IT'S ADRIFT AS SOON AS HE WRITES IT:

Does an author's work change when he dies? On May 6, 2021, I sent Roberto Calasso my translation of his unusually slim book, La tavoletta dei destini. He was to check through it before I sent it to the publisher. This was the arrangement with all the translations I had done of his work: he liked to stay in control and I liked the reassurance that he would pick up misunderstandings and missed nuances. "You have changed Sindbad to Sinbad," he immediately objected. I told him this was the name that English and American readers were familiar with. "It has to stay Sindbad," he said.

On the first of July, I wrote reminding him that my delivery deadline was just a week away. He was being slow even by his standards. "I trust you," he replied. "Just send it as it is. I'm writing other things." It was then I guessed that something was up. On July 28 he died. And in November I received the copy edit from the publisher for my comments.

Immediately I sensed I was in new territory. The copy editor knew Italian and had checked my work against the original. There were suggestions, occasionally objections. In the past, since Calasso had excellent English, I could appeal to him to support this or that stylistic choice, if it seemed important. Now this authority was gone. The text was what it was, independent of its author, at the mercy of its readers. A ship had slipped its anchor and was adrift on the high seas, unmanned. Anyone could board it.

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