Place: Hungary

Winter 2024: Highlights from the Team

Get excited to dip into our Winter 2024 issue with these highlights from our team!

Ilya Kaminsky’s “Reading Dante in Ukraine” makes an impassioned case for the crucial role of art amid the horrors of war. What we need, as Dante’s journey shows us, is to defend ourselves with it: a tune to walk to, even in the underworld, as long as one still walks. In Miklós Vámos’s “Electric Train,”  translated by Ági Bori‚ the question-answer format gives the piece levity and rhythm, and the counterpoint of the humor interplaying with the troubled relationships brings it powerful depth. I found wisdom in the wry humor of Jaime Barrios Carrillo’s poems in David Unger’s translation. I love the image of angels spending the evening in their hotel rooms, ironing their enormous white wings.

—Ellen Elias-Bursac, Contributing Editor

The masterful language in Ági Bori’s translation, as though hand-holding the reader through a children’s story, and the simple act of gifting a present in the story belie the depth and complexity of emotional turmoil that wash over Miklós Vámos’s characters in “Electric Train,” a turmoil that seemingly hits out of nowhere like a wave yet in fact stems from a deep brewing well of built up memories and tensions. The contrast highlights all the more the challenges, and perhaps even limits, of recognizing and understanding another’s intentions, experiences, and feelings.

Rage, sorrow, resilience, helplessness, hope, a hunger for life and love and connection, grief, a numbing screaming despair: it is difficult to put into words the sensations that ran through me as I read Samer Abu Hawwash’s “My People” in Huda J. Fakhreddine’s translation. It cannot possibly compare to the feelings and thoughts of Samer Abu Hawwash and the Palestinian people, to the reality of having each day and moment narrow down to dried bread and tear tracks.

I was intrigued by Laura Garmeson’s discussion, in her review of Brazilian author Itamar Vieira Junior’s Crooked Plow, of the tongue as “both creator and destroyer. It has the power to make and unmake worlds.” It is a through line in Crooked Plow that reminds us of the power and possibilities of language and story to shape our lives. Garmeson’s review, in a way, is also a fire that kindles awareness of Itamar Vieira Junior’s work and the legacies, realities, and possible futures for Afro-Brazilian communities. The tongue as symbol also feels like a through line between these pieces in their rumination on what is gained and lost and pushed aside in the choices we make of what, how, and when we say (or write) things, or not.

—Julie Shi, Senior Executive Assistant

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Translation Tuesday: Immortal by Miklós Vámos

if possible, I’d rather not talk about the awkward details, I did horrible things, and pretended to do even worse ones

How do you say goodbye to those you love? In Immortal, one man concocts a desperate plan: to mistreat his wife and daughters in the hope that it will lessen their pain when he inevitably dies from terminal illness. An emotional rollercoaster, full of twists, jokes, ironic digressions and absurd scenarios, this dark, comedic stream-of-consciousness by the prolific Miklós Vámos swells with feeling, dexterously captured in Ági Bori’s translation from the Hungarian. Read on to slip into a mindset irreversibly eroded by anguish.

XXXXXlet’s have a man to man conversation
XXXXXdon’t tell me you’re doing everything that is humanly possible
XXXXXit’s been nine months since I first came to see you, they sent me here with my lab results since you’re a nationally renowned expert, aren’t you, doctor, and you looked deep into my eyes with that nationally renowned expertise of yours, let out a long sigh, and told me: this is where your knowledge ends, given that my case is not operable, but you wanted me to believe that you’re doing everything that is humanly possible, and you might also recall that I received the news quietly, and only asked, how much time do I have left? you tried to dodge the question, you beat around the bush, saying you’re not a psychic, the same illness could manifest itself in numerous ways, there is no universal rule, but when I cornered you, you finally spit out that I had about six months to live, and I thanked you
XXXXXon my way home I reflected on what still remained for me, what my realistic expectations should be, and I refrained from swearing, because the larger the problem, the more calmly my brain operates, it turns into a sober and reliable computer, back then I was working on my doctoral dissertation, The French Enlightenment and its Hungarian Relations, which still needed two to three weeks of work before it would be complete, was it even worth finishing, I pondered, but then I decided to devote the necessary time to it, let it be finished, order has been important to me all my life, why would I back out on my own principles now? as soon as I type up the final copy, I’ll bid a proper farewell to everyone and everything, people and things I loved…then let…let it come READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: December 2023

New titles from Italy, Hungary, and Cuba!

In our final round-up of the year, we’re presenting a selection of titles that capture the human condition with various, masterful depictions and incisive intelligence. From Italy, the first volume of artist and writer Guido Buzzelli’s collected works present scrupulous and unwavering critiques of society; from Hungary, the master poet Szilárd Borbély writes the life of Kafka in relation to his father’s; from Cuba, a stunning bilingual collection from Oneyda González explores the surreal nature of the mirror.

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Buzzelli Collected Works Vol.1: The Labyrinth by Guido Buzzelli, translated from the Italian by Jamie Richards, Floating World Comics, 2023

 Review by Catherine Xin Xin Yu, Assistant Director of Outreach

What happens if, at the end of a normal workday, a sudden blast razes the world to the ground and you become one of the few survivors? Or if, waking up on an ordinary morning, you find your head and limbs dissociating from your torso and taking off on their own? Setting the scene with these Kafkaesque premises, Italian comic master Guido Buzzelli explores the monstrosity and power of dystopian societies in his graphic novellas, The Labyrinth and Zil Zelub, with a compelling visual language that is dense yet dynamic.

Buzzelli stands apart from his peers in every way—style, form, and theme. Born into a family of artists and trained in figure drawing, he is lauded as both “the Michelangelo of monsters” for his naturalism, and “the Goya of comics” for his chimeric blend of the real and the fantastical (as pictured below). He was also one of the first Italian comic artists to tackle complex literary subjects in uncommissioned, standalone works, counter-current to the Italian comics industry of the 1960–70s that pumped out commercial series with fixed characters and simplistic plots. As a self-proclaimed “man in doubt,” Buzzelli also rebelled against the progressivism of 1960s Italy, satirising the hypocrisy of political discourse and the violence of utopian mirages while alluding to the political upheaval at the time, from terrorist bombings to murky electoral campaigns. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: From “MetaXa” by László Garaczi

you cannot discriminate between the noises, you are waiting for Marina and salt blisters grow on your skin

An excerpt from MetaXa translated by Csilla Toldy channels the celebrated voice of contemporary Hungarian writer László Garaczi. Witty and provocative, this Translation Tuesday, we view the mundane with intense feeling through Asztrik’s eyes, jumping from erratic observation to probing thought on the love of a woman. Read on for an uncommon foray into another’s sensory world – feverish in its vibrance.   

a spacious lonely month awaits me, pinned to it the remainder of my life at home, light trembling under the skin—I have to meet the middleman from Hamburg, we have to clarify the details of the mission; I don’t talk to anyone for days, I stagger around in the July heat, I slowly begin to understand that I cannot do anything with this city, sharp menacing hot unevenness, it does not let me come closer to itself no matter how sly or flattering I am, I cannot smuggle myself into its good graces and my patience is running out—it is hard to imagine that I will have to sun dry in the heat for another two weeks—a blind fire flares up from under the earth—even your shadow scorches—you jerk back from the flame that flashes at you from the dying waves on the shore or the white stones, the cars are colourful leeches on the steaming asphalt—you hover weightlessly without an outline and choke, and then, when you are ready to give up there is the miracle, a new era—you throw the red plastic camera into an armchair, fall asleep—wake—sleep, forget even the forgetting—you carry on with the mantra even when awake—the air conditioning monster crunches its iron teeth, a picture on the wall, the air vibrates with the colours as if humming—you wriggle around on the bed, the picture on the wall doesn’t let you sleep, it’s a salmon with a glory,

you go down to reception—name tag Saulius—he rants on an exhale: how-are-you-thanks- fine, he holds a lit cigarette between his ring and little finger—you ask for the key to the net room, the air conditioning is not working, the window opens to a filthy alleyway and a neon sign in the gap between the fire walls: Moon Palace—you visit a few hacker sites, they are selling stone samples brought from the moon in apollo 13, stolen from NASA with photos and prices; with your usual name: Asztrik, you enter a Hungarian language US-room, there are about ten of them around not excited to see you, a closed group and they have no time for you—they are busy bankrupting Cat Canada at the moment; Maximillia is the demon of the chat room—she dominates the territory, knows no mercy, brutal, real—are you rebelling slaves—she leaves and knows that they will talk about her—a few of them follow her straight away—and then there is only Little Strawberry left—silence—you’re waiting for her to say something; Detko enters and starts chatting: she is holidaying in New York, she gives you her number privately, call her and have a drink together—Little Strawberry remains silent all along; before you leave, you take a look at the Gellert Mountain on the web camera and the light chain of the Elizabeth Bridge, you twitch under the feelings flooding you—go up to your room, it is cooler now, but the air conditioner is screeching—you imagine Maximillia, the demon in Budapest and Detko, the giggling teenager in New York—you are lying alone in a ran-down room in Brooklyn, the dread pumps adrenaline into your brain, even though tomorrow will be summer, too, and a bank holiday—the skyscrapers are sparkling, two spinning numbers show how many people are living on the planet and how much they owe to the banks—the sun is beating down in the park, rock musicians wearing white on a podium, spinning dancers on skates, a guitar-shaped boxplant, toilet basin, skull, another bush shaped like a finger-biscuit, forget, forget, oblivion—the Chinese girl who taught you the word oblivion after a concert—you cannot remember her name—forgetting the problem is the solution; you wake up at noon, sweltering heat—you are sitting on a bench on the promenade near the bridge in the shade, on the other side of the water the houses are trembling in the rising steam, the smell of chips iodine dead fish rubber acetone—cities smell more in summer—little balls of different smells bang your nose, the last miserable smoker stubs out his last miserable cigarette in Manhattan; at night I’m again in the net room—the mouse lies exactly in the same angle on the mousepad showing the airplanes approaching the WTC towers; in one of the common areas at least forty of them are fighting, Maximillia amongst them—you don’t even check the name list when your private window appears—you are alone with the demon—what’s up, hi, Maximillia—you did not call Detko, upsy-daisy—she disappears, you search around: nothing, she left—you call Detko on an impulse—it is ringing, you have to concentrate to breathe—in and out;

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from “Something Folksy” by Krisztián Grecsó

although I’m always full of pregnant suspicions, I didn’t think up until the pine cone battlefield that God had challenged us with that kitten

A memory of a journey along a riverbed told in a singular, unabating sentence gives new meaning to ‘stream of consciousness’ this Translation Tuesday. The following excerpt from Krisztián Grecsó’s Something Folksy is exemplary of the unique voice and experimental approach of the celebrated contemporary writer, as revealed by translator Fruzsina Gál: “Something Folksy – and Grecsó’s writing style in general – reminds me of the power of language, the precise, delicious craft of writing, and it made me want to instantly translate and share these stories with the wider world. I decided to translate this particular chapter as I was fascinated by the way he made it work in Hungarian, and I was intrigued to find out if the same effect could be replicated in English. The challenge was making his localised language understandable to a wider audience, all the while keeping its decidedly Hungarian style integral to the end result.”

You carried me in your arms for years
Pine cone slivers lay on the bottom of the dried up riverbed, covering it like a rug woven from knots the size of a baby’s fist, but if I managed to shift perspectives, and I didn’t even have to squint my eyes to be able to do so, then I could see from the imagined altitude of a drone camera that this section of the National Blue Trail is in reality a battlefield, the space after a winning or losing combat, it doesn’t matter which, there lay the pine cone corpses, victims, then with time heroes, but I couldn’t keep playing with perspectives, we wandered on, it was already questionable what I was staring at for so long and I didn’t want to ruin the afternoon, because we had just emerged from the first challenge of our budding love, the kitten that had joined us next to a forest ranger’s loft, and it really was lovely, gentle and vulnerable, and you were set on bringing it home, but there was no such thing as home, you still lived in a studio apartment on the outskirts of Miskolc, while I was once again sleeping on the couch of a friend, where I always end up when my life comes off its hinges, or to put it more simply, when I’m in trouble, that palatine building and the windy corridor of the quay in Újpest being the Golgotha for me, so where could the ranger’s stolen kitten have come home to, but you had dug your heels in, you thought that the forest, destiny, or the Creator himself had sent us that puny animal, “we can’t leave it behind” you kept saying, while I kept pointing at the ranger’s wallpapered home, saying that maybe a grandchild, a loving little girl comes here to pet it each afternoon, and of course I was just looking for excuses, because I couldn’t have brought cat litter to my friend’s apartment, but with the image of a crying child I surprised even myself, and I was moved by how creative and empathetic I was being, but you couldn’t believe that I didn’t feel that it wasn’t just a kitten, but a challenge, a question, a deep dive of an interview, and God was curious about us, you were so sure that this animal had been born because of us, and we had to bring it home, it couldn’t be fateless, an orphan, and I had finally played my ace as a last resort, that it would be stealing, after which you kept walking in silent despondence in the riverbed, like someone who’d lost something, like someone who’d miscarried, and in the first house of Óbánya, in the old post office’s courtyard, matted horses were eating grass, the water in their buckets ebbing, at that time you were still going horse riding to the mountain, you weren’t afraid to sit on a horse, you sought the saddle, and I hadn’t been afraid either, although I’m always full of pregnant suspicions, I didn’t think up until the pine cone battlefield that God had challenged us with that kitten, in reality I was happy to settle for the small things, for example the fact that I finally lived and existed in a moment without wishing to be elsewhere, at that point I had been surrounded by lies for close to a decade, in a constant state of remorse, and I always wanted to be somewhere different, so it was a cellularly new experience to be able to exist entirely there with you, where I’d chosen to be, and no matter how hard I try to remember it differently, that kitten hadn’t been a bad omen to me even past the pine cones, or at least not any worse than the pine cone battlefield in-between the river’s pebble-cliffs, after all, there was something ominous about that too, and there, as I surveyed the expanded land from high up I shuddered, that it was too much, that something bad was to follow, we were too happy and the binding balance of good and bad was missing, and the riverbed was beginning to look like a model of a movie being filmed, and our eyes were level with the slowly receding aerial shot, two thirsty people drunk on love, who, in the village’s only pub, when they slotted the first coin into the vinyl jukebox and sat down next to the crackling tiled stove, already knew that they were going to live out their lives together, which was guaranteed by Attila Pataki’s sublime voice, you pressed the button and the bartender piped up, “forty-three,” and took a sip of his beer, “Edda blues,” and I couldn’t believe that you’d chosen the band Edda, you hadn’t yet known that you were going to leave the city, there was no subtle metaphor in that musty old hit, there was only us, and the regulars, and with us a naked, impudent happiness, that in an abandoned village’s only pub we’d be listening to Edda on a jukebox, which can’t get any better, we were choking on laughter, and then silence, silence again, and I thought to myself in the bathroom, with my eyes trained on the endless depth of the urinal, that I needed to change, that I couldn’t continue to expect the worst during the happiest moments, that it shouldn’t be a problem when something fits so perfectly, or when for once it happens so easily, like a long awaited resolution; so we picked our way through the riverbed towards the empty village, the old church of Óbánya gleaming like a crone dressed in her Sunday best, and I had already forgotten or wanted to forget the kitten, but I could still see a captivating sadness in your eyes, and I realised only years later, once I’d pricked your belly full of injections, and once they’d put me in that mesh mask of historic horrors for the first time, wheeling me into the machine under the burn of radiation, I realised only then that all our hopes for a child were gone, and just how naive I’d been, but by then I was only envious of our necessarily and rightfully infantile hopes of the past, we walked on in the pine cone pellets, in the view of a seriously thought-out, long and happy life, knotted sounds floating from the mountain, our shoes sticky with resin, and it didn’t even occurr to me that God could’ve shaken his head when we left that kitten, shaken it and turned his eyes from us for years, and now I know that it was the last time we’d been childishly and cluelessly untouchable, and every subsequent explanation and over-thought suspicion about pine cone corpses and kittens had been in vain, we wouldn’t have believed it truly and deeply even if the Prophet himself told us, even if he appeared on our way home and sat down next to us at the small pub, slotting a coin into the jukebox himself and pressing forty-four, and Slamó would’ve thundered you carried me in your arms for years, and I was a prisoner of your will in vain, because if Jesus himself had revealed it under the truth of that song, we still wouldn’t have believed that something wouldn’t work for us, something all-important, not the way we would want it, not the way it should be, nor, as people would whisper about it in the stairwell, the proper way.

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Translation Tuesday: “Earth Mounds” by Ahmed Amran

He wanted nothing else, just to live in respect and dignity.

This Translation Tuesday, we present a quiet and devastating tale of abuse, escape and dreaming, told with care and gentle detail by Ahmed Amran. Yemeni-born but a naturalized citizen of Hungary, Amran writes in Hungarian and here draws inspiration from its vast and “dazzling” plains—the story of Earth Mounds hinges on his protagonist’s first glimpse of a steppeland that stretches to the horizon. Its very endlessness holds the promise of a future; he need only grab it.

We were still kids, all of us short. While of our age group, he was smaller in bearing. He barely spoke. He would rather observe our games than join in. He was fearful, almost terrified, of ending up in the sort of squabble that would spill over into a fight. Yet once in a fight, he slowly turned into a wounded lion. Then he would strike hard, unstoppably, sobbing as he fought, and when he sensed his victory, he would pull his most grievous punches. Then he would break into a run. Later we found out his refuge. On the edge of the village, on the other side of the fearsome graveyard, several low earth mounds lay. He would run there, climb up them, and roll down.

I remember when we noticed his growth spurt. Under his pitch-dark hair, the brown of his forehead had darkened. We hardly ever saw him on the village’s narrow streets. Instead, he would turn up in the deep, steep valleys engirdling the village. Later we heard about how his stepmother used to torment him. She would accuse him of stealing; almost every day she would find some excuse to kick him out of his father’s house. His father, to stay on his young wife’s good side, berated and beat his son. The boy had no strength left to cry. Out of sheer exhaustion he would often fall asleep during a beating. But sometimes he found refuge in the house of a hobbling old woman, where he could rest his worn body.

From the proximity of our old house we saw and heard them every evening. As if he enjoyed it, his father would raise his voice while throwing stones after his fleeing son. His young wife, like a hawk swooping down, would snatch up any of her little children who were playing nearby. A sly smile, visible only to those familiar with her wicked nature, etched itself in the corners of her mouth.

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What’s New in Translation: February 2023

New translations from Hungarian, German, and Spanish!

This month, we are excited to present new works in translation that consider survival and coexistence in many forms. From the Hungarian, renowned author Magda Szabó delves into the embittering effects of poverty and hardship. From the Spanish, Pilar Quintana creates a riveting familial portrait of vulnerable parents and too-wise children. From the German, Dr. Ludger Wess leads us on a journey to discover the smallest lifeforms amongst us. Read on to find out more!

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The Fawn by Magda Szabó, translated from the Hungarian by Len Rix, New York Review Books, 2023

Review by Meghan Racklin, Blog Editor

In The Fawn, the latest of Magda Szabó’s novels to be translated into English, it is 1954 in Budapest. For Eszter, the novel’s main character (it is difficult to call her a protagonist), it is 1954—but it is also the interwar years and the years of the war, and it is also, disastrously, almost the future. “The Future . . .’” she thinks, “[t]hat was something I had no desire to build. I had enough of the past about me already for the thought to do anything but horrify me.”

The novel is Eszter’s account of her life and her surroundings, told in a monologue directed at the man she loves, and the language is as beautiful as Eszter is bitter. In Len Rix’s translation, Eszter’s sentences are full of clauses; she’s in a rush, trying to get out everything she wishes she had already said. She recalls, of the evening when her childhood home was hit by a bomb, “Mother neither wept nor blanched; we slept the sleep of the contented in the main hall of a school, along with everyone else who had lost their homes; I felt like the nation’s favourite child, everyone seemed to want to look after us, and the whole city shared our grief.” As her outpouring continues, details pile up like debris. 

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What’s New in Translation: January 2023

The latest reads from Hungary, Sweden, and Kurdistan!

2023 is already setting up to be one of the most wide-ranging and bounteous years for literary purveyors of the world, with an abundance of exciting works slated for publication. This month, we’re presenting three texts that enrapture the imaginative prospects of a world in translation: László Krasznahorkai subverts every expectation for the travelogue, Bachtyar Ali braids storytelling and truth-seeking, and Maria Adolfsson reasserts feminist presence in the male-dominated mystery genre. 

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A Mountain to the North, A Lake to The South, Paths to the West, A River to the East by László Krasznahorkai, translated from the Hungarian by Ottilie Mulzet, New Directions/Serpent’s Tail, 2023

Review by Matthew Redman, Digital Editor

László Krasznahorkai is among Hungary’s most feted writers in the Anglophone world. His works, characterised by inordinately long, slow sentences which chart the depths of obsession and madness, have earned him a cult of devoted readers and international acclaim, while his translators—Georges Szirtes and Ottilie Mulzet—are lauded writers in their own right. However, his most recent novel to be translated into English, A Mountain to the North, A Lake to The South, Paths to the West, A River to the East, is an intriguing departure from the works that have made his name. The vast sentences he is known for are intact, but they are used in service of a radically different tonal palette. Where his other novels use length to induce futility and despair, A Mountain to the North explores the beatific, languorous, and even beautiful possibilities of extreme syntax.

Set in Japan, the novel takes the form of a travelogue—albeit with the sheer mass of textual detail slowing the journey to an ooze. Strip this away and you find comparatively simple structural bones: a train deposits us at a deserted platform somewhere in Kyoto, we leave the station and wander half-lost through empty streets until we arrive at our destination, a Buddhist monastery in which we remain for most of the novel, touring the grounds and slowly penetrating the interiors. It is a balmy late afternoon, there are beautiful gardens all around, the monastery is silent and exquisite. This part of Kyoto is almost entirely bereft of inhabitants, but the emptiness is one of the rare details that Krasznahorkai chooses not to linger on. In fact, the absence is fortuitous, because the novel is uninterested in people; what consumes the author instead is the immutable, near indescribable beauty of things wrought in accordance with Japanese tradition. With the streets and monastery empty, the prose is freely devoted to the description of his sublime surroundings. Plants in their carefully tended gardens; the shrine’s architecture—their calculations and materials, the minutiae of their construction; the nigh-divinely sagacious prescriptions according to which every detail within the monastery was planned, planted, and built; the commitment at every turn to the tireless refinement of perfection; and above all the feel of all of this beauty—the texture and the grain, and the effect on the soul.

Each chapter houses a single enormous sentence that describes and extols a single beautiful object (a gate, a shrine, a statue) or craft (carpentry, gardening), and ends only when Krasznahorkai deems the subject exhausted. As demanding and unconventional as this novel is, it is not difficult in the way that experimental fiction is often thought to be.  For all its density, there is a deceptive simplicity, even a solicitousness to Krasznahorkai’s prose. His sentences are slow enumerations in service of a simple message that never changes: the monastery and everything within it are perfect, and it could only ever have been so, for it is all the product of patient, genius craftsmen adhering immaculately to faultless prescriptions. The long succession of accounts of perfect things has an incantatory quality, the meticulousness neither torturous nor bewildering, but rather intended to soothe. Krasznahorkai wants to leave you tranquil:

[…] it was something like a labyrinth, of course, but at the same time the chaos causing the oscillation of the layout of these streets wasn’t frightening and even less so futile, but playful, and just as there were finely wrought fences, the grated rolling gates protected by their small eaves, above, leaning out from both sides here and there, were the fresh green of bamboo or the ethereal, silver foliage of a Himalayan pine with its firework-like leaves unfolding; they bent closely over the passerby as if in a mirror, as if they were protecting him, guarding him and receiving him as a guest within these tightly closed fences and gates, these bamboo branches and the Himalayan pine foliage; namely, they quickly gave notice to the one arriving that he had been placed in safety […]

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Announcing an Animal-themed Special Feature

“There is a different way of knowing here and I see all around me a constellation of animals.” —Linda Hogan

For our Spring 2023 Special Feature, we will be putting together an animal-themed feature that looks at wildlife in a new light. We seek fictional and nonfictional narratives that place such animals at the center, whether in natural or urban environments (the animal or animals in question must play a central role in the story’s plot; we also welcome stories where the narrator is an animal).

Of special interest are texts that illuminate what Linda Hogan has called a “different way of knowing” or imagine the coexistence of the animal in question with human beings. Hrant Matevossian’s “The Green Field” from the current issue, or Zsófia Bán’s “On the Eve of No Return” from the Summer 2014 edition are excellent examples of the kind of work we are looking for. The Feature is intended to be a showcase of the many nonhuman existences who share this planet with us.

For once, we’ll be accepting original English-language submissions (although translations will still be prioritized in our curation). Fees will be waived for the first submission to this Special Feature; in addition, contributors whose work is accepted will receive an honorarium of USD100 per article. Check out our full guidelines and send in your best work today!

Our Top Ten Articles of 2022, as Chosen by You: #3 An Interview with Georges Szirtes

In her brilliant interview, Rose Bialer reveals Szirtes to be a poet grappling with and exploring constraints—of memory, borders, mortality.

“Pulling narratives together is an act of blind construction, an exploration of the valid. Constructions suggest artificiality. And it is true, in legal prose terms, that poems, as constructions, are artificial and therefore unreliable. But poets should not be afraid of construction: construction is the poem’s natural way of witnessing.” 

Acclaimed poet and translator from the Hungarian Georges Szirtes comes in at Number 3 in our countdown of the most-read articles of the year, via his interview in the Winter 2022 issue. Renowned for both his poetry as well as for his translations, Szirtes writes prolifically and without pretense in print and on social media. As a translator, Szirtes is perhaps best known for his work on Hungarian phenom László Krasznahorkai (his translation of Satantango won the Best Translated Book Award in 2013; while you’re here, why not also read our interview with László Krasznahorkai?).

In her brilliant interview, our very own Rose Bialer reveals Szirtes to be a poet grappling with and exploring constraints—of memory, borders, mortality. Szirtes offers intimate insights on the lasting impact of his experience of migration in childhood and the memories—“small fragments of coloured glass that may—with a lot of luck—add up to a stained glass window of sorts”—that he has pieced together from the family photographs that he carried on the journey from Hungary to England. These memories drove Szirtes to reclaim the Hungarian language twenty-eight years after it “went to sleep.” Visualizations of what might have been permeate Szirtes’ poetry; taken as a whole, his collections reconstruct the story of his life, with glimpses of reality that appear as if frozen in film.

For example, of his latest work Waking in the Yellow Room, Szirtes says:

These are exercises of the imagination based on my experience of him [my father] and on my own sense of what Jewishness entailed for him then and what it entails for me now . . . The yellow room is the house of the soon-to-be dead. I see him as the child squatting in the corner. 

In this experiment, Szirtes rewrites the constraints of memory, suggesting a new reality in which his father didn’t eschew Judaism for Atheism in the traumatic aftermath of the Holocaust. In addition, “there are increasing reminders of mortality as one grows older; in my case the death of friends, the pandemic, my own state of health . . . my mother’s early death . . . I have been sure from the start that the apprehension of mortality is what drives the whole artistic project.” 

This is not the first time Szirtes has been featured in Asymptote, his poem The Swan’s Reflection: two sides of a postcard headlined our English Poetry Feature as far back as in our Fall 2011 issue, alongside Lydia Davis’s very first translations from the Dutch, new translations of Nobel laureate Czeslaw Milosz, and a survey of Croatian novelists by Dubravka Ugrešić. Find contributing editor Sim Yee Chiang’s behind-the-scenes look at this issue from our #30issues#30days showcase. If you’re inspired to submit your own work after dipping into our twelve-year-old archive, check out our submission guidelines here and send in your best work today! 

CLICK HERE FOR OUR THIRD MOST-READ ARTICLE OF 2022

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Discover more on the Asymptote blog:

The Possible Transformations Between Covers: On Storybook ND

The series’ humor, experimental spirit, and eye-catching design serve as the literary equivalent of an invigorating rollercoaster ride.

Storybook ND, by various authors and translators, New Directions, 2022

In autumn, literary publishers New Directions released a new compilation, corralled under a dreamy concept: Storybook ND offers fiction “to be seen and read for an hour or two . . . [Books] to fall into for a spell, in the space of an afternoon, or early evening, or on waking.” Curated by writer and translator Gini Alhadeff, the series introduces six “long stories or short novels” that can be read as parables, travelogues, or auto-fiction. While startlingly diverse in narrative approach, the common thread among these works seems to be the writer’s classic zeal to bridge a gulf—between life and art, flawed reality and transcendent fiction.

With each book ranging anywhere from sixty to ninety-six pages, Storybook ND currently features one original English-language story—Helen DeWitt’s The English Understand Wool—and five translated works: The Woman Who Killed The Fish by Clarice Lispector, translated from the Portuguese by Benjamin Moser; Three Streets by Yoko Tawada, translated from the Japanese by Margaret Mitsutani; Early Light by Osamu Dazai, translated from the Japanese by Ralph McCarthy and Donald Keene; Spadework for a Palace by László Krasznahorkai, translated from the Hungarian by John Batki; and The Famous Magician by César Aira, translated from the Spanish by Chris Andrews. While DeWitt’s The English Understand Wool is not a translated work, it can be read as a virtuosic reflection on aesthetic representation and translation; specifically, DeWitt illustrates how both fiction and translation, in transforming reality or a foreign context into something intelligible, can also reflect the writer/translator’s inherent bias and their latent wish to control content.   READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

Literary news from Armenia, the Philippines, and Kenya!

This week, our editors on the ground are watching out for multilingual poetry events, emerging Armenian writers, solidarity in language and literature, the favourite texts of Filipino readers, translation in Southeast Asia, dialogues between authors in Nairobi, and PEN/HEIM Translation Grants winners. Read on to find out more!

Kristina Tatarian, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Armenia

The beautiful auditorium of the Carfesjian Center for the Arts, located at the Cascade Complex in Yerevan, is a frequent stage for literary readings. On the night of October 8, the center hosted a performance as part of antiBabylon, a multilingual poetry event that brought together literary communities from Georgia, Armenia, Ukraine, Moldova and Germany. Organised by PANDA Platforma, an NGO from Berlin, the event took place in Georgia, Armenia, Moldova, and Ukraine, as poets visited each other’s countries for joint workshops and performances to create, translate, and perform. The Project’s aim is to create a “free multilingual poetic space,” and test if poetry can answer the most burning existential questions of today’s troubled world.

On the same day, IALA’s Emerging Writers Showcase took place online. This showcase featured readings from Armenian authors championed by the organisation as mentees or winners of the Young Armenian Poet Award. By supporting emerging literary talent, the organisation adds to the global effort of Armenian artists to accelerate cultural revival in the country.

The Armenian diaspora around the world plays a crucial part of setting the cultural agenda for Armenian literature, and now, the groundbreaking collection We Are All Armenian: Voices from the Diaspora, edited by Aram Mjorian, is available from University of Texas Press. The collection will feature essays from writers and poets of Armenian origin, shedding light on diverse experiences of “Armenianness” and personal perspectives on ethnicity, identity, and the sense of home. READ MORE…

Fall 2022: Highlights from the Team

Where to start with our glorious Fall 2022 issue? Here are some entry points, courtesy of our global team!

Emma Ramadan’s work as a translator has been so important to me and my literary journey—not least because of the attentiveness she lends to the writers she translates from Francophone North Africa, such as Ahmed Bouanani. I also really admire the way she speaks about her process with Claire Mullen in her interview, the passion and commitment and genuineness that shine through, for instance, in how she discusses her feelings at finally finding a copy of Molinard’s Panics. It reminded me a little of Alice Guthrie’s work with Malika Moustadraf’s Blood Feast, which was also out of print and circulated online as low quality scans.

I really love the slow, meditative writing of Dejan Atanacković’s absent narrator in Lusitania (tr. Rachael Daum). When it ranges with a kind of radical exteriority over the ephemera that remains of Teofilović, and the marginal annotations of Stojimirović that accompany his journals, it reads almost like the prose of Sebald—with the enigma of Teofilović as one such central, inaccessible figure around which the story endlessly circles, never losing sight of the larger political and social context.

Laksmi Pamuntjak’s “The Tale of Mukaburung” could easily have been written and translated to pander to a white gaze, and it’s really to the credit of both Pamuntjak and her translator Annie Tucker that there is a pervasive self-sufficiency to the story and its world, a refusal to explain itself, a matter-of-fact revelling in the ordinariness of its own magic and ritual. This seems especially commendable when a dominant affect in the story is puzzlement and defensiveness, in confrontation with foreigners whose presence and purpose are unknown, even to the reader, until much later in the story when it is revealed that many among them are political prisoners.

—Alex Tan, Senior Assistant Editor (Fiction)

Olavo Amaral’s “Steppe (tr. Isobel Foxford) is exquisite in every way: the writing of the translation, the unusual subject matter, the relationship and emerging love between the two main characters and how it is described, the mood created by the atmosphere of snow and remoteness.

I have been following closely the horrors of Putin’s war in Ukraine and though still angry and frustrated by its continuation, I thought I was fairly hardened to the extent of Russian atrocities. But I broke down towards the end of Galina Itskovich’s War Diary (tr. Maria Bloshteyn), where the unspeakable rape and violence against children is put into words.

—Janet Phillips, Assistant Managing Editor

Kudos to Jonathan Chan for beautifully translating such ancient poems of Choe Chi-won, whose characteristic loneliness metaphorized in natural images is successfully rendered in translation.

think one of the most important missions of Asymptote is to sustain languages under oppression, be that a national language that is close to extinction or the voice of a people amid a political process of erasure. Lauren Bo’s review of The Backstreets by Perhat Tursun undertakes this mission in remarkable earnest and rigor, by not only posing the biopolitical question of survival faced by the Uyghurs but also diligently analyzing the text via a close reading, and ultimately marrying the two to derive a conclusion that engages readers with the enduring challenge of humanity that surpasses the violence that is immediately palpable: “The Backstreets is an account of survival and a reminder that even the cruelest elements of humanity are fabricated out of absurdity and fear of the uncertain.”

The elusive language of Krikor Beledian’s “Unpeopled Language” (tr. Taline Voskeritchian and Christopher Millis) is delicate yet piercing, and while  the history of the Armenian genocide cannot be separated from the poetics of Beledian, its implementation of “the tool against the game of expression“ speaks to the broader context of the survival of a people and their language in and after the era of mass murder.  

—Megan Sungyoon, Assistant Editor (Poetry)

READ MORE…

The Fall 2022 Issue Is Here!

Featuring Kyung-Sook Shin, Emma Ramadan, Aram Pachyan, and Álvaro Fausto Taruma amid new work from 32 countries and 19 languages

Welcome to “Half-Lives,” our new Fall 2022 issue, where never-before-published work from 32 countries and 19 languages confront life as it shouldn’t be: stunted, degraded, perversely foreshortened—in short, half-lived. Its centerpiece is the Armenian Special Feature, generously sponsored by the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, under the aegis of which we are proud to present stunning new translations of emerging authors such as Aram Pachyan, last year’s winner of the EU Prize for Literature—Armenia’s first recipient!—alongside more established voices like Narine Abgaryan, Krikor Beledian, and Hrant Matevossian. Inescapably harrowing because of their historical contexts, many of these works set the tone for the rest of the issue—including a gritty dispatch from Ukraine via Galina Itskovich and a spotlight on Ukraine-born artist Sergey Katran. Elsewhere, Claire Mullen chats to Emma Ramadan about the joy of translating from the archive, past contributor Anton Hur brings us a new short story by 2012 Man Asia Literary Prize recipient Kyung-Sook Shin, and Grant Schutzman delivers our first work from Mozambique in the form of moving poetry by Álvaro Fausto Taruma. All of this is illustrated by our amazingly talented guest artist, the London-born creative Louise Bassou.

On the heels of Roe being overturned, our editors have also responded by centering one half of the human condition in this issue. Pregnancy is the subject of Lusine Kharatyan’s keenly observed #America_place Pregnant and S. Vijayalakshmi’s intimately recounted Just Like a Womb. Growing up (a “difficult art” according to a very wise Montserrat Roig in this issue’s inspiring Brave New World Literature Feature), the women in these pieces are made to feel less than human in contradictory ways, shamed for the developing bodies in which they are trapped (Rosabetty Muñoz) while becoming objects of unwanted desire at the same time (Eszter T. Molnár). In Mexico, Karen Villeda reminds us that the consequences of being a woman can be fatal, writing that women are not alive, but only “still alive” until they are not. How do women counteract the stunting forces of a hostile world? From the ventriloquism of an Abuela who talks to herself to ensure that no one else speaks for her in Alejandra Eme Vázquez’s You’ll Leave Your Body Behind to the adoption of a third language by Jhumpa Lahiri to develop her own linguaggio, as revealed in Translating Myself and Others reviewed by Caterina Domeneghini, giving voice to female experience, as we endeavor to do in this issue, is one shared mode of resistance.

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No matter your taste, there’s something for everyone in this edition, so circulate this glorious new issue by printing our Fall 2022 flyer (downloadable here); like and share our issue announcement and article plugs on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

To read the world and read it more fully is itself a recipe for a fuller existence. If we’ve made a difference in that regard to your lives, please consider celebrating our full twelve years of publishing the best in world literature by joining us a masthead or sustaining member from as little as $5 a month—for a limited period only, we’ll even throw in a bonus 2023 digital Asymptote calendar!

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