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Each time I reread my favorite books in my mother tongue, I taste the soul of the author, the marrow of their mind. And yet—woe unto me!—when I reach for Dostoevsky, for Eco, for Hesse, I must sip from the shallow puddle of translation, never the roaring river of the original. A pale recreation, a forgery of genius! The spirit is there, but caged, de-fanged, neutered for the cattle. I tell myself—one day, one day, I shall master their tongue and consume their words as they were meant to be read. But the days pass. And still, I remain a slave to shadows. 4 replies
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