In this week’s round-up, our editors discuss the continual relevance and essentiality of literary criticism, new projects to promote literature in translation, and a memoir that reneges on skepticism to embrace interconnectivity.
Xiao Yue Shan, reporting for China
Last week, the ceremony of the fourteenth Tang Tao Youth Literary Research Awards took place in Shanghai, honouring five young scholars and their articles in the field of criticism, with subjects ranging from the re-interpretation of classics to the analysis of contemporary intersections between textual practice and artificial intelligence. The list of awardees included Li Jing on academic systems and knowledge transformation in the digital age; Wang Xuesong on visual forms and the construction of new poetic genres; Han Songgong on the works of novelist Bi Feiyu and their analysis of human nature; Wang Bingzhong on Lu Xun’s The True Story of Ah Q and the procession of character development through spiritual awakening; and Li Zhuang on Cai Chongda’s “Hometown Trilogy” and the potentiality of literature being a point of stability amidst a fractured era.
The award, established by the National Museum of Modern Chinese Literature and given annually to scholars under the age of forty-five, has done much to nurture emerging critics and academics since its inauguration. Named after the great twentieth-century essayist, historian, and Lu Xun expert Tang Tao, the prize aims to promote innovation and passionate diligence in the field of literary studies—qualities that awardee Wang Xuesong saw as emblematic of youth itself, commenting that scholars should continually aim for the same persistence, enthusiasm, and warmth with which they began their careers (presumably before they’re crushed by the relentless pressures and depressions of academic bureaucracy).
Literary criticism can seem elitist at best and masturbatory at worst, but anyone who’s a fan will likely understand that the hermeneutics and analysis of texts are in fact interpretations and inquisitions into our most basic interests: life, reality, and the human desire for creation. To see how we continually re-engage with classical works and their sociohistorical context with the illumination of contemporary understanding, or to gauge how our faculties of intelligence and critical thinking may be altered or recalibrated with technological developments—these are pivotal questions that move beyond the page to address themes of social conflict, societal evolution, and the ever-changing modes and methodologies of expression. In substantiating the importance of these practices, judge and professor Chen Sihe noted: ‘AI has created a greater expectation for the humanities, and only when our studies prove themselves to be irreplaceable, can they have an independent and individual existence.’ It calls into question what would qualify literary criticism to be seen as irreplaceable in the greater scope of things; anyone reading this, or anyone present for Chen’s speech that evening, would certainly agree that these studies already are irreplaceable—after all, what’s more worth studying that our most integral art of communication?—but as the underfunding of the humanities continues the legacy of scholars working in uncertainty and abject poverty, and the monstrous figure of AI continues to encroach, the growing smallness of our minority cannot be denied.
There is perhaps a hint to be found in the Tang Tao Award itself—not in its existence, but in the symbol it has chosen to bestow upon its honourees. The trophy for the award is modelled after its namesake’s chair, which has two functions; when it is folded, it’s a regular chair, but upon unfolding, it turns into a ladder that can be used to reach volumes on higher shelves. Upon selecting this Shanghai-style piece as the emblem of the award, the committee stated that studying should be like a bench, static and conducted alone, but research should be like a ladder—functional to take oneself and others into new heights. When Tang died, his library of over forty thousand volumes was donated to the National Museum of Modern Chinese Literature, along with his chair. Exhibited now amongst the museum’s wares, it represents not only the individual exchange between a scholar and their materials, but also the generations of intellectuals and their progression, continuing to aid us and speak to us as we build on their work to learn more about ourselves.
Criticism could be seen as one of the more insular genres of literature—unlike fiction, it doesn’t create characters and bring them to life, and unlike poetry, it doesn’t dream of being read aloud to a listening ear. Yet it is perhaps the most interpersonal and social, simply because it, by definition, requires the presence of at least two minds, exchanging and depicting and trying to understand one another. It is a communality and a social space, mapping the psychic and intellectual coordinates by which human culture is oriented. Perhaps in aiming to deem literary criticism irreplaceable, we should be emphasising that it is the most generous and intimate form of collaboration: a model of compassion and collective action that stems most essentially from an understanding that knowledge exists to be shared, that ideas serve their purpose when they spark a thought in someone else’s head. It is a mindset that is more necessary than ever in our global village that has never ceased to put up its guards and walls, operating on the basis that anything worth having is something worth keeping to yourself. Well, if we all thought like that, we wouldn’t even have books.
Sofija Popovska, Editor-at-Large, reporting from North Macedonia
The Skopje Book Fair, an annual event of exciting new releases and big crowds, took place earlier this year in mid-May. Among its multiple highlights was a fascinating new release: a supernatural memoir by the author and translator Patricia Marsh-Stefanovska, who is known for her historical fiction and nonfiction as well as her translations of renowned Macedonian authors, including the poet and novelist Lidija Dimkovska and her husband, the dramatist Goran Stefanovski. Her new book, Not In My Philosophy, has been translated from the English into the Macedonian by Nada Gogova; appearing as Nasproti Mojata Zhivotna Filozofija, its publisher TRI describes it as a fascinating “memoir about the inexplicable, which not only introduces us closely to the lives of her loved ones but also leads us deeper into the invisible threads that connect us.”
In the book, Marsh-Stefanovska describes being retired from her work as a university professor, which, according to her, lessens the pressure of having to remain a skeptic. This leads into a pivoting away from her and her colleagues’ atheist views, which surmise that “human beings are just a collection of chemicals and energy, just like all other forms of life—with no ‘soul’ of any kind, with nothing special about any of us.” From there, she explores both the personal and the collective relationship with the supernatural, resulting in a complex, moving work that weaves individual experience together with bits of metaphysics, mythologies, and religions from around the world. The feature that stands out among the memoir’s many captivating details and accounts, however, is the theme of love and connection that permeates its narrative(s), lending the text an emotional richness. In stories such as the brief return of Marsh-Stefanovska’s childhood cat in spectral form after his passing; the sudden telepathic pain she experienced during her mother’s heart attack; and her godmother’s prophetic dream about her friend’s wedding, the book centers the bonds that connect us to each other, serving as a reminder that the supernatural is an extension of intimacy, empathy, and memory—a quality that even the most skeptical of us can appreciate.
Linnea Gradin, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Sweden
In a recent interview with Swedish Book Review—the journal of The Swedish-English Literary Translators’ Association (SELTA)—Martin Colthorpe, founder of UK-based Modern Culture, shared some insight into his newest project ‘Stories From Sweden’, aimed at raising the profile of Swedish-language literature in the UK and Ireland. Referring to research that shows the biggest groups of translated literature readers as being between the ages of 18–35, he predicts a bright future for international texts, and looks to Swedish-language titles as one way to expand the offerings on the market. In collaboration with the Swedish Embassy in the UK and supported by the Swedish Arts Council, the project is inspired by two previously successful projects led by Colthorpe and Modern Culture; highlighting voices from the Netherlands and Flanders, the projects were centred around live events where writers and translators could meet their audiences. The hope is that ‘Stories From Sweden’, like its predecessors, will result in more opportunities for professional and aspiring translators to develop their craft through workshops, residencies, and commissions.
In his interview, Colthorpe also highlights Quynh Tran’s Swedish-language novel Shade and Breeze, set in Ostrobothnia, a region in western Finland which is home to many Finland-Swedes (Finnish people whose native language is Swedish). Interest in the region is currently growing, not least due to the success of the Finland-Swedish trio KAJ, who represented Sweden at Eurovision this year. This development is also translating into profits, or so reports the publisher Ekerlids förlag, who attributes their increased book sales to KAJ and Eurovision. I, for one, will be keeping a keen eye on what comes out of this region and hope to be seeing more Swedish texts in translation hitting English-language bookshelves in the near future.
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