The translation, admittedly, has a number of defects, which are at least partially attributable to the fact that I cannot read Italian. And yet I have tried when possible to capture the pure essence of what the esteemed writer’s language probably meant. In certain passages, I’d humbly argue that my translation surpasses those of all three prior translations of the author’s work. Those translators had at their disposal only a working knowledge of Italian and small academic grants that allowed them to spend countless hours in dim libraries, parsing his words and trying to account for all nuances of meaning before settling on the correct word. While I, being slightly older than all three, have the great and unattainable thing of which they can only dream.
I saw the great writer once at a book shop in Venice. It was near the end of his life and the skin sagged from his face like cloth from a sail. He was across the room from me, behind old leather-bound volumes, and a globe which showed an outsized version of Italy. His great white beard and unkempt hair, falling to near his shoulders, made him immediately identifiable. He was, this great man, leaning in very close to hear the words of a very beautiful woman, but I could see the twinkle in his eye, the soul not yet at rest. From that moment, I have gathered all of my inspiration for the text, and though it may differ occasionally in form, content, and certain items of the plot, I confess to you, reader, that no one knew him better than I and that I can confidently declare this work the definitive translation.
from The Threepenny Review