The “Other Sort”: A Nearly Invisible Scene of Translation
The George Washington University
The ‘other sort’, I mean in cases where the ‘translater’ [sic] is definitely making a new poem, falls simply in the domain of original writing
If there is a difference between the writing of a translation and the writing of so-called original works, that difference is not one of rhythm but of expectation. Both cases actually involve a similar rhythm, a promise of meaning and representation, an opening and closing of mouths, the movements of a tongue calling out to an ear in the dark. A pair of lips searching for another. The very process of translation, the process of searching for the right words and syntax (or at least the best available words and syntax), the process of trying to capture and recreate the tone and feel of a text in a second tongue—this process creates—better yet: this process becomes—a generative machine very much analogous to the machinery of the production of the first text: the mechanisms, the gears, the nuts and bolts of writing the text otherwise known as the original. Analogous machinery, different expectations.
Ever since I began translating the work of the Argentine Ricardo Piglia, about twenty years ago, the author and I have maintained an ongoing conversation about translation, a conversation that has included correspondence, faxes at first, emails after a while, and a series of recorded conversations that we have since had transcribed. From early on I have kept a translation Notebook, in which I have jotted down questions, problems of translation, difficult words or terms, unusual phrasing, parts of the text where there is no equivalence in the other language, ambiguities, situations with more than one possible interpretation, possible solutions, options. Words or sentences in both languages (or in three, sometimes), one on top of the other, to hear echoes, outline similarities, highlight differences. Variations of differing verb tenses or agreements, the fusing of two sentences into one, sardonic cacophonies, alliterations, double entendres. References or allusions that require further research, topics and subjects for future inquiry, reflections about the process. Notebooks and small cassettes with recorded interviews: twenty years of work documenting a nearly invisible scene: the task of the Piglian translator.
When I translated Ricardo Piglia’s 1992 La ciudad ausente I felt, at times, as if my work as a translator was a direct and natural projection of the machine at the center of the novel, with its ceaseless output of stories that are re-workings and re-combinations of other stories, in turn reproduced and circulated throughout a city somehow composed of the stories themselves.(1) A mechanism of narrating (una máquina de narrar) as if projected from the original itself, though clearly of an “other sort.” All my work at the time seemed to originate at the machine at the center of the novel. Macedonio’s machine: a narrating machine conceptually created, more or less, in the early twentieth century by Macedonio Fernández. Even my recorded conversations with the author while translating La ciudad ausente seemed directly and organically connected to the novel and the recordings of Macedonio’s machine.
Likewise, when I translated “Brief Stories” from Piglia’s 1988 Prisión perpetua [Perpetual Prison], I experienced a kind of contagion of the very mechanism (of the very machinery) of the production of the writing. A productive contagion, but a contagion nonetheless: errant, unpredictable. Variants, variations, which turned out to be both different and the same as the ones in the original. How can one text be more than one text? How can a text be itself and another at the same time? The scene of translation reveals what readers intuit. The real story of the task of the Piglian translator, for me, goes back to the “Brief Stories” in Perpetual Prison.
In his 1987 essay “¿Existe la novela argentina?” [Does the Argentine Novel Exist?],(2). Ricardo Piglia discusses the place that the Polish writer Witold Gombrowicz occupies in Argentine literary tradition. In an explicit dialogue with “El escritor argentino y la tradición” [The Argentine Writer and Tradition] by Jorge Luis Borges, Piglia asks:
¿Qué pasa cuando uno pertenece a una cultura secundaria? ¿Qué pasa cuando uno escribe en una lengua marginal? Sobre estas cuestiones reflexiona Gombrowicz en su Diario y la cultura argentina le sirve de laboratorio para experimentar sus hipótesis… En este punto Borges y Gombrowicz se acercan (14).
[What happens when one belongs to a secondary culture? What happens when one writes in a marginal tongue? These are the questions that Gombrowicz explores in his Diary (Notebooks), where Argentine culture serves as a laboratory to test his hypotheses… On this matter Borges and Gombrowicz are very close.]
Piglia goes on to say:
Pueblos de frontera, que se manejan entre dos historias, en dos tiempos y a menudo en dos lenguas. Una cultura nacional dispersa y fracturada, en tensión con una tradición dominante de alta cultura extranjera. Para Borges (como para Gombrowicz) este lugar incierto permite un uso específico de la herencia cultural: los mecanismos de falsificación, la tentación del robo, la traducción como plagio, la mezcla, la combinación de registros, el entrevero de filiaciones. Esa sería la tradición argentina (15).
[Border peoples who have to navigate between two histories, in two times and often in two tongues. A dispersed and fractured national culture in tension with a dominant tradition of high foreign exchange. For Borges (and for Gombrowicz) this uncertain place allows for a specific use of their cultural inheritance: mechanisms of falsification, a temptation to steal, translation as plagiarism, mixtures, combinations of registers, the intermingling of filiations. This, then, would be the Argentine tradition.]
The salient element, for our discussion here, is the phrase “translation as plagiarism.” Like Borges before him—as well as Gombrowicz and Roberto Arlt, in a crossing of writers and genres already paradigmatic in his work—Piglia not only does not deny that translation is a kind of plagiarism, he in fact values translation precisely because of its intrinsic appropriations and transformations. Similar to other mechanisms of falsification and theft, “translation as plagiarism” is seen as having the potential to produce an intermingling, a mixture that de-purifies, even as it reproduces. A mixture that stains, a corroding contagion that mongrelizes literature. The concept and practice of mistranslation—a concept and practice that, along with misreading, are at the core of literature, its creation as well as its transmission. Especially in Latin America.
But outside Latin America, how should one read Latin America’s misreadings? How does a literary tradition, like Argentina’s, one that is formed and crossed by so many travelers and foreigners, a tradition with so many translations and rewritings—how does such a tradition travel abroad, beyond its own borders? How do you translate a mistranslation? The question is the value and potential of “translation as plagiarism” in Latin American literature, as well as how that value and potential might travel, how they might be translated into English.
A few years ago I had the opportunity to translate a text by Ricardo Piglia for an issue of Words Without Borders. We selected “Brief Stories,” a series of micro-narratives from Piglia’s Prisión perpetua. The series is composed of short, interconnected stories that share a common style. Each micro-story begins with the formulation “Había una o un…” [There was a…]. All the stories are set in the U.S. Each micro-story is concise; as a group, the pace is fast and efficient, accelerating toward the end, as each story becomes briefer, more economical, microscopic.
Prisión perpetua is a kind of bildungsroman of Piglia’s explicit double, Emilio Renzi.(3) Among other things, the novella narrates the beginnings of Renzi’s writing, in the form of the oft-mentioned Diary that the author has been working on for over fifty years. The novella also recounts Renzi’s first meetings with Steve Ratliff, a very influential character in Renzi’s early development as a writer. In the context of Prisión perpetua, the micro-narratives that would become “Brief Stories” appear as a narrative exercise of sorts, as Emilio Renzi—and Piglia with him—seem to be experimenting with different ways to tell stories. Renzi is trying to tell the story of his mentor Steve Ratliff, presented as a kind of literary father figure to the aspiring, young writer. The micro-narratives in Prisión perpetua are stories that Steve Ratliff tells Renzi (according to Renzi), which Renzi in turn tells us, as we read them (in the original). In the translation, the authorship is altered, Emilio Renzi and Steve Ratliff fade from the picture. In the translation of the “Brief Stories” by itself, without the original narrative framework provided by the novella, Renzi and Ratliff are reabsorbed, so to speak, into Piglia’s authorial function. The text appears in Words Without Borders simply as micro-stories by Ricardo Piglia, in translation.
The context of the micro-stories, so important in the original, is in essence nearly impossible to translate. Translating a fragment (“Brief Stories”) from a larger text (Prisión perpetua) changes the fragment, even before one changes languages. In the original, immediately before the “Brief Stories” appear, Renzi tells us that Ratliff had shown him parts of, and was always talking to him about a work in progress to which Ratliff had dedicated much of his life. Right before the “Brief Stories” appear, Renzi says: “La novela de Steve ha terminado por formar parte de mi propio pasado. Cuando escribo tengo siempre la impresión de estar contando su historia, como si todos los relatos fueran versiones de ese relato interminable” [Steve’s novel has ended up forming part of my own past. When I write I always have the impression that I am telling his story, as if all the stories were a version of that one endless story] (42). Behind the micro-stories of Prisión perpetua there is an imagined text, a conceptual and nearly invisible pre-text: Steve Ratliff’s novel in progress to which Renzi alludes, and which Renzi is trying, through variants and variations, to tell in his own text—which is actually Piglia’s text, Prisión perpetua. As if they were stories in search of a style and a form: the style and form found in Piglia’s book.
But the experimentation with the narrative frames in the original is not carried over in the translation. The fragment that is essential to the larger structure of the original is deconstructed by the very virtue of its fragmentation. The doubling of the authorial figures, the multiple readings and retellings, and the various narrative frames are necessarily absent from the fragmentary “Brief Stories.” Still, I felt it was my task to try to write this—the style and form for which Renzi searches in the micro-stories—into my translation. Although this complexity would not appear in Words Without Borders—although this complexity would remain nearly invisible—I very much wanted to find a way to include the conceptual framework of the original “Brief Stories” in my version of the text. (4)
It should also be noted that one of the more curious aspects of Prisión perpetua is that Renzi tells us that he is speaking in English, although what we read in the original is in Spanish. This is more than just a curious aside, especially for the translator of the text into English. Even before being translated out of Spanish, the novella presents, for a moment, as an issue of potential literature: the original in Spanish reads like a text removed from its own language, as if it had already been translated, one imagines, from English to Spanish—seemingly already anticipating its translation into English. In other words, there is an invisible translation in (or behind) Prisión perpetua, which can only be made visible (even partially visible) in its eventual future translation. In this sense, in Prisión perpetua, like in other texts by Piglia, Renzi leans toward English. The contagion—for the translator—is already there.
“Brief Stories,” then, is a series of interwoven micro-stories, all beginning with the same formulation: “There was a woman (or a man), who…” A woman reads a book (the I-Ching) to make decisions in her life, from the smallest to the most radical. A fake psychiatrist who runs a suicide hotline in New York receives calls from throughout the country, and records his patients’ messages. A convict who has just gotten out of jail, and occasionally makes anonymous phone calls to a nighttime suicide prevention line in New York. A recovering alcoholic who breaks into his friends’ houses at night, and receives their phone calls the next day telling him that they’ve been robbed. And so on. In principle, any one of the succeeding stories could fit in one or more of the narratives that precede it. A character’s voice could be a message on the fake psychiatrist’s recording machine, or a character in the mad plot of the woman who reads the I-Ching to know how to act in her life, and so on. The brief stories unfold as a minimizing series, like Chinese boxes or Russian dolls, each flowing organically from the initial story line.
When I did the translation something strange happened. I finished writing the translation of the “Brief Stories” taken from Prisión perpetua, but I didn’t stop. I continued writing other stories, in the same style, with the same form (There was a woman or a man who…). Stories that, as I thought at the time, could very well have been—could very well be—in Perpetual Prison. Except they weren’t. Toward the end of the translation there was a break, or a leap, and something happened and suddenly I felt that rewriting those stories, that writing a translation of those stories, could mean something else. That rewriting meant something else.
To try to explain, I go back to my translation journal and find one of the entries from the time, when I was working on these micro-narratives. The Notebook is in Spanish; I quote part of the relevant entry here, in translation:
Dated January 11, 2003, the entry reads:
Last night I dreamt with one of the brief stories from Perpetual Prison. In the dream I had to finish translating it, the deadline for the electronic submission was approaching and I hadn’t finished yet, something was impeding my progress. Literally, in the dream, I couldn’t see it. I was sitting in front of my computer but I couldn’t see the screen, it was all a blur. I could tell there was a lot of anxiety, even in the dream I was aware of this. Then something happened, I don’t know how to explain it, it was the same dream but something had changed. It happens often enough. Awakened by an apnea and back, perhaps. Or maybe one of the cats… In any case, I was still in front of the computer but now the translation was nearly finished, I could see the words clearly on the screen, There was a woman, There was a psychiatrist, There was a convict, and so on. It was the translation I had written the day before, but it wasn’t the translation I had written the day before. Some phrases were identical, I realized when I woke up. There were several possible futures, The book told her the way, All the stories revolved around a pivotal point… But the translation was longer than the original, even though I was translating (even though I am translating) into English. The efficacy of the syntax, the concise lexicon, a drive for directness: a new problem.
There’s a limit to the number of words you can submit to the journal. What can I do? The output has been altered. Something has happened, a surprise, a ceaseless flow, or nearly so. I pressed the down arrow key and the text kept appearing, page after page, an apparent infinite scrolling down of brief stories, all connected, all with the same beginning, There was a woman who… There was a man who…
The entry continues:
When I awoke this morning, instead of the usual headache before coffee, a peaceful contentment I cannot explain. As if a serious problem had suddenly been lifted. But there was no problem. Just a normal translation day, books and pens, dictionaries spread open on the kitchen table. Finish the task, get it done before winter break ends. How can I understand the solution, if I’m not conscious of the problem? I awoke this morning with the solution, even though I never had the problem. The other sort.
“I have the solution,” I read in my notebook, “the problem has been resolved. I have a visible solution to an invisible problem.”(5)
The next few pages of the journal contain fragments from the translation, different options for various turns of phrases, challenging words or expressions that seemed fixed in Spanish, imperfect options, more questions. And then the “Brief Stories” begin. But instead of the interconnected stories from Perpetual Prison, there are others. For example: “There was a university student who had a secret job with the National Security Agency, three blocks from campus….” Or: “There was a Latin American professor who spent hours watching television at night….” And: “There was an architect who worked only with landscapes, he was an expert with outdoor designs, but he couldn’t picture the interior of a house to save his life…” (Problems of Translation January 13, 2003).(6) And so on.
The brief stories of the translator who dreams, I thought. Or perhaps: Other options for a possible translation. But these have remained invisible. Almost invisible. The brief stories of the translator are like that, even if they are in another language: both like and not like those of the author, they have the same form, the same style and tone, but the characters are different. Even when the situations are analogous, the implications point elsewhere. In the end, none of these other brief stories were included in the submission to Words Without Borders. The question of ethics seemed relevant to the task at hand, even dealing with a translation of “translation as plagiarism.”
And so the other, additional brief stories, those created by the imaginary machinery of translation—the ones that coincide with the style and form of the micro-stories in Prisión perpetua but are not there—remain in a notebook back home. At the time, it seemed strange, to use the writing of a translation to write stories not in the original, but whose concept somehow remained loyal to the concept of that original. Now I think that this is something that always happens with translation, at least potentially. When the machinery of the translation becomes a narrating machine. The task of the translation machine is to write the same text, in another tongue. But once the machine is running, once the translator has caught on to the movement of the prose—the rhythm if not the expectation—then of course. Once it is running, the machine can, potentially, continue its output beyond the last period at the end of the original (más allá del punto final). The “other sort” would begin—the other text begins—after the last period at the end (más allá del punto final) of the original. I believe my experience writing the translation of “Brief Stories” can happen with any translation. Why be faithful to the period at the end of the original if the concept of the original encourages the narrative machine to continue?(7)
Because the scene of translation almost always remains invisible, the unusual creative and scholarly process that takes place within its borders often remains unknown, and unexplored. The scene of translation emerges as a third space, seemingly empty, in between languages and texts, suspected—and suspect.(8) But something does happen in that scene, there is a potential in the scene of translation that deserves to be unveiled: something akin to contagion. The contagion of translation; translation as contagion. George Steiner reports that, “Writers have ceased from translation, sometimes too late, because the inhaled voice of the foreign text had come to choke their own” (195). Steiner is warning of the risk that accompanies translation when the “hermeneutic act” fails to “compensate” the original, and does not properly “seek to equalize” the translation with the original (196-197). But what if the translator doesn’t cease, even after another voice has been inhaled?
Piglia talks about translation as plagiarism, which—for him, for Argentine literature—has everything to do with Borges and Arlt and a poetics of appropriating and diverting and transforming from a corner of the globe, in South America, as a way to imagine a nation and its literature. I think of translation as contagion, with as much candor as possible, because it has happened, once or twice, that I have read back and been unable to determine which one, exactly, wrote the text in question. The original takes on another life in the translation, just as much as the translation would not exist without the original. As Derrida says, referring to Benjamin’s “The Task of the Translator”: “If the translation is indebted to the original (this is its task, its debt [Aufgabe]), it is because already the original is indebted to the coming translation” (“Roundtable on Translation” 153). (9)
Translation as plagiarism, translation as contagion. The task of the Piglian translator. I would like to cite another entry from my Problems of Translation Notebooks. This one, too, involves the translation of “Brief Stories.” The recordings in the entry refer to the conversations that I have had with the author about translation over the years, which I mentioned near the start of this essay. The journal entry reads:
There’s a break, a blank space, and then: As if everything was captured (contained?) in that microscopic recording: everything: the original, its translations, every step between one and the other, all the variants and versions essayed along the way, the potentiality of the scene of translation, a nearly invisible node in a microscopic recording where, for a moment, everything was (everything seemed and hence everything was) possible, the options irremediably left behind along the way and eventually abandoned at the end, at the point at which the translator, by definition, must choose one of several possibilities, and translating (that is: choosing, selecting) erase everything else and return to (fall into?) his, her inevitable and also expected invisibility.(10)
I read and work on the transcribed recordings and think about the micro-cassettes spinning in a tiny tape recorder while we were talking. They fit inside a small box, all of them, in my basement, tiny really, the micro-cassettes with the stories in translation and the stories about translation and the spoken novel, unpublished as of yet. The box does not look like what it is, on the lid there is an engraved mounted knight, it used to be a playing card box. Now it holds the finite, rolled-up tape recordings.(11) The machine we used for the recordings—a small, handheld Sony I bought as a graduate student, when I first started—does not work anymore. There is nowhere to get it fixed. They do not make the replacements or the parts anymore. Someday someone will need to invent a new machine to listen to the stories all over again. Until then, there is only this: handwritten notes in college-ruled composition notebooks. The “other sort.”
(1). The Absent City was published in English in 2000. I explore the idea of the translator of La ciudad ausente as a natural extension of the narrating-translation machine at the center of the novel in “Traducir a Piglia.”
(3). As Julio Premat says about Emilio Renzi: “Crítico, detective, testigo, se trata de un doble transparente del autor” [Critic, detective, witness, we are dealing with a transparent double of the author] (128).
(4). “Como si fueran historias en búsqueda de un estilo, de una forma; el estilo y la forma que se encuentran en el libro de Piglia. ¿Que se encuentran? ¿Quién los encuentra? ¿El autor, el lector? No queda claro. … Sin embargo, yo sentía que era esto—el estilo y la forma que busca Renzi en estos micro-relatos—lo que tenía que tratar de incluir en mi versión. En inglés” (Problems of Translation, January 5, 2003).
(5). The notebook entry, as it originally appears in my translation journal from the time, reads:
“Anoche soñé con uno de los breve relatos de Prisión perpetua que tenía que terminar de traducir y enviar por correo electrónico, se aproximaba el deadline y no había terminado todavía, había algo—en el sueño—que me impedía avanzar. No podía seguir adelante, no veía el camino. Literalmente, en el sueño, no veía el camino. Estaba sentado frente a la computadora y no podía ver la pantalla, it was all a blur. Mucha ansiedad, en el sueño. Después algo pasó, no sé cómo explicarlo, era el mismo sueño pero algo había cambiado. Pasa seguido, me imagino. Me habré despertado y luego habré continuado con el mismo sueño. … En fin, cuando el sueño resume la traducción ya estaba casi hecha, las palabras se veían claramente en la pantalla, There was a woman, There was a psychiatrist, There was a convict. Era y no era la traducción que había escrito el día anterior. Algunas frases eran idénticas, me di cuenta al despertarme, a las que realmente había escrito el día anterior. There were several possible futures, The book told her the way, All the stories revolved around a pivotal point. Pero la traducción era mucho más larga que el original. … había salido diferente, si antes el sueño era un sueño de ansiedad (tengo que producir pero no logro avanzar, ¿qué va a pasar con el trabajo?), ahora se había convertido en un sueño imposible, con sorpresas y un fluir básicamente incesantes. … Cuando me desperté esta mañana, en vez del dolor de cabeza era como si un problema serio hubiera sido resuelto. Pero no había ningún problema. Lo único que tengo que hacer es sentarme a trabajar, terminar la traducción a tiempo, enviarla a los editores de la nueva revista, seguir corrigiendo los papers de mis estudiantes para estar listo para las clases del martes. ¿Cómo se puede enterar uno de cuál fue el problema que se resuelve en un sueño si uno, en la vigilia, ni siquiera es consciente de que el problema existe? Me desperté como quien se despierta con una solución, sin nunca saber cuál había sido el problema. Tengo la solución, el problema se resolvió en el sueño. Pero una solución solamente sirve si hay un problema para resolver.”
(6). In the Notebook, these “other” Brief Stories have a beginning but are almost immediately interrupted and left unfinished. The only exception is the initial “other sort” about the university student with the secret job, which continues a bit further. I cite it here in its entirety: “Había una estudiante universitaria con un trabajo secreto a tres cuadras del campus. Los cursos le servían para completar el título y luego subir las escalas de la profesión secreta. Los cursos de literatura funcionaban como sitios de práctica de espionaje (interpretación y correlación, lo llaman en la Agencia). Se acostaba con compañeros y compañeras al azar, en los veinte minutos que tenía entre clases, en baños reservados para discapacitados, en cubículos de estudio para estudiantes de posgrado nocturnos, en la escalera de escape de incendios a la vuelta del centro estudiantil: espacios fuera de circulación, a la vista pero nunca vistos por nadie, glóbulos invisibles en la tela diaria de la vida del campus. Practicaba para convertirse en una femme fatale profesional [She was practicing to become a professional femme fatale]. Estudiar en la universidad era su fachada [her cover story]; lo había aprendido todo en la Agencia” (January 13, 2003).
(7). Commentary, as critics have noted, can serve as this sort of supplement, too. Philip E. Lewis, for example, states, “Commentary supplies the translation by doing other than translation. In the wake of translation, the mission of commentary is to translate in difference” (275).
(9). In this same section of the “Roundtable on Translation,” Derrida adds: “Translation is writing: that is, it is not translation only in the sense of transcription. It is a productive writing called forth by the original text” (153).
(10). “Hay un corte, un espacio en blanco, y luego se lee: … Como si todo estuviera captado en esa microscópica grabación: todo: el original, sus traducciones, todos los pasos del proceso entre uno y el otro, las múltiples posibles variantes y versiones experimentadas en el camino, el potencial de la escena de traducción, un nudo blanco casi invisible en una grabación microscópica donde, por un momento, todo era (todo parecía y por lo tanto era) posible, variantes y versiones eventual e irremediablemente abandonadas al final: cuando el traductor por definición debe escoger una de ellas y al traducir (i.e., al elegir) borrar todo lo demás y volver a (caer en) la invisibilidad esperada. La nota al pie” (Problems of Translation January 12, 2004).
(11). “Leo y trabajo sobre las transcripciones de las grabaciones y pienso en los micro-casetes que usamos en el minúsculo grabador cuando hablábamos… En una cajita en mi sótano, entran todos, son tan chiquitos, los micro-casetes con la historia de la traducción y la novela hablada, inédita aún. La caja húngara, sería el título, algún día. La otra caja no parece lo que es, en la tapa tiene grabado un caballero montado; era una caja con naipes, ahora contiene la finita cinta grabadora toda enrollada” (Problems of Translation January 13, 2003).
Derrida, Jacques. “Roundtable on Translation.” The Ear of the Other. McDonald, Christie, ed. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1985. 93 – 161.
Lewis, Philip E. “The Measure of Translation Effects.” The Translation Studies Reader, Second Edition. Venuti, Lawrence, ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2004. 256 – 275.
Piglia, Ricardo. Prisión perpetua. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1988.
——. The Absent City. Trans. by Sergio Waisman. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000.
——. “Brief Stories.” Taken from Prisión perpetua. Translated by Sergio Waisman. Words Without Borders February 2004: Prose Tangos. <http://wordswithoutborders.org/issue/february-2004>.
——. “¿Existe la novela argentina?” Espacios de crítica y producción 6 (1987): 13-15.
Pound, Ezra. “Guido’s Relations.” The Translation Studies Reader, Second Edition. Venuti, Lawrence, ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2004. 86 – 93.
Premat, Julio. “Los espejos y la cópula son abominables”. Ricardo Piglia: una poética sin límites. Rodríguez Pérsico, Adriana, ed. Pittsburgh, PA: Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana, 2004. 123 – 134.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “The Politics of Translation.” The Translation Studies Reader, Second Edition. Venuti, Lawrence, ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2004. 369 – 388.
Steiner, George. “The Hermeneutic Motion.” The Translation Studies Reader, Second Edition. Venuti, Lawrence, ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2004. 193 – 198.
Waisman, Sergio. Problems of Translation. 1995 – 2014. Unpublished translation notebooks.
——. “Traducir a Piglia: Una máquina transformadora de historias.” Las máquinas ficcionales de Ricardo Piglia. Romero, Julia, ed. Buenos Aires: Editorial Corregidor, 2014. Forthcoming.