Revising

In this case, intermittently but intensely, the Krasznahorkai translation. I forget how dreadful some passages were in the first version because I was so relieved at getting through them at the time. Re-encountering them is depressing. It's like meeting oneself first thing in the morning, hair all over the place, hangdog look, unshaven, barely sensate.

So you take the text, wash its face, brush its teeth, comb its werewolf hair and wait for that maniacal gleam to reappear in its eyes. You hope for a full moon. Then, once ready, you let it out, allowing it to seek whom it may devour.

Me? I put my glasses on but it's no great improvement. On the road again today, perforce.