Splinters

A litblog that's relatively new to me, Chekhov's Mistress, has a post on translation that I appreciate. The book by Douglas Hofstadtler looks particularly vaccinating.

I'll add my own comment here: the only thing worse than reading a translated work is being told that one should really read it only in the original. The Original Langauge snob is an inverted philistine. He protects the work from having any life, turning it into an archeological treasure or Rubic's Cube-like hermeneutical toy. In his world, only Borges' Pierre Menard stands a chance of gaining something from his efforts. Just like the literary biographer seeking out salacious gossip, there is a superstition that the work is not enough in itself. TS Eliot's essay on reading Dante is to be recommended, twice daily until the symptoms clear up.