at Logan airport and ended up at an old North End haunt of mine, an Italian restaurant called Stella’s. There we were meeting for lunch two Atlantic editors, Ann Holmes and Phoebe Adams. In the company of these two attractive women, Borges opened up like a sun-kissed blossom. He was particularly enjoying the naughtiness of the occasion. Mum was the word, as he was fond of putting his little secrets.
I wanted to try an experiment to see if the way Borges and I were going about our poetry translations could also be applied to his prose. I wrote out a rough draft of one of his stories, ‘The Other Death’, then sat down with him and went over it. I read him half a line of the Spanish followed by half a line of my English version. At once we saw the plan worked.
I confess that this involved way of making our translations – both the poetry and the prose – proved the most inefficient and time-consuming possible. But our interest – whatever it took – was in giving our work a painstaking linguistic accuracy that we found absent from most earlier translations of Borges’s stories. We also wished to endow our English versions with the true colour of Borges’s voice.
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