Category: literary life

Miscegenation is in, says the Daily News.

The announcement was made earlier this month that Albanian author Ismail Kadare had won the Man Booker International Prize for his body of work (the award is given to deserving authors writing in English, or translated into English.) Kadare got to pick up his trophy in person in Edinburgh on Monday. There is coverage all over the place, including the BBC, the Herald, and the Scotsman.

I remember reading Kadare in French years ago, but I’ve never read anything of his in English. It wasn’t until I read one of the Lit Saloon’s many posts about the prize and the author that I realized why that might be. There are few translators from the Albanian to the English, and so Kadare’s work is in fact retranslated into English from the French, by David Bellos. You can read this essay by David Bellos over at the Complete Review, in which he talks about the problems of twice-removed translation, and in which he also explains how the Librairie Artheme Fayard and Albin Michel own the copyright to Kadare’s work.

Kadare himself has chosen Bellos to receive the translator prize associated with the International Man Booker, so one assumes he was happy with how he was translated. Kadare’s latest book in English is The Successor, which will be published by Canongate in the UK.

The Financial Times continues to surprise us by its attention to books. Here’s their latest: A profile of British author Hari Kunzru, with this priceless quote:

I ask him how he feels about [his large advance] now – such deals can be a mixed blessing and it must have been a shock to those close to him. “Initially, with my friends, there was a certain amount of jealousy,” he admits in a drawl. “There was a general holding of breath as they waited to see if I was going to go all Puff Daddy. I had to be quite strict with my arseholery.” A laugh. “But I think, now, it has actually been good in a straightforward way. It has given me a place to live and a chance to write. The books have been critically well-received and when I meet journalists, by and large, we are talking about the work rather than the publishing story.”

I have yet to read either of Kunzru’s books, The Impressionist and Transmission.

Strange Times, My Dear is the most important book to be published this year in the United States.

You might wonder why I’m using such a strong statement for an anthology of contemporary Iranian literature, rather than one of the 100,000 other books of fiction being published in 2005. The reason is simple: This book represents a major win against those who think that writers from “Axis of Evil” nations should have to apply for a license to get their works published here, against those who consider a Nobel Peace Prize winner such a threat to American readers that she could not publish her book in the States, against those who think freedom of speech is negotiable with the government.

Last year, the rules imposed by the Department of Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC) made it necessary for Arcade Publishing to go to court to get Strange Times, My Dear published. This, in one of the world’s largest democracies. Co-plaintiffs in the case were the Association of American Publishers, the Association of American University Presses, and PEN American Center, whose president, Salman Rushdie, a man who knows a thing or two about freedom of speech, contributed a letter of support. And OFAC backed down.

The first review of the book I’ve seen so far is this one, by Christopher Byrd for The American Prospect, and it’s largely positive:

Although Strange Times, My Dear is not wholly free of the blemishes usually found in anthologies, it succeeds on the primary level of hastening one to delve deeper into its chosen subject area. And, on a civic level, it heroically assists to demystify a people seldom viewed in the United States outside the lens of geopolitics. Yes, there are excerpts that feel like excerpts, such as Esmail Fassih’s “Sorraya in a Coma.” This story allows the reader to overly empathize with the protagonist’s position of waiting in the intersection between where one is and where one is headed. While other entries feel too slight, for example Ghazaleh Alizadeh’s tale of bureaucratic blitheness, “The Trial” or Manuchehr Atashi’s poem “Visitations.”(..)

In contrast with these samples, which make up a negligible part of the book’s contents, the greater portion is composed of selections that advance like a vanguard of hypnotists contracted by the original works. Hushang Golshiri’s “The Victory Chronicle of the Magi,” which describes the hypocrisy that bedevils people and revolutionary movements, provides one of the many “aha!” moments in the book. Or, in variance with the tendentious reversal of connotations in “Visitations,” there are exquisite lines of poetry that make all the more tired the bemoaning of poetry in translation.

The anthology features poetry and prose, and includes brief bios on all the authors chosen. Contributors include Mahmud Dowlatabadi, Hushang Golshiri, Shahrnush Parsipur, Abbas Kiarostami, and Roya Hakakian, among many others. You can buy a copy at Powell’s or B&N.

But what still troubles me is that, even with this gained freedom, American publishers simply are not eager to put out books in translation. Consider this: Last December, the Association of American Publishers offered $10,000 grants to publishing houses interested in releasing three Iranian novels in translation here in America. Even with the subsidy, there have been no takers so far, Poets and Writers reports. So the next time people start bitching about the insularity of the Middle East, they’d better be careful with their own glass houses. It’s a fucking worldwide disease.

Mark your calendars, kids. On Friday July 1st, Rob Roberge will be at Reading Frenzy to read from his new novel More Than They Could Chew, and to play some live music.

Friday July 1st, 7pm
More Than They Could Chew: Rob Roberge & The Violent Rays
Reading, Signing & Live Music
Reading Frenzy
921 SW Oak
Portland, 97205
503 274 1449

I will be there, with bells on.

Ibarionex Perello, a very fine writer and good friend, has a wonderful story in the spring issue of the Boston Review, about a young boy witnessing his father’s return to his hometown because of a serious illness in the family.

It was the first time I had heard the name of one of Papi’s sisters, though I knew I had grandparents and two aunts. Papi didn’t speak about them, and, though I was curious, I was never brave enough to ask.

“Pablo is not here,” Mami said. She leaned against the door for support. Her leg had been bothering her more and more. She hadn’t had another stroke since the one she had suffered giving birth to me, but its damage-her weak leg and arm and the frozen side of her face-became more pronounced with each passing year. “I don’t know where he is, but I’ll let him know when he comes home.”

Mami offered the man something to eat. He declined at first but accepted when she insisted. She gave him some pastelitos, which he ate standing at the counter. He ate them quickly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mami asked

“The old man, he’s dying.” The crumbs from the pastry fell onto his shirt.

“That’s sad news.”

“It’s never good, senora.”

Read it here.