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January 24, 2011
There is also the translation of my great-grandfather’s memoir, a bad translation from Hungarian to English, which a young girl did for my uncle in Budapest back in 2000, for half the price of what it would have been to get a professional translator. If I poked him about it, my uncle would say, ‘the point is to know the story, not to make literature.’

One of my husband’s friends called, asking if we were coming over for the Super Bowl. Of course, my husband said I would be out of town for that day, but that