There was thunder, there was lightning, and then the stars went out...
OK, not quite. What's left today is a sugar coating on roofs, lawns and meadows, and early morning temperatures of -5°C. And shades of grey, white and blue at dusk that make me sort of homesick for winter in Finland.
Read since Xmas (fiction):
Fred Vargas, Pars vite et reviens tard
Pascal Mercier, Nachtzug nach Lissabon
Stefan Zweig, Fouché
Thomas Pynchon, Against the day (up to page 720 so far)
Anatol France, Aufruhr der Engel (La revolte des anges)
Re: spring: sunrise moved back to a spot where I can actually see it from my window.
Life: is no way to treat an animal, says Kurt Vonnegut. Yep.
I wrote a diary last Friday at the library, then removed everything I found boring, dumb, or embarassing, and when the screen was blank, I went home. I made the mistake once to look at old diaries I had actually posted. OUCH! Hence, in an attempt to post at least a diary a month, an exercise in posting without editing. At least that's the plan.
And never look back. Perfection is for statues.
The management would like to apologize for any inconvenience, annoyance, or brain hemorrhage.
Read/skimmed/reading list (non-fiction):
Radegundis Stolze, Übersetzungstheorien
Riitta Oittinen, I Am Me - I Am Other. On the Dialogics of Translating for Children
Tiina Puurtinen, Linguistic Acceptability in Translated Children's Literature
Maria Krysztofiak, Przekład literacki we współczesnej translatoryce
Peeter Torop, Totalnyj perevod
Eugene A. Nida, Toward a science of translating
A lot of words to tell you all I have nothing to say. Ms. Bachmann wouldn't approve, I guess. Wer wahre Worte finden will, soll halt da suchen, wo Licht ist.
Two obscure references that don't fit together in one sentence. I'm so po-mo.
But no(t) pomo. Pomo is Finnish, means boss. True fact.
Can you imagine a writer about halfway between Ingeborg Bachmann and Fernando Pessoa? A character somewhat reminiscent of both appears in one of the books I mentioned above, Nachtzug nach Lissabon ("Night train to Lisbon", not translated (yet) to English, as far as I know).
Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before
And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow
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