I recently viewed a very late interview with Bergman where he was talking about writing on Fårö. He talked about how boring it was to actually write manuscripts, the work-books were fun, but the manuscripts dead boring. He could only work for three hours a day, always in the morning, sitting for 45 minutes and then taking a break.

That has stayed with me as I round the curb of fifty pages of the original, that's thirty pages in Word (before when I said thirty pages, that was of the original). Re-reading is the worst. I must start doing it in sections. The beginning seems fine, but I fear that I lose the thread later. The language doesn't sound real, and resists my attempts at getting it right.

Unfortunately I don't have Bergman's hard-fast schedule. But I do have enough to show a publisher, and fresh eyes are what I need now.

I've now finished a 'dirty draft' of the first thirty pages of The Book of Adam. I say 'dirty' because the translation is in large part intuitive, which doesn't mean I don't make more use of dictionaries than I would like to. It does mean though that the language is still involved with the original in ways that may not yet distinguish it as a text-in-itself. Or rather for-itself, since it is there, I'm just not sure to what degree it has a coherency beyond that of mere translation. Meaning that the final version, while obviously being a translation, should be first-and-foremost its own discreet work, not only an explanation of the original. There it's still not.

On another note my recent visit to Notre Dame, Indiana led me to believe that I could lead a productive life there teaching, reading, writing. It's not the ideal location for a fledgling social life, in what for me is in certain ways a new country. Adam has a description of Paris that echoes my own feelings about Brighton (where I've left):

With the support of a generous friend I'm trying to write a book that I'm not even sure it's worth writing. Paris is eating me alive, asphyxiating me. The frenzy, passion and French charm are lost on me. I only see McDonald's everywhere, and people walk around with billboards printed on their souls. (p. 30.)

I don't have to wait for Notre Dame though, even Portland, Maine has the Lekholmen effect on me. From Lekholmen Adam writes:

I lie within ideas, you quickly become addicted. The bears and me. And the silence. (p. 33.)

Of course he's writing to Paris. The connection is necessary.