At first I assumed it was the motion. | The stomach lurch as I felt my way | along flickering hallways | with dark wood cabinets.
I woke up late. Looked out the small window overhead. The lights of the chapel on the other side of the driveway shone in through the heavy snowfall but it was dark otherwise.
Space has always fascinated me. It is both exhaustingly terrifying and magnificently beautiful. Our human minds are unable to comprehend its infinite size and our instincts drive us to never stop exploring it. We send probes and satellites and men into this great unknown so that we may map and understand that which we cannot see with our naked eyes. Our planet hurdles through a vacuum entirely uninhabitable to our kind.
After some help from strangers near the peak of their crossing, Neruda says, This I remember well, that when we sought to give the mountain dwellers a few coins in gratitude for their songs, for the food, for the thermal waters, for giving us lodging and beds, I would say for the unexpected refuge that came to us on our journey, our offering was rejected out of hand.
In France, every edition of the Petit Larousse dictionary removes around five hundred words. Put differently, since Le Petit Larousse’s first edition in 1906, nearly ten thousand words have been withdrawn. Sure, plenty of new words have been added instead through time. But, don’t you also wonder what happened to the words that fell into disuse?
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Writers are given the liberty to explore their ideas over a series of pieces. These ‘threads’ are woven together thematically or stylistically, and lightly but deftly touch on the feelings, objects, memories, and passions that pervade our days, crystallising them into psychological and artistic truth. They aim to "feel at each thread" of the mingled webs of our lives, as Pope says in his An Essay on Man: 'The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.'
From Greek boardings on the Testament, to English translations of the Arabian Nights, all saw translation as an inherent part of reading and thought. But isn’t translation a greater enterprise of stone shaped into verse, and colour turned into melody? Wasn’t Bernini translating in exquisite marble Daphne’s myth? Aren’t Garcilasos’ verses a melodic translation of Daphne's pain? Isn’t translation, then, the intimate fibre of the most subtle artistic creations? Paraphrasis is the column in which writers are invited to join the modest but arcane craft of the translator by translating and engaging with a piece of poetry, prose, visual arts or music.
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