To Tear Down Since They Won’t Let Us Build: Katerina Gogou and Her Impressive Invasion of the Poetic Realm

Since they won't let us create life, we're going to ruin what's existing, and the new will follow.

As one of Greece’s most bold and unwavering poets, there is a ruthlessness running through the work of Katerina Gogou. In ferocious, free-styling verse, she vividly identified the brutalities and loneliness around her, and, with the incendiary vibration of a radical cry, came up always on the side of anarchism. As sensitive to hypocrisy as she was to corruption, Gogou dreaded a poetics that stood aside from politics, in one of her poems confessing: “What I fear most / is becoming “a poet” . . . / Locking myself in the room / gazing at the sea / and forgetting . . .” So it is that she remained dedicated to the necessity of rebellion and freedom until her death in 1993.

In this following article by Dimitris Gkionis, translated from the Greek by Christina Chatzitheodorou, we are offered an insight of this powerful poet in the midst of her time, navigating rages, passions, injustices, and her own poetic urgency. A woman who believes in words as action, as weapon—this is what comes into view.

On October 13, 1980, this piece, featuring an interview between Dimitris Gkionis and the poet Katerina Gogou, was published in the newspaper Eleftherotypia. It has since then been re-published—along with other interviews of Gogou—in Katerina Gogou, Mou Moiazei o Anthropos m’enan Ilio, Pou Kaigetai apo Monos tou (The man reminds me of a sun that burns by itself, published by Kastaniotis Editions in 2018). In both her poetry and interviews, Gogou’s work had always reflected her unconventional, rebellious, and combative spirit—always rebelling against authority, no matter what form. A supporter of the radical movement, she spent most of her days in Exarcheia—the historical centre of radical left-wing/libertarian politics—and was in constant conflict with the establishment, eventually giving up a promising career in acting to write poetry instead.

Through her verse, Gogou denounced social inequality, condemned police violence, criticised the death penalty, and stood in solidarity with political prisoners. Her mind was never at rest, and neither was her pen. While some of her poetry has previously been translated in English, it is the interviews that have been able to directly capture Gogou’s reasoning behind her aesthetic interventions, providing a more holistic picture of her and her work. In these conversations, she explains why she writes what she writes, and her anger at a stagnant world that she wants to change: “I am writing to get rid of this rock (kotrona) that is weighing me down. If I didn’t write, my ears would buzz. Ιf I don’t take this action, if I don’t put words on this white paper to bring myself to life, I could do things that are horrible and unimaginable.” READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Home Country” by Ksenia Rogozhnikova

the thieving babushka / carries her loot / down the freezing streets

This Translation Tuesday, we are honored to present a poem by the Kazakh poet Ksenia Rogozhnikova, deftly translated by the Ukrainian poet Nina Murray. With wry humor and plainspoken kindness, the poem’s unnamed speaker bears witness to the antics of a “little match girl” far more defiant and vivacious than her namesake, and to the theft of a roll of toilet paper by an old woman in a shopping center. Together, these images form a subtly generous portrait of urban life, a flicker of warmth against winter’s chill.

Home Country

the little match girl
sets things on fire
with the tiny bombs
she throws
under people’s feet

I dive into a mall
to get warm
let an elderly woman
ahead
into the bathroom

READ MORE…

Translating the Demons on the Page: Maureen Shaughnessy on Belén López Peiró’s Why Did You Come Back Every Summer

I feel like it's a gift that she opened herself up and shared such a raw part of herself with us.

After nine years and a criminal complaint. Affidavits, expert witness reports, trips back and forth to police stations, district attorneys, national courts. A five-hundred page case record. Two lawyers. One prosecutor. A justice commission. Fifteen years of therapy. Half my life! My entire family split in two. A whole town covering up the abuser. Seven years of writing workshops. Two books published. Finally. Finally. . . Now I can say out loud all the names I once could not.

Argentine writer Belén López Peiró eventually wrote these words last year, following nearly a decade of denouncing her abuser.

Belén’s first novel, Por qué volvías cada verano (Why Did You Come Back Every Summer), published five years prior to the sentencing, is an account of the abuse Belén suffered as a child and the breakdown of her family after she spoke out. It covers a number of years between the apartments and lawyers’ offices of Buenos Aires and the small town in this province where Belén spent summers with her cousins, her aunt, and her abuser—her aunt’s husband. Using mixed media, the book gossips and growls in a cacophony of voices, legal and colloquial, who question, opine, pity, doubt, support, and blame her. 

This April, Charco Press published the English translation of Belén’s novel by Maureen Shaughnessy. I caught up with the translator, who’s based in Southern Argentina, over Zoom to discuss the book. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Rebecca Wilson (RW): What were your first impressions of the book and how did you feel when Charco Press asked you to translate it?

Maureen Shaughnessy (MS): In Argentina it had its moment of hype, which is how I came across it in the first place, even though it was published with a small press. It came out here during a time when the #NiUnaMenos movement was really taking off, in that context of purple and green marches with women filling the streets.

When I started reading it, it was too intense for me. Right away, in the second or third entry, she tells this really intense story, the most abusive moment in the book, the most raw. Plus there’s all these dense legal documents—there are these two extremes together.

I had read it and found it too intense to think about pitching it to editors. It was too much for me to even consider, so it was a hard place to go to, to work for so long on the book.

RW: Any translation is a huge responsibility. But given this novel is so personal, and a true account, what did you feel was your relationship to the text?

MS: During the last few drafts, I got to a point where it was already typeset and we were supposed to go to print and I read it again. I had to say, ‘No, wait, not yet. Sorry, we have to keep editing it’, because I did feel responsible for trying to translate all those voices that were swimming around in her head, all those demons she brought out onto the page. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest literary news from Sweden and France!

This week, our editors take us to Sweden and France for updates on major literary initiatives and exciting literary festivals. From the fight against climate change to the fun of origami workshops, read on to find out more!

Eva Wissting, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Sweden

Last week, a climate initiative from the Swedish book industry—Bokbranschens klimatinitiativ—announced its new guidelines. The project started in 2021, with the goal of reducing the industry’s climate impact by 50% by 2030, and achieving net zero emissions by 2045. The initiative spans the entire supply chain from publishers to bookstores to streaming services, involving several of Sweden’s largest publishing companies and booksellers, as well as their industry associations.

Research from 2022 shows that most of the book industry’s emissions are caused by the production of physical books, along with their transportation; when it comes to streaming services, most of their emissions stem from the use of services, rather than during production. The guidelines presented last week include recommendations for renewable fuels such as green electricity for the transportation of books, but also optimized packing with minimal amount of air and recycled packaging material. The initiative also stated that it is essential for publishers to avoid overproducing physical books that never reach customers.

Apart from choosing sustainable paper for the printing of books, another important factor to consider is the weight of books: the lower the weight, the lower the carbon footprint. Even a small change of a few grams can make a difference, as it affects everything from raw materials to transportation, as well as the management of waste at the end of a book’s life cycle. READ MORE…

Poetic Justice: Will Firth on Translating Andrej Nikolaidis’ Anomaly

Oh, plans. I can't make plans. I'm a translator.

The apocalypse has always been a popular topic in literature, but Andrej Nikolaidis’ Anomaly is no regular walk around the end of the world. From one of the Balkans’ most fearless voices, the last day of humanity sees a complete collapse of the timeline as everything that has ever happened begins to occur at once. All sins rise to the surface, the dead return to testify, and the Devil himself makes wry commentary on all the fluff and frivolity we use to conceal our deepest secrets. Incisive, indicting, but not without compassion, Anomaly brilliantly exhibits the vital and intrepid nature of Nikolaidis’ work, which, coupled with a poetically lucid style and explosive intelligence, provoke readers to consider our world’s most central and incendiary contradictions. As our Book Club selection for the month of April, we had the opportunity to talk to Will Firth, the translator of Anomaly, about his remarkable work in bringing Nikolaidis’ writing to English, and what it means to be both translator and advocate.

The Asymptote Book Club aspires to bring the best in translated fiction every month to readers around the world. You can sign up to receive next month’s selection on our website for as little as USD20 per book; once you’re a member, join our Facebook group for exclusive book club discussions and receive invitations to our members-only Zoom interviews with the author or the translator of each title. 

Sofija Popovska (SP): Anomaly isn’t the first novel by Andrej Nikolaidis that you’ve translated, could you tell me more about how you two met and began to collaborate?

Will Firth (WF): I was first drawn to Andrej’s polished prose, coupled with his intelligent black humor—or cynicism as some would call it, and the remarkable imagery that he uses in all of his books. It’s basically the dense, intense intellectual challenge of his writing that I really like.

I didn’t actually meet him until 2012; I had translated his first novel, The Coming, and we had a launch event in London, at the now defunct Europe House. It’s a typical situation, actually; I don’t always meet authors before I translate their books, but I’m in touch with them while I’m in the process of translating, and several have become friends, which is a nice spin-off.

SP: You mentioned in an email to me that Andrej’s written about the apocalypse a lot, and this isn’t the first apocalypse-themed book he’s written. Has he said anything about why he loves this theme so much? And is Anomaly sort of a step—or a conclusion—in his literary project?

WF: Well, I don’t actually know what his greater literary project is. I’m not sure what he has in mind for the next few years and decades, but he certainly is fascinated by this idea of the apocalypse. In a text that I’ve quoted in various places, he calls himself an apocalyptist. He really feels it as a part of his existence: that the world we live in is doomed, in a way, and that better things, greater things, different things can arise from that.

But he’s playing with this idea all the time in his different books, and approaching the topic of the apocalypse from different angles. I’m not really sure why he’s so fixed on it, but it probably has a bit to do with his intellectual interests and the writers he’s into—Lacan and Slavoj Žižek, the post-Marxist, fairly radical writers.

But his personal experience of having to flee from Sarajevo in 1992 as a youth was certainly scary, if not traumatic. Add to that the experience of war, of systemic change, of being uprooted, being a refugee—and all sorts of other things. I mean, think of the massive earthquakes that the whole Balkan region has experienced: Montenegro in 1979, and Macedonia in 1963. Those are things that create a sense of insecurity, a sense that this world is dangerous and has its limitations, and we could be dead tomorrow. Those feelings perhaps flow into his interest in the apocalypse. READ MORE…

In Remembrance of Time Wasted: A Slovak Memoir on the Impossibility of Escape

Rozner illustrates how the state is able to reach into any of the nation’s corners, even as individuals sought freedom by opposing urban society.

Seven Days to the Funeral by Ján Rozner, translated from the Slovak by Julia and Peter Sherwood, Karolinum Press, 2024

In 1968, troops of the Warsaw Pact—led by the Soviet Union—invaded Czechoslovakia to crush an ideological rebellion against Communist orthodoxy, bringing the daring freedom movement to to its inevitably violent end. The world would come to define that era as the Prague Spring, yet as well as the subsequent arrests, heavy censorship, and exile for many intellectuals affected not only Prague, but also Bratislava and the whole of Slovakia—the eastern part of what was then one country.

In the foreign imagination, Slovakia largely remains in the shadow of Czech narratives—something Prague-centric fiction and non-fiction have long perpetuated. The recent translation into English of Seven Days to the Funeral (Sedem dní do pohrebu), by Slovak author Ján Rozner, fills this major gap in the perception of post-1968 Slovakian and Bratislavian intellectual life. In a four hundred-page long autofiction, meticulously and elegantly translated by Julia and Peter Sherwood, Rozner provides a rare testimony against the blind spots of collective history and memory—including those, as it turns out, of Slovak readers.

What is particularly striking is how the shape and the style of Seven Days to the Funeral espouse the despair and dread of what was experienced in Czechoslovakia as “normalization”—party-speak terminology used to describe the post-1968 period of obsessive governmental control, enacted to ensure that any dissent against Moscow would never again be possible in Central Europe. This translated into the elimination of any possible contest or alternative culture, be it intellectual or religious opposition, or simply works of music, literature, or art. However, as the dissident movement (with Václav Havel and the rebellious manifesto of Charter 77) proved, the liberating aspirations of underground gatherings, samizdat literature, and civil uprisings would eventually triumph three decades later, in the Velvet Revolution. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Snow” by Guka Han

"I felt like this meaningless daily routine could just carry on forever."

This Translation Tuesday, we feature an intricate story told deftly by Guka Han, translated from the French by Catherine Leung. On a morning too cold to leave her bed, Han’s narrator scrolls through her feed. Among the ads and videos, a photo of “her” surprises her: a friendly fellow student from film school, and in a later crossing of paths, a strange albeit familiar face in the country she’s emigrated to. Memories begin to return—of her first summer in this new country, her anomie, her listlessness, and her two strange encounters with this girl. Deep unhappiness lurks in the narrator’s ambivalent, almost benumbed recollection—elusive and obscure, yet instantly familiar to those who know it.

I open my eyes. The day is about to begin, but last night’s dreams and the events of yesterday still surround me and hold me back from a fresh start. My head’s in a fog. The alarm didn’t go off. Curled up under the duvet, I reach out to grab my phone. The cold air from the bedroom immediately nips my arm. I look at the time on the screen and stretch, but don’t manage to shake off the sense of fatigue. I wonder what woke me. The chill in the bedroom feels even sharper than usual and I don’t feel ready yet to face the new day. I curl up again and make the most of the little heat still remaining in the bed.

I turn my phone back on. The bright screen dazzles me, but after a few moments, my eyes adapt. I scroll through the day’s news. An acquaintance is interested in the language of cats; another hates a politician; somebody is stuck at the airport in Moscow; a celebrity has succumbed to cancer; such and such a person is looking for a flat “650 euros max”; a child has choked on a Kinder toy; a girlfriend has eaten noodles with mushrooms; somebody else has felt moved by an extract from a book; and in the middle of all this news, a photo catches my attention. It’s her. She’s wearing a thin dress and is smiling as she stares at the lens or the person who took the photo. Her forehead is glowing in a summer light. It’s a good photo in my opinion—she’s beautiful in this dress, in this light.

With a flick of the thumb, I scroll through the news again. Stories, ads and photos follow one after another, and then suddenly, there she is once more. In this new picture she’s posing with a girl who I used to hang out with at university. I tap on the photo without thinking.

“…”

Three ellipsis points, nothing else. Sixteen people liked this photo, and twelve added a comment. I read one, then another, and suddenly realise she’s dead.

READ MORE…

The Ghost of Coexistence: On a Narrative of Jewish-Muslim Kinship

A Land Like You is a historical rendition . . . but it is also, much more, a testament of a multicultural homeland that no longer exists.

On May 12, Egypt joined South Africa in its International Court of Justice case accusing Israel of genocide. As one of the first countries to recognize the Palestinian Declaration of Independence in 1988, Egypt has continually occupied a close position in this ongoing catastrophe; the nation opposed Zionism in the 1930s and accepted tens of thousands of Palestinian refugees in the aftermath of the Nakba but, in more recent decades, the government has worked to covertly “normalize” relations with Israel. This seeming contradiction culminates from the complex, multi-cultural, and syncretic history of the region, in which Jewish and Muslim peoples lived with intertwined fates, and it is that increasingly implausible reality which the French writer and psychologist Tobie Nathan explores in A Land Like You, an absorbing, panoramic narrative of Egypt in the twentieth century. In the following essay, Moumita Ghosh looks at how the nation of Egypt formed out of an overarching Ottoman unity, and how Nathan’s stirring novel of this tumultuous period can inform our understanding of the region today.

We live beside the Arabs the way a man might live beside his innards. Our tales fill their Qur’an, their tongue fills our mouth. Why aren’t they us? Why aren’t we them?

—Tobie Nathan, from A Land Like You (translated by Joyce Zonana)

In Ottoman Brothers, Michele U. Campos writes about how objective distinctions between empires and nations are often murky, especially as demonstrated in the late Ottoman context. In the years before the First World War, the rise of ethno-nationalist sentiments such as Zionism and Arabism were essentially in negotiation with the responsibilities of imperial citizenship in a multi-ethnic and multi-religious Muslim empire. Rather than separating from the Ottoman empire, there were attempts to preserve its existence. As familiar calls for a two-state solution re-emerge in Palestine, now undergoing a second Nakba, this history of collective identity and a shared homeland in the Middle East—though short-lived, incomplete, and within the context of imperialism—has gained a new relevancy.

In the wake of the 1908 Young Turk Revolution and the collapse of the old Hamidian absolutist state, the new epoch of democracy linked the individual Ottoman citizen—irrespective of ethnicity, religion, or mother tongue—to the reforming constitutional state, and citizenship to the “Ottoman-nation” became a distinct socio-political identity. Palestine, even under rule, somewhat differed from the other Ottoman provinces in terms of being a site of worldwide religious devotion, as its daily life involved a mutuality whereby local Muslims, Christians, and Jews came together—especially in Jerusalem—to execute the vision of a “modern” urban city.

Sephardi Jews in particular were grateful to the Ottoman Empire for being their historical saviors, and were consistently mediating between the ideological commitments of multicultural, civic Ottomanism and the European import of particularistic Zionism in the years following the 1908 revolution. Shaped by cultural Hebraism, the Sephardi Jews of Palestine believed in the compatibility of Ottomanism and Zionism; they thought that the socio-cultural and economic rebirth of the Jewish community would be enriching for the Ottoman Empire and, most importantly, that such a revival would be taking place within the Ottoman body-politic. However, such views were not free of contentions—especially due to the continual forces of territorial colonialism. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest in world literature from the Philippines, Bulgaria, and the United States!

This week, our Editors-at-Large bring us around the world for updates on literary workshops, readings, and conferences! From a workshop dedicated to Kapampangan literature in the Philippines, to the thriving Mahala Bookstore in Bulgaria, to ALTA’s online Write the World panels, read on to learn more!

Alton Melvar M Dapanas, Editor-at-Large, Reporting from the Philippines

Tomorrow, May 18, marks the deadline of the call for workshop participants for Pamiyabe, the regional creative writing workshop for young writers who hail from the northern Philippine region of Central Luzon. Across Central Luzon and Metro Manila, the Kapampangan language (also alternatively named Pampangan, Pampango, and Pampagueno) is the native tongue to over 3.2 million Filipinos. 

Now in its 21st year, the Pamiyabe writing workshop is aimed at contributing towards the flourishing of Kapampangan literature and organised by The Angelite, the official student publication of Holy Angel University in Angeles City, Pampanga. This year’s theme is “Pamaglugug queng regalu ning milabasan, pamagkaul queng progreso ning kasalungsungan” (Nurturing the gift of the past, embracing the progress of the present).

READ MORE…

Glimpses of Kashmir: On For Now, It Is Night by Hari Krishna Kaul

[For Now, It Is Night] is a collection that represents Kaul as a chronicler of his times, mapping memory and history.

For Now, It Is Night by Hari Krishna Kaul, translated from the Kashmiri by Kalpana Raina, Tanveer Ajsi, Gowhar Fazili, and Gowhar Yaqoob, Archipelago Books, 2024

Hari Krishna Kaul (1934-2009) was a Kashmiri writer dedicated to inscribing the quotidian lives of people in the valley, releasing their stories in both fiction and dramatic works throughout his life. Some of these pieces have now been collected in For Now, It Is Night, which features seventeen stories picked from the four collections spanning Kaul’s career—two written and published before the watershed year of 1989, while the writer still lived in Kashmir; and two published after he and his family had migrated—just like many other Hindu families—in the Kashmiri Pandit exodus, which occurred upon the onset of militancy and rise in communal tensions after India’s Independence in 1947. As Kalpana Raina, Kaul’s niece and one of four translators in this volume, writes:

There are no grand themes in Kaul’s work, but an exploration and an acceptance of human limitations. He used his personal experiences to explore universal themes of isolation, individual and collective alienation, and the shifting circumstances of a community that went on to experience a significant loss of homeland, culture, and ultimately language.

One would assume that Kaul would become prejudiced after his exile, but that could not be farther from the truth. As Gowhar Fazili, another translator, states: “Unlike a partisan trend in contemporary Kashmiri writing—particularly in English—that victimises a community, demonising the other while valorising the self, Kaul subverts the binaries of good and evil, friend and enemy, self and other.” As exemplified in this selection, Kaul does not create reductive caricatures in the guise of characters, whether Muslim or Hindu. Moreover, neither the exodus, nor the events surrounding it, make up the sole focus of his narratives; he is not interested in the incidents themselves so much as the rootlessness and unbelonging they engendered. Tanveer Ajsi elaborates: “Not assuming the inclusive character of Kashmiri society, he excavated the strengths that bound it together, while also exposing the fault lines that lurked behind its cultural veneer.” As such, Kaul’s work can also be seen as a questioning of Kashmiriyat, the much-romanticised idea of communal harmony and religious syncretism in the Kashmir valley, which—despite its gradual erosion—still sees people swearing by its steadfastness.

READ MORE…

Among the Drift Ice: Larissa Kyzer on Modern Icelandic Literature in Translation

A lot of the best outlets for Icelandic literature in English translation are actually based in Iceland.

Larissa Kyzer translates from the Icelandic works in a wide range of genres, including novels, short stories, and poetry; microplays and film scripts; picture books, chapter books for young readers, and YA fantasies; essays and nonfiction; daily news, and more. Her recent projects include the Impostor Poets’ Manifesto; “A Radio Operator Goes Hunting,” a stand-alone excerpt from art curator-turned-author Steinunn G. Helgadóttir’s first, as-yet-available in English novel; Bookworm in a Chrysalis,” an essay reflecting on immigration, language-learning, and a lifelong love of books by Natasha S.; and “On the Edge,” a special issue of new and timely writing from Iceland, which she curated for Words Without Borders in 2021. She’s also a writer herself, and has published book reviews (mostly focusing on contemporary Nordic and Icelandic literature), travel writing, personal essays, and articles (most while working as the staff journalist for The Reykjavík Grapevine). 

In this interview, I conversed with Larissa about the changing landscape of contemporary literature and literary translation in Iceland, her translation process, and her work to build a more inclusive literary world. 

Alton Melvar M Dapanas (AMMD): Before the First World War, translations of Icelandic writings were mostly into German, English, and Scandinavian languages. Eventually, the translations expanded to other languages such as Chinese, Georgian, Gaelic, Esperanto, Slovenian, Macedonian, Uzbek, and even French, Dutch, and Japanese. But this was the landscape of literary translation until the mid-70s through the early 90s, according to Cornell University Press’ Bibliography of Modern Icelandic Literature in Translation. What’s the scene of literary translation in Iceland these days like? 

Larissa Kyzer (LK): Thanks to Iceland’s fabulous landscapes and nature (not least its volcanic eruptions, which the country has had four of in the last four months), its perennial popularity as a tourist destination, and its status as a small, European island nation of many listacle-able quirks, there is always at least some demand for Icelandic literature in translation, although the scales still tilt towards crime fiction, as they do for most, if not all, of the Nordic countries. Per the Publishers Weekly Translation Database, which covers first-time English translations “distributed through conventional means” in the United States, there have been 93 Icelandic books translated into English since 2008, when the folks at Open Letter Books started collecting this data. 44 of them (that is, nearly half) are crime novels. Consider that in 2019 (the most recent year data was collected), 1,712 books were published in Iceland, whereas in 2008, at the height of the country’s boom years, we saw the publication of 2,125 books—in a single year. For a country with a population currently hovering around just under 400,000, that’s pretty impressive. But we’re only getting a fraction of this wealth in English.

A sidenote, because I think it’s interesting, and also worth highlighting: the figures for Icelandic literature in English translation are still way more heartening than you see for many so-called minority languages, including ones that have far more speakers. For example, there are about 5.4 million speakers of Finnish worldwide; according to the Translation Database, only 88 Finnish books have been published in English translation since 2008. Thirteen million people speak Greek; only 70 Greek books have been published in English in the same time period. Almost 40 million people speak Thai worldwide; only 3 English-language translations of Thai titles are listed in the database. Hindi has over 600 million speakers; only 14 Hindi-language books have been translated into English in the last 16 years. There’s a lot that can be inferred from these numbers—not least that there is obviously a significant Eurocentricity in English-language publishing—but the baseline point is that as English-language readers, we’re only ever getting access to a tiny sliver of the literature that exists in the world.

READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: From “Cardboard Lovers” by Víctor Hugo Ortega

Falling out of love / is meeting each other six years later / in a lift / and we’re just strangers.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you two poems by the Chilean writer Víctor Hugo Ortega C. Rendered here in plain but powerful English by Georgina Fooks, the poems are striking in their restraint; the first is blunt, almost disinterested, and the second is so sparing in its references to emotion that what little appears—a look of surprise recalled on a lover’s face, a mocking word spoken long ago—is almost unbearable. The collection from which these poems are taken is in fact named for a line in the second poem: the Amantes de cartón, or Cardboard Lovers, of the final stanza—an image suggesting not only the futility of the lovers to understand each other, but of literature to capture the narrator’s loss.

The eye of Santiago

The eye of Santiago
gazes with polluted indifference
at the romance of lovers polluted
by high rates
of heartbreak.

Two thousand one hundred and ninety

I’ll see you and you won’t see me
I’ll speak to you and you won’t hear me
we’ll breathe in the same enclosed space
and maybe you won’t realise,
look where we happened to meet
you’re going to the 49th floor
me to the 45th,
50 secondsis this how long this journey will last?
It’ll depend on if someone gets in,
although I don’t think so,
we always used to get lucky.

READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: May 2024

New titles from Italy and Colombia!

In a fecund month of new translations, our editors select two phenomenal titles: a collection of the later poems by the acclaimed Eugenio Montale, and an intimate epistolary fiction leading readers to a seldom-seen region of Colombia. 

Late Montale – New York Review Books

Late Montale by Eugenio Montale, translated from the Italian by George Bradley, New York Review Books, 2024

Review by Danielle Pieratti, Poetry Editor

“The world exists,” declared Eugenio Montale in the poem “Wind and Flags” from his first book, Cuttlefish Bones, published in 1925 (translated by Jonathan Galassi). Given the frank, existential agnosticism that governs the poet’s later work, it feels a little like whiplash to return to this otherwise characteristically subtle poem after reading Late Montale. Translated from the Italian by George Bradley, this collection comprises Montale’s published and unpublished poems from the second half of his life, offering glimpses of the poet first in the period of his Nobel win and later, as an increasingly reflective and skeptical widower. Yet ultimately, Montale seems to arrive where he began. “Unarguably / something must exist,” he writes in an unpublished poem at the end of his life,

But with [regard to] this,
science, philosophy, theology (red or black)
have all misfired.

If this isn’t faith,
O men of the altar or the microscope,
then go f. yourselves.

Given that these works range from the 1960s to his death in 1981, the fact that Montale circles back to this revelation bears noting. While his underlying ironies and symbolism persist, there’s a definitive “shift from formality to intimacy and self-revelation,” Bradley writes in his introduction, which “parallels the course of twentieth century poetry as a whole”. In poems taken from Satura, first published eight years after the 1963 death of his wife Drusilla Tanzi, Montale retains his characteristic imagery and density, but his focus has drifted from the tangible nature symbolism of his earlier works to more abstract questions of grief befitting an older poet experiencing loss. Many of the poems speak to memory and to individuals from Montale’s past, including several from two long sequences addressed to Tanzi. Others allude frequently to Montale’s former life as an opera singer. Indeed, the tension between then and now pervades Late Montale, and the poet’s apparent scorn for the passing of time lends a hint of tragedy to poems increasingly pensive and raw. “We were two lives too young to be old but too old to feel we were young,” he writes to Tanzi in “Lake Sorapis, 40 Years Ago”, which ends:

That’s when we learned what aging is.
Nothing to do with time, it’s something that tells us,
that makes us tell ourselves: “Here we are,
it’s a miracle and won’t come again.” By comparison
youth is the most contemptible of illusions.

READ MORE…

May 2024: Upcoming Opportunities in Translation

From poetry readings to translation workshops—check out our compilation of some of this summer's latest opportunities in world literature.

SUBMISSIONS

THE VIEW FROM GAZA

The Massachusetts Review is calling for submissions for a special issue, The View From Gaza. Palestinian writers are encouraged to send their workwhether it be poetry, prose, essays, or artfor this special issue, which will commemorate those who have been lost in the genocide and celebrate the ongoing resistance and resilience in Gaza.

As Israel’s violence against Gaza continues, the Review “hope[s] to amplify the work of Palestinian writers that contributes to the theory and critique of Empire and settler colonialism.” Submissions in English, Arabic, and other languages are all eligible.

The deadline for submissions is June 15th. Submissions should be sent to themassreview@gmail.com.

EVENTS

2024 GRIFFIN POETRY PRIZE READINGS

On June 5th, 2024, the Griffin Poetry Prize invites you to join them for an evening of poetry and translation!

Awarded annually, the Griffin Poetry Prize is the world’s largest international prize for a book of poetry written (or translated into) English. At this celebratory event, this year’s shortlisted poets will read from their works at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto before this year’s winner is revealed. Readings will also be performed by the Lifetime Recognition Award recipient and the 2024 Canadian First Book Prize winner.

Tune in to the the Griffin Poetry Prize’s Youtube channel to watch a livestream of the readings on June 5th at 7pm ET.

GRANTS & FUNDING

GLOBAL AFRICA TRANSLATION FELLOWSHIP

The Africa Institute is welcoming applications for their fourth annual Global Africa Translation Fellowship!

This fellowship aims to celebrate works from the African continent, as well as from the African diaspora. Translators from across the Global South can submit their works-in-progress or potential projects to be considered for a grant of up to $5,000. Translations of previously untranslated poetry, prose, and critical theory works, as well as retranslations of older texts, are eligible. Submissions should be translated into English or Arabic, although translations into some other languages may also be considered.

The deadline for applications is June 1st, 2024. Find more information on eligibility and how to apply here.

RESIDENCIES & WORKSHOPS

BCLT ADVANCED TRANSLATION WORKSHOPS

Since 2021, the British Centre for Literary Translation has run annual advanced translation workshops to support the craft of literary translators and to bring together those with common language pairs. This year’s workshop will center on translators of Taiwanese literature.

Workshop participants will have the opportunity to work with other attendees to hone a sample translation for their chosen project. By the end of the program, participants will have a polished sample, as well as a pitch, that is ready to send off to potential publishers. Accepted applicants will need to choose a book from the Taiwan Literature Awards for Books longlists and obtain permission to translate the work.

The deadline for applications is June 2nd, 2024, while the event itself will run online during the 7th, 22nd, and 23rd of November. Read more here.

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