Is translation really secondhand happiness? Me and Bonheur d’occasion

In Grade 12, at 17, my French teacher assigned us a new kind of homework: translation. I’d had plenty of experience with my little Harrap’s English-French dictionary – as an Anglophone kid in a French (not immersion, mind you) school, when things got tough on the assignment side of things, my teacher dad got me started getting my ideas down in English and make them happen in French. It had never occurred to me that I’d use the French-English side of the dictionary.

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A Reader’s Prescription: Funeral for a Dog

Every once in a while, I lose my ability to read. It's not that I can't make out the words on the page, or understand the sentences they form. It's a kind of restlessness that comes over me, a dissatisfaction with the books on my shelves, a not knowing what I want to read (perhaps there's too much choice?) and then, somehow, I can't read anything.

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Why Beloved is the most important book I never finished

As a wispy reader of 9 or so I spied a copy on the shelf built into my mother’s headboard, tucked among several books by Iyanla Vanzant and a John Grisham paperback or two. Its location on that shelf alone made it seductive; one of a collection so very unsuitable for my self. But prying into Adult Things while unsupervised was a favourite pastime of mine so...

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The Moomins and Me

I remember my enthusiasm at decoding the black scratches that turned into words when my parents picked up books; I remember reading in a circle with my class, each of us sounding out a few lines. Especially I remember being confused when my turn came, because I had read on ahead and didn’t know what page the class was on.

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Where I Was When I Discovered Crime and Punishment

When I was seventeen, living in Edmonton, I knew a boy named Mitch who, unlike the rest of us suburban softies, already lived on his own and had to pay his way through life. Mitch was violent, and routinely beat up his friends for perceived transgressions against him. He had a heroic scar on his face from the time he pissed off a drug gang and they went after him with a hatchet.

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Au revoir, not goodbye

This past fall, carte blanche celebrated its 10th anniversary, and it has been 10 years that I have been involved in the magazine, first as a co-founder, then as editor. The time has come for me to move on.Stepping down as editor feels a little like how I imagine parents feel when sending a first child off to college...

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