I'm reading a book of correspondence between a pair of fencing lit-wits, Joseph Epstein and Frederic Raphael. Talk turns to Edmund Wilson, who badly embarrassed himself in the pages of the New York Review of Books when he attempted to school Vladimir Nabokov on how to translate Eugene Onegin.
Raphael writes: "...it is one of the greatest of all acts of literary hubris to have crossed dictionaries with Volodya on the Onegin translation; E.W. had only himself to blame when Pushkin came to Shovekin."
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