I once was a writer...

There is a Colombian tradition, law almost, which states that in order to welcome the new year properly, one must wear yellow underwear. Preferably new. Preferably blinding-sun-yellow (as opposed to pale yellows, or ochre tones). The more absurd and ridiculous, the better (granny panties, for instance), but that is more a matter of personal preference than it is part of the law (g-strings and thongs are allowed). I can't remember the last time I didn't wear yellow panties - that is, the last time before this NYE 2013. For the first time in a million years I failed to wear yellow drawers. I could blame it on the lack of supply of yellow knickers in Germany, but I honestly did not even look. I could say that both my yellow underpants were in the dirty laundry pile, but I'm afraid my nose would grow too big. I will thus only come out with the truth and say that I forgot. And for that, I am terribly sorry and ashamed. May this year be amazing, in spite of my not having welcomed...

Michel Foucault said that he who holds the language holds the power  -- and that is why translators are the people who are changing the world, and have been doing so for centuries. Millennia, even. It is not enough to posses knowledge, it is important to be able to transmit that knowledge, to share it, to teach it. The problem is that not everybody will be able to understand this knowledge, unless they, too, are in possession of the skills necessary to understand. Translation is not just a matter of identifying the word in the source language and replacing it with the equivalent in the target language. If that were so, we translators (and I dare now include interpreters as well) would have proven to be obsolete in the late 1980s. Our success, our importance to the world, even, is the task that we perform, the impossible that we achieve: we are able to find the perfect oxymoronic juxtaposition of faithfulness  and beauty  in a target language from a source language. Ye...