On Exactitude and translation
The well-known roads, so often travelled, had changed: shifted, almost imperceptibly, but still unmistakably.
The roads over which I had so often travelled were no longer familiar. They had changed, and moreover: something had changed them.
The roads I knew were changed. Not in their courses — each still led to its appointed destination — but in the winds the scenery's underpainting had been was suddenly seemed the scenery seemed repainted, perhaps by a different hand, perhaps with a different color used in the wash.
What I am saying is: The light reflected off the rain came from a different star.
The light diffused by the rain originated from an unexpected star.
The rain scattered an unexpected light.
The light, diffused by the rain, had an unexpected quality, as if emanating from an unfamiliar star.
Here is what I am trying to say: the rain diffused the light from a different star.
The roads I knew were changed. Not in their courses — each still led to its appointed destination — but the scenery had been repainted, perhaps by a different hand, perhaps with a different color used in the wash. Here is what I am trying to say: the rain diffused the light of a different sun.