For the first time in my life being given a translator's job, I am going through a certain pain. Not because translating means work, not because it requires skill and sense, but because it is in connection with beauty.
Right now it is like taking a skeleton out of a body and forming a new flesh upon it. The fact that I am not as good as I want to be at forming another type of flesh does not pricks me as deep as the fact that the new body I am forming is different from the original. Even if I manage to dig all the bones or at least all the most important ones from one body, forming a flesh of another language and culture upon this skeleton results in a different kind of a body. Why is this new body , even if it is also beautiful, different from the original one? That piece I am translating has its own beauty and fragrance, and I can not make the same and another one at the same time.
Just this feeling that by translating I am destroying can not be removed by the fact I am building up something nice. Translation is distortion. To be distorting is a pain.
Still, there is beauty to the process of translation.