Translation

I am thinking about translation, and about Richard Pevear's accent. I am wondering how Tolstoy can be both delightfully wry and a supreme drag in the same sentence, and about what makes the difference. I wonder what Radiolab would sound like in Spanish, and what it would feel like to see a New York street through your tongue. I am wondering at the fact that the first story in Putas Asesinas, the first story I am reading in my adoptive language, has sent me back to India, and whether Bolaño can telescope me through the imaginative possibilities of another language back to a native truth. I am curious about what would happen if I were to photocopy 'El Ojo Silva' and begin to translate it for myself, elbows deep in the wet clay of Spanish, into overbearing English. I wonder if there exist Hindi subtitles for Chico y Rita, and how you might caption the subtleties of Chak De! India for Mexico.

Horror

"The information you seek is available in the library of forbidden knowledge, the damp autumnal loam you dreamed you were buried in, and the song you learned before you were born. When you find that information, you will be able to answer this question: What are the three miracles that are most likely to happen to you?"

Yes, alright Rob Brezsny.

Rollin' Mama Blues

What is it about America that obscures all other places
almost to the point of erasure? And how is it that it can
reach you anywhere you are? Irritating, but once you've
found roots in America, all your noble aspirations toward
globalness* become severely compromised.

Yet there is life outside America, folks. It doesn't quite
sound like Kate McTell, but it's there, and it's beautiful
and it's got its own kind of blues.

I, for one, am quite pleased at the prospect of life in
a reachable elsewhere.

Every elsewhere is here to somebody.


*If you are unable to comprehend in the author's tone a fair amount
of sarcasm and self-mockery, kindly step away from this blog.
I fear it will do you no favours.

Questions [Part One of Many]

What is whimsy? How does it differ from romanticism, escapism, indulgence? Can it hold its own against duty? Does it impair or enrich conscience? Is it an act of privilege or necessity? Is it a support or a catalyst?

[Let me check with the chef.]