Translation is a formidable beast, superior in form and size, extraordinary and wild, with muscles and its mane rippling on its neck, turning the gaze of everyone in the crowd towards it. It lights up the crowd in the arena, who raise screams of such a sort, clamours of such a kind, that even those who swore never to follow the opinion of the masses transformed themselves to love its vigour. And we have all mistaken this awe-inspiring, redoubtable, ferocious wild animal as something to tame. How mistaken we are.
The Beast's terrifying, resounding roar echoes in the arena and leaves our ears dazzled and deaf. It speaks with such conviction in its rhetoric, with such vehemence in every word, with such potency in every command and with such characteristics no tongue can describe, but only worship. And how fallible are we, how fallible is our human nature, to be persuaded and coaxed in the comfort of the Beast's lies and to enter its lair with the lies of a "mutual recognition," thinking its presence is for our own benefit. Our ignorance has left us doomed.
The Beast's cacophonies have engulfed our planet, corrupting every meek, submissive, feeble dwelling, hypnotising our human nature and leaving us deprived of sight. It speaks with such conviction and rhetoric that there is no analogy which can be used to describe even the tamest of its forms. With the promise of slicing the tongue-tied and handing them the most beautiful, alluring words, it has become a scalpel, plunged in the collop of humankind.
The Beast's Skin
Operating in incognito, it disguises itself as kindness, diplomacy, education, unity, and accessibility, enamouring itself with a thin, aesthetic, decorative layer of spurious skin. The Beast does not arrive with teeth bared. It arrived garbed in silk. It calls itself a bridge. This forgery lacks strength to any argument, yet it speaks with such an eloquence that leaves us disillusioned and unable to speak. Translation's outer layer immolates with such a blaze that rages and burns at anything that dares call out against it.
Its hues of cadmium yellows and reds ignite souls, which were once kindled with purity and innocence, leaving them charred and tattered. These threadbare shadows of souls, now hypnotised by the pyre, lead lives dedicated to the Beast. We have fabricated and fashioned careers for the cause of unity, which are led by lives enthralled and transfixed on the foundations of mere lies. This is what we call translation, it is not only a beast, but a cancerous growth poisoning justice. And yet, we still regard translation as truth.
Worshipping the Beast
We have made translation our new god because we fear distance. Translation is treated as the sacred, ultimate truth. We take pride in its scriptures, embellishing them with ornaments of perfection. We have adorned false words with gold leaves, enriched disordered dialogues with pearls, and retouched this two-faced Beast with rubies and emeralds glistening in everything it lays its tight-fisted grasp upon. Having given our praise and honour to this monster, it becomes completely unreasonable and unjustifiable to ever speak out against it. Any critiques are rapidly handcuffed in chains made of lead and arsenic, which slowly invade hostile breaths, brutally seizing opposition, clutching onto their nose in like-manner to an embrace with an incongruous intent, to suffocate this breath of life.
The Beast is morally unquestionable. How dare we ever analyse it, engage in discourse to anatomise it, and realise its worthlessness.
The Arena
We cruel, malevolent monsters, bearing the blood of translational prescriptivism, drinking it like a liquor, becoming intoxicated on its words and irrational by the potency of its bombast, we have become blinded by a light we called "truth." Our fleeting vision has been stolen by the putrid hands of the Beast. And with our veiled eyes, our deaf ears, our tongue-tied mouths, our feet stand situated to the floor of the arena, engulfed in chains made of rusted chrome, each link the work of our blood-stained hands.
The rattles of the chains raise cacophonies which traverse the arena, singing praise to the power and valour of the Beast. And it becomes only sensible for our frail, infirm nature to sing in harmony. What kind of creature are we, we who create the most beautiful melodies and dance freely as if liberated, having our most philosophical possession, language, pirated by that Beast.
Spotlights radiate and illuminate the paragon, enamouring it in a seducing lustre which tempts and entices us with a covenant of connection. Its fluorescence beguiles us and fuels the gasoline in our corneas which burns with such a rage, such a vehemence, such a passion, that any idea, any hope for vision is left scorched. The idea of seeing truth in our words causes an excruciating agony, so that we purposely throw ourselves into the flames which lick at the edge of reason. There becomes no purpose in seeing truth in language if no one else dares to verbalise their freedom, so we compete in seeing who can spring with the greatest speed into the inferno slipping from its leash, so that we may be blinded. This is translation, this is the Beast, architect of our eyes stitched shut, forger of the fire which dimmed the world.