Abstract
Whenever I feel the need for good clean fun in the professional line, I turn to my French copy of Alice in Wonderland. But I am careful not to laugh too heartily at the unknown translator, because my own house is also of glass. And what, after all, could any poor devil of a translator do with Lewis Carroll? Why is the Mock Turtle so funny, while la Tortue a Tete de Veau is just absurd? Here are mysteries; here the keenest discretion is needed, and the road is not at all wide. It is narrow, crooked, without signposts, and the translator must find his way along it as best he can. At the end of the road lies the unattainable, the perfect translation. Every translator makes his way through thickets of words,
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