"Emma Zunz" translated by the "shitty babelfish translator"

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I can kind of get the sense of things, here, I guess:

http://what.freeservers.com/

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1. Just call him Lucky Loewenthal

The things did not happen as it had anticipated Emma Zunz. From the previous dawn, she had often dreamed herself, directing the firm revolver, forcing to the miserable one to confess the miserable fault and exposing the intrepid stratagem that would allow the Justice of God to prevail over human justice. (Not from fear, but being an instrument of Justice, she did not want to be punished.) Soon, a single shot in half of the chest would seal the luck of Loewenthal. But the things did not happen thus.

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2. "Funes the Memorious" isn't too damaged by babelfish

Jorge Luis Borges
(1899-1986)


Funes The Memorioso
(Devices, 1944;
Fiction, 1944)





I remember (I have no right to pronounce this word sacred, only one man on earth was right and that man is dead) with a darkly passionate in his hand, watching as nobody has seen it, but watched from the twilight of the day until the night, a whole entire life. I remember, face taciturna and aindiada and singularly remote behind the cigarette. I remember (I think) sharpened their hands of trenzador. I remember some of those hands a mate, with the weapons of the Eastern Band; I remember in the window of the house a yellow mat, with a vague landscape lake. I remember clearly his voice; The voice paused, resentful and nasal orillero old, without whistles Italians now. More than three times not see it; The last, in 1887 ... I feel very happy that the draft all those who tried to write about him; My testimony is perhaps the shortest and certainly the poorest, but not the least fair of the volume that you edited. My deplorable condition Argentine I prevent incurring the ditirambo -género compulsory in Uruguay, where the theme is a Uruguayan. Letters, pack, porteño: Funes did not say these insulting words, but in a way I know enough that I represented him for these misfortunes. Peter Leandro Ipuche writes Funes was a forerunner of superhombres; "Zarathustra cimarrón and vernacular"; Do not discuss, but we must not forget that it was also a compadrito of Fray Bentos, with certain limitations incurable.
My first memory of Funes is very perspicuo. I see a sunset in March or February of the year and eighty-four. My father, this year, I had carried veranear to Fray Bentos. I returned to my cousin Bernardo Haedo of stay in San Francisco. Volvíamos singing, horse, and that was not the only circumstance in my happiness. After an embarrassing day, a huge storm colored slate had hidden the sky. She was encouraged wind from the South, already enloquecían trees; I had the fear (hope) that surprised us in an open water elemental. We experienced a kind of race with the storm. We entered an alley that ahondaba between two towering brick sidewalks. There were obscured coup; I heard rapid and almost secret steps at the top; Alcé eyes. I saw a guy who ran for the close and broken sidewalk for a close and broken wall. I remember the bombacha, espadrilles, I remember smoking in the face hard against the cloud and without limits. Bernardo shouted at him unexpectedly: What times are, Irenaeus? Without consulting the sky, without stopping, the other replied: Missing four mínutos for eight young Bernardo Juan Francisco. The voice was sharp, mocking.
I am so distracted that the dialogue that have just referred I had not drawn attention if you do not have emphasized my cousin, who stimulated (I think) some local pride, and the desire to appear indifferent to the Tripartite replica of the other.
He said that the boy was an alley of such Ireneo Funes, mented by some oddities, such as not be with anyone and always know when, as a clock. He added that it was the son of a village planchadora, Maria Clementina Funes, and some said that his father was a doctor's saladero, an Englishman O'Connor, and others domador or crawler department of Salto. He lived with his mother, around the fifth of Laureles.
The eighties and five and eighty six veraneamos in Montevideo. Eighty-seven again Fray Bentos. I asked, naturally, for all known, and finally by the "cronométrico Funes." I replied that I had turned a redomón to stay in San Francisco, and had been crippled without hope. I remember the feeling uneasy magic that made me the news: the only time that I saw, we came to San Francisco horse and he walked in a high place; The fact, in the mouth of my cousin Bernardo, was developed with a lot of sleep previous items. They told me that they did not move the cot, posts eyes en.la fig tree in the background or a spiderweb. In the evenings, allowing it to exploit the window. Wearing the arrogance to the point that it was beneficial to simulate the blow that he had fulminado ... Twice I saw him back from the gate, which grossly stressed their status as eternal prisoner, one motionless with eyes closed; Otherwise, motionless also absorbed in the contemplation of an oloroso gajo of santonina.
Not without some vainglory I had started at that time the methodical study of Latin. My suitcase included De viris illustribus of Lhomond, Thesaurus of Quicherat, comments of Julius Caesar and a volume of odd Naturalis history of Pliny, which exceeded (and still exceeds) my modest virtues of latinista. Everything is propala in a village boy; Irenaeus, in his ranch from the shores, it became aware of the arrival of these books abnormal. I wrote a letter florida and ceremoniosa, which reminded our meeting, unfortunately fleeting, "the day seven of February of the year and eighty-four" weighted services that the glorious gift Gregory Haedo, my uncle, late that same year, "had given the two homelands in the day Ituzaingó courageous ", and I requested the loan of any of the volumes, along with a dictionary" for good intelligence of the original text, it still ignores Latin. " Promised return them in good condition, almost immediately. The letter was perfect, highly profiled; Spelling, of the kind advocated Andres Bello: by and i, j by g. Initially, temí course, a joke. My cousins assured me that no, they were things of Irenaeus. I did not know whether to attribute shamelessness, ignorance or stupidity to the idea that the hard Latin tool called for no further than a dictionary; For desengañarlo fully commanded him the Gradus ad Parnassum of Quicherat. And the works of Pliny:
The fourteen February I telegraphed from Buenos Aires to return immediately, because my father was not "anything good". God forgive me; The prestige of being the recipient of an urgent telegram, a desire to communicate to any Fray Bentos the contradiction between the negative form of news and the imperative adverb, the temptation to dramatize my pain, pretending a manly stoicism, it while I distracted from any possibility of pain. In making the bags, I noticed that the missing Gradus, and the first volume of the Naturalis history. The "Saturn" zarpaba the next day, in the morning; That night, after supper, I encaminé home Funes. I am astonished that the night was no less heavy that day.
In decent ranch, the mother of Funes I received. He said that Irenaeus was on the piece of the fund and I do not extrañara find in the dark, because Irenaeus knew spend hours without turning on the candle dead. Atravesé yard tile, corredorcito; I got to the second courtyard. There was a fig; Could parecerme total darkness. Suddenly I heard the high and mocking voice of Irenaeus. That voice spoke in Latin; That voice (which came from the darkness) articulated defaulting delight with a speech or prayer or incantatory. Resonaron syllables Roman in the yard of land; My fear believed indecipherable, endless; Later, in the vast dialogue that night, I knew that they were the first paragraph of vigésimocuarto chapter of the seventh book of the Naturalis history. The subject matter of this chapter is memory; The last words were ut nihil non usdem verbis redderetur auditum.
Without the slightest change of voice, Irenaeus told me what will happen. I was in the cot, smoking. I do not think I saw him face until dawn; I recall the momentary cigarette ember. The room smelled vaguely moisture. I sat; I repeated the history of the telegram and the illness of my father. Arrive now, the most difficult point of my story. This (fine is that the reader already knows) does not have another argument that dialogue of half a century ago. Do not try to reproduce his words, now irrecoverable. Truthfully I prefer to summarize the many things I said Irenaeus. The style is remote and indirect weak; I know that the effectiveness of sacrifice my story; My readers to envision the periods interrupted me abrumaron that night.
Irenaeus began to list, in Latin and English, prodigious memory cases registered by the Naturalis story: Cyrus, king of the Persians, who knew call by name all the soldiers in their armies; Mitrídates Eupator, which administers justice the 22 languages of his empire; Simónides, inventor of the mnemotecnia; Metrodoro, who professed the art of faithfully repeating what has been heard once. With obvious good faith maravilló that such cases maravillaran. I said before that rainy day in which he turned the tile, he had been what they are all Christians: a blind, deaf, a domed, a desmemoriado. (I tried to remind his accurate perception of the time, your memory names; I did not.) Nineteen years who had lived as a dream: watching without seeing, without hearing heard, it forgot all, almost everything. By fall, lost consciousness; When he recovered, this was almost intolerable so rich and so sharp, and also reports oldest and most trivial. Shortly after it was learned that crippled. The fact hardly interested him. Razonó (felt) that immobility was a minimum price. Now their perception and memory were infallible.
We, at a glance, we see three cups on a table; Funes, all scions and fruit bunches and that includes a fig. He knew the ways of clouds Southern dawn thirties April thousand eight hundred and eighty-two and could compare the memory with the veins of a book in Spanish pulp that had only watched once and lines of the foam that an oar lifted in the Black River on the eve of the action of Quebracho. Those memories were not simple; Each visual image was linked to muscle sensations, temperature, etc.. He could rebuild all the dreams, all entresueños. Two or three times he had rebuilt an entire day; There was never hesitated, but each reconstruction had requested a full day. He said: More memories that I myself had to be all men since the world is the world. And also: My dreams are like on the 1st vigil you. And also, towards the dawn: My memory, sir, is like vacíadero garbage. A blackboard in a circle, a triangle, rectangle, diamond, are ways that we can fully intuit; The same thing happened to Irenaeus with aborrascadas crines a foal, with a tip of a knife in cattle, with the changing fire and the countless ash, with the many faces of one death in a long wake. I do not know how many saw stars in the sky.
These things said to me; Neither then nor later I put in doubt. At that time there were no cinemas or phonographs; It is, however, implausible and even incredible that anyone would experiment with Funes. The truth is that we live postponing everything postergable; Maybe we all know that we are in-mortales and profoundly that sooner or later, every man will do everything and know everything.
La voz de Funes, from the darkness, kept talking ..
He said that by 1886 had discurrido a unique system of numbering and that in a few days had exceeded one thousand this twenty-fourth day. I had not written because I thought once he could no longer borrársele. His first encouragement, I think, was the displeasure of thirty-three eastern require two signs, and three words, instead of a single word and a single sign. Crazy then applied this principle to other numbers. Instead of seven thousand thirteen, I said (for example) Maximum Perez; Instead of seven thousand fourteen, The Railroad; Other numbers were Luis Melian Lafinur, Olimar, sulfur, clubs, the whale, gas, 1st boiler, Napoleon, Augustine vedia. Instead of five hundred, said nine. Each word carries a particular sign, a kind mark; Recent very complicated ... I tried to explain that rapsodia of disparate voices was precisely the opposite numbering system. I told him to say 365 three hundred six tens, five units; Analysis does not exist in the "numbers" The Black Timothy blanket or meat. Funes I do not understand or did not want to understand.
Locke, the seventeenth century, ran (and failed) impossible language in which every single thing, every stone, every bird, and each branch had its own name; Funes ever planned a language similar, but dismissed by seem too broad, too vague. Indeed, Funes not only remembered every leaf of every tree in every mountain, but each of the times that he had perceived or imagined. Resolved reduce each of his past days to some seventy thousand memories, to be defined later by figures. What dissuaded two considerations: the realization that the task was endless, the awareness that it was useless. He thought that at the hour of death would not have finished yet to classify all the memories of childhood.
The two projects that I indicated (a vocabulary for infinite series of natural numbers, a useless mental catalog of all images of memory) are senseless, but reveal some balbuciente greatness. We are left to infer or glimpse the dizzying world of Funes. This, let us not forget, was almost unable to general ideas, platonic. Not only will it cost generic symbol understand that the dog covering many disparate individuals of different sizes and different ways; That bothered him the dog of the three fourteen (seen in profile) had the same name as the dog of the three fifteen (seen front). His own face in the mirror, their own hands, what surprised every time. Swift recounted that the emperor of Lilliput discernía the movement of minute; Funes discernía continuously quiet progress through corruption, decay of the fatigue. He saw progress in the death of moisture. It was the solitary and lucid spectator of a multifaceted world, and almost instantaneous intolerably precise. Babylon, London and New York have overwhelmed with fierce splendor imagination of men; Nobody in their towers populous or their urgent avenues, has felt the heat and pressure of a reality as indefatigable as that day and night converged on the unhappy Irenaeus, in his poor South American suburb. It was very difficult to sleep. Sleep is distracted from the world; Funes, back in the cot, in the shade, it contained every crack and every precise molding of the houses surrounding it. (I repeat, the least important of his memories were more minucios and more alive than our perception of a physical enjoyment or physical torment.) Towards the east, in a way not amanzanado, there were new houses, unknown. Funes imagined the black compact made of homogeneous darkness; In this direction the face returning to sleep. Imagine also used at the bottom of the river, and cradled annulled by the current.
He effortlessly learned English, French, Portuguese, Latin. I suspect, however, that was not quite capable of thinking. To think is to forget differences, is to generalize, to isolate itself. In the crowded world of Funes there were no details but almost immediate.
The suspicious clarity of the night came by the yard of land.
Then I saw the face of the voice that had talked all night. Irenaeus was nineteen years; He was born in 1868; I felt like the monumental bronze, older than Egypt, prior to the prophecies and the pyramids. I thought that every one of my words (that each of my gestures) perduraría in its relentless memory; I hindered fears multiply futile gestures.
Ireneo Funes died in 1889, a pulmonary congestion.