Posts featuring H.W. Burg

Do You Like Adventures?

“The space between two languages is not between mirrors, but curves along the great wall of error, a refined form of adventure.” —Rosmarie Waldrop

Is it that time of the year already?

Yes! Today marks the start of our annual two-week closure (during which our entire 100-strong virtual but very human team enters hibernation—so we hope you understand if we only respond to your emails in the New Year).  But, before we go off the grid completely, let’s take a look at the rear-view. In 2024, we gave you:

Ahead of us, we have plans to:

  • Revamp our website, which has been overdue for an update for some time now;
  • Launch a Substack—with even more thoughtful coverage and greater depth!; and
  • Bring back our international translation contest for emerging translators.

But to do any of the above, we have to be sustainable first—an uphill task given that Asymptote is incorporated outside of the US and Europe, where most of English-language literary arts funding lies. Sadly, despite a full 14 years of hard work behind the scenes and a London Book Fair award under our belt, the revenue that currently comes in each year is still not yet enough to support one full-time member’s involvement.

Which is why we just have to ask during this season of giving: Can you spare us five bucks a month?

Because that’s all it takes to sustain this platform—that we use to advocate for a more inclusive world literature and to amplify underrepresented voices like H.W. Burg’s—if enough of you stand with us. Tempted to sign on as a patron or even a masthead member? We’d be overjoyed and shower you with perks—including newly unveiled ones like literary care packages I’ll personally assemble. We just want to make sure that those of you who value our work have the chance to support it before it’s too late. So, if you can afford it, please take a few minutes to sign up via the link below:

Translation Tuesday: “My Christmas: Memories of a Transvestite” by H.W. Burg

Over and over, I would anxiously ask myself: where did you get this queer desire to dress and act so femininely?

Just in time for the holiday season, we bring you a different kind of Christmas story for this week’s Translation Tuesday. “My Christmas: Memories of a Transvestite,” written by H.W. Burg and translated from the German by M.M. Pinky, was originally been published 100 years ago, but remains startling in its immediacy. Through a series of Yuletide reflections, the author, assigned male at birth, relates their lifelong journey of coming to terms with their innate femininity. The quest for authentic gender expression expands into a tender exploration of self-discovery, longing, and the profound human need for pure acceptance. In a political climate where transgender rights seem to be an increasingly easy target, this short memoir reminds us why fearmongering rhetoric obscures the simple truth of people who, like anyone else, are searching for connection and love.

It is Christmas Eve again. Alone, I stand at the window of my quiet bachelor’s room and look into the cold winter night. Hoarfrost covers the trees. Hedges and bushes glisten in the light of the streetlamps as if the sky descended to Earth with thousands of little falling stars on this holy night. How beautiful it is when nature unfolds its wonders and no human hand disturbs its mysterious play.

The sound of “Silent Night, Holy Night” floats by my ears from the neighboring house. Through the thin window curtains, I see the dark outline of a Christmas tree and the bright glow of its lights. I close my eyes and imagine how those gathered around the tree join hands in love, how the quiet happiness of peace transfigures their eyes. I know the people. Quiet, simple, content people, who help each other carry the heavy things in life. How beautiful it is when two hearts find each other and love lifts them up from the vices of everyday life.

On my table there too is a Christmas tree. It is small; I bought it today, ready-made with decorations and candles already on it. As I’m about to strike a match, a deep sadness creeps over me. I am suddenly gripped by a desolate loneliness with a force I haven’t felt for some time. Lighting the candles is impossible. My eyes fill with tears and I have to sit down with my head against the table. My deep misery grips me with terrible strength, and I begin crying, crying bitter tears, today—on Christmas Eve—while everyone rejoices and celebrates the season of joy. 

Once my tears dried, I sat dreaming, pondering before my Christmas tree, from which no light fell into my saddened soul. Memories from days long ago unfurled within me, memories of celebrations of Christmases past. In my mind they all lay before me, and of the long list, four stayed in my mind with particular clarity. READ MORE…