quinta-feira, 30 de julho de 2009

An Event

I attended last Saturday a very interesting meeting about Peace. The event took place downtown in Rio de Janeiro.
And I was there, in a booth, attentive to every single word heard. I still have the badge bearing my interpreter's accreditation as a trophy, a medal, anything of the sort. I was not told to give it back when I left so it turned my keepsake, my souvenir.
Before beggining, I thought I would have the butterflies. The main reason was that I'm not familiar with modern conference room booths and the technical paraphernalia connected thereto.
The equipment, however, was (to my utmost relief) really user-friendly. Better still, I had a fellow translator beside me all the time who kindly showed me how to switch channels, use the microphone, read the green LEDs and God knows what else a couple of minutes before what could otherwise have been a true ordeal.
I had been introduced to him on the way to the place, which was almost within walking reach.
Our arrangement on how to share the day's work was based on the first signs of tiredness each one of us would have, and we both stuck to that, so the whole thing really worked.
Another concern I had was about my spoken Spanish. I simply haven't been speaking any Spanish whatsoever these days. I kept wondering what would the speakers or someone in the audience come up with.
I just didn’t know what to expect and the best I could do was to calm down, watch what was going on in the opening round which conveniently enough for me was his, wait and see what would happen when he first got tired and signed me so, inviting me for a bit of action.
Lucky me, nothing I could not translate except for half a dozen really unimportant details not very well heard and a guy in the audience who was from Rio Grande do Sul (my state) who spoke too fast to me (and to everyone else, I guess), but he fortunately didn't speak too long and his overall stuff was easily understandable.
I went there thinking I would be requested to translate either from or into English alone, but in the last minute it was found out that there were enough translators for English but only one for Spanish. I volunteered to fill that sorry gap but was told to be ready to move between conference rooms upon request. I was really not needed in another room. Thank God. Translation where I was did run smooth, almost easy to do, with my inexperience and all.
Today I was told the dough for that pleasant workday would be available. No one told me even how much it was, but anyway whatever it is will be pretty welcome. End of month, you know. Like every common mortal, I'm flat broke.

quarta-feira, 15 de julho de 2009

A Book

In my life, it's needless to say, books have always been part and parcel.

I've already had a number of them. Not anylonger.

Some were lost with my own frequent moving, others were borrowed by people who never read them, but never returned them either, others were stolen, some were sold and many were given away.

I had for example a precious Nestle New Testament, Greek and German (Gothic characters), 18th century, one of the most regretted losses. Only someone who knew what it was about would covet such a relic, so I thought nobody ever would. It was just a very old book that seemingly nobody could even read. But I found out I was wrong... by losing it. I'll certainly never know who the hell stole it. And it will take me too long to fetch another copy, if ever. This kind of stuff is really rare.

A not so old Bible in Italian had suffered the attack of bookworms. I managed to stop it and then filled a great big hole in the hard back cover with epoxi resin. But the book went "crippled". The main text was left intact and can still be reread, though.

An old volume called The Limits of Art, given me (or transferred to me, in his own words) by Daniel Brilhante de Brito, my initiator in the art of translation, is an impressive sample with the best pages ever written by authors of all times and places, according to very competent critics of all times and places.

The book, printed in the early 50's, was already old when of said transference in the mid 80's. The volume also reminded me of its giver, who passed away about three years ago. He was a man whose impressive learning has earned my unqualified respect and admiration. Men of this rare kind also grow old and eventually die. I don't know how old he lived to be but saying he had at least fulfilled his alloted span must be a safe guess.

I used to flee to that volume during a long period of personal "darkness". Literal darkness even, since I had for example to live without electric energy for months on end.

To while away the tedium of that hopeless period of extreme poverty earlier in this century, I often could enjoy the company of Homer, Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Hugo, Voltaire, Yeats, Poe, Verlaine, Schiller, Goethe, just to mention some. Of course, no one around to share anything from such readings. By turning again and again to it I have even learned by heart some of my favorites.

Just imagine, every single line in my book was worth reading and rereading, just in a moment I scarcely ever could hear anything worth hearing, see anything worth seeing, let alone read anything worthy at all.

In the very "cave" I found these days again the volume I though lost. Apparently, it has been there all the time.

Now I can turn again to those extreme pages. I just love them.