متن زیر را به فارسی بصورت دقیق و عالی ترجمه کن

The novel, because of its magical realist elements, is often compared to the
work of Gabriel García Márquez. The greatest similarity between the two,
however, is this localizing strategy, which also places them close to William
Faulkner. Faulkner spoke repeatedly of his “little postage-stamp of ground,”
Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi. Like Rushdie, like García Márquez,
Faulkner grappled with history, in his case one even more gnarled and thorny
than theirs, entwined as it was with guilt, failure, pride, sin, and the inheritance
of slavery. But he was too savvy to attempt to write about the entire South, or
even the entire state. Rather, he whittled his concerns down to a single county,
based on Lafayette County, where he lived in Oxford, the county seat and home
of the University of Mississippi. Here, in The Sound and the Fury (1929), he
created the Compsons, an aristocratic family on a downward spiral from the
social prominence of the plantation and General Compson to grandsons Quentin,
who commits suicide while a freshman at Harvard, and Benjy, the thirty-three￾year-old with the mind of a small child. In Go Down, Moses (1942), he tells the
story of the McCaslins, descendants of a slaveholding family, and their long￾unacknowledged black cousins, the Beauchamps. In his Snopes trilogy, The
Hamlet (1940), The Town (1957), and The Mansion (1959), he creates a far-flung
family of ne’er-do-wells who actually do pretty well, winding up, sometimes in
spite of themselves, owning pretty much the whole town. They seem to support a
Faulknerian beatitude that the rascals shall inherit the earth. In novel after novel,
he explores various aspects of Southern inheritance, always focusing on this one
small parcel of land.
García Márquez does much the same thing in One Hundred Years of Solitude
(1967), using the fictional coastal town of Macondo as a microcosm of
postcolonial South America. Many events of the novel—civil war, the
prevalence of the military, corrupt leadership, assassinations and massacres, the
dominance of foreign companies (in this case, a multinational banana company)
—resonate as elements of the history of many Latin American countries, yet it is
the spectacular and singular nature of the town and its main family, the
Buendías, that make the novel a permanent feature of readers’ memories.
Everything about them is prodigious, from the tremendous age of the matriarch,
Ursula, to Colonel Aureliano’s miraculous ability to escape death at the hands of
others and even himself, to his brother José Arcadio’s male member, remarkable
for its size and the fabulous tattoos with which it is adorned. Even the gypsy,
Melquíades, who sets the family on the path to greatness and dissolution, is a
figure of outsized accomplishments, claiming to have come back to life because
death bored him. You’ve got to love a family like this one. Except that there is
no family like this one. Part of García Márquez’s program is to create a family
like no other.
So how do we get from there to a pattern of experience that can stand for the
whole of postcolonial Latin America? Ah, our para dox again. The solution, dear
Brutus, lies not in our stars but in ourselves. The business of universality can’t
be found in the text. If the writer tries to place it there, the work will almost
automatically sound contrived. The writer’s job is to provide a story that
engages, fascinates, provokes, and above all registers as unique. Robert McLiam
Wilson subtitles his novel Eureka Street “A Novel of Ireland Like No Other.”
That’s what every novel aspires to be, a work of fiction about x like no other.
The novelist gets to create his story and to make it specific, particular, singular.
Then he’s done. We readers get to decide on significance. We may decide that
it’s genuinely universal in its depictions or themes, or that it’s not, or that it’s so
poorly done that we don’t care one way or the other, or any of a hundred other
determinations on many topics.
To come back to Midnight’s Children, Saleem Sinai has to be, above all else,
himself. Rushdie can supply hints or suggestions of a broader set of connections,
as he does starting with the coincidence of Saleem’s birth. What he can’t do is
make readers take those connections seriously. We decide that for ourselves.
Does he represent some aspects of modern India? Which ones? In what ways?
Do all novels aspire to universal themes?
I don’t think so. There may be representative elements in character or
situation, but a lot of novels are happy merely to tell their story. In fact, every
novel needs first of all to be happy telling its story. If it doesn’t do that well,
there’s not much chance it can speak to broader themes. But many novels do not
seek to go beyond their story. The obvious but by no means only works here
would be category or genre fiction, as if “literary” fiction didn’t belong to
categories or genres. What these terms apply to are those novels that fall into one
or another of the popular culture genres: mystery, thriller, horror, western,
romance, science fiction, fantasy. Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade or Raymond
Chandler’s Philip Marlowe, for instance, can’t be said to stand for anyone
beyond themselves or a sort of wish fulfillment of sure justice. The novels they
occupy suggest certain aspects of the world: the prevalence of evil, the murky
ethical realm where good guys and bad guys meet, or the improbable ratio of
darkness to light even in sunny Los Angeles. Similarly, with horror novels, say,
it’s tough to generalize from a demented car/canine/caretaker, nor is that really
the point. The business of entertainments, after all, is to entertain.