The Nursery

by Szilvia Molnar

After almost ten years as a translator, my work was still mostly a struggle. Not necessarily the work itself, because there was pleasure in trying to get it “right” (a faulty concept that is still thrown around among fellow colleagues).

When I am with John, I am always myself. Sitting and listening to him makes me wonder if the word “compatible” is in any way connected to “compassion.”

The baby is upset he continues, and I can’t tell if the man is perhaps autistic, senile, or simply annoying. Because I have no experience with autistic or senile people, I decide that he is annoying.

As much as I appreciate it, I can find moments when I get bored by the discourse around translation. Grammar is useful but rules seem ridiculous. I mean, I abide by most rules and lean on fairness for my paid work, but I have also caught myself slicing out a sentence or two to make the translation, if not the original work, “better.” Adaptation is my partner. Negotiations are necessary. And I am not shackled to the notion of accuracy, sometimes it’s more important to indicate the direction of the motion presented by a word than to land on the correct one.

Galenskap! I think of the word “lunacy” then “moon” then how I don’t even have the strength to howl.

Funny how quickly I had lost the idea of “any given moment.” Momentum implying something similar to “movement, motion, moving power” but also “alteration, change” over a “short time,” having a longer duration than “an instant,” ett ögonblick, a blink of an eye. As a puff of smoke giving in to air, I watched the moment disappear from me.