Oh
The Centaur theatre, Montreal. It’s the opening night of a friend’s new play. I’m in the middle of random university studies, and starting to be fascinated with translation. Naturally, I’d like to begin at the top and put all previous works asunder.
At intermission, my friend introduces me to a man who was on his way to becoming a pre-eminent literary translator, someone who writes with more eloquence in his third language than most in their native tongue. (Gah.)
We spoke of the business, each cocky in his own way and I (young and sloppy) blurted out my ill-conceived ambitions – making it up as I went along, inspired by cheap theatre wine – then, thrilled that this would impress him to no end, recounted an article I’d read recently about Marguerite Yourcenar.
A fledgling translator had sent Yourcenar chapters of her work that he’d rendered of his own accord, brazenly requesting her opinion. Upon reading them, the formidable Ms. Y was so impressed she demanded of her editors that he become her exclusive English translator.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Manguel, ‘that was me.’
· · • · ·