Translations

Translation Tuesday: from “A Minimal Unhappiness” by Carmen Verde

June 18, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Katie Shireen Assef

Unhappiness is not only a state of the spirit... No. Unhappiness is a place, a real, physical place, a dark room that we decide to stay in.

This Translation Tuesday, we are excited to present the English debut of Carmen Verde, a finalist for the Premio Strega in 2023 for her very first novel, A Minimal Unhappiness, which we excerpt here in Katie Shireen Assef’s impeccable translation. Verde’s narrator is a habitué of sadness and madness, an accustomed yet discerning sufferer. If unhappiness is a room, as she claims with some authority, then hers is lush-black, Gothically plangent, and filled with lugubrious relatives.

God is the Highest. God is the Most High.
Isn’t that terrifying?

 

***

In photographs we’re always sitting close together, my mother and I: she, pale, uneasy, with a look that seems to apologize for itself.

In those days, she still prayed to God that my bones would lengthen. God had nothing to do with it, though. If it took stubbornness for a girl not to grow, I had more than enough.

I never thought I was ugly. And I never doubted that I resembled my mother, even if I didn’t have her thin ankles, her elegant proportions. Ours was an elusive, an indecipherable resemblance: the sort of resemblance that pierces the heart of those who manage to recognize it.

 

***

In my five years of primary school, she came to pick me up every afternoon. The window of my classroom looked out onto the street, so that between my desk and the bench where she sat waiting, there couldn’t have been more than a hundred fifty feet as the crow flies. I was happy when I saw her on the other side of the glass, even if I was soon overcome by the fear—the terrible certainty, even—that she would decide to go and leave me there, alone. I never believed I had a right to my mother’s presence.

In winter, on windy days, the dust from the street would cling to her silk stockings, to her camel-colored coat, to her hair that was so straight and smooth it seemed like velvet. On the first warm days in June, she would stand beneath the shade of the linden tree at the center of the piazza. If she stayed, I told myself, it meant she loved me. I couldn’t see her from where I sat at my desk (the shutters were closed to block out the sun), and so the fear would slowly build up inside me until, five minutes before the lesson ended, I had lost all hope of finding her. And yet there she would be, still in the same spot. Yes, Sofia Vivier was a good mother.

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Translation Tuesday: From “After Celeste” by Maude Nepveu-Villeneuve

June 11, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Kate Lofthouse

“It’s no big deal, it happens to one in five pregnancies.”

This Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poignant excerpt from the latest novel by Québécois author Maude Nepveu-Villeneuve, translated into English by Kate Lofthouse. In plangent, methodically-detailed vignettes, Nepveu-Villeneuve’s narrator describes her return to Moreau, the village of her childhood. In the wake of a recent tragedy, her perception of the world around her comes unmoored; she feels as if she has never left Moreau, as if her years away were only a nightmare, yet Moreau also seems unreal, “a figment of my imagination.” Struggling to engage with the world as a thing separate from herself, the narrator spirals into her past, moving from distant memories of childhood vacations abroad towards the cause of her present alienation.

     I’ll just . . . go home to my sad life and be miserable forever.
—Maddy Thorson, Celeste

Summer is darker than winter on my parents’ street, once green leaves fill the branches of Moreau’s trees and their ancient foliage has cast its shadow over the houses. My parents escape in search of sunshine every year, to Spain, Morocco, Belize, anywhere the July heat is more oppressive than it is on their little shaded street in a small village lost up in the north, a little town I never name when people ask me where I come from, because it doesn’t mean anything to anyone, so I always go back to the closest big city saying around there, and people nod and shrug, because even that city is a minor one, insignificant, one never mentioned in weather reports and which people struggle to picture.

They took me with them when I was little. The three of us went, a close-knit and indestructible family unit with the same sturdy blonde heads and indistinguishable laughter, we fled the shade cast by the old trees over the bungalows and the lawns, and we walked along the shores of Caribbean islands or through the streets of Cairo or Terceira. I would have preferred the cool air of our little street, riding my bike around the block for hours, napping in the hammock in the backyard, drawing on the pavement with Laure, my neighbour from across the way, my best friend. But my parents had other ideas, we left at the end of the school year and came back at the beginning of August, in time to buy supplies and new clothes.

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Translation Tuesday: from “The Atlantic Express” by Georgi Tenev

June 4, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Traci Speed

Different people are travelling on the express. A lot of Italians have sold their collections of African bones to be able to board this train.

This Translation Tuesday, a grim vision of the future comes to us from Bulgarian author Georgi Tenev and his translator, Traci Speed. Rado is on a train through a dystopian but dimly recognisable Europe, trying to get off the continent before apocalypse sweeps in from the east. As the carriages inch around a radioactive Mediterranean, he muses about how things came to be so wrong. The signs of moribund civilisation that spring from Tenev’s imagination are graphic and pointed. Passengers trade in the bones of migrants who died trying to enter Europe in the ‘better days’. Mutant rabbits, originally bred for KFC, serve as ‘edible companions’ for the journey ahead. There are whispers that Hitler has come back from the dead. When things go catastrophically wrong, Tenev shows, it’s hard to know whether to laugh or to cry.

This war’s been going a long time, and it’s being fought for what’s most important inside of you. The struggle’s between those of us who want to save you and that animal force that wants to swallow you up. We found the subgenetic formula for intelligence, for human reason. We determined the principle behind the absorption of ephermine, that subtle substance with a negative mass, that diaphanous matter. Ephermine cannot exist independently, and so it gravitates in an orbit around the photon and comprises part of its spectrum. This form is vulnerable and unstable, but without it—consciousness, thought, and reason wouldn’t exist. Something else that wouldn’t exist is that thing which, for a change, we call the soul—that which is not quite intrinsic to the body. For some time now, we’ve been trying to migrate from this body, from the biochemical base to another independent host of identity. We made attempts and we made mistakes; you, however, turned out to be a paradox, an exception to the rule. You’re too attached to the biological, to what you consider life. We have to put people like you under quarantine until we’ve researched the vector of your development better. Until we write the story of your—yours personally, in this case—your rise and fall. You call it birth and death. Fine, call it that. In order to reach the heart of the ephermine, however, the casing has to be destroyed. A person has to be crushed and broken down before receiving a new unrestricted identity. But you stubbornly persist, you want to maintain the status quo. Fine, listen to your story. Then you can evaluate whether or not you have anything to be sorry for.

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

May 29, 2024  |  in Essays, Translations  |  by Christina Chatzitheodorou and Dimitris Gkionis

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

May 28, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Nina Murray

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

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Translation Tuesday: “Snow” by Guka Han

May 21, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Catherine Leung

"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.

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

May 14, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Georgina Fooks

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 seconds—is 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.

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Translation Tuesday: Three Poems by Dzmitry Rubin

May 7, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Jenya Mironava

Teach me how to breathe / Without / Taking away air from others

A trio of untitled poems from the Belarusian poet Dzmitry Rubin is this week’s Translation Tuesday feature. Under the threat of repression and the menace of war, the poems, translated from the Belarusian by Jenya Mironava, are skeletal and whisper-quiet, written as if to be conveyed by the shallowest of breaths. The first murmurs of Belarus’s rich literary legacy, unmourned and un-remembered; the second and third, more plaintive, contain the poet’s hushed appeals to be fairer and braver—proscribed virtues in the Belarusian state.

In the graves
Of Belarusian writers
Lie
Human bones
But where
The writers themselves lie
Is a Soviet secret

*

And when/if tomorrow war begins
And when/if tomorrow begins
And when/if tomorrow
And when/if
And
Lord
Teach me how to breathe
Without
Taking away air from others

*

By the house a street light
Will shine all night
If only I had its courage

Translated from the Belarusian by Jenya Mironava

Dzmitry Rubin was born in the village of Sachaniaty in western Belarus. After graduating from Rechytsa Pedagogical College, he went on to teach Belarusian language and literature. He did not graduate from Belarusian State University with a degree in philosophy and social sciences. Dzmitry established himself as a poet and prose writer, as well as a former literary columnist and editor of the literary magazine Maładosć (Youth). He is also the author of a series of essays on the topic of suicide for a platform providing mental health education and support. Together with literary scholar Alena Lepishava, he co-founded the Rubinavy horad (Rubin City) project, a public venue for literary gatherings, courses, and lectures. Dzmitry’s work has been featured in numerous collections. His debut volume of poetry, titled Vypadak (Accident), was published in 2023.

Jenya Mironava is a native of Minsk, Belarus and a long-time resident of Cambridge, MA. She holds a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from Harvard University, where she is currently teaching Russian and Belarusian.

*****

Read more on the Asymptote blog:

Translation Tuesday: “Your Drowning Father” by Michele Orti Manara

April 30, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Brian Robert Moore

“Cuuut,” my father shouts. “Arianna, you can’t look straight into the camera—if you do, the scene won’t work!”

A lake and a film set are both sites of trauma in today’s unforgettable Translation Tuesday showcase—a sensitive coming-of-age story by Italian author Michele Orti Manara in frequent contributor Brian Robert Moore’s effortless translation. An actress in a film set has been hospitalized;  the narrator—a mere twelve-year old with zero acting experience—has been asked by her director-father to step into the role. Many unsuccessful takes later, the father makes the narrator revisit a distressing incident from her childhood—all in the name of coaxing the performance he needs. 

What do people do when we’re not watching them?

We pretend so much in public that there’s no way to know what happens when we shut a door behind us and stay on our own with our things, our faults, our smells.

It applies to everyone, in any moment.

It applies to me, too, when after selling the last tickets for a screening I open the door to the storage room and go inside.

“Now what’s down there?” the late audience members must think while heading into the theater. A fleeting thought, because then the dark of the theater swallows them up, and the film starts.

*

When my sister and I are eleven and twelve years old—and feel the inevitable crazed desire to have the house to ourselves as much as possible—one afternoon, between a sip of fruit juice and a bite of a cookie, she asks our mother: “How come you don’t work?”

And our mother, who has in front of her three baking trays, a pot brimming with ragù and a continent of handmade pasta, says without turning around: “Because your underwear doesn’t wash itself, because the groceries don’t walk all the way here on their own legs, and because otherwise no one would have time to deal with these fucking lasagnas.”

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Translation Tuesday: “With the Tongue” by Ivars Šteinbergs

April 23, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Jayde Will

Years later—truth or dare at someone’s place, no one chooses truth, we know everything we need to know anyway.

This Translation Tuesday, the Latvian poet Ivars Šteinbergs graces us with an ode to the tongue—the small, oh-so-easily forgotten organ without which language, and the institutions of literature and translation that depend on it, would be impossible. Drawing on the half-remembered frisson of youthful trysts, this humorous prose-poem ties the “games” of nascent sexuality to the generative “play” of language, brilliantly undermining the boundary between language and the body even as it strikes a balance between restraint and ribaldry.

I spin the bottle, it stops on Estere. I wanted it to stop on Sandra.

A small kiss, no tongue, mechanical, like you’re going through the motions during a dance lesson, afterwards I taste cherry lip balm. As far as the class trip, I only remember the ride in the bus, where in the back we had a circle around an empty Sprite bottle.

Years later—truth or dare at someone’s place, no one chooses truth, we know everything we need to know anyway: “Kiss Renāte—with your tongue!”, “Lick Anete’s neck!” “Touch each other with your tongues!”. The next morning—an oral exam, I hadn’t slept, but I got a good grade, as if I had been warming up for it the entire night before.

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Translation Tuesday: “Vitiligo Fawn” by Tijana Rakočević

April 16, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Will Firth

Two months after bwana’s return, a girl from Kashasha had a fit of laughter.

This Translation Tuesday, we are pleased to present new short fiction from the Montenegrin author Tijana Rakočević. A surprise awaits—for this story takes place not in contemporary Montenegro, as one might expect from the author’s identity, but in Tanzania’s colonial past, during the Kashasha laughter epidemic of 1962. This hypnotic tale describes the outbreak of the epidemic in remote Tanzania following the arrival of a British agent. As the narrator returns continually to the central image of a vitiligo-mottled fawn, whose coloration is mirrored by that of the disabled protagonist, Andwele, a haunting parable of illness, dehumanization, and assimilation emerges, rendered here in elliptical but powerful English by Will Firth.

Wache waseme nimpendae simwachi.[1]

If you never leave the house, no tragedy can befall you.

The edges of Tulinagwe’s purple khanga danced in the air as she kneaded a ball of risen dough. Whenever eight-year-old Andwele, as piebald as a scrofulous calf, stuck his finger into his mouth so far that he could touch the back of his throat, she would snarl, You sure know how to get on one’s nerves, boy, but this time she held her tongue. He tested her patience by rocking on a loose wooden board on the ground that moved to the rhythm of his round heels, and he only stopped when his mother glanced at him; in those moments, he felt I’m the center of the world, but she—if she had the strength to speak—would have called it asking for a hiding. It was a holiday in all Kashasha: the white man, Sir Jonathan, had returned—a dissolute English bon vivant, who their Baba wa Taifa, their savior Mwalimu, Julius Kambarage Nyrere, had befriended in Edinburgh during his studies. Tulinagwe saw him out of the corner of her eye as he ambled along the main road escorted by a gaggle of black girls, and, if she had not been busy rolling the dough for the family, which was so thin that it kept breaking in the middle, she would have said, not particularly handsome, not particularly tall; instead, she decided, I’ll save salt; if they still like it, they can ask for more.

Andwele slipped and fell. It was a tragedy.

He remembered that Mwanawa had given him five shillings and he limped off through the yard. The women wanted him to leave the village, which he sensed in the way they prepared him for the trip and because they had whispered ever since Kyalamboka lived in Sir Jonathan’s house. The man’s collection of romantic safari oddments in his private residence—photographs with animals, human animals, and human humans—seemed a grotesque combination to him, who imagined Muleba district as a mind-bogglingly vast Tanzanian shilling: go banana picking, they would have advised him if he were older, I’ll go cotton picking like Ipyana, my dad, he thought, but he lacked the courage. After that unusual visit, he believed Muleba was a heart broken. Hidden in the bushes near the house, he tried to get a glimpse of the vitiligo fawn that bwana had brought as a trophy from Europe, a fawn they called Sekelaga, Joy, but it was not there; he just heard the titillated giggles of his elder sister that vanished in the warm breeze. What did he promise her, he wondered, and will he take her with him? He would notice a villager and hire them to scrub the floors, and he would look on that troglodyte as human—that was the fortunate circumstance that made them dignified in their own eyes. The foreigner, always well-meaning and amicable, as if his earthly life depended on that handful of semi-savages, offered him Abba-Zaba chocolates so he would keep the secret; Andwele first spoke hapana, hapana, later nasikitika, but he was captivated by the sweet pain in his throat: asante sana, he repeated more and more often, thank you very much. He went away calm and beaming, his face radiant like a young idiot, dragging along his leg that they broke four more times after the accident, only to conclude it was better to leave it. Kyalamboka watched her disfigured brother and snorted spitefully in her rich lover’s ear, that little freak—sometimes I’d like to trip him up.

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From The Tale of a Wall

April 10, 2024  |  in All Eyes on Palestine, Translations  |  by Luke Leafgren and Nasser Abu Srour

We believed that freedom was possible, despite all its demands, and that our sacrifices might not be enough.

As you read this, the writer Nasser Abu Srour is serving a life sentence at a maximum-security prison in the Negev desert—a fate he was assigned to after being accused of killing a Shin Bet agent during the Intifada of the Stones. During this series of uprisings and demonstrations, Palestinians protested against increasing Israeli state repression, casual harm, and military occupation. For Abu Srour, who had been born in a refugee camp near Bethlehem, the Intifada represented a previously unfathomable opportunity for life that was not delineated by exile, by humiliation, and by a ruling elite that became ever more comfortable with violence, detention, land expropriation, and illegal Zionist settlements. He, and the people who shared this vision of the future, were named the Generation of Stones: an appellation by which the writer builds an ever-growing significance of land, of possession, and of action. What is a stone in the hand, a stone thrown in the air, a stone used to lay a wall?

The Tale of a Wall, forthcoming from Other Press and translated with extraordinary finesse by Luke Leafgren, is Abu Srour’s luminous memoir, written during his incarceration. Within its pages, he conducts a ceremony with the silent structure that binds him, to tell the story of a people that has long been imprisoned by something much more complex and multifarious than a partition. Through miragic poetry, profound conviction, and a never-wavering eye towards a more lucid future, he substantiates the kind of freedom that only the trapped know of—the kind that is forged out of shared belief, the kind that must be achieved through common labour and public declaration. As demonstrated in this surging, fourth-person excerpt, the poet continues, even under isolation, to channel the pulse of a nation under siege.

The cares, interests, and concerns we choose to focus on say much about us. We grow larger as the interests within us expand, just as we grow smaller when they contract. Every interest that makes its home within us shapes us by determining the contours of our activities, our sleeping hours, what we celebrate around the breakfast table, the songs we listen to, the number of minutes we spend interceding with god, and the titles and prices of the books we buy. The things we defend and the things we love: those are what define us. They are the first things that we declare in the first sentence of introduction, during the first meeting with the first person who asks.

Alongside their own concerns, the generation of Stones chose to concentrate on other causes: occupied Arab lands whose rulers shrank from the idea of fighting to reclaim them; Arabs who kept quiet while homegrown thieves enshrined their defeats; nationalistic speeches written in foreign languages; billions of poor people surrounded by the hoarded wealth of the world; millions dying of hunger and reduced to numbers, statistics, and averages tucked into the back pages of newspapers in the important and influential capitals; child laborers and their godless taskmasters; cheap labor and even cheaper working conditions; women whose bodies are harassed by violating hands; a women’s movement that never gives up the fight; speeches to awaken a paralyzed masculinity. . . Between one demonstration and the next, between a martyr’s funeral and the burial ceremony, Palestinians still found time and emotion to weep over the grief of others. Upon our narrow walls, we made space to write the details of others’ suffering until the images and slogans mixed together and became a strange shrine to the existential dignity of suffering. The stones provided by that dignity contained enough hope to compensate for the extra measure of frustration and despair we embraced.

We spoke all the languages of pain. After rejecting prejudice regarding religion, color, or beliefs, our speeches expanded to embrace the entire planet Earth. Our naked, bleeding breasts exposed the lie about a barbarous East that needed the West to refine its primitive savagery. In our lexicon of dignity and worth, the pains of others had no color or smell that distinguished them from our own, for we identified with every speech that rebelled against injustice or supported the not yet triumphant. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “The Perfect Crime” by Tasos Leivaditis

April 9, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by N. N. Trakakis

This manuscript was discovered in the room of a low-ranking bank official. The official himself was found dead, his head smashed.

This Translation Tuesday, a twisted, rambling screed offers a window into the dark mind of a low-level bank clerk. Obsessed with money, plagued by seedy, morbid memories, buffeted by obscure resentments, he comes across a letter that confirms his paranoid delusions, and begins to plan his ‘perfect crime’. This is a powerful study of madness from the Greek writer Tasos Leivaditis, rendered into a genuinely disturbing English by N. N. Trakakis.

It continued raining, and so I too continued sitting under the porch of a cheap, commonplace hotel in a small cul-de-sac. How I got there is an entire saga, but I would often absent-mindedly find myself in the most unlikely parts of the city, and by ‘absent-mindedly’ I mean absorbed in thoughts that troubled me of late. I was always of course a procrastinator, but this delay had lasted for years and the resolution that had been ordained, from whatever angle you examined it, was not at all in my favour. When I left my boss’ house, in my haste I forgot my one and only coat, but I thought that, rather than trying to clear up such a messy situation, I’d be better off hanging myself. And I may well have done so if this letter hadn’t arrived. “The landlady must have left it on the table,” I thought. A letter that, the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I had been waiting for it for a long while, it contained moreover so many details regarding my personal life that there couldn’t be any doubt that it was destined for me – despite the fact that people’s morals have slackened so much in our time that they might even call into question the authenticity of a letter, the contents of which would admittedly crush them.

The rain abated, I was ready to leave, then I remembered why I had come, it was the same hotel, many years ago, I might not have even been eighteen, I would often think “my God, if I could at least see one woman naked, then I can die!” but I was also afraid lest I did in fact die, one night it seemed I was hypnotised, a woman approached and brought me here to this hotel, I had no idea how.

“C’mon, get undressed and get in bed,” she told me.

It was winter, I was wearing a khaki scarf which belonged to my grandfather, I remember that it was this very scarf, hanging close at hand on a rack, that we used to bind his jaw as soon as he had died, as was the custom. I took off my jacket and lay down, the woman undressed completely, and I, of course, may as well have been dead, for whether from fear or bad timing nothing was happening. The woman got up.

“If you can’t do it, why hire a hooker?” she said, washing her hands in the basin.

“My apologies, some other time…,” I stammered.

She perhaps thought that I was trying to avoid paying, for she immediately replied:

“The body fell on the bed, it must be paid.”

That expression made an impression on me, in particular its tone: she spoke about her body as though she was referring to someone else, as though she was saying, for example, “the old lady is unwell, it doesn’t look like she’ll make it through the night,” an old lady, in fact, who’s lived her life and made your life miserable with her old-age grumbling – in exactly that way. Then, I don’t know how, I felt a kind of distress, as though they had stuffed my mouth with lots of cotton wool, I then observed the wall next to me: it seemed to tremble at first, then it began to tilt and tilt, until it was about to collapse on me, I rushed to the door and ran down the stairs.

At the exact moment when my boss was angrily showing me the door, I again noticed the wall shaking, “it’s weird how people live in houses like this,” I thought, when I got back home, past midnight, everything was shut, they were asleep, I began forcefully ringing the bell, eventually a window up high opened and that familiar, longish face appeared.

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Translation Tuesday: “A Triangle with Four Sides” by Nasim Vahabi

April 2, 2024  |  in Translations  |  by Parisa Saranj

The line is the rebellious child of two insignificant points that came into existence because of one movement of a pen.

This Translation Tuesday, we present new hybrid, experimental fiction from Iranian author Nasim Vahabi whose debut novel in French  Je ne suis pas un roman (I am not a novel; Tropismes, 2022) was released to critical acclaim. Abstract in a generative way, A Triangle with Four Sides cleverly interrogates the notion of resistance. In each of the four angles that mirror and complement one another, we find a progression to expose and reconcile the many absurdities in everyday life and a wry attempt to rise above micro-oppressions. This is a well crafted puzzle of a piece that will definitely linger in the mind. Read on!

Geometry is more than a mathematical concept. It is the art of observation and comparison.

For example, the line—alone, single, and aimless—has geometry wrapped around its finger. It gets along with any shape. The line is the circle’s entire existence. Sometimes smooth or curvy, straight or zigzagged, sometimes boring and stretched out into eternity, other times stupidly coiled like a snake or long and high maintenance, and sometimes, like a hyphen, humble and content with its small lot in life.

The line is its own boss. When it wills, it folds over, straightens up, creates a sharp edge, or lies parallel with itself, but if it lies parallel with another line, it is liberation and generosity.However, once it decides to stretch even longer, its determination gets on your nerves. It seems something must interfere to save the line from itself. Perhaps self-replication? Or breaking into parts to create an independent entity such as a triangle—the perfect form, an archetype of stability. The square has always been envious of the triangle’s fortified flexibility. With three sides equal in length, whenever it wills, with a delicate, subtle movement, it could demonstrate equilaterality. But the square is heavy. Its movements are coarse. And yet, all it needs is to look at the rectangle or trapezoid to realize it could be worse: cumbersome and uneven. It could always be worse. The rectangle is the master of optimism. Rectangle considers itself the best of all shapes. Hates others and takes pride in having four sides staring at each other. Fanatic and self-absorbed, it only socializes with the rhombus, which is always uncomfortable and self-loathing. The rhombus is the shiest with the least confidence among all shapes: an unlucky rectangle.

The line would have never imagined having such offspring. The line is the rebellious child of two insignificant points that came into existence because of one movement of a pen. No one would ever know if that single movement was intentional or accidental. Right from the start, the point knew the line would not be satisfied with having a simple destiny as, let’s say, an em dash. The points knew the line’s ambition would make all the other points proud one day. Yes, the point—despite its insignificance—was aware of all these.

The geometry family, like all families, has its own untold stories. Geometry is life’s summary despite all its good or bad surprises.

I call my story triangle in honor of geometry, and I know that all it takes for my story to fall apart and turn into a coarse, inflexible square is one broken angle.

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