Tuesday, February 18, 2014

No Translation Necessary

I'm about to begin reading a new author, a translation from Italian into English. What am I missing-- nuances, the rhythm of sentences, the way one word prods another word. Someone once said that there are really two authors of any book and especially of any poem that requires a translation.

But this is a mystery. Mysteries fit in with, yet another snowy day. It is set in Florence, a city I visited between my junior and senior year in college. I ate pasta at a student place and stayed in a hostel. I recall long walks, the Arno River, listening to the monks pray the Gregorian chants at San Miniato al Monte. Their voices transported the words, out of the church. I sat outside listening while I looked down at Florence. The chant surrounded me, included me in the presence of the holy.

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