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Untranslated, undiscovered, witty, young.


In the introduction to his collection of Italian short stories, translator Lawrence Venuti writes that the stories “challenge familiar images” and the translations “pursue this defamiliarizing aim . . . at the level of the sentence.” He calls his authors “untranslated,” “undiscovered,” “witty,” and “young.”

In context . . . all of it quickly becomes intelligible and at points subtly suggestive, taking on meaning that go beyond the Italian text. . . The translations are design to give the reader another opportunity to travel: in their deviations from current English usage, they open up the reading experience to the foreignness of a different language for translation, although in a way that is enjoyably engaging. Such, at least, is my hopeful intention.

I have one paper left, and then junior year is over. We’ve had Fling and Time to Shine and Hey Day and two weeks of reading days and finals. And in three weeks, I leave for Rome.

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Define.

The heart of our identity lies not in our hands, but in God’s hands. We are most properly ourselves because God is in us and we are in God.
Miroslav Volf, The End of Memory

If true, this would be a huge relief: identity is hard. I am a citational, epigrammatic, creative being; God in me and me in God.

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In this fateful hour.

On Sunday it rained, a cold, bone-chilling November rain. Everybody came in wet from church.
Madeleine L’Engle, The Young Unicorns

How could they sleep? All day on the radio there had been hurricane warnings. How could they leave her up in the attic in the rickety brass bed, knowing that the roof might be blown right off the house, and she tossed out into the wild night sky to land who knows where?

The wide wooden floorboards were cold against her feet. Wind blew in the crevices about the window frame, in spite of the protection the storm sash was supposed to offer. She could hear wind howling in the chimneys. From all the way downstairs, she could hear Fortinbras, the big black dog, starting to bark.
Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

And title from Madeleine L’Engle, A Swiftly Tilting Planet.

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