Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #4 Anthropocene by Carolina Brown

A cocktail with notes of dark humor, existential dread, and a macabre aftertaste to complete a hard-hitting flavor.

Our fourth most popular article of 2025 is a stand-out from the Summer 2025 issue: “Anthropocene” by Carolina Brown (tr. Jessica Powell). In this literally biting cli-fi, we follow two postdocs investigating the excrement of an endangered penguin species in Antarctica. To give you a taste of the narrator’s acerbic voice, here’s how the story begins:

I’ve caught myself, several times a day, thinking about Octavio’s pelican dewlap. The thing about doing research full time is that it leads you to fantasize; you spend a lot of time alone and sampling is a repetitive task. Also, who hasn’t dreamed of killing a coworker? Everyone has, obviously. Of course they have. People have this image of scientists as evolved, circumspect types. What’s that word people use to describe Brits? Phlegmatic. 

Alex feels uncomfortably real—the details of their study are intriguing, and their isolation is felt as raw misery. The tension that builds between Alex and Octavio is intense and engrossing; we’re kept on our toes by razor-sharp exchanges and an unapologetic stream of consciousness. A well of pity for Alex quickly morphs into a raging sense of alarm for our futures. The touch of climate horror presents a perfectly believable future to our present, belying an entirely appropriate sense of anxiety. READ MORE…

Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #5 Pickled by Johanna Sebauer

Society must confront the question: do we really still need the pickle?

Coming in at number five is a matter of contentious debate, a real pickle. No, really. Winter 2025 gave us “Pickled” by Johanna Sebauer (tr. Lillian M. Banks and Aaron Sayne), a hilarious morsel of Austrian humor.  This is a piece that distills the fanaticism of trends and the infectious capacity of unworthy opinions.

What comes first, milk or cereal? Toothpaste or water? Yes, there is a correct answer. Yes, it’s still wrong to someone, vehemently so. With a finger on the heated pulse of such disagreements, Sebauer adds to the genre with the identity crisis of a pickle—the question being, should it exist?

In a newsroom office setting, instigating character Pertak is burned by pickle brine while opening a jar. In total shock at the unchecked damage of this vicious snack, he takes it upon himself to raise the alarm. What should be a lone man’s subway take evolves into a national tirade against the pickle. Our unfortunate narrator becomes witness to a gag gone rabid.

 Isn’t it time we took a closer look, he wrote, at pickles packed in vinegar? The liquid can rob a person of his sight, yet it is being sold on local supermarket shelves as-is, no warning labels, within easy reach of children! Who knows what damage accidents involving pickle juice have already caused? And what about our much-vaunted socialized health care system, already on shaky ground: shouldn’t we help save it by calling these liquids what they are? A menace!

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Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #6 from Elegies of the Earth by Ahmad Shamlou

With protest as poetry, resistance as love—Shamlou offers inspiring sentiments to guide us in the new year.

Our sixth most-read article of the year is a golden find from our Summer 2025 issue, an excerpt from the late Ahmad Shamlou’s (1925-2000) “Elegies of the Earth(tr. Niloufar Talebi). A nominee for the Nobel Prize in Literature, Shamlou’s time-honored status as a poet, translator, editor, and Irani cultural icon is a known fact. What better time to honor the literary great than the year of his centennial? With a body of work that stretches past seventy, we have Niloufar Talebi to thank for these deftly translated verses that impart Shamlou’s belief that “poetry should incite, uplift, and endure.”

As the people’s poet from a time when poetry was public speech, Shamlou’s contemporary blend of East and West has aged all too well. His legacy lives on through poignant works; feather-light in speech yet dense in meaning.

Sample an excerpt:

from Nocturnal (Among the Eternal Suns)

Among the eternal suns
your beauty
is an anchor—
a sun
that frees me
from the dawn of all stars.

Your gaze
is the fall of tyranny—
a gaze that dressed
my bare soul
in love
so fully that now
the darkest night of never
feels like nothing but a comedy of ironies.

Your eyes told me
tomorrow
is a new day—
eyes that spark love!
And now, your love:
a weapon
to wrestle with my fate.

*

I had thought the sun lay beyond the horizon,
that no escape remained but an early exit,
or so I had believed.

Then came Aida, undoing the eternal exit.

 

August 1962 
From Aida in the Mirror (Nil Press, 1964)

Shamlou’s romantic view of love as the ultimate weapon against oppression is a tale as old as time, one that continues to endure in its truth. Fearless and bold in its emotion, composed in mesmerizing language, this piece unlocks that which supercedes all: sacred freedom.

It’s also ultimately an eloquent reminder of what matters most from a revolutionary that came before us. With protest as poetry, resistance as love—Shamlou offers inspiring sentiments to guide us in the new year. 

As we reach the second half of this year’s round-up, check-in tomorrow for number five!

READ OUR SIXTH MOST WIDELY READ ARTICLE OF THE YEAR

*****

Discover more on the Asymptote blog:

 

Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #7 Love and Mistranslation by Youn Kyung Hee

This seamless work of lyrical criticism charts a path that begins with this: poems as gifts.

Poems, they are also gifts—gifts to the deeply attentive. Fate-carrying gifts. 

—Paul Celan, letter to Hans Bender, May 18, 1960

 

Merry Christmas! #7 is a perfect pick for today. A crowning jewel of our Spring 2025 issue, The Gift, is  “Love and Mistranslation”  by Youn Kyung Hee (tr. Spencer Lee-Lenfield). Youn’s prose is beyond gorgeous—translator Lee-Lenfield described it best, saying she “revels in tight and rhythmic choreography of long sentences, in menageries of carefully chosen vocabulary, in sheer love of the expressive capabilities of Korean.” Complementary to the season, this seamless work of lyrical criticism charts a path that begins with this: poems as gifts.

The concepts of ‘poem’ and ‘gift’ are flipped inside out as Youn flows from one point to the next, enlightening us further with each progression. Key observations point to the ‘postal essence’ of gifts, and poems as ‘words in motion.” Youn likens the latter to the message in a bottle—the poem is adrift, a precious gift for the reader who meditates on the meaning, and impassioned by the art, pays it forward through translation.

A poem-gift is only unlocked by the deeply attentive. The reader becomes a poet through translation, and in turn, the sender-poet becomes the recipient. In the process of engagement, ‘mistranslation’ is poetic embellishment, born out of a love for the message.

Youn deeply appreciates the artistry of exchanging one term for another, the symphony of finding words that capture the ‘right’ meaning. After all, “What should we call this person, who says in poems what the poet does not say, if not “a poet”? And so, mistranslations increasingly disappear. Even mistranslations are a different language turning into a poem.”

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Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #8 The House of Termites by Ubah Cristina Ali Farah

Whether displacement is forced or voluntary, there is one prevailing symptom: loss.

Coming in at number eight, “The House of Termites” is a poetic essay from our Winter 2025 issue by Somali-Italian writer Ubah Cristina Ali Farah (tr. Brandon Michael Cleverly Breen) that paradoxically succeeds at being both unique and universal. As she reflects on a life between borders, from Somalia to Italy to Belgium, Ali Farah ponders a question close to all migrants: What does it mean to live in exile?

This work is a treasure trove for the reflective reader. Sure to be bookmarked, there is a goldmine of pensive moments to glean wisdom from. One of many to start us off: “Migrating means disappearing into yourself, dying and being reborn, running the risk of becoming invisible, or rather, of being seen in another way.”

Whether displacement is forced or voluntary, there is one prevailing symptom: loss. There is a constant undercurrent of disconnection from the physical space one inhabits and their distant home. Ali Farah draws on the wisdom of James Baldwin to describe this condition:

My obsession had always been that of reimagining Mogadishu, my “Garden of Eden,” even if it was anything but a terrestrial paradise. “Maybe life only offers the possibility of remembering the garden or forgetting it,” Baldwin writes in Giovanni’s Room. “One thing or the other: you need strength to remember, you need another kind of strength to forget, and you need to be a hero to do both things together.” 

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Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #9 When I looked into the face of my torturer . . . I recognized my old school-friend by Bassam Yousuf

This evocative piece blends warm and melancholic notes that linger long after reading.

One day, as I was undergoing yet another round of torture from the secret police in the infamous Palestine Branch, I cried out: “Abdullah al-Daliyah!” Abdullah al-Daliyah is one of our Alawite ancestors, a saint whose name the men from my village invoke to this day when they’re in dire straits. The man torturing me suddenly stopped and yanked off my blindfold. With a wild-eyed stare, he demanded: “Who are you?”

I kept quiet, since in the opposition we were strictly forbidden ever to disclose our names. He shouted in agitation: “Say something! Are you Bassam?”

I nodded. Turning away, he marched around the interrogation room, then closed the door and continued pacing up and down without looking at me. Finally he wheeled around and asked, his eyes full of tears: “Don’t you know me?”

I shook my head. After ten years, he was unrecognizable. With a sigh, he bowed his head. “I’m Abdullah . . . ”

Occasionally, one comes across circumstances so unbelievable they can only be engineered by fate. Coming in at No. 9 in our countdown of the most-read articles of 2025, this poignant piece of nonfiction follows Syrian political activist Bassam Yousuf (tr. Katherine Van de Vate) as he reflects on his relationship with a childhood friend, Abdullah. In this essay featured in our Summer 2025 issue, Yousuf traces their parallel paths as he sides with the political opposition, and Abdullah with the Assad regime—a choice that culminates in their bitter reunion. The title gives it away: “When I looked into the face of my torturer . . . I recognized my old school-friend.”

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Our Top Ten Articles of 2025, as Chosen by You: #10 Attention as Predation: Fields of Influence and Omnivorous Forces of Alignment by Johanna Drucker

Attention consumes its participants—subjects and objects alike—and in its current ravenous high scale dynamic, becomes predatory.

Before we turn the page on the tumultuous year that was 2025, let’s look back on the pieces that readers couldn’t stop reading, sharing, and talking about—i.e., our most popular articles across four massive quarterly issues. From insightful essays to mind-bending fictions, this curated-by-you selection features work from all around the world that not only captured your attention but also seized your imagination. Wonder if your own favorite made the list? Every day from now till Dec 31st, we’ll be counting down to our most-read article of the year, so come back here each day to find out!

First up at #10 is Johanna Drucker’s “Attention as Predation: Fields of Influence and Omnivorous Forces of Alignment”—a fitting grand opening to our Fall 2025 Special Feature themed on attention, as urgent to the moment as it is riveting a read.

Distinguished Professor Emerita in the Department of Information Studies at UCLA, Drucker poses a radical re-imagining of the nature of attention itself. Rather than a self-willed, intentional act, Drucker describes the exchange of attention between subject and object as a bottomless energy field where we consume as we are consumed: an ouroboric cycle where we feed off a topic as it feeds off our attention. The result is a serious argument for us all living in dystopia.

Drucker’s theory is an enlightening framework for the digital age, importantly, one that credits attention as the primary instrument of authoritarianism—Exhibit A: Donald Trump’s command of the media landscape.

Here’s a brief explanation in Drucker’s own words:

“Most recently, the Trump phenomenon demonstrates the way the accumulation of attention
becomes a social force, a type of predation on the body politic in which influence devours the
source on which it feeds . . . they become consumed in the process of absorption, returning the investment of attention to the system which, in turn increases in energy and demands more attention to sustain itself. Huge as they are, enormous as transactional beings, focal points in a massive network of attention exchange, the central figures are themselves colonized by the process. In a vulnerable individual, this can be fatal, but in a socio-pathological one the focal object inflates, feeding from an increasingly insatiable need.
. . . 
Authoritarianism works through alignment. Alignment is driven by affect and instrumentalized through attention. Attention consumes its participants—subjects and objects alike—and in its current ravenous high scale dynamic, becomes predatory. The monopoly will only be broken by distributing attention across multiple attractors the terms and values of which remain to be determined but must operate through an appeal to affect.”

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest literary news from Palestine, Hong Kong, and Kenya!

This week, our editors-at-large report on new spaces and events for literature springing up even in the face of oppression and loss. From Gaza’s first public library to Xi Xi’s teddy bears to the legacy of a lost literary lion in Kenya, read on to find out more!

Shatha Abd El Latif, Editor-at-Large, reporting on Palestine

“There are moments in history when the creation of a library becomes an act of freedom itself.”

Those were the words of Omar and Ibrahim on the fundraiser campaign page they set up to build the first public library in Gaza after the genocide. Omar is a displaced Gazan writer from Beit Hanoun, and Ibrahim is an English school teacher and translator. On the page, Ibrahim describes a curious intellectual wrestling with the big dogs of the Western canon that eventually landed him at the feet of the literatures of the oppressed. Of this literature of resistance, he writes: “I felt that books themselves became a kind of land, and that the pen was a root no one could uproot.”

Omar and Ibrahim speak to their audience about a time when books were their only refuge from the horrors of the blockade, and tell us of the moments where they discovered that their books, pieces of their bereaved souls, survived the bombing of their houses. Omar’s documentation on social media of the dust-covered books, hours spent digging in the rubble, and carrying his books twelve times over with every displacement—sometimes in unique ways, i.e. in his keffiyeh, quickly sparked international interest in his and Ibrahim’s project.

Israel’s genocidal war destroyed at least twenty-one of Gaza’s libraries and killed over 45 writers and artists in Gaza in a soulless act of colonial vengeance, striking at the heart of a people’s cultural spirit. I was so incredibly moved as I scrolled down Omar’s Instagram and watched as he installed the library, book by book, on a dilapidated shelf in a tent. The steadfast mission they chose for themselves in the service of their community speaks to a not-so-unfamiliar spirit of resistance that Palestinians carried within themselves against the absolute annihilation of their home and history.

This project does not exist in a vacuum. Rather, it is rooted within a political consciousness that hails the resisting spirit in the face of a genocidal, colonial power. What we must be wary of, nonetheless, is the temptation to glorify the struggle and pain that comes with this act of preservation and perseverance born during a genocide while shying away from confronting the structural complicity of our cultural and academic institutions in the literary genocide of Gaza’s writers, librarians, and educators.

The search for a place to house Omar and Ibrahim’s library was over early this week. Following a month and a half long search, Omar announced on his Instagram that they were finally able to find a place to start building their library. There remains a long path ahead, still.

Omar and Ibrahim’s project goes well beyond just putting together a physical library space; rather, it serves a larger mission to rebuild Gaza’s literary scene and combat Zionism’s long-in-the-making scholasticidic and epistemicidic war—and their campaign’s goals, which include “[r]ebuilding Gaza’s spirit through knowledge” and “[b]uild[ing] hope and keep[ing] culture alive,” serve as further evidence.

You can donate to Omar and Ibrahim’s campaign via this link to rebuild Gaza’s first public library.

Charlie Ng, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Hong Kong READ MORE…

Unreliable Narrator, Unreliable Translator: Nicholas Glastonbury on Sener Ozmen’s The Competition of Unfinished Stories

. . . if we can unmake or destabilize the novel, we might similarly destabilize the nation, which warrants or conscripts the novel.

The Competition of Unfinished Stories is one of those texts that would be classified as “untranslatable” by the more cynical amongst us. Aside from addressing the intricate language politics of Turkey—namely the oppression and marginalization of Kurdish—Sener Ozmen’s text is full of jokes, narrative tangles, loose ends, shapeshifting characters, and suspicious translators. As such, the English edition of the novel is a triumph, not only in Nicholas Glastonbury’s fluid and adventurous prose, but also in his own interjections that celebrate the original’s chaos and multiplicity. In this interview, he speaks on the challenges of translating the book, authorial authority, and language’s resistance to containment.

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.   

Hilary Ilkay (HI): This is a challenging and strange book! How did you find out about it? Did you pitch it to a publisher, or was it pitched to you?

Nicholas Glastonbury (NG): I met Sener maybe six years ago. I was in Diyarbakır doing research for my PhD, and there was an organization trying to build an online platform for Kurdish literature, given all of the obstacles that it has in accessing foreign language audiences, and I did some work for them. I was aware of Sener’s work a little bit, but when I met him, I became really interested in it. He’s also a visual artist, so I became really interested in how he saw the world. He’s also written quite a few books; The Competition of Unfinished Stories is his second novel, and the title is what drew me in. After I read it, I thought, what is going on here? This is a crazy book. Then I began pitching it around, and it landed with Sandorf Passage, which I’m very happy about.

HI: I was delighted to discover Sener’s prolific artistic practice when I was reviewing the book. I wonder if you could say a little bit about how you see his practice as a visual artist influencing his writing. Do you see an interplay between his art and the way that he constructs stories and narratives?

NG: I think he’s really interested in the absurd. For example, there’s one photograph of his that comes to mind; it’s a group of men hoisting a flag up a flagpole, and they’re all wearing neck braces, and they’re unable to look up at the flag. There’s a tension between violence and nation, and the obligation to nation is very much an aspect of this novel.

He has another piece, a sequence of photographs of himself dressed as Superman. He takes off his cape and uses it as a prayer rug, and the title of the work is “Supermuslim.” He’s got a real sense of humor about things that are so heavy and serious.

There was another piece he did called “Road to Tate Modern,” which is him and another artist trying to make their way to London, to the museum. They do a kind of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza act, riding a horse and a donkey, asking shepherds around the Kurdish countryside where the Tate Modern is. And the shepherds say things like, oh, it’s just over the hill. . . So there’s a sense of the distance that Kurdish cultural production has to surmount in order to reach international audiences—of course conditioned by the violences of the nation-state—that comes through in both his writing and his visual work. I think the way that his approach to writing is shaped by his visual work is how he captures images. For example, in The Competition of Unfinished Stories, the image of Neil Armstrong on the prayer mat dying stands out to me, or all the scenes of Sertac masturbating. There’s a real sense of creating these absurd tableaus, and I think that’s probably influenced by how he sees and visualizes the world through his art.

HI: You have such an impressive and interesting portfolio of translations under your belt and I’m curious, given the scope of your work, what made Ozmen’s writing unique, or what stood out about the way that he wrote? And related to that, what was the biggest challenge in trying to render this unwieldy text into English? READ MORE…

Władysław Reymont: Poland’s Chronicler of the Profane

Reymont’s work had become so particularly Polish . . . that it once again became universal.

These days, the reading world eagerly anticipates the Swedish Academy’s annual awarding of the Nobel Prize for Literature, placing bets and preparing stacks of shiny gold stickers, ready to be stamped on newly reprinted books. Yet the Prize, now over one hundred years old, has had many of its laureates fall into obscurity, either due to a seeming lack of contemporary resonance, or the changing priorities of the Academy itself. In this essay, we look towards the works of one such writer, whose pivotal titles perhaps deserve a revisit for their stylistic commitment, persistent human themes, and documentation of the times.

Władysław Reymont, Poland’s second Nobel Laureate, was born to the family Rejment in 1867; in 1892, when he was first published, he insisted on changing his name’s spelling (if not its pronunciation), in part, as Polish academic Kazimierz Wyka speculated, because of its closeness to the verb rejmentować: “to cuss” in certain Polish dialects. For some authors, this would be a humorous footnote in their biographies, but for Reymont, it proves an apt metaphor for his oeuvre. His major works—including, most famously, Ziema obiecana (The Promised Land) and Chłopi (The Peasants)—are beautiful and distinct depictions of nasty, earthy lives. Like curses disguised with respelling, they reconfigure their surprising, sometimes shocking base material, deriving elegant representations from the inelegant. Despite being drawn, like so many Polish intellectuals of his era, towards a vision of Polish nationhood that literature had to help create, Reymont opted to render Poland as a grimy, smoky, bloody place—but where he becomes intriguing, and what perhaps most compelled the Nobel Committee to award him the 1924 Prize in Literature, is when that focus on the bodily and the brutish becomes celebratory and even liberatory, for both its subjects and their nation.

Reymont was born into a Poland that was, by then, absent for decades. By 1867, the nation had been partitioned between Austria, Prussia, and Russia for nearly seventy years. Seemingly mirroring this fragmentary state, Reymont was a shoemaker, then an actor, then a linesman on the Warsaw-Vienna Railway, then a prospective candidate at a monastery, before he made his way to writing. Nonetheless (or perhaps because of his aimless decades), Reymont had established himself as a major figure in the Młoda Polska (Young Poland) movement by the end of the nineteenth century, primarily through his short fiction and travel narratives. The Young Poles—working across literature, music, and art—were neo-romantics, skeptics of the old world order that seemed to edge closer to collapse with each toppled European monarchy or imperial clash, and Reymont’s best-known works are no different. In Ziema obiecana, modernity is simply decried; in Chłopi, Reymont seeks a solution by turning inwards to Poland’s rural culture, timelessly isolated from modern concerns. In both works, we meet plenty of violence, gory detail, and literary profanity, but Reymont’s choice of subject for the latter novel reframes the grit in terms that the Nobel Committee registered as transcendental and universalist. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from Seven Seconds of Air by Luca Mael Milsch

When I hear the keys, I have to be quick.

Do you remember your childhood fondly? Selah doesn’t. In this week’s Translation Tuesday, the nonbinary protagonist of Luca Mael Milsch’s novel Seven Seconds of Air reflects on their childhood, on the inadequacy and guilt fostered by their constant separation from their working-class mother, on their inability to communicate with a parent whose ability to care for them is limited as much by the economic necessity of constant work as it is by moments of plausibly deniable cruelty.  Brilliantly translated from the German by Han Smith, these sections, written only in the present tense, capture the mind of a child forced to grow up too quickly yet nevertheless committed to a sense of optimism. Writes Han Smith, “The word that I feel is central to Selah’s voice in this section is eigentlich, or actually / really, as in: ‘everything’s actually quite okay’ – it is an attempt at self-reassurance that surely things are fine, with the ‘but’ that follows often only implied.” Read on.

1995

She’s almost never there when I get home: she’s nearly always working late. So today I heated up a frozen lasagna and I sat with my apple juice and watched TV. The little bottles are really only for going on trips, and I’m not supposed to drink them at home. But still, I just like those bottles, and it means I don’t have to wash an extra glass. I sink right into the sofa sometimes. My mother says: melt into it. If I’m still hungry I go and check in the kitchen to see what else we have to eat, and today there was an open pack of crisps and ice-cream too, but my mother can always tell if something’s missing so it’s better to wait and see what she says. In the fridge there was a yoghurt, and I thought she might be fine with that. That was what I hoped, that it wouldn’t be too bad. Then I headed back to the living room.

Sometimes I like to touch the screen with my fingers, even if I know it isn’t allowed. I’m really not meant to go near it at all, because it isn’t safe and I might also somehow break it. But when I touch the surface, when it’s on, that is, it crackles out and I jump back with the shock. Even though I know it’s going to happen – somehow I just forget every time. I’ve actually thought quite a lot about falling through time or even disappearing completely, and I wish something could maybe pull me into the TV, into the programme I’m watching, and then I’d just be gone.

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What’s New in Translation: December 2025

The latest from Japan, Peru, Germany, Austria, Czechia, South Korea, Brazil, and Hungary!

In our final round-up of the year, we present a thrilling novel capturing the margins of Germany as the nation begins to veer into fascism, a collection gathering the voices of powerful Hungarian women poets, a Brazilian novel testifying to the colonial erasure of indigenous language and being, a series of essays considering the act of reading as an oppositional force against capitalism, and more!

kappa

Kappa by Ryonosuke Akutagawa, translated from the Japanese by Geoffrey Bownas, Pushkin Press, 2025

Review by Kaelie Giffel

Even if one is unfamiliar with his work, English readers will recognize the name Ryonosuke Akutagawa from the prestigious Japanese literary prize, named after him posthumously by a friend. Kappa is a novella published in the final year of the author’s life. Pushkin Press’s reissue of Geoffrey Bownas’s 1970 translation comes on the heels of a 2023 retranslation by Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda and Allison Markin Powell, published by New Directions in 2023. Multiple, competing translations indicate the continued importance of Akutagawa’s work, which has a renewed urgency in our time.

Kappa is a philosophical meditation on whether difference can be encountered without violence and how we might meet others in the strange in-between spaces. Structured as a frame narrative, its inciting incident is the testimony of a patient in an unnamed mental institution. The patient speaks about meeting strange creatures with tummy pouches called Kappas. The Kappas have their own cultural, historical, and philosophical institutions and orientations to life, and the narrator lives among them for a while, alternately admiring, baffled, or repulsed as he learns more about their existence. They oppose birth control for silly reasons; sacrifice workers who have been laid off by literally eating them; prohibit artistic performance because they believe the general public to be hopelessly stupid; and are generally misogynist—female Kappas are cast as libidinous huntresses that oppress male Kappas. The narrator is bewildered by the similarities and differences between himself (Japanese) and the Kappanese. Hence, the mental institution.  READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

Literary updates from the Philippines, Bulgaria, and India!

This week, our Editors-at-Large report on the latest in literary news from the Philippines, Bulgaria, and India. From an open submission call for Filipino literature in translation, to a controversial AI-focused poetry competition in Bulgaria and a series of award-winning Indian titles, read on to learn more.

Alton Melvar M Dapanas, Editor-at-Large, reporting from the Philippines

Kritika Kultura, a scholarly journal of literary, language, and cultural studies published semi-annually by Ateneo de Manila University is now welcoming submissions for a Special Literary Section on Filipino Literature in Translation. Placing particular emphasis on literary translations from nearly two hundred Philippine languages into English, this special literary section will cast a critical light on the often-unseen compromises and negotiations involved in bringing these works to the Anglosphere.

Guest-edited by translator, poet, and scholar Dr Christian Jil Benitez, the folio seeks to offer more than translation. ‘The special literary section aims to show the variety of ways translators from Philippine languages mediate Filipino literature with the Anglophone world linguistically, culturally, and even institutionally,’ he said.

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Honouring Amílcar Cabral

. . . the issues Cabral championed throughout his life . . . remain as relevant today and resonate with other social movements.

Poet, revolutionary, scientist, politician: Amílcar Cabral took many roles throughout his extraordinary life, including leading the nationalist movements of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde. Admired for his staunch ideals and his uncompromising vision of pan-Africanism, many of his ideas continue to be found in anti-oppression rhetorics and movements all over the world. In this essay, Bethlehem Attfield takes a look at his legacy—one that has spread far beyond the African continent—fifty years after his nation’s independence.

This year, Cape Verde is celebrating a special milestone: the fiftieth anniversary of the nation’s independence. Yet, the celebrations actually began the year before, in honour of what would have been the hundredth birthday of the country’s founding hero, Amílcar Cabral (1924–73). Cabral was a political leader who founded the African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC), and led an armed struggle to free both nations from Portuguese colonial rule. While he is best remembered as a prominent anticolonial figure across Africa, Cabral also left a powerful legacy through his writing, poetry, and cultural ideas, many of which are collected in the volume Resistance and Decolonization, translated by Dan Wood.

Particularly intriguing are his theories concerning culture; he regarded the promotion of national spirit among the rural peasantry, whose lives remained unaffected by imperialism, as vital to national liberation. However, in terms of language use, he differed from most anticolonial leaders who condemn the destructive impact of colonial language on the cultural fabric and psyche of the colonised people. Instead, Cabral argued that the colonial suppression of cultural life in Africa was ineffective, writing:

Except for cases of genocide or the violent reduction of native populations to cultural and social insignificance, the epoch of colonization was not sufficient, at least in Africa, to bring about any significant destruction or degradation of the essential elements of the culture and traditions of the colonized peoples.

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