(Originally appeared in Death + Taxes Magazine, April 2010)

“Before reading the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.”

And just like Aureliano Babilonia studying the writings of Melquíades the gypsy, I too, upon reading the final line ofOne Hundred Years of Solitude by Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez, had a revelatory moment that would change my perspective of foreign literature forever.

I chucked that goddamn book against the living room wall as hard as I could.

Somewhere around the four-hundredth page of translated prose, I had begun daydreaming about beating Márquez with Fernanda del Carpio’s golden chamber pot. The language was boring me to the point of bitter resentment—I’d read pamphlets on genital herpes that engaged me more than that novel. (Never mind why I was reading these pamphlets, but regardless, this is literally true.)

Although I can recognize the thematic value of the work which the National Observer hailed as “required reading for the entire human race,” the dry English version of this book has led me to call for a ban on all literary translations. My new policy: If you don’t speak the language, don’t read the book.

Let’s be clear: I’m no xenophobe arguing this point out of fear that swarthy foreigners, with their romantic tongues and larger penises, will steal our jobs and women. Whether you’re American, Ukranian, or Botswanan, if you can read One Hundred Years of Solitude in Spanish and appreciate it for its poetic beauty, by all means, read it! But just as any cinephile will admit that the American-dubbed version of Australia’s Mad Max sounds like it was looped by mentally retarded anime actors, books should also be enjoyed in their native dialect.

Remember how we learned in grade school that Eskimos have dozens of words for snow, or that the Japanese refer to a fifth basic taste called umami which has no equivalent English translation? It’s impossible to fully grasp the true intentions of foreign speakers when limited by the linguistic boundaries of our own cultures.

Additionally, most prose—like poetry—relies on patterns and rhythms to establish tone. Disrupting the musical flow of these words by forcing them into another language contaminates the author’s work and the reader’s experience. For a non-Spanish speaking American to cite Márquez as a favorite author would be like claiming devotion to The Who upon hearing Limp Bizkit’s cover of “Behind Blue Eyes.”

To stick with the musical metaphor for a moment, I can admit that an interpretation can also be a fantastic improvement—take Jeff Buckley’s brilliant cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” for instance. But at least in music the interpreter is given equal billing to the original artist. Can you name me your favorite translator of Russian literature? Name me even one without Googling and I’ll buy you a Limp Bizkit CD. Just think about it.

Sure, I’ve enjoyed a few translated books. Kafka’s The Metamorphosis or Camus’s The Stranger can work well in other languages because they rely so heavily on symbolism and allegory. But even these have been sources of major debate. The word “Ungeziefer” in the opening line of the The Metamorphosis , for example, has been translated to everything from “bug,” to “insect,” to “vermin,” to “unclean animal not suitable for sacrifice”—all of which convey varying levels of disgust. Meanwhile, the very title of Camus’s L’Etranger has been officially translated to The Outsider and The Foreigner in addition to its most common form. I mean, come on—even Kindergarteners know the names of the books they read. We can’t ignore the fact that the specific qualities of the words we choose contribute greatly to the overall meaning of a story.

Coincidentally, one of the themes in One Hundred Years is that the interpretations of readings can have weighty consequences. While I’m not necessarily worried about precipitating the destruction of my own town as Aureliano does, it’s safe to say I won’t be picking up any Dostoyevsky, Proust, or Fuentes anytime soon. From now on, if I can’t unlock the full potential of a book, I’m not interested. I’ll wait until I’ve saved enough money for the Rosetta Stone variety pack.