of Translation
Studies (Gambier and van Doorslaer 2013) contain no dedicated entry for the
term, although mention is made of authorised translations, notably the
Authorised Version of the Bible, in a number of places (see, for example, Baker
and Saldanha (2008, 24, 346) and Valdeón (2013, 113)). The term is also absent
from general dictionaries and encyclopedias.
This absence of clear definition allows for a significant degree of latitude in
use of the term, in line with the loose range of meanings of the adjective
authorised. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, when the adjective
authorised is related to ‘an action, undertaking, product, etc.’, it means ‘legally or
duly sanctioned; having official or formal approval’ (Oxford English Dictionary
2017). When applied to translation, this definition leaves open the key question of
agent: legally or duly sanctioned by whom (or by which institution)? Having the
official or formal approval of whom? In order for the term authorised translation to
convey adequate meaning, it would need to include this information alongside the
fact (or claim) that the translation has been authorised; invariably, however, the
term authorised translation is used on its own in the most prominent parts of
translation paratexts, and information on the agent behind the authorisation has
to be uncovered from a careful reading of other paratexts, if indeed it is present
at all.
Reliance on the semantic value of authorised as an adjective allows for still further
ambiguity when related to translation, however. The second and third meanings
of the adjective given in the OED are:
2. Of a person: that has been given authority; placed in a position of

authority; formally appointed to a particular role or duty.
3. That is acknowledged as authoritative; thoroughly established; highly
esteemed.
Oxford English Dictionary 2017
Although proper use of the second meaning of authorised would require it to collo-
cate with translator, rather than translation, it is perfectly feasible to imagine the
term authorised translation being used in such a way as to imply that the translation
has been produced by an authorised translator, thus making the end product
authorised. In other words, when we see the term authorised translation, the term
could be suggesting that the translation has undergone any one of three
processes; namely,
Authorised translations as paratexts 79
1) Someone (or some institution) has given the translation formal approval.
2) The translator, editor or publisher has been formally appointed by someone
(or some institution) to undertake the translation.
3) The translation has come to be regarded as authoritative or highly esteemed by
an unspecified person, group of people or institution.
If we were to undertake a history of authorised translations – something

which, to my knowledge, has yet to be done1 – we would see that the term is also
used in conjunction with a fourth process, namely:
4) The translator or editor claims authorised status for the translation through use
of the term authorised translation in the translation’s paratexts.
In this fourth scenario, authorisation is not formally given by any external body;
rather, the translator appeals to some kind of connection with an institution or
individual – very often the author – to make a case for his or her translation
having special status. When the term authorised translation is used in this way, it is
used per- formatively, or at least aspires to be: the translator or editor hopes that
by labelling the work as authorised, it will take on the status of an authorised
product, even if the grounds on which authorisation is claimed are not always
explicitly laid out or may be tenuous. As we will see in our case study, this
performative act is vulnerable to challenge and reversal.
In this chapter, I will explore the case of the so-called ‘first’ authorised
English translation of Nietzsche’s works, examining the grounds on which
authorisation was originally claimed, and exploring the way in which those
grounds became problematic for the reception of Nietzsche’s work in England.
In the final part of the chapter, I reflect on connections – or lack of – between
authorisation and paratextual value.
Nietzsche: the ‘first authorised’ English translation

The ‘Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche First Complete and Authorised
English Translation in Eighteen Volumes’, edited by Oscar Levy, was published
in the UK between 1909 and 1913. Oscar Levy was a German-Jewish physician
who settled in London in 1894 and became part of the New Age circle, a group
of writers and intellectuals centred around A.R. Orage (see Stone 2002, 12).
Levy described himself as a convert to Nietzsche’s thought, and drew on private
funds to finance the publication of the English translation (Stone 2002, 13).
The status of the Levy series as the authorised translation of Nietzsche’s
works is made clear on the front cover of each volume, each one displaying in
identical format the words ‘The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche: The
First Complete and Authorised English Translation Edited by Dr Oscar Levy’,
followed by a picture of Nietzsche, the volume number and the title of the work
(see, for example, Figure 4.1).
80 Case studies
FIGURE 4.1 Front cover of The Will to Power, volume 14 in The Complete Works of
Friedrich Nietzsche, edited by Oscar Levy
The name of the translator appears only on the inside title page, rather than on
the more prominent front cover. This implies that it is the fact that the translation
belongs to the authorised series that is of utmost importance, rather than the
name or expertise of the translator in question. The claim to authorisation is
repeated at the end of each book through the reproduction of a standard template
giving the list of translations in the series, under the heading ‘The works of
Friedrich Nietzsche: First Complete and Authorised English Translation’. This
template is gradually developed as the works are published, and in the back
matter to Early Greek Philosophy and Other Essays, which appeared in 1911, is
supplemented by a paragraph which directly asserts the quality of the
translations: ‘It is claimed for these translations that they have been written by
accomplished German scholars, who have spared no pains to render the poetical,
passionate, racy, and witty style of Nietzsche in adequate English’ (Nietzsche
1911, back matter). While this descriptive paragraph underlines the quality of
the translations, it does not engage with the notion of authorisation as such, and
the series thus claims authorised status for itself without outlining explicitly the
process through which authorisation was
acquired, or indeed engaging with the complexities of such a notion, particularly

in the context of a deceased author.
If there is any such outline, it is to be found in Levy’s ‘Editorial Note’ to
the first volume in the series. Here, Levy appears to be basing the claim for the
translations’ authorised status on the way in which the rights for the translations
were acquired, foregrounding his direct connections to Nietzsche’s sister, Elisabeth
Förster-Nietzsche, holder of the copyright to Nietzsche’s work and controller of
the Nietzsche archive:
The Editor, during a recent visit to Mrs. Förster-Nietzsche at Weimar,

acquired the rights of translation by pointing out to her that in this way
her brother’s works would not fall into the hands of an ordinary publisher
and his staff of translators: he has not, therefore, entered into any engage-
ment with publishers, not even with the present one, which could hinder
his task, bind him down to any text found faulty, or make him consent to
omissions or the falsification or ‘sugaring’ of the original text to further
the sale of the books.
Levy 1910a, viii
Connections to Förster-Nietzsche are also emphasised in the template in the back

matter of the translations, mentioned above: The Birth of Tragedy is advertised as
being ‘with Biographical Introduction by the Author’s Sister’, and Thus Spake
Zarathustra is described as being ‘with Introduction by Mrs Förster-Nietzsche’.
Further appeals to material by Förster-Nietzsche and reproductions of her
perspective on Nietzsche’s life and works can be found in the prefaces to Beyond
Good and Evil (Common 1923, xiv),2 The Will to Power (Ludovici 1914, vii, ix–
x) and, more briefly, Ecce Homo (Ludovici 1911, xiv).
Levy’s account of his trip to Weimar implies that he is the first person to
acquire such English translation rights, and also suggests that the direct line
between himself and Nietzsche’s sister guarantees the translations’ authenticity.
What Levy crucially fails to mention, however, is that authorised translations
of several of Nietzsche’s works were already in existence: Alexander Tille’s
translation of Thus Spake Zarathustra was published in 1896 by Henry and Co
in London and by MacMillan & Co in New York, and subsequently repub-
lished by Fisher Unwin in London in 1899; Thomas Common’s translation of
The Case of Wagner was also published in 1896 by Henry and Co in London
and by MacMillan & Co in New York, and subsequently republished by Fisher
Unwin in London in 1899; William Haussmann’s translation of A Genealogy of
Morals was published in 1897 by MacMillan & Co in New York (Henry and
Co having ceased publishing by this point) and in 1899 by Fisher Unwin in
London; Johanna Volz’s translation of The Dawn of Day was published in 1903
by Fisher Unwin in London and by MacMillan & Co in New York; Helen
Zimmern’s translation of Beyond Good and Evil was published in 1907 by The
Darien Press in Edinburgh and by MacMillan & Co in New York.3 These
82 Case studies
translations were originally envisaged as part of the ‘Sole Authorised English

and American Edition’ and, in the case of the publications by Henry and Co
and Fisher Unwin, are labelled explicitly as such in the front matter, as Figures
4.2 and 4.3 illustrate.4
The back matter of the 1896 volumes repeats the claim to authorisation, and
lists the other volumes that are planned in the series (see Figure 4.4).5
By stating that the translations are being ‘[i]ssued under the supervision of the
‘“Nietzsche Archiv” at Naumburg’, the publishers indicate that the claim to be
the ‘sole authorised edition’ is based on the fact that the official holder of the
rights to Nietzsche’s works has agreed to the translations, and also (through use
of the word ‘supervision’) has some level of involvement in the way in which
they are carried out.6
Helen Zimmern’s translation of Beyond Good and Evil, which was com-
pleted at the same time as The Case of Wagner and Thus Spake Zarathustra, and
was supposed to form one of the volumes in the ‘sole authorised’ series, as
confirmed by Figure 4.4 above, was subject to long publication delays. These
were caused initially by the collapse of Henry and Co and then, depending on
whose account is believed, by problems finding another publisher owing to
Nietzsche’s unpopularity in Britain (Levy 1924 [1913], ix–x) or to Elisabeth
Förster-Nietzsche’s obstructive behaviour (Common 1915, 115). When the
translation was finally published in 1907 by ‘The Good European Society’, a
FIGURE 4.2 Front matter of Thus Spake Zarathustra (Henry and Co, 1896)
FIGURE 4.3 Front matter of A Genealogy of Morals (Fisher Unwin, 1899)
‘one-man operation in the person of Thomas Common’ (Diethe 2014, 383),7

the front matter did not present the work as part of the ‘sole authorised edition’,
but rather claimed authorisation for the individual volume on the title page,
as Figure 4.5 shows.
The reason for the disappearance of the ‘sole authorised edition’ label
presumably lies in the complex disagreements and uncertainties that surrounded
the English
84 Case studies
FIGURE 4.4 Back matter of Thus Spake Zarathustra (Henry and Co, 1896)
translations following Förster-Nietzsche’s assertion of control over the

Nietzsche Archive, and which are outlined in Thatcher (1970) and Common
(1915). These disagreements seemingly made presenting the translation as part
of the 1896 edition impossible, even though the translation itself had been
undertaken under the auspices of that agreement.8 The grounds on which
authorisation for Zimmern’s translation is claimed are not made explicit
anywhere in the front or back matter,
FIGURE 4.5 Front matter of Beyond Good and Evil, translated by Helen Zimmern (The
Darien Press, 1907)
but an implicit justification can be found in the introduction to the translation,

written by Common:
Nietzsche was personally acquainted with Miss Helen Zimmern – her

important book on Schopenhauer brought her under his notice – and, as
appears from his letters, he had her in view as a translator of his works:
this led her to undertake the task of rendering this volume into English.
Common 1907, xiv
What is striking about this statement, to my mind, is not so much the shift in the
grounds for authorisation as the fact that more is not made of this direct
connection between Zimmern and Nietzsche, which is both well documented and
far from inconsequential. A German Jew who had emigrated with her family to
England as a child, Zimmern came to wider attention – including that of Richard
Wagner – after the publication of her biography of Schopenhauer in 1876 (Young
2010, 391). She first met Nietzsche in Bayreuth through contact with Wagner
(Diethe (1996, 99; Young 2010, 391), and corresponded with him later that same
year.9 She overlapped with Nietzsche in Sils Maria in the summers of 1884 and
1886 (Diethe 1996, 99). According
86 Case studies
to a variety of sources, she and Nietzsche were frequently to be found engaged in

deep conversation: when Meta von Salis and her mother went to Sils Maria in
September 1886, for example, ‘they arrived in the Alpenrose Hotel to find
Nietzsche sitting in a corner talking to Helen Zimmern’ (Diethe 1996, 84; see
also Young (2010, 432)); elsewhere it is reported that Nietzsche ‘frequently walked
with her [Zimmern] beside Lake Silvaplana and discussed his current work’
(Creffield 2004). In late 1888, when Nietzsche started to seek out translators for
Götzen-Dämmerung and Ecce Homo, he wrote to Peter Gast (Heinrich Köselitz),
asking his opinion of Zimmern as a possible translator: ‘she introduced
Schopenhauer to the English, why not his antipode?’ (Nietzsche to Köselitz, 9
December 1888, in Nietzsche (1984, 514, my translation)). He also told his
publisher, Constantin Georg Naumann, that he was in discussion with Zimmern,
‘an excellent author’ (Nietzsche to Naumann, 17 December 1888, in Nietzsche
(1984, 530, my translation)) with regard to the English translation of Ecce Homo,
mentioning her also to Franz Overbeck in a letter dated 29 December 1888, this
time as the translator he is envisaging for Götzen-Dämmerung (see Nietzsche 1984,
559). To Zimmern herself, he drafts a letter in early December 1888, explaining
that he is waging an attack on Christianity in two parts: first in Ecce Homo, which
is to be published simultaneously in German, French and English; and then in The
Antichrist, asking Zimmern directly if she will take on the English translation of
these works (see Nietzsche to Zimmern, circa 8 December 1888, in Nietzsche (1984,
511)). This letter was made available to the editors of the Nietzsche Briefwechsel only
in draft form and it is not clear whether it was ever actually sent; what is clear is that
Nietzsche also wrote Zimmern a shorter letter, dated 17 December 1888, asking
her to translate Peter Gast’s essay, Nietzsche-Wagner (which had appeared in the
journal Der Kunstwart and with which Nietzsche was delighted), ‘for one of the
big newspapers’ (Nietzsche to Zimmern, 17 December 1888, in Nietzsche (1984,
536, my translation)). He explains that it is absolutely necessary for him to become
known in England now, since it is his intention to ‘destroy Christianity’ (Nietzsche
1984, 536, my translation), something which will require access to the freedom of
the press of America, England and France. In contrast to the direct proposition
expressed in the draft letter, Nietzsche offers to send her the manuscript ‘wenn Sie
Lust haben’ (Nietzsche 1984, 536) [if you like]. He also says he will send Zimmern a
copy of Götzen-Dämmerung, suggesting: ‘you could potentially introduce this
piece in England’ (Nietzsche 1984, 536, my translation). Although Nietzsche’s
mental collapse just weeks later would mean that these discussions with
Zimmern never reached a definitive conclusion, it is clear that Nietzsche saw her
as a suitable translator of his work into English, valuing her reputation as a
writer, her insight into his work, and her potential to open doors for his work in
England (he boasts in his letter to Naumann that she writes for The Times,
amongst other papers).
In light of the fact that Zimmern was the only one of any of the English
translators of Nietzsche to have been directly approached by him to translate
his work, Common seems to make rather weak use of this potential grounds for
describing Zimmern’s translation as ‘authorised’. This may have been a result of
hesita- tions over the quality of Zimmern’s translation, since he follows this
outline of
Nietzsche’s and Zimmern’s connections with the defensive statement that he and
others have spent ‘a great deal of labour . . . in making the version as satisfactory
as possible’ (Common 1907, xiv). Whatever the reason, the contrast between the
prominent advertising of the translation’s authorised status on the title page and the
opaque grounds on which authorisation is being claimed is stark.
In light of the existence of both Zimmern’s ‘authorised translation’ and of the
four volumes of Tille’s ‘sole authorised edition’, Levy’s labelling of his 1909–13
series as the ‘First Complete and Authorised Translation’ appears deeply prob-
lematic.10 According to the article that Thomas Common published in his own
quarterly, The Good European Point of View, in 1915, Levy’s behaviour towards
the translators associated with the 1896 series was far from ethical: Common
accuses him of ‘trying to deauthorise Dr Hassumann’s original copyright-
preserving translation of “The Genealogy of Morals” by substituting in its place
the inferior, careless translation of one of his creatures’ (Common 1915, 116),
and of doing the same for The Case of Wagner. He also criticises Levy’s behav-
iour towards the two women involved in the original project, ‘humiliat[ing] or
attempting to humiliate’ Johanna Volz by ‘superseding her originally authorised
translation of “The Dawn of Day” with another one’ (Common 1915, 118),
and refusing to allow Helen Zimmern to translate Ecce Homo and the second
volume of Human, all too Human, both of which had been assigned to her by the
Nietzsche Archive, and, in the case of Ecce Homo, which ‘Nietzsche himself had
wished her to translate’ (Common 1915, 118, italics in original).
When the 1907 edition of Zimmern’s translation of Beyond Good and Evil is
compared to the version that appeared in Levy’s series (this being one of the
original translations that he did not replace with a new one), the
deauthorisation of the earlier edition can be seen not only in the removal of the
label from the title page, but also in the decision not to include status-enhancing
information about Zimmern in the paratexts. In the 1907 edition, the back matter
features a selection of books by Zimmern, as shown in Figure 4.6. This
information serves not only to advertise these books, but also to highlight her
status as an author and intellectual. In line with the other volumes in the series,
the Levy version includes no back matter at all, and the front matter paratexts
foreground the identity of the series rather than that of the individual translators,
as noted above. The introduction by Common, with its information about
Zimmern’s connection to Nietzsche, does remain, but the part of the paragraph
that deals with the improvements made to Zimmern’s translation by other people
is strengthened by giving the name and status- enhancing information of the
German scholar who contributed to the process.11 I do not have space to explore
the extent to which Levy’s treatment of Zimmern was guided by her gender, but
playing down her achievements as an author in her own right and guaranteeing
the quality of her work by stressing the contribution and sta-
tus of three men is certainly in line with Levy’s views on women.12
Returning to the question of authorisation, and to Common’s (1915) criticism
of Levy’s behaviour, Common not only criticises Levy for his dishonourable
behaviour towards the first translators, but also addresses the issue of whether
88 Case studies
FIGURE 4.6 Back matter of Beyond Good and Evil, translated by Helen Zimmern (The
Darien Press, 1907)
or not Levy’s edition can truly claim to be an ‘authorised’ one. It is worth

citing this part of his article in full, as it helps us interrogate the notion of
authorisation and what it might have been considered to mean in the context
of the Nietzsche translations:
With regard to the boasted authorisedness of Dr Levy’s edition, Mrs Förster-

Nietzsche could confer no authorisation whatever on the greater part of
the works of which the copyright had lapsed long ago. And if she insists
on rejecting Naumann’s authorisation, and our copyright-preserving transla-
tions derived therefrom, as she does when angry, there is still less that she
could authorise. She could, perhaps, legally authorise ‘The Will to Power’
and ‘Ecce Homo,’ which were not included in Naumann’s authorisation,
and of which the copyright had not lapsed, but that is about all the
authorisation she could confer. Any other authorisation in Dr Levy’s
edition has been conferred by his getting hold of some of the translations
originally authorised by Naumann, whose authorisation, however, Mrs
Förster-Nietzsche fool- ishly repudiates. It is not honourable, therefore, to
claim authorisation for the other volumes; and Dr Levy’s edition generally
has far less direct authority than what was conferred on Messrs Henry’s
edition.
Common 1915, 117
Common’s dispute of the ‘authorisedness’ of Levy’s version is founded on a copy-

right-based view of authorisation, with the question of whether or not a
translation is authorised ultimately coming down to whether the rights for the
translation were sold or granted by someone who had the authority to do so.
Common argues that while Naumann, Nietzsche’s German publisher, was in
such a position, Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche is not; the translations that were
agreed with Naumann are therefore ‘authorised’, whereas those that were
agreed with Förster-Nietzsche, with the possible exception of the volumes that
had not already formed part of the earlier agreement, were not. In this line of
logic, authorisation has nothing to do with the way in which the translations
were carried out, and makes no appeal to any notions of faithfulness or
reliability to the author. An authorised translation, in this model, holds no
exclusive claim to paratextual relevance in Genette’s sense; closeness to the author’s
original intentions is no more guaranteed in an authorised translation than a non-
authorised one, and the authorised volume has no more potential to shed light on
the author’s intentions than any other.
This copyright-based view of authorisation contrasts somewhat with the
grounds for authorisation that were laid out by Levy in the introductory essay
to the first volume in the series, discussed above. Here, Levy not only outlines
the formal agreement through which the series was established, but also appeals
to notions of faithfulness and authenticity by stressing that the direct agreement
means that the translations have not been tampered with in any way. Of course,
for the direct line to Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche to guarantee authentic access to
the author’s own thought and works, Förster-Nietzsche would need to be a reli-
able guardian of her brother’s Nachlass (unpublished correspondence, manuscripts
etc. left behind after his death) and an informed interpreter of his thought. As we
will see, Förster-Nietzsche was neither of these things; and Levy’s decision to claim
authorisation on the basis of his direct connection to Förster-Nietzsche would
fundamentally undermine the authority of his series.
Rescuing Nietzsche from the authorised translation

Although doubts about the reliability of Förster-Nietzsche were already being voiced
as Levy published his series,13 it was particularly in light of political developments in
Germany in the 1920s and 1930s that the Levy translations’ links to Förster-
Nietzsche would prove deeply problematic. While Nietzsche himself had always
been critical of anti-Semitism – as well as of German nationalism – under the
leadership of Förster-Nietzsche the Nietzsche-Archiv openly welcomed Fascism.
Key individuals associated with the archive published books connecting
Nietzsche’s thought with National Socialism,14 the archive received financial
backing from leading National Socialists, and Förster-Nietzsche herself
welcomed Hitler to the archive on several occasions (see Diethe 2003, 140–58).
By the end of the Second World War, the Nazification of Nietzsche undertaken
both by the National Socialist Party and by the Nietzsche-Archiv itself was so
complete that Nietzsche was widely regarded interna- tionally as a proto-Fascist
thinker and treated with the utmost suspicion.
90 Case studies
It was against this backdrop that Walter Kaufmann, a professor at Princeton

University, attempted to rehabilitate Nietzsche by developing a strong
counternarrative to the one forged by Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche and others at the
Nietzsche-Archiv. This included discrediting The Will to Power as the culmination of
Nietzsche’s thought, distancing Nietzsche from his sister and her actions, and
situating Nietzsche within a European and American network of thinkers. The
key arguments of Kaufmann’s counternarrative were formulated in a monograph
published in 1950, Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist. From a Genettian
perspective, this work can be seen as a crucial epitext to the new translations of
Nietzsche’s works that were to follow. In the Prologue, Kaufmann (1963 [1950])
begins the process of disentangling the ‘real’ Nietzsche from the version created by
his sister, sketching the ‘satyr play’ (16) through which Förster-Nietzsche came to
be chief, and for a long time unquestioned, interpreter of her brother’s thought,
inverting her brother’s philosophy ‘through a prolific career of writing and editing’
(17) that included holding back publication of Ecce Homo and creating The Will to
Power from the notes left behind after Nietzsche’s descent into madness and
death.15 Kaufmann (19) argues that Förster-Nietzsche ultimately ‘laid the
foundation’ for the association of Nietzsche with proto-Fascism. Against Förster-
Nietzsche’s inversion of her brother’s thought, Kaufmann stresses Nietzsche’s
documented antipathy towards his sister’s husband, Bernhard Förster and his
political views,16 citing from Nietzsche’s letters in which he labels himself an
‘incorrigible European and anti-anti-Semite’ (49) and expresses his horror at the
way in which the political Right had already started to appropriate him and his
work for their cause, partly because of his family connections to Förster.17
Kaufmann’s rehabilitation of Nietzsche was achieved not only through his
1950 book – which went to three editions and is still in print today – but also
through his translations of many of Nietzsche’s works,18 which reflected his views
of Nietzsche in their translation choices and their paratextual material. In the
introduction to The Will to Power, for example, Kaufmann cites from his own book
directly and at some length, reproducing his explanation of how Elisabeth Förster-
Nietzsche assembled The Will to Power and falsely represented it as Nietzsche’s
magnum opus, and laying the blame for the Nazification of Nietzsche squarely at
Förster-Nietzsche’s door: ‘by bringing to her interpretation of her brother’s work
the heritage of her late husband, she prepared the way for the belief that Nietzsche
was a proto-Nazi’ (Kaufmann 1968, xix).
While Kaufmann’s paratexts thus set out to distance Nietzsche from his
sister, they do not include any direct critique of the paratexts of Levy’s series.
Given that many of the paratexts of Levy’s series set up interpretative
frameworks based on Förster-Nietzsche’s accounts, this seems surprising. In his
preface to the English translation of The Will to Power, for example, the
translator Anthony Ludovici, argues that the books written by Nietzsche
between 1883 and 1886 (Beyond Good and Evil, The Genealogy of Morals, The
Twilight of Idols and The Antichrist) ‘must be regarded as forming part of the
general plan of which The Will to Power was to be the opus magnum’ (Ludovici
1914, viii), thus directly reproducing Förster- Nietzsche’s version of events. He
admits that ‘we have no warrant, save his sister’s own word and the internal
evidence at our disposal’ (Ludovici 1914, vii) for viewing Nietzsche’s works in
this way, but it is clear from what follows that his appeal
to ‘his sister’s own word’ is intended to underscore the reliability of this interpreta-
tion, rather than foreground its untrustworthiness. Ludovici goes on to
paraphrase at length Förster-Nietzsche’s account of how the notion of the will to
power first came to Nietzsche when he was serving in the German army, an
account which Förster-Nietzsche had related in her book Der junge Nietzsche [The
Young Nietzsche] (1912), and which Diethe (2003, 138) describes as a ‘myth’.19
Förster-Nietzsche’s account of Nietzsche’s inspiration for The Will to Power is
fully discredited by Kaufmann in Nietzsche,20 yet no reference is made to
Ludovici’s introduction in Kaufmann’s own introduction to his translation of
The Will to Power.
When we consider that the authorised nature of the Levy series was prem-
ised on closeness to Förster-Nietzsche, Kaufmann’s silence on this feature of the
Levy series seems surprising. Yet Kaufmann is not silent on the shortcomings of
the Levy series overall. Significantly for our purposes, Kaufmann centres his
critique of the Levy translations on the quality of the translations themselves.
For example, in his preface to Thus Spake Zarathustra, Kaufmann (1978) criti-
cises Common’s translation at considerable length, even while admitting that
‘the problems encountered in translating Zarathustra are tremendous’ (xix).
Kaufmann (1974) also criticises the early translation of Gay Science (The Joyful
Wisdom), on the basis that it was ‘inadequate’ (3) and ‘even had the title of the
book wrong’ (3). Ludovici’s translation of The Will to Power also comes under
fire, Kaufmann (1968, xx) picking out two mistranslations in support of his view
that the translation is not even ‘roughly reliable’. He is also critical of Helen
Zimmern’s translation of Beyond Good and Evil (see Kaufmann 1966, xiv), and
summarises his view of the quality of all of the existing translations succinctly in
the Introduction to The Portable Nietzsche, stating: ‘The new translations were
made because the older ones are unacceptable’ (Kaufmann 1975 [1954], 3).
Through this detailed criticism of the translations, Kaufmann appears to be
demonstrating that the Levy translations do not deserve their ‘authorised’ label,
although he never makes this point directly. What is interesting about this approach
is that it suggests that, in Kaufmann’s view, readers’ views of what it means for
a translation to be authorised have primarily to do with issues of translation
quality and reliability, rather than with the question of who authorised the
translation in legal terms. To put this another way, while Levy’s series bases its
claim to authorisation on the second of the scenarios outlined in the first part of
this chapter (the translator, editor or publisher has been formally appointed by
someone (or some institution) to undertake the translation), Kaufmann bases his
demolition of the claim to authorisation on the third scenario, by showing that
the translations themselves should not be held in high esteem.
Reflections: authorisation, translations and paratextual

relevance
This study of Nietzsche translations has shown that, while the label ‘authorised
translation’ might give rise to expectations that the translation in question will carry
some degree of paratextual relevance, latitude around usage of the label rules out
92 Case studies
any possibility of assuming such a thing. In the case of the Levy series, we have
seen that the grounds for authorisation was the connection to Nietzsche’s closest
surviving relative, who claimed for herself a high level of insight into
Nietzsche’s thought and controlled access to his unpublished manuscripts.
Already intrinsi- cally less reliable than a direct connection to an author, in the
abstract this kind of authorisation need not rule out the possibility that the
translation is guided, albeit indirectly, by the author or at least done in line with
his or her wishes. In the case of these translations, however, reliance on Förster-
Nietzsche resulted in authorised translations which were deeply flawed,
conveying Förster-Nietzsche’s interpretation of Nietzsche rather than
Nietzsche’s own positions, and in so doing obstructing the target readers’
understanding of Nietzsche’s work. The fact that the translations carried the
‘authorised’ label may even have made this misinterpreta- tion of Nietzsche
more acute, the label itself offering reassurance of quality and reliability and
closing down any questioning of the degree to which the translation really
possesses those qualities. In the case of The Will to Power, for example, a reader
picking up the ‘authorised translation’ is unlikely to question such basic things
as the composition of the source text or the very existence of such a volume in
the source language at all. Our case study thus indicates that the ‘authorised
translation’ label can in fact contribute to readings of the author’s work that are
deeply unreliable, becoming in effect a barrier to an informed reception of that
author in the target culture.
This leads us to consider another sense in which translations function as paratexts
– one which, to my mind, is more frequently the case than the kind of scenario
envisaged by Genette. In the case of the Nietzsche translations, we have seen
that both the Levy and the Kaufmann translations make considerable use of
paratextual sites (notably, translator’s or editor’s prefaces) in order to shape the
way in which the translated texts themselves are read. In this sense, the paratexts
of the translated versions operate in the same way as paratexts to original works,
as described by Genette. Yet the translated book as a whole (that is, the text and
paratext combined) also fulfils a paratextual function in the sense that it offers a
threshold to the author, and the author’s reputation. This is not the same as
functioning as a paratext to an original text, for the majority of readers of a
translation will never access the text in its original language. But the translated
book shapes readers’ views of the original author, his or her oeuvre, reputation
and relevance to their own concerns. The paratexts of the translated versions
play an important role in this process, but so too do translation choices, as well as
external factors such as the order in which an author’s works appear in translation. If
we were to apply this idea to the case of the Nietzsche translations, we could point to
key translation choices pertaining to notions of Zucht and Züchtung,21 or to the
order in which the pre-Levy translations appeared, 22 all of which had a bearing
on how Nietzsche’s philosophical thought was understood, and on his reputation
in England and America. Viewing translations as paratexts in this way has the
advantage of stressing the process of interlingual transfer in the reception of ideas
across cultures and foregrounding the fact that many readers access ideas in a form
that is mediated by a translator and others involved in the publication
of translations. As this is something that is all too frequently overlooked by scholars

in domains that include philosophy,23 there is undoubtedly value in this
approach.
However, broadening out the concept of the paratext in this way – so that
it becomes a threshold to an author, an idea of an author or a view of their
philosophical thought – is not without risk. To remain with the example of
the Nietzsche translations, if we are seeking to understand how the translations
functioned as thresholds to Nietzsche, we would not want to stop at the trans-
lated texts with their peritexts: we would also want to explore interpretations
of Nietzsche published in the scholarly and general press; the reputations of the
translators and editors and the ways in which their own actions or their national-
ity had a negative bearing on the views of Nietzsche; political contexts which
affected reception of German scholarship in general and Nietzsche in particular;
and so on.24 And we would want to do all of this in diachronic fashion, capturing
the changing dynamics of the target culture and the relationship between source
and target culture over time. In other words, if we view translated works as
paratexts to something called ‘Nietzsche’, we would swiftly find ourselves eras-
ing the boundaries between text, paratext and context, and studying ‘paratext’
in this broader sense would become indistinguishable from studying reception.
This raises important questions around the definition of paratext to which I shall
return in Part III.
Notes
1 Though see Hermans (2007, 1–25) for a discussion of connections between authentica-
tion and equivalence.
2 Common (1923, xiv) writes that Beyond Good and Evil was ‘meant as a prologue or prel-
ude to his great, never-completed work on which he was then engaged, “The Will to
Power:An Attempt at a Transvaluation of all Values”. The circumstances under which the
work was written are very fully set forth in Chapter XXX (pp.588–635) of Das Leben
Nietzsches [by Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche]’. Even more tellingly, he explains that ‘it was
during this period that Nietzsche’s sister was married and went with her husband to
Paraguay, thus leaving her brother more solitary than ever. The spirit of solitude which
broods over the book, discloses itself especially in the last chapter’ (Common 1923,
xiv).
3 This summary has been devised by checking the information provided in Common
(1915) against online library catalogues, bookseller websites, and the front and back
matter of individual volumes. It finds confirmation in research carried out by van Ham
(n.d.), whose online report also presents relevant information held in a range of archives.
4 The statement also appears in the front matter of the American edition of The Case of
Wagner. The American edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra would appear not to contain
this paragraph, at least insofar as the scanned copy available via archive.org shows. I have
unfortunately not been able to check this against a hard-copy version or to find confir-
mation of whether the statement appears in the other early American editions.
5 The list that appears in the back matter of The Case of Wagner, published first, is shorter,
containing only the first five volumes listed in Thus Spake Zarathustra, and anticipates
that all of the volumes listed would appear by February 1897.
6 According to Common (1915, 113), the first agreement was a direct one between
Naumann and three translators – Common, Haussmann and ‘a Canadian lady, Miss
Greenshields’, made in 1894; the agreement with Henry and Co followed in 1895, and
was ‘specially to include our authorised translations’.
94 Case studies
7 An account of the delays in publication is provided by Common (1915) and summarised

in Thatcher (1970).
8 In light of the antipathy in England towards Tille by 1907 (see Manz 2007) and the fact
that Tille had left academia by this point, it was perhaps also no longer advantageous or
accurate to present the translation as being part of a series under Tille’s editorship.
9 See Zimmern to Nietzsche, 25 April 1876 (Nietzsche 1979, 315–16), in which Zimmern
thanks Nietzsche for giving her a copy of Unzeitgemäße Betrachtungen. According to
Young (2010, 405), Nietzsche included Zimmern in the list of people who were to
receive complimentary copies of Beyond Good and Evil on its publication in 1886.
10 In the sense that Tille’s edition was not complete, Levy’s claim could be argued to be
technically correct. However, the wording used by Levy implies that his is the first
authorised version, and in this regard is misleading.
11 In Levy’s version, the paragraph reads as follows, the material in italic representing addi-
tions to the 1907 version:‘We here take the opportunity to thank Mr Alfred E. Zimmern
of New College, Oxford, and a German friend of his, Mr W. Drechsler, Rhodes Scholar
of Worcester College, for reading very carefully some of the first proofs and suggesting
improvements. Dr Oscar Levy has also read many of the proofs and made valuable sug-
gestions’ (Common 1923, my emphasis).
12 On the latter point, see Levy’s (1910b, xii) comments on the ‘female mind’ in his
introductory essay to the series. That Levy did not consider women to be suitable readers of
Nietzsche’s work also emerges in the obituary of Levy written by his close collaborator,
Anthony Ludovici. Ludovici (1946–7, 50) writes that ‘many who wished to attempt the
approach [to Nietzsche’s works], Levy, in spite of his zeal as an impresario and for
compassionate reasons alone, often gently turned away. Needless to say, many such were
women whom, in his chiv- alry, he wished to spare the pain of it all.’ Although this assertion
must be treated with some suspicion, coming as it does from a man who was himself an
ardent anti-feminist (Stone 2002, 33–61), it may well help to explain why Levy chose not
to rely on connections between Zimmern and Nietzsche to build a case for
authorisation.
13 Writing in 1915, Common (1915, 114) describes Förster-Nietzsche as ‘a most vio-
lent and thoroughly self-willed creature, [who] has with almost witchlike perversity
insisted on mismanaging the affairs of the Nietzsche Archive’; he subsequently refers
to her in the same article as ‘the pythoness of Weimar’ (115). Just how widespread such
views were during the period of the publication of Levy’s series (1909–1913) is not
clear; writing about the moment when Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche took control of
Nietzsche’s Nachlaß in 1896, Diethe (2003, 87) states that Förster-Nietzsche ‘had many
detractors’, but that ‘most people were prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt
for decades, awarding her manuscripts a respect for accuracy that they manifestly did
not deserve’.
14 Examples include Alfred Baeumler’s Nietzsche: Der Philosoph und der Politiker (1931) and
Richard Oehlers’ Friedrich Nietzsche und die deutsche Zukunft (1935), which ‘displayed a
photograph of Adolf Hitler as its frontispiece’ (Diethe 2003, 156).
15 Although Nietzsche had announced at the end of Zur Genealogie der Moral (1887) that his
next work would be Der Wille zur Macht:Versuch einer Umwerthung aller Werthe, at the time
of his collapse in 1889 he had not yet written it (Diethe 2003, 93). All that existed of this
work when Nietzsche’s writing career ended were twenty-five different outlines for
the work and ‘sentences and paragraphs [scribbled] virtually at random’ (Diethe 2003, 96)
in nigh-on-illegible notebooks full of alterations, crossings out and corrections, the writing
‘sometimes . . . back to front, or wrong way up’ (Diethe 2003, 96).That these scribblings
were even intended for eventual publication as opposed to being fragments rejected
by Nietzsche is also open to question. Out of this, Förster-Nietzsche, in collaboration
with Peter Gast (Heinrich Köselitz), one of very few people able to read Nietzsche’s
handwriting, swiftly created Der Wille zur Macht,‘[giving] the impression that [this] was a
work that Nietzsche had all but completed’ (Diethe 2003, 95), and presenting the work
as the culmination of Nietzsche’s thought.
16 Bernhard Förster, whom Elisabeth married in 1885, was a zealous anti-Semite. In 1893
he set out to establish a ‘colony of racially pure Germans’ (Diethe 2003, 52) in Paraguay,
Elisabeth moving out to join him after their marriage. The colony was a failure and
Förster died in 1889, ‘either through self-poisoning, or, as Elisabeth always asserted,
through a heart attack’ (Diethe 2003, 73).
17 See Kaufmann (1963 [1950], 49–50).
18 Kaufmann translated Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Twilight of the Idols, The Antichrist, and Nietzsche
contra Wagner (all originally published in The Portable Nietzsche, 1954), Beyond Good and Evil
(1966), The Birth of Tragedy and The Case of Wagner (1967), Ecce homo (1967) and, with
Richard Hollingdale, Genealogy of Morals (1967).A new translation of The Will to Power,
which included a commentary and facsimiles of the original manuscript, was published in
1968.
19 That Ludovici himself was something of an admirer of Förster-Nietzsche is clear: he
translated Förster-Nietzsche’s two biographical works on Nietzsche into English and
his own philosophical work is described by Dan Stone (2002, 34) as an ‘idiosyncratic
blend of Förster-Nietzscheanism, Lamarckianism, social Darwinism, antisemitism, anti-
feminism, monarchism and aristocratic conservatism’.
20 See Kaufmann (1963 [1950], 153).
21 For example, in his version of Beyond Good and Evil, Kaufmann translates these as ‘disci-
pline’ or ‘cultivation’ rather than the ideologically loaded term breeding, even where the
context might have supported a biological interpretation. See Nietzsche (1966).
22 Thatcher (1970, 38) suggests that one of the factors operative in the poor reception of
Nietzsche in England in the late nineteenth century was the disapproval of the press, a
disapproval which ‘stemmed partly from the fact that Nietzsche’s later works had been
thrown on the public without the key the earlier ones would have provided’.
23 This is a point which is made by Diethe (2003, 102):‘it is truly astonishing that so many
philosophers who claim to be able to interpret Nietzsche cannot actually read him in
the original language and do not even see this as a disadvantage’.
24 An example of this broader type of survey can be found in Nicholas Martin’s (2006)
chapter on the process through which Nietzsche came to be regarded as responsible
for the First World War and the German army’s conduct during it.
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2nd edition. London: Routledge.
Baeumler, Alfred. 1931. Nietzsche: Der Philosoph und Politiker. Leipzig: Reclam.
Common, Thomas. 1907. “Introduction”. In Beyond Good and Evil, by Friedrich
Nietzsche, translated by Helen Zimmern, vii–xv. Edinburgh: The Darien Press.
——. 1915. “Uprightness or Unscrupulousness”. The Good European Point of View, 109–119.
——. 1923. “Introduction to the Translation”. In Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a
Philosophy of the Future, by Friedrich Nietzsche. Translated by Helen Zimmern, vii–xv.
London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd.
Creffield, C. A. 2004. “Zimmern, Helen (1846–1934)”. In Oxford Dictionary of National
Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Accessed 24 July 2017 from www.
oxforddnb.com/view/article/55284.
Diethe, Carol. 1996. Nietzsche’s Women: Beyond the Whip. Berlin and New York:
Walter de Gruyter.
——. 2003. Nietzsche’s Sister and the Will to Power: A Biography of Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche.
Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.
——. 2014. Historical Dictionary of Nietzscheanism, 3rd edition. Lanham, Boulder, New
York, Toronto and Plymouth: The Scarecrow Press, Inc.
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Gambier, Yves, and Luc van Doorslaer, eds. 2013. Handbook of Translation Studies, vol. 4.
Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins.
Hermans, Theo. 2007. The Conference of the Tongues. Manchester: St Jerome Publishing.
Kaufmann, Walter. 1963 [1950]. Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist. Cleveland,
OH: The World Publishing Company.
——. 1966. “Translator’s Preface”. In Beyond Good and Evil, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Translated by Walter Kaufmann, ix–xvii. New York: Vintage Books.
——. 1968. “Editor’s Introduction”. In The Will to Power, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Translated by Walter Kaufmann and R.J. Holingdale, xiii–xxiii. London: Weidenfeld
and Nicolson.
——. 1974. “Translator’s Introduction”. In The Gay Science, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Translated by Walter Kaufmann, 3–26. New York: Vintage Books.
——. 1975 [1954]. “Introduction”. In The Portable Nietzsche, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Translated by Walter Kaufmann, 1–19. New York: The Viking Press.
——. 1978. “Translator’s Preface”. In Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Translated by Walter Kaufmann, xiii–xxii. New York and London: Penguin Books.
Levy, Oscar. 1910a. “Editorial Note”. In Thoughts out of Season. Part 1, by Friedrich
Nietzsche.
Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici, vii–ix. Edinburgh and London: T.N. Foulis.
——. 1910b. “Nietzsche in England: An Introductory Essay by the Editor”. In Thoughts out
of Season. Part 1, by Friedrich Nietzsche. Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici, xi–xxviii.
Edinburgh and London: T.N. Foulis.
——. 1924 [1913]. “The Nietzsche Movement in England: A Retrospect – A Confession –
A Prospect”. In Index to Nietzsche: Compiled by Robert Guppy, by Friedrich Nietzsche,
ix–
xxxvi. New York: The Macmillan Company.
Ludovici, Anthony M. 1911. “Translator’s Introduction”. In Ecce Homo,by Friedrich
Nietzsche. Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici, vii–xiv. Edinburgh and London:
T.N. Foulis.
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Values. Part 1, by Friedrich Nietzsche. Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici, vii–xiv.
Edinburgh and London: T.N. Foulis.
——. 1946–7. “Dr Oscar Levy”. New English Weekly 30: 49–50.
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the Limits of Anglo–German Intercultural Transfer”. Neophilologus 91 (1): 117–34.
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Execrable Neech’”. In The First World War as a Clash of Cultures, edited by Fred
Bridgham, 147–66. Rochester, NY: Boydell & Brewer.
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Maximillian A. Mügge. Edinburgh and London: T.N. Foulis.
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Mazzino Montinari, vol. 2.6.1. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter.
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Mazzino Montinari, vol. 3.5. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter.
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University Press.
5
MAKING THE FOREIGN SERVE CHINA
Chinese paratexts of Western translation
theory texts
In 2009, Maria Tymoczko (2009, 403) issued a call to internationalise

translation studies, proposing to ‘de-centre inherited Eurocentric
conceptualisations that continue to be commonplace and even dominant in the
field despite their decreasing relevance’. Delabastita (2013, 30) situates
Tymoczko’s concerns within a questioning movement in the discipline,
which asks whether ‘our current theories and methodologies . . . really have
the “general” validity that their academic and theoretical status would imply’.
Debates on Eurocentricity are not the preserve of translation studies scholars
alone,1 and in this respect can be seen as part of a more generalised anxiety which
arises quite logically, as Delabastita (2013, 30) suggests, from ‘our growing post-
colonial sensibility, the greater presence and visibility of non-Western scholars in
academia, and the overall erosion of Western hegemony’.2 Tymoczko’s call for
internationalisation appeared in a special issue of The Translator
on Chinese Discourses on Translation, and several of the contributions in that volume
reflect on the issue in the context of intellectual exchange between scholars
based in the West and scholars in China.3 As part of an enquiry into the
Westernisation of translation studies in China, for example, Nam Fung Chang
(2009, 312) notes that ‘translation studies in the Chinese mainland is now
dominated by Western models’, a position that had been heavily criticised by
Jinghao Zhang (2006) and others. While Chang (2009) points to the fact that
Chinese discourse on translation is beginning to be introduced abroad through
‘journal articles, book chapters, and anthologies of Chinese writings on
translation’ (313), he nevertheless concludes that China ‘acts as an importer rather
than exporter of repertoires’ (313), and still remains peripheral. This situation is
further confirmed by Ning Wang and Yifeng Sun (2008, 1), Martha Cheung
(2009, 224) and Yangsheng Guo (2009, 255).
Although the number of publications that seek to bring Chinese and Western
scholarship into dialogue has increased somewhat since these critiques, the
imbal- ance in exchange of theories between China and the West is still striking. In
China,
Chinese paratexts to translation theory 99
scholars currently have access to two series of ‘Western’ or ‘foreign’ translation

studies monographs in English, published in Chinese editions with the aim of
making them both affordable and available for students. These are the Shanghai
Foreign Language Education Press ‘Foreign Translation Studies Texts’ series
(henceforth abbreviated to ‘Shanghai FTST series’), which comprises 41 books,
published between 2001 and 2012; and the Beijing Foreign Language Teaching
and Research Press ‘Foreign Translation Studies texts’ series (henceforth ‘Beijing
FTST series’), which consists of 28 books, published between 2006 and 2008.
Chinese scholars also have access to a third series, ‘Contemporary Western
Translation Studies’ (henceforth ‘Beijing CWTS series’), also published by the
Beijing Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press, and which makes the
texts themselves available in Chinese, as opposed to presenting the English texts
in Chinese editions. Originally envisaged as a 10-book series, to date six
volumes have been published, all between 2005 and 2009. While only one of
these series labels itself ‘Western’ 西方的 (as opposed to ‘foreign’ 外国的 ),
almost all of the books feature Anglo-Western scholarship.4 In addition, there
are 15 translations into Chinese of other translation theory texts, published by a
range of publishing houses between 1986 and 2011.5 Finally, there are three
series of books on translation or interpreting practice and pedagogy, all
published by Shanghai Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press: the
‘Translation Teaching and Practice Series’ (6 books, 2009–14), the ‘Interpreting
Practice Series’ (8 books, 2008–11) and the ‘Written Translation Practice Series’
(6 books, 2008).
The body of scholarly publications on Chinese translation theory and
traditions published in the West is steadily increasing, but far more limited. It
now includes a significant number of journal articles as well as various edited
collections (e.g. Chan 2004; Cheung 2006, 2009; Wang and Sun 2008; Valdeón
2017) and, perhaps most notably, a Routledge Handbook of Chinese Translation
(Shei and Gao 2017).6 There is, however, a crucial difference between these
publications and the volumes of Western theory published in China: these
publications are produced by Chinese scholars for a Western audience, often with
the direct goal of making Chinese thinking on translation more visible in the
West. Wang and Sun’s (2008) volume, for example, aims to ‘present a general
but also up-to-date picture of translation studies in China’ (2) or in other words
is an ‘attempt to globalise the research results made by domestic Chinese
scholars on translation studies in the international context’ (2). To represent a
true parallel to the volumes of Western translation theory published in China,
volumes published in the West would need to feature research published
originally in China for a Chinese audience: if we think in terms of Master’s-
programme reading lists, for example, this might involve a work like Fukang
Chen’s 中国译学理论史稿 [On Chinese Translation Theory] (2002) or Yichuan
Zhuang’s 英汉翻译简明教程 [An Introduction to English–Chinese Translation
Studies] (2002), widely included on reading lists in China, being made available in
the UK or US and adopted onto reading lists there. To my knowledge, no such
translations or English editions exist, and the overall global visibility of mainland
Chinese translation studies scholars remains low (see, notably, Li 2017).
100 Case studies
Before we take these – admittedly very stark – imbalances in translation flow

as further proof of the ongoing Eurocentricity of translation studies, however, we
need to examine the ways in which the importation of Western translation theory
is conceptualised and presented to the target audience by the Chinese actors who
play key roles in the importation. Examining the peritexts of the Chinese editions
of Western translation studies texts offers an ideal site through which to do this.
Before we proceed to an analysis of the peritexts, however, we need first to
define Eurocentricity and to address the important and sometimes overlooked
issue of agency within it.
Eurocentricity
Defined in basic terms as ‘implicitly regarding European culture as pre-eminent’
(Oxford Dictionaries n.d.), the notion of Eurocentricity has been unpacked by
scholars in a variety of ways. It is a phenomenon which is closely connected
with ‘Orientalism’, as famously analysed by Edward Said (2003 [1978]), the latter
being defined as ‘a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having
authority over the Orient’ (Said 2003 [1978], 3). The aspects of Eurocentricity
which are of most salience for this chapter can be summarised as follows:
 viewing European/Western theories and ideas as superior to non-Western ones

 assuming European/Western theories and ideas to be universally relevant or
applicable
 considering theories and ideas developed elsewhere to have local rather than
universal relevance, or to be useful at most in terms of offering refinement
of so-called ‘mainstream’ (i.e. Western) theories and ideas.
Eurocentricity is generally viewed as something negative and destructive, which

‘should have no place in scholarly research’ (Delabastita 2013, 30): it ignores other
ways of knowing, ‘may entail the tendency to submit non-Western practices to
Western theories in ways that fail to register and respect the former’s cultural speci-
ficity’ (Delabastita 2013, 30) and, in the most forceful interpretations, ‘lies at the
center of a predatory model of civilization that threatens to destroy the
conditions that make life possible on Earth’ (Lander 2002, 245).
Scholars of both Orientalism and Eurocentricity have argued that these ways
of thinking are not exclusively the preserve of Westerners; on the contrary, they
have been absorbed by many non-Westerners, resulting in an Orientalism that is
‘self- impose[d] and internalize[d]’ (Li 2016, 18). This self-imposition of
Eurocentric ways of thinking is viewed by many as a type of colonisation of the
mind, with dis- astrous consequences for non-Western nations. In the preface to
a volume devoted to exploring non-Eurocentric paradigms in higher education,
for example, Claude Alvares and Shad Saleen Faruqi (2012, xx) describe the book’s
aim as being ‘to discover what needs to be done to liberate our minds and souls;
to end this academic colonialism . . . We need to send Columbus packing back
home. Not only the Columbus outside but also the Columbus within.’
These overwhelmingly negative critiques contrast with the far more positive lan-
guage used to discuss processes of technology and knowledge transfer, even though
what is actually transferred may not be dissimilar. Technology transfer is defined as
‘the transfer of new technology from the originator to a secondary user,
especially from developed to developing countries in an attempt to boost their
economies’ (Oxford Dictionaries n.d.). As Richard Hua Li (2003, 3) observes,
‘traditionally, technology transfer was conceptualised as the transfer of hardware
objects, but today also often involves information (e.g. a computer software
programme or a new idea)’. Practitioners and academics alike underline the need
for technology transfer to go hand in hand with ‘knowledge transfer’, based on
the fact that knowledge is increasingly being recognised as a vital organisational
resource (see Nonaka and Takeuchi 1995; Leonard 1998). The definition of
technology transfer provided above presents the benefits of the transfer as
accruing to the recipient; no mention is made of the motivations or positive
outcomes for the ‘originator’, though in general, as Leonard (1998, 224) notes,
these are linked to a desire to ‘lower costs or to follow the market’. From the
perspective of the recipient, technology and knowledge transfer are invariably
construed positively; academic discussions generally focus on improving the
effectiveness of technology and knowledge transfer and thus increasing the benefits
for the recipients, rather than questioning or contesting the global power
dynamics that form the backdrop to such transfers (see, for example, Leonard
1998; Li 2003; Buckley, Clegg and Tan 2004). In other words: there is no
criticism of the ‘Eurocentricity’ of technology or knowledge transfer; although the
flow of such transfers are from West to East, North to South, the appropriate-
ness of non-Western nations taking on Western technologies and knowledge is
not generally questioned by the receiving nations; the transfers are not seen as a
threat to national identity or as the perpetuation of Western imperialism.
To some extent, this striking difference in attitude can be explained by the nature
of the material exchanged: those things that are usually accused of Eurocentrism are
ideas and theories, often operating at an abstract intellectual level – and theory,
in the words of Arif Dirlik (2000, 74) has ‘lost its innocence, as its universalist
claims have been deconstructed in one intellectual realm after another . . . to
expose the hegemonies built into all theories’. Technology and knowledge
transfer, on the other hand, involve more concrete, practical know-how,
resulting in products that can be bought and sold on world markets. To draw on
Appadurai’s (1990) characterisation of the various kinds of flows associated with
globalisation, it would appear that, while things belonging to the ‘ideoscape’ (flow of
ideas) are often construed as Eurocentric, things that belong to the ‘technoscape’
(flow of technology) are never seen this way, even though the flow of
technology inevitably involves the flow of ideas, and the flow of ideas can lead to
marketable products or increases in market share. The relevance of this discussion
of the different discourses around ideoscape and technoscape will become clear
when we examine the discourses used in the Chinese paratexts to Western
translation theory texts, and in particular when we consider the extent to which
they present Western theories as tools serving development rather than as
theory.
102 Case studies
There is another difference, however, and this concerns the level of agency
imputed to the recipient in both kinds of process. While the recipients of
Eurocentric views are often portrayed as powerless victims of Western
hegemony (see, for example, Wang 1997, 159; Sun 2012, 39), the recipients of
technology transfer are often the initiators of the transfer process – or at the very
least, are viewed as exerting a ‘pull . . . for new product development
capabilities [which] exceeds the transfer push of managers in the developed
nations’ (Leonard 1998, 248). This point is of particular relevance when we
consider the agency dynamics that underlie the processes by which Western
translation theory is being imported to China in the form of Chinese editions or
translations of Western works. Far from being imposed by the West, such
publications undoubtedly concord with Toury’s (2012, 18) observation that
translations can usually be regarded as ‘facts of the culture that would host them’,
in the sense that the publications are the initiative of Chinese, rather than
Western, publishing houses.
Paratextual analysis
As outlined in the opening section of this chapter, there are six series of foreign
translation studies texts available in China. Owing to space limitations, this
study excludes the three Shanghai Foreign Language Teaching and Research
series on translation pedagogy and practice, focusing instead on publications that
focus more narrowly on translation theory. In terms of paratexts, the Shanghai
FTST series provides a generic ‘General Publisher’s Note’ and ‘General
Preface’ (identical for all books in the series) as well as a brief anonymous
introduction and back-cover blurb specific to each text. The Beijing FTST
series, meanwhile, offers no generic general introduction, blurb, or other
paratextual material relating to the series itself, but does include a lengthy reading
guide as part of the paratext of each individual text. Unlike the introductions to
the Shanghai FTST series, these guides are signed by high-profile Chinese
academics and go beyond simple summaries of content to resemble academic
articles. The Beijing CWTS series provides more detailed paratextual materials
than the other two series, although there is a certain level of variation from
book to book. In most cases, the paratext to the CWTS series includes an
editor’s ‘General Preface’ (giving a summary of the main content, the
significance of the series and some background information on the author), a
long introduction by the translator, offering critique and analysis in the style of
an academic article, and a much briefer introduction by the author, translated
into Chinese. The paratexts of translations which are published outside the scope
of these theories range from very minimal (e.g. a two-paragraph translator’s
introduction to Wolfram Wilss’s (2001) The Science of Translation: Problems and
Methods) to much more extensive (e.g. two prologues, back-cover blurb, author’s
introduction, translator’s introduction, publishing house introduction for Mona
Baker’s (2011) Translation and Conflict: A Narrative Account). The themes which
emerge most consistently from the paratexts are presented below, and the
implications of the findings are discussed in further depth in the concluding
section.
Make the foreign serve China

The most salient theme that emerges in the paratexts is the notion that the pub-
lications are intended to benefit China. In some of the paratextual material, this
argument is formulated in general terms and by making appeal to politically
sanctioned sayings. In other places, the paratext authors spell out more
specifically the ways in which access to foreign translation studies will be of use
to domestic scholars.
The publisher’s note that accompanies the 1999 Chinese version of two of
Eugene Nida’s books offers a clear example of the first type of statement, declaring
that ‘在新书的编译过程中, 仍然本着 “洋为中用”, 去粗存精原则’ [the princi-
ples for editing this book are ‘foreign used by the Chinese’ and discard the
useless and accept the good] (Tan 1999a, iv). The translator of this volume –
who is also the author of the editor’s note – also translated Mark Shuttleworth
and Moira Cowie’s Dictionary of Translation Studies for the Beijing CWTS series in
2005, and repeats similar sentiments in his introduction to that volume:
把马克·沙特尔沃思和莫伊拉合编的 Dictionary of Translation Studies 翻

译成中文, 对于一个善于‘古为今用, 洋为中用’, 现在蒸蒸日上, 欣欣向
荣的古老而又新兴的译学体系来说, 一定是一件既有理论价值又有实
践意义, 值得花力气来做的工作。
[It is theoretically and practically worthwhile translating Mark
Shuttleworth and Moira Cowie’s Dictionary of Translation Studies into
Chinese for an old yet newly sprung translation system, which is good at
‘mak[ing] the past serve the present and foreign things serve China’, and
which is currently developing vigorously in China.]7
Tan 2005, x
In both of these paratexts, Tan is evoking slogans which were originally coined
by Mao Zedong in the late 1930s and early 1940s, and which have become
common sayings in China over time. ‘Make the past serve the present and
foreign things serve China’ references the policy presented by Mao in a speech
to the Literature and Art Forum in Yan An in 1942 (see Mao 1991).8 In this
speech, Mao indicates that the People’s Republic of China should use only what
it needs from the outside world, remaining in full control of the process of
cultural transformation and thus maintaining the so-called ‘Chinese
characteristics’. He also makes clear that the process of adoption of foreign ideas
is not one of straightforward borrowing, but one that involves assimilation and
critical application.9 The idea of making the foreign serve China was also
reinforced and reinterpreted by Deng Xiaoping at the end of the 1970s in a
policy that ‘promote[d] greater interaction between China and the rest of the
world to foster modernization of China’s industry, agri- culture, defence and
science and technology’ (Guo 2009, 241). The other slogan, ‘discard the useless
and accept the good’, was first formulated by Mao Zedong in his book 实践论
[On Practice] written in 1937 and published in 1950, generally
104 Case studies
seen as the founding text of Marxist philosophy with Chinese characteristics.

The slogan was subsequently applied to art and other related disciplines, notably
by the artist and theorist Jiang Kongyang (see Kongyang 1979). Both slogans
thus have a long and weighty political history, and have become frequently used
sayings in both scholarly and everyday discourse. By appealing to these widely
accepted or even clichéd ideas, Tan situates the translated books within a
familiar and politically uncontroversial mode of engaging with foreign ideas.
A variation on the idea of making the foreign serve China, this time evoking
a philosophical angle, can be found in the ‘General Preface’ to Beijing’s CWTS
series. Here, the author appeals to the notion of Sinicisation, developed by He
Lin:
翻译在历史上有沟通文化, 传播学术之功能, 促进了个民族的交流和

社会文明的进步。因此翻译又有繁荣文化, 启发创新之功效。尤其
值得指出, 翻译的一大价值是 ‘内化外学’ 或者如哲学家贺麟先生所
说的 ‘华化西学’ : ‘使西洋学术中国化, 灌输文化上的新血液, 使西
学成为国学之一部分’。我们不能指望懂外语的人从外文了解外域思想
…… 在我国传承千年的翻译研究基础上, 借鉴西方现代翻译理论, 或
可使中国翻译研究的话题模式更为丰满。这就是我们编选这套译丛
的基本出发点。
[Translation can promote cultural and scholarly communication, which
promotes cultural exchange between various nationalities and the
progress of social civilisation . . . In particular, the great value of
translation is ‘inter- nalisation’ or what He Lin called ‘ 华化西学 ’
[Sinicisation], which is to Sinicise Western academia and make it part of
Chinese academia . . . Only when foreign ideologies have been translated
into Chinese can these new ideas and concepts be absorbed as our own
knowledge to promote our research . . . Based on the 1,000-year-old
domestic translation studies, ‘borrowing’ and referencing modern
Western translation theories will enrich topics of Chinese translation
studies.]
Beijing Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press 2005, 2
He Lin (1902–92) was a translator, philosopher and educator, known in

particular for his translations of Hegel’s books into Chinese. In the 1930s and
1940s, he was well-known as a philosopher in his own right, publishing four
books between 1934 and 1947. As Ci (2002, 188–9) explains, He did not attempt
to build a philosophical system of his own, convinced as he was of the existence
of one universal philosophical system, the essentials of which had already been
found in Hegelian idealism. Instead, He saw his task as being to ‘updat[e] the
philosophy of the Lu-Wang school in the light of modern idealism in general
and Hegel in particular’ (Ci 2002, 188). Far from being a purely exegetical or
academic task, He saw this as a means of revitalising Chinese culture and
strengthening Chinese society (Ci 2002, 189); He Lin’s Sinicisation, in other words,
was a process through which the foreign could be made to serve China. In this
preface, the author does not appear to be invoking He Lin’s position on Western
or Hegelian philosophy
in specific terms (he or she is not arguing, for example, that Western theorists
have uncovered universal truths), but rather suggests more generally that
translation is useful for communication and progress.
Another variation on the idea of making the foreign serve China can be found
in the introduction to the Chinese edition of Gunilla Anderman and Margaret
Rogers’ Translation Today: Trends and Perspectives (Mu and Zhu 2006), published
as part of the Beijing FTST series. Rather than appealing to philosophical or
political figures, the authors of the introduction appeal to a literary figure, Lu
Xun, generally considered the greatest modern Chinese author:10
诚如鲁迅先生所言, ‘只看一个人的著作, 结果是不大好的: 你就得不到

多方面的优点。必须如蜜蜂一样, 采过许多花, 这才能酿出蜜来, 倘若
叮在一处, 所得就非常有限, 枯燥了’。在如今的全球化背景下, 我们不仅
要采‘国产花’, 也要采‘洋花’。
[As Lu Xun said, ‘you will not learn much from learning one single book.
As with the work by bees, the more flowers they adopt, the more honey
they can make. If they focus on one flower, the honey will be very
limited’. Against the background of globalisation, we must not only collect
‘domestic flowers’, but also pay attention to ‘foreign flowers’.]
Mu and Zhu 2006, xi
While the letter from which this Lu Xun citation is taken does not specifically
evoke the notion of learning from ‘foreign flowers’ – it is simply an affirmation
of the value of being widely read on a range of subjects rather than reading the
works of only one literary author11 – the author of this introduction uses Lu
Xun’s statement as a justification for engaging with ideas that have originated
outside China. Later in the same introduction, the authors stress that the benefits
of this foreign flower collection are for China, invoking the notion that the
foreign should be put to use to serve Chinese interests: ‘我们也可以从他们的讨
论中找到自己的切入点, 在国内乃至世界翻译研究领域做出自己的贡献’
[We can also find starting points for our own research from their discussion,
and make some contribution to the field of translation studies in China and the
world] (Mu and Zhu 2006, xi). Mu and Zhu’s suggestion that the ‘foreign
flowers’ can provide an impetus for domestic research is an idea which recurs
frequently. The anonymous preface to the Shanghai FTST series’ edition of
Steiner’s After Babel, for example, argues that the book’s publication ‘将有力促
使我国语言和翻译研究事业的进一步繁荣和发展’ [in our country will
effectively promote the further development of our language and translation
studies and research] (Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press 2001b, ii), and
a very similar formulation is found in the anonymous preface to Lefevere’s
Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Fame (see Shanghai
Foreign Language Education Press 2010, ii). More detailed formulations of this
sentiment can be found in the preface to the Shanghai FTST series’ edition of
Bassnett’s Translation Studies (see Cao 2010, xv) and in the introduction to the
Beijing FTST series’ version of Tymoczko and Gentzler’s Translation and Power:
106 Case studies
我们以往的很多研究成果都是对别人的理论的套用, 当然, 这是中国翻

译理论建构的必由之路。而且我们已经走过了早期的‘挪用’阶段。我们
希望, 未来的‘套用’ 更多的是范式创新精神的套用, 从而不断推出独特
的研究范式, 为翻译研究作出我们都有的贡献。
[A large amount of existing research in China involves applying others’ theo-
ries. It is a necessary step to copy and apply others’ theories, but we have
already passed the stage of ‘borrowing theory’. So we sincerely hope that
we will ‘borrow’ attitudes and spirits of innovation, rather than the
content, from Western theories. This will allow us to create our own
theories and make our own contribution to translation research.]
Wang 2007, xvi
According to other paratexts, an important means of strengthening Chinese transla-

tion studies is to offer Chinese scholars direct access to ‘original works’. In the
‘General Publisher’s Note’ to the Shanghai FTST series, for example, the
publishers state that ‘学习翻译专业的研究生人数越来越多, 这种状况若继续
存在,’ [this series will satisfy the demand for original works required by translation
education for Master’s students of translation and translation theory studies] (Yang
2001, n.p.), indicating that the current lack of original works ‘国内引进的原版翻译
著作匮乏 … … 将十分不利于学科的发展和翻译人才的培养 ’ [blocks the
development of the translation discipline and the cultivation of translators] (Yang
2001, n.p.). The lack of availability of ‘foreign translation studies’, particularly in
Chinese rather than English, is also noted in the ‘General Preface’ to the Beijing
CWTS series (see Beijing Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press 2005, 1).
The problem of Chinese scholars relying on secondary sources rather than having
recourse to the original works is expanded upon in the back- cover blurb of the
Chinese edition of Alexander Fraser Tytler’s Essay on the Principles of Translation
(Beijing Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press, 2008):
1791 年, Alexander Fraser Tytler 在 Essay on the Principles of Translation

一书中提出了著名的翻译三原则, 标志着西方译学研究从此走上了从
理论推动理论的道路。故而, 这本书被誉为西方现代译学研究的开山
之作。…… 在国内学界, ‘翻译三原则’, 几乎是人人耳熟能详, 但遗憾
的是, 国内读过原著者寥寥, 学界不得不转来转去地二手引用。希望本
书的出版有助于研究者养成读原著的习惯。
[In 1971, Alexander Fraser Tytler put forward the famous Three Principles
of translation in his Essay on the Principles of Translation. This marked the
beginning of Western translation studies’ theoretical journey, and this
book is therefore acclaimed as the first work of Western modern
translation studies . . . In domestic translation studies, almost everyone is
familiar with the Three Principles of translation. However, it is unfortunate
that very few Chinese readers have read the original work and scholars
repeatedly cite second-hand references. I do hope the publication of this
book can encourage Chinese researchers to get into the habit of reading
original works.]
Beijing Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press 2008, back cover
Statements such as these, particularly in the more specific formulation that is found
in the note to Tytler’s essay, could be read as criticism of Chinese translation
studies. If we read between the lines, then Chinese translation studies – at least
in the years when these paratexts were written – could be viewed as derivative
(dependent on foreign theories) and lacking in rigour (relying on secondary
rather than original material). Many of the paratexts thus evoke some kind of
gap or weakness in domestic translation studies, but the tone taken by paratext
authors is uniformly affirmative of Chinese translation studies. The ‘General
Publisher’s Note’ to the Shanghai FTST series, for example, opens with the
statement that ‘ 近些年国内研究已经取得了很大进步 ’ [In recent years,
domestic translation studies has made great progress] (Yang 2001, n.p.). The
‘General Preface’ to the Beijing CWTS series uses an almost identical phrase
and supports this statement with statistics regarding the number of domestic
translation studies-related publications (see Beijing Foreign Language Teaching
and Research Press 2005, 1).
Alongside the affirmations of domestic translation studies is an emphasis on
the importation of foreign translation studies being under the control of domestic
scholars. Thus the Shanghai FTST General Publisher’s Note explains that, in
light of the scarcity of foreign translation studies texts, the Publishing House ‘上
海外国语教育出版社约请了多名国内翻译研究著名学者分别开列出最值得
引进的国外翻译研究论著的书目 ’ [invited a number of famous domestic
scholars of translation studies to list the foreign translation works which are the
most worthy of introduction] (Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press
2001a, n.p.), while the ‘General Preface’ to the Beijing CWTS lists by name
and affiliation a number of Chinese academics ‘ 帮助选编这个系列的学者’
[who helped with the selection of the topics for this series] (Beijing Foreign
Language Teaching and Research Press 2005, 4). The control and endorsement
of the publications by domestic scholars is also made clear in the Beijing FTST
series, each volume of which includes a lengthy reading guide by a named
individual, usually a professor in translation studies from a university in China.
The emphasis on the value of domestic translation studies and the need to
take inspiration from Western scholars rather than simply copying or adopting
them uncritically is a prevailing concern of Chinese scholars, as Yifeng Sun
explains:
The overriding concern of many Chinese translation scholars is how to

develop Translation Studies in China with its own theoretical system and
methodology so as to claim to create the so-called Chinese characteristics.
The feverish quest for identity is fundamentally about cultural politics but
it is also meant to effectively analyze and provide more definitive answers
to translation problems related to continuous cultural and political change
in a country eager to establish its overall cultural promotion.
Sun 2012, 35–6
Presenting the imported material as a means to an end, rather than an end in

itself, allows the material to become part of this ‘quest for identity’ and thus
presumably
108 Case studies
to find a high level of acceptance in the target culture. On the surface at least,
this kind of discourse is opposed to a Eurocentric one, since it rejects the idea
that Western theories are universally applicable or in themselves superior to
Chinese traditions. Yet aspects of Eurocentric discourse are not entirely absent
from the corpus, as we will see in the next section.
Eurocentrism(?)
From the entire corpus, only one paratext appears to convey the view that a set
of ideas are important for China simply because they were developed in (a
prestigious centre in) the West. In the translator’s introduction to the translation
of Danica Seleskovitch and Marianne Lederer’s Interpréter pour traduire, the
translator states:
两位作者在本书中详尽阐述了巴黎高等翻译学校的指导思想, 教学原
则, 培训方法, 教学大纲及授课计划。对于我国翻译教学的改革与提
高, 对于我国高级口译人员的选拔与培训等都是一份不可多得的珍贵
资料, 对于有志走向世界译坛的外语学员和年轻译员, 又是一部切实可
行的自修参考, 对于从事口译工作多年和从事翻译教学多年的同志们,
也不愧为是一部必备的案头读物和译事参考。从这个意义上讲, 这本
书又可谓是一部翻译教育家的教育思想概略和教学经验总结。
[In this book, the two authors elaborate the guiding ideology, teaching
principles, training methods, syllabus and teaching plans of the Advanced
Translating School in Paris. Therefore, it is a rare and valuable reference
book for selecting and training advanced translators and interpreters. It is also
a useful self-learning book for students majoring in translation studies and for
young translators. For those who have studied and worked in translation
for years, it is a necessary book for reading and referencing. From this
perspective, this book can be considered as a summary of ideas on
educating and teaching by a translator educator.]
Sun 1992, iii
Later in the introduction, the ‘Advanced Translation School’ is specified as

ESIT, the École Supérieure d’Interprètes et de Traducteurs at the Université
Sorbonne Nouvelle. The logic of Sun’s argument appears at least superficially to
be entirely Eurocentric: the translation school in Paris uses this material, and
therefore knowing about it (and, by implication, adopting it) will improve
translation teaching in China. However, this Eurocentricity is not unthinking:
translation teaching in Paris is not held up as a model for the Chinese simply
because it is teaching that takes place in a prestigious Western capital; on the
contrary, as a paratext to another translation from this era makes clear, 12 the
Chinese translator’s motivation for translating the work of the Paris school arises
from a deep and detailed knowledge of their ped- agogic methods and training
programme. Nevertheless, the overt, rather simplistic reasoning presented in this
particular translator’s introduction does appear to betray a certain Eurocentricity,
even if it is not entirely without ambiguity when more
fully contextualised. It is almost certainly not incidental that the only example of
this kind of argumentative logic is found in a paratext that predates the most
intense period of the nationalist backlash against Western translation studies
described by Cheung (2009), Guo (2009) and others.
While other paratexts do not present a simple Eurocentric logic in this way,
there are nevertheless elements of what might be interpreted as Eurocentricity
in many of the paratexts. Whether or not they are construed in this way depends
to a large extent on interpretations of the nature of Eurocentricity and its con-
nection to narratives of modernisation and development. One of the elements of
Eurocentricity that might be said to be manifested in the paratexts is a tendency
to treat theories of translation developed in the West as ‘translation studies’,
while theories of translation developed in China are presented as ‘Chinese
translation studies’. This can be seen in the following statement from the
Chinese edition of Katan’s Translating Cultures: An Introduction for Translator,
Interpreters, and Mediators, which casts Western Translation Studies as
‘translation theory and research’, or in other words gives it the status of the
discipline of translation studies:
据学者考证, 西方的翻译理论和实践研究的历史, 就已挖掘的文字

记载, 已达两千余年, 与我国翻译史基本同步。但直到 1976 年在比利
时的卢万举行的 ‘文学与翻译论坛 ’上才由勒菲弗尔提出 ‘翻译研究 ’
(Translation Studies) 这一命题。作为一门独立学科, ‘翻译研究’ 旨在
关注 ‘翻译的生成与描写提出的问题’。
[Some scholars have proved that translation theory and applied research
has been developed for 2,000 years since it has the written records, which is
actually at the same time with the history of this discipline in China.
However, ‘Translation Studies’ as a subject was not proposed until 1976 by
Lefevere at the ‘Literature and Translation Forum’ in Belgium.
‘Translation Studies’, as an independent discipline, aims to address
problems related to translation.]
Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press 2004, n.p.
In general, however, the paratexts tend to describe translation studies developed

in the West as ‘Western Translation Studies’, thereby constraining its
universality to some extent. Thus Nida is described as ‘奈达是现代西方学界最
著名的翻译理论家之’ [one of the most famous translators among contemporary
Western scholars] (Tan 1999b, xxvi), and his theory as ‘西方理论界的一块明
亮的珍宝 ’ [a bright jade in Western translation thinking and theories] (Tan
1999b, xxvi); Munday’s Introducing Translation Studies is said to be ‘本书是翻译
学的入门教材 , 广获欧美高等院校采用 ’ [the introductory textbook of
translation studies, widely used by European and American research institutions]
(Munday 2007, back-cover blurb) and offering a ‘全书综览现当代重要的翻译
学说 , 加以阐述和评议 ’ [comprehensive review of the most important
contemporary translation theories in the West] (Munday 2007, back-cover blurb);
Catford’s A Linguistic Theory of Translation is recommended for scholars ‘ 本书
是我国外语院校师生, 翻译理论工作者和从事翻译实践的读者了解和研究西
方现代理论的一本很有价值的参考书’
110 Case studies
[who are interested in understanding and doing research on Western modern

translation theory] (Mu 1991, v); and the back-cover blurb for Bassnett and
Lefevere’s Constructing Cultures states that the range of topics in the book
includes ‘ 中西译论 ’ [Chinese and Western thinking on translation] (Bassnett
and Lefevere 2001, back-cover blurb).
This localising move draws on a concept – namely ‘Western translation studies’ –
which appears to be widely and consistently used only by those who would consider
themselves to occupy a place outside it. In addition to its prominence in the para-
texts to Chinese editions of foreign translation theory texts, a survey of the first
300 hits on Google Scholar for the phrase (out of 812 in total) found that 293 of
them were for work by Chinese scholars.13 Definitions of the term are elusive,
but if a parallel can be drawn with Chinese uses of the term ‘West’, then it would
appear to refer primarily to work emanating from Northern Europe and North
America, with a bias towards centres of power in which the English language is
used. Like the term the West, Western translation studies always stands in opposition to
something else. In the case of the paratexts in this corpus, that something else is
‘Chinese’ translation studies, itself a construct which generally refers to ‘the
mainstream viewpoints and positions in and of the Chinese mainland’ (Guo
2009, 240–1).
Translation theory as knowledge transfer

Another way in which the potential threat of Western theories is neutralised in
the paratextual discourse of the Chinese editions is through the choice of words
used to denote the material that has been selected for publication in China.
Rather than referring to the works in question as ‘研究’ [research], or ‘理论’
[theory], many of the paratexts show a strong preference for the terms ‘教科书’
[textbook], ‘阅读书单’ [reading list book] or ‘参考书’ [reference book], all of
which stress the educational function of the books and their role in higher
education and translator training. The ‘General Preface’ to the Shanghai FTST
Series, for example, states that the ‘series will solve the age-old problem of the
lack of original 阅读书单 [reading list books] in China’ (Shanghai Foreign
Language Education Press 2001a, n.p.), terminology which ties in which its
emphasis on the publisher’s role in ‘ 适应这种高层次人才培养和新学科建设
的需要 ’ [meet[ing] the needs of construction of modernisation and education
reform] (Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press 2001a, n.p.). Many of the
introductions to individual works in this and other series draw on similar
terminology: André Lefevere’s Translating Literature, for example, is described
as ‘ 很好的文学翻译教科书, 可以供我国高等院校翻译专业的师生使用’ [a
very good textbook for teachers and students in universities in China] (Sun 2006,
xiii); Seleskovitch and Lederer’s Interpréter pour traduire is described as ‘ 对研
究生和年轻译者是一本好的参考书 ’ [a good reference book for postgraduate
students and young interpreters] (Sun 1992, ii); and Mark Shuttleworth and
Moira Cowie’s Dictionary of Translation Studies is denoted in even more
pragmatic terms as a ‘工具书’ or ‘tool book’ (Tan 2005, x). Referring to the
imported texts in these ways indicates that what is being
transferred is concrete, practical know-how. The language used in the paratexts

thus aligns this type of importation with the more positive, ideologically neutral
process of knowledge transfer, and ties in with the general preference in China
for treating translation studies as an applied rather than theoretical discipline
(see, in this regard, the Chinese Ministry of Education’s official statement (State
Council 2007) on the aims of the Master in Translation and Interpreting
programme).
Concluding discussion
My analysis of the paratexts of imported Western translation studies texts in this
chapter has revealed the dominance of discourses that stress the benefits of the
imported texts for China. This would appear to suggest that, although
imbalances of translation flow are indicative of Eurocentricity in the discipline
of translation studies, the uses to which imported texts are put are not. Yet critics
of development discourses such as Vincent Tucker would argue that the
underlying logic of all the paratexts in this corpus falls prey to some extent to a
Eurocentric discourse of development that equates modernisation with
Westernisation:
The words ‘development’ and ‘modernization’ were coined by spokesper-

sons for the West to characterize the efforts of others whom they implicitly
assumed to be destined to achieve their levels of consumption . . . Under
the rubric of modernization, Westernization gained the status of a universal
goal and destiny.
Tucker 1999, 7
Far from questioning the foundations of the methods and concepts of Western
translation studies, the dominant paratextual discourse of ‘make the foreign
serve China’ is based on the premise that the approaches modelled by Western
scholars represent the means by which Chinese translation studies can and
should develop. This is a far cry from the more radical ‘decentred consciousness’
envisaged by Said (1985, 105–6), which is
for the most part non- and in some cases anti-totalizing and anti-systemic.
The result is that instead of seeking common unity by appeals to a centre
of sovereign authority, methodological consistency, canonicity and
science, they [the efforts to attain decentred consciousness] offer the
possibility of common grounds of assembly between them.
To re-situate these discussions in the Chinese context more specifically, the

paratexts can be seen as occupying a position that is closer to the philosophy of
Bao Zunxin as opposed to that of the ‘new Confucians’ (Fewsmith 2001, 23). As
Joseph Fewsmith (2001, 23) explains, the latter group ‘emphasize[s] that
“modernization is not the same as Westernization” and argue[s] that unless China
finds the sources of its modernization within its own tradition, it will become
detached from its “roots”
112 Case studies
and continue to face a “crisis of identity”’. In contrast, Bao Zunxin and others
‘have argued that even though modernization is not the same as Westernization,
absorbing the experiences of Western nations is an inevitable part of modernization
and nothing to worry about’ (Fewsmith 2001, 24).14 The overwhelmingly prag-
matic approach to Western theories taken in the paratexts suggests that the paratext
authors concur with this latter view, regarding some level of absorption of Western
models and approaches as a necessary step towards achieving greater success on
both a local and a global level. The paratexts’ stress on the connection between
importing Western translation theory and furthering domestic translation studies
(thereby enhancing its ability to contribute to the development of the discipline
on an international level) suggests that the paratext authors do not accept the
binary decision presented by Guo (2009, 256) in his analysis of the current
predicament of the ‘non-West’:
The ‘non-West’ peoples have been silenced for so long . . . that they may
have lost their ‘voice’ and their ‘self’. Consequently, they are caught in a
dilemma. Either they participate in debates on theoretical issues by
borrowing, learning or adopting the dominant language of the West, and
thus risk becoming mere parrots, or they lapse further into silence.
The discourse in the paratexts suggests that the aim is indeed to borrow, learn
and adopt the language of the West, but not in such a way as to become ‘mere
parrots’. Rather, in line with the alternative vision that Guo (2009, 256) goes on
to present, the aim is to create a situation in which Chinese scholars make
original contributions to translation studies, participating in a ‘more open and
hermeneutic space of intercultural dialogue’. On the global level at least, such an
approach would seem to be a pragmatic acceptance of the status quo, particularly
with regard to the situation that obtains in higher education. For the conditions in
which academic dialogue takes place are strongly shaped by Western academic
conventions: Western universities dominate global university ranking tables (the
ranking system itself being biased towards the West, as Qi (2014, 26–7)
observes), the majority of academic journals are published in the United
States or Western Europe and ‘are typically benchmark sites of theory and
method in academic practices’ (Qi 2014, 37), and ‘textbooks written from a US
or UK perspective are sold worldwide’ (Altbach 2004, 11). Underlying and
compounding Western hegemony is the dominance of the English language in
research work across all disciplines, which ‘gives a significant advantage to the
US and the UK and to the other wealthy English-speaking countries’ (Altbach
2004, 10).
Yet operating within the constraints of Western hegemony does not imply
acceptance of them in the longer term. Neither those who play a role in the
importation of Western translation theory to China nor those in the target
culture who read those texts are passive recipients; as our analysis of the paratexts
has shown, the process of importation – which is in some senses an inevitable
aspect of globalisation and Western dominance thereof – is controlled by the
receiving culture and
encourages active, rather than passive, engagement at every turn. In addition, as

many of the paratexts stress, the importation of Western theory takes place
alongside the development of theories drawing on domestic traditions and
concepts. To the extent that these two ideals are realised in practice, they open
up opportunities for resistance, allowing Chinese scholars to ‘move away from
the margins’ (Guo 2009, 248) by increasing their ‘discursive power, exercised
through a universally intelligible language’. In his analysis of globalisation and
higher education, Altbach (2004, 6) argues that ‘globalisation cannot be
completely avoided. History shows that when universities shut themselves off
from economic and societal trends they become moribund and irrelevant.’ He
goes on, however, to note that ‘institutions and systems do possess great latitude in
how they deal with globalisation’ (Altbach 2004, 6). Chinese efforts to ‘make the
foreign serve China’ against a backdrop of current dominance of Western
translation studies represent part of that latitude, and underscore the
complexities of the notion of an international translation studies and how it
might be achieved.
Notes
1 For examples of similar debates in other academic disciplines, see Munck and O’Hearn
(1999), Acharya (2011), and Qi (2014).
2 The opposition between ‘Western’ and ‘non-Western’ – and indeed the notion of the
‘West’ itself – is inherently problematic, as Tymoczko (2007, 2009) and numerous oth-
ers have observed. For the purposes of this chapter, and in line with other scholars
in translation studies who have discussed these issues, I take ‘the West’ to be a con-
struct (Cheung 2009, 224n3), generally referring to ‘traditional centres of power, mostly
located in Northern Europe and North America’ (Guo 2009, 239n1) but also taking the
more symbolic form of the ‘realistically unavoidable Other against which China has been
trying to define itself, especially over the last two centuries’ (Guo 2009, 249).
3 It should be noted, however, that by ‘internationalisation’Tymoczko (2009, 403) stresses
that she is referring to ‘a conception of the international that includes all languages and
all cultures’, as opposed to bilateral relations between, say, China and the UK.
4 The term ‘Anglo-Western’ is taken from Shohat and Stam (1994, 6) and neatly encapsu-
lates the tendency for dominant ‘Western’ scholarship to be written in English, or to find
broad support in the West only once translated into English. For a lucid discussion of this
issue, see Qi (2014, 14–40).
5 Tan (2009) lists a number of other translations published in the 1980s, notably Selected
Papers on Foreign Translation Theory (1983), Nida on Translation (1984), Steiner’s After Babel
(1987) and two works by Russian theorists, Barchudarov’s Language and Translation (1985)
and Gachechiladze’s An Introduction to the Theory of Literary Translation (1987) (see Tan
2009 for further discussion and publication details). These early publications would
appear to no longer be in circulation, although new editions of Nida’s and Steiner’s
works have been made available.The absence of translations and editions published later
than 2012 is striking and something that undoubtedly merits further investigation.
6 The third edition of Introducing Translation Studies by Jeremy Munday also includes a
summary of Chinese discourses of translation as part of its historical overview of pre-
twentieth-century translation theory. See Munday (2012, 32–6, 44–5).
7 This and all subsequent translations of Chinese paratextual material were done by Sarah
Fang Tang. As noted in the Acknowledgements, Sarah also contributed to the research
for this chapter, identifying the corpus of Chinese translations and editions, providing
summaries of paratextual material and commenting on drafts.
114 Case studies
8 Brady (2003, 1) gives 1956 as the date on which Mao coined the expression, but the
speech first appeared in print in the newspaper Jiefang Daily on 19 October 1943 and was
published in the third volume of Mao’s selected works in 1953.
9 See Dirlik (2000) for further discussion of the related question of Mao’s views on the
Sinicisation of Marxism.
10 In some respects, distinguishing between political and literary figures from the perspective
of present-day paratexts is to invoke a false dichotomy. Lu Xun’s status as a leading
cultural figure has always been affirmed by the Chinese Communist Party; Mao Zedong
apparently called him ‘commander of China’s cultural revolution’ (see Peking Review
1966).
11 The sentence is taken from one of Lu Xun’s letters to a friend,Yan Li-Min, in which Lu
Xun advises Yan to read more widely, taking in maths, biology and other subjects as well
as literature (see Xun 2005, 439).
12 See Delisle (1988, i–ii).
13 The search was carried out on 26 April 2017. Note that this does not equate to 293
independent uses of the phrase, since quite a number of these hits are for citations of
existing articles.
14 For further discussion of these issues, see, for example, Gries (2004) and Li (2016).
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6
WALTER PRESENTS AND ITS
PARATEXTS
Curating foreign TV for British audiences
Writing for the Guardian in 2004, Alex Cox (2004) opens his article on foreign-
language films on British TV with the following remark:
For the past few weeks, I’ve been playing an interesting game. In one way,
it’s interesting; in another, it’s a bit boring – because the result is always
the same. The name of the game is: ‘Spot the foreign-language film on
British terrestrial television.’ And the score, as you’ve probably guessed,
is zero.
Less than a decade later, Mark Jones (2013), writing for the same newspa-
per, begins his article on French TV drama The Returned with a very different
observation: ‘In recent years, quality European drama has become so familiar
to British viewers that Nigel Farage may well be experiencing night terrors.’
Jones (2013) supports his reflection with statistics, noting that ‘from the 30
most-watched programmes since BBC4 started in 2002, 14 places are taken up
by episodes of Scandinavian thrillers The Killing, The Bridge and Borgen’, and
contrasting this with the situation in previous years, in which ‘aficionados of
foreign television . . . had to hunt for imported boxsets and English subtitles’.
A 2016 review of the French drama The Passenger suggests that subtitling has
even reached the point where it has taken on a broadly positive set of associa-
tions. After criticising various weaknesses of the drama, Julia Raeside (2016)
writes: ‘The saving grace of The Passenger is its Frenchness and the panache
with which it’s shot. Like any subtitled offering from the continent, your brain
imbues it with more sophistication than it might actually possess.’ Subtitling,
in this account, is no longer a turn-off for mainstream viewers, but has become
a draw. Where the fact of subtitling once conveyed fear, mistrust, reluctance,
hard work and other negative predispositions, since the mid- to late 2000s it
would appear to have become much more positive, conveying sophistication
Walter Presents and its paratexts 119
and high quality. Part of this difference is intertextual, since the growing asso-
ciation between subtitled drama and high-quality drama depends on subtitled
dramas that have gone before.
These differences could be conceptualised as changes in the ‘factual’ para-
text, according to Genette’s (1997, 7) definition, and as outlined in Chapter 1,
whereby the fact that a show is subtitled forms part of the assumptions and atti-
tudes that viewers bring to the text or which governs their decision of whether
to watch it or not. Alternatively, they could be conceptualised as changes to the
context against which the material paratexts themselves need to be interpreted.
In Part III, I will make a case for the second of these options on the basis that
it helps us to avoid the ‘paratext’s collapse into the vastness of “the context”’
(Rockenberger 2014, 267). The important thing to note at this stage is that the
connotative meaning of subtitling has undergone a radical shift in Britain in the
last ten or fifteen years for a significant proportion of viewers. In this chapter, I
present a case study of a recent on-demand digital TV initiative to provide sub-
titled foreign drama in Britain, 1 exploring how these changes in attitude towards
subtitling are reflected in its paratexts and drawing on Catherine Johnson (2012)
to explore connections between paratexts and branding. Appealing to Jonathan
Gray’s (2010) distinction between industry- and viewer-created paratexts,
I will also explore the extent to which the initiative’s paratextual strategies
are affirmed or countered in the paratexts produced by journalists and on
social media sites.
Case study: Walter Presents

In January 2016, in partnership with the Global Series Network, Channel 4
launched Walter Presents as part of its digital hub, All 4, making subtitled box
sets available to viewers free of charge. While some of the Walter Presents
shows are available only via the on-demand service or website, the first episode
is sometimes shown on Channel 4 or More 4. The TV advert announcing the
launch summarises the nature of the initiative as well as its key selling points:
Walter Presents – A handpicked selection – of the best – the best stories –

the best characters – the best drama – from around the world . . . – entire
box sets – all completely free – whenever you want – trust Walter – we
do – Walter Presents.
Channel 4 2016
In addition to the obvious emphasis on quality (‘the best stories – the best
characters – the best drama’), the advert foregrounds the role played by ‘Walter’,
stressing that he has handpicked the dramas, and encouraging viewers to ‘trust’
him. ‘Walter’ is Walter Iuzzolino, a former commissioning editor for factual TV
shows including Embarrassing Bodies and Country House Rescue (Day 2016), one of
the co- founders of the Global Series Network, and the force behind the new
initiative.
120 Case studies
Curation
The decision to name the digital service after Walter rather than give it a more
neutral label was reportedly taken by Channel 4 (K. Abbott 2016), and reflects
the importance of what Mark Lawson (2016) describes as the ‘currently fashionable
concept of “curated programming”’. Whereas curation used to be an activity
primarily associated with museums and exhibitions, in recent years the meaning of
the term has been extended to the domain of media and refers to efforts to ‘select,
organize, and present (online content, merchandise, information, etc.), typically
using professional or expert knowledge’ (Oxford English Dictionary [online] 2017). 2
This type of curation has arisen because of the overwhelming vastness of choice
associated with the on-demand television era, as Chuck Tryon (2013, 126)
explains:
media industry observers have noted the difficulty of ‘curating’ the wide
selection of movies and television shows available at any given time and
on such a wide range of platforms. In an era beyond the networks, cable
television, and the video store, identifying and tracking down movies and
television shows presents a new challenge.
Iuzzolino himself stresses the importance of curation in an interview reported by

Kate Abbott for the Guardian:
In a landscape dominated by Netflix, which is ‘buying literally everything’

but not promoting it enough, says Iuzzolino, personal recommendations
are key. ‘When everyone wants your subscription money and there’s a
boring algorithm somewhere in Iowa trying to decide what you might like,
a) they get it wrong and b) it’s a supermarket way of looking at the world.’
Walter Presents is a commercial channel, which generates revenue from
advertising, but it is free to viewers and driven by a small team’s tastes.
K. Abbott 2016
Iuzzolino’s contrast between Netflix’s purely algorithm-driven

recommendations and his own personal ones echoes the vision presented by key
players involved in the reconceptualisation of BBC iPlayer in 2014, 3 and ties in
with Channel 4’s identity as a public service broadcaster. A key selling point of
Walter Presents, then, is its personally curated nature: rather than being an
undifferentiated mass of foreign dramas, these dramas have been watched,
weighed up and approved of by a man whom we are encouraged to trust. Of
course, Walter does not know us, and we do not know him, but the illusion of
personal recommendation is carefully culti- vated by the paratextual material that
surrounds the foreign dramas made available through this platform. Some of this
material operates as paratext to the entire body of dramas made available
through the service, or in other words serves as paratext to the Walter Presents
initiative. These include the television advert discussed above, the ‘Meet Walter’
video available on the Walter Presents website,4 as well
as the plethora of interviews and articles about Iuzzolino that stress his personal
involvement in the new service. Other material serves as paratext to each indi-
vidual series: this includes one- to two-minute introductory video presentations
by Iuzzolino and the ten- to twenty-word summaries of the series that appear on
the Walter Presents website and the on-demand television menu pages.
In the introductory videos – which in some cases are embedded into the first
episode of the series as a form of video preface, while in others are available as sepa-
rate clips – Walter speaks directly to the camera from inside what we are invited
to presume is his own home, a half-full cafetière, a cup of coffee and a notepad
and pen on the table in front of him (see Figure 6.1).
He tells the viewers about the series, comparing it to other dramas they might
have liked and addressing the viewers directly and informally. In the
presentation to Deutschland 83, for example, Walter repeatedly uses the phrase ‘I’ve
seen’, shares his own ‘personal’ dislike of the 1980s, and tells viewers they
would have to be ‘insane’ not to like the series (Walter Presents: Deutschland 83
[video] 2016).
The personal connection between Walter and the viewer is further strength-
ened through Twitter. According to an interview with Sinead McCausland
(2017), Iuzzolino states that he is on Twitter ‘all the time’:
I’m responding and answering to questions and I care very much about
the community of viewers that love what we do . . . [People] come to this
because they know it’s got a real personal touch, and we can never lose
that, that personal connection.
McCausland 2017
A brief analysis of the Walter Presents UK Twitter account shows, however, that
contrary to this emphasis on personal connection, much of the Twitter
interaction
FIGURE 6.1 Still from the Walter Presents introductory video to Deutschland 83.
Reproduced with the kind permission of Global Series Network Limited
122 Case studies
is straightforwardly promotional, consisting of tweets promoting particular

shows or citing favourable press reviews, or retweeting endorsements by other
Twitter users. Where Iuzzolino does post responses to comments by other
Twitter users, these tend to be brief, affirming a positive opinion expressed by a
viewer or giving a short informational response to a query. In terms of function,
then, the Twitter activity linked with Walter Presents serves more to cultivate
the image of Walter Presents as a personally curated service – there is, after all, a
real person behind the initiative – rather than to facilitate genuine dialogue
between Iuzzolino and the viewers. In this sense, the Twitter account, like the
presentations accompanying each series and the advert announcing the launch of
the service, represents part of the effort to set up a strong brand for Walter
Presents.
Branding
In her study of the development of branding in the contexts of US and UK tel-
evision, Johnson (2012) argues that ‘the emergence of digital television in the
late 1990s consolidated the role of branding as a central strategy in the changing
media landscape’ (74). This was in large part a ‘strategic response to a period of
enhanced competition’ (117), although in the case of public service broadcasters –
most notably the BBC – branding also aimed to communicate the values of the
broadcaster to the public in the face of political pressures (84–6). Unlike the
consumer goods industry, where the focus is generally on developing brands for
products, Johnson
(4) argues that in the television industry there are ‘three areas where branding
might be adopted by television broadcasters: corporations, channels/services and
programmes’. With Walter Presents, the branding operates in an area midway
between the second and third levels of generality outlined by Johnson, or in
other words beneath the broader levels of the Channel 4 and All 4 brands but
above the specific level of the individual series available on the platform such as
Spin or Deutschland 83. The key qualities that the brand looks to convey have
been noted
FIGURE 6.2 Walter Presents logo. Reproduced with the kind permission of Global
Series Network Limited
above, and can be summarised as international, high-quality, hand-picked, on-

demand television dramas. The brand has its own logo, consisting of the letters
‘wp’ inside a circle, as shown in Figure 6.2. The nature of the logo –
handwritten, and incorporating Walter’s first name – reinforces the message that
the series has been personally curated.
The logo features prominently on the menu pages of the on-demand service,
with each box set being represented by a still from one of the episodes with the
logo superimposed in the top right-hand corner (see Channel 4 2017a). 5 Where
the box sets are listed alongside UK box sets on other on-demand menu pages,
the logo serves a dual function, helping viewers to identify and navigate to
Walter Presents dramas as well as reinforcing the Walter Presents brand. The
brand is further strengthened by the superimposition of the logo on the still for
each episode selection button on the subsequent on-demand menu page, as well
as on the episodes available through the Channel 4 website. An animated
version of the logo, which mimics the handwriting process and thus reinforces
the idea that the dramas are hand-picked by an individual, is used in the opening
and conclusion of each of the series presentations by Iuzzolino, as well as at the
beginning and end of each episode in a series.
The logo plays an important role in drawing together series that have no for-
mal link to each other save the fact that Walter has selected them, affirming in
shorthand the quality and appeal of each of the dramas. To a certain extent, this
obviates the need to create a brand for each individual series, something for
which the individual series would in any case not be well suited, owing to their
relative brevity.6 With regard to what might be termed the higher-level brands,
namely those associated with All 4 and Channel 4, the Walter Presents brand can
be seen to work alongside these rather than replacing them: the Walter Presents
logo is preceded by the Channel 4 ident in each episode; the words ‘From
Channel 4’ appear at the bottom of the animated Walter Presents logo itself; the
online and on-demand Walter Presents pages are reached via the All 4 platform
and website, with its associated prominent branding. The structure of the All 4
on-demand portal and website also reflect the possibility that not all potential
viewers of Walter Presents will be familiar with the Walter Presents brand: on
the on-demand site, viewers reach the Walter Presents portal by selecting the
generic category ‘World Drama’ (Channel 4 2017a) and are only then presented
with the Walter Presents name and logo, while on the website viewers select
‘World Drama’ (Channel 4 2017b) and are presented with a selection of box sets
featuring the WP logo but are only taken to the Walter Presents website if they
select one of the box sets and then click ‘Want more World Drama’.
Nevertheless, the prominence given to Walter Presents itself is striking, resulting
in a strong framework of paratextual branding for the subtitled programmes. In
the next section, I will explore the ways in which the foreignness of the dramas
is incorporated into the Walter Presents branding strategy, asking what this
suggests about viewers’ perceived attitudes towards subtitled drama at the present
moment, thus contributing to the discussion of the shift in such attitudes
initiated in the first part of this chapter. In the final section, I
124 Case studies
will explore the ways in which paratextual material created by viewers

potentially undermines this strategy for presenting foreignness, as well as the
Walter Presents brand more generally.
Industry-created paratexts: presenting foreignness and the fact

of subtitling
In this section, I consider the extent to which the foreignness of the dramas and
the fact of subtitling are foregrounded in the industry-created thresholds through
which viewers access the dramas that feature on Walter Presents. More specifically, I
examine the interfaces of the All 4 on-demand TV platform and the Walter Presents
website, the written summaries of individual drama series and the video
introductions given by Iuzzolino. In this case study, I consider as paratext any
element that provides a threshold either to a particular drama series or to the
Walter Presents service itself. The series and the service themselves thus form the
‘texts’. In the case of the series, text therefore denotes the tangible, finite entity that
is the complete drama itself, whereas in the case of the service text is used to
denote the more abstract and mutable Walter Presents concept. The usefulness of
viewing both types of entity as texts with their associated paratexts will become
clear as the chapter progresses.
Interfaces
As noted above, the Walter Presents TV portal is available via the All 4 on-demand
service and is accessed via the ‘World Drama’ category option. This category
sits alongside ten other categories, which include ‘Drama’, ‘Comedy’,
‘Entertainment’, and so on (see Channel 4 2017a). While the short description of
the ‘Drama’ category makes no mention of place – ‘Original and compelling
drama that stands the test of time’ – the short description of ‘World Drama’
reads: ‘Walter Presents a handpicked selection of the best international drama’.
The use of the labels ‘world drama’ and ‘international drama’ to denote foreign
subtitled series represents both a foregrounding and a euphemising of
foreignness. On the one hand, although both terms could, in purely semantic
terms, refer to drama from all over the world, in English, as well as other
languages, the fact that ‘world drama’ is opposed to ‘drama’ in the category
options shows that they are being used to denote something non-mainstream
and to some degree exotic.7 While this foregrounding of difference is negated to
a certain extent by the fact that the Walter Presents dramas actually appear in the
‘Drama’ category listings as well, the fact that they retain the WP logo when listed
under the more generic category means that they continue to be marked as
different from the mainstream. On the other hand, the fact that the terms ‘world’
and ‘international’, which are vague with regard to language implications, are
preferred over the terms ‘foreign-language’ or ‘subtitled’, glosses over the fact of
language difference to a certain degree.
The tendency to downplay the fact that the Walter Presents dramas are in foreign
languages is also evident on the Walter Presents website. With two exceptions, the
website groups the dramas thematically rather than by language, ordering them under
the headings ‘Most Popular’, ‘Hot & Sexy Sizzlers’, ‘Feel Good Dramedy’, ‘Sinister
Sharp Shockers’, ‘All-out Action’, ‘Drama Queens’ and ‘Critically Acclaimed
Thrillers’ (Channel 4 2017b). The exceptions are the headings ‘French Fancies’
and ‘Chilling Nordic Noir’ (Channel 4 2017b), both of which appear to be using
explicit mentions of geographical origins to indicate genre rather than to flag up
the language, or range of languages, used in the drama. The thresholds on the
structure of the webpage thus encourage viewers to select what they want to
watch based on their preferences for certain types of drama rather than on the
language in which the drama is expressed. Nowhere on the website is any
mention made of the fact that the dramas are subtitled, something which is quite
remarkable when viewed against the backdrop of longstanding UK TV listing
practices, according to which the fact of subtitling always finds explicit mention.8
Series summaries
While the website prioritises genre over language with regard to its overall struc-
ture, the ten- or eleven-word summaries that appear underneath the clickable
image for each drama almost always mention geographical origin. To take the
example of the dramas under the ‘Most Popular’ heading, the summaries read as
follows:
Locked Up: Spain’s sexy and provocative prison drama returns for a new series
Case: Looking for a moody drama? Watch this grim Icelandic noir
Black Widow: The Dutch Olivia Colman. Watch an award-winning gangster
thriller
Spin: The rave-reviewed French House of Cards returns for its final series
Channel 4 2017b
The same tendency to mention geographical origin can be observed in the

slightly longer summaries provided on the on-demand TV portal (see Channel 4
2017a). Just six out of the thirty-five summaries do not mention the country in
which the drama was made and, of those six, three mention the name of a place
or person that would enable the viewer to deduce the approximate geographical
origin of the drama (‘Macarena Ferreiro’ for Locked Up, ‘Alpine village’ for The
Returned, ‘Dunkirk’ for Reborn). What is remarkably consistent across all of the
summaries is a foregrounding of place rather than language: Magnífica 70 is a
‘Brazilian drama’ rather than a ‘drama in Brazilian Portuguese’; The Invisibles is a
‘comedic fantasy drama from the Czech Republic’ rather than a ‘comedic fantasy
drama in Czech’, and so on. This ties in with the striking absence of all mention
of subtitling noted above.
Another strategy used in the Walter Presents summaries is the comparison of the
foreign drama or actors to references with which the target audience is presumed
to
126 Case studies
be familiar. Thus, in the examples cited above, the lead actor (Monic Hendrickx)
of Black Widow is described as ‘the Dutch Olivia Colman’ (Channel 4 2017a), and
Spin is referred to as the ‘French House of Cards’ (Channel 4 2017a). Other
examples from the website include the summary of German drama Hotel Adlon
as ‘Period drama that plays like Downton Abbey. Or, as The Sun puts it: “Mr
Selfridge with Nazis”’ (Channel 4 2017b) and the description of Magnífica 70 as
‘Breaking Bad meets Boogie Nights in 1970s Brazil’ (Channel 4 2017b).
Viewed from the perspective of translation theory, such a presentational
strategy could be considered classically domesticating, ‘leav[ing] the reader in peace
as much as possible and mov[ing] the writer toward him’ (Schleiermacher 2012,
49), to use Schleiermacher’s distinctions on which Venuti’s (1995) well-known
dichotomy is based. Yet these types of comparison show themselves to be
frequent in media promotional discourse even where no foreign culture is
involved: new shows are often advertised as being the new or next version of
some existing successful show, and academic research shows that film reviewers
‘consistently assign films a comparative location in the existing film field’
(Kersten and Bielby 2012, 191).
Intriguingly, this presentational strategy is not used at all in the summaries on
the on-demand portal. Thus the on-demand summary of Black Widow reads:
‘Carmen, the daughter of a crime lord, reluctantly takes charge of the family’s
drug-smuggling business in this complex Dutch crime drama’ (Channel 4 2017a),
while the summary for Spin is ‘French political thriller following a tension-filled
campaign and turbulent presidential term as two spin doctors go head to head’
(Channel 4 2017a). The reasons for this discrepancy are not clear, although the
consistency with which the two strategies (comparing versus not comparing) are
followed on the two platforms indicates that it is deliberate. The comparisons made
on the Walter Presents website frequently find their way into reviews and
headlines in mainstream media or, in other words, into other paratexts to the
series. The Evening Standard, for example, uses the heading ‘The Dutch Olivia
Colman’ (Jones 2017) for its feature on Black Widow, while the Guardian draws
on Iuzzolino’s comparison of The Swingers to Fatal Attraction in its summary of the
series.9 The Walter Presents website summary of Hotel Adlon cited above reminds
us that the borrowing of comparisons can go in both directions: in the case of that
show, Iuzzolino repeats the Sun’s comparison of the show to Mr Selfridge alongside
his own comparison of the show to Downton Abbey.10
Introductory videos
The tendency to draw comparisons between a new series and an existing one is
also strongly present in the introductory videos presented by Iuzzolino.
Iuzzolino suggests, for example, that the 1980s characters in Deutschland 83 ‘feel
much closer to Mad Men than they do to Dynasty’ (Walter Presents:
Deutschland 83 [video] 2016), selecting two US dramas as his points of
comparison. In a similar vein, the video presentation of Spin repeats the
comparison with House of Cards that is used in the written website summary,
although also compares the show to the Danish drama Borgen (Walter Presents:
Spin [video] 2016). This suggests that the popularity
of foreign drama in the UK is now such that previously successful foreign

dramas can be used alongside UK and US shows as intertexts to promote newly
imported series. This also lends support to the argument made above that, while
comparing foreign series to UK/US ones might to some extent be viewed as a
strategy for reducing the foreignness of the dramas, it may also simply be part of a
more general practice for selling any new show, whatever its origin. In other
words, if Spin is compared to Borgen, this cannot have anything to do with
attempting to mitigate Spin’s foreignness or subtitled nature, since Borgen is also a
foreign subtitled drama. This presentational strategy is thus more about setting the
new show within the context of the broader canon of shows that have been
successful on UK TV and suggesting that the new show has its own rightful
place within that canon.
In this respect, comparative strategies are a means of affirming the quality of the
new series and go hand-in-hand with another key promotional strategy consist-
ently used by Iuzzolino in the video introductions. We see this strategy at work
in all of the videos: it consists essentially in emphasising the high quality of the
series by noting that the series has won awards, or by stressing the calibre of the
directors or actors. Thus Spin is ‘multi-award-winning’ (Walter Presents: Spin
[video] 2016) and has an ‘all-star cast’; the creator of Elite Squad, Olivier
Marchal, is an ‘award-winning monster talent’ (Walter Presents: Elite Squad [video]
2017); and the introduction to Valkyrien opens with the statement that
‘Sometimes a piece of telly comes along which totally transforms the landscape,
raising the bar for everyone else’ (Walter Presents: Valkyrien [video] 2017).
In addition to these enthusiastic affirmations of a show’s quality, the
introductory videos offer brief summaries of the plot and main characters, and
comment on the tone or style of the series. As with the written summaries, there
is no explicit mention of the fact that the shows are subtitled, and the foreignness
of the series finds little mention beyond the odd comparative evocation along the
lines of the ones used in the written summaries.11 Nevertheless, in these
introductory videos, the fact that the shows are subtitled does emerge through
the clips that accompany Iuzzolino’s commentary: while the majority of the clips
are very short ones taken from action or sex scenes, some of them do contain
small amounts of dialogue and correspondingly include subtitles. Overall, however,
Iuzzolino’s silence on the question of subtitling – a silence which is maintained in
all of the official paratexts for Walter Presents – appears to be designed to
convey the clear and consistent message that subtitling is a non-issue. In the next
section, I shall analyse a range of viewer-created paratexts to the Walter Presents
service and individual drama series in an effort to discover whether Iuzzolino’s
message is a reflection of British attitudes to subtitling or alternatively still in
some respects aspirational.
Viewer-created paratexts
While shows such as Lost have an extensive viewer-created paratext,12 the
Walter Presents service and the drama series curated on it have much smaller
viewer- created paratexts. Nevertheless, the viewer-created paratexts that do
exist can
128 Case studies
function as significant ‘entryway paratexts’ (Gray 2010, 23), influencing

potential viewers’ decisions about whether or not to watch a particular show.
They also function as a site where the strategies used in the industry-created
paratexts for presenting the subtitled nature of the dramas can be directly and
indirectly contested. In this section, I consider four different types of viewer-
created paratexts, focusing in particular on the extent to which the foreignness of
the dramas is foregrounded and on challenges to the Walter Presents brand.
Press reviews
For this case study, I analysed all reviews of the Walter Presents initiative or of a
specific Walter Presents series that were published in the online versions of UK
newspapers and magazines between August 2015 and April 2017. The
publications that featured reviews during this period were the Evening Standard,
Guardian, Independent, Metro, NME, Radio Times, Telegraph, Drama Quarterly and
Royal Television Society. Of the nineteen reviews identified, seventeen explicitly
mention that the shows are subtitled or in a foreign language.13 In many cases,
this fact is foregrounded: nine of the reviews highlight in their headline or sub-
headline the fact that the drama is in a foreign language,14 while a further eight
use the headline or sub-headline to indicate the show’s foreign geographical origin
without stating explicitly that the show is subtitled.15 Two of the reviews which do
not mention the foreign-language nature of the drama in the headlines foreground
it very prominently in the body of the article: both of these reviews appear in the
Evening Standard in the short-review format ‘Five things you need to know
about . . .’, and the fact that the show is subtitled is listed in first place in one of
the reviews and second place in the other:
Take a look at Locked Up . . . Here are five things you need to know:
1) It’s in Spanish
As with all of Channel 4’s Walter Presents series, this is a foreign
language drama – so be prepared to read subtitles unless you’re fluent in
Spanish. Don’t let that put you off – Walter Presents has already given us
the thrill- ing Deutschland 83, which was in German, and you’ll be so
caught up in the fray of the drama that you’ll forget about the subtitles
within minutes.
Travis 2016, bold in original
Need a new gripping drama to get swept up in? Channel 4 are on the
Case . . . Here are five things you need to know:
2) It’s in Icelandic
Don’t be shocked – yes, this Icelandic drama is in Icelandic. If you’re the
sort of person who usually runs a mile at the sight of a subtitle, give it a
chance – as anyone who’s delved into a Scandi-noir thriller before will
attest, you forget you’re reading them within the first five minutes.
Travis 2017, bold in original
Unlike the industry-created paratexts, these reviews – which position themselves

unambiguously as entryway paratexts – acknowledge that the fact that the shows
are in a foreign language may be a turn-off for potential viewers. Similarly, a
review of Locked Up that appears in the Telegraph presents the show as
something which ‘crackles with wit, even with subtitles’ (O’Donovan 2017),
repeating this sentiment in both the title and the body of the article.
Other reviews make subtitling into a point of discussion whilst suggesting
that negative predispositions towards subtitling are a feature of the past. Caroline
Corcoran’s (2015) article on the Walter Presents initiative, for example, opens
by sketching the shift in fortunes of subtitled drama in the UK:
Fifteen years ago, if you’d mentioned to a colleague that you’d spent

Saturday night glued to a subtitled European drama, you’d have been qui-
etly declared pretentious, dull and, possibly, a little odd. Skip to today and
foreign-language dramas aren’t even on-trend, they’re fully mainstream.
Now we are as likely to discuss the latest Danish thriller over a morning
flat white at our desks as we are a new season on HBO.
Mark Lawson (2016), writing for the Guardian, uses the sub-headline of his article
to paint a similar picture: ‘A few years ago, a French TV drama about complex
machina- tions inside the Elysée Palace would have been scoffed at. But now
foreign-language shows are a real draw and getting even more airtime thanks to C4’s
innovative project.’ Similarly, Elizabeth Day (2016), writing for the Telegraph,
argues:
In recent years, Britain has fallen for foreign television. First,

Scandinavian detective procedurals familiarised us with world drama . . .
Before that point, we were scared of subtitles. They were associated with
interminable European films, the kind Iuzzolino describes as ‘dripping tap’
because there is always a long shot of a leaking faucet in an empty room.
Subtitles were dull. Subtitles were elitist. Subtitles required an expensive
ticket to a half- empty cinema where the man who sold you the ticket was
probably dressed in a polo neck and reading Sartre. But now all that has
changed.
Almost all of the reviews, then, draw attention to the fact that the dramas
available through the Walter Presents platform are subtitled. Furthermore, the
platform itself is frequently labelled a ‘foreign-language drama’ collection, platform
or service,16 in contrast with Channel 4’s designation of the service as providing
‘world’ or ‘international’ drama, discussed above. Although the citations given
above show that the fact that the Walter Presents dramas are subtitled is generally
presented positively, it is nevertheless striking that reviewers feel the need to
make it clear that the shows are subtitled, in contrast with the strategy observed in
the industry-created paratexts. While the viewer-created paratexts discussed so far
are those that are produced by ‘professional television viewers’ (Gray 2011, 115),
those that will be discussed in the remainder of this section are created by ordinary
viewers, or in other words people
130 Case studies
who have no obligation to write about a show but choose to do so, often anony-
mously. The value of examining these audience-created paratexts is twofold: on
the one hand, they offer evidence of popular attitudes towards subtitling,
enabling us to gauge the extent to which the attitudes towards subtitling that are
evident in the industry-created and professional viewer-created paratexts are shared
by the popula- tion at large;17 on the other, as paratexts that function in their own
right as thresholds to the Walter Presents shows, they illustrate the alternative
framings through which some viewers come to the dramas.
Facebook
The Walter Presents Facebook group was set up by a fan, 18 and has no formal
link to Iuzzolino or Channel 4. Overall, the tone in the Facebook group dis-
cussions is positive, and mention of subtitles is rare. One user comments that
she watched the first episode of Locked Up and ‘for the first minute I wondered
if I would be able to follow it with the subtitles but very quickly I was hooked
as it just gripped me!’ (H. Abbott 2016), but this only elicits one further com-
ment on subtitling (to the effect that the viewer ‘knew [they] wouldn’t be an
issue’ as he ‘love[s] world cinema’ (Starkey 2016)). The remaining ten com-
ments focus instead on how much they liked Locked Up and similar dramas.
The only other mentions that are made of subtitling in the Facebook group are
in relation to practical difficulties in accessing subsequent series of the Walter
Presents shows as quickly as users would like (see, for example, Johnson (2016)
and the same user’s reply to a query posted by Wichert (2016)). To a cer-
tain extent, the absence of commentary on the subtitled nature of the Walter
Presents dramas on the Facebook group confirms the position that Iuzzolino
himself appears to anticipate: once viewers have grown accustomed to viewing
subtitled dramas, it is the quality of the series itself (and very often its addic-
tiveness) that is uppermost in viewers’ minds; subtitles become normal and
therefore do not need to be mentioned.
YouTube
The TV advert promoting the launch of Walter Presents, discussed above, is
currently available both on the Walter Presents website – or in other words as
part of the industry-created paratextual apparatus – and on the separate platform,
YouTube. YouTube also serves as an alternative platform for the introductory
videos made by Iuzzolino for individual dramas. Whereas the industry-created
paratextual framework offers viewers no opportunity to respond to the advert or
the introductory videos, the YouTube platform does. YouTube thus opens up a
space in which a viewer-created paratext can be built up beyond the control of
the Walter Presents brand. Unlike the Facebook group, which draws together
fans of Walter Presents shows, the viewers of the YouTube trailers are not
necessarily people with any allegiance to the Walter Presents platform, and their
contributions
are thus less likely to function as ‘value co-creation’ (Aronczyk 2017) for the brand
and more likely to challenge or undermine it.
Overall, the number of comments on the Walter Presents videos is low: the
greatest number of comments on any one video is twenty-eight, and many of
them have no comments at all.19 Unlike the generally favourable comments
posted to the Facebook group, almost all of the comments on YouTube are
either neutral or negative. In parallel with the Facebook comments, however,
very few of the YouTube comments focus on subtitling. To give examples of
these two trends, the first comment that appears underneath the TV advert is
‘Fuck you Walter and fuck your shit shows’ (LEGO TUBE 2016). The other
comments on this video (there are eleven in total) are neutral, focusing on the
soundtrack to the video and how to get access to the dramas. Similarly, of the
twenty-nine comments on the most viewed of all the Walter Presents videos
(Iuzzolino’s introduction to Heartless, with over 36,000 views at the time of
writing), only one is clearly positive, whereas eight are negative. The negative
comments include reasonably measured reactions as well as offensive statements
targeted at Iuzzolino, like the one posted by LEGO TUBE cited above.20 Only
one commenter mentions the fact that the shows are not in English.21
While the number of comments posted in response to the YouTube videos is
so low that we cannot extrapolate from them to make any generalisations about
British viewers’ attitudes towards subtitling,22 the overall absence of comment
on the fact that the dramas are in a foreign language does nevertheless suggest
that subtitling is perceived fairly neutrally. In this sense, these viewer-created
paratexts confirm the attitudes towards subtitling that the industry-created para-
texts assume people to hold, somewhat in contrast with the viewer-created
paratexts produced by professional television viewers, discussed above. In terms
of the paratext that these comments on YouTube videos create, however, it is
clear that viewers accessing the Walter Presents videos through this route are
presented with a more ambiguous and negative threshold to the Walter Presents
initiative than those who come to it through the industry-created paratexts.
The extent to which this actually impacts on viewers’ decisions to enter the text
or turn back, or on their perception of the show itself, is difficult to ascertain.
Nevertheless, the permanence of the comments is striking and renders them
far more powerful than they would be in any real-world forum. In the real
world, if we were sitting next to LEGO TUBE on the sofa and watching the
Walter Presents advert on the TV, LEGO TUBE’s denigratory reaction to the
advert and to Walter would have disappeared as swiftly as it was expressed;
in the online world, however, LEGO TUBE’s comments appear together with
the TV advert itself and are present, repeatedly, to every subsequent viewer
of the advert. If the user has a high ranking in the YouTube system, 23 as LEGO
TUBE appears to, the comment will appear above all other comments, immedi-
ately below the advert. If the video is commented on relatively infrequently, as is
the case for the Walter Presents videos, the top comment can retain its position
for a very long time.
132 Case studies
Discussion forums
Other types of site unconnected to the industry-created paratexts but which can
operate as part of the Walter Presents paratext are discussion forums, such as
those hosted by the leading entertainment site Digital Spy. Any user can start
their own discussion threads or post to existing ones, as long as he or she
conforms to the rules set out by the host site. A search for ‘Walter Presents’ on
the Digital Spy site reveals sixty-one hits over a period of one year (14 June
2016–14 June 2017). The discussions show that the forum functions not only as
a virtual place for viewers to exchange ideas about dramas that they have already
seen, but also as an entryway paratext that helps potential viewers decide
whether or not to watch a particular series. For example, one forum user posted
the question ‘Is it worth watching The Team then?’ (tartan-belle 2017),
prompting a range of opinions on the drama. In the course of the discussion,
another user wrote ‘Posters [to the discussion forum] have whetted my appetite
for Dept Q . . . I will give that a go . . .’ (Marispiper 2017), referring to a Danish
drama shown on BBC4.
Like the You Tube comments, the comments on the Digital Spy forum reveal
a range of attitudes towards the Walter Presents initiative and the dramas shown
through it. Most of the discussions concern plot lines, reactions to the dramas,
and queries about the availability of the programmes or of forthcoming series.
There are very few comments on the fact of subtitling and no comments at all
that indicate that subtitles were in any way a barrier or turn-off. On the
contrary, the same user who said that posters had whetted his or her appetite for
Dept Q expressed dislike of the drama The Team, calling it ‘second rate’ and
reflecting, ‘I think I fell into the trap of thinking “subtitles  good”’ (Marispiper
2017). This comment represents an interesting corroboration of the sense
expressed through some of the newspaper articles discussed above that subtitling
now carries a broadly positive set of connotations, as opposed to the negative ones
it held ten or fifteen years ago.
The main point of irritation that emerges through the discussion forum has to
do not with the fact of subtitling, but with the way in which Channel 4 makes the
shows available: users are frequently critical of the fact that it is only the first
episode of a series that is broadcast, with the remainder being made available
via the on-demand platform, a fact that is foregrounded in the thread entitled
‘Warning: another Walter Presents Drama next week’ (WhoAteMeDinner
2017). The warning here has not to do with the foreignness or subtitled nature
of the dramas, but with the frustration that some viewers feel with this
broadcasting format. As with the YouTube comments, the forum users also
express a certain dislike of Walter, resulting in a similar undermining of Channel
4’s careful cultivation of the curated programming brand in the industry-created
paratexts.24
Concluding remarks
The findings of this case study can be summarised in a series of short reflections on
Gray’s (2010, 25) statement that ‘paratexts condition our entrance to texts,
telling
us what to expect’. First, where a paratext conveys the information that the text
is subtitled, precisely what such information ‘tell[s] us to expect’ is far from
constant: as we have seen in this study, while only around a decade ago such
information appears to have told UK viewers to expect highbrow
impenetrability, it now tells them to expect high-quality drama that makes for
addictive viewing. Second, we have seen that the industry-created paratexts to
Walter Presents adopt a strategy of deliberately not telling audiences directly
that the texts are in a foreign language, placing the emphasis instead on the idea
that the dramas have been personally curated and vetted for quality. This
selective approach to information is a typical feature of paratexts and a key
way in which paratext creators ‘condition our entrance to texts’, to return to
Gray’s assertion. In this context, the elision of the foreign-language nature of the
dramas may reflect the positive changes in attitude to subtitling outlined above;
alternatively, it could perhaps be an acknowledge- ment that earlier negative
attitudes towards subtitling may still persist, with the idea that euphemising rather
than emphasising foreignness is less likely to put people off watching the dramas.
Third, our case study has also shown that the elision of foreignness in the
industry-created paratexts stands in contrast to the approach taken in press
reviews, which consistently bring the fact that the dramas are in a foreign
language back into focus, countering the message that subtitling is a non-issue
even while asserting a positive view of it. In other respects, however, press reviews
reproduce the industry-created paratextual messages, notably by focusing posi-
tively on Iuzzolino and the curated nature of the Walter Presents service. Other
types of viewer-created paratexts, meanwhile, tend to parallel the industry-
created paratexts in terms of their lack of emphasis on subtitling, but vary
considerably in terms of their stance towards the Walter Presents brand. In
summary, these contrasts between the messages conveyed in the industry- and
viewer-created paratexts foreground the plurality of paratextual messages and
underline the importance of taking account of the full range of thresholds
through which viewers come to translated audiovisual products in the digital
age.
Notes
1 The initiative,Walter Presents, was extended to the US in March 2017 as a subscription
service. I do not analyse the paratexts of the US version in this chapter.
2 For an overview of the genealogy of the term ‘curation’ and its use in present-day con-
texts, see Snyder (2015).
3 See Grainge and Johnson (2018).
4 For this and all subsequent references to material on the website, see Channel 4 (2017b).
The website is frequently updated and altered and the analysis presented in this
chapter is based on the appearance of the website in June 2017.
5 In some cases, the logo is accompanied by the expansion of the acronym.The reasons for
this variation are not clear. Where the logo is not included (see, for example, the drama
The Returned), Iuzzolino’s introduction to the drama is available but not the drama itself.
6 In her study of television programme branding, Johnson (2012, 159) observes that the
programmes that are developed as brands ‘have three central characteristics: longevity;
transferability; and multiplicity’.The examples of programme brands that she provides –
The Apprentice, American Idol, Dr Who, Lost – indicate that longevity is to be understood
134 Case studies
as extending over many years. The Walter Presents dramas, in contrast, usually consist of
around eight episodes.
7 It is worth noting that English-language drama from outside Britain (e.g. from the US)
is not included under the ‘world drama’ listing. I could find no academic studies of the
development of ‘world drama’ as a label, but it is likely that it developed as a strategy for
unifying and marketing a range of cultural expressions considered to be in some way
distant for UK and US consumers, much like the term ‘world music’ (see, on the latter,
Connell and Gibson 2004, 349–53). In the case of world music, the sense of distance
is premised on sounds and genres that are non-Western (but see Connell and Gibson
(2004, 350) for a nuancing of this point), while in the case of world drama, the sense of
distance would appear to be based on language (i.e. non-English).
8 The Radio Times archives, which contain the BBC listings from 1923 to 2009, reveal
that the fact that a show is in a foreign language is always made clear through the formula
‘in Spanish (or French, German etc.) with English subtitles’. The listings from 2004 to
2006 for the French series Spiral, for example, invariably state ‘In French with English
subtitles’ (BBC Four 2006). A cursory survey of Radio Times listings at the time of writ-
ing (June 2017) shows that this formula is still consistently used, with other mainstream
publications following the same pattern.
9 On the latter, see K. Abbott (2016) but note that in the Guardian piece, the title of the
series is given as ‘The Neighbours’.
10 The wording in the Sun review indicates that they are in fact borrowing the
comparison from another source, rather than coining it themselves:‘This Berlin-based
family saga has been likened to a German Mr Selfridge with Nazis’ (TV Magazine
2017). I was not able to find the full comparison (Mr Selfridge with Nazis) in any
online sources, and won- der whether the ‘Mr Selfridge’ part of the comparison did in fact
come from Iuzzolino originally (see Holly Williams’s piece in the Independent in 2015, which
cites Iuzzolino’s description of Hotel Adlon as ‘Mr Selfridge – but stronger and better’
(Williams 2015)). It would not be inconceivable for the Sun to have borrowed that
comparison and added their own sensationalising flourish to it.
11 In the introductory video to Spin, for example, Iuzzolino suggests that ‘if House of Cards
and Borgen were set in France, this is what they would look like’ (Walter Presents: Spin
[video] 2016).
12 See Mittell (2015).
13 The two reviews which do not use the term subtitle or foreign-language still make the
geographical origin of the show clear, but do so in a manner which echoes the strategies
used in the industry-created paratexts.Thus Deutschland 83 is referred to in a Guardian
review as a ‘new drama’ (Tate 2016) (rather than a ‘foreign-language’ or ‘subtitled’
drama) in the sub-headline, and is described as a ‘new imported German drama’ (Tate
2016), rather than ‘drama in German’ or ‘German-language drama’. Similarly, in an
Evening Standard review, Blue Eyes is referred to simply as a ‘political Scandi-noir
thriller’ (McKay 2016).
14 See Arnell (2015), Corcoran (2015), Sherwin (2015), Kemp (2016), Lawson (2016),
Radio Times (2016), Razaq (2016), Bartleet (2017), O’Donovan (2017).
15 See K. Abbott (2016), Day (2016), McKay (2016), Oltermann (2016), Raeside (2016),
Tate (2016), Allen (2017),Travis (2017).
16 See, for example, Oltermann (2016), Radio Times (2016) and Allen (2017). Other
reviews such as K. Abbott (2016) and Razaq (2016) simply label Walter Presents a ‘for-
eign drama’ service, again in contrast with Channel 4’s own preferred designations.
17 The idea that viewer-created paratexts are useful for gaining insight into text reception
is taken from Gray (2010, 146) and will be discussed further in Chapter 8. It is important
to note, however, that viewers who post their opinions on social media represent only a
small sub-set of viewers. Research by Thelwell, Sud and Vis (2012) into YouTube video
comments, for example, indicates that men are more likely to post opinions than women,
and that negative comments are more likely to trigger debate than positive ones.
18 Tim Arnold, personal communication.
19 Correct at the time of writing (23 June 2017).

20 See Walter Presents: Heartless [video] (2016).The remainder of the comments are neu-
tral in the sense that they are requesting information or giving clarification about
the plot, number of episodes, or existence of another season. There are also some
responses (also classed as neutral) on the question of which language the show is in
and whether or not to expect an English version. Other possibly positive comments
are too short to rule out sarcasm: one user comments ‘Ooooooooh!’ while another
one writes ‘You convinced me sir’ and have not been classified as either positive,
negative or neutral.’
21 See the question posted by DoppelgangerIsaacWhiteman (2016): ‘On S1 Ep3, seems
interesting so far. But why isn’t it in English language, & will there be an English version
soon on Netflix, if so when, & what language it [sic] that?’
22 In addition, the nationality of the commentators is not known.
23 See Simpson (2013) for an explanation of YouTube’s commenting system.
24 WhoAteMeDinner (2017), for example, refers to Walter as ‘that total bell-end’.
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PART III
Towards a theory of
paratextuality for translation
7
Terminology and typologies
In this and the following chapter, I outline a framework for the study of
paratexts in translation-related contexts, based on the insights gained in previous
chapters. As noted in the Introduction, the framework is intended to be useful –
and used – but does not claim to be definitive; like Genette’s own framework, it
invites further development, particularly in a context of ever-changing
technologies and shifts in translation and publishing practices. In elaborating this
framework, I have taken as my guiding principle the idea, neatly expressed by
Annika Rockenberger (2014, 271) in relation to paratextual theory and
videogames, that developing a theoretical framework is ‘not a matter of truth
and verification but a matter of practical adequacy’. In this chapter, I discuss
terminological choices, distinguishing between various top-level terms and making
a case for preferring certain terms over others. As part of these reflections, I
propose a definition of the key term paratext, and explore ways in which the
borderlines of the definition might be established in conjunction with research
questions specific to any given research study. In the second part of the chapter,
I expand the five key variables on which Genette’s typology of paratexts is
constructed, arguing in favour of an eclectic approach that is able to tailor itself
to the specificities of any given research project.
Terminology
Paratext
One of the key questions that researchers face when adapting any theory to a
new disciplinary context is whether to use the same terms or to prefer (or coin)
alternative ones. Adopting the term paratext is by no means a given: as we saw in
Chapter 2, a number of translation scholars have opted for alternative terms such
as bindings (Harvey 2003), extratextual material (Susam-Sarajeva 2006), or macro-
structural features
142 Theory of paratextuality for translation
(Lambert and van Gorp 2014); in other disciplines, as we saw in Chapter 3,

scholars have argued in favour of the alternative term paracontent (Bhaskar 2011),
or of using framings as the wider umbrella term and limiting paratext to a smaller
subset of material within that (Rockenberger 2014). In my view, the term
paratext is to be preferred over other options, albeit in conjunction with a
definition that departs from Genette’s. My main reason for advocating use of the
term paratext over other possibilities is pragmatic: paratext now has an established
tradition of use across a range of disciplines with which translation studies intersects,
as well as within translation studies itself, and by continuing to use it we are more
explicitly able to engage with the theoretical developments that have taken
place since Genette and to incorporate our own research into that tradition.
Setting out a definition of the term paratext, however, is more difficult than
might be imagined, not least because Genette’s own theory of the paratext itself
refrains from offering an explicit definition of the term and carries a number of
inherent contradictions, as shown in Chapter 1. While translation studies
scholars have tended to respond to these difficulties by disposing of the authorial
intention criterion and limiting the paratext effectively to Genette’s peritext, this
solution only works well up to a point. Although it offers a clear way of
distinguishing between paratexts, text, and wider context whilst allowing for the
inclusion of material authored by the translator, as soon as we extend translation
research from literary texts to digital, web-based or audiovisual ones, a
definition of paratext that depends on physical location swiftly becomes
unworkable. For this reason, I propose a definition that is primarily functional,
and which can be summarised as follows:
A paratext is a consciously crafted threshold for a text which has the

potential to influence the way(s) in which the text is received.
In this definition, ‘text’ is understood as denoting any written or spoken words

forming a connected piece of work. The type of text thus referred to might be a
work of literature, a newspaper article, a television programme or film, a speech,
and so on. Crucially, a text may be in its original language or it may be
translated; in other words, in this model a translated text would be considered a
text in its own right and with its own paratexts, as opposed to being viewed as a
paratext to an original text, as in Genette’s model. Another way in which this
definition departs from Genette’s is in its use of the indefinite article: Genette
generally refers to ‘the paratext’ in the singular, and to ‘paratextual elements’.
The majority of scholars who have built on Genette, however, have tended
instead to speak of ‘a paratext’ and of ‘paratexts’, and my definition thus ties in
with current use rather than with Genette’s original formulation.
The openness of this definition of paratext, which does not specify where a
paratext needs to be placed relative to the text, or indeed when it needs to be
accessed relative to the text, allows it to encompass the traditional elements
through which a text is made into a book as well as the larger range of elements
which function as
Terminology and typologies 143
thresholds to digital or audiovisual texts. It includes those thresholds which

could be entry points to the text even part-way through someone’s encounter
with it, as in the case of a preface read during or after the reading of the text
itself, or the recap of a TV series accessed between episodes. The definition
does not specify who the paratext-creator needs to be, neither in absolute terms,
nor in relation to the text-creator, and thus allows us to include paratexts produced
by translators and other agents. As we will see in the next chapter, the openness
of the definition also gives it potential to be used to discuss questions relevant to
interpreting, whereby the interpreter is able to craft a threshold to the interpreted
words using body language or other means which will have an influence on
how the text is perceived. The main constraining aspect built into this
definition is the qualifier ‘consciously crafted’. This qualifier places broader
context as well as happenstance (for example, the individual circumstances
through which a particular reader comes to a text) outside the scope of the
paratext. This is, of course, not to ignore the fact that contextual and incidental
factors can have a bearing on the way a text is received; such factors are
sometimes of paramount importance, and in that sense may indeed function as
thresholds in a manner similar to paratexts on occasion. Excluding them from
the domain of the paratext, however, allows us to place a boundary between
paratext and what Genette (1997, 407) terms the ‘beyond-text’, preventing what
Rockenberger (2014, 267) describes as the ‘paratext’s collapse into the vastness
of “the context”’. The broader context can and should be inter- rogated alongside
paratexts where the research questions call for such analysis but,
in this definition, would not be considered part of the paratext itself.
Another way in which the openness of this definition is of benefit is in terms
of the way it evokes both a producer- and a receiver-based perspective. As
argued in Chapter 1, Genette himself alternates between these two perspectives
without explicitly acknowledging that he is doing so, and his failure to
interrogate the implications of this difference in perspective lies at the heart of
the contradictions inherent to his model. The definition of the paratext that I
propose above does not rely on parameters which are the preserve of only one
perspective, and aims to be adequate to research that takes a producer-based
approach (research into translation processes, for example) as well as that which
takes a receiver-based perspective (such as research into translation products). At
the same time, in any given piece of research, the particular perspective adopted
– and, more precisely, the particular research questions being posed – may
require the researcher to supplement the above definition with further criteria for
determining what is to be included or excluded from a paratextual corpus, as I
shall explain in the next section.
Delineating a corpus of paratexts

To explore how such a process might work out in practice, let us consider three
examples of what might be considered borderline cases of paratexts according to
the above definition. For the first example, let us take the case of thresholds that
are crafted but never made available to readers or viewers, such as a translator’s
preface that was written but never published. Such material does not fit comfort-
ably with the definition proposed above: while consciously crafted as a threshold, it
is unlikely to influence text reception. Whether or not to include such borderline
material in a paratextual corpus would depend on the research perspective that is
being adopted. If the focus is on reception, then it would be excluded. However,
if the focus is on production (for example, a study of translators’ interactions
with authors and others involved in the production process), then it would form
an important part of the paratextual corpus.
For the second example, let us take the case of thresholds created by fans – or
even opponents – of the texts in question. Although this type of material fits
more comfortably within the definition outlined above, once again it is the
research questions that will determine whether or not such material should be
included in a corpus of paratexts. If the goal is to understand how the text-
producers seek to influence the reception of their text by manipulating
paratextual material, then it would be irrelevant, even though it is ‘consciously
crafted’; if, on the other hand, we are interested in the way in which readers or
viewers (or a particular sub-group thereof) understand a text, then those fan-
created paratexts would be included. Of course, when we are addressing
questions of reception, we also need to address questions of whether thresholds
are actually used; how we are to do this, and indeed to what extent it can be
done, will be discussed in the next chapter.
Finally, for our third example, let us consider the case of handwritten inscrip-
tions on individual copies of books – a dedication, perhaps, from the author,
editor or translator to the recipient, or a previous owner’s name, handwritten on
the inside title page. Such inscriptions occupy a borderline place according to the
definition suggested above: some of them (such as the dedication) may be
consciously crafted as thresholds, others (such as the name inscribed to show
ownership) may not; in either scenario, they might influence how the text is
received, but only for the reader of that particular copy rather than more broadly.
Once again, whether or not to include such inscriptions in a corpus of paratexts
depends on the research questions of the study concerned: if the goal is to
understand how groups of people (say, the intellectual elite of a particular nation)
received a particular text or author, then such material would be irrelevant (unless,
perhaps, the inscription was in the copy of the book owned by a leading member
of that group and thus could be shown to have influenced the group indirectly).
If, however, we are interested in one particular individual’s reading of a text
and how they came to it, then all such material re-enters the domain of the
paratextual – assuming that it can be unearthed.
In all of these hypothetical cases, while the definition of paratext allows for
us to include in a paratextual corpus a wide range of material, it is the research
questions linked to the specific study that determine and justify whether or not
all of that material should actually be included in a paratextual corpus,
particularly when it occupies a borderline position. Specific research questions
thus work together with the broad definition to help us develop a systematic and
consistent approach to designing a research project.
Framing and frames

The terms frame and framing are widely used across a range of disciplines including
linguistics, sociology, and cognitive research, and as Werner Wolf (2006, 2)
notes, have ‘acquired a plethora of divergent and occasionally conflicting
meanings’. In translation studies, scholars are perhaps most likely to be familiar
with the set of meanings presented by Mona Baker in her research into
translation and activism, within the context of a narrative theoretical framework.
Baker defines narratives as ‘the stories we tell ourselves and others about the
world(s) in which we live’ (Baker 2007, 151), and argues that ‘people’s behaviour
is ultimately guided by the stories they come to believe about the events in which
they are embedded’ (Baker 2006, 3). In this model, framing is one of the processes
through which narratives are constructed; with regard specifically to
translation and interpreting, it encompasses a wide range of devices and
strategies from translation selection to the linguistic choices made in the course
of translating or interpreting or – crucially for our purposes – in the composition
or translation of paratextual material. The definition of ‘framing’ put forward by
Baker ties in with her use of narrative theory and foregrounds the dynamic
nature of the process. Hence she defines framing as ‘an active strategy that implies
agency and by means of which we consciously participate in the construction of
reality’ (Baker 2006, 106), and explains that framing ‘involves setting up
structures of anticipation that guide others’ interpretation of events, usually as a
direct challenge to dominant interpretations of the same events in a given
society’ (Baker 2007, 156).
This process can be enacted through translation decisions as well as through
translation paratexts, and paratexts are thus conceptualised in Baker’s model as
locations in which framing – an action – can happen. This view has much in
common with Theo Hermans’s (2007) emphasis on paratexts as places where
translators can ‘signal their agenda’ (33) or their ideological sympathy or antipathy
towards the author or text (53ff.), as outlined in Chapter 2.1 A similar view of the
interrelation between paratext and framing is evident in the key concept entry for
‘paratexts’ in The Routledge Companion to Translation Studies which reads:
‘paratexts are material additions to a text which comment on, evaluate, or
otherwise frame it’ (Munday 2009, 214, my emphasis).
It is important to note that in all of these outlines, it is the verb to frame (or its
participle, framing) that is used, rather than the related noun a frame. In other words,
conceiving of paratexts as places where framing takes place is different from
viewing paratexts as frames – or to put this another way, since the point under
discussion here is terminology – suggesting that paratexts can be seen as sites in
which framing takes place is not the same as replacing the term paratext with the
term frame. Such a move is not uncommon in writing on paratexts and
paratextual elements: Marie Maclean (1991, 273), for example, in a brief
discussion of the importance of Genette’s Seuils, argues that his book ‘raises some
extremely central questions about literature’ and suggests that ‘not the least of
these is the relationship between a text and its frame’. Her elaboration of the
frame shows that she is using the term as a synonym for
paratext, even though Genette himself does not use the term cadre [frame] with this
meaning at any point. A similar terminological merging is proposed by Ann
Lewis (2007) in her introduction to a volume exploring the concept of the frame
in relation to a range of French cultural artefacts. She argues that Genette’s theory
provides an ‘indispensable reference point’ (18) and states that ‘although Genette
does not invoke the frame explicitly, his understanding of the paratext as a “frange
aux limites indécises qui entoure d’un halo pragmatique l’œuvre littéraire”, is clearly
analogous to our understanding of the frame, applied within a literary context’
(18).2 Another example of a shift towards labelling a paratext a frame can be found
in Yra van Dijk’s (2014) exploration of digital paratexts, in which she draws on
Derrida’s reflections on the parergon as well as on Genette’s work. In her analysis,
van Dijk compares the institutional framing that is enacted by digital search
engine results to the institutional framing that happens when paintings are hung
in a museum, and argues that the paratext is ‘a “frame” that frames the work as
such, and thus without it there would be no work’ (van Dijk 2014, 26).3
While van Dijk’s analysis suggests that there might be some intellectual benefits
to seeing paratexts as frames, I would argue that using the term frame as a synonym
for paratext would cause unnecessary confusion. This is principally because the term
frame, as a noun, is already used to refer to a specific concept (or, more
precisely, several interrelated concepts) in disciplines with which translation
studies intersects. In cognitive science, the notion of the frame was first
developed by Marvin Minsky (1974) and is defined as ‘a data-structure for
representing a stereotyped situation, like being in a certain kind of living room,
or going to a child’s birthday party’ (1). In linguistics, frame semantics draws on
the notion of the cognitive frame to account for ‘how people perceive,
remember, and reason about their experiences, how they form assumptions about
the background and possible con- comitants of those experiences, and even how
one’s own life experiences can or should be enacted’ (Fillmore and Baker 2009,
314). In sociology, a frame similarly ‘designates interpretive structures that render
events and occurrences subjectively meaningful’ (Snow 2011, 235) or in other
words accounts not so much for how we understand language (as in frame
semantics), but how we work out what is going on at any given moment in our
social interactions. In the context of mass media communication, a frame is ‘a
central organizing idea for news content that supplies a context and suggests what
the issue is through the use of selection, emphasis, exclusion, and elaboration’
(Tankard et al., cited in Johnson-Cartee 2005, 24). 4 Researchers have shown that
the choice of one particular frame over another can have a powerful influence on
public opinion on a particular issue.5
In all of these disciplines, a frame is not a physical object, but an idea, a way
of understanding and interpreting reality – and a powerful one at that. Frames, in
these contexts, are thus closely linked to the verb framing, discussed above, such
that framing can be understood as the process of presenting events within a
given existing frame, or of setting up an alternative frame through which they
are to be perceived.6 By opting not to use the term frame as a synonym for paratext,
we allow for the possibility that scholars analysing paratextual material may wish
to draw on
the concept of the frame as defined in cognitive, linguistic, or communicational

terms, for the purposes of their analysis. This may be particularly relevant for trans-
lation scholars working on news translation, but would also be of importance to
anyone looking to combine paratextual analysis with frame semantics, narrative
theory or theories of cognition.
Extratext
While frames and framing have an extensive and complex history of use both in con-
junction with research into paratexts and independently of it, the term extratext has
a more limited history. In the context of translation studies research into
paratexts, the term extratext has a certain level of prominence thanks to its use
by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar (2002) in what is probably the most frequently cited
article on paratexts in the discipline, as well as its inclusion in the title of one of
only two existing edited volumes on paratexts in translation studies, Text, Extratext,
Metatext and Paratext in Translation (Pellatt 2013a). In the case of the latter, the
wording of the title suggests that the volume will adopt a framework in which a
threefold distinction is made between the various types of text that intersect with
the text. However, the term extratext is not actually used at all in any of the
essays included in the volume, and in her introduction Pellatt offers a definition
only of paratext, and does not refer to extratexts. Pellatt’s (2013b, 1) definition
of paratext is broad, and includes material that is ‘external to the core text’, such
as reviews:
In this volume we regard paratext as any material additional to, appended

to or external to the core text which has the functions of explaining,
defining, instructing, or supporting, adding background information, or the
relevant opinions and attitudes of scholars, translators and reviewers . . .
The range of paratext is vast, encompassing authorial comment and external
comment and explanatory material.7
In light of the wide-ranging nature of this definition of paratext, it would seem

most likely that Pellatt views extratext as a sub-category of paratext, but this point
is not made explicitly and the structure of the title does not really support this
assumption.
Tahir-Gürçağlar’s (2002) article offers a much clearer indication of the
distinctions between paratext and extratext, including an explanation of the dif-
ferences between epitext and extratext, both of which denote material unattached
to the text itself. In general terms, she explains that extratexts refers to ‘the
general meta-discourse on translation circulating independently of individual
translated texts’ (44), while paratexts refers to ‘presentational materials accom-
panying translated texts and the text-specific meta-discourses formed directly
around them’ (44). With regard to the distinction between epitexts and extratexts
more specifically, she further explains that the former are ‘comments, reviews,
criticisms or interviews dealing with specific works’ (58) while the latter are
‘general statements on translation, or . . . other socio-cultural phenomena that

may have a bearing on how translations are produced and received’ (58). The
definition of extratexts as ‘socio-cultural phenomena’ indicates that extratexts
need not necessarily be textual in nature, but can encompass anything that helps
towards a ‘contextualization of translational phenomena’ (58).
In contrast with Tahir-Gürçağlar, Sharon Deane-Cox (2014) uses a narrower
definition of both paratext and extratext. In her framework, paratextual material
is that which is ‘closely linked to the text having stemmed from the translator,
author, publisher and/or authorized third party’ (29), while extratextual mate-
rial encompasses ‘those articles and reviews that are related to the translations,
the translators, the publishers and/or the source text authors’ (29). Another
contrasting use of the term extratext can be found in Szu-Wen Cindy Kung’s
(2010) study of Taiwanese literature in English: here, Kung draws on spatial
rather than sender- based criteria to distinguish between paratexts and extratexts,
taking paratext to refer to ‘the surface fragments that cover all the textual
material that introduces a text proper . . .; literally all the material that surrounds
the text and forms a book’ (165), and extratext to refer to ‘material outside the book,
such as letters, interviews, book reviews, which in all consist of the intertextuality
of any text’ (165). To a large extent, Kung is thus replacing Genette’s term epitext
with the term extratext, albeit without addressing the question of criteria for
inclusion or exclusion from the category itself, other than its spatial distance from
the text.8 For Kung’s and Deane- Cox’s corpora, which are composed of literary
print texts, making a terminological distinction between paratext and extratext
either on a spatial basis or on a sender basis functions fairly well: in the case of
Deane-Cox’s framework in particular, the distinction allows her to stay close to
Genette’s original criterion of author intention (expanding it slightly to include
translators) and prevents a radical enlarging of the domain of the paratext in line
with Genette’s warnings.9
The term extratext itself, however, is to some degree problematic, since in its
more conventional usage as an adjective, extratextual refers to things that are
non- textual. Thus, in a study of a genre such as autobiography, for example,
scholars might contrast ‘extratextual reality’ with elements that form part of the
fictional world, while in a study of reading practices scholars might track
patterns of ‘extratextual utterances’.10 Deane-Cox (2014) herself uses
extratextual in this other sense at several places in the introduction to her
study, talking, for example, of an ‘extratextual perspective’ (5) on retranslation,
or of the ‘textual and extratextual dynamics of retranslation’ (7). By this she
does not mean exploring the way in which extratexts such as articles and
reviews play in to retranslation decisions, but other factors such as ‘canonicity,
ideology, economics, and the subjectivity of the translator’ (13). The existence
of this more common meaning of extratextual means that using extratext to
denote a particular variety of text can give rise to ambiguities (such that
‘extratextual material’, for example, could refer to extratexts or to anything at all
outside the core text). This in itself is not a reason to reject the term, since many
terms denote concepts as well as having a broader set of meanings, and
scholars are accustomed to clarifying term usage at the outset of a study.
However, a more significant reason for not incorporating the term extratext into
my proposed framework is that the function-based definition of paratext that I
put forward above renders it unnecessary.
Let us briefly explore this issue with respect to one of the main text types
that Deane-Cox and Kung allocate to the category of extratextual material,
namely reviews. While reviews of any kind of cultural product serve a vari-
ety of functions, ranging from something resembling a marketing function to
something that is closer to taking part in the intellectual or artistic discussions
that form part of the reviewed material itself, their function as a threshold
to the cultural product in question is often paramount. If I want to work
out whether or not to spend my evening watching a film, for example, I
will generally do this by looking for a review of the film or for an overall
approval rating based on aggregated reviews from a variety of sources. Or, to
give an example from another domain of life, if I read in a newspaper review
of an expensive upmarket restaurant that the onion starter is ‘mostly black,
like nightmares, and sticky, like the floor at a teenager’s party’ (Rayner 2017),
there is no chance that I will be forking out £600 to eat there. These reviews
clearly serve as thresholds: I pause there, consider the information and opinions
presented, and decide either to enter (watch the film, go to the restaurant) or
turn away. Reviews thus fit comfortably within the domain of the paratext in
the definition that I proposed above and do not require a different term such as
extratext because of their origin or their extraneity to the text. 11 Of course, in
comparison with some of the peritexts of a printed edition of a text, there is less
certainty that these thresholds will be used by readers, but the same could be
said for many other paratexts, particularly in digital contexts, as already noted
above. We will return to this issue in the next chapter.
Metatext
In Introduction à l’architexte, Genette (1979, 87) introduces his readers to the term
métatextualité [‘metatextuality’ (Genette 1992, 82)], one of four different kinds of
‘textual transcendence’ (Genette 1992, 81). He explains that the term is
modelled on the distinction between language and metalanguage (metalanguage
being generally understood to be language that comments on language), and
that it refers to ‘the transtextual relationship that links a commentary to the text
it comments on’ (Genette 1992, 82). He states jokingly that ‘all literary critics,
for centuries, have been producing metatext without knowing it’ (Genette
1992, 82). We should note that the label metatext functions only in relational
terms: in other words, a text is a metatext in relation to the specific text on which
it comments. Defined in this way, metatext can be seen to be complementary to the
term paratext, as defined above. The essential distinction between them is as
follows:
A paratext is a threshold to the text.

A metatext is a commentary on the text.
Before we discuss the overlap between these two terms, we should note that this
use of metatext contrasts with the use of the term in early descriptive translation
studies. In these research traditions, metatext carries a much broader meaning,
encompassing not only commentary or literary criticism but any text which
interprets or models the original text, including translations. 12 James Holmes
(1988, 24) famously argued that verse translations should be termed ‘metapo-
ems’ on the basis that they combine critical interpretation with being ‘acts of
poetry’ in their own right, suggesting: ‘this poetry is of a very special kind,
referring not to Barthes’s “objects and phenomena . . . external and anterior
to language”, but to another linguistic object: the original poem’. One of the
most extended considerations of translations as metatexts was presented by
Anton Popovič in Problémy literárnej metakomunikácie: Teória metatextu [Problems
of Literary Metacommunication: Theory of Metatext] (1975), summarised in an
English-language article that appeared the following year. In this model, meta-
text similarly refers to ‘all types of processing (manipulation) of the original
literary text, whether it is done by other authors, readers, critics, translators,
etc.’ (Popovič 1976, 226). Popovič (1976, 226) stresses that it is only texts that
‘develop or modify in some way the semiotic, meaning-bearing, side of the
original text’ which are considered metatexts; those that simply reproduce the
text without introducing any textual changes are not. While there is some simi-
larity between this conceptualisation of translations as metatexts and Genette’s
suggestion that translations can be viewed as a form of paratext, the key dif-
ference is that, in Genette’s conceptualisation, translations are paratexts to the
extent that they convey something about the author’s intention, whereas in
Popovic’s, translations are metatexts because they manipulate the meaning of
the original text in some way. In other words, the translation-as-paratext con-
cept in Genette’s model is applicable only to the extent that the translation
does not change the author’s meaning as expressed in the original text, whereas
translations are only considered metatexts in Popovi č’s model if they do enact
some kind of transformation of the original text.
While the work of Holmes, Popovič and others was of crucial importance
in establishing research approaches and methodologies in descriptive translation
studies,13 metatext is rarely used in translation studies today in the sense in which
they developed the term. Instead, scholars tend to use metatext or its associated
adjective, metatextual, in the narrower sense outlined by Genette and in keeping
with its dictionary meaning,14 namely to refer to texts (or aspects of texts) which
comment on another text. Theo Hermans (2007), for example, when discuss-
ing the case of Laureen Nussbaum’s ‘extensively introduced and annotated’ (29)
excerpts from an existing translation, argues that her discussion ‘has a metatextual
aspect in that it constitutes a critical commentary on the previous translation’
(32). If we conform to this more general current usage and restrict our use of the
term metatext to the sense in which Genette uses it – namely, to refer to text
which comments on another text – we are forced to accept a certain amount of
overlap between the two terms, since paratexts often comment on the text as a
means of providing a
threshold to it. This is a point which Genette (1997, 343) himself freely
acknowledges, arguing that it is ‘not at all paradoxical, and still less is it
perplexing’.15 Although the definition of paratext that I have proposed above is
slightly different from Genette’s, the same issues of slipperiness remain,
particularly at the border between paratext and other kinds of text that comment on
the core text in some way. Genette’s solution to this conundrum is not to try and
impose stricter borders around the paratext, but to argue in favour of a pragmatic
approach to theoretical frameworks, establishing the precise borders between
paratext and metatext on a case by case basis:
‘The paratext,’ properly speaking, does not exist; rather, one chooses to
account in these terms for a certain number of practices or effects, for reasons
of method and effectiveness or, if you will, of profitability. The question is
therefore not whether the note does or does not ‘belong’ to the paratext but
really whether considering it in such a light is or is not useful and relevant.
The answer very clearly is, as it often is, that that depends on the case.
Genette 1997, 343, italics in original
Following Genette’s line of reasoning, we can summarise the complementarity

of the terms paratext and metatext as follows:
 Some paratexts are metatextual, or in other words comment on the text.

 Some metatexts are paratextual, or in other words are consciously crafted
thresholds to the text.
 In cases of significant overlap, deciding whether to label such material paratext
or metatext will depend on the overall perspective of the study as defined
by the research questions.
Before we leave this discussion of metatext, I would like to briefly explore

the interplay between metatext and metadiscourse, since this is an area that
potentially gives rise to terminological confusion. The term metadiscourse, which is
widely used by scholars across a range of disciplines, has as its ‘core
conceptualisation’ (Ädel and Mauranen 2010, 1) the idea of ‘discourse about
discourse’ (Ädel and Mauranen 2010, 1). In translation studies, the term tends to
be used to refer to discussions of translation that appeal to or contribute to more
general discourse about translation (what translation is, how it should be
carried out, etc.). Theo Hermans (2007, 33), for example, speaks of a
‘metadiscursive domain in which translators observe their own translations and
those of others’, and stresses that metadiscourse can be a feature both of paratexts
such as prefaces as well as being staged within translations themselves (see, for
example, his discussion of Edward Harwood’s 1768 English translation of the
New Testament in Hermans (2007, 36)). Metadiscourse is thus to be
distinguished from metatext on the basis that the former represents commen-
tary on translation as a phenomenon, while the latter is commentary on a specific
text. In practice, of course, when a metatext is commenting on a translated text,
it also becomes metadiscourse as soon as it makes appeal, even implicitly, to
broader
debates about translation. Nevertheless, it is still helpful to hold these two terms
apart from each other, since it is not necessarily the case that one entails the
other: translation paratexts, for example, can be metadisursive without being
metatextual, and vice versa.16
Paratranslation
The term paratraducción [paratranslation] was coined by researchers at the
University of Vigo, Spain in 2004.17 It has been developed intensively through
the activities of the Grupo Traducción & Paratraducción [Translation &
Paratranslation Research Group] at the same university since 2005, although its
take-up by other academics based in other Spanish universities has been
limited.18 Within Anglophone translation studies, the term is rarely employed.19
In one sense, the idea of paratranslation is simple: echoing Genette’s (1997, 1)
formulation that a paratext is ‘what enables a text to become a book and to be
offered as such to its readers’, José Yuste Frías (2010, 291) explains that ‘la
paratraduction est ce par quoi une traduction se fait produit traduit, se proposant
comme tel à ses lecteurs’ [paratranslation is what enables a translation to
become a translated product and to be offered as such to its readers]. The study
of paratranslation is in this basic sense the study of the translation of
paratextual elements. The need for a new concept to encompass this angle of
study is argued on the basis that translation decisions pertaining to paratextual
elements can often only be explained by taking into account ideological
considerations and historical perspectives (see Garrido Vilariño 2011, 65–6),
and in order to account for the translation of multisemiotic texts (see Yuste Frías
2010). The concept is also, however, given added complexity: Yuste Frías
(2012, 119) suggests that ‘paratranslation aims at becoming a symbolic reference
to the physical or virtual space occupied by all the professional translators within
the real, everyday market’, while Garrido Vilariño (2011, 65) states even more
ambitiously that ‘the concept of paratranslation aims to become the centre of
knowledge of the human being, of the languages and cultures in our modernity’.
Whilst perhaps helpful as a means of calling attention to the involvement of
multiple agents in the process of publishing translations and the complexity of
the translation process,20 the need for a new term and concept to emphasise these
aspects is not at all clear. Over the last thirty or more years in translation studies
in many regional and national traditions considerable attention has been paid to
the cultural and ideological factors that play into the translation process, without
adoption of a new term in place of translation. More recently, the surge of interest
in Bourdieusian and actor–network theoretical frameworks has provided translation
studies researchers with a vocabulary and a basis from which to investigate
questions of agency and to take into account the social and institutional contexts
in which translations are produced, once again without the need for recourse to a
new term to replace translation. Similarly, research into translation in multimodal
environments, and applications of multimodal theory to translation studies, have
helped towards reconceptualisation of translation processes and products that
emphasise their composite nature whilst not
changing the basic terms – translation/translating – used to denote them (for a sum-
mary of multimodal translation research, see Pérez-González 2014). In all of
these developments, researchers have effectively taken the approach of expanding
the conceptualisation of translation and of what the study of translation might
mean, moving on from a linguistic and text-based focus to one that can account
for ideology, historical context, cultural dynamics, social structures and
interactions, and interplay between verbal and non-verbal elements.
Another disadvantage of the term paratranslation is that it subsumes a range of
different creative and commercial activities under a term that contains the word
translation and thus risks implying that the objects under study involve some
kind of interlingual transfer. Of course, with a careful delineation of the meaning
of the new term, this faulty assumption can be countered. However, if we simply
retain existing terminology – stating, for example, that we are studying the
‘paratexts of translations’ (rather than ‘paratranslations’) – this problem disappears:
the paratexts could be verbal and non-verbal material of any variety, translated,
adapted or originally created. Since, in many cases, paratexts are ‘not translated
per se but reimagined or completely transformed’ (Watts 2005, 161), adopting
terminology that allows for as much openness as possible with regard to the type
of activities that are involved is clearly desirable. For these reasons, even while
acknowledging the importance of many of the issues highlighted by paratranslation
group scholars, I would not advocate adoption of the term paratranslation itself.
Typology
In Chapter 1, I summarised the five features that lie at the heart of Genette’s
paratextual typology – namely the paratext’s spatial, temporal, substantial,
pragmatic and functional characteristics. The survey of adaptations of Genette’s
theory to translation studies, digital culture and media in Chapters 2 and 3 has
already given us a sense of how some of the variables used by Genette have
been altered to suit contexts other than print literature in its original language of
composition. In this section, I suggest key ways in which each of Genette’s
parameters needs to be expanded for his typology to be made adequate to
contemporary translation studies and to the definition of paratext outlined above.
Space
Genette’s primary spatial distinction is between peritext and epitext, as
explained in Chapter 1. As we saw in Chapter 3, this distinction is inadequate for
digital and audiovisual texts, and scholars working in these domains have developed
their own sets of variables for describing where a paratext appears, or the movements
through space with which it is associated. These include Stewart’s (2010)
distinction between off-site, on-site and in-file paratexts, and McCracken’s
(2013) dynamic model of centrifugal versus centripetal paratexts. Another set of
variables not discussed in Chapter 3, but equally worthy of consideration, is
presented by Daniel
Dunne (2016, 282) in an application of Genette’s framework to videogames: he

suggests that videogame paratexts can be categorised spatially as ‘in-game’, ‘in-
system’ or ‘in-world’. Other scholars working in digital and media domains do
not attempt to categorise paratextual elements on the basis of spatial features at
all, preferring instead to categorise them according to other features, notably
temporality and function.21
Given that translation scholars might be working in any of these research
domains, including with traditional literary texts, it does not make sense to argue
a priori in favour of one set of distinctions over another. In some research con-
texts, adopting Genette’s distinction between peritext and epitext will be perfectly
adequate; in others, the nature of the material under study will mean that an
alternative set of variables is preferable. Overall, with respect to the variables
that are established for this and for any other paratextual feature, I would
encourage translation scholars to adopt terms already in use in paratextual
research in the relevant interconnecting disciplines. By providing in-depth
exploration of Genette’s original framework and its many adaptations across
disciplines in this book, it is my hope that I may have simplified the task of
assessing the merits of particular terms already in use and adopting or adapting
them appropriately.
Substance
Genette’s focus on print literature leads him to prioritise paratexts whose mode
of existence he labels ‘textual’ (Genette 1997, 7) and, to a certain extent and in
his own words, to ‘elud[e]’ the question of a paratextual element’s substantial
status (Genette 1997, 7). The other categories briefly sketched by Genette (1997,
7) are ‘iconic (illustrations)’ and ‘material (for example, everything that
originates in the sometimes very significant typographical choices that go with
the making of a book)’. Less explicitly, but no less significantly, in the course of
a discussion of the ‘mediated paratext’ (Genette 1997, 357) – such as interviews
with the author that appear in print or in audiovisual form – Genette suggests
that non-verbal phenomena such as facial expressions can be seen to convey
commentary on what the author is saying. Although Genette does not coin a
term for this mode of paratextual expression, or even explicitly label it as a form
of paratext as such, we can see here the foundations for consideration of what
has subsequently been called the ‘corporeal paratext’ (Knape 2013, 265). This
paratextual mode has particular importance for interpreting, and will be explored
in that context in further detail in the next chapter.
When Genette’s framework is applied to digital and audiovisual domains, it
quickly becomes clear that Genette’s terms for describing the substantial status
of paratexts need further refining. In particular, it becomes important to note
that the paratext itself is considered to have its own mode and medium of
expression as well as actually being the medium of expression of the text itself.
In Genette’s (1997) model, the paratext includes ‘the materialization of a text for
public use’ (17): it is the manuscript (3), the way in which the book is folded or
bound (17),
the typesetting and choice of paper (34), and so on. Following Genette’s logic,
digital studies scholars have argued that anything which plays a part in
converting binary code into a readable or viewable text should be considered
paratextual, as we saw in Chapter 3. This includes features of materialisation
such as source code, metadata and algorithms, features through which texts can
be accessed such as e-reading devices and computer interfaces, as well as
features through which texts are made discoverable, such as search engines,
websites and online archives. In light of the complexity of the material and
materialising qualities of paratexts in digital contexts, and for greater clarity
overall, I propose the following basic categories for describing a paratext’s
substantial status. I have provided examples of sub-categories under each one for
the purposes of further clarification, rather than with the goal of providing an
exhaustive taxonomy. Depending on the type of material under study, scholars
may opt to use and further refine some of these categories and sub- categories
and disregard others.
 the mode of expression of the paratextual element, e.g. words vs images,

writing vs speaking vs body language,22 static vs dynamic
 the medium of expression of the paratextual element, e.g. digital vs print;
manuscript vs printed book; web-based vs stand-alone
 the medium through which a text is materialised, e.g. digital or print book
format, other formats such as posters, videos, etc.; typesetting and other
presentational features
 the medium through which a text is accessed, e.g. e-reading devices,
comput- ers, apps, books, magazines, websites
 the medium through which a text is discovered, e.g. search engine, websites
and hyperlinks, catalogues and databases.
The above list covers the four kinds of substantial status envisaged by
Genette with the exception of what he terms the ‘factual’ (Genette 1997, 7)
paratext. This omission is not accidental: if we accept the definition of paratext
presented earlier in this chapter, then factual information, not being
consciously crafted, would not be considered part of the paratext. Of course, if
factual information is made explicit by any consciously crafted threshold, then it
becomes part of the paratext; in these cases, however, the substantial status of
the factual information is not purely factual but has been made physically
manifest in some way. In other words, if we accept the definition above, there is
no immaterial paratext; for something to be a consciously crafted threshold, it
must find some kind of manifestation or alternatively be the medium through
which the text itself is made manifest, as per the last three categories listed
above. The wording that I have used for those categories indicates that it may be
more intuitive to categorise these types of paratexts not so much in terms of
what they are, but what they do. In other words, when studying certain types of
texts with their paratexts, it may be more practical to use a functional typology
rather than one based on the spatial and substantial status of paratextual
elements.
Time
While the changes discussed in the previous sections are motivated primarily by the
desire to adapt Genette’s framework to digital and audiovisual contexts and to
the internet era, the reconsideration of Genette’s temporal and pragmatic variables
that follows is motivated by a desire to adapt it more specifically to translation-
related contexts. Genette’s framework is based on the premise that a text is
published in its complete form at a particular moment in time (in other words,
print texts will have a date of publication). As outlined in Chapter 1, Genette’s
typology of temporal variables is calculated relative to the appearance of the text
in its original language or relative to the life of the author. Thus, in his model, a
translation preface that appears at the same time as a translated version of that
text would be classed as a ‘later’ or ‘delayed’ preface, i.e. appearing some time
after its text (understood to be the original) (see Genette 1997, 6). In our model,
however, as argued above, the translated version is considered a text in its own
right, and a translation preface or any paratextual material that appears at the
same time as the translated version would be classed as original rather than later
if we retain Genette’s terms. The issue of whether or not to retain Genette’s terms
for temporal variables is a tricky one: on the one hand, as a general rule,
retaining Genette’s terminology (which has been widely adopted in literary
studies) simplifies the task of talking across disciplines; on the other, in some
cases the terms already stand for something else within the adopting discipline
and cannot be used without giving rise to some ambiguity or confusion. This is
the case for Genette’s use of the term original to denote paratextual material that
appears at the same moment as the text, since in translation contexts (and in lay
writing about translation), original is frequently used as a synonym for source text
(or prototext, in other terminology). To avoid such confusion, and to adapt
Genette’s variables to a context in which the translated texts are generally the
point of focus, I would argue for a reformulation of Genette’s termporal
variables along the lines outlined below. In these formulations, ‘ST’ stands for
source text and ‘TT’ stands for target text in accordance with standard usage in
translation studies.
 pre-ST
 with ST
 post-ST
 pre-TT
 with-TT
 post-TT.
In each case, the temporal label also specifies the text for which the
paratextual material is the consciously crafted threshold. Thus a pre-ST paratext
is one that is consciously crafted for the ST; although it also pre-dates the TT, it
is not crafted as a threshold to the TT itself and thus would not normally be
labelled ‘pre-TT’. Similarly, while many if not most of the paratexts that are
created for the TT will
appear after the ST, they would not generally be labelled ‘post-ST’ but rather
‘pre-TT’, ‘with TT’ or ‘post-TT’, depending on which of these labels applies. Of
course, as my hedging language above implies (‘not normally’, ‘not generally’),
there might be exceptions to this general approach. For example, scholars
studying cases where bilingual or multilingual readers or viewers use ST paratexts
as thresholds to their own reading or viewing of the TT may find it more
appropriate to consider all of the ST paratexts as belonging to the pre-TT category.
In other cases, scholars may need to make distinctions between different editions
of the source text or its translations, and expand the list of variables accordingly.
Furthermore, the positing of six discrete variables does not rule out interaction
between them. As in Genette’s model, there is fluidity around when paratexts
appear, disappear and reappear: a ‘with-TT’ or ‘post-TT’ paratextual element,
for example, may become a ‘pre-ST’ paratext in a case where a text which has
gone out of print in the source language draws on the success of the text in the
target culture to create promotional material for a new edition of the ST.
Furthermore, in cases in which products are released simultaneously in a range of
languages, it will not be possible – nor desirable – to distinguish between pre-ST
and pre-TT paratexts, since in such cases there is arguably no ‘ST–TT’
distinction to be made at all. Scholars working in domains in which this type of
scenario is common will almost certainly find it preferable to adopt a simpler set
of variables or alternatively to specify the language of publication of the text(s)
instead of using the labels ‘ST’ and ‘TT’. Once again, it is important to stress
that the framework that I am proposing here, while more suited to translation-
related contexts than Genette’s, will require further development in some
situations.
Senders and addressees

As we saw in Chapter 1, Genette’s pragmatic typology allows for a wide range
of situations of communication, but does not offer a way of distinguishing
specifically between translators and other senders; neither does it offer a means
of distinguishing between source culture addressees and target culture
addressees. As we saw in Chapter 2, some translation studies scholars have
argued in favour of disentangling translators from Genette’s general category of
allographic senders and allotting them their own distinct category in a paratextual
typology. This undoubtedly makes sense. As I am aiming to develop a
paratextual framework that will be adequate to many different kinds of
translation situation, however, it is necessary to expand the typology of senders
still further. Thus, building on theoretical reflections by Gray (2010) and others,
it will be useful to have some way of distinguishing between those senders who
are authorised by the text-producers to produce paratexts for the text in question
(along the lines of Gray’s (2010, 143) ‘industry-created’ paratexts), and those
who produce paratexts independently (along the lines of Gray’s (2010, 143)
‘viewer-’ or ‘audience-created’ paratexts). For the latter category, we can also
usefully distinguish between paratexts produced by fans (or, indeed, viewers or
readers who have negative views about the text) and those that are produced by
professionals, such as journalists or critics writing for review publications. With

regard to addressees, in many studies of translation paratexts – particularly
those which adopt a comparative approach between source text and target text
paratexts – we will also need to distinguish between source and target culture
addressees in addition to Genette’s distinctions between general public, readers,
critics and others.
While these additions allow us to expand Genette’s typology to take explicit
account of translation, they represent a simplification of what is in fact a more
complex – or composite – pragmatic situation. To illustrate this problem, let us
take the case of the author’s preface that appears in translation as one of the
paratexts of a translated version of the author’s text. When categorising such a
preface, we might decide that the sender of this paratextual message is the author,
and in one sense this is correct. However, the translator has also played a part in
creating it, so in another sense it would be better to describe the sender as being
both author and translator, or perhaps the author via the translator’s mediation.
The same issues of duplication can be seen to arise for texts as well as for
paratexts, and have been discussed by Cees Koster (2008), amongst others. Koster
suggests distinguishing between extratextual and intratextual levels, and replacing
the term sender with the more abstract sender- function to denote the complex and
composite nature of the pragmatic relationship that obtains on the intratextual
level:
On the extratextual level there is no problem in distinguishing between

translator and author as empirical subjects with their distinct psychologi-
cal, social and cultural circumstances, but on the intratextual level we have
to posit that a text has one sender; that is to say, one sender-function: this
sender-function may be fragmented, decentred, impersonal or what you
will. From the single, independent text perspective the sender has to be
considered an amalgamation between translator and author.
Koster 2008, 32
In one sense, it could be argued that the contrast between extratextual reality and
intratextual situation can be overcome in the same manner in which Genette
deals with prefaces that have in fact been written by another individual but
which are attributed to the author: in such cases, in Genette’s framework, the
author would be classed as the sender. In the case of a translated authorial
preface, so a reasoning along these lines might go, the author is the one who
has signed the preface, so remains the sender, even if the actual words come
from the translator. Yet the case of a translated authorial preface is slightly
different, in the sense that both the author and the translator have signed it:
while the author’s name may be the one that features at the end of the preface,
as part of the translated work the preface is also attributed to the translator – if
not within the preface itself, then in that part of the paratext in which the
translator’s name appears. We are thus left with a complex situation in which the
sender of a paratext for a translated text may be the author (in the case of an
untranslated preface, copied without alteration to the
paratext of the translated text), the translator (in the case of a translator’s preface
written for the translated work) or an amalgamation of author-translator (in the
case of a preface written by the author for the original work and translated for
inclusion in the paratext of the translated version). Similar difficulties apply to other
senders, such as publishers or editors: as we have seen, singular labels such as these
often conceal composite extratextual realities, and studies that focus on
questions of agency will need to develop a complex matrix, allowing for
multiple different scenarios of interaction between the key senders.
This point also has relevance for the addressee: while making a distinction
between source culture addressees and target culture addressees may be
adequate in some situations, in others a more complex category may be needed.
On a basic level, the distinction between ‘source’ and ‘target’ culture readers
ignores the fact that many cultural products in circulation in the source or target
culture will have readers and viewers from multiple cultures, particularly when
the language used in the cultural product is a global one.23 Furthermore, the
composite nature of translated products means that the intended addressees are
also composite: in the case of the translated authorial preface, for example, we can
presume that the author wrote it with source culture addressees in mind, yet
through the mediation of the translator, the translated version of that preface
addresses itself also to some degree to the target culture audience. Other
variables to take into account on the addressee side relate to the size of the
intended audience: as in Genette’s model, it may be helpful to distinguish
between paratexts that target all potential readers (e.g. a film trailer, an advert),
those which target more specific groups of potential readers, and those which
speak to actual readers. Debates over how to define and describe intended,
implied, model or empirical readers have shown any straightforward idea of the
‘reader’ of a text to be deeply problematic; 24 furthermore, opting to use the label
reader at all – as opposed to viewer or consumer – may not be appropriate to many
research contexts. This sketch of pragmatic variables will therefore need
adapting to the material at hand, and the frameworks thus devised will need to
strike a bal- ance between a sufficient level of simplicity (to allow paratexts to
be categorised) and consideration of the complexities hidden within each label.
Function
As noted in Chapter 1, Genette does not set out a typology of functional
variables in the same way as he does for the other aspects of the paratext, arguing
instead that, while it is possible to identify the basic illocutionary force of
paratextual elements, the detailed functions need to be worked out inductively
from empirical data. In addition, unlike the regimes of place, time, substance and
pragmatics, ‘functional choices are not of an ‘either–or’ (Genette 1997, 12)
nature; in other words, they cannot be said to compose a typology as such.25
While not disputing this overall approach, Dorothee Birke and Birte Christ
(2013, 67–8) criticise Genette’s ‘rather vague’ account of paratext function and
suggest that the overall function of paratexts can be described in more
differentiated terms ‘as an interplay of three different aspects’:
‘interpretive’, ‘commercial’ and ‘navigational’. Other scholars have developed lists

of functions specific to particular types of text. Amy Nottingham-Martin (2014,
296–7), for example, identifies six functions of transmedia storytelling paratextual
elements: navigational, commercial, didactic, world-building, community-
building and text-activating. In a translation context, Urpo Kovala (1996, 134)
identifies nine ‘micro-functions’ of paratexts to literary translations:
‘identification, metatextual function, placing, giving background information,
illustration, reference to reader, advertising, and the artistic and
legal/bibliographic’.
Working in the context of videogames, but also in part working deductively
using reflections on Genette’s own model, Rockenberger (2014, 262) outlines
a more extensive list, which she suggests may be relevant to all media. In my
view, Rockenberger’s list has great potential for use in translation studies, not least
because it draws on a vocabulary with which translation scholars are likely to be
familiar thanks to the popularity of functionalist translation theories. I therefore
present it with minor alterations below:26
1) Referential: identifying the work, establishing its legal and discursive finger-
print
2) Self-referential: drawing attention to the paratext or its elements
3) Ornamental: decorating and ‘looking nice’
4) Generic: categorising the work, indicating genre, establishing a ‘generic pact’
concerning the appropriate attitude of reception; includes categorisation as a
translation
5) Meta-communicative: explicitly reflecting on the conditions and constraints of
mediated communication in general and the work’s placing in particular;
includes reflections on translation and/or the difficulties of the translation
process
6) Informative: mediating true empirical data, clarifying internal and external rela-
tions and properties of the work, explicitly revealing intentions, removing
epistemic obstacles to the reader’s understanding, including, in translation
contexts, clarifying culture-specific references for a new audience; referring to
other helpful information or services
7) Hermeneutical: offering certain cognitive framings, directing attention, expos-
ing certain aspects or qualities, mediating relevant contexts, instructing the
understanding or interpretation – i.e. the explanation of the text’s charac-
teristics as a result of authorial decisions and actions – and thus widening or
restricting interpretative options
8) Ideological: promoting a certain viewpoint; taking distance from the
ideological stance of the text or, particularly in translation situations, of the
author or source culture
9) Evaluative: claiming or demanding value and cultural significance
10) Commercial: advertising, praising, selling; attracting and directing buyer’s atten-
tion; cultivating needs; referring to and recommending other products
11) Legal: (a) informative (informing about legal entitlements), (b) illocutionary
(symbolically establishing legal rights and obligations, formal or informal con-
tracts and guarantees)
12) Pedagogical: establishing standards for behaviour

13) Instructive, operational: facilitating and guiding reception and use of the
product, offering orientation, suggesting, organising and structuring possible
approaches to the product, recommending actions; includes navigational
paratexts
14) Personalisation: only for interactive paratext elements – temporarily adjusting
elements to personal needs
adapted from Rockenberger 2014, 262–3
It should be stressed that many paratextual elements serve more than one
function simultaneously: a preface, for example, may be informative,
hermeneutical, ideological and evaluative, while a title page may be referential,
generic, ornamental, and even instructive.27
As in Genette’s model, it may prove useful to complement lists of function
with lists of themes, outlining for example the typical themes that might be
addressed in translation prefaces. Background research carried out for Chapter 4,
for example, suggests that the themes addressed in translators’ prefaces to
philosophical texts published in the UK and the US over the last 150 years show
a remarkable degree of constancy, with almost all prefaces outlining the
importance of the author or work, the need for the translation, the high quality of
the translation, the difficulty of translation in general terms, as well as offering
an interpretation of the work for the reader. This suggests that translators’ prefaces
to this type of text and in this cultural context are above all evaluative (and through
this, indirectly, commercial) but also serve important meta-communicative and
hermeneutic functions. Identifying thematic patterns of this kind for the key
paratextual elements specific to translations and matching them to the functions
identified above carries a number of benefits for translation research: it deepens
our appreciation of what paratexts do; it allows us to note changes in patterns of
theme and function over time, or across cultures; and, at a basic level, it helps us
not to treat as extraordinary or noteworthy something which actually represents
common practice in a given culture or era.
Concluding remarks
While this chapter has demonstrated some of the complexities involved in devel-
oping typologies adequate to the exploration of translation paratexts, it also reveals
the potential that inheres in this kind of research. For example, by developing
classificatory tools and adopting systematic approaches to the study of
paratextual elements, we are reminded to pay attention to all aspects of
translation thresholds, not just those which seem intuitively more important or
which form a more obvious grouping. Rather than limiting our research to a
sender-based category such as translators’ prefaces or translators’ notes, for
example, we might opt to study a less salient set of elements such as those
fulfilling legal functions, gaining important new insights in the process.28 Another
benefit of working with typologies is that it makes us alert not only to how
paratextual elements are translated but how they are not: in Chiara Bucaria’s (2014,
308) words, we are more likely to note ‘paratexts that stand out for their
absence’, something which can be of considerable importance to studies
contrasting paratextual framing across cultures.
Notes
1 We should note, however, that Hermans’s use of the term framing is more restricted than
Baker’s: whereas Baker sees framing as encompassing a wide range of discursive practices
that can occur not only within paratextual material but also within translations or oral
interpreting events, Hermans (2007, 60) conceives of framing as ‘one device for signal-
ling the dissociation from alien and the affirmation of indigenous values’. The example
that he provides of another device for doing the same thing is the non-translation of
specific passages in a text. This implies, even if it does not explicitly state, that framing
is conceptualised as something which takes place only through material placed around
the translation rather than through techniques used in the translation itself. See Hermans
(2007, 52–65) for further details.
2 An English translation of Genette’s words cited here is provided in Macksey (1997, xvii):
‘fringe at the unsettled limits that enclose with a pragmatic halo the literary work’. For
a more detailed reflection on the intersection between notions of framing and
Genette’s paratext, see Berlatsky (2009).
3 Van Dijk is drawing here on Jonathan Culler’s reading of Derrida’s exploration of the
parergon. See Culler (2007 [1982], 193–9) for further details.
4 The bibliographical details for the paper which Johnson-Cartee is citing are as
follows: J.W.Tankard, L. Hendrickson, J. Silberman, K. Bliss and S. Ghanem (1991)
‘Media Frames: Approaches to Conceptualization and Measurement’, paper presented at
the Association for Education in Journalism and Mass Communication Convention,
Boston. While this paper is widely cited in studies of news media, the paper itself would
appear to be available in only one library worldwide, in the form of a fourteen-page
photocopy, according to worldcat.org. I have therefore provided an indirect reference for
the citation.
5 See, notably, Nelson, Clawson and Oxley’s (1997) study of perceptions of a Ku Klux
Klan rally.
6 We should note that Baker’s (2006, 106) definition of frames differs slightly from those
proposed by scholars in communication theory, since she assigns it a more dynamic
meaning:‘frames are defined as . . . strategic moves that are consciously initiated in order
to present a movement or a particular position within a certain perspective’.
7 In the paragraph that follows, however, Pellatt (2013b, 2) appears to limit paratext to
Genette’s peritext, and opposes it to epitext:‘In this volume we are mainly concerned with
paratext, attached to or inserted in the core text, and epitext, comment which is external
to the published volume.’
8 Kung’s appeal to the notion of intertextuality indicates the need for some degree of con-
nection between the extratexts and the text itself, but the nature of that connection is
not made explicit, and the decision to label such material extratexts rather than intertexts
is not discussed.
9 Indeed, Deane-Cox (2014, 29) presents the motivation for her proposed terminology as
being in part a desire to heed Genette’s warning that the zone of the paratext should
not be enlarged.
10 For an example of the first type of study, see Shen and Xu (2007); for the second, see
Hammett, van Kleeck and Huberty (2003).
11 Regarding reviews as paratexts concords with the approach proposed by Jonathan
Gray (2011, 114), who argues that press reviews of television are ‘an often-overlooked
paratext’.
12 Indeed, writing in 1978, Marcel Janssens (1978, 5, italics in original) calls translation
‘metatext par excellence’.
13 Other important reflections on the term and the related notion of translation as
metalit- erature can be found in Lefevere (1978) and van Gorp (1978).
14 The Oxford English Living Dictionaries (2017) define meta-text as ‘A text lying outside
another text, especially one describing or elucidating another.’
15 See, for example, his discussions of allographic prefaces (Genette 1997, 270) and allo-
graphic notes (Genette 1997, 343).
16 To give an example of how these terminological distinctions can be maintained, I would

argue that the translation prefaces discussed by Rodica Dimitriu (2009), which analyse
‘translations as translations, highlighting translation problems and describing strategies for
dealing with them’ (Dimitriu 2009, 194, italics in original) would best be described as
paratexts containing metadiscourse, rather than as metatexts.
17 Yuste Frías (2010, 291n3) states that he created the term in the final stages of the super-
vision of Garrido Vilariño’s thesis, motivated by the need to find an umbrella term for
the paratextual elements of various translations of Primo Levi’s Se questa è un uomo.
According to Garrido Vilariño (2011, 76n2), the group was initiated by Alexis Nouss.
The largest number of publications are by Yuste Frías, although Garrido Vilariño and
others have also made important contributions, and the group promotes the concept
through its own webpages, the university’s online TV channel and various blogs.
18 The Spanish database of articles in indexed journals, Dialnet, finds just tweleve hits for the
term ‘paratraducción’, most of which are for articles by academics linked toVigo
University.
19 At the time of writing, I could find only one researcher working within the Anglo-
American translation studies tradition who incorporates the term into her discussions
(see Pellatt 2013c, 2018).
20 In his outline of the way in which the ‘Translation and Paratranslation’ research group
at the University of Vigo took shape, Garrido Vilariño (2011, 76) identifies one of the
main motivations of the group as being ‘to absolve translators of all responsibility for the
manipulations that have traditionally been attributed to them’.
21 A similar point is made by Dunne (2016, 279), who notes that ‘paratext in Gray’s analysis
has been significantly remodelled to suit film’s temporal qualities, rather than Genette’s
spatial focus’.
22 If we think of the distinction between writing, speaking and gesturing as differences
in the way in which the message is materialised (i.e. typed or handwritten marks vs
human voice or body movements), then we could equally well consider each one to be a
medium rather than a mode of expression.While writing and speech stand somewhat
in opposition to each other (a message is rarely spoken and written at the same time), ges-
ture often accompanies speech. It is also possible to envisage situations in which gesture
functions as a paratext to the text of a speech, as we will see in the discussion of corporeal
paratexts in the following chapter.
23 Kate Sturge (2007, 11) refers to this as ‘the fallacy of source–target dichotomies’ and
observes that Western translation studies is yet to take full account of this issue.
24 For a brief summary of such debates, see Koster (2008).
25 By definition, typologies aim to identify types, or classes, which are ‘both exhaustive and
mutually exclusive’ (Bailey 1994, 3).
26 The original list can be viewed in Rockenberger (2014, 262–3). I have added illustra-
tions of how the categories are relevant to translation contexts, and have reduced the
categories from sixteen to fourteen, eliminating ‘pragmatic: controlling and managing
the work’s overall public reception’ and ‘staging: image cultivation or self-display, biased
depiction of the author and/or his work, thereby promoting certain expectations of
pro- attitudes’. In my view, the label ‘pragmatic’ is likely to result in confusion, given that
the term pragmatic variables is being used above in Genette’s sense of referring to sender
and receiver of the paratextual message; furthermore, the function to which
Rockenberger’s category refers is very broad and in this sense serves as an umbrella
term encompassing many of the other functions.‘Staging’ has been eliminated primarily
for reasons of overlap, notably with ‘ideological’ and ‘hermeneutical’.
27 I am thinking, for example, of the subtitle added to the American paperback version
of Frantz Fanon’s (1968) Les Damnés de la terre, ‘A Handbook for the Black Revolution
that is Changing the Shape of the World’, where the word handbook can be seen to be
instructing the reader on how to use the text. For an analysis of the role this and other
paratexts played in the reception of Fanon’s work, see Batchelor (2017).
28 As I have shown in a study of translations of the West African Mande epic Sunjata
(see Batchelor 2018 in press), incorporating discussion of copyright assignation into
reflections on the authorship of ethnographic literature is of crucial importance to
understanding the way in which such texts circulate globally.
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8
Research topics and methodologies
Almost all of the research discussed in the earlier chapters of this book takes
translation products as its point of focus, and the book as a whole thus gives a
rich sense of the paratext’s relevance to product-oriented research. For this rea-
son, this chapter summarises the research topics and methodologies associated
with such studies only briefly, dwelling primarily on questions of methodology
that have received limited attention, such as approaches to image-based para-
texts. The remainder of the chapter seeks to initiate a discussion of the potential
of paratextual research for domains of study to which it has yet to be applied
with any intensity, namely process-oriented research, interpreting studies and
translation as literary criticism.
Product-oriented research
Research that focuses on paratexts as products falls broadly into two different
categories. The first looks at paratexts as ends in themselves, and attempts to
map the paratextual practices that are associated with translated texts. This is usually
done in relation to a particular period of time or cultural context, and is often
restricted by text genre or paratextual element. The second type of study
investigates paratexts as the means to some other end: paratexts are thus viewed as
documents or artefacts that are of interest because of what they tell us about something
else. Very broadly, that ‘something else’ falls into one of three overlapping
categories: the translated text, the past and the present. While it is useful to
distinguish between paratexts studied as ends in themselves and paratexts
studied as means to another end in this way, we should bear in mind that the two
types of study feed into one another: understanding paratextual practices is
crucial for interpreting specific paratexts, while the paratexts that are studied from
the second angle can be added to the sum of data on which researchers draw to
map paratextual conventions.
Topics and methodologies 169
The study of paratextual conventions

The motivations for studying paratextual conventions in connection with
translation are twofold. First, identifying the conventions associated with specific
times, places, text types and genres allows us to make informed observations
about changes to paratextual elements as texts are translated. For example, if a book
is published in the source culture with a striking image on the front cover, and the
same book appears in the target culture with a plain cover, any commentary on
the meaning of that shift will depend on an understanding of conventions
governing the use of cover images. In some times and places, a plain cover might
be associated with the underground press (see, for example, Farzaneh Farahzad’s
(2017) discussion of jeld-sefid in 1970s Iran); in others, a plain cover might be the
norm for literary fiction (as is the case in France). This type of research examines
paratextual conventions governing both non-translated and translated products in
source and target cultures with the goal of making valid observations when
comparing products across cultures. The second type of research is interested in
mapping paratextual practices specifically in relation to translations, with the
overall goal of understanding the position of translation within a given culture
over a particular period of time. Such studies might address the status of
translation (e.g. by looking at where and how the translator and fact of
translation are acknowledged in paratexts), or examine prevailing or competing
views about translation, as expressed in a range of types of paratextual elements.
The methodological challenges associated with such research primarily concern
the delineation of the corpus: researchers will need to address the question of
how large the corpus needs to be in order to make generalisations that can be
considered to hold water; if researching translations, they will need to develop a
process for working out whether a given text is a translation or not, where this
information is either not provided or not considered to be reliable within the
paratexts themselves; they will also need to formulate a procedure for assessing
whether borderline cases should be included or excluded from the corpus. Another
challenge concerns the writing up of such research: while it may be tempting
to simply catalogue the features of paratextual elements, or in other words to
produce research that is purely descriptive, some level of contextualisation and
critical analysis of the findings is needed if such research is to achieve its real
value. If we consider Genette’s own study, which maps the paratextual
conventions governing canonical French literature, we see that Genette does not
just catalogue, but also analyses, pointing out the implications of doing things
one way rather than another, addressing the subtleties of meaning that can be
found in apparently small decisions, nuancing generalisations by discussing
exceptions, and incorporating analysis of the functions that the paratextual
elements serve.
Paratexts as documents for analysing the translated text

Analysis of translated texts serves primarily to answer ‘what’ and ‘how’ questions,
such as: ‘What was the overall approach taken by the translator?’, ‘How did the
translator deal with a particular feature of the source text?’, ‘How is the translator’s
discursive presence manifest in this text?’ and so on. While the analysis of paratexts
can contribute to answering questions of this sort, 1 paratextual analysis is above all
helpful when trying to answer ‘who’ and ‘why’ questions, such as: ‘Who is respon-
sible for the translation decisions that we see in the translated text?’, ‘Why was this
translation produced?’, ‘Why was this key term translated in this way?’ As with
any document, the statements or implied statements found within paratexts need
to be critically assessed with regard to their reliability, a point that I shall explore
in greater detail below.
Paratexts as documents for understanding the past

At a very basic level, paratexts can be useful for finding raw data for historical
studies. The information recorded in a translation’s paratexts, for example, can
be crucial for tracking the publication history of a particular text, building up a
database of translations published by a particular publishing house or in a particular
country, or providing the bare bones of translator biographies. In many cases, iden-
tifying the information present in paratexts is straightforward, but in some cases,
it may require expertise in a relevant domain such as book history (see, for
example, Guyda Armstrong’s (2013) study of medieval paratexts, discussed in
Chapter 2). The ease with which such information can be found varies, as does
the reliability of the information itself; for a discussion of the difficulties associated
with historical research into Arabic editions of Frantz Fanon’s Les Damnés de la
terre (The Wretched of the Earth), for example, see Harding (2017, 108–9).
At a deeper level, paratexts can be used to understand the past in two ways: first,
as documents which tell us about the past by virtue of having been shaped by the
past; and, second, as documents which may themselves have influenced the past.
A study such as Gaby Thomson-Wohlgemuth’s (2009), discussed in Chapter 2,
falls into the first category, drawing on paratextual material to deepen
understanding of the way in which GDR society functioned, while a study such
as Șebnem Susam-Sarajeva’s (2006), also discussed in Chapter 2, explores the
influence of introductions, prefaces and back-cover information on the reception
of French theory in particular receiving cultures.2 Studies often cut both ways:
the paratexts can be seen to have been shaped by the context, but in turn
contribute to shaping the context, strengthening or challenging prevailing
discourses. Assessing the bal- ance in direction is not always straightforward.
Determining the actual (as opposed to potential) influence of a paratext is also very
difficult; this point will be discussed further below.
Paratexts as documents for understanding the present

In parallel with research which draws on paratexts as documents for understanding
the past, research into present-day contexts takes one of two broad approaches:
in the first, paratexts are viewed as documents that are influenced by the broader
context and as such can tell us things about the society in which they are
produced; in the second, paratexts are seen as factors which themselves exert an
influence over society, or some aspect thereof. Like research into the past, 3 this
kind of research falls into the broad category of ‘context-oriented’ research
according to Gabriela Saldanha and Sharon O’Brien’s (2014) division, and often
draws on conceptual frameworks developed in disciplines such as cultural
studies, postcolonial studies and sociology. Examples of context-oriented studies
discussed in Chapter 2 include those by Cecilia Alvstad (2012), Mona Baker
(2006) and Richard Watts (2005), but there are many others. The primary
methodological challenges associated with this kind of research are similar to
those facing studies that use paratexts to understand the past, and will be
discussed below. As we shall see, the main difference is that there are a number
of additional solutions open to researchers for addressing some of these
challenges.
Questions of methodology
The basics of good research practice are as applicable to studies of paratexts as
they are to any other kind of research. Readers looking for general guidelines
on methodology and research project design are advised to consult appropriate
sources, such as Susam-Sarajeva (2009), Pym (2014), Saldanha and O’Brien (2014)
or Williams and Chesterman (2014). In this section, I shall discuss some of the
issues that, while not unique to paratexts, often emerge as particularly pressing
in paratextual research.
The nature and reliability of paratexts as documents

The basic principles for analysing sources apply to paratexts as to any other
documents. These include assessing the authenticity of the source, reading it in
context, interrogating author bias, and compensating for these issues by
weighing sources against each other.4 Given the varied functions of paratextual
elements, and the fact that reading them for what they reveal about the broader
context is often to read them against their original purpose, it is particularly
important to analyse their content in light of the motives and constraints
governing their use. This involves asking such questions as:
 Who is the target audience of this paratext (e.g. a board of censors, a

potential purchaser of the translated product, a rival academic school of
thought, etc.)?
 What is this paratextual element intended to achieve (and how does its func-
tion or functions affect what the paratext producer is likely to say with
regard to the translation)?
 What are the conventions governing the content and tone of this paratextual
element in the relevant culture? Or, to use Alexandra Lopes’s (2012, 129)
words, highlighted in Chapter 2, how is this paratextual element
‘constrained by the accepted discursive practices applicable to the format’?
Even when we are dealing with paratextual elements that appear to speak
directly to the questions that we are seeking to answer, the multiple functions of
many paratextual elements need to be borne in mind. In the case of a translation
preface, for example, we might imagine that the translator’s comments on his or
her translation strategy are intended to convey information about that strategy – but
that is not necessarily the case. Instead, the translator’s comments may be
crafted to stress the reliability of the translation or to increase the likelihood of it
being well received: for example, if a literal approach is the most acceptable or
in vogue approach at the time of writing, translators may assert that they have
followed such an approach even if this is not really the best reflection of what
they have done. Alternatively, translators’ comments on their strategy may be
designed primarily to take up a particular position with regard to academic debates
or schools of thought, or to highlight some particular aspect of the author’s
thinking, and so on.
How do we know if people actually came to the text through

a given paratext?
One of the basic premises of paratextual theory is that paratexts serve as
thresholds through which people come to a text, and therefore exert an influence
on the ways in which that text is received. Yet, in many cases, we cannot be sure
that people did come to the text through a particular paratext: the reader of a
book may not bother looking at the preface, the viewer of a film may not have
seen the poster at the bus stop, and so on. The issue becomes particularly
pressing in the digital era, with its associated proliferation of industry- and
audience-created thresholds, as we saw in Chapter 3. There are two kinds of
solution to this problem: first, we can try to find out whether the text was indeed
accessed through the threshold in question; second, we can word our reflections
and conclusions in a manner appropriate to the degree of uncertainty affecting
this part of our research. Solutions of the first type are generally more available
for researchers looking at relatively recently created paratexts, and some of them
were discussed briefly in Chapter 3. They include:
 Looking for evidence that the threshold was used (or potentially used) by a
significant number of receivers of the text. This might, for example, involve
obtaining circulation figures for newspapers in which paratexts appeared,
assessing the relative prominence of the paratext (e.g. placement of an advert),
or obtaining statistics on visitors to a website (or, even more pertinently, click-
throughs from a web-based paratext to its text).
 Looking for evidence that the threshold was used by the particular receivers of
the text in whom we are interested. In historical research, this might be
limited to searching for references to a paratextual source in other
documents, while in contemporary research it could extend to researching
discussion forums and other platforms on which viewers or readers post
opinions about texts, and to carrying out interviews or surveys with the text-
receivers.
In many if not most cases, it will not be possible to gain a complete and
reliable picture of the extent to which a threshold was actually used, and we will
therefore need to complement these efforts with the second kind of solution,
building an appropriate amount of qualifying language into our discussion of our
research findings. Rather than stating categorically that the paratext means that
the text would have been perceived in a particular way, for example, we can
stress that the findings only hold insofar as the paratext was read, in the spirit
of the ‘what if’ model proposed by Amy Nottingham-Martin (2014, 293) and as
discussed in Chapter 3.
How do we know if people were actually influenced in the

way in which the paratext-creator envisaged?
This question is related to the previous one, in the sense that they both boil down
to knowing whether or not a paratext actually functioned in the way(s) envisaged
by the one who created it. Once again, there are two kinds of solutions in parallel
with the solutions to the previous question: we can try and find out how people
were actually influenced by the paratext, or we can adjust our writing style to
take account of our uncertainty. The evidence that might be obtained to show
that a text was accessed through a particular threshold can also sometimes be
used to explore the nature of the paratext’s influence on receivers: with regard to
discussion forums and other web-based sites, for example, we saw in Chapter 3
that these can be considered as ‘pre-constituted audience research, providing
evidence of how viewers make sense of texts’ (Gray 2010, 146). In practice,
however, unless our research is focused on a small group of text receivers whose
views we can investigate at length and in depth, we are likely to need to adopt
the second kind of solution as well. Urpo Kovala’s (1996, 141) caution that we
should be wary of assuming a passive recipient of paratextual messages is
certainly worth heeding. Jonathan Gray echoes this point, drawing on Michel de
Certeau’s metaphor of walking in the city to illustrate the agency which
receivers have with regard to paratexts:
[de Certeau] likens textual structure to urban structure and design, but
notes that we can walk through a city in many different ways. Urban planners,
traffic flow experts, and owners of private property have their preferred
notions of how they want you to get from one place to another, and they
cut down all sorts of options or try to make other options more enticing.
But in the end we have agency, and we do not have to follow their paths
entirely. This is what paratext creators are doing – they are some of the
key would-be urban planners and land developers of the textual world.
Brookey and Gray 2017, 107
The degree to which text receivers are likely to follow the paths laid out by para-
text creators depends to some extent on the type of paratext: whereas receivers
of a promotional paratext are likely to receive it with a certain amount of
scepticism
thanks to their understanding of how advertising functions, receivers of what

might appear to be factual information – such as the information that a text is an
‘authorised translation’, as discussed in Chapter 4 – might be more likely to do so
passively. These kinds of considerations need to be built into discussion of
research findings.
Analysing images and multimodal texts

It is probably fair to say that the academic background of the majority of translation
studies scholars is not in art history or visual culture, or in other words in disciplines
which provide training in reading images. 5 Furthermore, translation studies has
historically ‘favoured the study of written and spoken discourse’ (Pérez-
González 2014b, 119) rather than non-verbal elements. Many paratexts,
however, such as book covers, trailers, websites, transmedia stories and video
prefaces, are image- based or combine linguistic and visual elements. If we are
to take full account of these images and of the interplay between words and
images, we need to have some level of competence in methodologies used in
image-based disciplines. As with methodologies for textual analysis, existing
frameworks are particularly useful for helping us move from asserting what is
shown to analysing what is meant, and for knowing which factors to consider
when asking how things are shown.
In this section I summarise key elements of what Gunther Kress and Theo van
Leeuwen (1996) term the ‘grammar of visual design’ (1), a methodology that
pays attention to the way in which ‘depicted people, places and things are
combined into a meaningful whole’ (1). This contrasts with visual lexis, which
concerns the deno- tative and connotative meanings (iconographic, symbolic,
etc.) of the individual things, people or places depicted. In Christian traditions,
for example, a peacock symbolises eternal life and resurrection, while in art that
draws on Roman mythol- ogy it evokes Juno, goddess of marriage. In Islamic art
and in Eastern traditions, it has still other meanings. Visual lexis is thus typically
deeply rooted in particular cultural, religious or artistic traditions, and it is not
practical to attempt any kind of summary of how to read such images here. In
contrast, while the grammar of visual design also needs to be examined with a
keen eye on differences in cultural traditions as well as the researcher’s own
positionality,6 the basic tenets of analysis and terminology can be applied to
static and dynamic images of all kinds. Furthermore, Kress and van Leeuwen’s
framework of visual grammar underlies recent efforts to develop frameworks for
exploring multimodality in translation studies, particularly in relation to
subtitling.7 Choosing it over other possible frameworks thus also carries the
advantage of strengthening current expansions of methodologies in translation
studies rather than introducing another set of terms and ideas. Following Kress
and van Leeuwen (1996), then, I outline below a sample of questions relevant to the
analysis of three different factors pertaining to the images that might be
encountered in paratexts: representation and interaction (between viewer and
image), modality (the relationship between the image and reality) and
composition (interaction between depicted elements). Readers are encouraged to
consult Kress and van Leeuwen (1996) for examples and a full elaboration of
their methodology.
Representation and interaction

Factors of representation and interaction are largely concerned with ascertaining
the degree to which the image is an offer or a demand. In the case of the former,
the image ‘“offers” the represented participants to the viewer as items of
information, objects of contemplation’ (Kress and van Leeuwen 1996, 124),
whereas in the case of the latter, the image ‘demands something from the viewer,
demands that the viewer enter into some kind of imaginary relation with him or
her’ (122).8 The following questions might be asked:
 Is the viewer of the image positioned as an object of the gaze of the repre-
sented participant, or is the represented participant the object of the viewer’s
gaze?
 If the former, what is the participant’s expression and what sort of
relationship does the represented participant seek to establish with the
viewer (e.g. one of superiority, disdain, seduction, etc.)?
 What is the size of frame (close-up, medium shot, long shot)? Is the
imaginary relationship between viewer and participant one of friendship
(associated with close-ups) or is it impersonal (long shots)? With which
kind of messages is the size of frame conventionally associated? For exam-
ple, in news reporting, the close-up is used for ‘subjects who are revealing
their feelings’ (133), whereas the ‘breast-pocket shot’ (133) is commonly
used for experts and interviewers. This point reminds us of the importance
of analysing images with a full awareness of cultural and historical conven-
tions, since it is in part these conventions that help determine what is meant
by depicting an image in a certain way.
 In images depicting people, is the horizontal angle frontal (conveying
involvement) or oblique (conveying detachment)? Is the vertical angle high
(conveying superiority or power of the viewer over the represented partici-
pant), low (conveying the superiority of the represented participant over the
viewer), or eye-level (conveying equality)?
 In the case of scientific or technical images, is the angle frontal (‘the angle
of “this is how it works”’ (149)) or top-down (‘the angle of maximum
power . . . contemplating the world “from a god-like point of view”’ (149))?”
 How is point of view narrativised through the sequencing of images (in films)
or other means (e.g. by including the hands of the imaginary viewer in an
advertisement)?
Modality
Modality is concerned with the relationship between the image and reality.
Images that have a high modality are those which depict things, people or places
as though they were real, whereas those with a low modality present them as
‘imaginings, fantasies, caricatures, etc.’ (161). The following questions might be
asked:
 What are the levels of colour saturation, differentiation and modulation?

The closer the use of colour to the way in which colour appears in the real
world, the more the image will be taken to represent things as though they
are real. For example, when colours have low saturation, we are likely to
judge the image as ‘ethereal’ (163).
 What is the level of contextualisation? An absence of background lowers modality,
with represented participants being depicted as generic rather than as individuals.
 What are the levels of abstraction, depth, illumination and brightness? Once
again, the closer the levels to the way things appear in real life, the higher
the degree of modality.
Composition
Composition explores the ways in which the depicted elements are related to
each other and interact with each other. These questions can be asked of
composite and multimodal texts as well as of single images, and thus apply ‘not
only to pictures, but also . . . to layouts’ (184). The following aspects might be
considered:
 How are the elements placed relative to each other and to the viewer?
Specific informational values are connected with the various zones of the
image. In general, the left-hand side of images is used for information that is
already known, whereas elements presented on the right-hand side are
presented as new information (187). The top of an image is usually
connected with the ideal, or with elements that make an emotive appeal,
whereas the bottom of an image is more typically used for the ‘real’, or for
practical information (193). Layouts that use a centre and margin structure
(more common in Eastern than in Western designs) present the nucleus of
information in the centre and subservient elements in the margins (206).
 Which elements are salient? The degree to which the viewer’s attention is drawn
to any particular element depends on such things as foreground and
background placement, whether an element overlaps or is overlapped by
another, relative size, contrasts in tonal value, differences in sharpness, etc.
(122–3).
 How are elements connected to each other or separated from each other
through framing devices? These devices might include elements that create
dividing lines (e.g. doorframes in the background of a photograph or
picture), continuities or discontinuities of colour or shape, or empty spaces
between elements (214–18). Another way of emphasising connectedness is
through vectors, i.e. elements which ‘lead the eye from one element to
another’ (216), such as roads, buildings or abstract graphic elements.
Process-oriented research
As noted above, most translation-related research into paratexts to date has focused
on translation as products. The key exceptions to this are the studies by Anna
Matamala (2011), Nathalie Mälzer (2013) and Siri Nergaard (2013), discussed in
Chapter 2, which enquire into the roles played by different agents in the pro-
duction of paratexts for translated products, and which might thus be classed as
‘participant-oriented’ research in Saldanha and O’Brien’s (2014) model. Studies
of this kind are of great importance for deepening our understanding of the cul-
tural and sociological factors affecting translation processes, and enable us to move
away from the still-present tendency to talk about ‘the translator’ when
analysing translation products. In this section, however, I would like to discuss
the potential importance of paratextual theory to the third type of ‘translator
studies’, outlined by Andrew Chesterman (2009), namely cognitive translation
process research.
Using paratexts in cognitive studies of translation process

In the burgeoning research area of translation and cognition, attention has tended
to focus on micro-level decision-making and behaviour, with experiments
usually based around short texts and extracts rather than complete texts in their
published format.9 Although some theorists do incorporate consideration of
paratextual features into their analytical models, they tend to subsume such
features under broader headings. Lucas Nunes Vieira (2016, 91–2), for example,
identifies a category called ‘translation context/world knowledge’ and explains that
this involves ‘aspects such as readership, genre-specific issues, source- and target-
culture specific issues, real- world use of the text, knowledge of the subject
matter, intertextuality, etc.’. It is likely that translators would derive some of this
knowledge from paratextual elements, or at the very least look for
confirmation of assumptions there: a book’s cover, for example, is likely to
convey something about readership and genre, as well as intended if not actual
uses of the text in the real world. Other aspects of this knowledge (for example,
of the subject matter) would be derived from non- paratextual sources. By
treating both types of knowledge together, models such as this one do not
encourage interrogation of cognitive processing of paratextual elements or of
the interconnections between text- and paratext-reading processes.
To my knowledge, the only theorist who draws on the term paratext to denote
a particular translation process or subprocess is Hans P. Krings (2001), but he
uses the term in a different sense to the sense in which it is used by Genette, and
indeed in this book. In his study – which limits itself to the post-editing of
machine- translated instruction manuals (245) – paratexts are ‘pictorial
information of all kinds (photographs, charts, line drawings, etc.)’ (246). In our
conceptualisation of the paratext, in contrast, such elements would be considered
to be part of the text. Closer to our category of the paratext would be those
elements which Krings refers to as ‘features of the text surface, such as titles and
subtitles, optical emphasis of key concepts, explicit statements of the topic,
summaries, and paragraphs in certain positions’ (246), but overall Krings pays
little attention to them.
Although paratextual elements have thus received only marginal
consideration in research into translation processes, their potential to bring
deeper understanding to this domain of enquiry is considerable. In particular,
research into paratexts
could open up greater insights into the impact of source text paratextual
elements on overall translation approach and micro-level decision-making, as
well as on translators’ emotional stances towards the material they are
translating. Such studies could also help us understand which paratextual
elements are treated as part of the source text, and which are treated as external
resources;10 they could also offer insight into the cognitive processes that
underlie the creation of new paratextual elements for the target text.
Since the term paratext encompasses an extremely wide range of textual and
non-textual material and a plethora of functions (beyond the overarching and
defining function of serving as a threshold), any research into the role played by
paratexts in translation processes would need to narrow down its focus to
specific paratextual elements, rather than interrogating the role played by
paratexts in any general sense. Key questions that would need to be addressed
would be as follows:
To which paratextual elements belonging to the original text do transla-
tors actually have access when translating?
While translators may sometimes work from source texts that are in the form of
published works, or in other words which are complete with their paratexts, on
many occasions they are likely to work with texts in a format separate from
(some of) their paratexts. Literary translators, for example, may be sent
manuscript versions of a source text that is yet to be published in its original
language, while translators of other kinds of material are likely to receive it
electronically in one of many different file formats. While the above question
cannot be answered in general terms, some observations on practices typical to
particular sections of the translation industry can undoubtedly be made and will
be of great importance to any findings on how translators draw on paratexts
when translating. Most interesting, perhaps, will be the implications of such
findings for conceptualisations of the translation process that depend on
conceiving of translators as readers of the source text. If it is shown that a common
or even default scenario is for translators to translate without access to the source
text paratexts, then their experiences as readers will be markedly different from
those of other source text readers.
Which research methods are most suited to exploring the role of para-
texts in translation processes?
As with the previous question, addressing this question will depend in large part
on the particular kind of paratextual element being analysed. For researchers inves-
tigating the influence of such elements as book cover or title on a translator’s
overall approach or attitude to the translation, then ‘postactional’ (Krings 2005,
348) methods such as retrospective commentary or interviews are most likely to
be of use, though it may also be possible to employ ‘periactional’ (Krings 2005,
348) approaches such as think-aloud protocols. For example, think-aloud experi-
ments could be set up in which translators were asked to think aloud their very
first reactions to the text as guided by the paratexts. Alternatively, existing think-
aloud data could be scanned for any data that indicate thinking derived from
considerations of paratextual material.For researchers examining paratextual
elements which occupy a spatial position close to the text (such as the footnotes
that accompany
scholarly editions of some texts), it may be possible to employ technology-

supported observation methods including eye-tracking and key-logging, or in
other words to incorporate paratexts into what has become known as Translation
Process Research (TPR).11 Such methods might, for example, allow researchers
to answer questions about how much time (if any) the translator spends looking
at notes and how the translation solutions change after the notes have been
consulted.
What are the specific methodological challenges associated with this kind
of research?
In addition to the general challenges facing translation process researchers, 12 one
of the aspects to which particular thought would have to be given in paratexts
research is how to reduce or eliminate bias that is likely to result when subjects
know that what is being investigated are the paratexts. If subjects are aware that
researchers are interested in how they use paratexts, this automatically creates
bias in the sense that it suggests to the subject that they should consider
paratexts, when they might otherwise not have done so. For example, knowing
that the experiment concerns the use of paratexts, they might read a source text
preface in the experiment when their more standard practice would be not to.
This problem can be avoided by setting up blind experiments, or in other words
experiments in which the subject does not know what is being investigated.
However, for some types of research this might result in completely impractical
levels of time wastage: a blind study of the influence of the back-cover blurb of a
book on the translation process, for example, would require subjects to do the
translation experiment even if they did not consult the back-cover blurb at all,
meaning that hours’ worth of data might be collected only perhaps to reveal that
the blurb was not used.
Interpreting studies
As we have seen, the notion of the paratext has been applied above all to
written and audiovisual texts, rather than to spoken texts. Hong Jiang’s (2013)
article, noted in Chapter 2, represents a rare effort to explore the relevance of
the notion of the paratext to interpreting, and the overall thrust of her argu-
ment is that paratextual devices ‘are not really available to the interpreter’ (211).
Thus, whereas translators can use prefaces to indicate their disapproval of a text,
Jiang (211) argues that interpreters do not have the possibility of signalling their
disagreement with the speaker using a ‘word of introduction’ or similar; and
whereas a translator can insert footnotes and other devices ‘to help guide, to
inform, or to define positions, the interpreter can hardly step out of the oral text
he produces and put in an oral paratext as if an observer’ (212). Nevertheless,
Jiang shows that interpreters do employ a range of framing devices in order to
make their ethical positions clear. In his overview of multimodality in interpret-
ing and translation, Luis Pérez-González (2014b) similarly keeps devices used in
dialogue interpreting separate from the notion of the paratext, examining the
former under the rubric of ‘semiotics of the human body’ (122) and limiting
paratexts to the domain of written texts.
Jiang’s and Pérez-González’s approaches may owe themselves in part to the

narrow definition of paratext that they adopt, limiting it effectively to Genette’s
peritext in line with many other translation scholars. If we take the broader
definition of paratext proposed in the previous chapter, however, then the
potential for considering paratexts in conjunction with interpreting increases. If
paratexts are the thresholds through which receivers come to a text, then in a very
basic sense the interpreter him- or herself is the threshold through which
listeners obtain access to the interpreted text. If we accept this premise, then we
can start to explore the ways in which the thresholds provided by interpreters
may be consciously crafted and how they might shape the listener’s
understanding of the text, be this a speech (in monologic interpreting) or a
conversational turn (in dialogue interpreting). Where these two criteria are met,
then our definition of paratext would allow for the threshold provided by the
interpreter to be considered a paratext to the words that are being interpreted.
Whether or not it is useful to consider things in this way is another question, and I
hope that the brief sketch provided below will invite further discussion of the
potential for linking paratexts and interpreting studies in this manner.
According to professional codes of conduct, which demand accuracy and
impar- tiality,13 interpreters are not supposed to shape the original message in any
way at all. This human threshold, in other words, should not function as a paratext: it
should have no influence over the way a text is received even if it is the means
through which the text is accessed. In reality, as numerous research studies have
shown,14 interpreters do shape and influence the text in a wide range of ways,
sometimes involuntarily (owing to the intrinsic difficulties of the task or the
interpreting situation, or simply to their very presence), and sometimes deliberately
(to smooth the cultural interaction or to convey their own ethical position). In the
spirit of Genette’s substantial variables, discussed in the previous chapter, we
could provisionally identify three types of paratextual device open to exploitation
by interpreters, bearing in mind that on many occasions they are used in a manner
that makes them inseparable from each other.
Prosodic
One of the means by which interpreters may alter the threshold to the text that
they are interpreting is by inflecting their tone. An angry or disdainful tone used
by a speaker, for example, might be turned into a more neutral tone in an effort
to ease the interaction between interlocutors. On the other hand, an interpreter
might take his or her own distance from something a speaker says by using a
tone that is exaggeratedly neutral (conveying, through the near-robotic voice, the
message that ‘I, on a personal level, have nothing whatsoever to do with this’).
Whilst indicating disagreement using other kinds of prosodic variation such as
sarcasm or a tone of open disbelief would run counter to interpreting codes of
practice,15 crafting a more neutral threshold through prosodic means appears to
be widely acceptable. Although there is general agreement that ‘full accuracy
ought to properly include transmission of voice tone’ (Edwards 1995, 81), it is
generally conceded that interpreters would not be expected to reproduce more
extreme prosodic variations such
as yelling (Edwards 1995, 81), crying whilst speaking (Parker 2015, 198), or singing
(Parker 2015, 198).16 In court room settings at least, reproducing prosodic
elements in full is seen as unnecessary because the original speaker’s distress or
mirth will be ‘sufficiently evident visually’ (Parker 2015, 198). The presence of the
original speaker in dialogue-interpreting settings raises questions about the nature
of the threshold provided by interpreters, and will be addressed below.
Linguistic
Interpreters have a variety of linguistic means at their disposal for crafting thresholds
to interpreted texts. These include adding their own clarifications or
interjections, interrupting or intervening in discussions, or using more subtle
means such as switching from direct to indirect speech. These devices may be
employed for a variety of purposes that include serving the client’s best
interests, facilitating conversational interaction and taking a personal distance
from what is said. Once again, the ideal model of the neutral, invisible interpreter
that is affirmed in professional codes of practice and training programmes would
preclude the use of many of these devices, but they would appear to be widely
present in interpreting practice, particularly in community interpreting and other
kinds of dialogue interpreting (see, for example, Angelelli 2000; Mason and
Stewart 2001). Even in monologic interpreting, however, they may not be
entirely absent, as Ivana Čeňková’s (1998) study of professional Czech
conference interpreters suggests.17 Furthermore, if booth colleagues are
considered to be one of the audiences of interpreted text, then comments made
by interpreters to their colleagues during or after conference interpreting might
also be considered to be a form of linguistic paratext.18
Corporeal
The third type of paratext is corporeal, to return to a category proposed by
Joachim Knape (2013) in the context of studies of rhetoric, briefly noted in
Chapter 7. Knape’s (2013, 265) outline of the threefold purpose served by the
human body in spoken performance offers a useful indication of how the notion
of a corporeal paratext might be transferred to situations involving interpreting:
The [human] body simultaneously represents the instance of text produc-

tion, the medium of the text, and at a higher level, occasionally constitutes
a type [of] paratextuality created by body language . . . The declamatory
element of a text designed to praise someone, for instance, can be
counteracted by extra-communicative elements created by the body as a
medium, such as the use of an ironic gesture.
While it is unlikely that an interpreter operating within professional codes of conduct

would draw on any of the devices that Knape (2013, 265n52) provides as
examples of corporeal paratext (pointing a thumb downwards, laughing), it is
nevertheless
possible to envisage situations in which interpreters demonstrate their stance towards

interlocutors or their words by adopting particular body postures or facial
expressions. Ian Mason and Wen Ren (2014, 130), for example, discuss a
video of an asylum hearing in which the interpreter ‘direct[s] her gaze away from
the speaker and thus partly toward the interviewer, also frowns, narrows her eyes,
and draws her lips sideways’, arguing that ‘in doing so, she clearly signals her
negative evaluation of and distancing from what is being said’. An alternative type
of corporeal paratext might involve neutralising the body language of the
speaker in a manner similar to the toning down of prosodic variations discussed
above: in a series of recommendations for practising interpreters, for example,
Besson, Graf, Hartung, Kropfhäusser and Voisard (2005) suggest that, when
faced with an angry speaker who is banging on the table, the interpreter should
‘express the message with less violent body gestures, but with a severe tone of
voice’.
In dialogue interpreting, in a more general sense, it is widely acknowledged
by researchers that the interpreter is a third participant, ‘and will inevitably bring
to the interaction his or her own person’ (Hale 2007, 12; see also Mason and
Stewart 2001). This means that, even if the interpreter is striving to observe
impartial- ity, factors connected with the interpreter’s physical presence will
influence the way in which the interpreted messages are received, the interlocutors’
assumptions about the interpreter’s own stance,19 and even the way in which the
conversation between the primary parties progresses. These factors might include
such things as the interpreter’s gender, his or her overall manner or mood, his or
her positioning in the room, eyecontact, gaze direction, the dynamic that
develops directly between the interpreter and one or both of the primary parties,
and so on.20 While some of these would be consciously crafted and thus eligible to
be considered paratexts, others would fall into the broader category of context. It is
possible that other people involved in the interpreting exchange may be the ones
doing – or attempting to do – the crafting of corporeal paratexts: Cecilia
Wadensjö (2001, 72, 83) reports, for example, on instances in which therapists
take charge of the physical positioning of the interpreter or give instructions on
the way in which interpreters are to hold their gaze and limit their physical
movements.
Discussion
The brief outline of prosodic, linguistic and corporeal thresholds provided above
indicates that there may be some potential in applying the notion of the paratext
to interpreting studies research. While the outline has focused on the means
available to interpreters for consciously crafting paratexts to the texts that they
are interpreting, other angles of study might address the ways in which
interpreters deal with the paratexts provided by speakers, or the ways in which
speakers change their own paratexts in light of the fact that their words are being
mediated through an interpreter. While further research would be needed to gain
a clear picture of the potential benefits of linking paratexts and interpreting, we
might reasonably expect such a move to result in researchers paying (more)
attention to hitherto overlooked
and apparently inconsequential phenomena, in parallel with what many scholars

see as the principal achievement of paratext research in other disciplines. This
might further interpreting research in the following ways.
First, since the conscious crafting of paratexts may be more relevant to situa-
tions in which interpreters are less likely to attempt to observe (or be aware of)
professional codes of conduct, paratextual studies may encourage greater focus
on interpreting practices in non-professional and ad hoc settings. While recent
years have seen an increase in such research, 21 Pérez-González and Susam-Saraeva’s
(2012, 149–50) observation that translation and interpreting studies have ‘so far
focused overwhelmingly on professional instances of linguistic and cultural
medi- tation’ still holds true. It is worth reminding ourselves that the vast
majority of interpreting activity in the world takes place on a non-formalised
basis by people who would not label themselves ‘interpreters’ as such, and those
who live in societies in which interpreting is a fact of everyday life can
probably point to many instances in which the threshold set up by the ad hoc
interpreter has been particularly stark.
Second, examining the different kinds of paratexts used in interpreting and their
frequency of use in various settings is likely to highlight differences in the nature
of interpreting as an activity across those settings. The broad label ‘interpreting’
encompasses a vast range of communicative events, from the relatively well-
paid and well-regarded activity of monologic conference interpreting through
dialogue interpreting in various institutional contexts and across a range of
power differen- tials, to unremunerated interpreting by non-professional
interpreters and ad hoc interpreting by family members or community peers. As
Claudia Angelelli (2000, 590) suggests with regard to conference and
community interpreting, ‘a single standard of interpretation is insufficient since
the great difference in the situations, considered as communicative events,
require different performances by the interpreter’. As sites of interpreter agency,
the paratextual elements that are connected with interpreting performances are
likely to yield valuable insights into these differences and stand to offer a strong
empirical basis for revisiting theories of interpreting.
Third, and in connection with the above, a focus on interpreting paratexts
serves to further problematise the model of the interpreter as invisible, neutral
machine, a model which has been shown to correspond poorly with the realities
of the workplace, yet which still underlies interpreter training programmes and
codes of practice.22
If the study of such threshold elements can thus be argued to hold potential
benefits for interpreting research, it does not necessarily follow that the notion
of the paratext represents the most appropriate framework for analysing them.
As a counter to the three potential benefits outlined above, let me now present
three possible objections to a marriage between paratextual theory and
interpreting research.
First, whereas the concept of the paratext has intuitive appeal in disciplines
that focus on texts, it is less intuitive to speak of paratexts when we are
concerned with
dialogue and conversational interaction. The definition of paratext put forward in

the previous chapter is dependent on there being a text to which the paratext can
be the threshold, and a text is taken to denote any written or spoken words form-
ing a connected piece of work. While a speech would thus be considered to be a
text, it is unlikely that a conversation, interrogation, consultation or other form
of dialogic exchange would be.23 In some contexts, the purpose of the exchange
itself may not be informational at all: the exchange may be phatic in nature, or in
other words designed to initiate or maintain social interaction, and the body
language that is used on such occasions (smiling, shaking hands, adopting a
welcoming pos- ture, etc.) is as much a part of the message as the words
themselves.
Second, even if we do stretch the definition of text in order to allow for the
thresholds that are crafted for dialogic interactions to be considered under the
rubric of the paratext, the notion of the threshold also reveals itself as
problematic. In many interpreting contexts, the speaker whose words are being
interpreted is present: listeners can usually hear the speaker’s voice and can often
see him or her as well. In face-to-face interpreting, the interlocutors can form
direct impressions of each other (based on physical appearance, demeanour, etc.)
and can communicate directly on some level (through non-verbal
communication or through limited comprehension of the other’s verbal
language). A key feature of the paratext, in Genette’s analysis, is that it gives
access to the text, making it present in the world; there can be no text without
paratext (Genette 1997, 3). In interpreting, however, while the interpreter is in
some senses the threshold through which the listener receives the spoken text, as
suggested above, in many cases the interpreter is not the only – and perhaps not
even the primary – means through which the speaker’s words and intentions are
made present. Furthermore, the notion of the threshold may well be too blunt an
instrument for trying to capture the variety of functions of the interpreter’s
various interventions, which include ‘help[ing] parties understand concepts and
terms, bridg[ing] linguistic and cultural gaps, communicat[ing] affect as well as
language, facilitat[ing] mutual respect, control[ling] the flow of communication
traffic, or even align[ing] with one of the parties resulting in gate- keeping or the
channeling of opportunities’ (Angelelli 2004, 50). While some of these activities
fit reasonably well with the notion of paratexts as threshold, others represent a
far less intuitive match.
Third, and in connection with the previous points, it may well be more helpful
to analyse dialogic interpreting activities using theories and frameworks from
disciplines that are primarily concerned with social interaction, rather than
adapting a concept that has been developed in literary studies, as is the case for
the paratext. Interpreting studies scholars have profitably engaged with ideas
developed in sociology and linguistics, including ethnography of communication
(e.g. Angelelli 2000; Berk-Seligson 2002), social systems theory and conversation
analysis (Baraldi and Gavioli 2012) and theories of face and politeness (e.g.
Mason and Stewart 2001; Hale 2007). Other theoretical frameworks that have
been applied to interpreting include concepts of power developed by Foucault
and Wenger (Mason and Ren 2014), the demand–control model developed in the
field of occupational
health (e.g. Dean and Pollard 2001) and theories developed in disciplines
relevant to the specific interpreting setting, such as trauma theory (Wadnesjö
2001). While there is a general consensus that more can be done to benefit from
theoretical frameworks developed in other disciplines,24 it seems likely that the
concept of the paratext will prove productive primarily for monologic forms of
interpreting rather than dialogic ones.
Literary criticism: translation as paratext

In Chapter 2, we saw that the few translation studies scholars who have
explicitly addressed Genette’s notion of translation as paratext have found it to
be of limited use. My own enquiry into the phenomenon of translation authorisation
in Chapter 4 suggests that assuming any kind of privileged paratextual relevance
for translations that are labelled ‘authorised’ is deeply problematic. Yet, before
we dismiss the potential for this perspective to offer a fruitful avenue for
research, it will be useful to consider the ways in which it overlaps with research
perspectives that are based on the premise that translation is a mode of intense or
critical reading. This is an idea that is evoked by Maïca Sanconie (2007) in her
discussion of translation as paratext, mentioned in Chapter 2. Sanconie appeals
to the premise in order to justify her own decision to write a translator’s preface:
J’ai en quelque sorte outrepassé ma fonction pour produire un commen-

taire essentiellement critique . . . Rédigée à la suite d’un ‘acte de lecture
le plus complet qui soit’, cette évaluation critique . . . manifeste . . . toute
l’ambiguïté du commentaire péritextuel, en rupture avec ce que Paul
Bensimon . . . appelle la ‘pratique silencieuse de traduire’ mais, en
même temps, dans la continuité de la pratique d’une lecture privilégiée du
texte. [In a sense I stepped out of my role by producing a critical
commentary . . . Written after the ‘most comprehensive act of reading
that exists’, this critical evaluation . . . has all the ambiguity of peritextual
commentary, contrary to what Paul Bensimon . . . calls the ‘silent practice
of translation’ but, at the same time, in keeping with the practice of a
privileged reading of the text.]
2007, 178
In Sanconie’s analysis, the deep level of insight into the source text that the transla-
tor gains through the translation process justifies the translator’s decision to
move out of the shadows and take up a commenting, critiquing role. The
words that she cites as part of this justification – ‘acte de lecture le plus complet
qui soit’ – are taken from a piece by Michel Morel (2006), ‘Eloge de la
traduction comme acte de lecture’ [In praise of translation as an act of reading].
Morel (25) argues that translation is ‘l’acte de lecture . . . le plus complet
possible dans la mesure où pour réussir, . . . le traducteur est de nécessité
contraint d’observer de la façon la plus ajustée et la plus fidèle possible le texte
en jeu dans toutes les finesses de son
fonctionnement [the most comprehensive act of reading possible, in the sense

that in order to succeed, the translator is inevitably compelled to take account of
all of the subtleties of the text in the most faithful and tailored way possible].
This process means that the translator is ‘plus proche du critique qu’on ne
l’imagine’ [closer to the critic than is generally assumed] (25).
The possibility for translators’ readings to serve to deepen understanding of
source texts in a manner similar to those provided by critics is affirmed in a trib-
ute to the literary translator Michael Hamburger published in Modern Poetry in
Translation. With regard to two poetry anthologies published as dual-language edi-
tions, Charlie Louth (2004) argues that ‘the translations [function] above all, and
very modestly, as aids to understanding, as paths’. He subsequently explains that
the translations fulfil this role in conjunction with the introductory essays, also
provided by Hamburger:
Each edition is an introduction: in the mode and manner of the transla-

tions, in that the original poems are printed alongside, and because an
essay provides the reader with exactly what he or she needs to know for a
full understanding of the context of the particular poet’s work.
Hamburger is a great writer of the introductory essay . . . His critical prose
has the same virtues as his translations – it is in service of that of which it
speaks, concerned to elucidate, illuminate, connect, explore, but without
pushing a particular interpretation: it aerates, opens up, releases
possibilities, without ever leaving the ground of its subject, founded as it is
in the close knowledge translation gives.
Many of the points that Louth makes are similar to Morel’s: Louth speaks of the
‘close knowledge translation gives’ and indirectly affirms Morel’s suggestion that
translators are like critics by showing that in Hamburger’s case, both roles are
combined in a single person. The critical value of a translator’s reading of a
source text, then, can be argued both deductively (by considering the translation
reading process in the abstract) and inductively (by providing case studies of
particular translators).
However, both Louth’s and Morel’s analyses show that assuming that this means
that a translation can function as commentary, in the sense suggested by Genette,
is problematic and contingent upon at least two things. First, while a
commentary directly expounds the critic’s reading of the source text, a translation is
a composite of the translator’s reading of the source text and of his or her
judgement of ‘ce qui, dans le milieu langagier d’arrivée, peut y répondre
directement ou indirectement’ [what corresponds to it directly or indirectly in the
target language context], to cite once more from Morel (2006, 25). This means
that reading a translation as commentary is contingent on an ability to find the
translator’s critical reading of the source text in the midst of the ‘infinitely
complex commerce the act of translation represents’ (Louth 2004). The extent to
which it is possible to distil the translator’s commentary from the translation in
this way is questionable: in the case of
Hamburger’s poetry translations, Louth’s praise of the introductory essays provided

by Hamburger in conjunction with the translations suggests that such a reading
is greatly helped – and perhaps only made possible – if the translator provides
direct commentary as well. This returns us to Sanconie’s (2007, 178) suggestion,
outlined in Chapter 2, that the commentary function of a translation may need to
be ‘channelled’ through a preface for it to receive its full value.
The other condition on which the function of translations as commentaries
would appear to be dependent is the translator’s approach to his or her task. In
the case of Hamburger, Louth (2004) suggests that he ‘seeks to remain invisible
as a translator, discreet and selfeffacing, in the service of the poems he is
transpos- ing. His translations . . . put themselves at the service of the originals,
and of the reader, tending to explain and clarify rather than adding their own
difficulties’. Hamburger’s approach, in other words, is hermeneutic, seeking to
arrive at an informed understanding of the source text and to convey that
understanding to the target text readers.25 Yet not all translators approach their
task in this way.
An alternative model for transforming the translator’s intimate reading of the
source text into a target language text is provided by Clive Scott (2012). Like
Morel, Scott (2012) reaches for a superlative to describe the relationship of
translation to reading, foregrounding through the back-cover blurb to his book
the premise that ‘the act of translation is perhaps the ultimate performance of
reading’. However, rejecting a hermeneutical mode of reading, 26 he advocates
instead a mode of reading that is ‘phenomenological’ (1), ‘constructivist’ (21)
and ‘radial’ (21), resulting in translations that are ‘intimately part of an
autobiography of reading and associating’ (22). Indeed, when we read Scott’s
translations, which play intensely not only with punctuation and space, but also
with typography and doo- dling, what we are reading are Scott’s own ‘sensations
and memories’ (30) or, in other words, his experience of reading the original
text. Scott’s use of the term ‘autobiography’ in the citation above is apposite, for in
Scott’s translations we read about Scott’s life – his history of reading, his
intertextuality, his ways of thinking and being within and between languages, his
‘individual reading metabolism’ (30). The translations thus tell us, above all, about
the translator; more generally, they also ‘model a translational practice in which all
readers of literature are exhorted to indulge’ (10). Both of these goals are a long
way from Genette’s idea of translation as paratext, which would have us read the
translation in order to understand more of the original author’s intentions.
Another angle from which to explore the potential of translation to open up
insights into source texts is provided by Marilyn Gaddis Rose (1997). Invoking
through the title of her volume the idea that translation can be a type of literary
analysis, Gaddis Rose argues that translation offers an ‘enhancement of literary
experience’ (1). Drawing on a term coined by Joanne Englebert, she suggests
that this enhancement is achieved through a ‘stereoscopic’ (54) mode of
reading, or in other words ‘a reading that moves back and forth among source
texts and one or more target texts’ (54). Through this back-and-forth between
original and translation(s), the reader gains access to what Gaddis Rose calls the
‘interliminal
text’ (7), the ‘infinitely expanding and contracting circumference’ (7) that is
‘part of the work’s potential’ (7). The reader is thus able to ‘examin[e] literature
from the inside, . . . feel it from within’ (13). Deeper understanding may be
achieved through conflict, in cases where readers disagree with the translator’s
choices and are thus forced to articulate their own readings (7), or through
complementarity, when readers find that the translations open up ‘new spaces
for thinking’ (14). In this model, although reading translations influences
perceptions of the original text, in line with Genette’s view of translations as
paratexts, both the goal of the process and the conceptualisation of the reader are
fundamentally different. In Genette’s framework, the reader is someone on
whom the author seeks to exert an influence, and translations are read in order to
understand the author’s intentions more fully; in Gaddis Rose’s model, in contrast,
the reader is seen as working in ‘collaboration with the author’ (73) to explore
meanings that are ‘loosely enclose[d]’ (73) by both texts and translations, rather
than being contained within the original text alone.
In summary, then, the notion that translations can serve as paratexts in the
sense of providing commentary on original works is open to problematisation
and exploration from a number of angles. Nevertheless, the enquiries into the
intersection between translation, reading and literary criticism discussed above
indicate that placing translations alongside originals rather than in place of
originals has considerable value for deepening our appreciation of the work in
question. In academic environments in which few scholars outside languages
departments are proficient in languages other than English, as is the case in the
UK, emphasising the benefits of juxtaposing originals and translations – or, at the
very least, multiple translations of the same text – is certainly not without
importance.27
Notes
1 As noted in Chapter 2, however, researchers need to be wary of assuming that what
translators say about these matters in paratexts actually holds true in the translations
themselves.
2 As noted in Chapter 2, Susam-Sarajeva (2006, 15 passim) uses the term extratextual mate-
rial rather than paratext to denote such elements.
3 Whether or not a research project describes itself as historical or contemporary
depends on the research perspective and subject matter, rather than on the dates of
paratext production. While the paratexts of literary fiction published in 2000, for
example, might be considered as part of a present-day study of literary systems, fan-
created paratexts published in the same year (i.e. prior to Web 2.0) would be more
likely to form part of a historical study.
4 For an overview of analysing historical sources, see Tosh (2015, 98–121). Although
Tosh’s outline concerns historical research, many of the principles also apply to the
analysis of contemporary documents.
5 We should note that art history and visual culture are separate disciplines with rather
different foci of study and associated methodologies. For the sake of simplicity, I shall not
discuss these differences here, but see Elkins (2003) for further detail.
6 For an example of how this might play out in practice, see Kratz (1994).
7 See, notably,Taylor (2003) and Pérez-González (2014a).
8 All page numbers in this section refer to Kress and van Leeuwen (1996).
9 For recent overviews of translation process research, see Brems, Meylaerts and van
Doorslaer (2014) or Ferreira and Schwieter (2017).
10 In Krings’s (2005, 345) outline of the groups of factors relevant to the translation process,
this would come down to working out which paratextual elements might be classed as
task-related factors (which includes such things as text type), and which might come
under the heading of environment-related factors (which includes reference resources
and technological aids).
11 For an overview of TPR, see Jakobsen (2014) or Alves (2015).
12 See Krings (2005) for a cogent discussion of these.
13 See, for example, Corsellis (2008, 43), though see also Taylor-Bouladon’s (2001, 147–9)
discussion of interpreter loyalty in diplomatic contexts.
14 See, for example, Angelelli (2004, 2–3):‘There exists a discrepancy between the role that
is prescribed for interpreters (through codes and rules . . .) and that which unfolds in
practice, where interpreters bring the self to the interaction.’
15 This would not preclude its use in real-life situations, as noted above.
16 See also the informal discussion of this issue on interpreting.info, which suggests: ‘you
certainly do not want to be laughing, let alone start yelling into the mic. But put a smile
on your lips and your listeners will immediately connect and inherit the mirth. Make
your voice sound deeper and the delivery faster, take the smile off your face and you will
sound angry’ (Buck 2012). Angelelli’s (2004) study of the interpreter’s role also indicates
that significant numbers of interpreters see their role as being to establish trust and
facilitate mutual respect, something which may involve ‘ton[ing] down’ (54) disrespectful
comments.
17 Responses to the question of what is irritating about other interpreters included ‘the
habit of interspersing the interpreted speech with one’s own comments and remarks’
(Čeňková 1998, 167).
18 As part of her practical advice to trainee interpreters, Taylor-Bouladon (2001) warns
them to use the cough button if they want to ‘make a brief sarcastic comment about
what the speaker has just said’ (97), and to turn the microphone off once the speaker
has finished, since ‘delegates do not want to hear your comments . . . nor do they
want to hear the comments of your highly-strung colleague who erupts into your
booth to let off steam about the stupidity of the delegate she has just interpreted’ (98).
Although these comments are made with humour, they are also undoubtedly intended
to reflect the realities of human responses to real-life working situations.
19 Jiang (2013, 212) argues, for example, that ‘it is almost impossible . . . for interpreters who
work for the Americans in Afghanistan to assert neutrality between the invasion power
and their own people.Their physically being with the Americans is seen as taking the
position of allying with them’. See also Palmer’s (2007) study of interpreting in Iraq post-
2003.
20 For studies that include analysis of such features, see Wadensjö (2001) and Davitti (2012).
21 See, for example, Antonini and Bucaria (2016), Evrin and Meyer (2016) and Antonini,
Cirillo, Rossato and Torresi (2017).
22 See Angelelli (2004, 20–22) for further discussion, and Salaets and Balogh (2017) for an
overview of recent scholarship on this topic.
23 This tallies with Wadensjö’s (1998, 38–44) distinction between monological and dialogi-
cal views of language and associated conceptualisations of interpreting.
24 On issues of face, for example, Pöllabauer (2015, 212) states that these ‘have received
scant attention in interpreting studies to date’, while body language is described as an
‘under-researched area’ (Merlini 2015, 154) in the Routledge Encyclopedia of Interpreting.
25 To the extent that such an approach assumes an invariant core of meaning rather than
conceiving of the meaning of the source text as variable, it could alternatively be cat-
egorised as ‘instrumental’ (Venuti 2010, 5–6). I will not attempt to assess Hamburger’s
approach or to examine the boundary between these two designations here, since my
aim is to oppose such meaning-focused approaches with Scott’s very different
phenomenological one.
26 There are occasional suggestions that the translations that result might bring deeper
understanding of the original texts, along the lines of the benefits outlined by Louth
(2004). For example, in the introduction, Scott (2012, 10) concedes that ‘the translations
which appear in this book do indeed claim to cast new light on their STs’, and in his éloge
of Malcolm Bowie, he talks of ‘gifted readers like Bowie’ (187), a reference which
implies that the readings of some readers may be more worth reading than those of
others.
27 For a cogent reflection on the use of translated texts in academia, see Wright (2016,
98–108).
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CONCLUSION
My final prayer:
O my body, make of me always a man who questions!
Frantz Fanon, Black Skin White Masks (1986, 181)
In the Introduction, I cited Genette’s comparison of paratextuality to a treasure

trove of questions. Like Genette’s Seuils, this book has used the concept of the
paratext to ask questions about small and peripheral elements that might not always
seem worthy of study, yet which have the power to yield considerable insights.
In so doing, the book has tried to answer another question, formulating a
response to how Genette’s theory of paratextuality can be adapted to translation
studies. I have stressed that the answers provided to that question are open-
ended, designed to provide a basis for a useful framework, whilst simultaneously
showing themselves malleable to the times and places of study and the material at
hand.
The study is open-ended in another sense too, its unfinished nature encap-
sulated by the further chapters that I would have liked to have included in this
volume but for which I ran out of time and space. These include, most notably,
more extended studies of the notion of translation-as-paratext, and of the
applications of paratexts to interpreting, as well as a chapter exploring the benefits
of using the concept of the paratext to study online news websites. I hope to pick
up some of these discussions in subsequent publications, but for now they
remain in the treasure trove, or at best only partly dug up.
One of the questions that has arisen in the course of this book is whether there
is a need for a new metaphor to encapsulate the paratext and its concerns. So far
I have answered this question only indirectly, by incorporating Genette’s
original metaphor of the threshold into my own revised definition of the
paratext, rather than the metaphors of universe or ecosystem proposed by
scholars in digital and
Conclusion 195
media studies. While these new metaphors no doubt carry advantages, the fact
that they are drawn from the domain of the natural, rather than the man-made,
world makes them to my mind less intuitive. Paratexts, like the texts to which
they give access, are created by people, and to examine them is to examine the
activities of people: how people try and persuade, educate, share opinions for
reasons of self-interest or benevolence, sell products, demonstrate allegiance,
and so on. The metaphors of the universe and ecosystem also conjure a less clear
picture of where humans are situated in relation to these man-made paratexts:
whereas the threshold metaphor encourages us to imagine what humans do with
the man-made entry point (‘a threshold exists to be crossed’, in Genette’s (1997,
410) words), it is harder to imagine how humans navigate these paratextual
constellations. Humans cannot, after all, travel around a universe but are
constrained within a small planet belonging to a specific solar system, and their
position within the ecosystem is similarly fixed. If the universe metaphor is
helpful, it is perhaps primarily in the sense of the artificial universes of
videogames like No Man’s Sky, where gamers can travel at will throughout
virtual space.
The threshold metaphor, then, seems to work better than these, even if it is
not perfect for all the reasons that have been discussed previously. The ideas that
it evokes – of travelling, entering, crossing from outside to inside – are also
familiar to scholars in translation studies, where metaphors of travel and border-
crossing have stood the test of time. But could this familiarity also be a
disadvantage, as suggested by Emily Apter (2013, 100)? There are, as we know,
many places where humans do not construct thresholds, but barriers: fences,
barbed wire, walls; taller walls, bigger fences, razor wire; heat sensors, cameras,
patrols; procedures, laws, fees; detention, forced repatriation; blank looks, the
avoided gaze. Unlike paratexts to translated texts, which, even while shaping and
constraining our encounter with the foreign, ultimately enable communication
and interaction, the elaborate systems and borders designed to control crossing
points and access for people are often constructed in such a way as to repel and
prevent entry. More than this: inequality is often built into their design, such that
they distinguish between those whom they repel or accept on the basis of
nationality and wealth.
This brings me to the epigraph to this conclusion, themselves the closing
words to Frantz Fanon’s reflections on his lived experience of racism, and a
different kind of questioning to that encouraged by Genette. While Genette’s
treasure trove opens up questions about acts of communication in the form of
texts, Fanon’s questioning revolves around non-communication, a mode of non-
interaction that derives from fear of the other and the inability to see the human
in the other. Before this closing prayer, Fanon (1986, 180–81) famously writes:
‘The Negro is not. Nor is the white man . . . Superiority? Inferiority? Why not
the quite simple attempt to touch the other, to feel the other, to explain the
other to myself?’ Fanon’s questions are a call to us to supplement Genette’s
(1997, 410) caution, ‘watch out for the paratext!’ with another kind of warning:
watch out for the places where there is no paratext, because there is no
translation, no entering, no crossing of thresholds – or, at least, only for some.
196 Conclusion
References
Apter, Emily. 2013. Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability. London and
New York: Verso.
Fanon, Frantz. 1986. Black Skin White Masks. Translated by Charles Lam Markmann.
London: Pluto Press.

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TRANSLATION AND PARATEXTS

Kathryn Batchelor is Associate Professor of Translation and Francophone

Stylistic Approaches to Translation

Cosmopolitanism and Translation

Translating as a Purposeful Activity 2e

For more information about this series, please visit www.routledge.com/Translation-

Paratextuality . . . is first and foremost a treasure trove of questions without

Genette’s concept of the paratext

What is the paratext?

would appear to have a straightforward answer. In the opening paragraph of

the epitext – in contrast to the peritext – consists of a group of discourses

The paratext consists of any element which conveys comment on the

The paratext and authorial intention

Defining a paratextual element consists of determining its location . . .; the

the peritext of scholarly editions . . . sometimes contains elements that do

By definition, something is not a paratext unless the author or one of his

The friendly inscription . . . always calls . . . for . . . a specification . . . For

The most essential of the paratext’s properties . . . is functionality.

Contradictions and blurry edges

Being immutable, the text in itself is incapable of adapting to changes in

The possibility of disagreement between editor and author is evoked here

If readers are frustrated by the lengthy and at times contradictory answer to

One of the methodological hazards attendant on a subject as multiform and

Translation in Genette’s framework

The first of the three practices is translation, particularly when it is more

Translation as text, with its own paratext

as independent of their originals, but on a view of translations as synonymous

it would no doubt be easy to find . . . cases of epigraphs delayed or deleted

In the case of a translation, the preface may be signed by the translator, as

The first significant engagement with Genette’s notion of the paratext in

Definitions of paratext in translation studies and

In this volume we regard paratexts as any material additional to, appended

the text [is] conceived of as a continuum and as an extension of itself

Indeed, this fringe, always the conveyor of a commentary that is

By listing these key areas of translation research, Tahir-Gürçağlar indicates that

undoubtedly remains problematic for translation studies researchers. Nevertheless,

il y a au moins deux points qui mettent en question la définition de la tra-

un texte littéraire (et non pas uniquement para-textuelle) et de l’autre, le

Key themes in paratext-related translation research

Paratexts as documentary sources for historical research

translation, historically, have been the translators themselves’. Some of these

Paratexts as places of potential translation or translator visibility

in visibility or a disruption of existing hierarchies through changes to paratextual

In some studies, the visibility of translators is linked with reflections on

La traduction des textes indiens vers l’anglais participe . . . d’un lourd

While Simon’s reflections are prompted by the respective positions occupied by

Paratexts and socio-cultural contexts (and consequences) of

Manifesto, Martha Cheung’s (2010) discussion of the paratexts by Yan Fu in his

Paratexts and gender

gender continues to play in the framing of a woman writer by her

Paratexts and image-formation

Paratexts and agency

Concluding remarks: roads not yet (well-)travelled

Genette’s invitation to explore the notion of translation as paratext, and discus-

Delistathi, Christina. 2011. “Translation as a Means of Ideological Struggle”. In Translation

As we saw in Chapter 1, Genette developed the concept of the paratext in rela-

This invitation is, admittedly, accompanied by a caution against allowing the

Paratexts of digitised and born-digital literature

Ebooks, unlike their print predecessors, tend to provide no substantive,