At eight years of age, I almost stopped sleeping. When I did manage to fall asleep, I found myself in the worst of nightmares. My ability to remain aware in the dream and to control the surrounding dream world lit me up like a beacon in the darkness. Every moment I felt the unkind attention of Morpheus upon me.
Тогда, в восемь лет, я почти перестал спать, а если всё-таки засыпал, оказывался в худшем из кошмаров. Моя способность осознавать себя во сне и управлять миром сновидений подсвечивала меня в темноте. Каждое мгновение я чувствовал на себе недоброе внимание Морфея.
The boughs of the olive tree branch out on the large room’s window, which opens onto a folktale repeated by the villagers about a spider inhabiting the old house on the plateau. A distorted spider whose shape swelled as it captured profane spirits. Alien faces to the village were caught in its nets: men with unkempt hair and beards, unpleasant faces in veils, and jelly-like features that came to hide in the spider's web.
تتفرع أغصان شجرة الزيتون على شباك الغرفة الكبيرة المفتوح على خرافة يرددها القريون عن عنكبوت تسكن البيت القديم الذي يتراءى على الهضبة. عنكبوت مسخ تضخم شكلها وهي تواصل أسر الأرواح المدنسة. لقد علقت بين شباكها وجوه غريبة على القرية، رجال بشعور ولحي مشعثة، ووجوه متفسخة وراء النقاب، ملامح هلامية جاءت للتخفي في بيت العنكبوت...
Cesária Escobar tinha dezesseis anos quando aceitou casar com um homem que vira apenas uma vez na vida. Seus sete irmãos e irmãs estremeceram ao ver o casal descer do altar de braços dados, mas a mãe, já viúva, beijou-lhe a testa e desejou aos dois toda a sorte que o mundo pode dar. O homem, Apolinário Barandirán García, não fizera condição alguma à sua família, e aceitou a pouca fortuna, a beleza medíocre, o sangue miscigenado.
Cesária Escobar was sixteen when she walked down the aisle, arm in arm with a man she had only met once. Her seven brothers and sisters watched in dismay, but her widowed mother wished her well. The man, Apolinário Barandirán García, made no conditions to her family—he accepted her lack of fortune, her average looks, her mixed blood.
Op dat moment kwam er een gedachte in me op: Tabula Rasa. Als ik dit wil overleven dan moet ik haast maken. Als het mijn hersenen bereikt of mijn hart aantast, dan is het over. In mijn hoofd maakte ik een schema om elke drie uur of zo vaak als nodig mijn fluxer te gebruiken.
A thought surfaced in my mind: Tabula Rasa. If I want to survive this I’ll have to hurry. If it reaches my brain or my heart, it’s over. In my head I prepared a schedule to use the fluxer every three hours or as often as I needed it.
Don Andrés Batista no creía en fantasmas. Ni en predicciones, ni en maldiciones ni en brujas. Para él lo único real eran los hechos desnudos. Durante seis décadas había ejercido la magistratura con fiero criterio aferrado a la verdad, la justicia y la demostración mediante la prueba confiable. Consideraba por debajo de la inteligencia humana dar fe a supersticiones “baratas”, amén de ser un enemigo declarado de la mentira.
Mr. Andrés Batista did not believe in ghosts. Nor in premonitions, curses or witchcraft. He was interested only in bare facts. For six decades he had served as regional magistrate with fierce devotion to truth, justice and demonstration through tangible evidence. He considered it an insult to human intelligence to believe in tawdry superstitions. He was a self-declared enemy of lies.
Short stories tend to have much shorter lifespans than novels do. As such, a translation is a form of reincarnation. The end result is the same story, but also a completely different one at the same time. The first level of changes is due to the different language operating under another structure, a different set of ties binding the abstract with the specific. But there's also the second level, a more intimate level where the story surreptitiously obtains new properties after it’s been processed through the mind of the translator.
