<font color=blue>...most common one being the King James version...</font color=blue>
<font color=blue>Im sure that the translations of one of the oldest texts on earth was not just translated in a halfa$$ fashion.</font color=blue>
If the following can be trusted, then indeed -- it was not.<blockquote><hr>
The language of light
King James I wanted a Bible that would unite his fractured realm. A new book recounts how this great work was made
NO BOOK has influenced English as profoundly as the King James Bible of 1611. Its phrases and rhythms have been as vital to the growth of the language as blood to the body. Even in the age of text-messaging and e-mail, its sonorities speak to mind and heart with a vigorous immediacy that takes the breath away.
As Adam Nicolson points out in his engaging and moving account, this was not ordinary English even when it was written. William Tyndale in the 1520s hoped that ploughboys would read his Bible, and Martin Luther in the 1530s wanted the gospels written in a language that butchers and cobblers could understand. But the King James was composed in an English that had never been spoken in the street. This was the language of deliberate godliness, yet grounded in easy words and simple things: able to swoop in one verse from the sublimity of the eternal to the clumsiness of a fisherman jumping from a boat.
There was a political purpose in this. James I, baptised a Catholic but brought up by Scottish Presbyterians, dreamed of bridging in this Bible his kingdom's religious divides. The translators were drawn both from the established Church of England, episcopal and ceremonious, and from among the Puritans, fiercely iconoclastic spirits who wanted no truck with crosses, candles or genuflections, to bishop or to king. The Puritan impulse, to let in light and to live by the Word alone, had to co-exist with the murkier sumptuousness of the Jacobean church-court elite. Clearly James himself leaned to the episcopal side; but his Bible was intended first of all as an irenicon, a thing of peace.
Very little is known about how it was made. The men were grouped into six teams, or “companies”, and were based at Oxford, Cambridge and Westminster. The translated text was written in the left-hand column only of a large ledger, the right-hand kept blank for comments and improvements. In this fashion, working more like a team of accountants than the devisers of a national treasure, the translators painstakingly put the new text together.
Their lives, too, are scarcely recorded, though Mr Nicolson reconstructs a few of them to marvellous effect. We now know that Laurence Chaderton, a Puritan who translated the “Song of Songs”, may have been moved by memories of the lovely boy he had wished to “embosom” as a student at Cambridge; and that among the translators of Genesis was a man who had been to the West Indies, colouring his descriptions of Eden with memories of the parrots and forests of Dominica.
One translator, Samuel Ward, left a diary. It was not of his labours on the Bible, but of his struggles with sin. As a Puritan fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge, he was bound to a regime of sermons and chapel-going. But his thoughts wandered rather to adultery and gluttony. “My longing after damsens”, he wrote in his diary on August 8th 1596. “...Oh that I could so long after Godes graces.” As he worked on God's word, his mind was tormented by sweet surfeits of plums and pears.
A mere 39 pages survive of one team's arguments over language. They wondered whether God should “upbraid” someone or “twit” them, and whether the beauty of a flower should be expressed as its “goodliness and sightliness” or, far better, its “grace and fashion”. For all of them, the tiniest touches made a difference. The Calvinist Geneva Bible of the 1550s had rendered the second verse of Genesis:
And the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the waters.
King James's translators gave it thus:
And the earth was without form, and void, and the darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
The comma after “form” and the colon after “deep” both heighten the drama of the empty stage on which creation is about to occur. But the masterstroke lies in “the face of the deep” and “the face of the waters”, phrases by which the almost human elements appear to be responding to the touch of God.
When the newly translated texts arrived, each team would sit and listen as the words were read to them.
Their child-like attention was vitally important. This Bible was meant, above all, to be read out and heard; euphony, its governing principle, is also the secret of its abiding power. [my emphasis]
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