Place: Spain

Acts Against Fate: A Review of Cautery by Lucia Lijtmaer

Refreshingly, in Cautery, the stifling confines of gender in both past and present are treated in a way that defies easy essentialism.

Cautery by Lucía Lijtmaer, translated from the Spanish by Maureen Shaughnessy, Charco Press, 2025

Last October was a particularly busy month for news providers in Spain. Deadly, climate change-induced floods ripped through Valencia; the desperate residents of Barcelona and the Canary Islands continued to protest against unsustainable levels of tourism and unregulated property speculation; and in Madrid, sleazy stories of coercion and coverups involving a prominent young politician rattled a progressive left-wing party to its core. Despite the depressing familiarity of such headlines, it almost seems portentous that all of these subjects appear in one form or another in Lucía Lijtmaer’s 2022 novel, Cautery. An accomplished writer and co-director of the acclaimed feminist pop-culture podcast Deforme Semanal Ideal Total, which tackles everything from critical theory to modern dating, Lijtmaer’s finger is firmly on the pulse of millennial Spanish society.

But Spain is the setting for just one-half of Cautery, now published in Maureen Shaughnessy’s English translation. It is a tale of two women, separated by the Atlantic Ocean and four hundred years of time. The first is jaded, in her thirties, and speaking to us from the Spain of the mid-2010s; she is obsessed with the idea of dying, often fantasising in great detail about the satisfaction she would derive from the mutual destruction of herself and her home city of Barcelona in an unstoppable tsunami: ‘It will take all the Pans & Company sandwich shops, the Liceu opera house, the tattoo artists on Tallers street. All the pseudo-authentic wine bars will flood.’

After this morbid millenarian daydream, we meet the other narrator, Deborah Moody, a real-life seventeenth-century Elizabethan anabaptist who actually is dead and buried, now appraising her own life from beyond the grave. The novel proceeds in paired-up chapters which jump between the two women’s worlds, a structure that invites us to draw comparisons across time and realities. In this way, cornerstones of the everyday—such as relationships and property—are stripped to their philosophical core as we contemplate what has changed and what, despite half a century of progress, remains the same.

In the almost present day, the speaker hints that a series of events has led her to move to the ‘scorched plateau’ that is Madrid in August, a large sum of money in hand. The move, she concedes in a tongue-in-cheek nod to the rivalry between the two cities, ‘is not so different from dying, after all.’ Strung-out in a kind of purgatory, she reflects acerbically on the superficial, middle-class sheen of her life ‘before’ and the catatonia of her present situation: ‘I suppose there was a time when it could have been said I was happy. I can prove it by the digital footprint I left online, the same transparent trail made by a slug.’ As darkly sarcastic as she is miserable, it is not long before she begins to address someone—a weighty ‘you’—and we intuit that there is heartbreak here, a romantic catastrophe which has flooded her life, leaving her shipwrecked and alone.

The Barcelonan’s ex turns out to be a sideburn-sporting hipster, one of many in the city who have ‘somewhat ambiguous university degrees and not much practical experience’. This point of tension, coupled with the fact that she out-earns him, becomes a pretext for the unravelling of the charming beloved to reveal his true, manipulative nature. ‘[O]nly when I am with you am I where I should be,’ she assures us, as he tightens his powerful grip on her sense of identity. Meanwhile, just to underscore the significance of this man’s sway, the ‘you’ in Deborah’s chapters is reserved for almighty God himself.

From her subterranean reverie, we learn that Deborah is herself no stranger to loss. A woman from a noble English family, she marries a wheeling-dealing businessman, only to have her fortune and faith in love squandered away: ‘. . . my husband had chiselled away at me, betrayal after betrayal, hardening me.’ Her impoverished circumstances lead Deborah to develop a tough resolve, and she eventually sets sail for the New World to start again in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, reserving all of her devotion for her God and her cause. Still, even her enduring faith fails her in the end, and in death, her obeisance becomes tinged with bitterness. ‘I crossed oceans for you, just to end up buried underground like a worm.’

The limitations of romantic love and its potential for corruption are key tenets of Cautery. As one woman is consumed by a nerve-ridden cynicism, the other gains a stone-like imperviousness, but both resemble a kind of ‘anaesthesia of the heart’—a self-preservation tactic against the serial disappointments associated with desiring straight men, identified by heterosexuality researcher Asa Seresin as a key feature of modern pessimism around heterosexual relationships. By making the two speakers numb to desire, at least while we encounter them, Lijtmaer carves out a unique space for the disappointed: dreamlike and detached from the noise of reality. Here, they can untangle their most rancorous thoughts, understand just how they came to be this way, and figure out where they might go next.

As the contemporary narrator’s recollections drift back and forth, the topographies of Barcelona and Madrid are referenced in chapters named for streets and neighbourhoods. The reader is thus invited on an erratically guided free tour around the specificities of this character’s crisis, as disorientating as it detailed. It makes for an interesting sensation, as the tensions of tourism are felt keenly throughout these chapters. Yet although she acknowledges the insidious encroach of Airbnbs and cruise ships, it is mainly her fellow locals who come under fire, as though she aims to distance herself from their pretentious, insular ways. ‘When it comes to their bars, Barcelona natives are unscrupulously racist, primer els de casa’, she laments, using the Catalan phrase in a pointed way that has doubtlessly raised eyebrows among knowing readers.

Lijtmaer addresses the complex dynamics of cultural identity at play in the city by painting her narrator as something of an outsider, despite the fact that she grew up there. At one point, the Barcelonan reveals that she only truly feels at home when visiting the clothing shop Zara; in the uncertain morass of her current situation, the best comfort comes from a global chain— soothing in its universality and predictability. Throughout the translation, Maureen Shaughnessy too maintains this tension between the local and foreign, resisting the temptation to over-explain and leaving breathing room for the reader to intuit. Those with some experience of Catalunya’s capital will know, for example, that when the narrator declares, ‘I take my pills. I drink water from the tap’, it subtly compounds the fact that she has given herself over to a haze of apathy. The tap water in Barcelona is so grim that drinking it is always an act of desperation.

How our cards are cast and the extent to which we can change them is another question asked in Cautery, the title itself invoking a wince-inducing intervention. In choosing a devout if disillusioned evangelist to provide the counter narrative to the sedative-addled contemporary speaker, Lijtmaer underlines the paradoxical similarity between a deterministic religion and a society that insists on our supposed liberties. Both rely on a faith—the former in God’s grand plan, and the latter in the power of the individual—which ultimately ignores the myriad structural and discriminatory forces at play.

In Salem, Deborah meets the striking Anne Hutchison, a religious mentor whose boundless energy is poured into preaching to the women of the town. As transfixed as Deborah is, Anne has a somewhat confusing attitude towards the subject of free will, telling her congregation of women that ‘we cannot act against fate, we cannot change it’, while insisting to Deborah that she is the ‘mistress of [her] own destiny’. The counterintuitive nature of encouraging the women’s autonomy while admitting their subjection to a higher power feels like a familiar trap; to my mind, Lijtmaer is ridiculing the false comforts of choice feminism—the idea that simply being a woman means that any decision one takes is, by definition, feminist. By writing the story of a self-made colonial landowner, she admits the white feminist urge to laud such figures as role models based on their gender alone, while highlighting the futility of doing so. Even Deborah recognises the irony of it all: ‘Anne’s a saint now, too, and I can’t help but laugh. People are idiots. Only the cloak of time covers all us women who’ve suffered this ridiculous and inane glory, this sanctimonious glory. What good does it do us, once we’re all dead?’

Refreshingly, in Cautery, the stifling confines of gender in both past and present are treated in a way that defies easy essentialism. Instead, Lijtmaer takes aim at the material conditions which dictate feminine ideals, the institutions conspiring to keep them wanting but unable to achieve the transcendence they are promised—forever victims of Lauren Berlant’s notion of ‘cruel optimism’. Especially interesting is the treatment of friendship between women in the novel. In Deborah’s world, she and Anne interpret and debate the scripture, bonding over their shared beliefs with fervour and plotting to start their own colony of women. Similarly, the women of Barcelona pore over Instagram posts and anecdotes of promising first dates in minute detail like ‘raucous birds’. The narrator soon realises: ‘This is the monogamy party. I had forgotten. Now I belong to this club. I haven’t always been part of it. But it’s better to belong here than not to. It gives purpose to everything.’ In stark terms, Lijtmaer lays bare the progression from a society where rebellion meant seeking freedom through faith, to a world where our own aspirations are shaped and curtailed by patriarchal capitalism, accumulation, and the feverish protectionism of the nuclear family—despite all the strides made towards liberation.

Gravesend, the name of the town which Deborah founds after years of battling to make her mark in the New World, is the place she was eventually buried. It goes without mention in the novel, but the sepulchral signposts of ‘Calle Calvario’ (Calvary Street) and ‘Puig d’Ossa’ (Bone Hill) wink at us from the first and last chapters of the book respectively, and a recurring preoccupation with marble slabs leaves us with the certainty that we are all heading for the same place. And yet, the image of the cautery and its cleansing sizzle is referenced time and again: a potential for intervention. Revisit the disheartening news stories mentioned earlier, and you’ll also find investigative journalists demanding answers from complacent Valencian governors, a population’s fierce refusal to be subordinated under the boot of vulture funds and greedy landlords, and the bold testimonies of a few indignant, irrepressible women, urging for justice despite the repercussions on their personal lives. Cautery closes with a wicked act of revenge on the part of the Barcelonan narrator, and though the ethics of her actions are murky, it is an indication that she is finally wresting control over her own life. ‘A life of my own, I don’t say it. My own, I don’t even think it.’ Perhaps it is also a reminder to the dejected among us that, as desperate as things seem, we’re not dead yet.

Maddy Robinson is an English writer and translator from Spanish and Russian. She holds a Master’s degree in Comparative Literature and her work has appeared in publications such as The Kelvingrove Review, From Glasgow to Saturn, El Diario and Pikara Magazine. She lives in Madrid.

*****

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest literary news from Palestine, Kenya, and Romania!

This week, our editors-at-large take us from memorial ceremonies in Kenya to a colloquium in Brussels, exploring the life and legacy of celebrated literary figures, exciting prize nominations, and cross-cultural events. Read on to find out more!

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

Palestinian writer and poet Ibrahim Nasrallah has been nominated to the longlist for the 2026 Neustadt International Prize for Literature, better known as the “American Nobel” for its global reputation and the extent of its sway in the world of literature. Nasrallah’s much-acclaimed novel, Time of White Horses, stands as the only Arabic-language novel among this year’s nine distinguished finalists, another significant achievement for Arabic literature in the international arena.

Presented biannially by the University of Oklahoma’s World Literature Today, the Neustadt Prize recognizes outstanding literary achievement in all genres and languages. The winner, who will receive a $50,000 award, will be announced at the Neustadt Lit Fest in October 2025.

Nasrallah’s Time of White Horses is a sweeping narrative charting the course of Palestine from the twilight of Ottoman rule to the earth-shattering convulsions of the 1948 Nakba, all refracted through the lens of an imaginary village. The book, celebrated for its blend of documentary realism and imaginative storytelling, has previously been shortlisted for the International Booker Prize and is celebrated for its nuanced analysis of collective memory and identity. READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: June 2025

New publications from Iran, Argentina, Spain, Peru, Mexico, Japan, France, Finland, Sweden, China, and Italy!

This month, we’re delighted to be bringing twelve brilliant titles from eleven different countries. Find here the novelization of a famous chess match that reveals the greater geopolitical game playing us all; a summery fiction that melds the structures of nature and human architecture; a poetry collection rendering tender portraits of working-class women; a lyrical rewriting of a remarkable nun-turned-conquistador’s New World adventures; and so much more.

oblivion

Oblivion: and Other Plays from Post-revolutionary Iran, edited by Nahid Ahmadian and Ali-Reza Mirsajadi, translated from the Persian by Nahid Ahmadian, Ali-Reza Mirsajadi, and Hesam Sharifian, Seagull Books, 2025

Review by Henry Gifford

In order, the five plays included in Oblivion: and Other Plays from Post-revolutionary Iran are set in Arabia in the fifth century AD (The Sacrifice of Senemar by Bahram Beyzaie); China in the second century BC (Oblivion by Hamid Amjad); Spain in the twentieth century (Dance of Mares by Mohammad Charmshir); somewhere (per stage directions and blank spaces left in the dialogue) in the city you’re in, on the day you’re reading it (The Child by Naghmeh Samini); and a laundromat in Los Angeles at three in the morning (Bird of Dawn by Sepideh Khosrowjah). Their narratives are of a hubristic yet indecisive king and his palace; imperial bloodshed and familial betrayal; sex and mariticide; an infant born on a migrant raft, protected at the border by three women who all deny being his mother; and three generations of Iranian immigrants, each with romantic trouble and divided identities. Some are epic, and others are everyday. None of them are set in ancient Persia or modern Iran, and only the first and last are explicitly about Persians or Iranians.

Yet these are, in fact, plays from the same country over the same quarter-century, from 1995 to 2019. The diversity of their settings and scale is a wise editorial decision intended to highlight the diversity of theater in Iran, but it also reflects a practical need of addressing contemporary, local problems obliquely under a censorship regime. What is more interesting is the collection’s consistency, and in particular the nonchronological approach taken within almost all of the plays. Oblivion, for example, begins with two siblings going to meet their adoptive brother after years apart; the encounter then extends over the course of the play as a frame to the story of their lives and their parents’, acted out in shadows on a scrim behind them. The formal blending extends this sense of collapsed time; as the editors’ introduction explains in great detail, shadow puppetry (khayāl-bāzi) is an old Persian form, here embedded within a more modern, European-inflected mode. The other plays are similarly mixed—traditional aspects and motifs cohering with contemporary themes and styles.

Every nation has history, but I wonder, reading the plays of Oblivion, if there is something about Iran—a young nation of an ancient culture—that has made its past more palpable, fraught, and vividly present. READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

Literary updates from Bulgaria, Ireland, Spain, and India!

In this week of updates from around the world, our Editors-at-Large in Bulgaria, Ireland, and India cover events and awards around key figures in their countries’ respective literary traditions, from the legacies of monumental writers to the emergence of new and impassioned voices. 

Andriana Hamas, Editor-at-Large, Reporting from Bulgaria

I discovered Viktor Paskov, a Bulgarian writer and musician, in my early twenties. His books, which without fail reminded me of harmonically complex jazz compositions, left me enthralled and, unsurprisingly, with a wonderful melody stuck inside my head. Despite Paskov’s untimely passing at the age of 59 in 2009, his legacy is very much alive, and his work continues to inspire and stimulate the minds of his readers.

A recent example of his lingering influence is The Literature and Translation House’s announcement of the official launch of a new translation award under his name. The initiative has been made possible through a collaboration with Sofia University and, specifically, its Master’s degree program in translation and editing. According to the organizers, among them Marie Vrinat-Nikolov, a French translator specialized in the Bulgarian language, “the award’s goal is to honor texts that demonstrate an excellent command of the Bulgarian language in all of its expressive possibilities, coherence, and an ethical approach to the original text—to its rhythm, language(s), registers, historicity, images, and worlds.”

READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: February 2025

February's latest in translation.

In this month’s round-up of recent translations, we present eleven titles from Japan, Iraq, Colombia, Indonesia, Austria, Ukraine, Italy, Spain, Sweden, and Slovenia. From neorealist postwar fiction to the graphic novel, stories capturing the tides of time and the turbulent eras of violence, narratives of migration and mystery, innovations of the short fiction form and unconventional looks into classic tales . . . these titles are invitations into hidden places and profound sights, stark realities and dreamy visions.

aperfday

A Perfect Day to be Alone by Nanae Aoyama, translated from the Japanese by Jesse Kirkwood, Other Press, 2025

Review by Rosalia Ignatova

Nanae Aoyama’s short novel, A Perfect Day to Be Alone, is the English-language debut of its lauded young author, offering a delicate exploration of existential drift through the eyes of Chizu, a restless twenty-year-old, and Ginko, her elderly relative who takes her in for a year. While the narrative is sparse on action, it is rich in atmospheric detail, focusing on the quiet moments that shape their unlikely cohabitation.

READ MORE…

Winter 2025: Highlights from the Team

Dive into our new issue with these choice recommendations from our amazing intercontinental team!

Translated by Samuel Bollier, Jurj Salem’s “At the Circus” is a discombobulatingly charming, disarmingly hair-raising tale that elides joy and frustration, obfuscates reality and performance, and makes irony sincere. Things are not what they seem, which renders Bollier’s excellent translation of Salem’s easygoing prose all the more stirring; there, suited in the circus, we must imagine S. happy.

I’ve had the chance to read Quyên Nguyễn-Hoàng’s breathstopping beautiful self-translations in The Margins before; these two pieces in the new issue exude that same intrinsic conscience of precarious simultaneity, numbered and reversed, punctuated with “+” signs, a “delirious net of ten thousand dewdreams.” Quyên Nguyễn-Hoàng’s wordly creations turn from imagistic manifestation into pure interpretation.

Samuel’s parodic brilliance in his essay “Poets of Mirror Hatred” yields real laughter in an entirely serious, paradoxically internal essay about the division between the social and the cultural in poetic personas. What language exists for that which must not be expressed, at all costs, lest the self split? How must the reader read repression? Linking Kafka to two generations of modern Korean poetry, Samuel ends by critiquing the bright, hegemonic Asian American discourse of pain, transformed by their loudness into white noise: “To want more representation of Asian-American faces in American literature is to dream of your own cage.”

When Brandon Breen translates that “writing is obliquitous, but also ubiquitous,” I return to Ubah Cristana Ali Farah’s original contrast, “obliqua” versus “ubiqua,” in “The House of Termites,” a juxtaposition that encapsulates the attractions of Ali Farah’s style. By obliquely rebounding between various writers of exile, from Baldwin to Said to Kristeva, Mernissi, and Zambrano, Ali Farah’s essay makes a sensual ubiquity of this obliquitous displacement. To misappropriate Baldwin, you need strength to live in the “house of termites”; another kind of strength to let the termites get at it. Both strengths inhabit this essay.

Zhou Junyi’s conversation with filmmaker Tan Pin Pin crystallizes a certain vision of Singapore: a prism of public languages, spaces, and systems that shift as the microwave’s glass plate spins. I particularly love how the interview conveys the sounds of Singapore, and how we intellectualize it through subtitular structures, and formal and editorial decisions. Tan’s work lies in the instant before the intellectualization: “People will always know when a guest of honor arrives, but they don’t know what it feels like before the guest of honor arrives or even question why we have a guest of honor in the first place.”

—Michelle Chan Schmidt, Senior Assistant Editor READ MORE…

Our Winter 2025 Issue Has Landed!

New forms abound in our bountiful 14th anniversary issue, from Robin Munby’s “parasite poem” to Elsa Gribinski’s absurdist diary entries. 

With Trump’s inauguration, the world’s strange turn continues apace in the new year and the old ways of apprehending reality are struggling, as ever, to keep up. As Olivier Domerg puts it succinctly: “What can language do face to face with the inertia and the power of something?” This pressing question finds an enjoinder in #NewForms, our 14th anniversary issue, featuring never-before-published writing from 32 countries, by some of the most beloved names in world literature—Osip MandelstamNatsume SōsekiAndrey PlatonovAgustín Fernández Mallo, and Damion Searls in our wildcard feature on new forms. Organized in memory of the recently deceased postmodernist Robert Coover, this Special Feature highlights works that transgress the boundaries of the literary form, opening our eyes to new aesthetic and ethical possibilities. From Robin Munby’s “parasite poem” whose hyperbolic language tests the boundary between translation and original authorship, to the laconic and darkly absurd diary entries of Elsa Gribinski’s “A Finger of Blue,” these pieces chafe against the strictures of traditional form (the poem, the journal, the letter) even as they pay homage to the artists who have shaped them.This spirit of formal ambition is by no means limited to our Special Feature. After all, “as the reality of each time changes,” says Fernández Mallo in an illuminating interview, “so does the notion of realism that the works of each era explore.” Thus, Vietnamese poet Quyên Nguyễn-Hoàng splices words and fragments into a manifesto for a new writing and both Macedonian novelist Lidija Dimkovska and Syrian author Jurj Salem put their fingers on an unexplored aspect of the contemporary condition—the urge to retreat from society—and envision new ways of being. Elsewhere in FictionJohanna Sebauer’s Pickled presents the anatomy of a cancelling in rural Austria, when a journalist splashed by acid pickle juice launches a media crusade against Big Gherkin. Notable among our nonfiction entries is frequent contributor Ubah Cristina Ali Farah’s The House of Termites, a slow-burning, lyrical meditation on her “unstoppable nomadism,” which finds an echo in award-winning Singaporean director Tan Pin Pin’s many evolving versions of banjia (Moving House) from the Visual section. Finally, in our Criticism lineup, Tomoé Hill trawls the thrilling concepts—around truth, and storytelling, and immortality—buried in Douglas Penick’s The Oceans of Cruelty, while Samuel notes the arrival of a new wave of talented young Korean poets on the shores of the United States and distills the lessons their work might hold for their Asian American counterparts.

For all the world really. The lessons that Samuel comes away with apply just as well to those not writing from a hegemonic position but who have to pitch themselves to a readership unfamiliar with their culture. It’s a conundrum we know all too well, having been the first point of contact between countless authors and readers in our fourteen years’ of work in world literature. If you’ve personally benefitted from the “Asymptote effect” (which former President of ALTA Aron Aji cited in 2017 as one of the key factors contributing to the ever-growing reception of international literature in translation), we hope you’ll consider standing with us as we enter our fifteenth year. The best way to support us is to sign up as a sustaining member from as little as USD5 a month. If you are able to afford it, come aboard as a masthead member, as wonderful readers like Yann Martel have done. Finally, if you would like to be part of an upcoming issue or even our dynamic volunteer team, check out our submission guidelines (Korean translators, take note: submissions to our upcoming paid Special Feature, organized in partnership with LTI Korea, closes Feb 15) and our latest recruitment drive (we’re on a lookout for a new Nonfiction Editor, among others; deadline: Feb 2). Thank you for your readership and your support, which have made this all worthwhile.

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Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

The latest from Greece, Spain, Romania, and Mexico!

This week’s literary round-up include groundbreaking publications of Romanian literature, what to look forward to in the upcoming annual Guadalajara International Book Fair, and the passing of a Greek lyrical poet. Read on to find out more.

MARGENTO, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Spain and Romania

It’s the age of rediscoveries and revisitings in contemporary Romanian literature, both at home and abroad. In his singular indefatigable and all-inclusive manner, past Asymptote contributor Felix Nicolau has launched the first volume of the monumental anthology Grandes escritores rumanos (Great Romanian Writers), previously presented on our blog. The event took place on November 15 in Madrid at the Romanian Cultural Institute, where Nicolau presented the collection together with co-editor Alba Diz Villanueva.

While introducing Romanian classics to Spanish-speaking audiences—and thus marking a huge milestone in Romanian literature in translation, the impressive release has received accolades regarding its unique approach and framework amidst the entire Spanish-speaking literary world, specifically regarding its multifaceted richness fusing translation, literary commentary, didactic utility, and cross-cultural interpollination.

Felix Nicolau has also been involved in what is perhaps this year’s most sensational rediscovery in Romanian literature: De dor de sufletul lui Andersen (On Missing Andersen’s Spirit), a collection of fairy tales by Nichita Stănescu, published by Rentrop & Straton. Nicolau authored the preface to the text, and recently contributed an astute review of the same book to the literary magazine Astra. Famously known for his neo-modernist poetry of intriguing sophisticated imagery and memorable, abstractly paradoxical formulations that both stylistically revolutionized Romanian letters in the 1970s and implicitly opposed Communist social realism, Nichita Stănescu has been rediscovered in a staggeringly surprising capacity. These one-of-a-kind fairy tales verge on potentially best-selling children’s literature without relinquishing the radically imaginative innovativeness and the hypnotizing oracular diction of his poetry, with Nicolau placing them at the crossroads of Perrault, Saint-Exupéry, and Terry Pratchett. Additionally, argues Nicolau, there is so much more to these tales, as they are informed by avant-garde poetics and retain a cultural relevance within the digital age. READ MORE…

What’s New in Translation: November 2024

Discover new work from Denmark, Mexico, Palestine, Spain, Argentina, Japan, France, and Taiwan!

In this month’s review of newly released titles, we’re looking at works from Denmark, Mexico, Palestine, Spain, Argentina, Japan, France, and Taiwan. From a haunting volume of ecopoetics to the first book in an acclaimed metaphysical septology, from powerful anticolonial verses to a meditation on the art of translating, read on for some of the best work being released now in English!

Balle CALCULATION vol1 rgb

On the Calculation of Volume (Book I) by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Barbara J. Haveland, New Directions, 2024

Review by Rachel Stanyon

After an unremarkable day spent on a business trip in Paris, Tara Selter is enjoying breakfast in her hotel when it strikes her that it is yesterday again. In the first book of Solvej Balle’s seven-part On The Calculation of Volume, Tara’s eighteenth of November begins repeating itself.

What possibilities exist upon the dawning of an old day? Are there wrongs to right, missed opportunities to seize, risks to take or temper? Balle’s heroine does not seem to perceive any such problems or desires; she likes her fairly routine job as an antiquarian book dealer, and works alongside her husband, Thomas, whom she loves. She does not seem to want for nor regret anything, and has blind faith in Thomas, who believes her when she tells him about her repeating days (at least the first umpteen times).

So why has her time “fallen apart”, and what can be gleaned from observing this procession of almost identical days—slowly, meticulously, rhythmically—through the diary Tara keeps? (In this version of eternal return, some of Tara’s physical imprints on the world remain indelible.) Book I details a year (the first of many?) spent haunting the all-too familiar patterns of her husband, all the while lost in loneliness and musing on the volume of her existence. Is she an all-consuming “beast, a pest” or a “tiny monster in an immense space”? READ MORE…

Weekly Dispatches From the Frontlines of World Literature

News from Spain and Nicaragua!

This week, our editors bring us news from their respective literary horizons and the many exciting publications being released to the delight of readers. In Spain, Romanian literature hits the spotlight as a the first text of a new series is released, covering the nineteenth century through to World War II. In Nicaragua, the lauded poet and author Gioconda Belli has announced her latest work. Read on to find out more! 

MARGENTO, Editor-at-Large, reporting from Spain

Within international contexts, the most important literary event of the past few months is the release of Grandes escritores rumanos (Great Romanian Writers), a collection edited by Alba Diz Villanueva and past Asymptote contributor Felix Nicolau, and published by Huerga & Fierro (Madrid, Spain). The anthology is the first instalment of a series projected to cover Romanian literature chronologically, and samples the second half of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century, through to World War II. Numbering over three hundred pages, it starts off with both the original and the Spanish translation of the “great [three] Romanian classics”: the eruditely eclectic, formally exhaustive Renaissance man and “national poet,” Eminescu; the proverbially language-bending, comedic, and politically sarcastic playwright and short-story writer Caragiale (whom Eugène Ionesco referred to as his master, making him the true forerunner of the theatre of the absurd); and the linguistically-Gargantuan, (faux-)folkloric raconteur, Creangă. Among the featured twentieth century writers are the paradoxically modernist-traditionalist poet Tudor Arghezi, modernist-expressionist poet and philosopher Lucian Blaga, iconic Symbolist George Bacovia, landmark novelists Mihail Sadoveanu and Liviu Rebreanu, alongside significant women poets and fiction writers including Magda Isanos, Hortensia Papadat-Bengescu, Henriette Yvonne Stahl, and Cella Serghi.

An impressive number of translators contributed to this literary tour de force—no less than sixteen—and the editors have structured the collection in a quite complex and polyvalent way. The subtitle reads Antología didáctica (course reference book), and indeed, in a Norton-anthology style, every section comes with a short introduction presenting each writer’s main stylistic features and contextualizing their contribution to the evolution of Romanian letters. Even more distinctively, at the back are quizzes addressing the writers’ style and language, as well as a rich “Further Reading” section providing more detailed bios, aesthetic commentary, and relevant historical background—plus comprehensive annotated bibliographies which act as a great resource for students but also scholars and literati, as they highlight the richness of relevant translations and criticism in both Romanian and Spanish (in Spain and Ibero-America). READ MORE…

“My-selves” in My Languages: A Discussion with Paloma Chen

. . . sometimes “you” are “me,” and there is no distinction, and we are a “we,” but other times I am not even “me,” I am just void, 空.

Born in Alicante, Valencia, poet, researcher, and journalist Paloma Chen dedicates herself to advancing migrant justice in Spain. Her first collection of poetry, Invocación a las mayorías silenciosas (Calling On All Silent Majorities, Letraversal, 2022), explores the depths and diversity of the Chinese diasporic experience in Spain through a kaleidoscope of voices, encompassing mothers, daughters, sisters, and lovers, while at the same time always challenging the suppositions of language.Shanshui Pixel Scenes 山水像素场景,” published as an app in 2023 and translated by Paloma and her colleagues into Catalan, Mandarin, and English, renews the form of 山水诗, or “poetry of mountains and waters,” by pairing pixel art depicting scenes from China and the Chinese diaspora with poems that deepen the speaker’s relationships with their multiple and ceaselessly transforming selves. In the following interview, I spoke with Paloma about the importance of orality and quotidian language in her poetry, writing in community, and the multiplicity of the self.

Julia Conner (JC): In your essay “No tengo más que una literatura y no es la mía.” you mention how you envision Invocación embodying a Chinese diaspora collection of poetry, much like Sally Wen Mao’s Oculus being an Asian American poetry collection. When writing Invocación, how did you imagine your work in conversation with previously published literary works, both from Spain and abroad?

Paloma Chen (PC): I really like Asian-American poets like Sally Wen Mao, Marilyn Chin, Franny Choi, and Li-Young Lee, so their poetry was a great inspiration for me, as I wanted to write in Spanish, for readers in Spain, but taking into account my Chinese roots. Most of their works were truly enlightening and helped me build my own poetic language. I was trying to carve out a little space, one in which I can also find poets like Berna Wang, Minke Wang, Ale Oseguera, or Gio Collazos, that I could find liberating, one in which I could express the complexities regarding identity that I was all these years reflecting about. There is no me without all those before me, and all those walking with me right now. There is no Invocación without all the amazing books and artwork I had the privilege to encounter, without hundreds of fruitful conversations and lived experiences. I was writing for my friends, the amazing community of artists and activists, not only from the Chinese community, but from the anti-racist, feminist, Queer movements present in many places. I did not know if my book, which I thought was a very specific work by a Spanish-Chinese girl talking about her reality growing up in a little restaurant in rural Spain, could have the potential to connect with readers abroad, but I am happy to know that maybe it has.

JC: Many of your poems from Invocación center on speech and communication, fluency, disfluency, and the function of language. “Pero habla,” for example, repeats the visually interrupted line “pala/bras part/idas que hi/eren.” Your work also has powerful oral and rhythmic qualities to it. How do you see the relationship between the themes of your work and your poetry’s orality and visual form on the page?

PC: I guess that for a writer and a poet, reflecting about language itself is quite common. In my specific case, reflecting about identity inevitably leads me to reflect about language, as identities, languages, and cultures are so closely interrelated. Also, I do not think poetic language is that different from the quotidian tool we use to communicate daily. Our every-day interactions are full of poetry. The fact that in my normal life I am used to thinking about communication, fluency, and disfluency doubtless permeates my writing. I have always struggled to communicate, to express myself in the way that society demands me to. I studied journalism at university because I was truly worried about it back then. Some people think of me as being quite shy sometimes but, in a huge contrast, quite expressive in my poetry. For me, writing poetry is establishing a conversation with another true self, a self empowered by voice, body, presence, rhythm, a self that is connected with the environment and less in its own head. Because I value orality, I like to experiment also with the visual form of the verses in the page, so the reader can also have some visual clues of tones, silences, vibrations, etc.

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Spring 2024: Highlights from the Team

More entrypoints into the glorious Spring Asymptote, courtesy of our generous team!

Aigerim Tazhi’s “Following the Breath of the Earth” is a refreshing reminder of another way of life through Kazakh spirituality—one that treasures the interconnectedness of nature and all of the species in it, where nature stands for truth in an undivided and nonhierarchical ecosystem. The ancestral belief in the gods of the sky (Tengri) and earth (Umai) echos the current calls for decolonial approaches to climate justice. And yet, the critique of the tourists who contaminate glacier lakes in Tibet, or the rise of yurts for camping trips North America, or the odd questions asked of the poet in Rotterdam, gently caution against the performative gestures that appropriate Indigenous beliefs. The story’s motif of nomadic travel and breath fits well in this conception of an interconnected world.

This theme of nature and the interconnected ecosystem for alternative worldbuilding is carried out in several other articles, including Jang Okgwan’s poems (tr. Susan K), with motifs of water and moonlight; and Leeladhar Jagoori’s poems (tr. Matt Reeck), of mountains and terrain.

I also appreciated the attention on language, the limits of the written word, and the rebelliousness of vernacular expression in this issue, especially in Sebastián Sánchez’s interview with Chilean author Diamela Eltit (tr. Fionn Petch) and in the poetry of German-Turkish Ozan Zakariya Keskinkılıç (tr. Özgecan Kesici). Each provides glimpses into the capacity of language play and hybrid rule-bending for community-building, political resistance, and memorialization.

 —Vuslat D. Katsanis, Assistant Editor (Poetry)

Chen Yuhong’s poem “Buddhist Pine” opened my eyes to different ways of being still/degrees of stillness. The way the poem successively transposes metaphors of animal, seasonal, granitic, and athletic stillness on the motionless pine made me understand that things can be still in different ways. That the pine might have a willed, disciplined stillness, or that it might be coiled, or frozen, or at rest, or somehow all at once.

 —Matthew Redman, Digital Editor READ MORE…

Ambiguities, Ruptures, and Shifting Perspectives: On Enchanted Lion’s “Unruly” Imprint

Each of these Unruly publications presents a semiotically hybrid and richly aporetic narrative.

The art of book illustration has long accompanied the story in its imaginary expeditions—to vivify settings, to enrich character, and to extend language along sensorial planes. Yet, in contemporary publishing, there are few fictions for older readers that truly explore this complex reciprocity between image and text. In fall of 2020, the independent press Enchanted Lion addressed this lack with the announcement of Unruly: a new imprint that would be dedicated to “the picture book’s full potential for readers of all ages”. This was followed by the issuing of several titles dedicated to the dialogues between visual and literary languages, manifesting in enthralling alternatives of description, evocation, and narrative realities. In the following essay, Colin Leemarshall takes a close look on the three works out now.

In the popular imagination, the picture book is a highly circumscribed form. The apparent consensus—fomented both by market protocols and by entrenched reading habits—is that picture-heavy storybooks are for children up to the age of about eight; beyond this age, children are expected to graduate to chapter books, then to young adult novels, then finally (it is hoped) to sophisticated adult literature. (Those who remain drawn to the artistic gestalt of text and image have recourse to the graphic novel—a form that is now widely afforded the status of ‘serious’ literature.) This imagined trajectory not only obscures the fact that the world of illustrated children’s literature has always had its more provocative practitioners (from Heinrich Hoffmann to Tomi Ungerer), it also erects an unnecessary palisade against any ‘incursions’ from the adult world.

The New York-based Enchanted Lion seems to be one of the few anglophone presses invested in upending this prejudice. The publisher has long been open to putting out more challenging and unexpected works, and several of the books on its main title list might be said to be as much for adults as for children. However, it wasn’t until fairly recently, with the 2021 establishment of its Unruly imprint, that Enchanted Lion canalised these preferences into something more systematic. On its website, the publisher writes:

We’re launching Unruly because we believe that the possibilities for the illustrated book are larger and richer than the categories of board book, children’s picture book, graphic novel, and art book that currently exist [….] Picture books are rich with design and story, and yet the genre has come to be seen as one strictly for children. At Enchanted Lion, picture books are for readers of all ages, and sparking awareness of this boundlessness might finally be what is needed to allow the unique form that is the picture book—where word and image live together as nowhere else—to be seen as the expansive narrative medium it is.

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Weekly Dispatches From the Front Lines of World Literature

Literary news from Palestine, Egypt, and Latin America!

This week, our Editors-at-Large bring us news of a “literary cartography” of Palestine, the most recent literary fairs and festivals in Egypt, and censorship of Latin American authors in Florida. Read on to learn more!

Carol Khoury, Editor-at-Large for Palestine and the Palestinians, reporting from Palestine

Despite the burgeoning array of literary endeavors in support of Gaza, this dispatch aims to shed light on a profoundly comprehensive initiative. Back in July 2023, when we unveiled our coverage of the podcast entitled “Country of Words,” conceived and orchestrated by Refqa Abu-Remaileh, little did we fathom the vastness of Refqa’s overarching vision under the same title.

Country or Words: A Transnational Atlas for Palestinian Literature” was inaugurated by Stanford University in the last weeks of 2023. Rooted in the constellation paradigm within literature, this digital-born project aspires to retrace and remap the global narrative of Palestinian literature throughout the twentieth century, traversing the Arab world, Europe, North America, and Latin America. Nestled at the confluence of literary history, periodical studies, and digital humanities, “Country of Words” establishes a networked locus for the data and narrative fragments of a literature in constant motion, harmonizing porous, interrupted, disconnected, and discontinuous fragments into a resilient, open-ended literary chronicle.

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