Friday, September 16, 2005

Kite - vlieger - cometa - aquilone

I wish I could write stories in English, Spanish or Italian, but I can't. Expressing myself in another language than my mother tongue is difficult when I wander in the wonderful world of emotions. How would a translation machine translate these lines into Italian? And into Spanish?
Here comes the Spanish translation: Deseo que podría escribir historias en inglés, español o italiano, pero no puedo. Expresarse en otra lengua que mi lengua materna es difícil cuando vago en el mundo maravilloso de emociones. ¿Cómo una máquina de la traducción traduciría estas líneas a italiano? ¿Y en español?
And here the Italian: Desidero che potrei scrivere le storia in inglese, spagnolo o italiano, ma non posso. Esprimendosi in altra lingua che la mia lingua materna è difficile quando vago nel mondo meraviglioso delle emozioni. Come una macchina di traduzione tradurrebbe queste linee in italiano? E nello Spagnolo?
This is not too bad, for a translation machine. Ciò non è troppo difettosa, per una macchina di traduzione. But translating stories is another question.
But I could try how it goes with a little, very little story I once wrote in English, and even though the English is not perfect, it is understandable. Here is the little story:

Don't cry, my little son

When my father died I was young, only seven, and he was young too, only forty-one. But when I lost him I did not think in terms of age. My father was dead, and I cried for hours in that room of my grandfather's house where I had been sent by my mother just a couple of days before his death. How could I accept that he wasn't there anymore?
Now I am the father of my little son who is only three years old. Yesterday he demonstrated how fast he was on his little bike, and he fell down. Blood appeared on his lips and hands, he cried, he was very much alife. When we walked through the hall of our house he looked in the mirror to see what had happened to his lips. During half an hour we sat on the couch and he did not say a word. He asked me to read stories from the book with fairy tales.
Sometimes, when I long for reading a story which completely absorbs my mind, I think about my father, and about my son whose father I am, and about why reading fiction stories is so important for me. Does it help me to face reality? Or does it stimulate me to think and write about my own life?
Don't cry, my little son, I'll tell you a story.

Now I don't feel anymore like putting this little story into a translation machine, because it feels like locking it into a small space, and it needs lots of space, it needs to fly in the air, like one of those messages on a small piece of paper which I, when I was a boy, put on the wire of my kite, and there it went up, right into the air... Maybe I will put it into a translation machine next time, or someone else will do so now. I hope you will enjoy reading it.