Me parece que el traducir de una lengua a otra es como quien mira los tapices flamencos por el revés, que aunque se ven las figuras, están llenas de hilos que las oscurecen, y no se ven con la lisura y tez del haz; y el traducir de lenguas fáciles, ni arguye ingenio ni elocución, como no le arguye el que traslada ni el que copia un papel de otro papel––dijo don Quijote.
Y aún así le dije a Enrique Fierro, simpatizante de los rinocerontes––Tomemos prestada la pelota de ping-pong de nuestros amigos Lorenzo y Margarita, y aquí escribámonos y traduzcámonos el uno al otro. Pero, tejamos reversos, traducciones traidoras, como falsos amigos, des faux amis que se miran, pero no se reconocen.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Sancte Iohannes will hoodwink Empedocles into finishing off Holderlin and Arnold–not Benedict, another traitor. As well as Mount Etna over whose shadow centuries later Sarah and Aeneas will stumble, like nomads singing its curious solfa-tara.

But peering fore and aft Sunday seemed a day not apt for a hoy in Vigàta, but rather for a saunter upon Tepeaquilla. Not for a fleeting persephonic view, but for an eternal Tonantzin and for those special roses recovered in Juan Diego's wrap. But Cristinica would know better; well versed in the apparitions of the Blessed Virgin, we could listen for twelve thousand and twelve hours. Because for her, those hours are inhabited by music, which we know to be the fare of love, and of Love, though a strident Rhaetian once denied it during various of those hours via a well-worn second person sacred quotation from Lacan-Son.

There used to be such good tempo in Leucippus, now non tanto, as we knew him so well. And also among followers of Tantalus, summing six thousand and sixty-six.

But play on, allegro con spirito, until our appetite falls ill.

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