Monthly Archives: March 2021

The Indeterminacy of the Human: An Interview with Rainer Hanshe of Contra Mundum Press

March 31, 2021  |  in Interviews  |  by Rachel Allen

. . . we say to read for difference, for dissonance; read not to identify, or to sympathize, but from a principle of fascination.

Contra Mundum is a New York-based independent publishing house expressly committed to Modernist work and principles. Its catalog includes the dramatic writings and theatre criticism of Robert Musil; Celan’s posthumous prose as translated by Pierre Joris; two “pre-heteronymic” works from Pessoa; the generously-illustrated Letters of Otto Dix; and a late film script from Marguerite Duras. Preference is given texts with limited circulation, the under-translated and outré in particular. 

In 2012, for instance, Contra Mundum published Marginalia on Casanova, Tim Wilkinson’s rendering of Volume 1 in Miklós Szentkuthy’s cathedral-commentary-catalogus rerum, St. Orpheus Breviary. Contra Mundum is now five books into its tremendous project, bringing into English an immense cosmophagic-and-collapsing body of prose from a modernist still known as the “sacred monster” of Hungarian letters. In addition to works from the Breviary, Contra Mundum has so far contributed translations of Prae and Toward the One & Only Metaphor (also translated by Wilkinson, who died in October of 2020) and Chapter on Love (translated by Erika Mihálycsa, who will continue as translator for subsequent Szentkuthy works). That CMP should be the publisher to finally give Anglophone readers an adequate Szentkuthy is fitting: press and author share an understanding of zeitgeists alive—in art, in language—across history, unthreatened by chronology or multilingualism. Contra Mundum too experiences its periodic connection to modernism(s) without—or with different—temporal allegiances. In addition to Musil and Pessoa, CMP has published not only Baudelaire and Wordsworth and the Ghérasim Luca of Mary Ann Caws, but also Iceberg Slim, a new Gilgamesh (Stuart Kendall’s), Ahmad Shamlou, Maura Del Serra, and the collected prose of Robert Kelly. Many texts converge around performance, whether onstage, on screens, or in person(ae): CMP has published Elio Petri, Richard Foreman, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Jean-Luc Godard, Rédoine Faïd, and Carmelo Bene. Adjacent to this swirl of codexical text and idea is Hyperion, CMP’s in-house and aptly subtitled journal: On the Future of Aesthetics.

Rainer J. Hanshe is the founder, editor, and publisher of Contra Mundum Press, as well as the author of two CMP titles, Shattering the Muses and The Abdication, and the translator of its three works by Baudelaire. We spoke recently about the nature of (his) modernism and its role in contemporary literature. Deviation, ambition, and heteroglossia were our major subthemes.

Rachel Allen (RA): How does Contra Mundum understand “modernism”? How do you recognize modernist work when you encounter it? (Is modernism limited, temporally? Geographically? Relationally? Formally? To whom is it available to be modernist?)

Rainer Hanshe (RJH): Although Modernism does occur within a specific epochal moment, I don’t see it as bound to that cluster of time, nor do I see it in absolute or purist terms. There is no kind of totemic Modernism with a unified set of precepts that every modernist abides by. Any kind of doctrinaire, sectarian, or dogmatic form of something cannot be abided. We are advancing modernism more as a kind of mobile act or event, like a type of living roving machine (not in a mechanistic sense but as a generative force) or combustion furnace and monster of energy. It is a question of extracting from any period, any event, any moment, its active, productive elements, like taking an arrow shot by Nature, picking it up where it has fallen, and shooting it in new directions, as Deleuze said of Nietzsche.

In that way, art is no different from science in terms of advancements—once a certain insight or knowledge has been developed, there is no reason to abandon it, let alone restrict it to its original moment. Modernism (let’s avoid the term neo-Modernism) is to us protean and metamorphic, an open, indeterminate constellation. Beyond seeing it solely as a specific movement in time then, consider its principal elements as if they were discoveries: a conscious break with tradition (abandoning outmoded elements of classicism); a rejection of historicism and the grand narratives of Western metaphysics, not to speak of its morals and values; the displacement of reason as a ruling force (the curse of the Enlightenment) and fostering in its stead a chiasmic fusion of the rational and the irrational; an abandonment of bankrupt forms of art, such as naturalism and realism (and so representation), which different scientific developments essentially undermined, and Enlightenment-type encyclopaedic projects of totality; related to consciousness and new conceptions of the self and the indeterminacy of the human: interior monologues; stream of consciousness; perspectivalist viewpoints; fracturedness, fragmentation, heteroglossic language, en plus.

It is a literature of incommensurabilities, of a dynamism in signification, of a rejection of absolute truths, of an embracing of dissonance. A literature that is aware of language’s limits, of its fissures, of its cul-de-sacs and cracks, and it vigorously pursues such. Flaubert’s book about nothing; Mallarme’s Le Livre; Beckett’s search for a literature of the unword; et cetera. Modernism understands language as Bakhtin spoke of it: a dynamic entity consisting of an interplay between centripetal and centrifugal discursive forces. The combustive furnace. Heteroglossia. An amalgam of linguistic registers. The Tower of Babel is not a curse. READ MORE…

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

March 30, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Katharine Halls

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

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

—Katharine Halls, translator

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

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

Pleasantly Odd Prose: An Interview with Translator from the Albanian, John Hodgson

March 29, 2021  |  in Interviews  |  by Sophia Stewart

When Albania was isolated under communism, Kadare tried to help his readers travel in their imagination.

Throughout Ismail Kadare’s autobiographical novel The Doll, recently published in English by Counterpoint Press, the narrator voices a dilemma that most writers know well: the insufficiency of language. “It was hard to explain because there were no words for it,” he says at one point. “Either I didn’t know them, or they weren’t yet invented.” And later: “No language could describe what I felt in my heart. I needed a different one. The one I had would not obey me.”

So much of the literary translator’s work lies in courting the obedience of language. Translation makes intelligible the previously unintelligible, imagines new words to convey preexistent meaning. John Hodgson knows this well: The Doll is the sixth book of Kadare’s that Hodgson has translated. Considering his outsized role in bringing Kadare’s work to English-language readers, he cuts a modest, unassuming figure. One of the few Albanian-English literary translators working today, Hodgson has translated Kadare’s novels The Three-Arched Bridge, The Traitor’s Niche, and A Girl in Exile, among others. In comparison to the Albanian writer’s previous novels, Hodgson describes The Doll as “a gentle, reflexive, and humorous book” and found “the experience of translating it was correspondingly relaxed.”

Hodgson and I recently discussed his work as an Albanian-English interpreter and literary translator, as well as the inimitable pleasures of “a Kadare sentence.”

—Sophia Stewart, Assistant Interviews Editor

Sophia Stewart (SS): You were born in England and studied English at Cambridge and Newcastle. What initially drew you to the Albanian language, and what led you to pursue Albanian translation professionally?

John Hodgson (JH): In the 1980s, I taught English in several now vanished Eastern European countries: the German Democratic Republic, the Soviet Union, and Yugoslavia. The British Council sent me to the University of Prishtina in Kosovo. I knew nothing about Kosovo when I arrived, but I was enthralled by the life there. Now, during lockdown, I’ve written a short book in Albanian about this time, which I recall with great affection. Soon afterwards I was head-hunted by the United States Government to translate Marxist-Leninist propaganda.

SS: Seeing as you were born in England, and therefore speak British English, do you actively avoid Briticisms in your translations? While there is no such thing as “standard English,” do you attempt to make your English translations as universally intelligible—that is, “unmarked” by dialectical indicators—as possible?

JH: When I worked for the United States government, my computer would bleep whenever I used a Briticism, and this taught me, for instance, not to write the word “whilst.” English is very rich and capacious, so it is possible to write in an “unmarked” style without lapsing into bland UN-speak. Albanian also has a lot of variation, particularly between the north and south, and Kadare writes in a non-regional literary Albanian that is quite a recent flowering, and which he himself has done a lot to shape and infuse with expressive power. Recently he has been consciously reviving old words and creating neologisms. A Kadare sentence in Albanian is quite unlike any other writer’s. I was pleased when a reviewer described the prose of one of my translations as “pleasantly odd.” I thought I had perhaps captured something of this. Dialectical indicators in the original language pose more intractable problems than a translator’s own idiom. So does slang. Kadare hardly ever uses slang, and presents none of the difficulties of, for example, the soldiers’ Bosnian in Faruk Šehić’s Under Pressure.

SS: The author-translator relationship can vary so much depending on the particular project or pairing. Having translated so much of Kadare’s work over the course of more than two decades, what does your working relationship with Kadare look like?

JH: Kadare has had dozens of translators and he can’t spend all his time dealing with us. I have been grateful for the confidence he has shown in me. Generally, after I have completed the first draft of each book in English, the editor and I put together questions for Kadare, which he has always answered conscientiously. He doesn’t use the internet, and I like to respect his privacy. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

March 26, 2021  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Jacqueline Leung, MK Harb, and Vivian Szu-Chin Chih

The latest news from Hong Kong, Lebanon, and Taiwan!

This week, our writers bring you news from Hong Kong, Lebanon, and Taiwan. In Hong Kong, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine is publishing a special section on Myanmar writing; in Lebanon, poet Zeina Hashem Beck’s second poetry collection will be published by Penguin; and in Taiwan, the 2021 Taipei Literary Festival has kicked off. Read on to find out more! 

Jacqueline Leung, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Hong Kong

In a show of solidarity to the resistance efforts in Myanmar, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine is publishing an English-language section on Myanmar, to be edited by poet, writer, and academic Tammy Lai-Ming Ho. The magazine will accept submissions until March 30 and has already announced that it will include some works in translation. So far, Thiri Zune’s translation of Nay Thit’s “With the Teeth of a Mad Flower” and Ko Ko Thett’s translation of Aung Khin Myint’s poem “Spring” will be in the upcoming issue. Both are timely responses to the military coup which has killed well over 200 people, including poets Myint Myint Zin and K Za Win, and has caused countrywide Internet blackout and crackdowns on the media. While international condemnation of Myanmar’s military leaders is escalating, many in Hong Kong identify with the resistance from the onset, especially with the fresh memory of the city’s own protests.

In addition to its efforts for Myanmar, Voice & Verse held an event discussing the American poet Louise Glück, winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, on World Poetry Day (March 21, 2021). Hosted by writer, poet, and critic Ian Pang in Cantonese, the event discussed Glück’s oeuvre, from her first poetry collection Firstborn (1968) to more recent works.

Works in translation also feature prominently in the forty-fifth Hong Kong International Film Festival, set to take place between April 1 and 12. With over 190 titles from fifty-eight countries and regions, the festival is proceeding in a hybrid format with in-theatre and online screenings as well as director discussions. This year’s showcase includes Wife of a Spy directed by Kurosawa Kiyoshi and Andrei Konchalovsky’s Dear Comrades!, which recently won Best Director and the Special Jury Prize respectively at the 2020 Venice International Film Festival; Golden Globes Best Foreign Language Film winner, Minari, by Korean-American director Lee Isaac Chung; and Japanese masterpieces in the event of Shokichu Cinema’s 100th anniversary. These already rich offerings are accompanied by a selection of newly restored classics from world and Chinese-language cinemas, recalling Parasite director Bong Joon-ho’s Golden Globe statement, that once one overcomes the one-inch barrier of subtitles, one gains access to many more amazing films and works of art.

MK Harb, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Lebanon

2022. Since the start of the pandemic and the global vaccine roll out, a number of hopes, projects, and “return to normal” discourse have been thrown onto that year. However, here at Asymptote, we are excited to hear that acclaimed Lebanese Poet Zeina Hashem Beck will debut a poetry collection with Penguin Books in the summer of 2022! Titled O, the collection will be a meditative reflection on the letter O and its numerous meanings. Hashem Beck previously won the 2016 May Sarton New Hampshire Poetry Prize for her book Louder than Hearts.

March is usually a generous month to us and we will share this generosity through some exciting Arab literature reading lists! The Arab lit Quarterly Spring issue is out with exciting writings and translations on the theme of “Song.” Guest edited by investigative journalist Karim Zidan, this issue has a far-reaching range from tenth-century poetry by the polymath Kushajim (in translation by Salma Harland) to a journey through Palestinian resistance folk music with Shaimaa Abulebda. Another reading list we are excited about is the Sheikh Zayed Book Award shortlist! Dominated by women authors from the Arab world, the list includes authors from Egyptian Iman Mersal to Lebanese Alawiya Sobh. Happy reading!

In translation highlights, acclaimed Lebanese author Hoda Barakat’s novel, which won the 2019 International Prize for Arabic Fiction, is out now with an English translation and a controversial title! Translated by another acclaimed translator, Marilyn Booth, the title of “Voices of the Lost” is seen by some as reductive to the devastating stories of migrants in the novel. Another work we are enamored with is the collection of short stories A Bed for the King’s Daughter written by Syrian author, Shahla Ujayli, whose past work was long listed for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction. The collection, translated by Sawad Hussain, with an important forward on biases in the literary market, uses surrealism and humor to address many of modernity’s malaises from alienation to the patriarchal gaze. READ MORE…

Breaking the Cycle of Indifference: Véronique Tadjo on Writing and Translating In the Company of Men

March 25, 2021  |  in Book Club, Interviews  |  by Lindsay Semel

My intention was to have that space, which is at the same time recognizable and foreign.

In February, we introduced to Asymptote Book Club subscribers the multifarious, multivocal work of Véronique Tadjo. Her 2017 novel, In the Company of Men, fascinatingly combines document, and oration in a portrait of the West African Ebola epidemic, interrogating in turns how we as humans grapple with illness, as well as how the natural world—with its unseen forces—regards us. A pivotal read during this seemingly unending time of addressing our own pandemic, Tadjo’s unique linguistic style and sensitive artistry has introduced In the Company of Men as a text of both current relevance and long-lasting artistry. In this following interview, Assistant Managing Editor Lindsay Semel speaks with Tadjo on self-translation, personifying the non-human, and the inheritance of literary traditions.

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 USD15 per book; once you’re a member, you can join the online discussion on our Facebook page!  

Lindsay Semel (LS): I’m fascinated by the subject of self-translation. You’ve translated some of your own children’s fiction, but this is your first foray into translating your adult fiction. Even though you’ve lived in so many different places, and you function daily in so many different languages, translating your own work is a separate beast. I’d love to hear about, first and foremost, what the process was like for you.

Véronique Tadjo (VT): Yes, I function in two languages, French and English; I’ve been studying English and living in Anglophone countries quite extensively—the longest was in South Africa for fourteen years. So I’m used to speaking both languages.

This process with In the Company of Men was fairly long, and it was a collaboration. It started with a draft with a friend; we worked quite a lot on the text, but the result was still very close to the French original. Maybe because I’ve done a lot of translation, I could see that myself—that there was something stalling the text. The last stage of the collaboration was with John Cullen from Other Press, a translator with a very good reputation. He looked at the text and finally lifted it up, in the sense that he was able to give it a more oral quality than the first version, which was a little bit wooden. I just didn’t feel that it was flowing the way it should flow, especially because English is a much more direct language [than French]. French tends to go round and round—it takes a bit more time to get there. Whereas English has some sort of efficiency. I think that the original French book was more lyrical, whereas the English translation is more to the point.

LS: Do you happen to have, off the top of your head, an example of a passage that wasn’t quite hitting its mark? Do you remember what changed through those conversations about it?

VT: Very simple things. Like, for example, “He’s a tall man.” You can’t do that in French. You can’t contract. It’s just a small example, but when you look on the page, how the language is written down, it makes a big difference.

LS: There are very clear parallels between the events that you chronicle in this text and what a lot of the globe is experiencing now collectively, and so I wonder if current events contributed to your decision to translate yourself rather than bringing in a translator. What was it like for you to put yourself back into this story?

VT: Yes, I think that because of the pandemic, I had a sense of urgency. I had it in 2017 when I was talking about the Ebola epidemic, but with the translation, it came back. This time, what we had feared was becoming reality, so there was a renewed sense of energy, which compelled me to want to be very involved in the translation—to really put myself fully in it.

There were certain words that came naturally which I sometimes had to resist. For example, there’s a chapter in which a nurse plays an important role. You would be tempted to call her an “essential worker.” But you have to be careful, because “essential worker” is an expression that has taken strength from the COVID-19 pandemic, but I’m not sure we were using it that much before. You see, today you read it differently. I didn’t want to introduce this “foreign language,” which would signal a shift from Ebola to COVID-19. It would not be right. So, although there was temptation to use some of the terms that are being used today, I didn’t want that contamination, in a sense. I had to stay true to the period, the time, and the context. READ MORE…

Asymptote Podcast: In Conversation with Padma Viswanathan

March 25, 2021  |  in Podcast  |  by Steve Lehman

Find out how Padma Viswanathan stumbled into translation and why she loves Brazilian literature

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: iTunes | Android | RSS

Today on the show, the award-winning author and translator Padma Viswanathan joins podcast editor Steve Lehman to talk about her love for Brazilian literature, the connection between writing and translating, and how translation helps her form an even closer relationship to Portuguese. Afterwards, stick around to hear an excerpt from the short story “The Woman Who Didn’t Know How to Die,” written by Adelice Souza and translated by Padma Viswanathan, in both Portuguese and English. You can read the full story, and many other great works in translation, at asymptotejournal.com.

Chile’s Millennial Revolution: Bruno Lloret’s Nancy Faces Forward

March 24, 2021  |  in Reviews  |  by Allison Braden

The novel heralds a vanguard in Chilean letters and, despite its local roots, belongs to a burgeoning international literature of shared crises.

Nancy by Bruno Lloret, translated from Spanish by Ellen Jones, Two Lines Press, 2021

Death haunts the pages of Nancy, Chilean author Bruno Lloret’s 2015 debut. When we meet her, the eponymous heroine is dying of cancer, a painful end to a painful life. The novel—structured as a series of recollections with verses from the Old Testament prefacing most chapters—is written sparely, subdued in tone if not in depth of feeling. Scattered across each page are bold X’s, a mark of punctuation that carries more weight than the period. They don’t impair comprehension of the narrative but rather cast a subtle shadow, calling to mind a graveyard of nameless crosses, or marks on a map—death as the ultimate destination. The first and final pages of the novel feature these marks in a half-hourglass and hourglass pattern, and the shape of each individual X, as they stalk the story and linger between thoughts, echoes the notion of convergence and divergence, time left and time lost. (For a sense of how the marks function in the text, read an excerpt of Nancy in Words Without Borders.)

For Nancy, the point of convergence—the moment of irretrievable loss from which everything then diverges—is when her brother goes missing. Nancy’s childhood in northern Chile, in a coastal town between the desert and the sea, has not been happy. Her mother resents her existence, and Nancy’s girlhood becomes carefully choreographed to avoid inevitable blame and brutal abuse. Her older brother, Pato, is an ally, a friend, a “superhero.” When Nancy turns fourteen, he leaves home to find work at the port in a nearby city. Two years later, he disappears outside a nightclub.

Nancy’s troubles neither begin nor end with Pato’s disappearance, but the family’s grief and misery seem to radiate from this point. The loss doesn’t have the finality of death, and Nancy and her parents find various ways to cope with the pain of knowing he’s gone, but not knowing where. Her mom flees to the port city, ostensibly to look for Pato, and finds instead a way out of her old life and into an abusive relationship. Back in Ch, Nancy and her dad quietly care for each other, Nancy assuming the role of homemaker while her dad works. When he eventually loses his job, he finds solace in Mormonism as the life he built collapses around him—and Nancy.

Nancy heralds a future-facing vanguard in Chilean letters (the novel is set a few years in the future, and Lloret doesn’t overtly grapple with the legacy of Chile’s dictatorship) and, despite its deep local roots, belongs to a burgeoning international literature of shared crises. Born in 1990, Lloret belongs to a generation that must confront rampant environmental destruction and the climate crisis, and contemporary fiction has increasingly taken on apocalyptic motifs. (See, for example, Ling Ma’s 2018 novel Severance, which takes place during a society-shattering pandemic.) Nancy is not an apocalypse novel, but the environment characterizes the narrative to a striking extent in this story of one northern Chilean woman’s life. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “a wicked king” by Lucia Marchetti

March 23, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Julia Pelosi-Thorpe and Ligia Pelosi

With Italy in lockdown again as it battles a third wave of COVID-19, Lucia Marchetti urges hope in the following response to the pandemic.

For two and a half months last year, we curated the series: In This Together: Writers From Around the World Respond to the COVID-19 Outbreak, featuring writers from Argentina to Portugal to Hong Kong. One year on, with Italy in lockdown again as it battles a third wave of COVID-19, we present another piece responding to the pandemic, tinged with hope, by Italian poet Lucia Marchetti in the endangered language of al djalètt pramzàn, spoken in the province of Parma in Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region. This poem was published as a voice recording by local newspaper La Gazzetta di Parma at the pandemic’s outbreak last year. Co-translator Julia Pelosi-Thorpe writes: “In it, Marchetti describes COVID as the crown (wordplay with ‘corona,’ ‘crown’ in Italian) on the head of a wicked king. This poem is co-translated by me and my mother, Ligia Pelosi. She grew up near Parma, and migrated with my nonni to Naarm (now known as Melbourne), where I was born, as a young teenager. After I produced a first full draft, my mother and I listened together, capturing any missed or misheard words. I then revised the piece into a final draft.” 

 

a wicked king

reviews a not-too-distant world

a bad king 👑corona👑 on his head

sowed death

among humans

swelling like a moonlit tide and all

the population were divided friends

and kin watching one another from a distance

here a situation very grey yet king

with his 👑corona👑 still advancing

advancing bringing grief and ruin

and bit by bit the people were dismayed

then when they really understood

their lesson all was suddenly recalled

so many seaside trips recalled lovely trips

up and down the mountains and their unrest

to find a place to live a cornucopia

they realised happiness had

been close in so many moments

wishing to go back

from the bottom of their hearts feeling the burst again

wishing to tell all they love them

to embrace the first person found along the street as if a cousin

to celebrate a life renewed

 

Translated from al djalètt pramzàn by Ligia Pelosi and Julia Anastasia Pelosi-Thorpe

READ MORE…

Raising the Profile of Slovak Translation: An Interview with the Founders of DoSlov

March 22, 2021  |  in Interviews  |  by Julia Sherwood

In our region, thinking about translation is a constant tension between “fidelity” and “translation shifts”; it is an old-school legacy.

The book market in Slovakia, a small country with population of five million, is dominated by translations, yet the visibility of translators remains low. DoSlov, a recently established translators’ and editors’ organisation has set out to change this by providing support to the profession in the country and improving the working conditions in the industry. Asymptote’s editor-at-large for Slovakia, Julia Sherwood, spoke with two of its founders, Barbara Sigmundová and Gabriela Magová, about the challenges they face and what they have achieved so far (despite the pandemic).

Julia Sherwood (JS): When did you start DoSlov and what made you start your organisation?

Barbara Sigmundová (BS): DoSlov was founded in 2019 by seven female freelance translators. Like many other literary translators and editors in Slovakia, we were dissatisfied with the steadily worsening working conditions and increasingly unfair publishing contracts. For years, there had been no collective attempt to speak out about these problems, to quantify them, and to try to effect change. There was a huge data gap which impeded any chance of improvement. So we decided to take the initiative. We conducted a survey of Slovak literary translators (the first in more than a decade) and found that the situation was even worse than we feared. That was when we knew we had to formalise our “working group” and start DoSlov.

JS: Can you explain the pun behind your organisation’s name? The Slovak word “doslov” means “afterword” but the use of upper and lower case suggests that there is more to it.

BS: “Do” means “into” and “Slov” means “words” so it echoes the idea that translators and editors shape ideas into words, but also the fact that our common working tool is the SLOVak language.

JS: How does DoSlov membership work?

BS: We have full members as well as student members. Without a membership base, our organisation couldn’t aspire to become a relevant partner to have a dialogue with state institutions, grant organisations, or even publishing houses. This has proved crucial during the COVID-19 crisis, as the Ministry of Culture has communicated mainly with representatives of associations, while those freelancers who haven’t managed to get formally organised have been overlooked. The membership fees are symbolic, but help us cover our basic expenses, as well as to co-finance grant projects. In return, our members can create a professional profile on our website, helping them become more visible to publishers.

JS: What are your main goals?

BS: One of the main goals of our NGO is to increase the visibility of literary translators and editors and bring these professionals together to raise awareness of their rights as authors, improve their working conditions, and contribute to their lifelong learning experience. Currently, after little more than a year of existence, we have around fifty members who translate from fifteen languages.

JS: What other institutional support is there in Slovakia for translators?

Gabriela Magová (GM): Since 2015, literary translators have been able to apply once a year for a scholarship from the Slovak Arts Council, for a period of two to twenty-four months. The scholarship, based on the average salary in Slovakia and not subject to tax, is sufficient to ensure an adequate income for translators. Unfortunately, some publishers confuse this support with the translator’s fee even though the rules clearly state that it is not meant to replace the fee. Even so, we are lucky to have this option, which does not exist in the neighbouring countries.

Translators can also apply for a scholarship from the Literary Fund (Literárny fond, litfond.sk) set at up to 350 euros a month, for a maximum of six months. translators have benefited from residencies abroad, but possibilities for literary translation residencies in Slovakia are mostly limited to foreign translators of Slovak literature. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

March 19, 2021  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by David Boyd, Eva Wissting, and MARGENTO

The latest news from Belgium, Sweden, and Japan!

This week, our writers bring you the latest news from Belgium, Sweden, and Japan. In Belgium, the 2020 SACD and Scam prizes were awarded; in Sweden, Littfest is kicking off with a special emphasis on Sámi voices; and in Japan, two new thrillers and science fiction short stories are being translated into English. Read on to find out more! 

MARGENTO, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Belgium

In the mix of despair and sarcastic humor surrounding the Covid vaccine tragicomedy—pocked by the persiflage at the abundance of excessively well-paid officials of a small nation with . . . six governments and nine health ministers—Belgian literary and artistic life seems to have found its own path. Breaking news: the 2020 SACD and Scam prizes were awarded yesterday within a pandemic-adapted in-person ceremony whose online video version is already attracting numerous social media viewers. The literary prize goes this year to young poet Charline Lambert, author of 4 collections of poetry and 2017 winner of the Wallonia-Brussels Federation prize for her debut book Chanvre et lierre. The 2021 special format involved rewarding writers and artists for their long-standing contributions rather than a specific work, and previous editions have highlighted established poet, novelist, philosopher, and literary critic Véronique Bergen and prolific writer and translator Emmanuèle Sandron.

The in-person-and-online combination seems to have gained ground on a larger scale across the nation as the Royal Library of Belgium (KBR) is inviting visitors to enjoy a 600-year-old previously hidden treasure-trove (the library of the Dukes of Burgundy) while substantially boosting its collection digitizing and digital culture related initiatives. Among the latter, most notably, the cutting-edge Digital Research Lab facilitates text and data mining research on KBR’s diverse, multilingual digitised and born-digital collections, and co-organizes together with Camille and two universities—Université libre de Bruxelles and Ghent University—a widely mediatized Digital Heritage Seminar series. The library’s collaboration with Belgian universities goes in the field of literary translation as well, as a newly launched research initiative run jointly with KU Leuven and UCLouvain (BELTRANS) undertakes to tell the untold history of “literary translation flows” in Belgium between French and Dutch in the period 1970-2020. However gigantically active, KBR is still not the only cultural hub digitally adjusting to the ‘new normal’. PILEn (the book and digital publishing inter-professional partnership) has recently launched an online tool for browsing Belgian Francophone presses by subject and genre, and continues its long-standing hybrid writing series featuring cross-artform projects and multi-support poetry. READ MORE…

Against Invisibility: Poet Roy G. Guzmán on Queer Identity, Memory, and Honduras

March 18, 2021  |  in Interviews  |  by José García Escobar

The literary market, films, music, everything tells you, in some way, that no one’s interested in your voice, in your stories, and in your culture.

Roy G. Guzmán (they/them) was born in Honduras, grew up in Miami, lives in Minnesota, and last year, Graywolf Press put out Catrachos, their first book of poems. In February, the book was a finalist for the Minnesota Book Awards in the poetry category, alongside Ray González, Danez Smith, and Torrin A. Greathouse. Roy debuted with authority, potency, rebelliousness, and nonconformity, but also with pain and sensitivity, with empathy and nostalgia and tenderness, with admiration. Catrachos is filled with references to their childhood in Miami and how it was for them, a poor Central American person, to grow up in a hostile environment. In a country that considered them, in their own words, “an afterthought” and “a second-class citizen.” Catrachos, in a way, serves as a testimony for the experience of the Central American diaspora in the United States. But it’s more. Mucho más.

In Roy’s poems we find, yes, family traditions, but also violence, resistance, what it was like for them to grow up as a queer kid. Catrachos is a beautiful and soothing portrait, not devoid of harsh and urgent criticism toward imperialism and racial violence. Roy, in their debut, speaks with curiosity and tenderness, while acknowledging the devastation caused by colonialism. Trailblazing, the gringos might say.

Last year, Roy and I spoke about all this. About Catrachos, their memories of Honduras, their family, their identity, about considering themselves “the other.” We spoke about Rubén Darío, X-Men, and the Pulse massacre—the basis of a poem they wrote called “Restored Mural for Orlando.” We spoke about being a poet, about being queer, Latinx, mestizx, mulatx, indigenous in the United States and in Honduras.

–José García Escobar

José García Escobar (JGE): First, I wanted to ask you about leaving Honduras and growing up in the U.S. I’m curious about the Central American communities in the U.S. You reference your childhood much in Catrachos, but I feel like it’s often indoors. Were there many Hondurans where you lived?

Roy G. Guzmán (RGG): Miami often gets talked about as this cosmopolitan city, as sort of Mecca of Latin America, right? The Miami that I grew up in was very different than sort of what you see in Texas, what you see in California, where there’s much more solidarity not only among Central Americans but also between Mexicans and Chicanxs people. That’s something that I did not grew up with in Miami. Miami, at least in the nineties, it was much more Caribbean. I grew up with a lot of Dominicans and Cubans. And I think that when it came to the Central American diaspora, many more Nicaraguans. We saw many more Nicaraguans because they were considered political refugees. This is important. There were many Cubans, and they were seen as political refugees. There were Nicaraguans, and they were also seen as political refugees. Then there was us. We were basically seen as immigrants that had made this transition because of economic instability, and so I felt like a second-class citizen. I was less desirable than the political refuge. The other thing was that many Hondurans I grew up with were undocumented. Add that to the equation. This means that our communities were very disconnected. So, I grew up in a place that treated me as an afterthought. It wasn’t until I left Miami and I moved to Chicago, for my undergrad, that I was exposed to a very different kind of resilient. There are conversations that I never had in Miami and suddenly I had, the minute I left. And off course years later when I ended up coming back to Miami, after my master’s, to teach, I was incredibly aware of the power dynamics, the imbalance, the issues with, not just representation, but visibility and invisibility. I was able to understand shame, internalized racism. I was able to understand things like white privilege. I was able to understand anti-Central American discrimination.

JGE: You arrived to Miami in the mid-nineties, right? This was before Hurricane Mitch devastated a large part of Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua as well. After Mitch, did you see more Central Americans arriving to your community?

RGG: Not as many. But I did live the impact of the hurricane. My family, obviously, as part of the diaspora, one of the things that we do as Central Americans in the U.S. is we send money back to our families. So, after the hurricane we had to make sure that our family had a consistent form of funding, so they could get by. Our family would also tell us that they would see bodies left and right, bodies floating in the rivers, or people’s businesses completely destroyed. READ MORE…

Translators Weigh In on the Amanda Gorman Controversy

March 17, 2021  |  in News  |  by Allison Braden

The incident sparked industrywide conversation about who gets to translate.

On March 1, The Guardian reported that Amanda Gorman’s Dutch translator, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld, had quit. Amanda Gorman, the poet who catapulted onto the world stage after an astounding performance at U.S. President Joe Biden’s January inauguration, had approved Rijneveld, an acclaimed Dutch writer, themselves, but the announcement that Rijneveld would translate Gorman’s book The Hill We Climb provoked backlash. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “For T. Tranströmer” by Bei Dao

March 16, 2021  |  in Translations  |  by Jonathan Chan

memory of a hurtling night train, how has/it caught up to the darkness ahead?

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we celebrate the start of National Poetry Month (U.S. and Canada) with an ode from one of China’s greatest contemporary poets to one of Sweden’s. Bei Dao’s “For T. Tranströmer” recounts the sights and sounds of Tomas Tranströmer’s home life while channeling the concrete, narrative accessibility of the Nobel laureate’s work. Like a sequence of developing photos, Bei Dao’s vivid imagery creates snapshots that are dreamlike yet somehow worldly: the poet’s creative “center” is likened to echoing church bells and dancing headless angels, while the subject’s piano (a well-known source of solace for the late poet) sits atop a cliff and produces a “roar like thunder.” The subject’s “blue home” (which we also see in Bei Dao’s essay collection Blue House, a philosophical memoir which details his visits with Tranströmer) becomes the setting of a poet’s silent sanctuary—a place where music, poetry, and nature coexist. The artistic comradery between these two literary giants is a fitting launch to National Poetry Month as we recognize the international kinship between poets and translators.

For T. Tranströmer’

you place the final line of a poem
in your heart, locked. that is your center,
like the echo of ringing church bells
or the moment when the headless angels
begin to dance. you have held your balance.

your piano sits perched on a cliff, its
audience gripped, tighter and tighter, by a roar
like thunder, its keys roused to sprint. your
memory of a hurtling night train, how has
it caught up to the darkness ahead? READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: March 2021

March 15, 2021  |  in New in Translation, Reviews  |  by Alice Banks, Carol Khoury, Maddy Robinson, and Rachel Farmer

The best in world literature from Iceland, Palestine, Algeria, and Japan!

This month, our selection of excellent new publications are representative of literature’s capacity for translating worldly phenomenon into language, converting the lived into the understood. From Iceland, a passionate and intimate call to response on the tragedies of environmental destruction; from Palestine, a monumental work of love and resistance from “the Virginia Woolf of Palestine,” Sahar Kalifeh; from Algeria, a sensual novel that treads the tenuous territory of colonialism’s aftereffects; and from Japan, the English-language debut of Akutagawa-winner Kikuko Tsumura, who with graceful humour and intrigue tackles the toxic concept of labour in the thrive of capitalism.  

on time and water

On Time and Water by Andri Snær Magnason, translated from the Icelandic by Lytton Smith, Open Letter, 2021

Review by Rachel Farmer, Chief Executive Assistant

When Greta Thunberg addressed the UN Climate Summit in September 2019, she choked back tears as she uttered the now infamous words: “How dare you?” Reactions to this display of emotion were mixed to say the least. Some showed discomfort, others concern for her wellbeing; some dismissed her outburst as manipulative, others ridiculed her. Her face and words were even immortalised in meme format. In displaying her anguish and rage so plainly, Thunberg violated the unspoken rule that seems to underpin much of the communication and discussion around climate change, wherein impassivity, stoicism, and detachment reign supreme.

In On Time and Water—part memoir, part interview, part impassioned treatise on the future of our planet—Andri Snær Magnason follows the young Swedish activist’s example, casting aside convention and delving into the emotional side of the climate crisis. In doing so, he embarks on a deeply humane and vulnerable exploration of what manmade climate change truly means for the planet—and for us. In this compelling hybrid of a book, translated sensitively by Lytton Smith, he explains how, a few years ago, he was called upon to defend a region in his country’s highlands from being destroyed in the name of energy production. Despite his deep admiration for the spiritual fervour with which Helgi Valtýsson, another Icelandic writer, wrote about the region in 1945, Magnason found himself unable to infuse the same passion into his defence. Bringing emotions into the discussion would have risked his arguments being dismissed as hysterical, doommongering, or hopelessly idealistic.

I’d found myself overwhelmed by melancholy at the unruly devastation that washed out this peerless region, yet I chose words that seemed moderate and inviting to readers. I used the prevailing language of liberalism, innovation, utilitarianism, and marketing. I discussed the area’s importance for Iceland’s image, its potential tourist income, the area’s research value, how the highlands were a magnet for foreign currency as a filming location for movies or commercials. [. . .] We live in times when money is the measure of reality. I couldn’t argue nature’s right to exist, its essential value, by saying that we might find God’s all-encompassing expanse there. READ MORE…