Everything is Lost in Translation?
I share a podcast about the Iliad, and language. That led to me realising that we are losing everything to translation. Not just great works. Now we risk losing our very essence, our being. Do we lose who and what we are when we lose perspective? When our authenticity is fake and our hope fades into obscurity?
Hope, like meaning is never lost. Like Proust and his time. It is only misplaced.
