Translations

Translation Tuesday: “The Mountain Hut” by Dragana Kršenković Brković

"Who approached you in Paris?” he asked again, his tone flat, not giving anything away. “You met up with someone. Who?”

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a timely tale of intrigue, political paranoia, and mortality from Montenegrin writer Dragana Kršenković Brković, deftly translated by Andrew Hodges and Paula Gordon. In the hills just outside Titograd (now Podgorica), a doctor, Dušan, is held captive by three members of Yugoslavia’s secret police—three men who refuse to believe his relationship with a Czechoslovakian woman, Janika, is merely an innocent love affair. What follows is a story by turns fantastically surreal and punishingly spare; relief may await Dušan in his dreams, but in the real world the mindless, brittle cruelty of the state returns his every truth with a blow. Writes Andrew Hodges, “Brković’s style is literary and fantastical, mixing surreal scenes full of abstract, dreamlike imagery with everyday encounters. This imagery, which here draws on contrasts between peaceful forest scenes and a violent human (political) encounter, is woven in alongside reflections and emotions that point to the futility and alienating power of politics. “The Mountain Hut” blends dreamlike imagery with Slavic mythological themes and enduring cultural motifs, all viewed through the prism of a specific political moment—the fallout from socialist Yugoslavia’s split with the Stalinist block.” Read on!

Forest on a mountain outside of Titograd. October 1948: Three months after the Tito-Stalin Split.

The weak light of the battery lamp moved through the dark, in sync with the short man’s heavy, uneven strides. Occasionally the light reflected off the glassy surface of the October snowdrifts, which had arrived earlier than usual, and sometimes it penetrated the thick needles of pine and fir, their snow-covered crowns drooping. The feeble beam sank into the depths of the wood, creating a trembling play of slender, spindly, dark blue-black shadows.

The frost tightened its grip.

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Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Antti Salminen

Insurgent, effective, obedient stronghold... And we built it all.

This Translation Tuesday, we present fragments of poetry found embedded in text and in testimony, pried from their source and polished to a sheen. Two poems by Finnish poet Antti Salminen, translated by José Luis Rico,  “Autoethnographical Sketch of the Pipe” and “Reminiscence of Settlement History” , evoke a diamond mine deep in the Siberian hinterland, a cold hell: the frost, the sludge, the desolation of the frozen pit, the hasty brutish ingenuity of the Soviet mining engineers, and the miners’ deadly toil.

Autoethnographical Sketch of the Pipe, Fragment from the Second Chapter

Mir, Mirny, open pit mine, mineshaft. 62º31 45.95 N 113º59 36.74 E: funnel-shaped ravine and artificial crater, the abyss the last people dug for themselves.

A small airport with its brief runway on the massive mining landscape’s earthwork. A glider hangar. There, where a small mining town had been, now a silent, mossy, pebble beach made of cement. No building was left standing, the purpose being to render the place as repulsive as possible for at least a thousand years. The magnitude of the risk was unknown, but there was no alternative.

When the place was initially dug, says Junifer, the mining engineers melted the winter frost from the ground with turbojets. There’s no rush to go further down, we’re already at the bottom. Work continues underground, slowly. Now we work with our hands, in small gestures. The shovels are less than weapons, and the excavators sit idle like a mighty beast’s skeleton at an open-air museum.

The serpentine road leads downward to the funnel, down to the bottom, to the pond’s gravelly beach. The road is ridden with sinkholes, which are patched and driven over however possible. In the molten-ground season: sludge, sludge everywhere. From October to April the amount of ice is impossible. The struggle against the ground frost can’t be won. But when you live through a permanent sinkhole, you learn to harness gravity. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from Lord of the Waters by Giuseppe Zucco

So, this was where all the rain we’d been missing for months had got to...

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a story of the calm before the storm. Picture the sky moments before a fierce downpour: dark, oppressive, hanging over your head like a threat. This excerpt, taken from Italian writer Giuseppe Zucco‘s novel Lord of the Waters, imagines a life suspended in that moment, where the rain never comes. As the external world slows to a standstill, one family’s internal world begins to change. Freed from the obligations of social conventions, work, and school, they quickly descend into a chaotic, easy existence of games, junk food, and neglect, rewriting their familiar dynamics. Beneath their frantic cheerfulness is a persistent anxiety, as they wonder when the amassed rain will finally hit. Translator Antonella Lettieri smoothly captures these currents, refracted through the child narrator’s unaffected voice.

Amongst all the children, I was the first to look up at the sky and see it rear up. I didn’t quite see but rather felt a vast wave soar above me.

I ducked immediately, covered my head with my arms, and, thus crouching, prayed that that wave would not pull me under and wreck me upon the lamp posts and the buildings.

As I closed my eyes, I tried to picture my mother and father, hoping it would help me muster up some courage. All I could see, though, was that gurgling scene, which yet had a certain cheerfulness to it: all the other children and I doing mad somersaults inside the roiling heart of a wave fallen from the sky, our little heads bobbing atop the horrific crests of that brilliant white foam.

My sorrow lasted a second or two; then, since no water came upon us and no dreadful flood crashed down on my head, I opened my eyes again.

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Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from This City of Dolls by Clare Azzopardi

One day the nation will be bereft of dolls

The dolls leave and don’t come back “because life in the city is unbearable.” Who cannot sympathize with their choice? In this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a haunting poem by the Maltese writer Clare Azzopardi, translated into plain, elegiac English by Albert Gatt. In presenting a city mourning the exodus of the dolls, Azzopardi’s poem draws us into the spectacle of objectification, the reduction of living creature to inert, inscribed surface that precedes all mass violence. Here as elsewhere the doll is the perfect image of womanhood under fascism, but what sets Azzopardi’s poem apart is not just its mastery of the elegiac tone, but a gesture, so small it’s almost imperceptible, towards the possibility of communication with fascism’s despised other: “sometimes the protagonist is also I / and sometimes / sometimes / words are.” Read on.

The dolls migrate once a year.

They come out of their houses and walk to the shore.

It’s an auspicious day, the day the dolls migrate.

Little boats await them along the shore.

Twenty dolls take their leave, give or take.

Year after year.

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Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from HEART OF DAMAGE by María Negroni

I didn’t want to be a butterfly that an etymologist couldn’t stab with a pin

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poignant excerpt from HEART OF DAMAGE by the Argentine poet María Negroni, translated by Michelle Gil-Montero. In terse but vivid fragments, the narrator of this long poem recollects her childhood, drawing our attention first to the cavity between her memory of her childhood and her mother’s memory of the same. From there she spirals inward, boring into the center of a lifelong sense of inadequacy bred by her mother’s possessiveness—”my only possession that is truly mine” her mother calls her—before finally moving towards the present, in which her mother’s grievances are recompensed with her own. Read on! 

In the house of Childhood, there are no books.

Roller skates, sure, bicycles, silkworms in cardboard boxes, but no books.

When I mention this to my mother, she’s furious.

Of course there were books, she says.

Who knows. Either way, there’s no vast library of English volumes, like Borges had as a child.

Of one thing, though, I’m certain: a beautiful, difficult woman is the center and circumference of that house. She has big eyes, red lips. Her name is Isabel, but everyone calls her Chiche: a toy, trinket, plaything for a child.

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Translation Tuesday: Two Poems by Paola Assad Barbarino

We all search for the dry shadow at the time of the storm

“I make love to myself with eye crusts and sheet marks in my cheeks.” In this week’s Translation Tuesday, the Venezuelan poet Paola Assad Barbarino turns her eye towards the overlooked liminal moments of human life: waking up at the wrong hour in an unfamiliar bed, wandering the streets in the days between jobs, wishing for someone who left a long time ago. Through two dramatically different metaphors—the experience of jet lag in the first, and the life of a street cat in the second—these poems, expertly translated by Magdalena Arias Vásquez, draw our attention to the rich detail of the moments in our own lives we would rather ignore or hurry to get over with—to our shared experience of frailty and transience in a world that was not made for us. Read on!

 Jet Lag

I live intensely in unearthly hours:
I wake up when it grows dark,
I eat breakfast at hour zero,
I try on dresses while fasting,
I decide the calmness in peak hour,
I curse in childlike schedule,
I make love to myself with eye crusts and sheet marks in my cheeks,
I crave kisses with an expired date,
I miss you when it is already too late,

in short,
it is jet lag.

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Translation Tuesday: Six Poems by Liesl Ujvary

Yes, it’s true that we are free people. We are free people because we know that we are free people.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a trenchant sequence of six poems by Austrian poet Liesl Ujvary, translated from the German by Ann Cotten and Anna-Isabella Dinwoodie. In our current information-saturated age, the very nature of truth has become the central battleground, and Ujvary’s poems lucidly illustrate this. Each poem uses the deceptively plain language of logical exercises to dissect the mechanisms of modern discourse—where topics such as art, human relationships, and science are often filtered through the lenses of capitalism and politics. They expose how a passionately held conviction can be systematically inverted, and how the dialectical process is routinely weaponized into pure propaganda. The result is an ominous portrait of “doublethink,” where contradictory narratives coexist and simplicity masks manipulation. Entertaining yet chilling, this collection of poems distills the essence of the “fake news” era.

this is better

democracy is better than dictatorship
butter is better than margarine
schools are better than military training camps
sex is better than booze
humans are better than computers
houses are better than barracks
poems are better than advertisements
students are better than cops
truth is better than lies

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Translation Tuesday: “WC” by Stefan Çapaliku

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

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

1.

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

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

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

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

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from The Guard by Maisku Myllymäki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Translation Tuesday: Two Short Stories from Sudan

“They’re not heart defects,” I desperately replied. “But my heart, always in exile, has taken the shape of my homeland.”

For this Translation Tuesday, we’re thrilled to present two very short stories by Sudanese writers Fatimah El Senussi and Wedd Alwakeel Maarouf. Both stories use a minimum of words to depict meaningful moments. In “Expatriate”, a routine doctor’s visit becomes a lens through which conventional ideas of pathology are questioned. The story deftly explores the struggles of immigrants navigating healthcare systems where their unique challenges are often misunderstood or ignored. In “A Machiavellian Mind”, a bartender’s long-nursed inner ambitions clash with the reality of his mundane job; with sharp wit, the story playfully subverts alarmist narratives about Islamic fundamentalism and its perceived threat to Western civilization. Translated from Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim, both pieces shine with a pithy, humorous, and deeply emotive voice.

Expatriate
by Fatimah El Senussi

In a distant land, the cardiologist closely scrutinized the X-ray of my heart. In a low, disturbed tone, he said, “You have congenital heart defects.”

“They’re not heart defects,” I desperately replied. “But my heart, always in exile, has taken the shape of my homeland.”

The doctor, initially stunned, sat down to diligently examine the map.

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Translation Tuesday: “My Shadow Will Comfort You” by ariel rosé

in the fog I heard your / steps retracing the past / we spoke our mother tongues

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a nostalgic and impressionistic poem from Polish-Norwegian poet ariel rosé, translated from the Polish by Frank L. Vigoda. In “My Shadow Will Comfort You,” the speaker reaches across time to address a loved one, now lost to the past. Wandering through the valley of memory, they search for a connection that once defined their world. The ever-present fog impedes their vision, solidifying the elusiveness of what has slipped away. This lost bond transcends the individual, rooted in shared family history, language, and identity—a private world of meaning that bridged two souls. But the speaker remains suspended between past and present, longing to inhabit both at once, looking for a space between remembrance and the irrevocable passage of time.

 

After Beckett

You see, I’m a dream
collector, you’re a water
carrier and the fog is dense
in the valley I hear someone
knocking
knock
knock
no
it is just a memory
I want to be in many nows at once
I heard the unspoken words
I looked for the dear face

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from West Farragut Avenue by Agnieszka Jelonek

This may have meant: Don’t cry, there’s no need, it’s already happened.

From Chicago to Warsaw is 7,559 km—a long way to travel for the dead. But that is what the protagonist of this Polish novel by Agnieszka Jelonek must do: her boyfriend, Shrimp, has just fallen to his death. To the tragicomic circumstances of his demise—the indefatigable Shrimp accidentally fallen from an open window trying to smoke a cigarette—are now added the bizarre indignities of life as an unwilling and unwelcome traveller, from an odious Polish couple who have assimilated into American life to the hostile bureaucracies of the hospital and the crematorium, capped off by the unexpected appearance of Shrimp’s “other” girlfriend. Translator Nasim Luczaj writes: “Jelonek’s style is a tequila shot. There’s salt, there’s lime, there’s at once delicious and painful heat. The main challenge was to preserve the simplicity of the writing and not succumb to the temptation to ‘clean up’ the frequent repetition or enforce any of the cold elegance often associated with reminiscence—this grief is messy and hot.” Read on!

There’s no difference between a November afternoon and a November night. The car journey lasted six hours. No one said a word, no one cried. Shrimp’s Dad held on to the steering wheel, while his other son kept himself glued to the window. We looked out at the A7, and no one wanted to be in that car, everyone would have preferred somewhere else, anywhere but here. None of us accepted what we’d been told. The information rode with us as a separate passenger, and it, too, stared quietly into the dark.

We parked in front of the tenement and waited in silence for some time. A woman’s shadow passed across the building. Women in Shrimp’s family are slight, girlishly built, and always look younger than they actually are. A hunched, frail aunt wrapped up in her coat got in the car and turned towards us as if to speak but seemed unable to come up with anything.

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Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from Baba by Mohamed Maalel

You don't have to do this anymore, Ahmed. Do you want people to laugh at you?

It is a cliche that no one struggles with an overabundance of paternal love—that children are more likely to lack it than to have it in excess. In Baba, the debut novel of Tunisian-Italian writer Mohamed Maalel, young Ahmed is confronted with both lack and excess at once—with a loving father whose repeated expressions of care can never amend the traumatic betrayal this excerpt describes. Clarissa Botsford’s translation is haunting, expertly capturing a child’s tilt-a-whirl emotional life and dawning awareness of adult complexities, his simultaneous craving for love and his harsh refusal to forgive. In Botsford’s words, “The narrative microcosm in Baba powerfully embodies the new dynamics of a multicultural, colorful, and contradictory world, giving life to a story about the search for a blended identity amid religion, tradition, and queerness.” Read on!

A Boy Becomes A Man

When I was six, my father made me a man. Back then, I was convinced I could be anything I wanted. First, I wanted to be a superhero, then a fairy, and later a policeman. I watched the kids’ shows on TV. At six, I fell in love for the first time with Céline Dion, with Lara Croft, and with a cow in the yogurt commercials called Fruttolo. At six, I admired my cousins’ Barbies from afar, imagining what it would feel like to hold something with a figure like my mother’s. When I was six I was a child, with all the typical imperfections of children. When I was six I experienced intense pain. I tried to give it some kind of ironic significance over the years, but pain can only be ironic when it’s not your own. The pain is set against a Tunisian backdrop.

We were traveling with the usual food parcels for my father’s family. Outside, the high temperatures made the car windows scorching hot. My father was listening to the Koran on the radio, which made the air even more sultry tense. My ears received the unintelligible sounds as an annoying hum. During the whole the car ride, he insisted my brother memorize them. He couldn’t do it; he lowered his eyes when my father reminded him how immoral his life as an unbeliever was. He didn’t bother me. Instead, he’d ask me to choose a song on the radio. “You listen nice music Ahmouda, not like your brother’s haram junk,” he’d say.

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