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.
The “neoclassical style” was not a conscious decision on my part. I wasn’t even aware of it while I was writing. Style is rarely something I, as an author, deliberately choose; rather, it is shaped by my past reading and writing experiences, as well as by my way of thinking. It’s less about choice and more about what naturally emerges from within.
Since this was my first attempt at writing a full-length novel, I didn’t think twice when deciding to set the story in Malaysia. After all, it’s where I’ve spent half my life. I also worked as a journalist there for over a decade, engaging deeply with the local community. Having observed people from different social strata over the years, I felt that only by writing their (our?) stories could I truly feel confident in completing the work. In the end, I took about a year and a half to finish The Age of Goodbyes. The structure was quite complex, even more than I expected, and I spent a lot more time in the early planning stages. However, I’ve never believed that “a good work is made through revisions,” so even with a 160,000-character manuscript, I only produced one draft. Once it was finished, I hardly made any changes and simply sent it out.
Since I had gained some recognition by winning several literary awards early on and had established a certain reputation in Taiwan, I felt confident that the book would have no problem finding a good publisher there—which eventually happened when Maitian published it. Later, the novel made it onto Asia Weekly’s annual “Best Books” list and even won the Jury Prize at the Hong Lou Meng Long Fiction Award in Hong Kong, which was a significant form of recognition. Publishers in mainland China quickly approached me. During that time, mainland Chinese readers had a particular fondness for long novels, so my book, along with my other works, was introduced there.
Honestly, I was well aware that, given the complex narrative approach I used, the reading experience would likely be quite challenging. Although the novel unexpectedly reached mainland China and even came closer to the “center” of the Chinese-speaking world than any of my previous works, I didn’t hold any expectations about how it would perform on the market.
AMMD: YZ, what first drew you to Li Zi Shu and The Age of Goodbyes, and what inspired you to bring it to the Anglosphere? Could you also walk us through your translation process and how it compares to translating other Malaysian Chinese authors, such as King Ban Hui?
YZ Chin (YC): I first read Li Zi Shu as a teenager in my hometown that had one little bookstore. I was immediately blown away by her inventive use of language and her daring approaches to “sensitive” subject matters. When I read The Age of Goodbyes as an adult, it was a shock to the senses. It was unlike anything I’d read before. It cleverly captures the feelings of living under state censorship, that sense of knowing certain answers are out there but are hidden away, out of grasp. In 2019 or so I met the writer and translator Jeremy Tiang, who set me on the path of translating The Age of Goodbyes (thanks again, Jeremy!). But as early as 2006 I had reached out to King Ban Hui to translate his first book, The Room Next Door. I suppose that means I’ve harbored the desire to broaden readership of Mahua literature for a very long time. Unfortunately, that 2006 endeavor went nowhere, because I was young and clueless. That’s why it’s so meaningful to me now that my translation of King’s first novel will be coming out from Riverhead Books. It’s a realization of a long-held dream. I’m grateful Zi Shu entrusted me with her novel, which allowed me to revive that dream.
There were of course challenges to translating a book as hard to describe as The Age of Goodbyes, but luckily it is (among many other things) a playful, often tongue-in-cheek novel, which means I had a lot of fun. I think the first challenge I puzzled over was the question of tenses. As is probably well-known, Chinese does not have past, present, and future tenses the way English does. After some thinking, I decided to translate the “You” storyline (one of the book’s three strands of plot) in present tense to give it more immediacy, since the You character is in a way reading (about) the other two storylines. And of course, preserving Zi Shu’s signature blend of intentionally “purple” prose with colloquialisms is always a fun challenge. I loved deploying all those English idioms.
I do not claim to be a Mahua scholar, and my translation choices are often guided by my own idiosyncratic tastes. What is important to me is to preserve the vibes of the work I’m translating, as experienced by me, a Malaysian Chinese reader. I’m moved to translate Zi Shu and Ban Hui because they were and are my literary idols. Even though I write in English, their work has influenced my writing, and I would like to believe my work is in conversation with theirs.
AMMD: Zi Shu, scholars would say that The Age of Goodbyes marked a significant shift from your earlier works, which were primarily novellas and novelettes. How did this transition influence your creative process? In a prior conversation with a Hong Kong publication, you described your approach to short novels as a form of “monasticism,” where every word carries immense weight. I’m curious if this approach evolved when writing longer narratives.
LZS: I see The Age of Goodbyes mainly as a kind of heavy-weight training for myself. The most significant impact of this shift wasn’t just a change in style or scope, but a broader experience and reflection on the craft of novel-writing itself. These insights have influenced how I view and approach writing ever since. After completing that novel, I went back to writing short stories and even more flash fiction, and I found myself much more comfortable with these forms than before.
In fact, five years ago, when I wrote my second long novel, This Timeworn Land—which exceeded 210,000 characters—I could clearly feel the influence of those shorter works. I realized I could carry heavy, grand ideas with a lighter touch in my writing, and I felt capable of balancing both weight and agility. Now I understand that even writing a long novel is a kind of disciplined practice—though the skills involved might differ from those needed for short stories, it’s still a form of rigorous training.
When I first set out to write a long novel, I was drawn to the freedom that comes with having no strict page limit. For someone used to writing short stories, that sense of unlimited space was both exciting and a bit intimidating—it felt like I could write anything, which made it difficult to determine the right direction.
After completing The Age of Goodbyes and gaining more experience with short fiction afterward, I realized that the only true “path” when approaching my second novel was to understand one key thing: “Don’t overuse your freedom.” In other words, the discipline of restraint—what I might call “monasticism’—still applies, even on a larger canvas.
AMMD: Mahua writings are often associated with scholarly buzzwords such as “nationlessness,” “the internal Other,” “minoritarian,” “the non-national,” and, as Chew Thia Chan describes it, “transperipherality.” Could we discuss how Mahua literature is received in Malaysia? In a previous interview, Zi Shu noted the poor conditions for Chinese-language storytelling in Malaysia—limited publishing opportunities, a significant shortage of readership—despite 25% of Malaysians being of Chinese descent. As Jacqueline Lo observes in Staging the Nation (2004), writings in Chinese and Tamil are often excluded from the “national” canon as they are deemed “immigrant in nature” with limited ties to Malaysian indigeneity.
YC: Ho Sok Fong has a beautiful essay in adda, translated from the Chinese by Natascha Bruce, about how a lot of Mahua writers derive a sense of strength from the position of marginalization. How can they not feel marginalized, when the Language Act of 1967 writes into law that non-Malay works cannot be national literature, but must exist as sectional literature? (A word better applied to sofas than novels, in my opinion.)
While the Mahua readership in Malaysia is small, I like to think it is a dedicated, passionate one. After all, many Mahua writers still seem to write, first and foremost, with an eye inward.
LZS: As authors of Mahua literature who have “gone abroad,” whether in Taiwan or mainland China, over the years we’ve been repeatedly asked about our situation. The more we respond—regardless of how we phrase it—the more it begins to sound like a cliché. I personally don’t like to keep explaining our difficulties to audiences outside Malaysia, because after a while, people might start to see it as “complaining.” It might seem like we’re constantly telling others about our hardships and perseverance, but honestly, such complaints don’t change our circumstances at all.
In fact, in this era filled with videos and short clips, literature creation and readership worldwide are facing similar challenges—shrinking audiences and a decline in literary value. From this perspective, the situation of Mahua literature is relatively “stable.” We were already at a low point, and the broader social and historical forces pressing down on us aren’t making things worse. At least, over the next twenty or thirty years, Mahua will still be regarded as “the most important Chinese-language literary enclave outside Mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan,” and that’s without question.
AMMD: Several Mahua writers are published in mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, as demonstrated by non-Malaysian publishers like Lianjing and Maitian in Taiwan, as well as Jiangsu, Xinxing, and Huacheng in mainland China, which have published Zi Shu’s novels. How do you both see Mahua literature shaping, or perhaps challenging, the dominant narratives within contemporary Chinese-language fiction?
LZS: Audience is not something a writer typically and consciously considers during the act of creation. In other words, it doesn’t directly influence my writing. Honestly, I feel that over the years, I’ve been resisting—or perhaps even defying—the “mainstream narratives” within Mahua literature. For example, could I stop writing about the historical trauma of the Chinese community or ethnic minorities? We’ve already covered those themes too many times. Or, could I, after realism was overwhelmed by modernism, turn back and use realism to explore Mahua topics?
I believe that if Mahua literature truly wants to challenge and disrupt the dominant narratives in the Chinese-speaking world, it’s not our language advantage or the relative freedom of our environment that’s key, nor is it our multicultural life experience. Instead, it’s the respect and appreciation for Chinese creative expression that we’ve cultivated through hardship—precisely because it’s not easy to attain. This attitude manifests in our works; you’ll notice that among the most outstanding Mahua writers, the richness and depth of their language are particularly strong, and their works carry a powerful weight.
Basically, all Mahua writers understand that Mahua literature is quite marginal and somewhat obscure. No matter how we write, whether within or outside Malaysia, there aren’t likely to be many readers. So, even the idea of “imagining an audience” feels somewhat meaningless. However, having worked as a journalist and written for different sections, I’ve long understood that articles in various publications appeal to different readership groups.
There was a period when I was writing flash fiction for a Shanghai-based magazine, and at that time, I consciously tried to minimize the “Mahua-ness” in my work. I aimed to use literature to “dialogue” with Shanghai readers, rather than just simply presenting myself. It was an effort to communicate across cultural and linguistic boundaries, rather than focusing solely on self-expression.
YC: I think the fictionist and scholar Ng Kim Chew has spilled a lot of ink on this subject, and I do not dare claim to be half as knowledgeable as he is, so I shall try to answer as a layperson only. I think part of many Mahua works” magic lies in how they trouble the sense of purity (of language, of “blood,” of nationhood). I love Mahua literature that champions hybridity. Not that it intends only to provoke and challenge, but in the way it shows other possibilities, other ways of being. So it’s great to witness non-Malaysian publishers recognize the thrill of introducing new elements into longstanding literary traditions. It reinforces that Mahua literature is inventive and resilient in the face of often rapid change. And I hope the end result is more hybridized contemporary Sinophone literature. In my translations, I seek to incorporate this complex polyphonic texture, this many-splendored quality as much as possible.
AMMD: YZ, both of your original books—the novel Edge Case (Ecco, 2021) and the short story collection Though I Get Home (Feminist Press, 2018)—resonate deeply with the concerns of Mahua literature: exile, selfhood, and kinships. How do these realities of nationlessness and marginalities influence the way you portray your characters? And do you feel that writing in English offers a different lens for exploring the Malaysian Chinese experience?
YC: Since Professor Cheow Thia Chan has in a way boldly put forward Han Suyin (who wrote novels, memoirs, and literary historical studies in English and French) as a Mahua writer in his book Malaysian Crossings, I’ve been thinking: Why not also shamelessly call myself a Mahua writer? As I said earlier, I have been influenced by Mahua writers like Li Zi Shu and King Ban Hui, and I like to think my work is in conversation with theirs across languages. The sense of being adrift is probably a common theme in minor literatures. I wanted to add to the existing conversation in my own small way. Doing so in English feels very natural to me, as many Malaysians grow up multilingual and do not automatically see literature in certain languages as “foreign” to their sense of personhood (though the shadow of colonialism looms, as ever). Insofar as it offers a different lens to the Malaysian Chinese experience, I hope that my works are seen as pieces to a bigger picture that stretches across languages, since (like any other communal experience) the Malaysian Chinese experience is a multitudinous one.
AMMD: David Der-wei Wang (in A Companion to Chinese History, 2017) describes Zi Shu’s work as offering “a gendered version of diasporic adventure,” while Ping-hui Liao (in Migrancy and Multilingualism in World Literature, 2016) highlights her exploration of travel and transnationality through both modernist and magic realist traditions. Meanwhile, E. K. Tan (in Rethinking Chineseness, 2013) highlights Zi Shu and her contemporary Chang Kuei-hsing as writers who
…have adopted a transgressive role in order to investigate and manipulate the structural limits of language and cultural supremacy in their (re)shaping of identity, identification, and the politics of acculturation. Though written in Chinese, following the Mandarin semantics, Sinophone Malaysian literature is often garnished with loan words expressions, and cultural features from other major languages and cultures, including English, Malay, and the minor Sinitic languages Hokkien and Teochew.
In what ways does The Age of Goodbyes engage and converse with the larger body of Mahua literature and history?
LZS: In my opinion, the term “Mahua” itself has become a kind of curse that the Mahua literary community has carried for many years. It refers to Chinese-language writing in Malaysia, but in Malaysia, Chinese has long been a language that struggles for recognition and official status. The term is full of paradox—on one hand, it signifies a deep persistence and resilience: regardless of whether others acknowledge it, we refuse to give up on Chinese. It’s a word linked to belonging and identity, and this obsession has cast Mahua literature with a kind of melancholic undertone. No matter what we write, it’s often framed within narratives of diaspora and ethnic trauma, subject to scrutiny and discussion.
I suspect that many Mahua writers—even among the younger generation—have, over time, unconsciously fallen into this mainstream discourse. Writing then becomes intertwined with a strong sense of national mission and a kind of collective anxiety: constantly asking ourselves, “What can I do for Mahua literature?” Such concerns would seem quite absurd in any other part of the world. Of course, this anxiety stems from the fact that Mahua, linguistically speaking, has always been under threat of being swallowed or erased by the state apparatus. This ongoing crisis fuels a persistent unease, making our writers especially tense and cautious.
I believe we need to break free from this curse. In a sense, The Age of Goodbyes is my attempt to reflect on and sum up my past writing. The title’s “Goodbye” can also be seen as a kind of declaration—an act of saying farewell to that historical burden.
YC: As mentioned, I love Mahua literature best at its messiest hybrid self. Since the beginning there have been Mahua writers who have eschewed the “pure” language passed down through the eons in favor of depicting reality on the ground, in places that are not main cultural production sites. This requires bending the language and refashioning it to suit another, more hybrid purpose, something I think Zi Shu does very well.
AMMD: Both of you have received significant accolades for your works internationally: Zi Shu, from award-giving bodies in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and mainland China, and YZ, for your English-language works in the United States and the United Kingdom. In what ways do you reconcile the international acclaim for your works with the challenges of cultivating readership in Malaysia? And do you both feel that Mahua literature’s future lies in reaching global audiences?
YC: I am happy to have published in English, to have in a slight way added my own attempt at portraying what it’s like to be alive, as a person generally and as a Malaysian Chinese woman more specifically. I can’t directly do much about my readership, in Malaysia or elsewhere. I can only put my work out there and hope it finds the people who understand. As for Mahua literature’s future, I think it lies in the next wave (and the next, and the next) of dedicated Mahua writers who see opportunities to continue a unique literary lineage. If a global audience is what fuels them, then I hope it helps.
LZS: Mahua literature has always faced limitations in its living space—it’s like a pond with a small volume of water, making it difficult for the fish inside to grow into dragons. That’s the reality, and there’s no need to deny it. Instead, we should confront it directly and seek ways to adapt. Fortunately, beyond that pond, there are rivers and oceans—meaning we still have opportunities to access broader horizons and gather richer nutrients. I wouldn’t dare say that just because our work is recognized abroad, it will automatically attract more attention or better treatment within Malaysia. Ultimately, we can never fully solve this problem—people aren’t necessarily not interested in Mahua literature; they simply don’t read literature at all.
AMMD: Zi Shu, in The Monster That Is History (2004), David Der-wei Wang aligns you with prominent Chinese women writers such as Zhong Ling, Yuan Qiongqiong, Lin Bai, Hong Ling, Li Bihua, and Huang Biyun. Similarly, Weijie Song’s A Companion to Modern Chinese Literature (2016) includes you among notable writers like Huang Fan, Zhang Dachun, Lin Yaode, Chu T’ien-wen, Su Weizhen, Yuan Qiongqiong, Li Yongping, Ng Kim Chew, and Luo Yijun. How do you feel about these labels and their role in shaping the canons of Mahua literature and Chinese women’s writings?
LZS: Many scholars outside Malaysia are generally very generous and supportive of Mahua literature, offering us a lot of recognition and encouragement. Professor David Wang, in particular, has invested considerable effort in this area, along with several other scholars who understand how difficult it is for Mahua writers to survive and are willing to give us appropriate recognition. Being grouped alongside those names is undoubtedly a form of recognition, but I don’t see many commonalities or similarities between myself and those other writers. As for the fact that we are all women—that’s not really worth mentioning. Placing women writers into a separate group for comparison and discussion is actually something I’m quite opposed to.
Additionally, the list of names that Weijie Song includes in A Companion to Modern Chinese Literature mostly consists of Taiwanese writers, which further complicates the grouping. Such groupings might influence how my work is interpreted—both within Mahua literature and Chinese women’s writing—but I think it’s important to see each voice as distinct and not simply part of a collective label.
AMMD: I’m curious about the Global Majority, Asian, Sinophone, and Malaysian scholars, poets, writers, and thinkers who have shaped your philosophies, writings, and ethos. How have the works of these people guided and shaped you?
YC: I have been nourished by Malaysian writers like Shirley Geok-lin Lim, K. S. Maniam, and Tash Aw. I have caught glimpses of my reality through their lenses, a priceless gift. In their words I have seen parallel universes of how my life might have been, another priceless gift. Other ways of thinking about the dynamics of the world, too. And of course, Professor Chan has emboldened me into thinking I, too, might sometimes call myself a Mahua writer.
LZS: I’ve largely developed my ability to write through reading. Of course, everything I’ve read has influenced me to some extent—even those books that are poorly written or unsuccessful. Sometimes, reading works I disagree with sparks my “disagreement,” which in turn helps me clarify my own thoughts. Honestly, I think this kind of critical thinking has a greater impact on my personality and writing than simply resonating with or identifying with a particular author or work.
Since I was young, I’ve been a voracious reader—covering popular fiction, serious literature, comics, poetry, novels, nonfiction, even scientific popularizations. I can enjoy them all equally. I can’t pinpoint exactly which books or authors have “shaped” me, but I can say very clearly that it was Chinese writer Su Tong’s work that inspired me to try writing fiction. His language style is very intense, and in my view, the power of his language surpasses other aspects of his storytelling, which led me to mistakenly believe that “writing novels isn’t that hard.”
AMMD: Zi Shu, are there Mahua writers or translators, whether from contemporary times or antiquity, whose works you believe are essential reading for non-Malaysian and non-Sinophone readers?
LZS: Compared to the mainstream Chinese-speaking regions like mainland China and Taiwan, the pool of Mahua literature is really quite small. There aren’t many writers, and the “must-read” authors tend to be those mentioned by scholars in the previous questions. If you look at the names, you’ll notice that many of them are Mahua writers who have studied or lived in Taiwan—some are based in Malaysia, while others have studied abroad there. Taiwan has provided a significant nourishment for Mahua literature over the years, and it’s hard to ignore how it has influenced the aesthetic pursuits and literary outlook of Mahua writers.
In recent years, it seems that Mahua works are being translated into English and other languages at a higher rate than before. Notable authors like Ng Kim Chew, Chang Kuei-hsing, and Ho Sok Fong have had important works translated into foreign languages. For interested readers, I definitely recommend seeking out these translations to get a sense of Mahua literature.
AMMD: If you were to design a course on Mahua Fiction, which short story collections, novels, and prose anthologies would you consider essential to include as key texts? Are there particular short story writers and novelists you would prioritise for this imaginary syllabus?
YC: Honestly, there are so few Mahua works in translation that we would probably be reading them all.
LZS: Don’t take this the wrong way, but I genuinely believe that my own work should be included in this course. I’ve put a lot into writing novels—from my early short stories that I entered in competitions, to flash fiction written purely for the thrill of “breaking free within limits,” and then to longer novels. I see this entire process as filled with insights and transformations, and I think there are many valuable lessons that can be drawn from it.
Of course, as I mentioned earlier, Taiwanese Mahua authors have achieved remarkable success. For example, Ng Kim Chew’s early short stories like “Fish Bones” and “The Disappearance of M,” as well as several of his recent works in Rain, including “The Late Youth”; Ho Sok Fong’s “Never Mention It Again” and Lake Like A Mirror; and longer novels like Li Yongping’s The End of the River and Chang Kuei-hsing’s Wild Boars Cross the River—these are all essential reads that shouldn’t be missed.
Born in 1971 in Ipoh, Malaysia, Li Zi Shu 黎紫書 is an acclaimed writer of novels, novelettes, short stories, and flash fiction She has won multiple honors, including the Malaysia Hua Zong Literary Award, the United Daily News and The China Times literary prizes. In 2016, she received the Nanyang Chinese Literature Award, and in 2022, she was awarded the 17th Malaysian Chinese Literature Award. Her recent accolades include the Wang Mo-ren and Zhou An-yi World Chinese Literature Award from Peking University and the OneWay Street Bookstore Annual Young Outstanding Writer Award for her novel This Timeworn Land. Li has published over a dozen works, including acclaimed novels The Age of Goodbyes and This Timeworn Land, as well as short story collections and essays.
YZ Chin is the author of Edge Case and Though I Get Home. Edge Case is a New York Times Editors” Choice and an NPR Books We Love pick for 2021. Though I Get Home won the Louise Meriwether First Book Prize and the Asian/Pacific American Award For Literature honor title. YZ is also a translator of Mahua literature. Her translations into English include works by Li Zi Shu, King Ban Hui, and Teng Kuan Kiat. Her work has been supported by National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) and MacDowell fellowships as well as a PEN Presents x International Booker grant. Born and raised in Taiping, Malaysia, she now lives in New York.
Alton Melvar M Dapanas (they/them) is Asymptote’s editor-at-large for the Philippines and the author of three books of lyric essays and prose poems, including M of the Southern Downpours (Australia: Downingfield Press, 2024). Their works, published from South Africa to Japan, France to Singapore, and translated into Chinese, Damiá, and Swedish, appeared in World Literature Today, BBC Radio 4, Michigan Quarterly Review, Sant Jordi Festival of Books, The White Review, and the anthologies Infinite Constellations (University of Alabama Press) and He, She, They, Us: Queer Poems (Pan Macmillan UK). Formerly with Creative Nonfiction magazine, they’ve been nominated to The Best Literary Translations and twice to the Pushcart Prize for their lyric essays. Find more at https://linktr.ee/samdapanas.
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