[jackm8]

Originally Posted by Comfy.n

I find it pretty awesome for providing paraphrases. Sometimes I ask gpt 3.5 to list alternative ways to convey an idea, and it usually does quite a good job at amazing speed!

I think that continuity may be a problem. Especially with names, as it doesn't know how to translate them. Likewise it can be confused in more complex passages. Otherwise I was also impressed by speed of it as well. Then there are apparently topics that it will refuse to traslate. Violence isn't much of a problem, but sexuality is.


I tried it on a fairly complex short story with a few similes, and I think that it did a good job with it. I did no corrections, my own explanations and errors are in brackets in italics. I was very impressed that Multatuli was correctly detected as a writer, personally, I had no idea what that part was about until I went to Wikipedia. But I think that first and last paragraphs don't flow correctly, and can be confusing as it is.

Slovene to English.
Ivan Cankar. Short story: Rue de nations, published in 1903.
Public domain.

Spoiler:

It was as though I had risen from the grave. Buried beneath the weight of sorrowful existence, deep beneath the heavy soil, my hands no longer possessed the strength to lift the burden. I felt myself already dead, forgotten, hearing the footsteps of people treading over my grave. They lived and spoke loudly and joyfully, while I lay deep beneath the heavy soil, grappling with stale, stubborn thoughts, the thoughts of a dead man, and I despised others for not thinking as I did, for walking lightly and cheerfully over my grave. And now I have awakened, and I have sighed, and the burden has rolled away. Love has entered my heart, that love which alone is strong enough to lift a man from the grave. It slept within me, beneath the weight of sorrowful and bitter life, but a soft and warm hand touched her eyes and eyelashes trembled and she awakened. With great strength she embraced me entirely; from the south a spring breeze blew and brought me greetings from that land, from which an invisible hand had uprooted me from its soil, uprooted with roots so bloodied; it rustled from Raskovec and Javornik, the spring breezes from the Ljubljana plain brought greetings to me from Ring [common name, I've no Idea on the source of it], I heard in the wind the muffled singing of the bells of the parish church of St. Paul. Thus the wind brought me greetings from the poor mother, whose son had forgotten her because she could give him nothing . . . A letter came from my half-forgotten beloved, and when I opened it, everything smelled of those times, of those innocent kisses, of lush meadows where we walked, of the chestnut grove where we sat on a bench and she pressed herself to me, because heavy drops were falling from behind the leaves, so that her wet blouse clung to her hand; it smelled of the past, of youth, of that beautiful land there in the south; the doors had been pushed open a bit, the loving hand of my half-forgotten, forever lost beloved had pushed them open and already they had opened wide and everything was returning with sunny, great force and like ashes it scattered and the shroud [Burial shroud] fell from me and the film [Cataract. As Shround, slightly inaccurate translation] fell from my eyes that I had been looking through into the dark world. This happened on a beautiful day when the houses shone in the sun and wet greenery sprouted in the gardens.

In the evening I went to the café and greeted a friend sitting at a table in a cloud of tobacco smoke. He noticed my flushed face and my exuberant eyes and was surprised, almost offended. Pale and lifeless as he was, he did not like to look at happy faces. I told him that I was celebrating the holiday of my resurrection. And since there was within me a fullness of youthful energy waiting to be poured into bold deeds, I told him about my plans and hopes of greatness and immense numbers. He smoked and listened to me; at times he glanced sideways at me. When I fell silent, somewhat subdued and timid under the cold gaze of his eyes, he leaned his elbow on the table and spoke. He spoke slowly and calmly, without looking me directly in the face. "Do you remember Multatuli's Havelaar, the beautiful tale of Said? When Said returned to his native village, [Talk is of Dutch novel Max Havelaar, written by Multatuli. Säidjah is a character in it. He was translated to Saidja in original story. In Slovene passage goes "Ali se spominjaš na Havelaarja Multatuli-jevega, na lepo povest o Saidju? Ko se je vrnil Saidja..." Chatgpt and deepl translate it correctly by turning order of words Havelaar and Multatuli, both then stick with Said for the duration of the story. Google translate and another free translator retain order Havelaar Multatuli that confuses meaning, and translate Säidjah differently at time: "Do you remember Havelaar Multatuli, the beautiful story about Said? When Saidja returned to his home village,..."] he waited under a tree all night for his beloved to come to him at dawn, as they had agreed upon parting. He waited and his beloved did not come. And he went into the village, and down the village, to the end, and back up the village again; there was no house of his beloved. He ran down to the end, and returned — there was no house. All the houses stood there as before, only the house of his beloved was not there. Poor Said thought he was mad and ran down again and up again — everything was as before, but the house of his beloved was not there . . . Look, all the nations came to Paris as guests. Along the 'avenue of nations' they made their homes, the smaller the nation, the larger and more beautiful they made it. [Passage is about Exposition Universelle (1900) that is used as a simile for the story] And if you had come to that street and had looked for your home, you would have walked along the street like Said; down to the end and back up again — all the houses would have stood there, but your home would not be there; you would have run down, your eyes would have been bloodshot and crazed with fear; and you would have run and returned and not found your home. All the houses were there, your house was not. You were a stranger there, a vagabond without a home. If someone had come and asked you, 'Who are you? Where are you from? Show me your home!' — you would have hung your head and bowed your back and not answered him. Therefore, every joy and every hope is foolish. You have no home, which means you are a branch without a trunk, a broken branch that has fallen on rotten leaves and dries there and finally withers away. You have no home; your thoughts are foreign, as if the wind had brought them from all sides, all your work is foreign, grown from foreign soil, every word of yours is foreign, because even the language you speak is no longer yours. How would a branch thrive on rotten leaves, broken off from the trunk? We are branches, decaying because there is no sap from the trunk to give us strength. Tell me, where did your enthusiasm for work, for life, come from? Think well, look at your soul in a clear mirror, ruthlessly reveal to yourself the origin and purpose of your mental inertia and you will understand that you have no home. Your birthplace, my dear, is like a gypsy wagon, wandering from place to place. Since you have no wellspring to give you pride and love and strength, you also have no one to be grateful to. Just as all your effort is foreign, so is it also insignificant. It would be foolish to give anything to someone who gives you nothing. And it is impossible for you to give. Because there is no giving in the world, everything is just returning. What you have gathered elsewhere, return it to those who gave it to you; go and seek them out, if they desire repayment.

And I went and roamed along the road full of joy and youth, I poor Said. I heard his words and I heard them groaning, yes, I saw how each of them was steeped in bitter heart's blood. He was ashamed of his poor mother and he was blushing on his cheeks, because he was ashamed . . . The evening was clear and the gardens were green. And it rustled from Javornik and Raskovec, I heard in the wind the muffled singing of the bells of the parish church of St. Paul. Thus the wind brought me greetings from the poor mother, whose son had forgotten her because she could give him nothing. It was difficult and wonderfully sweet to me. I walked along the wide road, the road of nations, and there stood tall buildings. I walked, a stranger without a home, but my heart was squeezed and expanded by the great, painful and joyful love for a mother who has no home; I would not trade this love for all the wealth of homes standing there so proudly by the roadside: 'Look, you are a beggar and your coat is patched and your bare feet are all sore and dusty from wandering without rest!' Ah, mother, my life, all my thoughts, the beginning and end of all my striving! How calloused and bent are your poor holy hands, — bless me, son ["as your son", meaning is confused in translation, as it's not clear that talk is of writer asking mother for a blessing], with your poor holy hands! Your forehead is full of worries and suffering, crowned with thorns instead of a diadem, — bend to me, son, your beloved, thorn-crowned forehead, look upon the humble offering I bring you, the poor mother's poor son, look upon my heart and accept it! I wandered along the wide road, past tall buildings, and I was happy and proud, for there is no sweeter and more fruitful love than the love of sons who have no other than this sweet and fruitful love from their mother, worthy of a spacious home and all these wide and proud roads.