Desire and Possession: A Review of Jérôme Prieur’s Zombie Proust

Proust saw glittering Parisian dinners and costume balls as “great massacres.” His society models posed for him and were in turn “devoured” by him.

Zombie Proust by Jérôme Prieur, translated by Nancy Kline, Les Fugitives, 2025

 “Marcel Proust was never filmed at all,” asserts Jérôme Prieur in Proust fantôme, his 2001 French text rendered into English by Nancy Kline in 2025 as Zombie Proust. In 2017, however, a Canadian professor claimed that he had found Proust’s moving specter in the silent footage of Countess Élaine Greffulhe’s 1904 wedding to the Duke de Guiche. Entering the frame about 35 seconds in, Proust, or his mustasched double, wearing a pearl-gray overcoat, black vest, and black bowler hat, looking somewhat less formal than the other guests and in a hurry, descends the stairs, overtakes some older folks, and exits the frame.

The discovery of this possible Proust, occuring in the interval between Prieur’s originally published text and its translation, seems to be especially meta. Whenever we talk about Proust and his seven-volume novel, In Search of Lost Time, there exists always a splintering tension between chronological and subjective recollections, motion and stillness, analogous to the temporal, spatial, and linguistic gaps between an original text and its translation. In short, there are many ways to interpret Prieur’s statement that Proust “was never filmed,” just as there are many ways to read Zombie ProustREAD MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from This City of Dolls by Clare Azzopardi

One day the nation will be bereft of dolls

The dolls leave and don’t come back “because life in the city is unbearable.” Who cannot sympathize with their choice? In this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a haunting poem by the Maltese writer Clare Azzopardi, translated into plain, elegiac English by Albert Gatt. In presenting a city mourning the exodus of the dolls, Azzopardi’s poem draws us into the spectacle of objectification, the reduction of living creature to inert, inscribed surface that precedes all mass violence. Here as elsewhere the doll is the perfect image of womanhood under fascism, but what sets Azzopardi’s poem apart is not just its mastery of the elegiac tone, but a gesture, so small it’s almost imperceptible, towards the possibility of communication with fascism’s despised other: “sometimes the protagonist is also I / and sometimes / sometimes / words are.” Read on.

The dolls migrate once a year.

They come out of their houses and walk to the shore.

It’s an auspicious day, the day the dolls migrate.

Little boats await them along the shore.

Twenty dolls take their leave, give or take.

Year after year.

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Collateral Damage: A Review of Return by Raharimanana

What would the symbols of the new nation be? Its language, its idioms, its tribes? And more, importantly, who isn’t Malagasy?

Return by Raharimanana, translated from the French by Allison M. Charette, Seagull Books, 2025

A newly independent nation. The visions of building. The sacrifices, people, losses. If this invigorating spirit is unwaveringly intoxicating, its effects are as much generational as they manifest in the present. In his novel Return, Raharimanana knits together a young man’s memories of his father and the spirituous strides taken to uphold truth against power in the aftermath of colonialism—specifically when the nascent country of Madagascar erupted in revolution in 1972 after gaining independence from the French in 1960. Hira, around whom much of the story revolves, is hailed as an oscillatory reminder of the time since Madagascar’s freedom, forming an autobiographical arc in Raharimanana’s own reconciliation with his childhood. The author’s writing also carries the artfulness of music, an art that he engages in alongside being a novelist, poet, and playwright.

In an earlier book, Nour 1947 (2001), Raharimanana penned a closer engagement with the 1947 Malagasy Uprising, dealing with the deadly killings of 87,000 Malagasys by the French colonial rule. Return, which was first published in 2018 in French as Revenir, now puts on a vivid image of Hira’s life as a touring writer and his recollections of the transitioning state of Madagascar. As he travels, he is disturbingly reminded of his father’s torture and the price paid by his family, and these fragmented recollections do not let him collate a neat history. Hence, the sections of the present are reeling with the irredeemability of time, a fracturedness that also speaks to the inability to write of a violence that is both collective and overpowering. As the novel moves on, this position culminates into renewed impetus for his writing, rife with image and poetic terseness. Being born after independence, Hira is part of a nation attempting to blossom a life out of the ruins—and this is true for Hira’s own family as well as for the country. For him, it is tiring: “But also weariness. He’d had enough of all of that. Being confronted with his country’s violence.” READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest literary news from Spain, Belgium, North Macedonia, and India!

This week, our editors-at-large give us a window into discussions about the importance of literature in translation across cultures—as something that connects people, responds to disaster, and creates community. Read on to find out more about a conference in India, one in the Balkans, new poems and essay collections, and more!

MARGENTO, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Spain and Belgium

Asymptote contributor Felix Nicolau translated a selection of poems by the Spanish poet Fulgencio Martinez for the latest issue of the Romanian journal Apostrof. Martinez visited the Romanian Language and Culture Centre (led by Nicolau) at University of Granada back in June which triggered a fruitful international conversation. Nicolau’s exquisite renditions bring witness to the Spanish poet’s vision of the lyric as both a haven from and a look into the world’s (and “any world’s”) political turmoil and injustice. Serendipitously, these translations speak to another groundbreaking event in the other literature I follow closely; the Belgian one.

The most remarkable recent event in Belgian Francophone letters is the release of Myriam Watthee-Delmotte’s collection of essays La littérature, une réponse au désastre (Literature, Response to Disaster) from Royal Academy of Belgium’s press. The internationally-awarded academic, writer, and essayist’s book has already received impressive coverage in Belgium and beyond. Watthee-Delmotte has also recently launched a novel, Indemne. Où va Moby-Dick? (Safe and Sound: Where’s Moby-Dick Headed?) with Actes Sud) and the two books are the subject of a two-episode interview podcast on Radio France Culture and also a streaming broadcast on for two weeks in a row (September 10th through the 25th). READ MORE…

Growing, Growing, Gone: A Review of Death and the Gardener by Georgi Gospodinov

[T]he fiction of Death and the Gardener is suggesting that the only way to get through both death—and life—is by transforming experiences.

Death and the Gardener by Georgi Gospodinov, translated from the Bulgarian by Angela Rodel, Liveright, 2025

“What happens to the garden . . . when the gardener is gone?” asks the narrator of Georgi Gospodinov’s new novel, Death and the Gardner. After winning the International Booker Prize in 2023 for Time Shelter, the Bulgarian writer returns with a novel featuring a similarly famous Bulgarian writerwith the additional autobiographical detail of a father who has died from cancer, leaving his garden behind. Within this autofiction, the reader will not have to wait long for an answer to that primary, haunting question: “The garden will continue to flourish, even without its gardener, what he has planted will still grow, bear fruit, but wildness will also start to make inroads, after some time weeds and grasses will overtake everything.” The seasons will cycle the plants through life and death—and life again. In a garden, even without its gardener, there is still promise of spring; perhaps it’s this promise of revival that makes gardening an ideal outlet for grief.

I began my first garden three years ago as my dad lay dying of cancer in the living room. His friends—now my friends—had shown me how to hoe a straight line between two markers and brush in the seeds, then how to cover them with soil, going back down the lines. What they couldn’t do was prepare me for when the tilled dirt filled with weeds, for when my dad died and I inherited his house and its garden. That first summer, I ripped up endless roots, but the weeds kept on growing.

The narrator of Death and the Gardener does not work at his father’s garden after he dies, but he does use it as the central grounding image for the book that he writes. Though Death and the Gardener calls itself a novel on the cover, it reads with the intimacy of a memoir in Angela Rodel’s expert translation. Acknowledging this slippery approach to genre, the narrator admits, “This book has no obvious genre; it needs to create one for itself.” He too wonders “whether the kindling of those words cools [grief], or just inflame it all the more.” Writing, then, is taken to be like gardening after a death: a way to bargain for just a little more time with that person. This cathartic use of writing (and gardening) in grief is nothing new, but Gospodinov’s approach draws particular attention to the push and pull of the writing itself, and how this kind of detailed remembering both brings back his father and reproduces the trauma of witnessing him suffer and die. READ MORE…

A clear sky so blue two bodies can bathe in sunlight: A Conversation with Hanaa Ahmad Jabr and Jennifer Jean about Where do you live?

I was translating life itself, each poem being written in the raw present, each a reply to another. . .

Where do you live? is a bilingual collection of collaborative epistolary poems between Iraqi poet Dr. Hanaa Ahmad Jabr (writing in Arabic) and American poet Jennifer Jean (writing in English), published earlier this year. Bridging language and borders, the collection begins and ends with the titular question, as two poets living in different countries exchange their “anger / at the way things are when they should be / better” with “one eye open / staring at the ruins of the old city,” while the “other eye is closed / hiding dreadful war scenes.” In this interview, I spoke with both poets on their collaboration, the revelations that come with the letter-writing form, and how literature serves to bridge distances.

Tiffany Troy (TT): The title of this collection is also that of the poems that begin and end the collection, and it is a provocative question because “Where do you live?” is similar yet completely distinct from “Where are you from?”. Here, where one lives becomes the space that one wants to embody. Can you speak to the decision to start the collection with the eponymous poem?

Hanaa Ahmad Jabr (HAJ): Every poem Where do you live? carries (whether directly or indirectly) an answer to that very question. When we chose this title for both my and Jennifer’s poem, it was a poetic decision, but also one that reflected deep reality; poetic, because the question reaches beyond mere geography, asking not only about place but also about the very essence of living—and reality, because between these two poems lies a rich, vivid life: one woven with memories, dreams, longing, exile, homeland, love, war, family, and friends. That’s why the collection had to open with “Where Do You Live?” for the English reader and close with “أين تعيش؟” for the Arabic reader.

Jennifer Jean (JJ): Since every poem appears in both languages, we spoke about the book being read from left to right for English readers, and also from right to left for Arabic readers. We even asked Arrowsmith Press to create two covers, one cover in English and—on what would be “the back” in America—another cover in Arabic. When I was a kid, these things were known as “flip books,” but the press wasn’t able to grant our wish due to technical difficulties. What remains of this wish is the placement of these title poems. The query in the title still opens and closes our “conversation in poems,” no matter the reader’s home language. Now that I think about it, these two poems are the furthest apart, but both explore the hometown of the heart and express the comfort of our conversations. As Hanaa says: “We are the two eyes together . . . forever.”

TT: In the epistolary-poetic tradition, prominent examples include Paul Celan and Nelly Sachs, Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, but in those relationships, the correspondence takes the form of letters rather than lyric poems. Can you speak about how you first embarked on the collaborative process, and how the need to translate back and forth added layers to that lyrical discourse? READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from HEART OF DAMAGE by María Negroni

I didn’t want to be a butterfly that an etymologist couldn’t stab with a pin

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poignant excerpt from HEART OF DAMAGE by the Argentine poet María Negroni, translated by Michelle Gil-Montero. In terse but vivid fragments, the narrator of this long poem recollects her childhood, drawing our attention first to the cavity between her memory of her childhood and her mother’s memory of the same. From there she spirals inward, boring into the center of a lifelong sense of inadequacy bred by her mother’s possessiveness—”my only possession that is truly mine” her mother calls her—before finally moving towards the present, in which her mother’s grievances are recompensed with her own. Read on! 

In the house of Childhood, there are no books.

Roller skates, sure, bicycles, silkworms in cardboard boxes, but no books.

When I mention this to my mother, she’s furious.

Of course there were books, she says.

Who knows. Either way, there’s no vast library of English volumes, like Borges had as a child.

Of one thing, though, I’m certain: a beautiful, difficult woman is the center and circumference of that house. She has big eyes, red lips. Her name is Isabel, but everyone calls her Chiche: a toy, trinket, plaything for a child.

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Announcing Our September Book Club Selection: Bedbugs by Martina Vidaić

Vidaić’s novel calls out and works within irreconcilable contrasts: inside and outside, urban and rural, educated and less so. . .

In Bedbugs, both the environment and the individual are veering on the precipice of ruin. Pushing the frenetic and confessional potentials of the epistolary form, Martina Vidaić charts the psychological dissolution of her protagonist with the constant incursion of her disintegrating surroundings, resulting in an enthralling collision of misfortune, trauma, momentum, and one’s own instinct for survival. This sense of doom, balanced with acerbic wit and paced mystery, fuels the Croatian writer’s distinctive, absorbing investigation into our contemporary human conundrums of alienation and dread—but also our stubborn, headlong insistence of going onward. 

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

Bedbugs by Martina Vidaić, translated from the Croatian by Ellen Elias-Bursać, Sandorf Passage, 2025

The structural overview or the room-by-room discovery: these are two basic ways to describe a living space. The first gives context, while the second demands patience—and some faith, especially if the space is messy. In Bedbugs (Stenjice, 2021), Croatian writer Martina Vidaić’s second novel, some faith is needed as the story ramps up. When the reader sees that the entire book is written without a single paragraph break, they will know that it might take some focus to follow along—even with the expert translation of Ellen Elias-Bursać, who is no stranger to Croatian language and literature. But this dense journey into the winner of the 2023 European Union Prize for Literature is worth taking for the entirety of the grounded story, and even more so for the inventive, fluid metaphors and descriptive passages that carry the reader to the conclusion, even if it’s not a tidy one.

From the first line, both sardonic humor and bemusing doom abound. “I am writing to you, Hladna, my cold friend, because I happen to know you’re the only person who won’t laugh when I say that the day the ants chewed holes in my underwear, I finally had to face up to the fact that my downfall was a certainty.” The narrator’s dramatics feel a little overdone, but they still make me chuckle—and this is even before the bedbugs, which according to her Googling: “once they get into an apartment, bedbugs are extremely difficult to get rid of.” Throughout the novel that amounts to a 180-page letter, Gorana Hrabrov’s downfall may be certain, but the course always feels like somehow it could trend upward. This woman is smart and, like a bedbug, extremely difficult to get rid of; will she make it?   READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest from Hong Kong, Egypt, and India!

This week, our Editors-at-Large bring us news from around the globe on the latest in world literature. From Hong Kong’s vibrant multicultural literary festival, to the release of Alaa Abd El-Fattah in Egypt and a collection of award-winning Indian authors, read on to learn more.

Charlie Ng, Editor-at-Large, Reporting from Hong Kong

Hong Kong’s literary scene welcomed a vibrant celebration of European writing with the return of the European Literature Night (ELN) this September. Organized by Czech Centers and the European Union National Institutes for Culture, the event originated in Prague in 2006 with the aim of introducing contemporary European literature through public readings in non-traditional venues. Following a successful debut in Hong Kong last year, the 2025 edition featured a strengthened line-up of thirteen European countries. Over four and a half hours, well-known local guests read excerpts from European writers for approximately ten minutes each. Readings occurred simultaneously at fourteen different locations across Central and Sheung Wan at thirty-minute intervals, allowing audiences to plan their own personalized literature route.

READ MORE…

Deep Time Elegy: A Review of What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium by Kim Simonsen

[T]his is a book for readers who prefer elegy that is alert rather than ornamental.

What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium by Kim Simonsen, translated from the Faroese by Randi Ward, Deep Vellum, 2025

In seeking an entry into Faroese poetry, one should begin with Kim Simonsen, an award-winning writer and academic from the island of Eysturoy. Having been active for over two decades in conventional academia as well as in artistic circles, he is also the founder and managing editor of a Faroese press called Forlagið Eksil, and is the author of seven books as well as numerous academic papers. Hvat hjálpir einum menniskja at vakna ein morgun hesumegin hetta áratúsundið (What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium) won the M.A. Jacobsen Literature Award in 2014, and now, its translation by Randi Ward into English will be published by Deep Vellum in 2025. Written in free verse, the collection aspires to juxtapose the vast sweep of geology with the relative miniature of humanity, invoking the life cycles of organisms and landscapes whose timescales dwarf our own lives. Yet, the lyric centre of these poems is grief; the speaker has lost their loved one, and here measures their absence against the timelessness of eons. Divided into four parts, the book is also interspersed with illustrations from natural history texts such as Maria Sibylla Merian’s Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium (1705), Leopoldo Caldani and Floriano Caldani’s Icones Anatomicae (1801-1813), and Frederik Ruysch’s Thesaurus anatomicus primus (1701), among others.

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Life Cycles of the Text: On Eliot Weinberger’s The Life of Tu Fu & Eric Weiskott’s Cycle of Dreams

Was I reading Tu Fu, Du Fu, or 杜甫 ? Or was I reading Weinberger? Have I really read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky? Or only Pevear and Volokhonksy?

Reviews of translations tend to find themselves in familiar ruts; concern over perceived faithfulness, deftness or lack thereof, that is, if they recognize that it is a translation at all. Below, Mathew Weitman casts a scathing eye to recent criticism of Eliot Weinberger’s The Life of Tu Fu, praised by Forrest Gander as a “distinctive and refreshing” text, and broadens his discussion to include Eric Weiskott’s translation of and expansion upon the Middle English poem Piers Plowman in Cycle of Dreams. Weitman’s essay, through the works of Weinberger and Weiskott, disregards the justification of unconventional translations to explore instead what these works represent for translation, authorship, and humanity’s shared experiences across time and space.

For over forty years, Eliot Weinberger has piqued our foremost and laziest critics. His expertise remains inconveniently wedged between autodidactic and erudite, and his unique blend of formal innovation and wry humor never undercuts the seriousness of his disparate subjects of study. His translations of Octavio Paz, Bei Dao, and Jorge Luis Borges—to name a few—are forever colored by his well-known inquiry into the art of translation, 19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei (a critical work that is itself colored by Weinberger’s self-reflexivity and ironic dogmatism). This is all to say that though Weinberger’s systematic destruction of readerly expectations—via genre, via tone, via form—should come to be expected, for the past few months I’ve enjoyed the bemused, uncurious, and outright lacking critical discourse around his newest book, The Life of Tu Fu.

In the small pool of Weinberger’s reviewers, two factions have formed in the shallow end. First, there are those who attempt to summarize the work. These blurbists are quick to tell you things you already know—things like (to paraphrase), “Though its title suggests this would be a biography of the Tang Dynasty poet Tu Fu, it is actually a book of poems.” And/or: “Weinberger’s newest collection of poems is not comprised of original poems—at least not in the romantic sense of ‘original.’ Instead, they are translations of various Tu Fu poems collaged together… Like a cento [or something].” These protracted synopses avoid critical engagement with the text almost as assiduously as the text avoids genre. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Paola Assad Barbarino

We all search for the dry shadow at the time of the storm

“I make love to myself with eye crusts and sheet marks in my cheeks.” In this week’s Translation Tuesday, the Venezuelan poet Paola Assad Barbarino turns her eye towards the overlooked liminal moments of human life: waking up at the wrong hour in an unfamiliar bed, wandering the streets in the days between jobs, wishing for someone who left a long time ago. Through two dramatically different metaphors—the experience of jet lag in the first, and the life of a street cat in the second—these poems, expertly translated by Magdalena Arias Vásquez, draw our attention to the rich detail of the moments in our own lives we would rather ignore or hurry to get over with—to our shared experience of frailty and transience in a world that was not made for us. Read on!

 Jet Lag

I live intensely in unearthly hours:
I wake up when it grows dark,
I eat breakfast at hour zero,
I try on dresses while fasting,
I decide the calmness in peak hour,
I curse in childlike schedule,
I make love to myself with eye crusts and sheet marks in my cheeks,
I crave kisses with an expired date,
I miss you when it is already too late,

in short,
it is jet lag.

READ MORE…

The Perennial Moon: An Interview with Li Zi Shu and YZ Chin on Mahua Fiction

Mahua writers. . . have eschewed the “pure” language passed down through the eons in favor of depicting reality on the ground. . .

Mahua literature, or Malaysian Chinese literature, emerged in the early twentieth century, drawing inspiration from the Wusi (May Fourth) Movement and reflecting on localised identities, questions of belonging, and negotiations of culture within plurilingual, multicultural Malaysia. Often subjected to nationalist policies that prioritise creative works in Malay, Mahua literature occupies a liminal space, overlooked by Malaysia, mainland China, and the larger Chinese-speaking world, yet resonant in its transnational and Sinophone dimensions, according to scholar Cheow Thia Chan in Malaysian Crossings (2023). Many Mahua authors write in conversational Chinese (Bai hua) embedded with atmospheric Malaysian locality. Called a “transperipheral” formation outside borders by Chan, it navigates a global marginality with a style that’s almost an anomaly—and rightfully so.

Among these Mahua voices, Li Zi Shu stands out as a representative figure, along with King Ban Hui, Li Tianbao, Zeng Linglong, Ho Sok Fong, and Ng Kim Chew. Born in Ipoh, Perak in Malaysia, Li Zi Shu worked as a schoolteacher, dishwasher, shoe store salesperson, and then a journalist before dedicating herself fully to writing short novels. Eventually, she began writing longer works, including her celebrated first full-length novel The Age of Goodbyes, published in its Chinese original in Taiwan in 2010 and in mainland China two years later. Chosen as one of the best novels by Asia Weekly in 2010 and China Times in 2011, the novel was translated into English by Louise Meriwether Prize-winning Malaysian fictionist YZ Chin for Feminist Press.

In this interview, I spoke with Li (in West Malaysia) and Chin (in New York) in a conversation that spans Li’s novels, especially The Age of Goodbyes, the diaspora of Mahua writers and Malaysian Chinese communities, and what it means to not belong.

Alton Melvar M Dapanas (AMMD): Zi Shu, your novel The Age of Goodbyes was described by Michael Berry in The Columbia Companion to Modern Chinese Literature (2016) as “not only a new take on Malaysian Chinatown life during the 1960s but also a fresh use of the Chinese language, tinged with a neoclassical style, and a complex metafictional narrative.” Could you share how this novel come together over time?

Li Zi Shu (LZS): The Age of Goodbyes was written before I turned forty. At that time, I felt a sense of urgency—I had been writing for over a decade, mostly short stories and flash fiction. I was eager to try my hand at a longer form, or rather, I truly wanted to craft something more “grand,” something that could be regarded as a “great” work. Looking back now, I realize that was a somewhat naive perspective, and perhaps a misunderstanding of what literature is. Over the years, I have developed a much greater appreciation for the subtle and the minute. Nonetheless, before I turned forty, I held high expectations for this long novel. I wanted to pour all my knowledge and ideas accumulated over the years into this one work. The use of a metafictional narrative was a deliberate “device,” partly because it allowed the novel to have more space—much like adding an attic or a cellar to a house, enabling multiple layers of storytelling to coexist. At that time, I was eager to demonstrate everything I could do with a novel within a single piece. The structural choice of metafiction was driven by that desire.

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest from the Philippines, Italy, and Mexico!

This week, our editors report on a workshop centred around disaster writing in Mexico City; a literary festival with themes of urbanism, gentrification, personal history, and war narratives in Milan; and the passing of two groundbreaking translators in the Philippines. 

René Esaú Sánchez, Editor-at-Large, reporting for Mexico

I used to live with my mother in a small apartment in the eastern part of Mexico City. One day, my bed suddenly shook. I attributed it to a passing truck—but the movement started to feel suspiciously long and, when I realized what was happening, I grabbed Cookie, my dog, and ran out of the building. That day was September 19, 2017, when a 7.1 magnitude earthquake shook central Mexico, taking the lives of more than three hundred and sixty people, affecting over thirty thousand; it caused the collapse of thirty-eight buildings in the city, and damaged more than twelve thousand. Strangely enough, the earthquake struck on the same date as another historical quake in Mexico City thirty-two years prior, and, worse still, just a few hours after the ceremony commemorating the thousands who had died back then.

Writing from disaster is strange: it is an exercise in personal memory, in archiving, a hybrid between literature and journalism. What matters are the hours, the clothes you were wearing, what people told you, what you held in your hands. And precisely because this year marks forty years since the 1985 earthquake and eight since that of 2017, the Institute of Geophysics and Literatura UNAM—both institutions of the National Autonomous University of Mexico—have organized the workshop Zona de riesgo (“Risk Zone”), which seeks to recover, through creative writing and sound production, the collective memory of two of the most significant events in the country’s recent history. READ MORE…