Whenever I'm done translating a book, I have a strange feeling of emptiness, some kind of nostalgia, which makes me want to endlessly edit everything. Today I said goodbye to Michael Sadler, who's been my imaginary friend for the past months, with his hilarious novel, An Englishman in Paris. I probably got that emotional because I could see a great deal of myself in him, I was writing about my own expat experience while translating his. Head over heels in love with France, Sadler takes one year off to discover the wonders of everyday life a la francaise, the subtleties of French cuisine (figuring out, at the end of his journey, that there's few parts of an animal that he hasn't eaten) and wine tasting, gets accustomed to verlan, couscous restaurants and triple parking and eventually falls in love, thus discovering the advantages of understanding cricket when involved in a liaison dangereuse with a Frenchwoman.
There's plenty of books quietly waiting for their turn, they'll fill up the void and I'll end up missing them, as well. I even missed Woody Allen once the ordeal of translating Mere Anarchy was over - it was probably the most time-consuming translation I've ever done, resembling more to solving a puzzle that has a will of its own, and the main cause for 2 extra wrinkles on my forehead and some very chic dark circles around the eyes, sparing me the nuisance of using three diferent shades of brown as to obtain the smokey eyes effect.
I will not even mention The Book With No Name (there, I did it) and how I felt when that was over, as you are now very familiar with its consequences. It's a good thing the follow-up is one of the above-mentioned books, quietly waiting for their turn. As a matter of fact, I'm also expecting a new Woody Allen and apparently Sadler will also be back, as An Englishman Amoureux. It seems to me I'm beginning to settle down, learning how to be faithful and commited. To several men at once.
p.s.1 I think I'm catching a cold. I can tell that by the amounts of chocolate I've been eating lately.
p.s.2 Today I would have happily kicked some guy's ass, if I were that kind of girl. I sometimes regret not being. Sanchez would've done it.
There's plenty of books quietly waiting for their turn, they'll fill up the void and I'll end up missing them, as well. I even missed Woody Allen once the ordeal of translating Mere Anarchy was over - it was probably the most time-consuming translation I've ever done, resembling more to solving a puzzle that has a will of its own, and the main cause for 2 extra wrinkles on my forehead and some very chic dark circles around the eyes, sparing me the nuisance of using three diferent shades of brown as to obtain the smokey eyes effect.
I will not even mention The Book With No Name (there, I did it) and how I felt when that was over, as you are now very familiar with its consequences. It's a good thing the follow-up is one of the above-mentioned books, quietly waiting for their turn. As a matter of fact, I'm also expecting a new Woody Allen and apparently Sadler will also be back, as An Englishman Amoureux. It seems to me I'm beginning to settle down, learning how to be faithful and commited. To several men at once.
p.s.1 I think I'm catching a cold. I can tell that by the amounts of chocolate I've been eating lately.
p.s.2 Today I would have happily kicked some guy's ass, if I were that kind of girl. I sometimes regret not being. Sanchez would've done it.
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