Anatoly Vorobey recently had a post on his renewed love for his native Russian that I liked enough to translate (clumsily) and share it; the original is below the cut.
It’s so strange, reading a book in Russian again after reading only a lot of books in English for a long time. Again that feeling of something simultaneously my own and remote. A return to Ithaca. Words somehow not right, and at the same time absolutely right. They force their way into the very inmost part of my brain and whisper there; they pass through, like owners, into places where foreign words can’t squeeze themselves or make their way by shouting.
My own, forever my own. Quiet and clamorous. Ravines and hills, tranquil grandeur and petty malice. So poor and so rich. Clumsy and concise, weighty and quick-witted. I can’t get away from you.