how weird it is to borrow someone else’s language. It’s a bit like stealing their soul. I wonder how much of the author is missing in a poem’s translation. It’s already hard to get the words out of yourself and put them beautifully on a piece of paper without them losing the whole meaning of what you wanted to express. So it’s even harder to translate someone else’s words to keep that meaning alive without losing their beautiful order.
I once was dating a guy whose language I didn’t know. He would talk to me in my own language but I got very little of what he would say to his friends and his family. So everytime I went visit him at his home country, I wasn’t me at all. I would sit quiet, I wouldn’t make any stupid joke, I would be completely dependant. It wasn’t until I learned the language that I became Olimpia again, Olimpia at a 70%.
How many different people can we be in many different languages?