Only He Who Can View

It Is The Task Of The Translator To Release In His Own Language That Pure Language That Is Under The Spell Of Another, To Liberate The Language Imprisoned In A Work In His Re-creation Of That Work.

Any Translation Which Intends To Perform A Transmitting Function Cannot Transmit Anything But Information-hence, Something Inessential. This Is The Hallmark Of Bad Translations.

In Other Words, The Unique Value Of The "authentic" Work Of Art Has Its Basis In Ritual, The Location Of Its Original Use Value. This Ritualistic Basis, However Remote, Is Still Recognizable As Secularized Ritual Even In The Most Profane Forms Of The Cult Of Beauty.

All The Decisive Blows Are Struck Left-handed.

A Blind Determination To Save The Prestige Of Personal Existence, Rather Than, Through An Impartial Disdain For Its Impotence And Entanglement, At Least To Detach It From The Background Of Universal Delusion, Is Triumphing Almost Everywhere.