i think i want to start a club for people who want to translate things from old english. like, oh, beowulf. and then maybe another epic poem or two.
i don't have any more translation to do. and it makes me sad. even though it was a struggle to get it done before class every day, even though it was a reason that i couldn't go out at times, translating's fun. it's immediate gratification. flipping back to the beginning of my translation book, my translation was horrid then, and then look at where it is now. i can go four lines at a time without having to look things up in the gloss, i can understand what the point of a phrase is without near as much struggle, and know that whose fingers burst when holding what when and where.
i don't have to sit in my bed late at night, wrapped up in a quilt, translating until i fall asleep anymore. i don't get the fuzzy glee when i come across words like snottrum or dom or mode, and get to think about the multiple meanings and how it changes the tone of the poem. i won't find any more fun phrases like "fingras burston" or "dysigan mann"* i don't get to hurridly translate on the skytrain on the way up to school, with images of battles and treasure and honour and kings in my head, tainting the way i take in my surroundings. i won't be as likely to look out the skytrain near renfrew and imagine castles poking up out of the hills. (they'd fit very well there, i tell you!)
tragic. truly tragic.
fortunately, when i mentioned the idea of a club to half of my class today, they began to consider it too. because i'm not the only insane person who enjoys translating beowulf.
or, we're all just gluttons for punishment.
* alright, fine, technically "dysigan mann" is from a parable that we translated last semester, but still. old english is fun!