dilodi83
Senior Member
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2006
- Member Type
- Interested in Language
- Native Language
- Italian
- Home Country
- Italy
- Current Location
- Italy
The following text is a translation of a book written in Italian. I have tried to translate a part of the book into English. Could you tell me if it sounds good to a native English ear? The underlined words are those on which I have some doubts and I have also written the alternative...Thanks so much for your help.
Italy, 1889. It is almost morning... for the nth damned time...
The obscure ritual of a warm bath, the choice of the proper dress to wear - in order that everyone desires me, notices me and envys me more than usual -, the strong attempts to stiffen (OR tighten) the corpet appropriately - until my damsels' hands bleed and I can hold in my own high wiggly (OR sinuous) hips, while I clench an hanky among my teeth to withstand the clean rhythmical and strong knots - and the carefull comb-out of my reddish, long and too unruly hair...will be given up as soon as the first annoying noble bursts into (OR breaks into) the outside patio of the house to come and see the little Countess Miranda Gaironi, the one whom everyone thinks I am...
I hate having to wake up...and I cannot put up with the idea of stopping dreaming away of that He I love so much and whom I can never have. If only I could dream about him for ever... If only... I knew his name...
I cannot bear that Life may not be a pleasing and, at the same time, a deceptive dream... I cannot bear not to be able to buy, for me, our wonderfully fascinating night dream... my mysterious He and I, concretely together, forever...
Why does not Love give us a hand - just once - and prove to be easier? Why so many unsurmontable difficulties?
I only wish I could find him before I have to... before I... I do not want to pass away, thinking of not knowing (OR meeting) the true love... I do not want everything to be over without him.
Italy, 1889. It is almost morning... for the nth damned time...
The obscure ritual of a warm bath, the choice of the proper dress to wear - in order that everyone desires me, notices me and envys me more than usual -, the strong attempts to stiffen (OR tighten) the corpet appropriately - until my damsels' hands bleed and I can hold in my own high wiggly (OR sinuous) hips, while I clench an hanky among my teeth to withstand the clean rhythmical and strong knots - and the carefull comb-out of my reddish, long and too unruly hair...will be given up as soon as the first annoying noble bursts into (OR breaks into) the outside patio of the house to come and see the little Countess Miranda Gaironi, the one whom everyone thinks I am...
I hate having to wake up...and I cannot put up with the idea of stopping dreaming away of that He I love so much and whom I can never have. If only I could dream about him for ever... If only... I knew his name...
I cannot bear that Life may not be a pleasing and, at the same time, a deceptive dream... I cannot bear not to be able to buy, for me, our wonderfully fascinating night dream... my mysterious He and I, concretely together, forever...
Why does not Love give us a hand - just once - and prove to be easier? Why so many unsurmontable difficulties?
I only wish I could find him before I have to... before I... I do not want to pass away, thinking of not knowing (OR meeting) the true love... I do not want everything to be over without him.