#trans(lation)

[skyekurisu]

I have no choice but to post it this way so people can see it.

[bignostalgias]

Translations Chapter I: Heimr

The coast disappeared when the sea drowned the sun / I knew no words to share with anyone — Different Names for the Same Thing, Death Cab for Cutie

HiJack Language Barrier AU

Read on AO3

—

The biggest warmest thank yous to @envy-of-the-gods and my sibling for beta-ing and reading despite their busy schedules, it means the world that you’re willing to put up with my beloved cringe crossover slash. And a million thank yous to @alkalinefrog for the cringe nights and constantly inspiring me throughout the writing process. Y’all are amazing ❤️

[cerealandchoccymilk]

Units in Trigun (+α)

(source will be linked in comments)

edit: GUYS. THESE MEASUREMENTS ARE NOT CANON YOU UNDERSTAND THAT RIGHT. NIGHTOW JUST PULLED THE HEIGHTS OUT OF HIS ASS. LIKE HE DOES WITH MANY OTHER LORE ASPECTS. READ THE DESCRIPTION PLEASE. STOP SAYING " :O i didnt know vash was actually so short" HE IS NOT. THIS INFO IS NOT CANON.

Remember how I've mentioned at least twice that there are actually real conversions for the weird units in Trigun? I found em. They were on the inside of the DVD sleeve for Trigun '98. There's also some other nice info about money and Nightow's character/worldbuilding (or lack of thought about it lol)

And guess what? I just checked the conversions, and these lengths (provided in metric) are almost exactly the same as their real-life imperial counterparts. The character heights are also completely wrong. Using these units, Vash's height converts to 158cm, when we know that he's canonically 180cm in the '98 anime.

So take all this with a grain of salt!

> Length 1 iich ≈ 2.54cm ≈ 1 in 1 feel ≈ 30.5cm ≈ 1 ft 1 yarz ≈ 91.4cm ≈ 1 yard 1 ile ≈ 1.6km ≈ 1 mile

> Money 1 $$ (double dollar) ≈ 100 ¢¢ (cescent) $$ are worth a bit less than USD.

> Character ages Vash: about 150 years old Wolfwood: 26 – 28 years old Meryl: 23 years old Milly: 21 years old

> Character heights Vash: 5 feel 2 iich (158cm !??!??!?!) Wolfwood: 5 feel 3 iich (160cm same as my mom lol) Meryl: 4 feel 5 iich (134.7cm girl youre shorter than the shortest person i know. and shes pretty damn short) Milly: 5 feel 2 iich (158cm)

> Character name origins? "Hmm... To be honest, I didn't put much thought into them. It's not like I didn't think over them at all, but I focus on what sounds cool when pronounced, rather than the meaning of the name. I mean, if you turn 'Vash Stampede' into Japanese, it becomes 牛の暴走 (a wild rush of cows)! (lol) That doesn't match his character, does it? Well, maybe it does...?" -Nightow

> Population density Very low, since the ships made emergency landings across a large area of the planet.

> Length of 1 Day About 24 hours, same as Earth.

Translation of the source tweet and transcription of images under the cut:

I was so happy about the Trigun re-screening that I dug back out the TV version's DVD out of nostalgia... I found lots of important information on there, so feel free to use this as a reference! However, I think this is just information for the anime version at the time. (like Wolfwood's age)

The height measurements are wrong! Be careful! (Even though it's official material…lol)

トライガン豆知識　・・・メインキャラクター編・・・

■ヴァッシュたちの年齢は？ ヴァッシュは約150才位、ウルフウッドは26〜28才、メリルは23才、ミリィは21才です。【内藤】

■ヴァッシュたちの身長（コレを参考にフィギュアスケールを決めよう） ヴァッシュは５フィールと２イーチ位、ウルフウッドは５フィールと３イーチ位、メリルはメインキャラでは一番小さい４フィールと５イーチ、ミリィはヴァッシュと同じく５フィールと２イーチといったところでしょうか？【内藤】 ※㎝での身長はＤ－２のオビ裏に記載されている、単位を元に割り出してみてくださいね。

■キャラクターたちのネーミングの由来は？ ん〜素直に言っちゃうと、何となくつけたという感じです。全く考えてないというワケでもないけど、名前の意味というよりは語感というか、発音してカッコイイとかそういう雰囲気を重視してます。だって、ヴァッシュ・スタンピードって日本語にすると牛の暴走ですよ（笑）キャラのイメージとは違うでしょ？あ、ハズレてもいないか……な？【内藤】

トライガン豆知識　・・・世界編・・・

■尺の単位 ●イーチ（約２.５４㎝）●フィール（約３０.５㎝） ●ヤーズ（約９１.４㎝）●アイル（約１.６㎞）

■お金の単価 ●$$（ダブドル）●¢¢（セスセント）セスセントの単価はダブドルの約百分の一の単価になります。ちなみに、ダブドルは実際の米国ドルとと比べると価値を低く見積もっています。【内藤】

■重さの単位 あ、特に考えてませんでした（笑）【内藤】

■トライガン世界の人口密度はどれくらい？ 惑星の広範囲に渡って移民宇宙船が強制着陸したため、人口密度はめっちゃまばらになっています。【内藤】

■トライガン世界の一日は何時間？ トライガン世界の１日は約２４時間位。地球時間の１日と変わりありません。【内藤】

[heynowisavedyouright]

novel e$ get OUT of there they dont de$erve you .... ough i have $uch a good read on the jackalope in there $he goe$ for my fight or flight in$tinct on $ight

[possumpop]

have had a headache and low motivation all night but I was soooo strong and got myself to study japanese for an hour anyway

[yawnbrendan]

[nelu-chan]

Ah, yes. To be part of the LGBTQ+ community and studying chemistry. While studying the thermodynamics and kinetics of reactions revolving potential energy surfaces and late and early barrier characteristics I confidently wrote in my notes:

For early potential barriers the reagents have to be trans rather than cis excited.

Well....true tho.

[nikipaprika]

i recently completed the story of the thousand year door remake (first time ever playing the game in general!), and it was fantastic! of course i can now officially jump on the I Love Vivian train! 💕

so happy about that canon trans-lation! happy pride 💜

[metamorphiacreations]

Shout out to the Cookie Run fans that are effeminate men, femboys or gnc transmen that are watching the rest of the fandom villainize, sexualize and forcibly feminize Peach Blossom off of the 3 nothing lines he had in the trailer

because what the actual fuck.

and this isnt a joke, during pride people are taking a character with literally the colors of the trans flag and being all "lol Cacao, havent you learned your lesson not to trust femboys?🤭" or "oohh theyre giving Dark Cacao a twink femboy harem hehehe😝"

how about. you return to flour.

Affogato was so very clearly Not A Good Dude in his trailer but why the fuck are we applying that to Peach Blossom who (and i cant stress this enough) SHOWED NOTHING BUT KINDNESS "i am the new ruler of this land" and "i will PUNISH you" vs "you havent eaten in a while" and "sate your hunger in my garden" yeah Blossoms totally just as blatantly bad as Affogato/s 🙄

and to everyone about to reblog this going "could never be me😌 i wasnt doing such things" congratu-fucking-lations transmen arent gonna blow you for doing the bare minimum

to everyone else who wants to say "oh i was just doing a joke, it was just for funnsies-" youre part of the problem. dumbass.

this is such a shit thing thats happening in this fandom, in every fandom and its so fucking annoying because how is it that youre ok with the big, strong, super masculine he/hims being transmen but the makeup wearing, feminine style he/hims have to be transwomen? what are you trying to say🤨 honestly seeing Peach (crob) be headcanon'd as transmasc but Peach Blossom be headcanon's as transfemme its giving "fighting is for boys only and makeup for girls only"

if you say youre pro "gender is a social construct" and then turn around and say every femme he/him is a transwoman, masc she/hers are transmen etc. youre fucking lying

this might be a new concept to some of you but why dont we actually wait and see what happens before throwing the femboy=bad sticker everywhere.....or just fucking dont do it at all!

Stop villainizing effeminate men. Stop sexualizing femboys. Stop overly feminizing transmen Stop. Stop!

[fluentisonus]

reading french sources using masculine terms and english sources using feminine terms for the same ship..... the trans (lation/gender) swag of it all

[debbeh]

can u give me a guide to the six idiots :33 like maybe with a picture of them n their names n who they play in the Big Three shows :33 pwetty peesse :33

UM YES!?

ok, you saw me earlier trying to format all the images so it's gonna be mostly my (ehhhh) descriptions of the characters and you gotta guess what they look like 😈

Ben Willbond

Yonderland:

Elder Vex (above): the one who says Deb-beh and has the coziest looking outfit I NEED IT RN PLZ and the Tom Cardy- esque hair and earring

Nick: the stick. Grumpy all the time cuz he's a stick >:(. Is also a portal between dimensions but whatevs

Horrible Histories

Mike Peabody :historical news reporter that wishes he were anywhere but here rn

King Henry, Alexander the Great: SkINy MaNdRiA, excellent hair, sniffed a guy

Ghosts

The captain: AKA James, makes a lotta noises, if you ever hear me going weeeahhhhhuuuueeeaaaaaahhhh, I'm referencing him, the gay one<3

Martha Howe-Douglas!

Yonderland!!

Debbie.

Debbie's evil twin sister (bossy boobs)

I just googled it: Rita, the Negatus simp AKA us, the demon that looks like how female animals are protrayed in Barbie movies

Horrible Histories!!!

Boudica (look up the song, it's rlly good), Cleopatra, every female historical figure

Pirate lady....<33333

Ghosts!

Lady Button (present day): Old disgruntled lady that pouts all the time and falls out of windows

Lady Button (flashback)

Mathew Baynton!!!

Yonderland!!!

Oracle: weird blue blob guy, Nigel, Darling

Nanny la roo: NUM NUMS!!!! - nanny that is also a kangaroo

Admiral Anous: Voldemort mf I hate him bc he hates Negatus>:(

Elder Choop: Croissant hair mf, says, "IDK WHY DON'T WE ASK UR MUM??"

Le Fox: French

THE BIRRDDDDD: AKA Thomas Payne, Batman but cooler

Oh yeah, and Elf: the elf shaped one, full name: Grintallin Gobscrew Crotell Fashanu F’naw Goplatz Holla-Holla, has multiple wives apparently and is in debt to the mob

Horible Histories (look all of them up, they are all hot)

Dick Turpin: play the song >:333, shot not one but two men dead!

D.I. Bones: the whakkus bonkkused

King Charles II: absolute party-er

Ghosts

Thomas Thorne, shot, dead! Absolute poetic simp for Allison, drowned himself in the lake ;( -cannot drown-

Jim Howik!!!

Yonderland

Elder Pressley: looks like Elvis, eats christmas tree ornaments

Crone: A sLaPper *wink wink*, has apparently gotten with everyone, goes eeeerrrrrrrrrrr all the time- sounds like a doorhinge, she is amazing

Neil: lhe most normal of the demons probably

Horrible Histories

A SHOUTY MAN!!! :does all the infomercials, will try to sell you piss

King George VI (above) : "oh yesss, dad's dead, I'm king..."

King Richard III: a sweet little guy<3 -according to the song, get's attacked by whasp

Ghosts

Pat Butcher: Greatest DJ in the AAARRREEEEEUHHHHH, killed by a child, AKA Pete in the American version

Larry Rickard

Yonderland

Detective Mounteback: very dumb detective with very large hat

Elder Ho Tan: trans Icon, doesn't like loud noises, absolute baby<3

Sue: above, the lady with the gun from the episode I showed you

Horrible Histories

Bob Hale: weather report, needs a hellicopter and a nice cup of tea, basically Bill Wurtz

Lol knight with shit on head, Aztec guy, George III friend who slays so hard; "ConGRatu-VerY-LaTiOns your... *MAgEsTy*"

Ghosts

Humphrey: keeps getting left on roofs and shelves, does NOT know French smh

Robin: 5,000 yo ghosts, once saw a cool butterfly, KNOWS FRENCH! Got stuck by lightning and now he can turn on lights

and finally... the moment you've been waiting for...

Simon Farnaby!!!

Yonderland!!!

Negatus<333: Silly guy try to take over Yonderland but is just a lil guy, has an evil lair, uses The Font of Orris (cauldron thing that lets you see everything) as a hot tub, get's bullied by all the other overlords, wears pjs with houses on them.

Elder Flowers!!!: Long hair and lack of shirt, vegetarian hippie of the group, wants his clothes to be veGONE, "all you need is love, brothers... oh, and food"

Horrible Histories

Emperor Caligula: the wakkus bonkkus guy

Marcus Licinius Crassus: Knockoff Bassline Junkie song

Ghosts:

Jullian!!!: Died conducting an affair with his secretary!!!, is eternally sorta drunk, does the hand thing, only ghost that can interact with stuff, makes silly EEERREREEEEE noise when he's trying to move something, his name is Trevor in the American version, sad when there's no porn on da TV ;(, has no pants BTW

Thanks for coming to my TEDTALK!!!

Lemme know if I missed anything!

[cerealandchoccymilk]

forever going insane over this btw. god damn. what the fuck (tweet by Oxi Takehiko, writer for trigun stampede)

There is no genetic component for blue pigmentation in human hair, but some SEEDS immigrants had it modified as part of fashion. These are not meant to be passed down across generations, but those who were unlucky enough to inherit it are a rare sight, so many of them become commodities in the slave trade while they are still children. Not saying who, but...--

[mortalityplays]

Against Jesters Who Defame and Insult / Contra Jogulatores Obloquentes: The Nobel Prize Lecture

Dario Fo, 7 December 1997

“Against jesters who defame and insult” – Law issued by Emperor Frederick II (Messina 1221), declaring that anyone may commit violence against jesters without incurring penalty or sanction

The drawings I'm showing you are mine. Copies of these, slightly reduced in size, have been distributed among you.

For some time it's been my habit to use images when preparing a speech: rather than write it down, I illustrate it. This allows me to improvise, to exercise my imagination – and to oblige you to use yours.

As I proceed, I will from time to time indicate to you where we are in the manuscript. That way you won't lose the thread. This will be of help especially to those of you who don't understand either Italian or Swedish. English-speakers will have a tremendous advantage over the rest because they will imagine things I've neither said nor thought. There is of course the problem of the two laughters: those who understand Italian will laugh immediately, those who don't will have to wait for Anna [Barsotti]'s Swedish translation. And then there are those of you who won't know whether to laugh the first time or the second. Anyway, let's get started.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Ladies and gentlemen, the title I've selected for this little chat is "contra jogulatores obloquentes", which you all recognize as Latin, mediaeval Latin to be precise. It's the title of a law issued in Sicily in 1221 by Emperor Frederick II of Swabia, an emperor "anointed by God", who we were taught in school to regard a sovereign of extraordinary enlightenment, a liberal. "Jogulatores obloquentes" means "jesters who defame and insult". The law in question allowed any and all citizens to insult jesters, to beat them and even – if they were in that mood – to kill them, without running any risk of being brought to trial and condemned. I hasten to assure you that this law no longer is in vigour, so I can safely continue.

Like I said, I applaud and concur with my friends.

Friends of mine, noted men of letters, have in various radio and television interviews declared: "The highest prize should no doubt be awarded to the members of the Swedish Academy, for having had the courage this year to award the Nobel Prize to a jester." I agree. Yours is an act of courage that borders on provocation.

It's enough to take stock of the uproar it has caused: sublime poets and writers who normally occupy the loftiest of spheres, and who rarely take interest in those who live and toil on humbler planes, are suddenly bowled over by some kind of whirlwind.

These poets had already ascended to the Parnassian heights when you, through your insolence, sent them toppling to earth, where they fell face and belly down in the mire of normality.

Insults and abuse are hurled at the Swedish Academy, at its members and their relatives back to the seventh generation. The wildest of them clamour: "Down with the King … of Norway!". It appears they got the dynasty wrong in the confusion.

(At this point you may turn the page. As you see there is an image of a naked poet bowled over by a whirlwind.)

Some landed pretty hard on their nether parts. There were reports of poets and writers whose nerves and livers suffered terribly. For a few days thereafter there was not a pharmacy in Italy that could muster up a single tranquillizer.

But, dear members of the Academy, let's admit it, this time you've overdone it. I mean come on, first you give the prize to a black man, then to a Jewish writer. Now you give it to a clown. What gives? As they say in Naples: pazziàmme? Have we lost our senses?

Also the higher clergy have suffered their moments of madness. Sundry potentates – great electors of the Pope, bishops, cardinals and prelates of Opus Dei – have all gone through the ceiling, to the point that they've even petitioned for the reinstatement of the law that allowed jesters to be burned at the stake. Over a slow fire.

(This is where we are now [indicates a page].)

On the other hand I can tell you there is an extraordinary number of people who rejoice with me over your choice. And so I bring you the most festive thanks, in the name of a multitude of mummers, jesters, clowns, tumblers and storytellers.

And speaking of storytellers, I mustn't forget those of the small town on Lago Maggiore where I was born and raised, a town with a rich oral tradition.

"But the cliff dwellers wouldn't listen to them, they even laughed and made fun of them: 'You think you're pretty smart, trying to scare us into running away from our houses and our land so you can grab them instead. But we're not that stupid.'

They were the old storytellers, the master glass-blowers who taught me and other children the craftsmanship, the art, of spinning fantastic yarns. We would listen to them, bursting with laughter – laughter that would stick in our throats as the tragic allusion that surmounted each sarcasm would dawn on us. To this day I keep fresh in my mind the story of the Rock of Caldé.

"Many years ago", began the old glass-blower, "way up on the crest of that steep cliff that rises from the lake there was a town called Caldé. As it happened, this town was sitting on a loose splinter of rock that slowly, day by day, was sliding down towards the precipice. It was a splendid little town, with a campanile, a fortified tower at the very peak and a cluster of houses, one after the other. It's a town that once was and that now is gone. It disappeared in the 15th century.

"'Hey', shouted the peasants and fishermen down in the valley below. 'You're sliding, you'll fall down from there'.

"So they continued to prune their vines, sow their fields, marry and make love. They went to mass. They felt the rock slide under their houses but they didn't think much about it. 'Just the rock settling. Quite normal', they said, reassuring each other.

"The great splinter of rock was about to sink into the lake. 'Watch out, you've got water up to your ankles', shouted the people along the shore. 'Nonsense, that's just drainage water from the fountains, it's just a bit humid', said the people of the town, and so, slowly but surely, the whole town was swallowed by the lake.

"Gurgle … gurgle … splash … they sink …. houses, men, women, two horses, three donkeys … heehaw … gurgle. Undaunted, the priest continued to receive the confession of a nun: 'Te absolvi … animus … santi … guurgle … Aame … gurgle …' The tower disappeared, the campanile sank with bells and all: Dong … ding … dop … plock …

Disturbing though it may be, there's no denying that a tale like this still has something to tell us.

"Even today", continued the old glass-blower, "if you look down into the water from that outcrop that still juts out from the lake, and if in that same moment a thunderstorm breaks out, and the lightning illuminates the bottom of the lake, you can still see – incredible as it may seem! – the submerged town, with its streets still intact and even the inhabitants themselves, walking around and glibly repeating to themselves: 'Nothing has happened'. The fish swim back and forth before their eyes, even into their ears. But they just brush them off: 'Nothing to worry about. It's just some kind of fish that's learned to swim in the air'.

"'Atchoo!' 'God bless you!' 'Thank you … it's a bit humid today … more than yesterday … but everything's fine'. They've reached rock bottom, but as far as they're concerned, nothing has happened at all."

I repeat, I owe much to these master glass-blowers of mine, and they – I assure you – are immensely grateful to you, members of this Academy, for rewarding one of their disciples.

(While you applaud, I'll have a drink of water. [Turning to the interpretter:] Would you like some?

And they express their gratitude with explosive exuberance. In my

home town, people swear that on the night the news arrived that one of their own storytellers was to be awarded the Nobel Prize, a kiln that had been standing cold for some fifty years suddenly erupted in a broadside of flames, spraying high into the air – like a fireworks finale – a myriad splinters of coloured glass, which then showered down on the surface of the lake, releasing an impressive cloud of steam.

It's important that you talk among yourselves while we drink, because if you try to hear the gurgle gurgle gurgle the water makes as we swallow we'll choke on it and start coughing. So instead you can exchange niceties like "Oh, what a lovely evening it is, isn't it?"

Above all others, this evening you're due the loud and solemn thanks of an extraordinary master of the stage, little-known not only to you and to people in France, Norway, Finland … but also to the people of Italy. Yet he was, until Shakespeare, doubtless the greatest playwright of renaissance Europe. I'm referring to Ruzzante Beolco, my greatest master along with Molière: both actors-playwrights, both mocked by the leading men of letters of their times. Above all, they were despised for bringing onto the stage the everyday life, joys and desperation of the common people; the hypocrisy and the arrogance of the high and mighty; and the incessant injustice. And their major, unforgivable fault was this: in telling these things, they made people laugh. Laughter does not please the mighty.

End of intermission: we turn to a new page, but don't worry, it'll go faster from here.)

Ruzzante, the true father of the Commedia dell'Arte, also constructed a language of his own, a language of and for the theatre, based on a variety of tongues: the dialects of the Po Valley, expressions in Latin, Spanish, even German, all mixed with onomatopoeic sounds of his own invention. It is from him, from Beolco Ruzzante, that I've learned to free myself from conventional literary writing and to express myself with words that you can chew, with unusual sounds, with various techniques of rhythm and breathing, even with the rambling nonsense-speech of the grammelot.

In the past couple of months, Franca and I have visited a number of university campuses to hold workshops and seminars before young audiences. It has been surprising – not to say disturbing – to discover their ignorance about the times we live in. We told them about the proceedings now in course in Turkey against the accused culprits of the massacre in Sivas. Thirty-seven of the country's foremost democratic intellectuals, meeting in the Anatolian town to celebrate the memory of a famous mediaeval jester of the Ottoman period, were burned alive in the dark of the night, trapped inside their hotel. The fire was the handiwork of a group of fanatical fundamentalists that enjoyed protection from elements within the Government itself. In one night, thirty-seven of the country's most celebrated artists, writers, directors, actors and Kurdish dancers were erased from this Earth.

Allow me to dedicate a part of this prestigious prize to Ruzzante. A few days ago, a young actor of great talent said to me: "Maestro, you should try to project your energy, your enthusiasm, to young people. You have to give them this charge of yours. You have to share your professional knowledge and experience with them". Franca – that's my wife – and I looked at each other and said: "He's right". But when we teach others our art, and share this charge of fantasy, what end will it serve? Where will it lead?

Thousands of students listened to us. The looks in their faces spoke of their astonishment and incredulity. They had never heard of the massacre. But what impressed me the most is that not even the teachers and professors present had heard of it. There Turkey is, on the Mediterranean, practically in front of us, insisting on joining the European Community, yet no one had heard of the massacre. Salvini, a noted Italian democrat, was right on the mark when he observed: "The widespread ignorance of events is the main buttress of injustice". But this absent-mindedness on the part of the young has been conferred upon them by those who are charged to educate and inform them: among the absent-minded and uninformed, school teachers and other educators deserve first mention.

In one blow these fanatics destroyed some of the most important exponents of Turkish culture.

Young people easily succumb to the bombardment of gratuitous banalities and obscenities that each day is served to them by the mass media: heartless TV action films where in the space of ten minutes they are treated to three rapes, two assassinations, one beating and a serial crash involving ten cars on a bridge that then collapses, whereupon everything – cars, drivers and passengers – precipitates into the sea … only one person survives the fall, but he doesn't know how to swim and so drowns, to the cheers of the crowd of curious onlookers that suddenly has appeared on the scene.

At another university we spoofed the project – alas well under way – to manipulate genetic material, or more specifically, the proposal by the European Parliament to allow patent rights on living organisms. We could feel how the subject sent a chill through the audience. Franca and I explained how our Eurocrats, kindled by powerful and ubiquitous multinationals, are preparing a scheme worthy the plot of a sci-fi/horror movie entitled "Frankenstein's pig brother". They're trying to get the approval of a directive which (and get this!) would authorize industries to take patents on living beings, or on parts of them, created with techniques of genetic manipulation that seem taken straight out of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice".

This is how it would work: by manipulating the genetic make-up of a pig, a scientist succeeds in making the pig more human-like. By this arrangement it becomes much easier to remove from the pig the organ of your choice – a liver, a kidney – and to transplant it in a human. But to assure that the transplanted pig-organs aren't rejected, it's also necessary to transfer certain pieces of genetic information from the pig to the human. The result: a human pig (even though you will say that there are already plenty of those).

And every part of this new creature, this humanized pig, will be subject to patent laws; and whosoever wishes a part of it will have to pay copyright fees to the company that "invented" it. Secondary illnesses, monstrous deformations, infectious diseases – all are optionals, included in the price …

The Pope has forcefully condemned this monstrous genetic witchcraft. He has called it an offence against humanity, against the dignity of man, and has gone to pains to underscore the project's total and irrefutable lack of moral value.

The astonishing thing is that while this is happening, an American scientist, a remarkable magician – you've probably read about him in the papers – has succeeded in transplanting the head of a baboon. He cut the heads off two baboons and switched them. The baboons didn't feel all that great after the operation. In fact, it left them paralysed, and they both died shortly thereafter, but the experiment worked, and that's the great thing.

But here's the rub: this modern-day Frankenstein, a certain Professor White, is all the while a distinguished member of the Vatican Academy of Sciences. Somebody should warn the Pope.

So, we enacted these criminal farces to the kids at the universities, and they laughed their heads off. They would say of Franca and me: "They're a riot, they come up with the most fantastic stories". Not for a moment, not even with an inkling in their spines, did they grasp that the stories we told were true.

These encounters have strengthened us in our conviction that our job is – in keeping with the exhortation of the great Italian poet Savinio – "to tell our own story". Our task as intellectuals, as persons who mount the pulpit or the stage, and who, most importantly, address to young people, our task is not just to teach them method, like how to use the arms, how to control breathing, how to use the stomach, the voice, the falsetto, the contracampo. It's not enough to teach a technique or a style: we have to show them what is happening around us. They have to be able to tell their own story. A theatre, a literature, an artistic expression that does not speak for its own time has no relevance.

Recently, I took part in a large conference with lots of people where I tried to explain, especially to the younger participants, the ins and outs of a particular Italian court case. The original case resulted in seven separate proceedings, at the end of which three Italian left-wing politicians were sentenced to 21 years of imprisonment each, accused of having murdered a police commissioner. I've studied the documents of the case – as I did when I prepared Accidental Death of an Anarchist – and at the conference I recounted the facts pertaining to it, which are really quite absurd, even farcical. But at a certain point I realized I was speaking to deaf ears, for the simple reason that my audience was ignorant not only of the case itself, but of what had happened five years earlier, ten years earlier: the violence, the terrorism. They knew nothing about the massacres that occurred in Italy, the trains that blew up, the bombs in the piazze or the farcical court cases that have dragged on since then.

The terribly difficult thing is that in order to talk about what is happening today, I have to start with what happened thirty years ago and then work my way forward. It's not enough to speak about the present. And pay attention, this isn't just about Italy: the same thing happens everywhere, all over Europe. I've tried in Spain and encountered the same difficulty; I've tried in France, in Germany, I've yet to try in Sweden, but I will.

To conclude, let me share this medal with Franca.

Franca Rame, my companion in life and in art who you, members of the Academy, acknowledge in your motivation of the prize as actress and author; who has had a hand in many of the texts of our theatre.

Franca has a very sharp wit, I assure you. A journalist put the following question to her: "So how does it feel to be the wife of a Nobel Prize winner? To have a monument in your home?" To which she answered: "I'm not worried. Nor do I feel at all at a disadvantage; I've been in training for a long time. I do my exercises each morning: I go down on my hand and knees, and that way I've accustomed myself to becoming a pedestal to a monument. I'm pretty good at it."

(At this very moment, Franca is on stage in a theatre in Italy but willjoin me the day after tomorrow. Her flight arrives midday, if you like we can all head out together to pick her up at the airport.)

Without her at my side, where she has been for a lifetime, I would never have accomplished the work you have seen fit to honour. Together we've staged and recited thousands of performances, in theatres, occupied factories, at university sit-ins, even in deconsecrated churches, in prisons and city parks, in sunshine and pouring rain, always together. We've had to endure abuse, assaults by the police, insults from the right-thinking, and violence. And it is Franca who has had to suffer the most atrocious aggression. She has had to pay more dearly than any one of us, with her neck and limb in the balance, for the solidarity with the humble and the beaten that has been our premise.

Like I said, she has a sharp wit. At times she even turns her irony against herself.

At that moment, as if out of nowhere, a band appeared, playing nothing but wind instruments and drums. It was made up of kids from all parts of the city and, as it happened, they were playing together for the first time. They struck up "Porta Romana bella, Porta Romana" in samba beat. I've never heard anything played so out of tune, but it was the most beautiful music Franca and I had ever heard.

The day it was announced that I was to be awarded the Nobel Prize Ifound myself in front of the theatre on Via di Porta Romana in Milan where Franca, together with Giorgio Albertazzi, was performing The Devil with Tits. Suddenly I was surrounded by a throng of reporters, photographers and camera-wielding TV-crews. A passing tram stopped, unexpectedly, the driver stepped out to greet me, then all the passengers stepped out too, they applauded me, and everyone wanted to shake my hand and congratulate me … when at a certain point they all stopped in their tracks and, as with a single voice, shouted "Where's Franca?". They began to holler "Francaaa" until, after a little while, she appeared. Discombobulated and moved to tears, she came down to embrace me.

Believe me, this prize belongs to both of us.

Thank you.

Translated from Italian by Paul Claesson

[allgoldenelite]

hey guys, i've made a discord server for anyone 18+ to join. it's mostly a way for me to distribute my translations, especially longer ones (this is a hint) which will be exclusive to the server. if you want access to these documents, come join! in addition, i'd love if it became a place where ppl could discuss translation work and wrestling in general ^^

sorry to make you jump through so many hoops but i hope you understand 🙏 looking forward to chatting with y'all!

do you enjoy my work? consider donating so i can keep doing what i love doing. thank you.

[flyingbooks42]

That lation state really can trans

[marcodiazisatransgirl]

First, Breastforce claimed that their entire interest in this started from Marco in a dress from St. O's. The person asking about Marco in a dress was trying to bait Adam into saying something about the theory.

Most people who repeat the theory do it because of the dress, not the "dysphoria" (which is actually body dysmorphic, involving obsessive focus on a perceived flaw in appearance.)

I know that you're not going to believe any of this. It's upsetting to see you misgender anything, especially when I've been misgendered so many times in the last 6 years. Also your comments about my physical state don't help, making a joke out of it is cruel which is how I interpreted it.

And being transphobic is another jump to conclusion that doesn't make either of us look.good. I'm not transphobic. I'm transgender and have had years of reflection on iit. Calling me transphobic is like a punch in the gut.

As far as Daron, all she said was that she always intended Marco to be the type of guy who wasn't hung up on doing some things that are typically feminine without any concerns for his masculinity. It seems from an experience she had when she was young with her best friend who was male. When I asked her if Marco was going to grow up and be a good male role model, she said yes. Twice she did.

I won't deny I love the character a lot. I won't deny that some of the crew liked that some people saw themselves in Marco. But even if you look at the storyboard that everyone points to, it was a doll of a persona Marco already distanced himself from except for a royalty payment of $650. It was a capitalist business deal and nothing more. That's all the merch was ever about. A way to give Marco spending money during adventures. It wasn't about some secret "he's going as a she" behind everyone's back. It was all about the money. If Marco really cared about it on the level you theorize, he wouldn't have taken money out of the profits and would have done it in the best interests of the girls.

In conclusion I see this is misgendering. While it is a fictional character, some of the ways you've interacted with me have also been along the same lines, about me being transphobic and making light of my physical problems which is hitting below the belt.

Hi. I've been nice to you thus far. I've argued with you on your level, I've met your points on good faith. I've countered every argument you've given me with relative politeness considering how you've harassed me and my community, or ignored you when i was tired of said harassment. But now?

Get fucked, mate.

Where the fuck do you get off with this? Where do you see the moral high ground attacking trans people - OTHER trans people! - for finding identity with a character in a cartoon, in a community on tumblr. How childish are you that you cannot fathom other people having different interpretations of the source material. How petty and small-mided and hateful can you possibly be that you see trans people finding joy and community in a fictional character on tumblr and decide that it's hateful. How puritanical is your mindset that you cannot stand the idea of other people existing outside of your point of view.

Jen has said that she's not angry at you but I fucking am. Grow the fuck up you petulant, whinging, tantrum-throwing child. Flinging baseless accusations - I've never talked about your physical state, I barely know what it is beyond you being physically disabled in some way, which I found out after the majority of my interactions with you. I'm sorry, but you do not get to use your own problems as justifications for bullying and attacking others. You do not get to play the victim when it is you going after people apropos of nothing. It is you sending hate to fan artists just minding their own business, it is you going into our tags to complain about how we enjoy and interpret media.

And no, I don't fucking stalk you so I didn't know you were trans. Congratu-fucking-lations asshole! Looks like trans people can be just as toxic as the cis! Thanks for taking one for the team! And I'm sowwy that it's huwwrtful but your harassment and condemnation of the theory fucking stinks of transphobia. If you just disliked the theory, that's fine - I know plenty of polite and nice and non-transphobic people who don't think it's correct - people like Adam McArthur who would be appalled at your harassment at people over different interpretations of his character. Dozens of other tumblr users dislike the theory and they don't fall into your emotionally manipulative bullshit. That's a you specific problem.

(and while we're on the cast/crew topic: Daron Nefcy would be appalled at your use of her words as a gotcha for your bullshit cyber bullying. they mean nothing other than her affirming your interpretation of the character)

Your preposition is fundamentally flawed, you base your entire judgement of this theory on the fact that the idea started when a trans woman related to a character in a way you didn't think was valid. Your idea that somehow feminine men are underrepresented in fiction is completely ridiculous. But to go the fuck off about how even being perceived as a trans woman is dangerous to cishet men and then land on the conclusion that the problem is trans women? That's fucking transphobic.

But fine. You're trans so you can't be transphobic. You must of course have a ready list for canonical trans women for us to have flocked to back in 2016 when the theory was popular! Actually, I managed to find four examples (off the top of my head) of major characters in children's cartoons, the genre we're talking about. So you must be able to find the same! No? What about that same list from today? C'mon! If feminine men are so underrepresented compared to trans women, there must be more of them today at least! Fine we'll make it easy - it doesn't have to be a children's cartoon! Show me any western cartoon from any point in history where there was a trans woman as a major character. She doesn't even have to be the main character! Just a part of the reoccurring cast.

Show. Me. One.

But somehow those poor cis men are the ones victimized by us mean trans people.

I'm so fucking sorry you feel personally victimized by (other) trans people seeking representation. I'm so fucking sorry you are so badly triggered by (other) trans people (many of whom have dysphoria) identifying dysphoria in a work of fiction. But--newsflash asshole!--you don't get to bring your problems into a public space and harass people about them. You are the one in the wrong here, but your head is too far up your own arse to even dream about treating other people like actual human beings.

So, yeah. You're an immature, transphobic, bullying piece of shit and I want you to stay the fuck away from me, my friends, and my fucking tags.