A translation shifts with its maker's state: faithful when he is in love, good when he is angry, wordy in wind, profound in winter, and wrong when he is happy. To catch this, one translator has the text read aloud while the reader walks away and then comes back, and he corrects it by how it sounds as it fades and returns.
Memory does not lose whole songs at once but erodes them in layers. The lowest tones go first, oblivion rises like a tide through the higher sounds, and in the end only the skeleton of the rhythm is left.
Truth cannot be grasped on its own, the way a lie can. It shows up only by contrast, like the white space between printed letters: the letters block the eye, and the gaps are where it sees through. So we push through life sideways, one eye lost in what is true and the other stuck on falsehoods.