The catalyst was a book I was translating, referred to by my friends simply as that book, since I don’t divulge the titles of jobs I hate.  Luckily, although not all the books I’ve translated so far have always captured my heart and imagination, most have made a tolerable if not pleasant day’s work.  But, after a few pages, I began to hate that book with every fibre of my being.  I hated the plot, I hated the characters so much that I kept hoping against hope that they’d meet a swift, painless demise over the page. I prayed for a deus ex machina to kick that book out of my life with a bend that would make David Beckham envious.  As the weeks dragged by and no supernatural force came to deliver me from it, that book slithered deeper and deeper under my skin and began spreading its venom through my…