he just wanted to read until he discovered where all the pain of the world came from.
a beautifully composed if doleful tale of interpersonal conne
he just wanted to read until he discovered where all the pain of the world came from.
a beautifully composed if doleful tale of interpersonal connection, oceanic wonder, and unceasing hubris, richard powers' playground is indeed a sort of overstory under the sea. though not quite attaining the heights of his pulitzer-winning work, his new novel is a marvel all the same. with compassion, with empathy, with awe, with a sort of quiet, patient wisdom, powers pens another story of seeing the world beyond our own homocentric myopia.
the largest part of the planet exhausted, before it was ever explored.
playground so powerfully entangles the fates of planet and persons. in our current moment of perilous instability and biospherical fragility, this novel sometimes reads less like a cautionary work and perhaps more like an elegy or lament. put it on the pile of books revered, but never assimilated.
without the ability to feel sad, a person could not be kind or thoughtful, because you wouldn't care or know how anybody else feels. without sadness, you would never learn anything from history. sadness is the key to loving what you love and to becoming better than you were. a person who never felt sad would be a monster.
i look into the night and have the following feeling: the vertigo of peril
after stepping down from the dais that fateful january day (some seven a
i look into the night and have the following feeling: the vertigo of peril
after stepping down from the dais that fateful january day (some seven and a half horrifyingly long years ago), george w bush was overheard by at least three people to have commented on trump's inauguration: "that was some weird shit." after concluding juan emar's ten (diez), i was reminded of his canny quip.
originally published some eighty-seven years ago (in 1937, two years after his funtastic debut novel, ayer (yesterday)), the pseudonymous chilean author's only story collection is an uneven descent into avant-garde experimentalism. divided into four parts: "four animals," "three women," "two places," and "one vice," emar's short fiction is at times most impressive and, at others, nearly indecipherable. a few characters appear and reappear in several stories (as does the author himself), but there is otherwise no link between the tales, save for emar's idiosyncratic imagination. despite ten's inconsistency, a few of the stories are quite extraordinary: "damned cat" and "the trained dog" stand out, but, most especially "the green bird," the book's first entry and by far its most dastardly entertaining.
"this dread was in turn a deeper and more distant echo. dread born not, like the former, of a sudden instant, but slowly incubated by the stupefying life of the sex within you. dread at the mystery of that sensitivity, that movement, which cannot be fully described as 'i'; which, fearful and disturbed, we call 'it.' terror that—dozing, almost latent—remains by our side in life, making us vaguely ponder a strange duality, at times accepted, at others denied. dread made pact. permanent dread. dread of what our destiny, thus coupled, must be."
*translated from the spanish by megan mcdowell (enríquez, schweblin, zambra, meruane, fonseca, et al.)
this is a long story, my friends, as you'll have worked out for yourselves. it predates me and you; it predates even my mama or yours. it's a story
this is a long story, my friends, as you'll have worked out for yourselves. it predates me and you; it predates even my mama or yours. it's a story born of a centuries-old tiredness and questions that presume too much. or have any of you ever been asked if you feel tenderly toward your supervisors? if you love your boss, your supervisor, the staff manager? i cleaned their house, dusted their furniture, made sure there was a hot plate of food waiting for them in the evenings. those things have nothing to do with love.
seven years a maid, estela garcía did exactly what her mother told her never to do: become attached. chilean author alia trabucco zerán returns (following her international booker-shortlisted debut, the remainder, and her non-fictional when women kill: four crimes retold) with a novel about class, estrangement, violence, exploitation and disregard, privilege, and the (perceived) insularity of wealth. clean (limpia) follows estela's employ within a santiago household, which began a week before young julia was born. "the girl dies" (on page two) and the whole of trabucco zerán's new novel finds estela in (what is presumed to be) a police interrogation room, recounting her time working for and living with julia's family, as well as her own personal backstory.
with its confessional style and anxiety-inducing narrative, clean's tension surges relentlessly, building suspense with each new detail. how did the girl die? is estela to blame? well-plotted and remarkably paced, clean brims with class frustration, domestic indifference, and familial secrecy. trabucco zerán's new novel brings immediately to mind the stunning works of marie ndiaye, with its sinister undercurrent and its resigned claustrophobia.
*translated from the spanish by sophie hughes (melchor, jufresa, hasbún, revueltas, et al.)...more
your goal will be to carry our hopes and dreams beyond the game; to find a way to turn us into repetition, to turn permanence into anguish, and fin
your goal will be to carry our hopes and dreams beyond the game; to find a way to turn us into repetition, to turn permanence into anguish, and finally to turn this anxiety of complementary time into infinite anodyne narration, this feeling that a victory for us will be as attainable as it is chimerical, that once and for all we'll be able to articulate a closing, a cut, a finale for all of this, the culmination of this string of words that'll never be entirely ours
chilean author (and musician) carlos labbé's writing is frequently heady, often abstract, and experimentally irresistible. his latest (the fourth of his books to appear in translation), the murmuration (la parvá), is a tale set (largely) during the first half of chile's 1962 world cup semifinal match against brazil — but infused with hints of politics, class, and social commentary. interspersed between the (very!) detailed action on the pitch — often within the same sentence — are the happenings in one of the stadium's luxury boxes, wherein the team's director (following an enigmatic encounter [and subsequent dealmaking] on a train with a prominent sportscaster [and his very unique skill set]) mingles with her colleagues and contemporaries, amongst whom a nefarious plot is unfolding. while not much happens plot-wise in the murmuration, labbe's storytelling swarms and scatters, with a certain sursurration overtaking the reader, very much as a spell being cast (the sportscaster's magic transcending the page!). labbé remains an ever-interesting writer and the murmuration nestles nicely among his other works of experimental fiction.
*translated from the spanish by will vanderhyden (fresán, garcía lao, marsé, fogwill, et al.)
the twentieth(!) book in english translation from césar aira, this one contains two novella-length
poetry's last trace of elegance was melancholy.
the twentieth(!) book in english translation from césar aira, this one contains two novella-length works: festival (festival) and game of the worlds (el juego de los mundos). in the former, the argentine master offers a somewhat absurdist tale of a filmmaker attending a film fest in his honor... with his 90-something mother in tow. the latter is a futuristic story of a video game that destroys (actual) civilizations on other planets (wiping out all of its inhabitants). famous for his "flight forward" style of fiction writing, aira's books are all over the literary map in terms of themes, subjects, genres, and plots, yet each contains a very distinctive essence all his own. smart, reflective, and always playful (does one ever really know which direction an aira story might go, even midway through?), aira is a reliably entertaining writer and both festival and game of the worlds fit nicely within his impressively large — and ever-growing — body of work.
and the result has been that we've become a herd of fools, irredeemably full of ourselves.
*translated from the spanish by katherine silver (castellanos moya, pacheco, ribeyro, onetti, adán, giralt torrente, poniatowska, sada, bernal, et al.)...more
i knew not evil until the examiner crossed my path
guadalajara-born author eduardo sangarcía’s english debut, the trial of anna thalberg (anna thal
i knew not evil until the examiner crossed my path
guadalajara-born author eduardo sangarcía’s english debut, the trial of anna thalberg (anna thalberg), is the tale of the titular peasant, the accusations of witchcraft made against her, and the ensuing case to determine her guilt — and ultimate fate. set hundreds of years ago, the novel blends classic elements of the genre, but it is sangarcía’s prose style which stands out most of all, as the mexican short story writer and novelist’s chapter-long sentences add a richness to the foreseeable narrative (though the ending is unexpectedly solid!). the trial of anna thalberg is a satisfying work, sort of a monte cristo meets kafka meets the crucible. centuries come and go, corruption and persecution stay exactly the same.
what lies above is the same as what lies below: sound and fury reign even in the celestial spheres. there is no end to it, woman; that is why i sleep.
*translated from the spanish by elizabeth bryer (ferrada, sainz borgo, salazar jiménez, lun, de juan, et al.)
what are we willing to ignore, or let atrophy, for the right to indolence. what a monstrous thing, comfort.
yuri herrera’s writing never fails to t
what are we willing to ignore, or let atrophy, for the right to indolence. what a monstrous thing, comfort.
yuri herrera’s writing never fails to thrill. his sixth book in english translation, season of the swamp (la estación del pantano) is a novel of speculative history, focused on the eighteen months benito juárez spent in exile in new orleans in the mid-nineteenth century (before becoming president of mexico in 1858). vividly conveying the sights, sounds, and smells of the sweltering city (where herrera currently teaches), season of the swamp imagines juárez’s time there, of which next to nothing is known:
“apart from two or three vague anecdotes that appear in multiple biographies of juárez, no one knows what happened in new orleans. it is this interval, this gap, in which the following story, or history, takes place. all the information about the city, the markets that sold human beings, as well as those that sold food, the crimes committed daily and the fires set weekly, can be corroborated by historical documents. the true account of what happened, this one, cannot.”
as with the mexican author’s other books, season of the swamp brims with atmospherics and herrera’s always-impressive use of language. set against the backdrop of southern slavery and human trafficking, herrera’s novel portrays louisiana’s largest city as a sultry place where race, culture, and a certain seediness combine to vigorous effect. season of the swamp is peopled by a motley crew of shady characters (and the most deliriously amusing fever dream!), each of whom lends dramatic flair to the future liberal leader’s temporary stateside stay.
“look, madam, look, sir, i’m saying madam and sir because the time has come to acknowledge that no one is invulnerable just because they’ve got a noble title. madam, sir: you can believe whatever you like, the pope can believe whatever he likes. but this”—he points toward the kitchen—“this is not about beliefs. this is about the two of you being straight-up motherfuckers.” another slug from the bottle, and then he adds, “as is the pope.”
*translated from the spanish by lisa dillman (barba, halfon, quintana, mediano, del árbol, filloy, et al.)...more
with pathos aplenty, willy vlautin’s new novel, the horse, finds an aging nevadan musician battling booze, isolation, and the unrelenting reminders ofwith pathos aplenty, willy vlautin’s new novel, the horse, finds an aging nevadan musician battling booze, isolation, and the unrelenting reminders of moments lost and tragedies past. heartbreak pervades in this hard-luck tale of a talented songwriter torn down to nearly nothing. when an ailing equine ambles into his life, vlautin’s lead knows he must help save the horse (and maybe himself in the process). a lyrical lament, the horse is sure to elicit sadness in spades (and perhaps some envy at vlautin's song-titling prowess).
heaven and relief that soon disappeared into sickness and regret, sorrow and self-hatred.
i close the screen, a catch in my throat. the next few months suddenly seem like an eternity.
elisa shua dusapin’s novels have a wonderfully envelo
i close the screen, a catch in my throat. the next few months suddenly seem like an eternity.
elisa shua dusapin’s novels have a wonderfully enveloping quality about them, suffused as they are with atmospherics and a sort of narrative coziness. while not quite attaining the luminous heights of her dazzling debut (winter in sokcho) or it’s equally excellent follow-up (the pachinko parlor), the french-korean writer’s latest, vladivostok circus, nonetheless still glows with her moody, melancholic storytelling. a tale of a young costume designer, the russian bar acrobats she befriends, and their big upcoming festival performance, this one still charms if in a slightly less spectacular way.
*translated from the french by aneesa abbas higgins (ben jelloun, zamir, garde, khoury-ghata, et al.) ...more
to him, the painter, this is creation, image of our insane presence on the surface of the earth, the regeneration proceeding in downward orbits whose pa
to him, the painter, this is creation, image of our insane presence on the surface of the earth, the regeneration proceeding in downward orbits whose parasitical shapes intertwine, and, growing into and out of one another, surge as a demonic swarm into the hermit’s quietude.
sebald’s posthumously published first book, after nature (nach der natur) is comprised of three long poems considering the human relationship to our natural world, conveyed through the lives of three german figures: painter matthias grünewald, naturalist georg steller, and the author himself. incubating themes that would be more fully fleshed out in his later works, after nature is a beautifully composed and thoughtful rumination on time, place, setting, and the world around us.
*translated from the german by michael hamburger...more
i walked in and the house pounced on me. it’s always the same with this filthy pile of bricks, it leaps on whoever comes through the door and twist
i walked in and the house pounced on me. it’s always the same with this filthy pile of bricks, it leaps on whoever comes through the door and twists their guts till they can’t even breathe.
perhaps just a few doors down the literary block from the house in fernanda melchor’s hurricane season is the one in layla martínez’s woodworm (carcoma). the spanish writer’s debut novel is a tense, eerie work of generational secrets, spectral retribution, and angry women left to clean up the never-ending messes made by shitty men. so many haunting qualities adorn woodworm — and hopefully this is but the first of so many equally excellent works to come from martínez.
the wardrobe was open and letting out cold damp air, like fog in a ditch or the gloom of a well. the man began walking toward it, lured by a murmur i couldn’t hear though i knew it was there. i could feel it the way you feel power outages and storms coming on, like the hum of cicadas, only deep in your bones. when the shadows swallowed him i shut the door.
*translated from the spanish by sophie hughes (melchor, revueltas, hasbún, vila-matas, jufresa, bilbao, et al.) & annie mcdermott (harwicz, almada, levrero, lozano, et al.)...more
everything takes less time now, except maybe sex, football matches, and wagner operas. yes, everything takes less time, our knowledge is expanding,
everything takes less time now, except maybe sex, football matches, and wagner operas. yes, everything takes less time, our knowledge is expanding, we've reached the moon, sent spacecraft out beyond the solar system, we live longer, we can communicate with the whole world from the couch, yet humanity is no happier. shouldn't that fill us with sadness, doesn't it suggest that mankind's journey is a failure?
melancholy and memory, life and love, death and desire, philosophy and possibility. jón kalman stefánsson's your absence is darkness (fjarvera þín er myrkur) is an achingly gorgeous novel spanning several generations full of longing, heartbreak, hard choices, and a yearning for happiness and connection. with lyrical prose, thoughtful tangents, and a meandering, moving examination of being human amid hardship and responsibility, your absence is darkness feels as close to living as perhaps any novel could aspire to. stefánsson writes with humor, compassion, tenderness, and wisdom. this is as fine a novel as they come.
some people say that when you look at everything and consider it carefully, it's hardly possible to conclude otherwise than that humanity is a monster. and the more you study the history of man, the better you observe current events, the easier it becomes to accept that conclusion. maybe it takes a little blend of immorality, selfishness, and incorrigible optimism not to be filled with pessimism.
*translated from the icelandic by philip roughton (laxness, sigurðardóttir, eir, et al.)
give me darkness and then i'll know where the light is....more
i tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.
hubris hits hard
for there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely out
i tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.
hubris hits hard
for there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.
& man will never learn
there are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.
one night i woke up convinced that uncle had escaped through the hole in the toilet, and when i opened the door i found that uncle had indeed escap
one night i woke up convinced that uncle had escaped through the hole in the toilet, and when i opened the door i found that uncle had indeed escaped through the hole in the toilet, and the floor tiles were scattered with toilet-paper confetti and hundreds of white feathers, as if someone had been having a pillow fight, and the toilet bowl and the walls were stippled with hairs and all sorts of excretions, and looking at the little porcelain hole i told myself, it can't have been easy for uncle...
rebecca gisler's about uncle (d'oncle) is a strange and humorous little book, sharing an absurd playfulness with writers like juan josé millás. poor uncle is a mess and your feelings for him may vacillate between pity and frustration, empathy and exhaustion. with long, winding sentences, the swiss poet and author tells the tale of her taxing and untidy titular lead, narrated by his niece (and now roommate!). about uncle has a charming way about it and with its greasy grip on reality, it manages to at once both delight and disgust. (he's more cousin eddie than uncle buck)
*translated from the french by jordan stump (ndiaye, modiano, chevillard, volodine, mukasonga, et al.)...more
much like her earlier novel, the wind that lays waste, selva almada's not a river (no es un río) is a slim, succinct tale light on characters, but heamuch like her earlier novel, the wind that lays waste, selva almada's not a river (no es un río) is a slim, succinct tale light on characters, but heavy on effect. machismo, flashbacks, violence, nature, (dis)respect, tragedy, the argentine author's latest is a feat of boldness and concision.
but what was it? something too huge, that was for sure. but also too terrible? or too beautiful.
*translated from the spanish by annie mcdermott (levrero, harwicz, lozano, trías, et al.)...more
perhaps the greatest test of human will is making up your mind.
a spellbinding tale of the desert and violence and love and grief and the desert an
perhaps the greatest test of human will is making up your mind.
a spellbinding tale of the desert and violence and love and grief and the desert and delirium and suffering and echoes and the desert, clyo mendoza's fury (furia) is an extraordinary work of unforgettable fiction. the mexican poet and author's debut novel is swarming with striking imagery and a prose so ensorcelling and incantatory that it renders the reader rapt. mendoza's plotting, her effortless narrative entwining, the conjured voices peopling her bold tale — each are simply remarkable. fury pulsates with a wrenching rhythm, an ineluctable song that dazzles, disorients, and destroys. this is a masterful story and mendoza is a commanding storyteller.
the flies confused the white area between his eyelids with the cuts in the skin of the fruit.
*translated from the spanish by christina macsweeney (luiselli, barrera, saldaña parís, et al.)...more
the fear came joined to a feeling of suffocation, the claustrophobia of not being able to leave a cramped space, and that space was me.
pink slime
the fear came joined to a feeling of suffocation, the claustrophobia of not being able to leave a cramped space, and that space was me.
pink slime (mugre rosa), the second of fernanda trías's novels to be translated into english, is a tense tale of caregiving in the time of catastrophe. as a deadly airborne pathogen claims lives and corrodes all social normalcy, the uruguayan author's first-person narrator is all but left to fend for herself — and the young, sick boy she nannies.
years of life and mistrust separated me from that realm where everything was possible, from those fantasies that made the world a better, kinder place.
though written before the pandemic, pink slime so accurately portrays both the collective and individual confusion, indifference, fearfulness, scarcity, desolation, and solitude of widespread calamity. without the resources to escape the threat and without anyone to really rely on (neither her mother nor her hospitalized ex-husband), trías's protagonist is left to bear the burden of carrying on, of rendering care and love, and mustering the self-reliance to keep herself and her young charge safe and secure.
the journey isn't a journey if it isn't dense with paradox.
the true horror of pink slime is less the pervading environmental disaster and more the profound loneliness, relational breakdown, and unreliability of what remains. trías deftly conveys the dread, the frustration, and the tired resolve of trudging through an ongoing trauma. pink slime may offer a harrowing glimpse at a wearying world, but trías manages to uncover tenacity among the terror.
the problem is that beginnings and endings overlap, so you think something is ending when in reality something else is getting its start.
*translated from the spanish by heather cleary (chejfec, larraquy, lozano, et al.)
one of the firemen went into the office and came out with a bag: he smiled at me as if he was carrying a bologna sandwich.
an electrifying, bizarre
one of the firemen went into the office and came out with a bag: he smiled at me as if he was carrying a bologna sandwich.
an electrifying, bizarre, genre-shifting collection of seven stupendous stories, liliana colanzi’s you glow in the dark (ustedes brillan en el oscuro) is like reading with one hand fixed upon a plasma globe. the bolivian author (and 2017 bogotá39 honoree)’s short fiction melds reality with a dark luminescence all her own. in colanzi’s realms, a thrum of the foreboding and the sinister resonates with a tone and timbre just a shade brighter than terror itself — yet she somehow manages to infuse it all with a balancing lilt (which may well but the opening hum of a siren song). the second of her story collections to be appear in english [after our dead world (nuestro mundo muerto)], you glow in the dark is as disorienting as it is sober. it’s wild, it’s weird, and it’s altogether wondrous (to say nothing of the nonchalant humor that hits like an unexpected side effect after you’ve already swallowed the plenty-potent dose).
“the cave” and the title story are the most rewarding, but each offers an uncommon and compelling magnetism.
are we afraid of cancer? listen, the police are going to take us out before the cancer does.
*translated from the spanish by chris andrews (bolaño, aira, et al.)
a solid, satisfying collection of horror and dark unusuality, each story inhabits its own singular realm of the blackly fantastical. enríquez’s “that summer in the dark” and ojeda’s “soroche” scream loudest.
the city was small but it seemed huge to us, mostly because of the cathedral, monumental and dark, that loomed over the plaza like a gigantic crow.
*translated from the spanish by sarah moses, megan mcdowell, sarah booker & noelle de la paz, ellen jones, tim gutteridge, joel streicker, joaquín gavilano, lisa dillman, julia sanches & johanna warren, and kit maude / edited by sarah coolidge...more
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