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.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

If I may be so bold I will now break ranks for a minute to translate entries only spoken and heard since some January frost, Grisha explained, has kept the rabbit's head frozen in mid-air. But what of me taking two turns? Unheard of elocuted revolution! If I can't win my fortune this way, then all must be hopeless and I a true apprentice to fraudulence. Nevertheless, the best example possible.

The masses imagine seeing retirees turning to silhouettes, lumbering and sulking away. They imagine a physique where Doppler's peak is already reached, and now, gently descending the downside, the finished begin to disappear. But for this those people need a stationary imagination fixed there in the street. They need that, or for their two feet to skulk backwards, into the sun, chin up towards the icosahedral cloud hanging just about as high. Even so, the more space that's made, breaking apart air pockets of car horns and Pizza Hut to place inside pieces of insolence and fist-pounding, the longer their shadows will grow, always closing the distance. Depending on the time of day, one or the other is constantly forced closer, a gusty game of pong, Newton's cradle rocking. It's unavoidable. It's the inheritance. Or the silence. Or the coming comeuppance when, while walking away, they will take their tumble and their senescent silhouette hand can't grasp their cane piercing the crosswalk to pull themselves up.

Yes, yes, maestro, back to work. I've already read Les Chants and À la recherche. I'll have Suite for Monday. –What do we do now? –Wait. –Yes, but while waiting? –What about hanging ourselves? No such luck. That rope, Grisha yarned, is also a sphere, so I submit that you will now have to translate me instead.

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