Next, I will translate you into you.
Have you been translated lately?
How long has it been since you've been translated?
When was the last time you were translated?
How much long, length of time, since the last time you were translated by someone, a person, human being, biped, other yourself?
Take a deep breath. Are you translatable?
Scholars agree that this translation is more reliable, more accurate, more true than the original.
He translates by looking up each word, including "a" and "the."
That's no mirror, dude, it's a translation.
Two unique translations, side by side, both useless.
I translate so much, I don't even know I’m translating. Am I translating?
Sorry to be translating again. Now you translate, I insist.
I translate everything, Greek, dolphins, paperweights, the city of Philadelphia.
The only thing I can't translate is squirrel. Squirrel syntax and slang crash my hard drive.
Poetry is the illicit booty gained through the strenuous or glib art of translation. I think I got it right, finally. (I just translated that from squirrel.)
Translation is in fact the engine of much of the world's poetry.
Without translation, poetry would be reduced to a few ballads sung by your upstairs neighbor, on his balcony, at 3AM.
We must localize our poetry production, to reduce our self-destructive addiction to translation.
Translation, like jazz, is a form of revenge.
Translation, like jazz, is a tool of imperialism.
Translation, like jazz, is an improvised explosive device.
I cannot mistranslate. I don't even know how.
He thinks it's a virtue to translate away from the original.
My translation is way longer and way bigger than yours.
"Two faces that are alike, although neither of them excites laughter by itself, make us laugh when together, on account of their likeness."--Pascal
[more at Neither Nor]
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