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I was also pretty good at reproducing barnyard sounds. My cock's crow was much more authentic than either the English cock-a-doodle-doo or the Spanish qui-qui-ri-qui, both of which show the essential impossibility of translation. Words and names were all around me. I had private nicknames for people which I never expressed or revealed because their accuracy might be taken for cruelty or disdain, which it was not. I would also look at rock the structure and window rock arrangement of houses, giving them faces and making them, to my mind's eye and ear, speak the names of their owners. This rock seemed so foolish that I never mentioned it to anyone. The private sphere we inhabit is largely secret, else we would reveal it more often. My feeling is that this may hold the deepest instincts we put to use when we translate, before we lard it over with reason and its concomitant rational attributes. These latter, of course, are absolutely essential to our craft, yet, as in life itself, a balance must be maintained.
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