You put them on paper (or more likely a computer screen), press "Publish," and they quietly disappear into the digital universe. Most of the time you never know where they go or whose eyeballs will encounter them.
A few months ago I received an email from Bangladesh.
Nahar Trina, an author, translator and editor of the Bengali literary webzine Golpopath, had stumbled across an old post on Ennyman's Territory: Imaginary Interviews: My Visit with Leo Tolstoy. She asked if she might translate it into Bengali so it could be shared with her readers.
How could I say no?
Her note was gracious:
"I thoroughly enjoyed reading 'Imaginary Interviews: My Visit with Leo Tolstoy' on your blog, Ennyman's Territory. I would love to share this wonderful piece with Bengali readers by translating it into my mother tongue, Bengali."
She explained that Golpopath is a completely non-commercial literary publication with a devoted readership and assured me the translation would be offered simply for the love of literature.
Recently she sent another message. The 98th issue of Golpopath had been published, and somewhere halfway around the world my imaginary conversation with the great Russian novelist had found a new audience—this time in Bengali.
There's something beautifully circular about that journey.
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| The publication included this photo of our "visit." |
It's a reminder that stories ignore borders. They travel farther than passports, politics, and maps. They move from one language into another because someone recognizes an idea, a question, or a moment of humanity worth sharing.
For me, it actually takes me back to my very frst published story, "How Important Is Prayer?" After it was published in a paper called Youth, I received letters from three continents thanking me for the insights I shared, and how what I'd written touched their lives.
When the World Wide Web emerged in the 1990s, I created a website where I shared art and stories on my website. Before long my story Duel of the Poets was translated into Croatian. Other stories were translated into Russian and French. And two stories by my daughter, who was 12 at the time, were published in California and New Zealand.
As writers, we rarely know where our words will end up. Sometimes they stay close to home. Sometimes they wander farther than we ever will. An example of this idea is the heart of my story A Poem About Truth.
I'm grateful to Nahar Trina and the editors of Golpopath for giving my little literary experiment a second life in another language. And I'm reminded once again that the community of readers is much larger than we imagine.
Somewhere tonight, someone I will never meet may be reading an imaginary interview with Leo Tolstoy—in Bengali. Because words have wings.
I think Leo would smile.
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