Translation Tuesday: “WC” by Stefan Çapaliku

September 9, 2025  |  in Translations  |  by Vlora Konushevci

The chamberlain spoke gently, almost tenderly that he who seeks to enter is Otto—a servant of God, mortal and sinful like all the rest...

In this wry story by acclaimed Albanian writer Stefan Çapaliku, translated by Vlora Konushevci, a journalist arrives in Vienna on an assignment to document the funeral of Otto von Habsburg, the last heir of the storied Habsburg dynasty. But his plans are soon derailed: besieged by a persistent stomach problem, he’s forced to prioritize his bowel movements over frontline reporting. From the confines of a café bathroom, for which he already holds a peculiar affinity, he is reduced to hearing, rather than seeing, the majestic procession pass by. This undignified place winds up being the perfect setting for the narrator to meditate on what makes a life meaningful, and how to measure the worth of our accomplishments when we’re all the same flesh in the end.

1.

Morning. I open my eyes, as I’ve done countless times through the night. From the curtainless window, the view hasn’t changed: a city slowly morphing into a monster, its limbs aggressive, forged from red bricks veined with concrete and rods of iron stretching skyward. Then, almost suddenly, the sun appears, and with it, a sliver of hope seeps into my waking. The view begins to clear, shedding that initial layer of violence.

I step out onto the back balcony of my apartment to gauge the temperature of the day, confirming for what must be the hundredth time that the city is turning into one giant dormitory. It now resembles a sleeping quarter—sprawling and expanding like the hopeless belly of a morbidly obese man. The buildings, once erected in communist times, are now, in our age of liberty, multiplying in the ugliest of ways. Lumps, foolish extensions, architectural carbuncles sprouting from them…

I leave the house, find somewhere to sit, and open my office door. My office is my laptop. The door is its lid. It doesn’t matter where I am, at home, in a café, in the park, or anywhere else. I carry my office with me. I loathe all things conventional. My conventional office is in the city center, very close to home, but I hardly ever go there, even though it’s just 550 steps away.

And sure, 550 steps are nothing, but I’m lucky no one requires me to keep fixed hours. No one demands explanations. My work happens wherever I am. Every place is a suitable workplace for my profession, except the office.

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Magical Taiwan: A Literature Exhibition Bringing Myth, History, and Reimagined Futures to Osaka

September 8, 2025  |  in Dispatches  |  by Mary Hillis

. . . a place where gods, spirits, and spectral beings coexist across layered landscapes and tradition.

From August 10 to 20, Osaka hosted “Magical Taiwan,” an exhibit featuring the breadth and deep lineages of divination, folklore, spiritualism, and the supernatural in Taiwanese literature. From genre mainstays to oral traditions to indigenous influences, the featured works and writers emphasized their unique cultural traditions, while gesturing towards an affinity and commonality with Japan’s own significant mythologies.

In Japan, the time of Obon is when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin. In some regions, it is said that one’s ancestors travel between the realms on “spirit horses” fashioned from cucumbers and eggplants. This summer, however, right before the festivities, a different crop of guests crossed the threshold; from Taiwan to Japan, ghosts and gods traveled on the wings of the written word for “Magical Taiwan,” an exhibition of Taiwanese literature. The Special Room of the Osaka City Central Public Hall, with its frescos of Japanese myths and legends, provided an ideal locale for the event, which was curated by the National Museum of Taiwan Literature and subtitled “The Enchanted Page: Folktales and Magical Realism in Taiwan Literature.” Time seemed to slow as people of all ages moved through the six themed areas, each a gateway to Taiwan’s literary enchantments, spanning the shimmering realm of magical realism, the chilling darkness of ghost stories, and the enduring influence of folkloric wisdom.

The exhibit began with “Indigenous Taiwan: The Inspiration Behind Myths and Magic,” in which three authors from Taiwan’s various indigenous groups showcased their works: 絕島之咒 (Curse of the Island) by Amis writer Nakao Eki, 巫旅 (Witch Way) by Puyuma author Badai, and 八代灣的神話 (The Myths of Badai Bay) by Tao/Yami writer Syaman Rapongan. Attendees could be seen paging through a copy of the latter, a collection of myths and legends important to the native people of Lanyu (Orchid Island), located to the southeast of Taiwan. Happily enough, the July 2025 issue of Asymptote features an excerpt from Rapongan’s Eyes of the Ocean (with an accompanying lesson plan in the issue’s Educator’s Guide); in it, Rapongan—who has been described as an “ocean writer”—recounts a scene from his travels to Greenland: READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

September 5, 2025  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Hongyu Jasmine Zhu, Linnea Gradin, and Sofija Popovska

The latest in literary updates from China, Denmark, Sweden, and North Macedonia!

This week, our Editors-at-Large take us around the globe for updates on the world’s literary scenes. From Shanghai’s lively summer book fair and three exciting new titles from the Chinese; to literacy- and readership-boosting campaigns in Sweden and Denmark; the longlist for the best North Macedonian translation prize; and this year’s Struga Poetry Evening Festival, read on to learn more.

Hongyu Jasmine Zhu, Editor-at-Large, Reporting for China

From August 13–19, the Shanghai Book Fair welcomed over 382,000 readers with citywide events celebrating libraries and independent bookstores. Though I wasn’t in the country, WeChat livestreams—now second nature to Chinese publishers—allowed me to tune in and discover three books I’m eager to pick up.

First, Dong Li’s Chinese translation of Victoria Chang’s poetry collection 记逝录, Obit, was launched by China Normal University Press. “My Father’s Frontal Lobe—died unpeacefully of a stroke…” reads the opening line; Chang said that it foregrounds both disintegration and the possibilities of body and language. A stroke strips the body of movement and speech, pulmonary fibrosis hardens the lung until no air enters, language strains against enormous sorrow; yet Chang writes toward that very inadequacy, seeking new articulations. Li reflected that translation is a liminal language (折中的语言). While writing strives toward the far shore, translation stands midstream, crafting a new language attuned to currents not entirely one’s own.

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Notes on the Erotic: German Intimacies from Cold War to Reunification

September 4, 2025  |  in Essays  |  by Moumita Ghosh

[T]here existed an idea of a certain socialist morality which . . . labelled itself as more evolved in the realm of intimacy.

The fall of the Berlin Wall catalysed a monumental case of political integration in the West, heralding a necessary conciliation of disparate politics, economics, psychologies, values, and socialities. Of this time, the grand dialogues and negotiations between international governmental bodies are well-documented and enshrined in textbooks, but the stories of ordinary lives swept up in this extraordinary fusion are still in the middle of being told, processed, and understood. One of the most subtle—yet enduring—issues is the distinct views of sexuality and intimacy in the two Germanies, which reflects the greater ideological differences in both unpredictable and surprising ways. In the following essay, Moumita Ghosh takes a look at two contemporary novels that feature romantic relationships under the political influence, Jenny Erpenbeck’s Kairos and Ralf Rothmann’s Fire Doesn’t Burn, illustrating how the quakes of national movements send their aftershocks into our most private spheres.

Still, there is one thing they still do that hasn’t changed: when they leave a place together, he holds out her coat, she slips into it frontwise, briefly holds him in her arms, then slips it off and puts it on the right way around. But probably, even these habits, in which they took pleasure and pride, and which confirmed their intimacy, are nothing more than a hollow-bellied Trojan horse.

—Jenny Erpenbeck, Kairos

Jenny Erpenbeck’s Kairos, winner of the International Booker Prize in 2024, sketches a tumultuous romance between Katharina, a young woman, and Hans, a married man thirty-four years her senior. Translated by Michael Hofmann and set in 80s Germany, the text intertwines the couple’s intimate narrative with national history. Hans, his childhood overcast by the Hitler Youth and his father’s Nazi sympathies, is eventually revealed to be a Stasi informant, having ‘decided in favour of that part of Germany that had Anti-Fascism written on its red banners.’ Katharina, in contrast, was born after the war and is characterised by a certain political apathy despite her youth; rather, she comes across as a citizen of the imminent reunification. When she travels to the West for an internship in Frankfurt and gets romantically involved with a colleague, this fluidity of her character becomes even more apparent. As her interactions with Vadim, her colleague, progresses slowly and spontaneously, her relationship with Hans becomes even more stifling and unnatural—and what comes across as the modern sexual mores of East Germany soon reveal themselves to have sinister tones. Intimacies begin to mirror political realities as Hans becomes more controlling with Katharina—a danger that has subtly existed since the beginning of their acquaintance. Eventually, their relationship becomes a surrogate of East Germany, where sexual liberation sat uncomfortably with repressive surveillance, while their devolving affinity also collaterally communicates the decaying of the present and the transition towards reunification.

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“An End of the World with More Movement and Fewer Screens”: An Interview with Daniel Saldaña París

September 3, 2025  |  in Interviews  |  by Sofija Popovska

[I]f there is meaning and order, it’s not individually accessible—it can only be found in love and friendship.

Daniel Saldaña París’s novel, The Dance and the Fire, recently published in Christina MacSweeney’s translation, is a sophisticated tour-de-force centering the ungovernable forces that nourish, propel, and destroy us. In it, three estranged childhood friends are reunited as wildfires close in on the city of Cuernavaca. Besieged by inexorable change and irretrievable intimacies, the trio narrates a carnivalesque Armageddon woven from dance plagues, religious fanaticism, and natural disaster. París’s cerebral, compassionate prose encompasses a vast range of lived experiences, including the domestic, the uncanny, and the beautifully flawed. 

The Dance and the Fire is a journey through the past and the present, heading into the unspeakable core of being human. As a fan of both his earlier essay collection, Planes Flying Over a Monster (also translated by MacSweeney), and this most recent work, I was thrilled to be able to speak with Saldaña París about his writing, its major themes, and inspirations in this interview.

Sofija Popovska (SP): In Planes Flying Over a Monster, you weave personal memories together with an eclectic mix of historical anecdotes. Natalia, the first narrator in The Dance and the Fire, seems to share your archival bent, and so does the father of the third narrator, Conejo. It looks like they process how they feel about where they are at the moment by engaging with stories from the past. What does this “historian’s compulsion” mean to you?

Daniel Saldaña Paris (DSP): It’s the way I experience places. I’m in New York City right now, for example, and when I walk these streets, I always remember that the first non-native inhabitant of Manhattan was a Black man from Santo Domingo who spoke Spanish and arrived with Dutch merchants. That detail reminds me how deeply my language is interwoven with this city, and it changes how I see the place. Archives are not dead tools; they’re the original augmented reality glasses.

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from The Guard by Maisku Myllymäki

September 2, 2025  |  in Translations  |  by Tabatha Leggett

He doesn’t see himself until he takes his selfie.

What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleeping? 50 hours? 70? What about 200? In this week’s Translation Tuesday, the unnamed protagonist of Maisku Myllymäki‘s novel The Guard has been awake so long they have to write the day of the week on their hand to remember that it’s Sunday. Yet in spite of their insomnia, they remain almost hypnotically attentive: to the pilasters of columns and poorly-named green paint in the atrium of the museum where they work, to the remembered touch of their boyfriend, to the asinine behavior of museum-goers and to the strange effect of social media on personal identity. Translated into deft and subtle prose by Tabatha Leggett, this excerpt is sure to leave you eagerly awaiting a full translation of the novel. Read on!

It’s December 9, the final day of the exhibition. Tomorrow, the people in dark blue and sand grey coloured overalls will pack it all away. They’ll destroy the setting in which Peter and I first met eight months ago. They’ll wrap the artworks in paper and protective plastic sheeting and pack them into bespoke wooden chests. This is meticulous work. The art will be handled with the kind of deep tenderness very few living beings ever truly experience. Sometimes Peter touches me that way.

Once the artworks have been packed into their respective chests, they’ll be carried out of these halls. The heaviest chests will be lowered to the ground by crane. After, they’ll be sent to new halls, new exhibition spaces. They’ll traverse the sea, cross city and country borders. They’ll see things I never will. And soon, new sets of eyes will see them.

I’m sitting on a tall, black stool in the corner—the very stool on which I’ve spent countless hours sitting these past eight months and long before, supervising different artworks, different kinds of exhibition. It’s hard to remember exactly how long I’ve worked here. It’s the kind of job where nothing really gets done, no progress is made during the hours I spend in this hall. For me, a regular work day is one in which nothing extraordinary happens. In that sense, you might compare my job to that of a lifeguard.

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The 2025 Edinburgh International Book Festival: Literature of Repair

September 1, 2025  |  in Dispatches  |  by René Esaú Sánchez

[T]he Festival itself . . . is a collective project, reminding us that repair is not, and will never be, a solitary act.

Since its founding in 1983, the Edinburgh International Book Festival has aspired to be more than just a stage for acclaimed writers. It has sought to celebrate and share the transformative power of writing and ideas, welcoming both global icons and new voices. Over the years, the festival has hosted figures as varied as Toni Morrison, Noam Chomsky, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Benjamin Zephaniah, alongside an ever-renewing wave of debut authors. This year, the guiding theme was “repair,” a notion that resonates powerfully in our current moment. In this dispatch, Réne Esaú Sánchez, an Editor-at-Large for Asymptote, takes us inside the festival.

Edinburgh in August is not for the faint of heart. The city thrums with competing energies: tourists packed into every corner of the Royal Mile, actors leafleting with desperate smiles, magicians performing in the middle of the crowd, and, this year, the Oasis reunion concerts adding their own heavy dose of nostalgia to the mix. This year’s Edinburgh International Book Festival, tucked inside the Edinburgh Futures Institute and caught between the Fringe’s relentless performances and the surging crowds, the Festival carved out a rare space for reflection amid the urban cacophony.

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

August 29, 2025  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Andriana Hamas, Ibrahim Fawzy, and José García Escobar

The latest from Egypt, Bulgaria, and Central America!

This week, our editors bring news of passed icons, emerging contemporary voices, and ongoing celebrations and commemorations of writers whose works continue to find relevance and vitality. Read on to find out more!

Ibrahim Fawzy, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Egypt

With the passing of the maverick Egyptian novelist Sonallah Ibrahim on August 13, Arabic literature has lost one of its fiercest voices and most uncompromising innovators. A novelist whose life and art were inseparable, Ibrahim transformed the experience of political imprisonment and disillusionment into a new literary form—a documentary style blurring the line between fiction and archive, testimony and imagination.

With his searing debut, That Smell—a slim novel once censored for its stark account of alienation and defeat—Ibrahim was widely regarded as a writer who heralded the arrival of the so-called “Generation of the Sixties.” From there, he would move into the biting satire of The Committee, the sprawling narratives of Sharaf and Warda, and the layered social chronicles of Zaat, documenting the disappointments and contradictions of modern Egypt with unparalleled clarity. His prose was stripped down, almost forensic, yet behind its austere surface pulsed the fury of a writer determined to expose what power sought to conceal. READ MORE…

Announcing Our August Book Club Selection: Safe Corridor by Jan Dost

August 28, 2025  |  in Book Club, Reviews  |  by Ibrahim Fawzy

Amidst Safe Corridor’s war, the child has become the historian, recording what adults try to forget.

“Children,” Jan Dost tells us, “grow up quickly in wars.” In his bold and unflinching Safe Corridor, the author demonstrates this brutal reality through the eyes of a young narrator caught within Syria’s civil conflict, resulting in a phantasmagorical, gripping account that not only captures the violent facts, but also the mind’s attempts to accept them. As Dost moves seamlessly between the surreal, the absurd, the tragic, and the enraging, the novel engages with the true consequences and aftermaths of loss: who—or what—one becomes after surviving the unthinkable.

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. 

Safe Corridor by Jan Dost, translated from the Arabic by Marilyn Booth, DarArab, 2025

“On the evening when young Kamiran began to realise that he was turning into a lump of chalk, rain was bucketing down.” With this devastatingly surreal image, Jan Dost’s Safe Corridor—gracefully translated by Marilyn Booth—immerses its readers in a scene that brings to mind Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. A Syrian-Kurdish writer-translator based in Germany, Dost is one of Syria’s most important living authors with sixteen novels to his name, most of which center the realities and consequences of his home nation’s civil war. Safe Corridor, originally published in Arabic in 2019 as Mamar Āmin, entrusts this testimony of a devastated country to a voice least equipped—and yet most fated—to bear it. Told through a fragile, furious, and often surreal narration, the novel captures how war is not only fought on battlefields but also inscribed upon the bodies and imaginations of children. As the acclaimed Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish puts it in his poem “The War Will End”:

I don’t know who sold our homeland
But I saw who paid the price.

Roland Gary, in his introduction to Kafka: A Collection of Critical Essays, states that the Czech writer’s work “belongs unmistakably to the twentieth century . . . because his sense of man’s fate is deeply bound up with the atrocities and nightmares of the age.” Similar atrocities have persisted into our own century, ensuring that Kafka’s worlds remain an enduring source of inspiration for many writers worldwide—especially Arab novelists. They are the worlds of the absurd, marked by estrangement and fear, wherein one is perpetually hounded by unseen forces they cannot name, condemned to live within utter futility. READ MORE…

A Marred and Martyred Language: An Interview with Ahmad Almallah on Writing from the Borderlands

August 27, 2025  |  in Interviews  |  by Alton Melvar M Dapanas

For you to understand poetry, you must see the human action it reflects and the one that gave it form on the page.

Palestinian poet Ahmad Almallah’s second collection, Border Wisdom, is a searing love song of longing, memory, and language. It is a heart-wrenching evocation of the poet’s mother, Nawal, and of the poet’s own identity, familial lineage, and their occupied homeland. Woven with epigraphs from Ahmad Shawqi and Emily Dickinson, the collection propels itself smoothly between English and Arabic with erasure poetry, Arabic khatt, shape-poems, and English prose that chart the poet’s topographies of Philadelphia, Beirut, Vermont, and Bethlehem, along with the reimagined terrain of his mother’s Amman and al-Khalil. 

Border Wisdom pulsates with the poet’s estrangements: from his home, from his father, from the contours of his own memory. And echoing through as though an aftershock is a disclosure from the book’s last few pages: “Dear reader, I’ve been pretending all along to have a second language. Actually/in reality/basically/essentially/ I don’t know anything in Arabic.” 

In this conversation, I spoke with Dr. Almallah about Border Wisdom, mistranslations, and his labyrinthine poetics of negotiation between Arabic and English.

Alton Melvar M Dapanas (AMMD): Your second poetry collection, Border Wisdom, was published by Winter Editions in 2023. How did the poems in this collection come together over time? And what has the experience of sharing this work with the world been like for you?

Ahmad Almallah (AA): The poems began to come together before and after my mother’s disappearance from this world. The world of borders did not allow me to be by her side in her final hours. It was in 2021; I was trying to be there for her but the Israeli Occupying Forces (IOF) launched a large operation to quell protests over kicking people out of their homes in Sheikh Jarrah, and Gaza ended up being hit the hardest as Israel was flexing its military power on innocent Palestinians as has been for seventy-seven years now.

At that point, I chose to leave the West Bank to be with my family in the US. A week after that I got news that my mother was no longer of the living. I was advised not to go back. I found myself flipping through the poems of Emily Dickinson and I happened on the line “there is a finished feeling at the grave.” It was then that I decided to go back to Palestine. The first thing that came to my mind when I walked into the room where my mother spent the final days of her life was that she was not dead. She had just disappeared. And the same thought stayed with me when I visited her grave. I wasn’t there to witness her body put in the ground. This is when I began to hold onto the idea of disappearance as an alternative to death. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from the Stain, the Jacket, the Rooms, the Pain by Wilhelm Genazino

August 26, 2025  |  in Translations  |  by Charlie N. Zaharoff

A look delivers the quickest verdict; its production requires no more than a second’s time.

“What do you do when you can’t manage to write a book? I’ll tell you: You make little notes, observations, anecdotes, sketch individual scenes. And then? You piece them together indiscriminately.” Thus wrote one irate critic of the Stain, the Jacket, the Rooms, the Pain—but they were wrong.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you an excerpt from Wilhelm Genazino‘s mid-career masterpiece, translated from the German by Charlie N. Zaharoff. Here, the superficially aimless wanderings of our unnamed protagonist give way to a complex pattern of references and emotional resonances, his catalogue of observations accumulating into a vivid psychological portrait. What results is not a traditional dramatic novel, but rather, a powerful meditation on memory and loss. On the process of choosing an excerpt, the translator writes: “I had to make peace with the fact that I was doing a sort of violence to the text by snipping threads—visible or invisible—where they were not meant to be snipped. It felt worth it to give readers a sample of Genazino’s work, which with the exception of one novel remains untranslated into English.” Read on!

I step into the Rialto, the second-largest Italian café in town, and take a spot at the long counter, which reaches from the depths of the room up to the glass doors in front. I ask for an espresso and the telephone and dial Gesa’s number, although I’ll hardly say a word to her. The call is just a pretense. Gesa picks up. I say: I’m in the Rialto, do you want to hear Italy? She says: Yes. Then I am silent and hold the receiver towards the counter. From time to time, when she is sitting alone in her room, Gesa wants to be interrupted by the sounds of an Italian bar. She loves the quick setting of espresso dishes on the glass counter, the clacking of cups on the saucers, the laying of spoons beside the full cups, the snapping of the ice-cream scoop, the light sputter of the fruit press, the skating back-and-forth of metal ice-cream bowls on the counter, the pressure of freshly uncapped bottles, the opening and closing of heavy fridge doors, the clicking of ice cubes in slender glasses, the impact of a bottle opener on a marble slab, the hissing of the espresso machine, the dumping of coffee grounds into wooden trash bins. This is what she wants to hear: the sound of a more distant life that infiltrates her own for one minute, like a promise. After a while I ask: Is it good? Yes, it is good. Gesa laughs, and from her laugh you can tell that her life has rotated once around itself. I say: See you later. We hang up, I give back the telephone, pay and go.

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Nostalgia and Aesthetic Inertia: A Review of The Last Soviet Artist by Victoria Lomasko

August 25, 2025  |  in Reviews  |  by Sonakshi Srivastava

The Last Soviet Artist compels readers to take note, to research, and to reflect. . .

The Last Soviet Artist by Victoria Lomasko, translated from the Russian by Bela Shayevich, n+1 Books, 2025

The title of this review is part borrowed from, and part inspired by a subsection of Svetlana Boym’s The Future of Nostalgia. A meditation that concerns itself with the capacious titular affect, Boym studies nostalgia through the revolutionary era of perestroika, the fall of the Soviet Union, and well into the present. While she categorizes two types of nostalgia, restorative and reflective—the former more active, seeking to reconstruct the past, and the latter passive, dwelling in yearning—she caveats that these are only “tendencies, ways of giving shape and meaning to longing.” While reading Victoria Lomasko’s The Last Soviet Artist, a third degree of nostalgia emerges: the residual. Nostalgia’s escape from the decay of romanticization towards a productive politic of collective and self-exploration feeds the heart of the text. 

Translated from the Russian by Bela Shayevich, Lomasko’s latest—a graphic reportage that blends elements of memoir—was initially planned as a sequel to her Other Russias, which she mentions in her introduction. I hold a particular reverence for introductions; these precise portals often reveal more of the author’s motivations than is written on the surface, and Lomasko’s is particularly transparent. There is an urgency—we learn that Lomasko has self-exiled in response to Russia’s iron grip of heavy censorship and repression. In her home country, there is no room for imagination, no space for artists, and social activism has been systematically stifled. This realization dispels the awe Lomasko had held for “those fairytale pictures and stories” that she grew up reading about an everlasting friendship among the fifteen Soviet republics. Any remaining traces of nostalgia for “that period” soon erode away when Lomasko, seeking photocopies of her work clandestinely at a museum in Belarus, realizes that her body remembered what it “had really meant to be a Soviet person.” 

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

August 22, 2025  |  in Dispatches, News  |  by MARGENTO and Sayani Sarkar

The latest literary news from Romania and India!

This week, our editors-at-large introduce us to transnational literary communities and newly-translated classic literature. From experimental poetry festivals to reading recommendations in contemplation of the 79th anniversary of India’s independence, read on to find out more!

MARGENTO, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Romania

Indefatigable Florin Dan Prodan—just back from Egypt where he co-organized the performance poetry festival & interdisciplinary colloquium Interwoven Voices, and on his way to co-organizing a writing residency and poetry-and-music festival in Annapurna National Park (in Nepal’s Himalayas) and Pokhara City—threw a poetry festival in his home, northern Romania. Via Poetica, which ran from August 10th through the 14th, kicked off in the cultural hub and university city of Iasi and featured established names such as Radu Andriescu and Prodan himself alongside remarkable alternative voices such as past Asymptote contributor Simona Nastac, experimental novelist Paul Mihalache, and the lyrically contemplative Luminița Amarie. While the roster of performance poets slightly varied as the festival moved from Iasi to Prodan’s hometown of Suceava to the UNESCO-heritage medieval Voroneț monastery, a mainstay was the experimental avantgarde electronic music of Ranter’s Bay that has already resounded across Europe and beyond.

Special mention should be made of two genuinely experimental poets that were featured on every single night of the festival, whose inclusion contributed significantly to the festival’s international profile. Rhys Trimble, a Zambian-born Welsh poet, recently joined Prodan and the Zidul de Hartie (Paper Wall) collective’s initiatives, participating in both Interwoven Voices in Cairo, and now, Via Poetica in Romania. Trimble does bilingual work in Welsh and English and is strongly active as an improvisational performance and installation artist, musician, visual poet, and interdisciplinary-poetics academic. Another Welsh poet, David Greenslade, has split his time between Wales and Romania for a few years now, after traveling the world as an English teacher. He writes in both English and Welsh while experimenting (and performing) with “used and usable material objects” such as diagrams, tools, vegetables, and signs, and creatively engaging with visual and aural pareidolia (pattern-seeking misperceptions).   READ MORE…

The Poetics of Fatherhood: A Conversation with Robin Myers on Translating Andrés Neuman’s A Father Is Born

August 21, 2025  |  in Book Club, Interviews  |  by Maddy Robinson

[P]reservation in translation is a conversation, opening the work to new and unexpected places.

Andrés Neuman’s A Father Is Born, translated with delicate precision by Robin Myers, is a quietly powerful meditation on fatherhood, language, and identity. This slender volume delicately weaves poetic vignettes and prose reflections, capturing the intimate transformation of becoming a parent, and Myers, having worked on the translation during her own pregnancy, brings an empathetic awareness to the text’s subtle rhythms and linguistic surprises. The dialogue also touches on linguistic shifts, cultural inheritance, and the vibrant literary ‎scenes of Buenos Aires and Mexico City—culminating in a tender exploration of voice, translation, and the evolving nature of home.

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. 

Maddy Robinson (MR): The book is such a quietly beautiful collection of aphorisms, blending poetry and prose to explore the experience of fatherhood. When you’re tasked with finding a narrative voice so closely aligned with the author’s own, how does that compare to translating fiction?

Robin Myers (RM): That’s a wonderful question. Having worked with both life writing and fiction, I honestly don’t feel there’s a huge difference. What matters most is paying close attention to what the language is doing on the page—trying to understand and honor the author’s choices.

For this particular book, it falls along a spectrum of Andrés’s styles. I’ve had the honor of translating his work before—both his early novel Bariloche, which he wrote at a very young age, and also a book of his poetry. What I find remarkable about A Father Is Born is how it combines his novelistic sensibility with the precision of poetry; there’s something about the spareness and distilled quality of this book that I also find in his fiction. The voice emerges from those deliberate decisions.

The text is elliptical, presenting quick vignette-like scenes, from the interior world of preparing for fatherhood to welcoming the child, and the intensity of early parenthood. It also beautifully captures the child’s formation and psyche. It was important for me to attend to the imagery and the surprising, somewhat unconventional sentence structures Andrés uses—which are rarely predictable. Translating this invited me to stay alert to that strangeness in his sentences.

The book is deeply earnest but also includes humor, sometimes self-deprecating. I also tried to retain those moments with their original oddness in English.

MR: As a reader, one of the remarkable things about books like this is how we experience them differently depending on where we are in life. I think the same is true of translation: a book arrives at a time in your life when you least expect it. I happen to know that this book found you at a very fitting moment in your life. Could you talk about that a bit? READ MORE…