My life has been surrounded by a translation and I need to do some work every day but tonight I was on strike. I read a paper. With a literary section. They had a nice portion of it. I read Linhartová, an essay from the 1980. It is strange to read her in a translation. She wrote a good deal of her work in her twenties, and then, after she left for France in 1968, continued writing in French only. She did not leave, as she said somewhere, for political reasons but for the fact that possibilities of her own language were exhausted for her. In this translation, on poetry, she is more straightaway than in her ephemeral stories from the 60s, however, while reading, I felt like I was walking inside of my own cerebral convolutions.