It's a strange thing about the way I translate. Right now I'm working on two things, texts, that is: a new Cixous book and a poem by Yves Bonnefoy. I'm sure some people do a rigorous mental analysis of the texts they translate before they ever set pen to paper; ie, fingers to keys. For me it's a physical process: it's as if I were making dough. I can't read without kneading the words. I haven't yet read the Bonnefoy poem--wonderful--to the end. I haven't yet--this is a much longer project--read Ciguë to the end, but already I am doing a draft. A stanza a day, a page a day. The suspense of not knowing. The pleasure of it. Like flour and salt and water sticking to your hands.