Epstein Secrets

e with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the early 1870s-- without an understanding of which neither Ulys

pious notes on the subject. This opus owes its birth to a casual remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line of which I had to revise for my students-- "Why don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has taken some ten years of l

e with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the early 1870s-- without an understanding of which neither Ulys

pious notes on the subject. This opus owes its birth to a casual remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line of which I had to revise for my students-- "Why don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has taken some ten years of l

e with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the early 1870s-- without an understanding of which neither Ulys

pious notes on the subject. This opus owes its birth to a casual remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line of which I had to revise for my students-- "Why don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has taken some ten years of l

e with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the early 1870s-- without an understanding of which neither Ulys

pious notes on the subject. This opus owes its birth to a casual remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line of which I had to revise for my students-- "Why don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has taken some ten years of l

e with the snow in the driveway, the march through long corridors to the classroom, the effort of drawing on the blackboard a map of James Joyce's Dublin or the arrangement of the semi-sleeping car of the St. Petersburg-Moscow express in the early 1870s-- without an understanding of which neither Ulys

pious notes on the subject. This opus owes its birth to a casual remark my wife made in 1950-- in response to my disgust with rhymed paraphrases of Eugene Onegin, every line of which I had to revise for my students-- "Why don't you translate it yourself?" This is the result. It has taken some ten years of l