The way I see it, we should only translate from the languages that shaped our lives. What I mean is that merely knowing them is not enough. Living and breathing them, now or in the past, is indispensable. The languages in which we have truly lived, those in which we experienced the best of times and the worst of times, and in which self-expression was of vital importance, are the ones that, together with a literary calling, find us best equipped to face the challenges of translating them. I came into being in Portuguese, if I may say such a thing, during some of my seminal years. In that sense, I stopped seeing and feeling it as a foreign language. The person that becomes privy to the secrets of the language they are translating picks up on and shares in both the meaning of what is said and the flow of what is written, and it is this ability to skillfully maintain that delicate balance that makes for an unmistakably brilliant rendering [3]. By contrast, the balance is lost when one adopts a literal approach, leading to a dead end when one seeks to grasp the idiosyncrasies of the writer’s style. Remaining as faithful as possible to the source text requires imagination, the ability to deviate and take the side streets, as well as availing oneself of analogies and allusions, as long as the intention and tone of the author remain untouched. No doubt that all this applies equally to prose and verse, given that prose, true prose, is not to be outdone by poetry, neither by its greatness nor by its fastidiousness. The joy of translating clearly stems, in large part, from the knowledge that one is helping to disseminate the works of someone whom one believes deserves it, thus furthering their public recognition. Furthermore, it is impossible to ignore the fact that this practice lifts the curse of Babel, the punishment that forcibly scattered those who were meant to seek each other out, not to reunite as one people, but to strike up a dialogue despite their differences.

It is inadvisable, to my mind, to translate languages other than those that have inhabited our lives. That is to say: it is not sufficient to know them, they must be part of our being. The languages that we have ‘lived’ – in which time has bestowed its joys and sorrows upon us, in which expressing ourselves has been a vital formative experience – these will be the ones we are best equipped to translate, especially when literature is involved. I think I can say that I experienced this with Portuguese, during a crucial period of my life. This is how I ceased to approach and experience it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open themselves to the secrets of the language they translate, capture and absorb not only the sense of what is being said, but also the tonality of the written statement. It is this skilful living and breathing of the text that ensures a successful translation. When one seeks access to a writer’s individual tone of voice, the safe route of literal translation leads to a dead end. The most faithful translations demand imagination, a flair for discovering a detour or a side road, as well as knowledge of how to use analogy and the implicit – always ensuring that in doing so you do not alter the author’s intention or tone. This, I am certain, applies equally to prose as it does to verse, given that true literary prose is not inferior to poetry, neither in achievements nor demands. It is obvious that the joy of translation comes, to a large extent, from knowing that it serves the distribution of works that in our judgment deserve wider recognition. But is it not also true that in doing this, we leave behind the curse of Babel – the forced dispersion of people who, instead of seeking to return to their former homogeneous state, should have engaged in dialogue, beginning from what made them different?

It's not advisable, in my opinion, to translate but from the languages that have inhabited our lives. By this, I mean that it’s not enough to know them. What matters most is having existed or existing within them. The languages in which we have happened, the ones in which time gifted us its joys and sorrows, in which expressing ourselves was vitally decisive. They are the ones whose translation they find us best equipped to face when literature calls us. I occurred through Portuguese, if I can say so, during years that for me were fundamental. To that extent, I stopped frequenting and perceiving it as a foreign language. Whoever knows how to open themselves up to the secrets of the language they translate captures and communes with the sense of what is being said, as well as the cadence of the written utterance. It is this skillfully preserved breath of life that sets apart a successful translation [3]. In contrast, one stops listening when one chooses a literal path, a path that proves lifeless when what we’re seeking is access to the personal accents of the voice of whoever is writing. The highest regard for the translated text demands imagination, an appreciation for the tangential and sideways paths. It demands we know how to use analogies and to perceive that which lies beneath the surface, while not altering the author’s purpose or tone. And this, I’m sure, is equally true of prose and verse, seeing that prose, true prose, doesn’t lag behind poetry in its successes and demands. It’s obvious that the joy of translating comes in large part from knowing we’re serving to disseminate the works of those we judge to deserve it, thereby encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that in proceeding in this way, we are leaving behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersal of those who must have sought each other out, not to become the same again, but to insist on conversing in light of their differences?

It is not advisable, in my opinion, to translate except from the languages that have inhabited our lives. I mean that it is not enough to know them. The essential thing is to have been or to be in them. The languages in which we have happened, those in which time was offered to us with its joys and sorrows, and in which expressing ourselves was vitally decisive, are the ones that, when there is a literary vocation, find us better equipped to face their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if it is acceptable for me to say so, and it was fundamental for me for years. In that sense, I stopped perceiving and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who can open themselves to the secrets of the language they are translating, capture and commune both with the meaning of what is said and with the cadence of the written statement, and it is that skillfully preserved rhythm that makes a successful version distinctive. On the other hand, one stops hearing it when opting for the path of literalness, a route that reveals itself dead when the goal is to access the personal accents of the writer's voice. The best adherence to the translated text demands imagination, the ability to take detours or lateral paths, as well as the use of analogies and the latent, as long as it does not affect the purpose or tone of the author. I am certain that this applies equally to prose and verse, since true prose is not inferior to poetry in achievements or demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from knowing that one is serving the dissemination of someone who, in our judgment, deserves it, thereby encouraging their recognition. But how can one not also think that, by proceeding in this way, one leaves behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to become homologous again, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences?

In my mind, the only viable paths to translation are the ones that traverse the languages we have inhabited. What I mean to say is that knowing a language is not enough. You need to have lived and existed inside of it. The languages in which our lives have occurred—those we have used to express ourselves in life’s decisive moments, those through which time has graced us with its joys and sorrows—are the languages we are best equipped to translate (when combined with a literary vocation). I happened in Portuguese, if I am permitted to say so, during some of the most important years of my life. In this sense, I stopped considering or feeling that it was a foreign language. Those who open themselves up to the secrets of the language they translate are able to capture and share not only the meaning of what has been said, but also the rhythms that lie beneath the written words. It is this skillfully preserved breath of life that makes a translation ring true [3]. A literal approach to translation stifles this breath, leading to a dead end when you are looking for access to the personal touches that animate a writer’s voice. The best way to translate a text requires imagination, the confidence to veer off path or take the side roads, and the ability to make use of analogies and see between the words, as long as doing so does not interfere with the author’s tone or intention. This, I am sure, applies equally to prose and verse, since true prose is not second to poetry in what it achieves nor demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating comes in large part from knowing we are amplifying the voice of someone we believe deserves to be heard, thereby furthering the recognition they receive. And how could this not lead us to believe that through our actions, we are breaking the curse of Babel that scattered us apart when we should have searched for one another, not to seek a return to homogeneity, but to join in conversation on the basis of our differences?

In my opinion, a translator should only undertake to translate a language in which they are engaged. It’s simply not enough to learn a language, the crucial factor is to be immersed in it. Translations borne out of autonomy of expression, allowing the translator to tell a story of both joy and sorrow in equal measure, are translations which showcase the extent of the translator’s ability. The Portuguese language has been my staple for many years now, for me it is more than a foreign language. It takes skill to reveal the secrets of the language in translation, to collectively capture meaning within the rhythmic flow of the written word. This is the hallmark of a successful translation. The result is not a soulless literal translation, but rather a nod to the unique nuance of the author’s style, without compromising the author’s intent or tone. All of this requires imagination, deviation from the source text, lateral thinking, and the ability to use analogies. The later applies to both prose and verse, which does not fall short of poetry, in both it’s challenges and desired outcomes. The joy of translation comes, to a large extent, from the propelling into the public domain, of the work of those who richly deserve the recognition, leaving the calamity of Babel in its wake, by promoting non-standardised dialogue, conversely based on its difference.

It appears to me that it is not proper to translate, except from the languages that have animated our lives. What I mean is that it is not enough to know them. The bottom line is to have been or to be within them. The languages where we have happened, those in which time brought us its joys and sorrows, and in which it was vitally decisive to express ourselves, are the ones in which, when there is a literary vocation, we are best equipped to face their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I may say so, during crucial years of my life. To that extent, I no longer frequented and felt it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open up to the secrets of the language they are translating grasp and commune with both the meaning of what is said and the cadence of the written statement, and it is this skilfully preserved breathing that makes a successful version unmistakable [3]. On the other hand, we fail to listen to it when we opt for the path of literalism, a path that proves dead when what we are seeking is to reach the personal nuances of the writer's voice. The best adherence to the translated text requires imagination, the ability to take detours or side paths, as well as knowing how to make use of analogies and the subtext, as long as this does not affect the author's purpose or tone. And this, I am sure, is true in equal measure for prose and verse, since prose, when it really is prose, does not lag behind poetry in achievements or demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from knowing that we are helping those who in our opinion deserve it to spread their word, thus encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that, by acting in this way, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other out, not to become homologous again, but to commit themselves to dialogue on the basis of their differences?

To my way of thinking, it is not advisable to translate languages which haven’t shaped our lives. By this I mean that it is not enough to just know them. The key is to exist or have existed in them. Those languages in which we have lived, those that with time brought us joy and sorrow, and were vitally decisive as we expressed ourselves; when one has a literary bent, those are the ones that find us best equipped to tackle their translation. I lived in Portuguese, if I can be allowed to phrase it that way, during what were fundamental years for me. I stopped, in that sense, using and considering it as a foreign language. Those who can unwrap the secrets of the language they translate capture and communicate not only the sense of what’s said but the cadence of the written text, and it’s that rhythm, so skillfully preserved, which unmistakably identifies a successful translation [3]. Whereas we fail to hear it when we opt for literalism, a path that renders it lifeless when what we seek is access to the personal inflections of the writer’s voice. In translation, faithful abidance to a text demands imagination, a flair for rephrasing or parallelisms, and knowing how to wisely make use of analogies and that which is left unsaid, as long as the author’s intent and tone are not impacted. And this, I am sure, applies equally to prose and verse, as prose, when it truly is prose, is every bit as good, as successful and demanding, as poetry. It’s clear that the joy of translating comes, in great measure, from knowing how to spread the word of someone who is, in our opinion, deserving of it, thus promoting their recognition. But how can we also not believe, as we follow this path, that we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of a people who should have looked to stand united, not to return to one language, but to insist on dialogue to build on their differences?

In my opinion, it is not convenient to translate except from the languages we have been immersed in. What I mean is that it does not suffice to know them. Fundamentally, we must have lived and breathed these languages. The languages that have molded us, the ones where time unfolded its joys and sorrows to us, and through which expressing ourselves was vitally decisive, are the ones that, when a literary calling beckons, find us most adept at embracing their translation. I came into being in Portuguese, if I may put it that way, and this occurred during years that were fundamental to me. To some extent, I stopped engaging with it and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open themselves to the secrets of the language they translate capture and convey it with both the essence of the spoken words and the cadence of the written expression. It is this skillfully preserved rhythm that makes a successful translation unmistakable [3]. Instead, this language is forsaken by choosing the path of literalness, a route that proves lifeless when one seeks access to the personal accents of the author's voice. Being completely faithful to the translated text demands imagination, the ability to take detours or alternative paths, as well as knowing how to make use of analogies and underlying meanings, provided that this does not affect the author's purpose or tone. And I am certain that this applies equally to prose and verse, for true prose does not lag behind poetry in achievements or challenges. Clearly, the joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from knowing that we are contributing to the exposure of someone who, in our judgment, deserves it, thereby encouraging their recognition. But how can one not also think that, by proceeding in this way, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the command that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to homogenize once more, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences?

“The Passion of the Translator”, by Santiago Kovadloff.

It is not proper, to my mind, to merely translate; we must translate from the languages that make their homes in our own lives. What I mean to say is, to “know” them is not enough. The essential element here is to have lived, or to carry on living, within them. These languages, through which we play out our existence, where our time there has gifted us mirth and misery both, where the act of expressing ourselves was once of vital importance, are the very languages where those of superior skill, those with a literary calling, flock to us to take on the burden of their translation.

I truly “lived” in Portuguese, if I may permit myself to say, and to me those years were incredibly important. And in so doing, I stopped spending as much time with it, stopped feeling it as a foreign language. Whosoever holds the secrets to unlocking the languages they translate, whosoever captures and enters into communion with both the meaning of what is being said and the rhythm of the written word in equal measure... It is this life-giving breath, performed with great skill, that creates an unmistakeably successful adaptation.

This voice cannot be heard, however, when opting for the path of literal meaning, a road that ultimately leads to a dead-end, when we should have set out to find the personal accents of the writer instead. The highest form of reverence for a translated text requires imagination, a knack for taking detours and exploring byways, as well as understanding the merits of analogy and underlying meaning, all while maintaining the intent and tone of the author. And I am sure this holds true for both prose and verse alike, since no prose worth its salt stands second to poetry in terms of difficulty or skill. And it is clear that the joy of translation comes, to a large extent, from the knowledge that we are best serving a writer whose work, in our eyes, is worthy of greater renown, and so we spur on its recognition.

But how can we be so naive to think that by proceeding in such a manner, we can put behind us Babel’s Curse, the heavenly mandate that scattered to the winds the very people who should have sought each other out, not for them to return to some homogeneous blob, but to instead insist on dialogue, with their differences as the starting point?

In my view, it isn’t wise to translate languages that did not inhabit our daily lives. What I mean is that being proficient is not enough. What is key is having lived them or to be living them. Where one has a literary calling, one is better suited to translate in the languages personally experienced through moments of joy and despair, and through which self-expression was of utmost importance. I happened in Portuguese, if it can be said in that way, and did so during my seminal years. I stopped experiencing and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to be open to the secrets of the language from which they translate are able to capture and be one with the sense of what is said as with the cadence of the written word. It is that skillfully-preserved breathing which makes a successful version unmistakable. However, when the literal route is chosen, the listening stops. When the objective is to access the personal quirks of the author’s voice, such a road leads to nowhere. The most faithful rendition of a translated text requires imagination, skillful deviation or detouring, as well as knowing how to use analogies and make explicit that which is implicit, so long as the author’s intent or tone is not impacted. And this, I’m confident, applies equally to prose and poetry, because when prose is truly prose, it does not play second fiddle to poetry, both in terms of its highlights and demands. It is evident that the joy of translating lies, to a great extent, in knowing we contribute to the recognition of those who we deem to be deserving. This, in turn, boosts their celebrity. One must also consider that by proceeding in this way, the curse of Babel is lifted. Surely, those who through this commandment were forced to be separated sought to reunite not in an effort to share a language once again, but rather to seek a dialogue in spite of their difference.

It is not advisable, in my opinion, to translate in any other language besides those that inhabited our lives. What I mean is, it’s not enough to know them. What’s crucial is that we were or have been existing in them. The languages in which we’ve existed, those which time have lent us their joys and sorrows, and those which became vitally important for us to express ourselves are those that, when there is a literary vocation, find us better equipped to tackle their translation. I existed in Portuguese, if you’ll allow me to say it as such, and for many years during what were my foundational years. This is how I stopped visiting it and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open up Tot he secrets of a language they translate, perceives and communes with both the sense of what is said and with the rhythm of the written form, and it’s within that skillfully preserved breath that makes a successful version unmistakable. However, we no longer hear it when we opt to follow the literal path; a path that shows itself to be death to the personal style of the written voice we are looking for. The best abidance with the translated text demands imagination, an aptitude for taking detours or side paths, as well as knowing how to make use of analogies and that which is dormant, as long as the purpose and the tone of the author is unaffected. This applies in equal measure, I am sure, to prose and verse, given that prose, when it truly is thus, does not lag behind poetry in neither achievement nor in demands. It is evident that the joy in translation comes from, in great measure, in knowing that we are serving those who, in our opinion, deserve it, and in this manner, supporting their recognition. But, how can we not consider, when we proceed in this manner, that we are leaving behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought it, not to become homogenous, but to endeavour to draw from their differences in order to have a dialogue?

In my opinion, it is not convenient to translate but in the languages that had a part in our lives. What I mean is that it is not enough to know them. The key is when they have become or are a part of our being. The languages in which we have had experiences, those that gave us joy and pains during our lives; those that were vitally decisive in our lives to help us express ourselves, those that when we have a literary vocation provide for us a skill to translate. I became who I am in Portuguese if you allow me to say it this way, during fundamental years of my life. To that extent, I stopped considering it a foreign language. Whoever knows how to be open to the secrets of the language one translates, captures and has communion both with the meaning of what is said, as well as the cadence of the written statement, and that skillfully preserved breath is what turns a successful version as unmistakable. [3] Whereas we stop listening when we fall into literal translations, which is a death path when what we're trying to do is access the personal nuances of the writer. The best observance of a translated text demands imagination, the skill to follow deviations or side paths, and knowing how to use analogies and hidden subtleties, as long as the tone or purpose of the author is not affected: and this applies equally, I am sure, to both prose and verse because prose when it truly is prose does not go after poetry as an objective or a demand. It is evident that the joy of translating is derived largely from knowing we are facilitating the spread of a worthy author, thus encouraging its recognition. But how can we avoid thinking that in so doing, additionally, we are desisting Babel's curse, the mandate that forced the spreading of those that should have tried to find each other, not to standardize again, but rather to try to have a conversation about their differences?

In my view, it seems unwise to translate from languages other than those that have been a part of our lives. I mean to say that it is not sufficient to merely know them. What matters most is having lived or living within them. The languages in which we have experienced life, which have seen time unfold with its pleasures and sorrows, where expressing ourselves was of vital importance, are the ones that, when there is a literary calling, will find us best prepared to undertake their translation. I came about in Portuguese, if I may put it that way, and it was pivotal for me for years. In that sense, I no longer went to it or perceived it as a foreign language. Those who can open themselves to the secrets of the language they translate—capturing and embracing both the meaning of the words and the tempo of the written form—carefully preserve that spirit, which makes a successful version truly unique. However, it ceases to be heard when one goes down the literal path, a route that becomes lifeless when the goal is reach the personal nuances in the writer’s voice. The best fidelity to the translated text requires imagination, the ability to take detours and side paths, and the knowledge to make use of analogies and what lies beneath the surface, as long as it never compromises the author’s tone or purpose. I am certain that this equally true for prose and verse since, when true prose is crafted, it is no less impressive or demanding than poetry. The joy of translating clearly comes in large part from knowing that we are contributing to the recognition of those who, in our judgment, are deserving of it, thereby supporting their acknowledgement. But should we also consider that, in doing this, we are leaving behind the curse of Babel, the commandment that forced dispersion upon those who should have sought each other out, not to become identical again, but rather to engage in dialogue based on their differences?

It is not appropriate, in my opinion, to translate using only those languages which have surrounded us in our lives. To clarify, just being familiar with these languages is not enough. It is essential to be, or to have been, “inside” them. Languages that have “happened” to us, those that time has gifted to us, along with all of their joys and trials, and in which self-expression has been critically important … those are the languages which, when coupled with a literary vocation, find us best equipped to undertake their translation. I “happened into” Portuguese, if the reader will allow me to use this expression, and those years were pivotal for me. It was by “happening into" Portuguese that I ceased to merely patronize it and to view it as a foreign language. Those translators who know how to open up the secrets of the languages in which they translate are able not only to capture and communicate the meaning of what has been expressed, but to do so in the cadence of the text, are enabled to produce a skillfully preserved rendering that is indistinguishable from an original work [3]. On the other hand, this cadence cannot be sensed if the translator has chosen the path of literaralism, a path that renders itself lifeless when the personal accents of the writer’s voice are undetectable. The strictest compliance with a text requires imagination, an aptitude for tracking detours and lateral paths, and a knowledge of how to make use of analogies and hidden meanings, provided that the purpose or tone of the writer is not affected. All of this, I am certain, applies in equal measure to prose and poetry, given that prose, if it truly is prose, does not lag behind poetry either in its accomplishments or in its requirements. It is evident that the joy in translating derives, to a great extent, from the ability to benefit from disseminating the words of those who, in our judgment, deserve it, thereby fostering their recognition. But if we proceed in this way, how can we refrain from also seeing ourselves as those who are finally abandoning the curse of Babel, an act that forced the scattering of a people who ought to have sought out, not a return to sameness, but rather an insistence on beginning a dialogue based on their differences?

It is not the best, in my opinion, to translate but from languages that have lived in us. What I mean is that it is not enough to know the languages. The key is to have been, or be, part of them. The languages in which we have lived, those in which we were given time, with its joys and tears, and in which expressing ourselves was vitally decisive, are the ones that find us better prepared to translate, when there is literary vocation. I lived in Portuguese, if I may say that, and during constitutive years for me. And so, I stopped visiting it and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open up to the secrets of the language they translate are able to capture and commune both with the sense of the words and with the rhythm of the written utterances; and that skillfully preserved movement is what makes a version successful. In contrast, choosing the path of literality means to stop listening to the words; and that choice kills the version when the desired outcome are the personal accents of the writers´ voice. The best response to the translated text demands imagination, aptitude for shortcuts and detours and the capacity of using analogies and figures, as long as it does not interfere with the purpose and the tone of the author. And this applies, I am sure, to poetry and to prose, since prose, when it really is prose, is not second to poetry neither in achievements nor in demands. It is clear that the joy of translation comes, in a great extent, from making a contribution towards the recognition of an author we deem worthy. But also, how can we not consider that, by working in this way, we are leaving behind Babel´s curse; the mandate that forced the scattering of those who should have clung to each other, not to become one again, but to start a conversation based on their difference?

It is not advisable, in my view, to translate languages other than those that have inhabited our lives. What I mean is, knowing the language does not suffice. What is crucial is to be, or to have been, in them. Those languages in which we have occurred and taken place. Those in which we partook of the joys and sorrows plentiful in time’s wake. And those in which it was vitally decisive to find our voice. Those are the languages whose translation, if a literary calling is not lacking, we can be equipped to undertake.

I took place—occurred—in Portuguese, if I may be allowed to say so, during a fundamental period for me. I, accordingly, gradually ceased to frequent it as a foreign language, the sense of its foreignness fading. Openness to the secrets of the tongue one translates is capturing and communing with both the sense of what is said as well as the cadence of the expressed; this skillful breathing is what yields an unmistakably successful translation.

On the other hand, a language’s voice is lost when the translator sets off in pursuit of the literal; a dead-end path when what is sought is access to the personal accents in the author’s voice. The surest way to honor the translated text demands imagination and skillful venturing off the beaten path as well as knowing when to make use of analogies and latent meaning, provided one does not betray the author’s tone nor purpose.

Without a doubt, this applies equally to verse as well as prose. True prose is not second to poetry, neither in deeds nor exigencies. It is clear that the joy of translation stems from knowing one’s role in diffusing the work of those who, in our estimation, deserve the recognition we endeavor to encourage. In so doing, might it not be said that Babel’s curse is left behind, that command scattering peoples who should have sought each other, not to erase their differences, but rather to strive towards dialogue from their differences?

I think we should only translate from the languages that inhabited our lives. I mean, it's not enough to know them. The essential thing is to have lived or to live in them. The languages in which we happened, those in which time was given to us with its joys and sorrows and in which expressing ourselves was vitally decisive for us, are the ones that, when there is a literary vocation, find us better equipped to face their translation. I can say that I happened in Portuguese, and this was essential to me for years to such an extent that I stopped using it and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open themselves to the secrets of the language they translate and capture and who communicate with the meaning of the spoken word and the cadence of the written statement—that skillfully preserved breath makes a successful version unmistakable [3]. Instead, one stops listening when choosing the path of literalism, a path shown to be dead when used to seek access to the personal accents of the author's voice. The best adherence to the translated text requires imagination, an aptitude for detours or side paths, and knowing how to use analogies and latencies, provided that this does not affect the author's purpose or tone. And this, I am sure, is valid in equal measure for prose and verse because when prose is true prose, it does not lag behind poetry either in achievements or demands. It is obvious that, to a large extent, the joy of translating comes from knowing that one is serving the dissemination of those we believe deserve it, thus encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that, by proceeding in this way, we move beyond the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to reunite, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences?

As I see it, we can only truly translate the languages that have made homes of our lives. What I mean is that it isn’t enough to know them. The essential thing is to have been, or to be, in them. The languages in which we took place, in which time offered us its joys and sorrows, in which our self-expression was vitally important—in a literary vocation, those are the languages that best equip us to contend with their translation. I occurred in Portuguese—if I may put it that way—during years that were formative for me, and so I no longer came to it or felt it as a foreign language. The person who can be open to the secrets of the language being translated captures and enters into communion with both the sense of what is said and the rhythm of the written word. It is this inhale and exhale, skillfully preserved, that makes the successful translation unmistakable. But we cannot listen for it when we take the path of the literal; in the search for the particular notes of the writer’s voice, that road is a dead end. The best treatment of the translated text requires imagination, a gift for taking detours and side streets, and the ability to make use of analogy and the things that remain unsaid, so long as the purpose or tone of the author is not altered. And I am certain that this holds true equally for prose and verse, since prose—when it really is prose—does not come second to poetry in either its achievements or its demands. Clearly, much of the joy of translating comes from disseminating the work of someone we judge worthy, and helping to bring them recognition. But how can we not also believe that when we do so, we leave the curse of Babel behind—the command that scattered those who should have been seeking one another, not to become the same, but to enter into a dialogue born of their differences?

It is inappropriate, in my opinion, to translate but rather from the languages that have inhabited our lives. I mean, it's not enough to just know them. The essential thing is to have lived or to be living in them. The languages in which we have existed, those in which time has offered us its joys and sorrows, and in which expressing ourselves has been vital for us, are the ones that, when there is a literary vocation, find us better prepared to face their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I may say so, and that was fundamental for me for years. In that sense, I no longer feel - when using it - as a foreign language. Those who know how to open themselves to the secrets of the language they are translating, can capture and commune with both the meaning of what is said and the cadence of the written statement, and it is that skillfully preserved breath that makes a successful version for sure. On the other hand, it is no longer heard when opting for the path of literalness, a path that is revealed as dead when what is sought is access to the personal accents of the voice of the writer. The best adherence to the translated text requires imagination, aptitude for deviation or lateral paths, as well as knowing how to make use of analogies and the latent, as long as it does not affect the purpose or tone of the author. And I am sure that this applies equally to prose and verse, since prose, when it is true, is not inferior to poetry in achievements or demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from knowing that we are serving the dissemination of someone who, in our opinion, deserves it, thus encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that, by doing so, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to homogenize again, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences?

We shouldn’t, in my opinion, translate from languages other than those that inhabited our lives. I mean that it’s not enough to know them. It is essential to have been or to be in them. The languages in which we have come about, those in which time itself has been afforded to us with its joys and sorrows, and those in which to express ourselves was vitally crucial, are the ones that, when there’s a literary calling, find us better suited to face their translation. I came about in Portuguese, if you will, and this during years that were foundational for me. I stopped, by that measure, approaching and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open up to the secrets of the translated tongue, grasp and commune as much with the meaning of what is said as with the cadence of the written expression, and it is that skillfully preserved breath that turns a successful rendition into a unique one.[3] Nonetheless, you cease to listen to it when opting to keep to the letter of the text, a dead end that shows itself when what you seek is access to the personal nuances of the writer’s voice. The best adherence to the translated text demands imagination, the ability to think outside the box or sideways, as well as knowing how to employ analogies and that which is implied, as long as it doesn’t affect the purpose and tone of the author. And this, without a doubt, in equal measure for both prose and poetry, since prose, when truly such, doesn’t lag behind poetry neither in its achievements nor demands. Obviously the joy of translating comes, in great measure, from knowing that we serve the one whose message, in our view, deserves to be spread, in turn promoting their recognition. But how not to think also that, in proceeding this way, we leave behind the Curse of Babel, the decree that forced the scattering of those who should have sought each other, not to become the same once again, but to strive for dialogue due to their differences?

It is not advisable, in my opinion, to translate but the languages that once inhabited our lives. I mean it is not enough to know them. The essential thing is to have been or to be in them. The languages where we have happened, those in which time provided us with joys and sorrows, and where being able to express ourselves was vital to us, are the ones for which when there is a literary vocation, we are best endowed to undertake their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I may say so, and I did it during certain years that were fundamental to me. I stopped, to that extent, to use it and to feel it as a foreign language. Those who know how to open themselves to the secrets of the language they translate, perceive and embrace both the meaning of what is said as well as the pace of the written word, and it is this skillfully preserved acuity what makes a successful version to be absolutely unmistakable [3].
The best adherence to the translated text demands imagination, the willingness to take diversions or side paths, as well as the capacity to make use of the analogies and of the latent, provided this does not affect the author's goals or tone. This, I am sure, applies equally to prose and verse, since prose, when it's truly prose, lags behind poetry neither in achievements nor in demands.

It seems obvious that the joy of translating comes, in an ample manner, from our awareness that we are contributing to spread the word of those who, to our judgment, deserve it and that, by doing so, we encourage their recognition. But how can we ever avoid thinking that when proceeding this way, we are breaking free from Babel's curse, which forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to become homologous again, but to commit themselves to dialogue on the basis of their differences?

I believe we should translate only the languages we have used. In other words, more is needed than having a good grasp of them. Instead, it is essential to experience, have lived, or be immersed in them. Those languages that we have succeeded in learning, those where we have been offered the joys and sorrows of time, where expressing ourselves proved to have been a critical factor in our lives, are the ones that we are best suited to translate when we have a literary calling.
Portuguese was the first language I learned and was a fundamental part of my life for many years. I, therefore, stopped studying it and ceased to regard it as a foreign language. Anyone who understands how to embrace the secrets of the language they are translating captures and communicates both the meaning of what is said and the rhythm of the written statement, and this deftly controlled flow renders a successful version of the translated text so memorable [3]. In contrast, if we stop paying attention to it by opting for a more literal approach, this doesn't prove very meaningful when looking for access to the author's personal tone of voice.
Proper respect for the rendered text requires imagination, an ability to take detours or side paths, and the skill to use similes and subtleties, as long as they do not affect the author's purpose or tone. This is true, I am sure, in equal measure for prose and verse, since prose, if it really is prose, does not lag behind poetry either in achievements or in demands. The joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from understanding that we are helping to spread the word to those we feel are worthy of it, and so encouraging their appreciation.
Yet in doing so, how can we not think that the curse of Babel, namely the mandate that led to the scattering of those who should have sought each other out, not to find uniformity, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences, has been left behind?

It is not convenient, in my opinion, to translate but from the languages that inhabited our lives. I mean it is not enough to know them. What is essential is to have been or to be in them. The languages in which we have happened, in which time has offered itself to us with its pleasures and sorrows, and in which, expressing ourselves has been vitally decisive are the ones that- when there is literary vocation- find us better equipped to address their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I am allowed to so call it, and that, during my foundational years. I gradually stopped visiting it and experiencing it as a foreign language. They who know how to open themselves to the language they translate capture and commune with the sense of the utterance, as much as with the cadence of the written statement. And it is that breathing, skillfully preserved, which makes a successful version unmistakable. On the other hand, one stops hearing it when choosing the path of literality, which reveals itself as a dead end when one is looking for access to the personal accents of the writer’s voice. The best adherence to the translated text demands imagination, aptitude for a detour or those side roads, as well as taking advantage of the analogies and that which is latent, as long as it alters neither the purpose nor the tone of the author. And that applies equally to prose and verse, since prose, when it is indeed, is no second to poetry in accomplishments or requirements. It is obvious that the joy of translating derives, to a great degree, from knowing oneself promoting and thus encouraging the recognition of they, who, in our judgment, deserve it. But how not to also think that, in so doing, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the separation of those who should have looked for one another, not to conform again, but to persist in dialogue on the basis of their difference?

It is not convenient, in my opinion, to translate from languages other than those that inhabited out lives. I mean that it is not enough to know them. What is essential is to be or have been in them. The tongues in which we have happened, those in which time gave itself to us with all its pleasures and pains, and in which expressing ourselves was of vital decisiveness, are the ones which, when there is a literary vocation, find us better equipped to face their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I am allowed to say it like that, and did so for years that were fundamental to me. To that extent, I stopped visiting it and feeling it as a foreign language. Those who are able to open themselves to the secrets of the tongue they translate, understand and agree both with the meaning of what was said and with the rhythm of the written statement, and it is that skillfully preserved breathing that makes a successful version unmistakable [3]. Meanwhile, one stops listening to it when one chooses the road of literality, a way that reveals itself to be dead when the goal is to access the personal accents of the person who writes. Utmost respect for the translated text demands imagination, an ability for detours or lateral paths, as well as an ability to use analogies and what is latent, as long as it does not affect the purpose or tone of the author. And that, I am sure, applies equally to prose and verse, since prose, when it really is so, does not lag behind poetry neither in achievements nor demands. It is obvious the joy of translating comes mostly from knowing one serves the promotion of those we think deserve it, fostering their recognition. But how could one not also think that, by proceeding this way, the curse of Babel is left behind, that mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not in order to standardize each other again, but to insist on a dialogue that stems from their difference?

It is unwise, from my perspective, to translate in any language that never made a home in our lives. I mean to say, it takes more than merely knowing them. The indispensable part is to once have been or at present be situated within them. The languages that made their mark on us, the ones through which Father Time graced us joys and heartaches, and through which expressing ourselves was to us vitally decisive—those are the ones which, when our vocation inclines toward the literary, find us better equipped to rise to their translation. I rose to be in Portuguese, if I may say so, and thus to me those were fundamental years. I ceased, to that extent, to visit Portuguese and feel it a foreign language. Whosoever knows the trick to opening themselves to the secrets of the language they translate, communes with and captures both the meaning in the message and the cadence in its writing, and this skillfully preserved breath is what gives life to a translation unmistakable in its success [3]. If one opts not to listen but rather plots a course through literal meanings, the course is revealed to be dead when that which one seeks is access to the personal intonations that decorate the author's voice. To best translate a text requires imagination, wherewithal to take detours or side streets, withal to embrace analogies and hidden meanings, whensoever so doing does not stray from the author’s intentions or tone. And that rings true, I have no doubt, for both prose and verse in equal measure, for prose, when prose it truly is, takes not backmost position to poetry neither in ambitions nor in expectations. Obviously, the joy of translating’s provenance is, to no small degree, the knowledge that one is serving to spread the word of someone we judge worthy, fostering their recognition in this way. But why not ponder further still to notice how, in this way of proceeding, we escape the curse of Babel, the proscription that dispersed by force those who should never have sought a return to uniformity, but to strive toward dialogue to bridge their difference?

In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to translate anything except the languages our lives are immersed in. What I mean is that not enough just to know them, the key thing is to have been or be in them. When there is a literary calling we are better equipped to face the translation when it’s languages we have succeeded in, the ones that at some point gave us such joy and sorrow and the ones where expressing ourselves was vitally decisive. It happened for me in Portuguese, and it’s been essential for me for years, to the extent that I stopped using it and feeling it as a foreign language. Who knows how to be open to the secrets of the language that translates, captures and communicates both the meaning of what is said as well as the rhythm of the written statement? That skillfully preserved breath is what makes a successful version unmistakeable. Instead, you stop listening to it and opt for the path of literality, a deadened path if you seek access to the personal emphasis of the writer’s voice. The best acceptance with the translated text demands imagination, a gift for taking detours or other paths and knowing how to make use of analogies or things hidden, as long as it doesn’t affect the author’s intentions or tone. This, I am sure, in equal measure for both prose and verse since prose, when it really is that, isn’t second to poetry in either achievements or demands. It’s obvious that the joy of translating comes, to a large extent, from knowing that it serves the dissemination of those we think deserve it, thus encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that continuing this path leaves the Curse of Babel behind? That order which forced the dispersal of those who should have sought each other, not to return to standardisation but to insist on dialogue based on their difference.

It is not fitting, to my way of thinking, to translate from languages that have not been part of our lives. I mean to say, that it is not sufficient to know a language, the essential is to have lived or to live in it. Those languages in which we happened, those in which time proffered us all its joys and miseries, and in which expressing ourselves was a matter of life or death, are those from which, when there is a literary calling, we are best placed to confront translation. Only those who know how to open themselves up to the mysteries of the language from which they translate, who capture and commune with both the meaning of the written word and with its cadence. It is this unspoiled exhalation, that, unmistakably, makes a successful translation [3]. I happened in Portuguese, if I may say so, during years which were fundamental for me, and to that extent, I ceased to frequent and feel it as a foreign language. On the other hand, when you choose the path of the literal you find yourself at a dead-end, you become deaf to the personal, voiced, affectation of the writer. To best serve the text you are translating demands imagination, an ability for deviation or lateral thinking, as well as mastering the analogies of concealment, always while leaving the author’s intention and tone intact. And this, I am sure, applies equally to prose and verse, because prose, when true to itself, does not lag behind poetry neither in its triumphs nor its demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating resides, to a large extent, in serving to spread the words of those we deem worthy, striving for their recognition. How can we also not deny, that by behaving thus, we leave behind us the curse of Babel, that mandate tearing soulmates asunder, so that they will never again find understanding, and who, now, to the contrary, persist in addressing each other only from their differences?

It is not advisable, in my view, to translate those languages that once inhabited our lives. I intend to convey that mere knowledge of them is not enough. The essence lies in having been or being them. The languages in which we have existed, those through which time bestowed its joys and sorrows upon us, and in which our expressions were vitally decisive, are the ones that, when literary vocation calls, find us, the most gifted, to undertake their translation. I emerged in Portuguese, if I may say so, and it was fundamental to me for years. To that extent, I ceased to perceive it as a foreign language. Whoever can open themselves to the secrets of translating a language, capturing and communing with both the meaning conveyed and the cadence of the written statement, it is that skillfully preserved breath that makes a successful version unmistakable.[3] However, one stops hearing it when opting for the path of literalness, a route that proves lifeless when seeking access to the personal accents of the writer's voice. The best respect for the translated text demands imagination, the ability to diverge or take lateral paths, as well as knowing how to make use of analogies and the latent, provided that it does not compromise the purpose or tone of the author. Beyond doubt, this principle applies equally to both prose and verse, as true prose does not lag behind poetry in achievements or demands. It is obvious that the joy of translating arises, to a large extent, from knowing that one serves the spreading of the translated message, of those who, in our judgment, deserve it, thus encouraging their recognition. But how can we not also think that by proceeding in this manner, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other, not to become the same again, but to engage in dialogue based on their differences?


Translated by Maria Babcock – Spanish to English.
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In my opinion, we should not translate only from the languages that existed in our lives. I mean that it is not enough just to know the languages. It is essential to have been or be in them. The languages in which we have succeeded, those for which time has provided us joy and sorrow, and those we ourselves express are vitally decisive for us, are the ones whose translation we are better equipped to deal with when there is a literary vocation. I happened on Portuguese, if it is acceptable to say it that way, and this for years was fundamental for me. To that extent, I stopped frequenting it and feeling as if it was a foreign language. Whoever knows how to be open to the secrets of the translated language understands and communes as much with the feeling of what is being said as with the cadence of what is written, and it is this skillfully preserved breath that makes an unmistakably successful version.

On the other hand, one stops listening to it when opting for the literal path, a path that is revealed to be dead when what one is looking for is access to the personal accents of the writer’s voice. The best adherence to translated text demands imagination, aptitude for the detours or the side paths, and knowing how to take advantage of analogies and the latent, if it does not affect the author’s purpose or tone. And this, I’m sure, in equal measure, is for prose and verse, given that prose, when it really is, does not lag behind poetry, neither in achievement nor demand. It is obvious that to a great extent the joy in translating comes from knowing that we are furthering those who, in our opinion, deserve it, thus encouraging their recognition.

But how can we not also think that, by proceeding in this way, we leave behind the curse of Babel, the mandate that forced the dispersion of those who should have sought each other out, not to become similar again, but to engage in conversation based on their difference?

In my opinion, it is not wise translating other languages than those which dwelled in our lives.
I mean that it is not enough knowing them. The essential is to have been or to be in them. Languages in which we have happened, those in which time was granted to us with its joys and pains, and those in which expressing ourselves was vitally important, those in which, when there is literary vocation, we can be found better gifted to face their translation. I happened in Portuguese, if I am allowed to say so, and that, during fundamental years for me. I left, to that extent, hanging around and feeling it as a foreign language. Who learns to be opened to the secrets of the language being translated, captures and takes communion both with the sense of what has been said and with the cadence of the written statement, and that ably preserved breathing is what turns unmistakable a successful version [3].
By contrast it is not listened when choosing the literalism way, revealed road as dead when the aim is to access personal accents from who writes. The best observance of the translated text requires imagination, skills for the deviation or lateral paths, as well as having the ability to use analogies and the latent, as long as with that, neither the purpose nor the tone of the author is affected. And that, I am sure, at an equal extent for the prose and the verse, since the prose, when it truly is, is not behind of the poetry neither in achievements nor in exigencies. It is obvious that the pleasure of translating comes, to a great extent, from knowing that we are serving to the dissemination of whom in our view deserves it, promoting so his acknowledgement. But, how do not thinking also that, by doing this way, we leave behind the Babel malediction that forced the dispersion of whom should have been searched, not for standardizing, but to insist in dialogue from their differences?