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Last summer I traveled to Greece and
other parts of Europe with the help of an Undergraduate Research
& Creativity Grant from the University of Kentucky, and a grant
from the UK Office of International Affairs. One of my goals for
this trip was to work on my Gaines thesis, which at that time was
titled "The Art of Translation: Translation Theory and Greek Poetry."
I planned to work on my own translations, read other translations,
and finally write about a translator's role as an artist. Another
one of my goals was to surround myself with the Greek language,
experience it in a way that pure text cannot offer. I decided to
take a course in Modern Greek. I decided to see many of the places
I had read about in school.
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I continue in the belief that I don't know how to translate, and that nobody does. It is an impossible but necessary process, there is no perfect way to do it, and much of it must be found for each particular poem as we go.
- W.S. Merwin (1989, pp. 139-40)
All of the choices in life that go on forever forwards
and backwards through time are essentially rooted in creation and
destruction. As one choice is made, another choice is often made
impossible. As one person dies, another lives and continues in the
cycle of thinking and acting. No creation can exist without destruction.
Perhaps this is evident in a god's creation of a world in which
people love and are inevitably hurt, grow and die, learn and forget.
There is a discourse between creation and destruction, an oscillation
between the two, a tai chi. That action is understood as embracing
the past so to live consciously in the present with aspirations
for the future. In terms of work, devotion, life choices, and growing,
translation is a most suitable way to illustrate the reality that
all things are in transition - constantly dying and being reanimated
in new forms.
God's joy moves from unmarked box
to
....unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down
....into flowerbed.
As roses, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice
and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open
(excerpt from Unmarked Boxes, Rumi, 1997)
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