What’s New in Translation: December 2020

December 14, 2020  |  in New in Translation, Reviews  |  by Allison Braden, MARGENTO, and Sarah Moore

The latest in literature from Spain, Romania, and France!

Our final selections in excellent translations for the year of 2020 are fittingly full of thought. Throughout these texts, one finds the endless potential roadmaps that chart out from the individual mind’s interrogation and contemplation of their surroundings, and one’s own place within them. From a wandering mind, everything is a pool for endless reflection; a Catalan collection draws from the sea, a Romanian notebook is filled with musings and defiances of authorship, and a French diary novel tells the lives of many through the life of one. 

salt water

Salt Water by Josep Pla, translated from the Catalan by Peter Bush, Archipelago Books, 2020

Review by Allison Braden, Editor-at-Large for Argentina

On a recent virtual happy hour, my friend described a weekend camping trip on a secluded barrier island off the coast of Georgia, in the southern US. My envy verged on rage as I listened from my living room, which doesn’t get enough natural light. He said that after he and his wife kayaked over and set up their tent (annoying a resident heron in the process), they had done absolutely nothing—not even read. They sat on the shore and watched the sea. It’s easy to believe how that could have been enough.

Josep Pla would understand. In Salt Water, translated from the Catalan by Peter Bush and released by Archipelago Books this month, Pla writes that “the mere presence of the sea is enough to sink into the deliquescent bliss of the contemplative life.” His curiosity courses through the book, a series of ten sketches that revolves around the coast of Pla’s native Catalonia: he describes shipwrecks, submarines, and harebrained sailing schemes. He relates stories from a salty, one-handed raconteur and imbues the rambling tales with strikingly lifelike texture. Though his plots unfold on or near the sea, human culture is ever present. Pla revels in detail, describing at length the joy of nearly black coffee on a marginally small boat: “That beverage makes an almost immediate impact: your mind projects itself onto the outside world, you are fascinated by everything around and a gleam comes to your eyes.” This book is a product of that fascinated, caffeinated gaze.

In the preface, Pla describes the stories as writings from his adolescence. In the translator’s note at the end of the book, however, Bush clarifies that they were written in the 1940s and hypothesizes that the preface was a canny attempt to evade censorship. He points out that Pla’s “articles containing veiled critiques of the dictatorship made him the most censored journalist in Spain.” Indeed, his biography offers helpful context for the conflicting claims that bookend the collection.

As a university student a century ago, Pla developed a clear, intelligible writing style and deployed it throughout his career as a journalist. He traveled widely across Europe as a foreign correspondent and served briefly as a member of Parliament for the Commonwealth of Catalonia, a short-lived assembly notable for its symbolic value. Over its eleven years in existence, the Commonwealth promoted Catalonia’s unity and identity, and evinced strong support for the Catalan language—Pla’s language. He became a chronicler of Spain’s tumultuous early twentieth-century history and spent multiple stints in exile. In the 1940s, he took to exploring his native coast and writing dispatches for Destino, a Burgos-based magazine at the forefront of the reemergence of Catalan-language culture. Throughout his peripatetic career, Pla never stopped writing: his complete works, compiled shortly before his death in 1981, stretch over thirty-eight volumes. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

December 11, 2020  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Eva Wissting, José García Escobar, and Josefina Massot

The latest news from Central America, Sweden, and Argentina!

This week, our writers bring you the latest news from Central America, Sweden, and Argentina. A poetry festival featuring Latin American heavy hitters has just wrapped up in Guatemala, where, in addition, a new YA title draws from a military coup and a reprint tackles guerrilla warfare; Sweden’s most prestigious literary prize has been awarded in the fiction, non-fiction, and children’s book categories, and the Swedish Arts Council is trying to keep the literary sector afloat; a series of sundry voices gathered at a non-fiction festival in Argentina, where they spoke about how hard it is to narrate the pandemic—and how easy it is to honor another viral phenomenon. Read on to find out more!

José García Escobar, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Central America

Guatemala just finished the sixteenth edition of the celebrated Festival Internacional de Poesía de Quetzaltenango (FIPQ). As a virtual festival, it included readings and presentations of notorious poets including Cesar Augusto Carvalho (Brasil), Isabel Guerrero (Chile), Yousif Alhabob (Sudan), Rosa Chavez (Guatemala), and Raúl Zurita (Chile). Relive FIPQ’s closing ceremony with a performance of the Guatemalan indie-pop band, Glass Collective, here.

Guatemalan novelist and translator David Unger just put out a new YA book. Called Sleeping with the Light On, it is based on how the author and his family experienced the 1954 US-backed military coup, which overthrew the democratically elected president Jacobo Arbenz. Sleeping with the Light On (Groundwood Books) is illustrated by Carlos Aguilera.

Finally, before the end of the year Catafixia Editorial will reissue two essential books of Guatemalan history and literature, Yolanda Colom’s Mujeres en la alborada and Eugenia Gallardo’s No te apresures en llegar a la Torre de Londres porque la Torre de Londres no es el Big Ben. READ MORE…

The Shrouded Force of Fate: Anja Kampmann’s High as the Waters Rise

December 10, 2020  |  in Reviews  |  by Xiao Yue Shan

High as the Waters Rise fills the great blank canvas of loss with a precision that nourishes the fine contours of emotion.

High as the Waters Rise by Anja Kampmann, translated from the German by Anne Posten, Catapult, 2020

In the rich silt into which Titusville, Pennsylvania sinks its foundations, there was only one spot where it was possible to strike oil at the extraordinarily shallow depth of sixty-nine feet. On August 27, 1859, a small group of men, at the last-ditch orders of one Edwin Laurentine Drake, sank their pipes into the ground—guided by that unknown intuition which, in retrospect, looks terribly similar to fate—and black gold flowed forth. It is how the world flows forth from a single life, from one man’s fortune to a new forever, a radically altered world.

The idea of fate, its shrouded force, is perhaps the only abiding salve for the more devastating consequences of self-awareness. We look back on our times to construct an architecture of experiences, arranging fragments by our available logic to see what structure rises from the flood—what materializes in the aftermath to become that one reference by which we can define, or justify, our lives. For some reason, we always urge towards a singular narrative, despite sharing in the overarching suspicion that the life one leads is not one, but always many. The salvaging of this steadfast, solitary lesson is a comfort—that it indeed has all been for something. Without it, there would be only darkness, that eternal torrent, that deafening collapse.

Because Anja Kampmann begins High as the Waters Rise with an ending, we arrive at the temporary space between the shock of happening and the proceedings of salvage. Waclaw and Mátyás are longtime companions working on an oil rig, sharing in a rare and profound intimacy that dissipates the customary subscriptions of male camaraderie. When Mátyás vanishes from the ship in an incident so abrupt and absurd that it seems almost mystical, Waclaw is stirred into a potent, hypnotic grief—a grief that necessitates the sea, the infinity it conjures, which Kampmann calls upon in the vignette that opens the text: “There would only be sea, piling up and up. There would be no north or south. The water would swallow even the cries of the storm, which no ear would hear.” In the midst of these tides—which overwhelm the daily rituals of work, care, and thought—is the solitary island of memories, visions in which Mátyás is frayed at the edges by recall. Only these mirages anchor Waclaw: these small footholds of before, in the vast midnight of after.

READ MORE…

From Epic Hero to Modern Bro: On Maria Dahvana Headley’s Beowulf

December 9, 2020  |  in Essays  |  by Kwan Ann Tan

Modern translations of medieval writings are not only a link to the past, but also a reflection of what our current culture finds important.

Throughout the year and across the world, people have reluctantly adopted and updated a medieval custom: quarantine in times of plague. Other remnants of the era, however, have been much more readily embraced. The Middle Ages continue to capture our fancy (sometimes even frenzy), and the latest version of a classic tale is a perfect case in point. By keenly zooming in on some of the boldest, most innovative aspects of American author Maria Dahvana Headley’s recent translation of Beowulf, our very own Kwan Ann Tan (editor-at-large for Malaysia and medievalist-in-training) reflects on the value of bringing the past into the present.

The modern fascination with medieval language and culture is not particularly new—from the pre-Raphaelites to Hollywood blockbuster depictions of the medieval era, it’s clear that something about the Middle Ages still captivates us. In January 2020, for instance, the Facebook group ‘We Pretend It’s 1453 Internet’ was created, and it has since amassed close to 200,000 members; it’s filled with humorous posts imitating medieval speech and pretending to ask for advice on ‘medieval’ subjects (they’re not always period-accurate, but it’s the spirit that counts). Likewise, a subgenre of ‘medieval TikTok’ is gaining speed, with some genuinely funny skits reimagining what it would be like if knights were Twitch streamers—again, reformulating medieval staples to suit the modern imagination. On a more academic note, the Global Medieval Sourcebook project at Stanford University collects rare, previously untranslated medieval texts in modern English for the adventurous reader. In fact, new translations of medieval writings are being released every day, be they for academic or creative purposes.

As a child, I had vaguely heard of the story of Beowulf, but I always assumed that Beowulf himself was the monster, the antagonist—not the hero. After I memorised huge swathes of the text in the original Old English, the line between monster and hero only became more blurred; in fact, the poem’s elusive complexity has fuelled debate on this dichotomy for decades, if not centuries. There is something about Beowulf that keeps us coming back, and this lasting interest is reflected in the number of translations of the epic published over the past few decades.

When news of American author Maria Dahvana Headley’s translation (Farrar, Straus and Giroux) first broke on Twitter earlier this year, my timeline was quickly filled with messages from disgruntled medievalists complaining that yet another Beowulf translation had been unleashed upon the world. I myself approached it skeptically, but was quite literally hooked from the first word. For those who haven’t had the agonising pleasure of trying to decipher Old English for a year, it’ll teach you one word for sure: ‘Hwæt,’ the famous opening of Beowulf. It has been historically translated to varying degrees of formality, but Headley knocks conservatism aside to give us the earth-shattering ‘Bro.’ This brilliantly sets the tone for the rest of the text, and one thing is clear: it definitely isn’t your grandma’s Beowulf. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: Three Poems by Kōtarō Takamura

December 8, 2020  |  in Translations  |  by Leanne Ogasawara

Chieko, who has become an element, / Is even now within my flesh, smiling at me

Master poet and sculptor Takamura Kotaro (1883-1956) candidly explores his grief and longing in these selections from the Chieko Poems, our pick for this week’s Translation Tuesday. As translator Leanne Ogasawara writes: “The Chieko Poems tell the story of the poet’s love for his wife. Reading the anthology chronologically, we begin with poems that describe the passion of their early romance and elopement against the wishes of their parents, following along as the poems become concerned with the trauma of Chieko’s mental illness and early death in 1938. Even after she is gone, Chieko remained the central figure in Kotaro’s life, and he would continue to write poem after poem about her. [. . .] The Chieko Poems are unforgettable as much for their early romance and passion as for the sense of loss and recovery expressed in the later poems. Kotaro slowly came to take comfort in this idea that through her death, Chieko returned to nature becoming imbued in all the things around him—even within his own body.” The selections below are three poems written after Chieko’s death. Kotaro’s sorrow accompanies his longing and desire as the speaker fixates on the beauty of his beloved’s physical form. With imagery that is at once reverential and abject, the speaker views his beloved’s body as something inhabiting both the natural and spiritual worlds.

A Desolate Homecoming

Chieko, who wanted to return home so badly
Has come home dead.
Late one October night, I sweep a small corner
   of the empty atelier
Cleaning, purifying
There I place Chieko.
And in front of this lifeless body
I remain standing a long time.
Someone turns the screen upside down.
Someone lights the incense.
Someone puts makeup on Chieko.
Things somehow get done.
As the sun rises and then sets
The house grows busy, buried in flowers
There is something like a funeral
Then, Chieko is gone.
And I stand alone
      in this now empty and dark atelier.
Tonight people say the full moon is beautiful READ MORE…

The Prolific Bricoleur: An Interview with Susannah Rodríguez Drissi

December 7, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Sophia Stewart

Imagination works best under certain confines. I like to look around me and see what I can work with. Bricolage is . . . using whatever is at hand.

The past few times that I’ve found myself procrastinating, distracted, and generally blocked creatively, I’ve thought about Susannah Rodríguez Drissi. As of this writing, Cuban-born Rodríguez Drissi has penned a novel, a poetry collection, short fiction, creative nonfiction, literary translations, scholarly articles, book reviews, multiple plays, and a jukebox musical. (By the time I finish writing this introduction, that list is likely to have grown.) Looking at my own untouched to-do list, I think of her prolificacy, of the sheer volume and breadth of her work. Rodríguez Drissi’s curiosity is one that can’t be constrained by genre. She’s multidisciplinary, to put it mildly—an artist and an academic, working across forms with a fluidity that is rare.   

As of late, like most people, my attention span has shriveled, and my energy reserves feel regularly depleted. With much of the city shuttered, my evenings and weekends are mostly vacant. In these moments, disappointed with my own inertia and daunted by the unstructured time before me, I wonder what Rodríguez Drissi might do. Currently, she’s promoting her debut novel, planning the unconventional productions of two original works of theater, and translating a Cuban story collection. In the midst of chaos, she creates. If she felt as I do now, would she snap herself out of inaction through the sheer desire to make something? Would she look at an empty weekend like mine and see its generative possibility?

I had the recent pleasure of speaking with Rodríguez Drissi about her work and upcoming projects. Naturally our conversation spanned celestial bodies, bricolage, and some of our favorite Spanish-language writers. I regret to report that I am still unable to explain how she and I have the same number of hours in a day.

—Sophia Stewart, Assistant Interviews Editor

Sophia Stewart (SS): You are a true multi-hyphenate: a writer, poet, playwright, translator, and scholar. How do you balance your creative endeavors and your scholarly work? Do they ever intermingle, or do you try to keep them siloed from each other? 

Susannah Rodríguez Drissi (SRD): It used to be nearly impossible to practice one while pursuing the other, particularly during graduate school. I had a lot of things working against me, things that might have been understood as incompatible with an academic career: I was a married woman with children. Had I been a married man with children, then things would have been understood differently. You see, I didn’t have a wife’s assistance at home to shield me from domesticity and scattered toys. So, for a time, at least, I was overwhelmed with nursing babies and research.

In academia, intellectual and artistic pursuit tends to tilt more toward one side than the other. But working across genres provides me with a broader understanding of the reasons why we write. For me, genres are always intermingled. The same basic questions that guide my research are the same questions that I attempt to answer from one project to the next. They are just different ways of getting at a problem. A poem or an academic article—they are not much different to me, except for their packaging. Different packaging for different audiences. I write so that I can explain what I don’t understand, so that I figure out the why of something—or, if I already know the why, so that I can snap a picture of it for posterity, for those who might not understand it.

SS: As a scholar, your research focuses on Latin American literatures and cultures, with a special focus on the Caribbean and particularly Cuba. In the many Spanish literature classes I’ve taken, I found Caribbean authors to be consistently underrepresented. Over the course of six years and dozens of syllabi, I recall being assigned only three Caribbean writers: the Puerto Rican poet Julia de Burgos, and the Cuban poets Jose Martí and Nicolás Guillén. Are there any other writers you feel are overlooked in the Spanish-language canon, and who are some of your all-time favorite Spanish-language writers?

SRD: You can’t go wrong with Burgos, Martí, and Guillén. All three are poets and advocates of their nations’ independence, be it from Spain, as in Martí’s case, or from the United States, as in the case of Burgos and Guillén. With the three of them, you’re in good company. However, we need to make room for other voices. We don’t read enough Lydia Cabrera (if we read her at all), and there are plenty of contemporary writers who don’t get their time in the sun because we insist on the same voices time and time again. Right now, I’m obsessed with Mexican writer Fernanda Melchor and Argentine writer Mariana Enríquez—theirs are heartbreaking, astonishing voices that should be included front and center in every syllabus. We should start first with more women writers, then go from there. READ MORE…

Watered Foxtails: Hwang Sok-yong’s At Dusk

December 5, 2020  |  in Reviews  |  by Lee Yew Leong

Points of view alternate in Hwang’s brilliantly executed novella nesting story within story—each with the perfect amount of exposition.

Watered Foxtails: A review of Hwang Sok-yong’s At Dusk (tr. Sora Kim-Russell)

Set against the backdrop of South Korea’s rapid rise in the second half of the twentieth century, At Dusk follows the divergent fates of two children from the same slum, Moon Hollow. One (Park Minwoo) manages to fight his way out of poverty; the other (Cha Soona) never leaves it behind. Committed to our current technologized reality, novelist Hwang Sok-yong pieces together his protagonists’ past and present through text messages, phone calls, emails, and video fragments. At one point, pierced with sudden yearning for a childhood the memories of which he has long suppressed, Park even does a Google search of “urban redevelopment.” It is supposed to be a sign of Park’s prominence and success as an architect that such a generic term readily yields photos of his own large-scale residential redevelopment projects that paved the way for South Korea’s ruthless modernization. (Just as compelling if much subtler is the suggestion that Moon Hollow isn’t searchable on the Internet directly by name—so utterly has it been obliterated.) Now, fifty years after he has left Moon Hollow and at the dusk of his life, Park is haunted by what he has bulldozed to get to where he is today.

Points of view alternate in Hwang’s brilliantly executed novella nesting story within story—each with the perfect amount of exposition topped with vivid specificity—and whose translation in Sora Kim-Russell’s poised English was longlisted for the International Booker Prize in 2019. A less imaginative writer would have made Cha narrator along with Park; but, instead of Park’s crush, Hwang arranges for another female character (Jung Woohee) to take the reins of even-numbered chapters. A young struggling artist who barely makes ends meet by working night shifts in a convenience store when not putting up plays, the milieu Jung occupies is worlds away from the other narrator Park’s.

At first, the two narrative strands that make up At Dusk’s rags-to-not-quite-riches story seem unrelated. It’s only when a fourth pivotal character, Black Shirt, a male co-worker, appears in Jung’s life that pieces of the puzzle start to shift into place. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

December 4, 2020  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Clémence Lucchini, MK Harb, and Thuy Dinh

The latest news from Lebanon, the Vietnamese diaspora, and France!

This week, our writers bring you the latest news from Lebanon, the Vietnamese diaspora, and France. In Lebanon, Jadaliyya has published an essay on the late Lebanese poet Iliya Abu Madi and Lebanese author Nasri Atallah has been included in a new anthology, Haramcy; in the Vietnamese diaspora, December 6 marks the 183th birthday of Petrus Ký, a prominent Vietnamese scholar who helped to improve the cultural understanding between French-colonized Vietnam and Europe; and in France, whilst bookshops have suffered from national lockdowns, a new translation of poems by contemporary poet Claire Malroux has been released. Read on to find out more! 

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

Arab sci-fi lovers rejoice! An Arabic translation of the late American science fiction author Octavia Butler’s Kindred is coming out with Takween Publishing. Dr. Mona Kareem Kareem, a writer, literary scholar, and Arabic-English literary translator, worked on the Arabic manuscript during her residency at Princeton University. She will be holding an online talk, “To Translate Octavia Butler: Race, History, and Sci-Fi,” on December 7. Tune in as you wait for the manuscript with sci-fi jitters! In other translation news, Kevin Michael Smith, a scholar and translator of global modernist poetry, translated two poems by Saadi Youssef for Jadaliyya. Yousef is a prolific writer, poet, and political activist from Iraq and we are delighted to see more of his work profiled in English. Also on Jadaliyya is this beautiful rumination on the late Lebanese poet Iliya Abu Madi and his political imagination. Abu Madi wrote spellbinding poetry and was part of the twentieth-century Mahjar movement in the United States, which included the renowned Lebanese author, Gibran Khalil Gibran.

In publishing news, Bodour Al-Qasimi, founder and CEO of Kalimat Group, an Emirati publishing house for Arabic books, has been announced as the president of the International Publishers Association! Al-Qasimi has tirelessly worked on expanding the scope of the Arab publishing industry and we are happy to see her achieve this feat. Award-winning artist and cultural entrepreneur, Zahed Sultan, is seeking to release Haramcy, an anthology with twelve writers from the Middle East, North Africa, and South Asia, including Lebanese author Nasri Atallah. It is set to be published with Unbound Books and the anthology addresses pertinent themes of love, invisibility, and belonging. In the spirit of the holidays, if you are feeling generous and capable of donating, then consider contributing to the Haramcy Fund.

We know the holidays are upon us and you are looking forward to cozying up with a book or two (or five in our case!). We have some new Arabic literature in translation for you to read during the holidays! The Saif Ghobash Banipal Prize shortlist has been announced! Another shortlist we are excited about is the Warwick Women in Translation Prize, which features Thirteen Months of Sunrise by Sudanese author, Rania Mamoun, translated from Arabic by Elisabeth Jaquette.

Thuy Dinh, Editor-at-Large, reporting from the Vietnamese Diaspora

December 6, 2020 marks the 183th birthday of Petrus Ký, also called Trương Vĩnh Ký, whose prolific achievements as scholar, translator, and publisher helped broaden the cultural understanding between French-colonized Vietnam and Europe. His vanguard efforts popularized chữ quốc ngữ, or modern Romanized script—leading to its official adoption as Vietnam’s national language in the early twentieth century. READ MORE…

Disassembling Father’s Tractor in Silence with Someone, or, New Sincerity in Contemporary Serbian Poetry

December 3, 2020  |  in Essays  |  by Jovanka Kalaba

Radmila Petrović is unafraid of dismantling existing cultural and literary canons . . .

Poets, among all artists, are the ones most likely to turn back again and again towards the innate failures of their craft. Whether if it is a stifled voice suffering the consequences of societal atrophy, a consummate frustration at the form’s lack of innovation, or the perceived obsolescence of the written word in addressing the pertinent concerns of life—writers of verse are constantly looking for ways to subvert and resolve such plaguing doubts. Amongst them, Radmila Petrović is a young Serbian poet composing under the brightening promise of the New Sincerity movement, helping to lift the veil of stasis. In this following essay, our Editor-at-Large for Serbia, Jovanka Kalaba discusses the weary weight that burdens the works of Serbian literature, layered with a century’s worth of national trauma, and how Petrović has rejuvenated the scene with equal parts lightness and gentleness. 

There is something about Serbian cultural productions—of film especially, but literature as well—that audiences do not find particularly appealing. “Too dark” is what one will normally hear people say; with a particular brand of gloom, our narratives often dwell on national tragedies—namely the major conflicts of the twentieth century, most pertinently the Yugoslav Wars—but also political failures, systemic dead-ends, and the emotional and societal burdens that come along with them: guilt, denial, emotional numbness, ideological polarization, class polarities, etc. Literary and art works are often received in a way that can be summed up in a statement uttered by one of my friends: “Does reading a good book or watching a good movie around here always have to result in feeling as if someone had clubbed me with a baseball bat?” This “tough love” approach taken by most artists as a way to confront their audiences with the truth usually results in an overtly cerebral recognition of their works on the progressive, liberal side of the spectrum, and utmost consternation and suspicion of auto-chauvinism and self-hate on the conservative and nationalist part of the spectrum—nothing else.

Times have been rough for those determined to be sincere about the philosophical and cultural preoccupations of (post)modern living; truth is largely perceived as an outdated concept, a perhaps inevitable conclusion considering how worn-out the language has become—used up by television, advertising, and other forms of mechanical reproduction. In his Calligraphy Lesson: The Collected Stories, Mikhail Shishkin says that words—“guards that keep out emotion and meaning, sentries at the boundary between people”—have lost their divine meaning. The only thing remaining is to “learn to grope your way toward understanding each other, or else be able to escape over the verbal barbed wire.” He insists, however, that “there is no road to understanding except through words.” But how can one speak the truth if the language is not working?  READ MORE…

Beyond Human Subjectivity: An Interview with Jon Pitt

December 2, 2020  |  in Interviews  |  by Mary Hillis

There’s a kind of alchemy in the act of translation, especially with writers like Itō who explore the in-between spaces of cultures and language.

Itō Hiromi is one of the most well-known figures in contemporary Japanese literature, having made her mark with sensational and unabashed poetry, widely ranging essays, and award-winning novellas. In the essay published in our Fall 2020 issue, “Living Trees and Dying Trees,” she brings the reader from California to Kumamoto and back again, observing the changes of her life and nature in tandem—the distinction of which are rendered, at times, indistinguishable.

The most recent edition of the Asymptote Educator’s Guide features a lesson plan for “Living Trees and Dying Trees,” which encourages students to engage with this work in distinguishing intercultural patterns, identifying literary forms, and discussing translation and migration. Educator’s Guides are published alongside each issue of Asymptote, and include teaching ideas for educators who want to bring world literature to their classrooms; each Asymptote piece introduced in the guide is accompanied with contextual information. possible discussion questions, and writing prompts.

Jon Pitt, the translator of “Living Trees and Dying Trees,” is a professor of Japanese Environmental Humanities, and has long studied the intersections between literature and ecology. In the following interview, Asymptote Educational Arm Assistant Mary Hillis speaks with him about the resonances of environmentalism and migration in both Itō’s work and Japanese literature overall, as well as the increasing entwinement between ecology and art in the Anthropocene.

Mary Hillis (MH): I understand that in addition to working on a translation of Itō Hiromi’s Kodama Kusadama (Tree Sprits Grass Spirits), from which “Living Trees and Dying Trees” is excerpted, you are a professor of environmental humanities. How did you initially become interested in the environmental humanities? And how does this field relate specifically to Japanese literature, film, and sound?

Jon Pitt (JP): I became interested in the environmental humanities while I was pursuing my Ph.D. I entered graduate school with the intention of researching representations of city life in Japanese literature, but along the way I discovered that representations of the “natural” were just as compelling and complex. I started thinking about trees and how they appeared in so many of the novels I was reading, wondering what would happen if I took them seriously—as more than mere scenery or background to human action. When reading scientific texts about trees and forests, it struck me how new readings of literature might be possible if put into dialogue with scientific writing. I gradually learned that this kind of interdisciplinary approach was one of the key tenants of the environmental humanities, and that there was a growing number of scholars looking for ways to approach the study of literature or film by decentralizing the human.

Engaging with Japanese literature (or film or sound media) through an environmental lens helps address a paradox that many critics have pointed out over the years: namely that there exists a persistent myth of Japanese culture stemming from a unique, “harmonious,” relationship to the natural world, in spite of serious environmental degradation and resource extraction that stretches back centuries. How can both of these things be true? How have artists helped to promote a certain relationship with nature that may hide darker histories of violence against the natural world? I think the environmental humanities help us better understand these kinds of questions.  READ MORE…

A Special Message from our Editor-in-Chief

December 1, 2020  |  in News  |  by Lee Yew Leong

Would you take a few moments to lend support to what Dubravka Ugrešić calls the “global literary miracle”?

Dear reader,

Can we be frank with you this #GivingTuesday? We had high hopes entering this final year of one full decade in world literature, but 2020 has been terrible. Not only did a key team member contract the coronavirus with symptoms persisting till this very day, a record number of staff left because of pandemic-related reasons. Although we had long planned for another edition of our translation contest to mark our tenth anniversary, we couldn’t go through with it in the end. For a while, our future was more uncertain than it had ever been since December 2014, when I sent out a teamwide memo telling my editors not to accept any more new work.

But rally we did, adding thirty-five new team members in August. We showcased literary responses to the coronavirus outbreak at the blog and in our Summer 2020 issue. We brought you a Dutch Literature Feature guest-edited by International Booker Prize-winning Michele Hutchison. We rebooted our podcast and video trailer, launched not one but two Instagram feeds, and even conducted our first live Q&A over Zoom with the translator of our October Book Club selection. We hope to do many more.

For the most part of our ten years, we’ve been happy to stay in the background while lifting others up. But, because it’s been a challenging year and we are not lucky enough to be incorporated in the US and the UK and so didn’t receive any of the relief grants that so many like organizations got, we have to ask: Can you spare us five bucks a month? READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “General Treatise on Counter-attacks” by Aniela Rodríguez

December 1, 2020  |  in Translations  |  by Elizabeth Bryer

I preferred to make my own way. To let the world know how much is lost with a poor pass, and how much is gained with a good shot.

An aspiring footballer’s obsession with his former hero becomes an all-consuming quest for revenge in Aniela Rodríguez’s cerebral short story “A General Treatise on Counter-attacks,” our pick for this week’s Translation Tuesday. Our narrator is a small-town youth who idolizes football star Güero Hidalgo, but what begins as adoration quickly turns to loathing after a tragic accident. Years pass, Hidalgo’s greatness falters, yet our protagonist never strays from his mission to murder the disgraced footballer, a task that becomes less a heroic act of justice and more an unmerciful act of a disappointed fanatic. Rodríguez’s mature and emotionally complex subversion of the revenge genre forces us to connect the meaning of “pathos” with the varied meanings of “pathetic,” demonstrating the dangers of meeting your heroes—and the dangers of meeting your fans.

In this story Güero Hidalgo dies. I told my mother when I started writing, but she didn’t believe me: she rolled her eyes and looked at the ceiling, wondering aloud when she should turn off the soup. What a shame, she said, indifferent, and kept moving the spoon in circles. Nobody wants to hear a story in which the biggest football star that this country had ever produced is stabbed to death with an old knife blade.

In the story, Güero crashes his Cadillac into a bus full of passengers, delaying a good number of people. The bus has come from la Merced; atop it ride vendors who head for Chiapas every week in search of Zoque handicrafts at the best prices. So, the best part: Güero gets out of his impeccable latest model, expecting to fix everything with an autograph. But that’s not how it goes down. He has words with the driver and in amidst the irate vendors the commotion gets serious. Tempers flare, women shout. A man in a leather jacket steps forward. Nobody pays attention. He walks towards Güero, looks him in the eye and plunges a dagger into his chest. Nobody does anything. Silence. Before sticking the knife into him, the man says: Thanks for the penalty, moron. Güero lies face up on the ground, trying not to hear the words that will curtail his existence forever. The story ends like this, with my mother reaching for the wooden spoon to stir the noodle soup. But this story isn’t about Güero Hildalgo now, is it?

READ MORE…

Announcing our November Book Club Selection: At the Lucky Hand, aka The Sixty-Nine Drawers by Goran Petrović

November 30, 2020  |  in Book Club, Reviews  |  by Lindsay Semel

One could spend a pleasant hour wandering inside nearly every evocative sentence of At the Lucky Hand.

As we inch towards the end of a year that has tested in turn the limits of our imagination, the capacities of our patience, and the extent to which we indulge our escapist tendencies, we have been encouraged to examine closely the narratives that perpetuate contemporary existence: narratives that not only exist within the pages of books, but that also thread our day to day, commanded by something as curious as it is unknown. So, in our second-to-last Book Club selection of 2020, we are thrilled to introduce a complex, mysterious, and commandingly beautiful novel by Serbian master Goran Petrović, which inquires into the infinity of literary invention in order to infer how fantasy contributes to reality.

The Asymptote Book Club aspires to bring the best in translated fiction every month to readers around the world. You can sign up to receive next month’s selection on our website for as little as USD15 per book; once you’re a member, you can join the online discussion on our Facebook page!

At the Lucky Hand, aka The Sixty-Nine Drawers by Goran Petrović, translated from the Serbian by Peter Agnone, Deep Vellum, 2020

Goran Petrović’s At the Lucky Hand, translated from the Serbian by the late Peter Agnone, flatters the sensibilities of those enamored with the written word—within its pages, we become romantic leads and daring detectives. Our quality of “mild presence or mild absence at the same time” becomes a virtue, nearly a superpower, highly valuable to various profiteering types. In fact, the novel is Petrović’s contribution to what might be considered the devastatingly nerdy genre that animates literary theory. And yet, this is only one face of a multifaceted work. Irresistibly engaging and virtuosically crafted, At the Lucky Hand marries high theory with high drama in spaces so quiet and invisible, that their liveliness takes one completely by surprise.

Petrović strikes a winning balance between imaginative extravagance and sober social criticism. Adam Lozanić, a somber, lonely philology student and part-time proofreader, receives a lucrative job offer from a mysterious couple; he must revise a memorial already long out of print. The book, expensively self-published, contains six hundred pages of description with no plot or characters to speak of. Adam and his employers are practitioners of a sort of reading analogous to lucid dreaming, in which they can meet other readers enjoying the same book at the same time and explore the universe of the text in all the richness suggested, not explicated, by the words. The elaborately described estate, imagined by the deceased author in a state of devotion to a love no less real for having never escaped the page, provides a ripe stage. Adam and the few other readers, thrown together by happenstance, fill in the vacuums where conventional literary elements were missing. Love, murder, mystery, power, and ambition electrify places that tremble on the edge of existence and people who, by all appearances, sit in chairs moving nothing but their eyeballs.

Jelena, characterized mainly by her pleasant smell, fervent desire for escape, and careful companionship to an increasingly senile woman, unwittingly enchants the innocent Adam. But they are only the latest lovers to inhabit the home and garden. As the stories of their predecessors unfold, frustrated precisely because of the disjunction between the realities on and off the page, one yearns for Adam and Jelena to reconcile the two. However, the more decidedly a character chooses to exist inside the literary imagination, the more they develop a noble purity outside of it. Adam and Jelena learn what the more seasoned readers already know: that they neither need nor want anything of “real” life. The very food that nourishes them is cooked in fictional kitchens and the money they exchange in long-shuttered shops appears from memories of long-defunct banks. Using nothing, they are useful to no one, and the talismans that give them access to their imaginations are the only means one has to influence them. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

November 27, 2020  |  in Dispatches, News, Weekly Roundup  |  by Carol Khoury, José García Escobar, and Kwan Ann Tan

The latest news from Central America, Palestine, and Malaysia!

This week, our writer’s bring you the latest news from Central America, Palestine, and Malaysia. Central America’s biggest book fair, FILGUA, has begun, whilst José Luis Perdomo Orellana received Guatemala’s most prestigious literary award; Palestine Writes Literature Festival has begun online, featuring over seventy writers and activists, including Angela Davis and Fady Joudah; and in Malaysia, readers have mourned the passing of prominent writer Salleh Ben Joned, whilst Georgetown Literary Festival has featured writers including Ho Sok Fong. Read on to find out more! 

José García Escobar, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Central America

After many delays and obvious setbacks, Central America’s biggest book fair, FILGUA, started yesterday. As a virtual book fair, FILGUA will feature over 140 online activities, book presentations, and conversations among prominent authors, journalists, and activists, such as Daniel Krauze (Mexico), Olga Wornat (Argentina), Rigoberta Menchú (Guatemala), and Javier Castillo (Spain). They have also announced that next year’s FILGUA, as planned for this year’s, will be celebrated alongside Central America’s biggest literary festival, Centro América Cuenta.

In November, writer and journalist José Luis Perdomo Orellana received the Miguel Ángel Asturias National Prize in Literature—Guatemala’s most prestigious literary prize. José Luis is best known for La última y nos vamos, a collection of interviews with Gunther Grass, Nadine Gordimer, José Saramago, and others. Also in November, indie giants Catafixia Editorial announced they will reissue Eugenia Gallardo’s most famous novel No te apresures a llegar a la Torre de Londres, porque la Torre de Londres no es el Big Ben.

Finally, the famed Guatemalan author Eduardo Halfon recently revealed the cover of his upcoming new book Canción, shortly after The New York Review shared an excerpt. Canción is out in January with Libros del Asteriode.

Carol Khoury, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Palestine

If you are still searching for a silver lining of the dark COVID-19 cloud, here’s one to consider: five days of virtual readings, talks, and performances celebrating Palestinian literature.

Palestine Writes Literature Festival, originally scheduled to take place in New York City in March 2020 (with the postponement announced due to the pandemic), will now take place virtually 2–6 December 2020. READ MORE…