It's a strange thing about the way I translate.  Right now I'm working on two things, texts, that is:  a new Cixous book and a poem by Yves Bonnefoy.  I'm sure some people do a rigorous mental analysis of the texts they translate before they ever set pen to paper; ie, fingers to keys.  For me it's a physical process:  it's as if I were making dough.  I can't read without kneading the words. I haven't yet read the Bonnefoy poem--wonderful--to the end.  I haven't yet--this is a much longer project--read Ciguë to the end, but already I am doing a draft.  A stanza a day, a page a day.  The suspense of not knowing.  The pleasure of it.  Like flour and salt and water sticking to your hands.