Of course the cutting-up and distribution of saints only loosely approximates the kinds of operations performed upon books. Synecdoche with a vengeance. Charlemagne believed it and wore the relic around his neck enclosed in a hemisphere of polished crystal. To expect the readers of today to make such a leap of faith reveals an optimism bordering on lunacy, and yet that is the presumption every time a literary translation is published. But, by and large, that optimism is justified.
Readers believe in translation.
For writers, however, the process is more fraught. The implicit promise of a translation is that it carries within it the original text, that the original writer's expressed intent is present in the new version just as surely as the Virgin Mary's salvific goodness is present in a lock of her hair. In translation, however, there is no doctrine of grace. In fact, as far as I can see, there is no coherent doctrine or theory at all, and the existence of Chairs of Translation Theory within universities the world over no more guarantees the possibility of a perfect translation than the Pope's throne ensures virtue within the Church of Rome. Foundationless edifices induce nervousness in their inhabitants and all writers are notoriously prone to paranoia.