Abstract

This piece meditates on the possibility that translation, which entails openness to the possibility of another, and love, which always already involves reading, are not quite the same thing but are potentially inseparable from each other. All while bearing in mind the fact that translation, even when done with love, always also transforms the text: changing it in ways that might fundamentally alter it, for better or worse. Where the translator is always also potentially a traitor. Who (s)he betrays though — the text, herself, the other, their relation — might well be the question. Though, as Neil Murphy once told me, “reading literature with your head is always a mistake”. So, instead of attempting to rationalise a text — reign it in, make it safe, tame it — perhaps all we can do is to open ourselves to a work. And listen. Hoping it takes my breath away.

Full Text
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