Tag Archives: scribe doll
Eight Complaints of a Literary Translator
One: A couple of weeks ago, my mother’s doctor said he charged £25 to write a (short) letter about the state of her health. I commented that it was more than people would often pay me, as a literary translator. … Continue reading
Surviving the London Book Fair
I’ve pinned my badge to my jacket lapel: Katherine Gregor Literary Translator Freelance United Kingdom The security man scans it. A thin, red line crawls over it like a single spider leg. I step into the giant, dome-shaped Olympia building. … Continue reading
Tallis versus Byrd – when you lack the appropriate vocabulary
“You can really tell if it’s Byrd or Tallis from the first few bars?” H. likes some Early and 16th Century music, but is more of a Romantic and 20th Century man. He likes passion in music. I like post-white-ruff … Continue reading
Fifty
One finger for every pie. One colour for every intention. The first thought that flashed through my head when I saw the gloves. I was in a Norwich shop called ‘Head in the Clouds’ – apparently, UK’s oldest head shop. I … Continue reading
Baucis and Philemon
P. and T. kiss in public. A swift, light peck on the lips, so full of tenderness and respect. T. squeezes P.’s hand and he holds it, drawing strength from its warmth and reassurance. I watch them in awe. They … Continue reading
Clocks Take a Step Back, So Take a Step Forward
It’s my favourite day of the year. I go to bed with a feeling of hopeful anticipation, after setting all the clocks in the flat back by an hour. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to wake up to … Continue reading
No (Proper) Post Today
Scribe Doll is busy packing and saying goodbye to Brussels. For further information, see Westvleteren. Scribe Doll
The Castle of Translators
Seneffe. H. is beaming as we walk into the courtyard. It is girdled by a horseshoe of former 18th century stables, now turned into guest rooms. In front of us, beyond the railings, are the tall trees belonging to the … Continue reading
Pandolfi’s Violin
There’s a twinkle in the eye of the violin in Pandolfi’s sonatas. He teases, provokes, confuses – then bursts out laughing. An impish laugh, part-threatening, part-joyful. Now, he plays the notes measuredly, mathematically, in deference to the accompanying continuo, and now … Continue reading
Homesick
Wind-swept, East of England skies. Shapeshifting clouds. Swirls of white puff that stretch into mountains, curl into castles, swell into dragons, rise into chariots, then metamorphose into angels. Skies mottled with lead-grey, steel-grey, velvet grey with undertones of purple, shades … Continue reading