A Language of Dragons

by S.F. Williamson

Every act of translation requires sacrifice—it is this harsh truth that made me fall in love. There exists no direct correlation between the words of one language and another, and no translation can be entirely faithful to its original. So, while a person can more or less bridge the gap between languages using words, there is always some deeper meaning left unsaid, a secret invisible to those who only have one language with which to navigate the world.

A translator, on the other hand, is a creature that flies with several pairs of wings.

Vivien,” he says. “Prime ministers should fear their people.”

“Do I need to remind you two that you are here to work?”

Atlas, languages are like that. You can say the same thing a hundred different ways, and occasionally one of those ways is so unique to the translator that it is impossible to reproduce. No other translator will use the same words, the same rhythm, the same turn of phrase ever again. Translating is creating, too.

“I’m saying,” Atlas says pointedly, “that when you oppress a community for centuries you can’t exactly be surprised when it rises up against you.”

“To control languages, to control words, is to control what people know.”

“He taught me that it’s our choices—who we choose to become once we can see our mistakes clearly—that make us who we are.