Posts filed under 'Short Story'

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

January 20, 2023  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Alton Melvar M Dapanas, Andriana Hamas, and Areeb Ahmad

Literary news from Bulgaria, the Philippines, and India!

Join us this week with a new batch of literary dispatches covering newly released audiobooks by the unofficial “hero of the Philippines,” the passing of one of Bulgaria’s most notable political figures and literary critics, and an award-winning translator’s appearance in New Delhi. From a night of chilling literature in Sofia to a bookstagrammer’s compilation of all Indian books in translation from 2022, read on to learn more!

Andriana Hamas, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Bulgaria

Although usually uneventful, January has so far proved a surprise for everyone who has taken a keen interest in the Bulgarian cultural scene.

Earlier this month, the local community lost the literary critic Elka Konstantinova. Throughout her life, the scholar, who passed away at the age of ninety, managed to balance an innate passion for the written word with a desire to bring about broader societal change by being an active participant in the country’s political life. In a recent report, the Bulgarian Telegraph Agency described her as “one of the key figures in Bulgarian politics after the fall of communism in 1989.” Her research encompassed diverse topics from the relationship between the fantasy genre and the world of today to the general development of the short story during specific periods of the twentieth century.

In other news, by the time you are reading this dispatch, the French Cultural Institute in Sofia will have begun preparations for its first Reading Night (Nuit de la Lecture). The event, organized in collaboration with the National Book Centre, is set to start today, in the late afternoon, and will last well past midnight. This year, the theme is “Fear in Literature” with a focus on fairy tales, criminal investigations, fantasy, dystopian science fiction, chilling essays, and more. Younger readers and their parents will have the chance to participate in several literary workshops and specially designed games that aim to ignite the public’s enthusiasm for books and stories.

READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Halo and Mic” by Sian Northey

November 1, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Susan Walton

“Where’s yer bloody ’alo? Or are you a plastic angel?”

Today’s Translation Tuesday features a cracking piece of Welsh fiction from Sian Northey where a bored angel descends to earth and finds himself having to play to a human crowd. In Susan Walton’s translation, nuances in speech and register are captured to delightful effect, allowing the voices of angels and men to truly soar. Let yourself be enthralled by this wholly original tale of shape-shifting and light-hearted rebellion. 

They didn’t twig what I was. A bit of a disappointment, really, because I’d gone for a classic look—full-length white nightie, two wings, and a light dusting of radiance, but not too blingy. You don’t want to be trashy, do you? That’s why I told that Jelia and his bloody trumpet to stay at home.

“You can’t go by yourself,” he’d said, after snatching up a dusty volume from the piles at his side, opening it and starting to read. “A host—that means a multitude.”

“Nope. Never. No way, José. Not a chance in hell, gwd boi.” Jelia had looked at me suspiciously, raising one eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. “Practice. They must be communicated with. It’ll need to be done again at some point, for sure,” I’d said. “And anyway, I’m bored,” I’d added. “But you’re staying at home. Bad enough that one of us is breaking the rules.”

“Go then,” Jelia had said, turning back to his trumpet. “Anyroad, the place has changed a lot, they say. They won’t be very impressed with you.”

And they weren’t. I chose a spot where there were quite a few people and appeared as it was getting dark. I stood there for a few minutes before anyone said anything. I rather regretted not letting Jelia come with me—him and his twenty trumpets. I’d expected the people to be surprised, even fearful, but the only thing that happened was that a couple of them passed me to reach a long counter where drinks were being served. I noticed that one of the girls went through me, rather than pushing against me; she turned to look at me. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Mom’s Photographs” by Nay Win Myint

October 11, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Kenneth Wong

Perhaps she was a bit like the acacia leaf from upcountry, prone to turn bristling red during the hot season.

This Translation Tuesday, let the three-time National Literary Award winner Nay Win Myint take you through the things that go unsaid and untold through the lens of a small Burmese family. First published in the January 1990 issue of Dream Blossom Magazine, translator Kenneth Wong brings us a moving story that courses through the past and its memories like a clear and wide river. Dive in! 

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The view from the Irrawaddy River revealed the towering cliffs. The goldish brown seawalls peered down at the river from their high vantage point. The clear green waves, the river’s vanguard, charged at the cliffs, encircled them, then continued to flow further. Full of bumps and humps, the ragged ancient layers of the cliff looked like a soft piece of cake sliced off with a jagged knife. The water didn’t touch the base of the cliffs. It left enough space for a rough, sandy footpath, leading to the villages along the river. 

Coming up from Than Kaing by boat, once I spotted the high cliffs, I could tell I would soon reach Ye Nan Chaung—or, that I was approaching Nyaung Hla port. When the boat began to decelerate alongside the cliffs, all the emotions associated with this place, my mother’s hometown, became more intense. Walking up the slope from the water’s edge, I set foot in Nyaung Hla port, and soon all the scents of upcountry Burma came rushing towards me. Horse carts and cars awaited there, ready to take me to Ye Nan Chaung. 

The road from Nyaung Hla to Ye Nan Chaung was quite scenic, passing by the hills and valleys, pump jacks, golden grasses, reddish-brown pebbled grounds, oil rigs in the distance, silvery lakes, and little bamboo huts. I didn’t like taking the shared car rides, even if it was the cheaper option. Hemmed in by the passengers and cargos, I wouldn’t be able to experience a thing. Just to save a small sum in the fare, I’d be missing the beauty of the land I rarely got to visit. I’d rather hire a whole horse-cart for myself. Going downhill, we hobbled ahead with white knuckles; going uphill, we craned our necks as the horse strained and struggled. These were the land’s characters that I wanted to take in fully. Along the road, the Irrawaddy River sometimes revealed itself in sudden flashes. In downhill turns, the cart’s wheels creaked with a series of tok, tok, tok … This was the pastoral music I associated with this region.

Mom was born here; she lived here for many years. Whenever she talked about her childhood, this land, this air, this water, and these rows of houses invariably came up: the Irrawaddy, the Burma Oil Company’s (BOC) staff quarters, the gas pipelines, the wild acacia and margosa trees … she would speak of them endlessly. I could only come back once every couple of years, and whenever I passed through it on a horse cart, I remembered her. When I thought about her, I also remembered the photos she showed me especially … READ MORE…

Asymptote at the Movies: Drive My Car

September 1, 2022  |  in Asymptote at the Movies  |  by Alan Mendoza Sosa, David Boyd, and Eva Wissting

[A]ccording to Hamaguchi, when Murakami saw the movie, the writer said he didn’t know which parts were his own and which were Hamaguchi’s.

There have been many cinematic adaptations of Haruki Murakami’s work, but none as successful as Ryusuke Hamaguchi widely lauded Drive My Car. In a film unafraid of language, Hamaguchi has arguably done more justice to Murakami’s paced, meditative take on simple—albeit unexpected—human relationships and connections than any director before him, and the resulting film captures that most wonderful feeling of communion between two separate works of art—when, as Hamaguchi said, “. . . as I was reading Drive My Car, I suddenly found something that clicked, something that could be done.” In the following edition of Asymptote at the Movies, our editors discuss the film and story in regards to their depictions of storytelling, friendship, and the ways we become real to one another.

David Boyd (DB): Let’s start with how the movie and the story begin. Hamaguchi opens Drive My Car with a scene borrowed from “Scheherazade,” another short story from Murakami’s Men Without Women, in which sex and storytelling are closely linked. Kafuku and Oto are shown in bed, Oto telling her husband a story that he’ll later repeat back to her. The story is pretty much the same as Scheherazade’s: a teenage girl enters the home of her crush, secretly and repeatedly, always taking something of his and leaving something of her own behind. Right away—and this seems important—we’re in a story within a story.

Murakami’s “Drive My Car” follows a very different path. In Ted Goossen’s translation, the story starts: “Based on the many times he had ridden in cars driven by women, Kafuku had reached the conclusion that most female drivers fell into one of two categories: either they were a little too aggressive or a little too timid.” At the outset, we’re entirely in Kafuku’s world, and Oto—or his nameless wife, really—has already died. Kafuku is, from the opening lines, a man without a woman.

Our connection to Kafuku changes dramatically depending on our point of entry: the bed of a married couple, or the mind of a widower with some negative thoughts about women behind the wheel. 

Alan Mendoza Sosa (AMS): I was also struck by the dramatic differences between the two beginnings, and I think they have a strong impact on the public’s relationship with the characters. In the movie, we meet Oto in more depth; we become familiar with her and thus are made to feel her death more intensely than in the short story, which doesn’t really allow us to explore Oto’s subjectivity with as much autonomy—since all accounts we get of her are already filtered through Kafuku’s unreliable and misogynistic perception.

The decision to open the movie with a long set-up centered on Oto also directs our attention to the other key women in the film—Janice Chan, Misaki Watari, Kon Yoon-su, and Yuhara, all of whom, with the exception of Misaki, do not make much of an appearance in the short story. In other words, the movie’s emphasis on Oto also accents more strongly the gender relations at the center of this narrative, presenting strong and diverse—yet flawed and human—female characters, with as much psychological and existential complexity as the male ones.

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Eva Wissting (EW): In Hamaguchi’s film, Kafuku appears right from the beginning as a loving husband, easy to sympathize with––even more so when we find out about his wife’s affairs. In Murakami’s short story, on the other hand, Kafuku initially comes across as a misogynist old prick, concerned with creating theories about the difference between men’s and women’s driving, all of which are so illogical that he can’t even explain them to himself without referring to a vague “charged atmosphere.” Though he applauds himself for not usually drawing distinctions between genders, his female driver’s beauty (or lack thereof) has to be commented on, both to his mechanic and to the driver herself. It’s not until later in the story, when we learn about Kafuku’s (perhaps unexpected) reaction to his wife’s infidelity, that I find something sympathetic about him. He may be judgmental in his thoughts, but in his actions, he mostly just seems lost. In Hamaguchi’s adaptation, however, Kafuku starts out as a warm and caring character, and as a creative professional, he appears stronger and more confident than his short story counterpart. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Prodigy” by Nei Lopes

August 2, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Robert Smith

Rumor had it the festival in the bay was being watched from the highest parts of the city too.

This Translation Tuesday, dive into a short story from Jabuti Prize-winning author Nei Lopes that takes the reader a century back to Guanabara Bay in Brazil where a circus troupe disembarks. Drawn from a short story collection (Nas águas desta baía há muito tempo: Contos da Guanabara) that zooms in on complex and forgotten chapters in Brazilian history. Hear from translator Robert Smith how Lopes, in Smith’s own words, “undertook meticulous historical research to offer a sweeping view of the place and era, celebrating Afro-Brazilian culture and exploring the history of systemic racism.”

“In portraying a dynamic period of upheaval, the narrator Prodigy occasionally overwhelms readers with the feeling that too much is happening too fast. At the same pace that his story becomes entangled with that of the geographical region, two revolts, and the historical figure João Cândido Felisberto, his ebullient mood overlaps episodes of horrific violence. This translation took some liberties in altering punctuation to maintain this disorienting effect. When translating idiomatic expressions indicative of a past era, I looked to rough English equivalents that would sound similarly dated to contemporary readers. A challenge specific to this short story is the multivocal narrative, which leaves the question open as to whether we are facing a carnival storyteller who is cordially inviting us to suspend disbelief, a folktale with elements of magical realism, or an unreliable narrator whose traumatic experiences as a victim of abuse and a soldier have led him to rewrite his life story.”

—Robert Smith

This island has a lot of stories. They all do, I should say; the whole bay: land and sea. The day the first circus arrived, for example, was like the world was starting all over again.

When the barge docked and started unloading all that stuff, we had no idea what it might be. But a strange joy took hold of everybody, made us want to sing and dance to do something to please that gift that had fallen from the sky without saying what they had come for. Little by little, the colorful poles, the boards, the wheels, the iron braces, the motley flags appeared… Then the cages with the animals.

It was the Seventh of September¹, and, while we were watching everything in awe, the fireworks were going off. The ships, Tamandaré, Trajano, Liberdade², were sailing by in the bay, shooting their fireworks toward the city, way over on the other side. Right then and there, we knew that something truly beautiful had begun in all of our lives.

Disembarking in the quay, the caravan of oxcarts and wagons continued down the bumpy old road. The company was directed by the famous artist Benedito de Lima. And it arrived on our island, straight from Niterói, to save us from our isolation and change our daily routine. It popped up out of nowhere, the only attraction in our village, stirring up the hopes and daydreams of rich and poor, young and old, black and white; everybody.

No one had known the circus was going to come. But when it arrived, even without announcements or pamphlets or newspapers, word got round. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “The Punishment” by Inés Garland

June 28, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Richard Gwyn

That night, as always, Ramona made us pray on our knees, side by side, with our elbows resting on the bed.

This Translation Tuesday, we bring to you a short fiction from the prize-winning Argentine writer Inés Garland. The story evokes the terror endured by two sisters from an affluent Buenos Aires family, after their parents leave them in the care of a vindictive nanny at the family’s country ranch. Tense and dramatic at turns, this story is a look into a child’s psyche and how they navigate the vagaries of their world. Before reading the piece, hear from translator Richard Gwyn himself about the connotations and choices around the story’s title. 

One issue stood out above all others in translating Inés Garland’s short story ‘La Penitencia,’ and it concerned the title. Penitencia—‘penance’ in English—is familiar to practising Catholics as an action one performs in the hope of making up for a sin. The particular nuances of this concept, or sacrament, might not be familiar to non-Catholic readers. ‘Penitence,’ which sounds as if it should be right, refers more specifically to a state of mind; of regret, sorrow, or remorse for a wrong committed, and it was clear from Garland’s story that the nanny, Ramona, was expecting rather more than this from her young charges. I opted for the less problematic but less precise ‘Punishment’ to cover a multitude of sins, not only those committed by Catholics.

—Richard Gwyn

That summer might have been no different from any other. We had spent Christmas in Buenos Aires and two days later, like every year, Mum and Dad took us to the country. Ramona was sitting between Clara and me, on the back seat, and was staring ahead, very quiet. She always travelled like this, with her arms crossed and back straight; occasionally she moved her lips as if she were praying and looked at Mum, at the back of Mum’s neck, with short and furtive glances.

Before reaching the dirt road, Mum and Dad announced that, this year, they wouldn’t be able to stay with us, even for one night; some friends were expecting them the next day. Clara began to cry. Ramona continued to stare straight ahead, but clenched her jaw. I decided that this time I wasn’t going to let Mum and Dad go without telling them how Ramona carried on with us when they weren’t around, but, determined as I was, I couldn’t think of a way of telling them everything without Ramona hearing me.

The solution occurred to me when I saw the overgrown field of maize, next to the house. While they were unloading the bags and opening up the house, I explained the plan to Clara, without going into details. I grabbed her by the hand and we ran into the maize field and lay on the ground, face down.

My plan was simple: Mum and Dad would have to look for us to say goodbye—I was sure of that—and when they bent down to give us a kiss, the leaves of the maize would hide them. Down there, hidden from Ramona, I would tell them everything. It seemed so easy, so perfect. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Rain in Bình Dương” by Văn Giá

May 3, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai and Bruce Weigl

Somebody had said that there were professions which set the teeth on edge, the profession of pointing with five fingers . . .

From 1954 to 1975, Việt Nam was divided into North Việt Nam and South Việt Nam. Exacerbated by the Việt Nam War, the division caused tremendous tension among the people on both sides. This Translation Tuesday, we are brought back to this age of division through a tale by the acclaimed short story writer Văn Giá, one that portrays an undercurrent conflict in the most casual of encounters and the writer’s strong desire for all Vietnamese people to unite, to reconcile, and to heal. Translators Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai and Bruce Weigl’s short, sharp sentences give the story a stuttering rhythm that conveys a sense of wariness and caution that permeate the characters’ minds. 

My tooth and gums are now okay. My dentist says a scar has grown onto the gum. “Leave it alone for around a year and come back for a check-up,” he tells me. I tiptoe, open my mouth wide, tilt my face, and look into the mirror. It’s true that a scar is there. This tooth. A windy and raining evening in Bình Dương . . .

It was so unlucky, that trip. My tooth suddenly betrayed me. My gum swelled so much. I couldn’t stand the pain. I would lose my cool standing at the classroom’s podium looking like this. I thrashed around all night, drained of energy. After a quick and barely chewed dinner, I asked my student, “Please, could you find some place for me to get my tooth fixed? Otherwise I’ll be in big trouble.” 

“I will look for one now. Stay calm, Teacher. Don’t worry.” 

But . . . the rain was pouring so.

I glided into the car. A brand new one. Its interior still had that new smell. Super shiny. I praised him, saying the public could benefit a great deal from such a posh head of the sub-district People’s Committee. Having said that, I startled myself and I was afraid that he thought I was mocking him. 

I hurried to say, “I mean when the head of a sub-district People’s Committee does well, his people also benefit. If local government officials are poor and rough-looking, they get no respect from the common people. If you were poor and held a leader’s position, greed would be born. If you are already rich, you don’t have to be greedy. Therefore the people would benefit . . .”

After I finished speaking, I realized that my own reasoning sounded like that of some kind of pimp. I was startled again, but my student said nothing. I told myself to keep my mouth shut. 

But then I asked whether it was still far away. “Quite close by,” the student answered. He said no more. Outside, Heaven continued to dump down its water. The rain was getting heavier and heavier. Few people were travelling on the road. It was around seven or eight p.m. The student drove so fast. I was fearful. It would be dangerous if someone dashed out from a lane. 

“There’s no need to hurry,” I told him. 

He said nothing. I sat at the back, craning my body to look through the car’s front glass. The wipers worked furiously. The car dashed past a push-cart which was moving through the rain; perhaps a cart of a wandering seller. A white sheet of water, curving like a rainbow, blanketed the person pushing the cart. I knitted my brows. “Please slow down. You made that person soaking wet.” 

The student said nothing. I glanced at the front mirror to look at his face: cold as a metal sheet.

The car slowly turned into a small lane and came to a stop. The student told me to sit inside the car so he could go in and check if the practice was open. He didn’t use personal pronouns, but spoke without using the proper form of address. Perhaps here, people spoke this way. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. 

After a while the student came back. “It’s closed. Let’s go somewhere else.”  READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Foal” by Mohamed Makhzangi

April 26, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Chip Rossetti

One of Egypt’s best short story writers, Mohamed Makhzangi traces the numinous, almost supernatural, connections between our species and others.

Each story in Mohamed Makhzangi’s unique collection Animals in Our Days features a different animal species and its fraught relationship with humans—water buffalo in a rural village gone mad from electric lights, brass grasshoppers purchased in a crowded Bangkok market, or ghostly rabbits that haunt the site of a long-ago brutal military crackdown. Other stories tell of bear-trainers in India and of the American invasion of Iraq as experienced by a foal, deer, and puppies.

Originally published in 2006, Makhzangi’s stories are part of a long tradition of writings on animals in Arabic literature. In this collection, animals offer a mute testament to the brutality and callousness of humanity, particularly when modernity sunders humans from the natural environment. Makhzangi is one of Egypt’s most perceptive and nuanced authors, merging a writer’s empathy with a scientist’s curiosity about the world.

 Like Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior, Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes, or J. M. Coetzee’s Lives of Animals, Makhzangi’s stories trace the numinous, almost supernatural, connections between our species and others. In these resonant, haunting tales, Animals in Our Days foregrounds our urgent need to reacquire the sense of awe, humility, and respect that once characterized our relationship with animals.

We are happy to partner with Syracuse University Press to present an excerpt of its debut in English.

FOAL

A wise man was asked: “What possession is the most noble?” He replied: “A horse, followed by another horse, which has in its belly a third horse.” 

—al-Damiri, Major Compendium on the Lives of Animals 

Trembling, the small foal scurried between his mother’s legs when the sound of explosions struck his ears and the lightning flash of bombs glimmered in his eyes. He couldn’t hear the voices of any of the humans he was familiar with, not even the terrifying voice of the president’s son, whose arrival at the palace race track instantly caused the grooms to tremble and made the horses quake. His voice was rough, and his hand heavy and brutal. He had big teeth that showed when he scowled at other people or laughed with the foal—for him alone the president’s son laughed. He would place his right hand around the foal’s neck and burst out laughing while taking some sugar out of his pocket for him, the purest kind of sugar in the world. He would feed it to him with affection and delight, but he was harsh and irritable toward everyone else. Once the foal saw him beating a stable hand who was slow to saddle his horse. After the stable hand fell to the ground, the president’s son kicked him with the iron spurs of his riding boot, and kept kicking his head until blood poured out of his nose, mouth, and ears. He gave the foal’s own mother a hard slap when she shied away a little just as he was about to ride. He kept slapping her on the muzzle while she bucked, whinnying pitifully, until blood poured from her jaws. He didn’t stop hitting her until the foal ran up and came between him and his mother.

The foal felt the tension in his mother’s warm stomach above him. She was stifling the restless movement in her legs so as not to bump against the body of her little one taking shelter up against her. She stood in place and trembled whenever bombs reverberated or the flash of explosions lit up the sky. During the few lulls, no sooner did she relax and he could feel the warm flow of her affection, than the noise and flashes would start up again. Deafening noise, then silence. Deafening noise, then silence. Fires, the sound of buildings collapsing, and screams. Then after a long grueling night, a terrible silence prevailed. With the first light of dawn, the foal heard a clamor of human voices shouting at each other, and hurrying footsteps, then a lot of people burst in on them, their faces covered in dust and their eyes red. They started fighting with each other around the fenced corral. Then the gate was thrown open, and the foal could feel his mother’s body trying to get away from the rough rope around her neck. Another piece of rope went around his neck, too, and he saw himself running with his mother, bound together to a rope tied to the back of a ramshackle pickup truck that clattered down long rubble-filled streets. Fires blazed on either side of them. Corpses were scattered about. Chaos reigned.  READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “The Moon’s Desire” by Ines Abassi

March 29, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Karen McNeil and Miled Faiza

They say that children with iron deficiency will peel the lead paint off the walls and eat it. What about souls with love deficiency?

This Translation Tuesday, Tunisian writer Ines Abassi pens a powerful story of a woman who escapes her violent husband in order to furnish her account of things. In a breathless first-person narration captured brilliantly by translators Karen McNeil and Miled Faiza—who also translated Shukri Mabkhout’s The Italian, our October 2021 Book Club selection—the power of this piece comes from its agile movement between the mind’s self-doubt and the certainty of one’s bodily experience. This memorable story shows us how Ines Abassi is a compelling voice working in Arabic today.

“I have wanted to translate this short story from the moment I read it in the Egyptian cultural magazine Mirit in 2019 because of its powerful expression of resistance. Resistance here is manifested in the ability to say no, to challenge the toxic masculine mentality that sees women’s bodies as a commodity to be consumed on demand. Resistance is also manifested in the author’s alternation of description, contemplation, and the narrative, in which time overlaps in a way that expresses the complexity of life and relationships. Inas Al Abbasi, one of the most important writers of her generation, is able to express in this short story the inevitability of continuing to confront and challenge violence in closed rooms and in an open writing in which colors, music, and events overlap to create food for a broken soul.” 

—Miled Faiza

The night is stained with light.

It might end, this night, with a translucent fog covering the tops of the cypresses, like last night. Or it might end with a pale morning, crowned with a laurel wreath of terror and with an urge to run away, like the morning of that one summer night. Where does the road home start from? From the last house that I escaped from? Or from the last hurriedly booked hotel room?

I remember clearly: his hand was around my neck. The cloudy look in his eyes. The moon was alone outside, with no poems to praise its illusory beauty. I remember, at the same time, the delicate light flowing into the room through the open windows. We were in our room. We were together and his hand was around my neck, on that night and the other nights like it throughout the years, his hand pressing on my soul.

The road winds through the trees. There are scattered farms on each side of the road, and I see ducks and other farm animals here and there. When my heart starts to pound at the heights, I close my eyes. I remember my eyes clouding over from the pain. The scene in front of me is extravagantly beautiful. My eyes drink in the greenery at every bend, until I forget the hands that choked me one summer night. I feel dizzy from the extravagant beauty of the road as it ascends toward Bouisse, and I forget.

They say that children with iron deficiency will peel the lead paint off the walls and eat it. What about souls with love deficiency? They feed on the bark of trees—every single one, the trees on the road as well as the forest trees. Souls that are hungry for love touch trees, get close to them and embrace them. I did this every time, in every trip I took after becoming free of him, and from his hand and the frying pan. Every time I stopped the rental car and get out to embrace the trees.

A life can completely change between one night and another. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Luz” by Samanta Galán Villa

March 8, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Tricia Viveros

Her tone of voice was like the chirping of a small bird.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, treat yourself to this sparse and beguiling story of a young schoolgirl who escapes from home and encounters a strange little girl, Luz. Written by the Mexican writer Samanta Galán Villa and published in Monolito magazine in May 2021, this story—related through the perspective of an innocent child—appears deceptively simple, but conveys a deeper sense of the way a child’s gaze can defamiliarise her little world into something bizarre and oftentimes beautiful. Tricia Viveros explains, in her translator’s note, how she strives to preserve this duality and makes a case for reading this writer from Guanajuato who represents a counterpoint to the dominant ways Mexican literature is read.

“My English translation of ‘Luz’ aims to maintain Galán Villa’s artful economy of language as much as possible—a task that required some compromise as, for instance, it’s not possible to omit the first-person pronoun ‘I’ in English. Adopting an adequate level of rudimentary wording was also challenging. The Spanish original elicits a sense of irony by juxtaposing its childish diction and syntax with a sophisticated narrative structure. Writing that is too unrefined risks detracting from the text and inhibiting the plot’s development; by frequently using simple sentences and contractions, my translation seeks to convey the near-surrealistic irony of the original without diminishing the prose. Samanta Galán Villa is part of a growing number of emerging contemporary voices across underrepresented regions of Latin America. Hailing from the Mexican state of Guanajuato, her writing evidences a long-established literary tradition beyond that of more cosmopolitan, affluent centers like Mexico City.”

—Tricia Viveros

Mama slapped me. Her lower lip trembled. How could they possibly have punished me, after class was dismissed, she said, together with the disobedient children. I tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault, that someone had smeared my braids with paint and I’d defended myself.

She didn’t want to hear it. She said that she knew me. That I wasn’t going to eat chocolate cereal with the family later, that she’d only give me a glass of juice. Zip it and don’t talk back to me, brat. Go to your room, right now.  READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “The Place of the Living-Dead” by Gabriela Ruivo Trindade

January 18, 2022  |  in Translations  |  by Gabriela Ruivo Trindade and Victor Meadowcroft

Some nights, my two legs and left arm come to visit me . . .

This Translation Tuesday, we feature a story that treads the line between the fantastical surrealism of dreaming and the brutal reality of living under conditions of war. In award-winning writer Gabriela Ruivo Trindade’s compact and evocative story, a disoriented narrator reckons with the aftermath of having stepped on a mine, where her lost limbs visit so as to relate to her the physical and spiritual damage that had been wrecked upon her body and her family. Translated from the Portuguese by the author herself and Victor Meadowcroft, the narrator’s voice exhibits a remarkable restraint. This quietly moving story brings the reader to a psychological space where the narrator’s processing of trauma feels at once real and irreal, at once emotional and strangely muted, an always liminal place. 

I don’t know my name, or where I was born, or how many years have passed since that day.  Around me there is only a grey haze, through which I try in vain to peer. I’ve lost track of the days: entire evenings are condensed into minutes. I’m surrounded by many others, stretched out on countless cots like mine. 

My head rests on a damp, foul-smelling straw pillow. My head is the only part of my body supporting me. The rest—my torso, my pelvis, both legs cut above the knee, and my right arm—I can barely feel. They’re entirely numb and don’t respond to my commands.  

Some nights, my two legs and left arm come to visit me; the arm, poor thing, always hurrying after the other two. That’s how I used to move, always rushing from place to place. I loved dancing, I remember that well, and people even used to say I would become a great dancer. Too bad. I heard one of the women who come to feed us say I’d stepped on a mine, a mina. I don’t know what that is; I can only remember Granny Mina, who used to tell stories of witches and sprites to all the neighbourhood kids.

But I was telling you about these visits from my arm and legs; it’s through them that I hear news of my family and other things I’ve long forgotten. They turn up every night, come through the door and begin talking right away, as if I were already fully awake, awaiting their arrival. And I am, really; I don’t know if it’s some kind of presentiment. On their first visit I was startled. I awoke to a hand shaking me and, upon opening my eyes, noticed there wasn’t a body attached to the arm. I thought it was a ghost and cried out.

Relax, said a voice, nobody’s going to hurt you. Come on, don’t you recognise us anymore?  READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “It Was Then That I Lost That Child” by Carla Bessa

July 20, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Elton Uliana

And so then, I had: my children, I had: seven children, I mean: six

The fate of a working class mother who loses her child is the focus of this week’s Translation Tuesday, which features an unforgettable experiment with the short story form. Devised through a verbatim technique, Carla Bessa—actress, director, and winner of Brazil’s most prestigious literary award, the Jabuti Prize—mines the genre for its dramatic possibilities. Bessa’s moving story switches deftly between a confessional monologue with eclectic punctuation that lends the mother’s voice a searing, staccato quality and, on the other hand, a set of intricate stage movements revolving around a domestic scene. The effect is a casual meeting of tragedy and mundanity. Indeed, for translator Elton Uliana, this story conveys “a reality of marginality and crime which is becoming increasingly prevalent in Brazil, particularly with the rise of far-right politics, its contempt for and disenfranchising of the lower classes.” This social commentary is achieved with great formal and emotional intensity in “It Was Then That I Lost That Child.” 

(She takes the chicken out of the freezer and puts it in the microwave. She rinses the thermos with boiling water, she puts the filter holder over the mouth of the flask, she places the paper filter in the holder and fills it with coffee powder, five level soup spoons.)

And so then, I had: my children, I had: seven children, I mean: six. Because: the one who got killed, I never really got to raise him. I couldn’t. I only: I only had him for the first month, then his father: stole my child from me, yes, it was his father: he kidnapped my boy.

(She pours the hot water carefully over the coffee until the filter is full. She stops, and waits for the water to seep through. The microwave beeps. With the kettle in one hand she goes to the microwave, presses the button that opens the door to remove the chicken. She realises that she has only one hand free and pauses.)

He beat me up. I’ve got the scars here on my face, see, ruined: it was him. That’s why I’ve got a face like this, all: destroyed, have a look. 

(She pours more water on the coffee, she stops and waits.)

He stole my son, and: I reported him. And so: it was his mother that had to look after my son. He and his mother raised my son, but: they never let me visit him. Then: I took them to court again: and I won: I won the right to see my own son. A right that was already mine. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “The Leaf” by Azza Maghur

June 29, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Dr. Safa Elnaili

I feared if I touched the leaf, it would either sting me, or its light would run through my body and melt me instantly

Can the story of a life be told through a single moment? What would it mean to, in William Blake’s words, “see a World in a Grain of Sand”? In Azza Maghur’s story, a single luminous leaf from a man’s childhood comes to define his entire life. Maghur’s prose is spare and understated; it is given a lovely cadence in Dr. Safa Elnaili’s translation, which lures the reader into a moment of beauty that is given a telescopic significance in the narrator’s reminiscence. Published in Arabic at the start of this year, this quiet piece received much praise for its resonances with reader’s experiences of the pandemic—its sensitivity to the tactile world, for instance, when a world was reckoning with the potency of touch.

All the rays of sunlight that day filtered through the trees onto a single leaf.

I swore to Mother that the sun rested on one leaf. I witnessed it shine as brightly as day against the dimness of its mother tree.

Mother was standing in front of the kitchen sink. She pulled her wet hands from under the running faucet, wiped them on the sides of her dress, and then smiled. She told me I was a little boy with a wild imagination. I had no idea whether I should give rein to my imagination or let it take me away on its wings.

I tell you this story because that leaf and my soul have become inseparable since that day. I searched for it my entire life. It was the size of my hand or slightly bigger, dark green, and so thick that even light couldn’t pass through it. Water droplets could rest on it undisturbed.

My only recollection of the tree was that its aura was dim, almost black. I learned as I grew up It must’ve been an emerald green tree, but I only remember the one particular leaf that soaked in the sun and captured all its strings of light as if it were planning to make something out of them. I reckon it’s the reason the tree was so dim.

I’ve roamed this earth; I’ve visited cities, villages, farmlands, and forests in search of the leaf but never found or seen anything that resembled it.

The sun’s light is boundless. It shines on earth with a fair and steady rotation, inflames the edges of leaves and homes, and draws shapes on sidewalks and rooftops. Its light and warmth sneak into concrete buildings and even shine through the tiniest holes in shirts or carvings on the soles of shoes. It stretches into the entrance of a dark cave but never dares to travel beyond it. Its light wrestles shadows. When it’s time to set, it departs leisurely, and its rays shine over the horizon. It yawns with heavy eyes and then sleeps until dawn to rise again.

I drove my car, parked it in the shade under a tree, and hopelessly looked for the leaf. I walked into forests and farms and searched for it among trees and bushes and even between the leaves of fruits but could never find it. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Berliner Maqama, or The Hitchhiker from Heidelberg” by Haytham El-Wardany

March 30, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Katharine Halls

The bald man didn’t talk much but he was a big smoker, and he kept rolling spliffs, one after another

The maqama is a trickster tale genre from the classical Arabic tradition. In the Maqamat of Badi’ al-Zaman al-Hamadhani—from whose ‘Maqama of the Blind’ the verses at the end of this text are taken—the itinerant narrator reports from towns and cities across the Middle East and Central Asia, encountering the mysterious rogue Abu al-Fath in a different guise each time. The challenge of evoking this intertextuality and the stylistic specifics of the maqama (which is traditionally written in rhymed prose, a feature that El-Wardany gently plays with here, and like premodern Arabic writing more generally, is not punctuated) offered the opportunity to experiment with visual presentation and stylistic eclecticism in the English translation.

—Katharine Halls, translator

Having travelled a great distance we stopped for a break, took refuge in a petrol station where we filled up the tank and emptied our bladders and stretched our stiff muscles until, refreshed, we got back in the car, determined to cover what distance remained  My wife took the wheel, it being her turn, and before she started the engine she said, Let us roll a spliff, which we did, but then as she turned the key to start the ignition a man appeared, I don’t know where from, bald and clean-shaven and wearing a jacket, and flagged us down, Are you going to Berlin? and we were, we said, so begging our kindness he asked for a lift        I looked at my wife and my wife looked at me, and then, decided, we looked back, Jump in—as long as you’re not a highwayman, God forbid, so he fetched two huge bags from the verge, loaded up, and sat down beside them and then we set off.

The air in the car took a turn for the cagey, for here we were all of a sudden with a stranger          We didn’t know who he was or where he was going, he just sat in the back seat not saying a word, and but for the eyes of the oncoming cars which flashed past like ghosts, it was silent and dark            Then when I glanced across at my wife, I saw she was lighting the spliff we’d just rolled, and it surprised me to see she’d decided to impose this habit of ours on the car as a whole, but no sooner had we taken a puff or two than our bald companion leant forward and plucked it from our hands, saying Man! What a friend for the road. READ MORE…