It reminded me that love almost never goes according to plan, even with the aid of witchcraft.
You were recently locked in a room with seven translators...
In the photo of my mother that bothers me the most, five men are sitting on a white sofa and she’s draped across their legs.
It was a tree that didn’t discriminate between race, religion, language or age.
That magical experience of nature happened momentarily but its significance etched itself in their hearts forever.
I know that when the time comes you’ll seek me out. Like the great explorers, you’ll trace my every step.
So often it was the fridge that held the very heart of the mystery, the key to explaining houses and their owners.
‘The worst days of my life, Miguel. The worst I’ve ever been through.’
Questions and translation from the Japanese by Hart Larrabee, participant in the Japanese-English workshop at the BCLT Summer School
Jean Boase-Beier writes on translating the poetry of the Holocaust with reference to Paul Celan's Totenhemd.