translation

One Hundred Bottles

annette — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

An intensely vivid and riveting story of abuse, pain, honesty, erotica and discovery-this combination of words may not sound appealing, but the provocative and imaginative novel of these topics woven together creates a graphic fall from the literary world into our laps of reading desire. Crafted by Ena Lucía Portela, One Hundred Bottles is the story of a young woman named Z, who is incidentally an amazing storyteller (as well as a reluctantly educated person) and who leads us through her story while trying to find meaning behind her experiences. Given her challenging background, Z delivers a step by step account of her life (with creative backstory included) and you hope she will end up a champion. Z faces what seems the most challenging of all living through an unlucky survivorship; however, she keeps moving along through life, and author Portela puts you, the reader, right next to her. You feel the slaps, you feel the insults, and you breathe a sigh of relief with her at the climax.

Educated at the University of Havana, Ena Lucía Portela brings her life to fiction and brilliantly sets her story in the historic rocky era of Cuba in the early 1990s. All characters seek a chosen lifestyle and all are survivors; depending on their current resources, people enter and spin through Z's life while their own tales turn-and none are left unexplained.

Although she is called "stupid", Z is curious and insistent. Her friends and support range from her priest to a lesbian mystery author. At certain points in reading One Hundred Bottles, you feel like you are reading strictly a whodunit sort of detective novel, but actually the author (and best friend of Z) writes the detective novel based on Z's retelling of actual real events in her section of the world. Brilliantly juxtaposed, the work keeps you engrossed; at times powerfully violent, the novel reminds you that this is what a certain group in a certain culture experienced during this time; if a reader is intimate with abuse or violence, he or she may identify with these parts, but redemption triumphs and allows readers to breathe deeply a sigh of relief.

Published originally in Spanish in 2002, this novel holds up. Reminiscent of Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and Brando Skyhorse's The Madonnas of Echo Park, One Hundred Bottles brings the reader a culture delightfully retold through the eyes of a woman who remarkably survives. As well, the story offers hope and fulfillment, both necessary traits for living in today's world.

Written by: Carolyn Espe, February 18th 2011

Touch

andrea — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Adania Shibli, Paula Haydar

Clockroot Books

Touch is a slim volume wherein each carefully-chosen word comes together to create cinematic imagery. Written by Palestinian author Adania Shibli, Touch centers on the youngest of nine sisters, and it is divided into five sections: colors, silence, movement, language, and finally, only a page long, the wall.

None of the characters in the story are named. Instead, we meet the girl, the mother, the father, the third sister. I have never been able to read a book without names; somehow a lack of names prevented me from connecting with the characters. Here, that was not an issue. To my surprise, the careful observations of this little girl had me looking through her eyes, and the pains of this unnamed little girl had me near tears.

While I am unable to read the original in Arabic, I sense that translator Paula Haydar has done a tremendous job. The words are spare, creating a powerful sense of tension and suspense, as only a few words serve as a vehicle for weighty emotions. The verbs are perfect, and the voice is strong.

This is not a book where I can read a sentence aloud and say, “Isn’t that beautiful?” This is a book where layers of imagery build up over several sentences, so that the reader is watching this little girl as a guest inside her home and her mind. This is a book that works the way my own memory does, where a happy memory, when put into words, turns out to be no more or less that the pattern of light on the floor, the purple of violets on the windowsill, and the fragrance of lotion on a loved one’s skin.

Shibli has created beautiful, poetic vignettes, small spaces in which a surprising amount can occur. A child learns to read, fights with her siblings, attends a funeral, overhears confusing news. A child swallows impossible sorrows and witnesses hidden beauty. I look forward to reading the lives of Shibli’s characters when they have a whole novel in which to grow.

Written by: Lisa Rand, October 31st 2010

An Evening of Madame Bovary with Lydia Davis (10/4/2010)

mandy — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

92nd Street Y

Following a glowing introduction by translator and essayist Richard Sieburth, the acclaimed author Lydia Davis read several passages from her recent translation of Gustave Flaubert’s classic novel, as well as selections of her own work, at the 92nd Street Y’s An Evening of Madame Bovary. The poetic flow of the writing lends incredibly well to a live reading and the audience was spellbound. As a fan of the novel, I could have listened to Davis read from Madame Bovary for hours, and the event left me eager to purchase her translation so I could compare it to the one I had at home.

Davis told the audience that while working on her translation she read letters Flaubert wrote during the time he wrote the book. She was so taken by the letters that she wrote a collection of ten short stories based on them when she was finished. The collection, Ten Stories from Flaubert, was published by the Paris Review. Those of us in attendance had the wonderful privilege of hearing Davis read an excerpt from the collection. It was a wonderful treat for both fans of the timeless novel, as well as Davis herself.

An Evening of Madame Bovary did not end with the readings. Sieburth joined Davis on stage to engage in a conversation with the audience during a question and answer session. The discussion meandered through various aspects of the translation process, a topic that was of much interest to the crowd, but left me wishing more time had been allotted for questions about the novel itself.

On the whole, this event was great for those who are fans of the novel, and an eyeopening experience for those unfamiliar with Davis’ work. And as always, the 92nd Street Y provided ticket holders with a wonderful experience that was both educational and stimulating.

Written by: Janice Formichella, October 15th 2010

Things Seen

admin — Sat, 15 May 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Annie Ernaux, Jonathan Kaplansky

Bison Books

From the baby carriage to the grave, life unfolds more and more between the shopping center and the television set. – Annie Ernaux

Born in 1940, and a published author since 1974, Annie Ernaux is known for writing in depth about her own life: her parents, her marriage, her abortion, and later, her breast cancer. In Things Seen, Ernaux turns her gaze outward, both to Paris and the world.

Written as a journal, the book feels as though it traveled in a coat pocket, pulled out to pass the time in train stations and grocery stores, riding on the Metro and eavesdropping in cafes. The writer states the journal is a result of the “simple habit of putting life into words.”

Events are recorded through the initial reaction felt by the writer. Refreshingly absent is the expected self-examination and excuses made for the content of the reaction. We hear the writer’s thoughts as she thinks them, without editing. There is no need to place additional weight on any one topic, as one would in conversation; the narrative flows over war, racism, and homelessness as swiftly as it does hair appointments, grocery shopping, and visits to the dentist. This does not render the writer shallow or uninterested; it reminds the reader of all the passing commentary we also make to ourselves in our day-to-day lives. The commentary doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. In fact, upon reflection it might not make sense at all.

The idea I found most resonant in the book is that while one may feel they are the only true individual in a crowd, to each other person, one is just part of the nameless crowd. The writer’s viewpoint is that of a passive audience, watching other people's lives unfold in front of her with little more emotion than one would actors on a stage. A memorable example is that of the many different beggars encountered on the Metro; the writer finds it easier to give change to someone playing music than to someone who might actually be starving. It is easier to give the same coin for pleasantry than to accept the concept that someone might literally die without that help.

The writer is distanced from actual events, and this makes the book speed along, as we do not stop to analyze the thoughts themselves; we simply follow the words at the pace of life, just as the writer recorded them.

Written by: Melissa Ruiz, May 15th 2010

Dark Heart of the Night

admin — Sat, 08 May 2010 23:59:00 +0000

By Leonora Miano

University of Nebraska Press

The gross reality of genocide brings one’s spirit to feel a deep sadness for groups and individuals who don't understand different cultures. Delineating a brutal world of power and defeat, the author of Dark Heart of the Night doesn't hold back and the shocking truth of this topic engenders an incredulous curiosity in the reader: how can a village not support their people, even those who are related to some in the village? How can the world be so out of kilter that more energy is spent killing while refusing to understand others? The power of violence resonates throughout and accompanies the overriding story.

The author depicts the harshness and pain of this specific village to help us understand the ongoing brutality of a small tribe of people. In reading Dark Heart of the Night, a person may see parallels to oppressed groups through history. The sheer stubbornness and defiant attitudes of particular individuals in the village overpower the mass of followers in the village.

Nightmarish in its intensity, the novel opens with the brutal acts of a rebel force taking place within the country. As readers, we observe protagonist Ayané, who returns to her Central African village from France to assist her dying mother; she is continually an outcast—not understood nor understanding this culture to which she returns uneasily. As a more "worldly" individual, she confronts the local leader of the village after witnessing killing in her mother's village from afar.

Throughout Dark Heart of the Night, the author depicts an ongoing conflict within the self, among others, and in the overall world. Her stark imagery brings to light gruesome and harsh experiences. Deftly utilizing only minimal words, Leonora Miano shapes the storyline with the sheer power of her writing. She elaborates on the human aspects of communication and being misunderstood in a cross-cultural situation. All character interactions bring ideas of human survival to the forefront.

Miano is originally from Cameroon, and she lives in France. Both Tamsin Black and Terese Svodboda translate Miano’s work into English for their readers. Overall, Miano presents a hearty and challenging novel to surely move the reader to action to demand fairness for those people who find themselves under the proverbial oppression of misplaced power.

Written by: Carolyn Espe, May 8th 2010

Hotel Iris

admin — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Yoko Ogawa

Picador

Having been forced to drop out of school to work at her family's seaside hotel in Japan, a young woman named Mari suffers through days marked by routine. She cleans rooms, minds the desk, and attends to the needs of the guests. The novel Hotel Iris explores what happens when a girl breaks free of a life of controlled repetition, only to fall victim to an even more brutal cycle of submission and domination. Taking shape slowly, like the way breath comes on a hot summer day, Mari reaches so far into the depths of her own fantasy that she eventually chokes on it.

The story begins when a translator and a prostitute have a fight in Mari's hotel. The seventeen-year-old is drawn into the sureness of the man's "beautiful voice giving an order, with no hint of indecision," as he barks insults and orders at the woman. "Even the word 'whore' was somehow appealing." This is the beginning of the end for both the translator and for Mari, as they enter into a secret affair.

Violence is found in every aspect of Mari's life, even the common procedure of styling hair is painful and brutal. Mari's mother is so controlling that she insists on doing the girl's hair, the force of the tugging dependent upon the older woman's mood. Eventually, Mari leaves one dungeon for another, thus transferring violence from the hotel to the translator's island, an isolated home off the coast that can only be reached by boat.

Publicly careful and timid, Mari's time on the island is full of pain, pleasure, and submission. As the translator's violence increases, so too does Mari's desire. The translator is decifering not only Russian pamphlets but also this young girl's body, expanding her worldview. The suspense in Hotel Iris is as suffocating as the heat, and metaphors are both abundant and rich.

The physical action of the characters says more than psychoanalysis could, and Ogawa does not overanalyze her characters' behavior. Many writers fall victim to saying too much, but Ogawa's chief strength is that she doesn't feel compelled to explain her characters' motivations. Instead, the iceberg is acknowledged without being examined.

The restraint shown in the early sections of Hotel Iris is sadly lost in its final few pages. Too much is explained at once, and the result is a rushed, incomplete closing to such a poetic and nuanced novel. The tension that held the story together ultimately dissipates with little pay off. Ogawa's patient weaving of an enthralling tale is what keeps the reader suspended, waiting to see if everything will drop and knowing that, if it does, the fall will be far and dangerous.

Written by: Lisa Bower, April 11th 2010

The Pistachio Seller

admin — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:01:00 +0000

By Reem Bassiouney, translated by Osman Nusairi

Syracuse University Press

“How does a woman fall in love?” The opening line of Reem Bassiouney’s The Pistachio Seller is dangerously full of clichéd melodrama and trite gender assumptions; however, Bassiouney avoids these pitfalls by presenting complicated characters who exhibit the complexity of religion, love, and belief.

Bassiouney explains the significance of the pistachio in an Author’s Note, which reveals the historical significance of the pistachio and ties the nut to a very real cultural context. Pistachios are the most expensive nuts in Egypt. Because they are usually exported from abroad, until the capitalist movement of the 1990s, the pistachio was banned. Setting the novel in contemporary Egypt, the pistachio represents indulgence, luxury, and the perceived weakness of the East for pleasures from the West. The Pistachio Seller opens with young Wafaa falling in love with her cousin, Ashraf. Educated in England, Ashraf feels a disdain for the poverty, tradition, and "backwardness" of Egypt, and offers pistachios to all as though he could offer a taste of a better life. Wafaa expresses her confusion of desire and pride: “Was is really vital for East Germany to taste bananas? Were bananas worth all this humiliation? So what if man has to live without bananas? We could live without pistachios and without bananas.”

A devout Muslim, Wafaa desires Ashraf, but hates herself for lusting. Her desire is driven by imagination, prejudice, and the unachievable. This is where the beauty of Bassiouney’s complex characters shines. No character is singularly blameless or nefarious. Do I love Wafaa for being honest and passionate, or hate her for being judgmental and dogmatic?

I’m conflicted about the novel’s conclusion and Wafaa’s character development. The Pistachio Seller takes an epistolary turn when Ashraf moves to the U.S. While Ashraf writes honest, often self-pitying letters, Wafaa’s love letters are erratic, revealing little of her life. While Wafaa’s rhetoric changes, it seems her impulses do not.

Bassiouney does not compromise the novel’s tone by romanticizing the U.S., or portraying it as a home for Ashraf in exile. As is true with many elements in The Pistachio Seller, the U.S. proves to be a conflicted indulgence, like pistachios, enticing one away from one's homeland and offering little in return but ephemeral pleasure. Wafaa says, “Luxury living was like a drug you could get addicted to: it would control the cells of your brain, and you could not will it away.”

The Pistachio Seller is Bassiouney’s fourth novel; however, the first three are not yet translated into English. I hope The Pistachio Seller holds the promise of more translated novels from Bassiouney in the future.

Written by: Claire Burrows, March 11th 2010

Year of the Elephant: A Moroccan Woman’s Journey Toward Independence

admin — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Leila Abouzeid, Barbara Parmenter

University of Texas Press

A collection of one novella and a handful of short stories, Year in the Elephant is a translation from Arabic that does a great job of painting life in Morocco prior to and after independence from the French colonial power. The realization of independence is at times painful and disappointing, but Abouzeid’s characters are full of conviction and passion.

In the novella, "Year of the Elephant," the main character, Zahara, narrates the double-edged history that she has experienced; fighting for Moroccan freedom and finding herself alone after decades of marriage (to a man who leaves her after the revolution, simply because she isn’t “modern” enough).

As a Muslim woman, Zahara is well-balanced and strong. She represents women who courageously steps into the spiritual unknown. Like many other women, she begins to doubt Allah when her marriage is abruptly ended. Expectedly bitter, she repeatedly refers to how her ex throws a few months’ worth of money (as per divorce law) at her, just enough for nothing but a room she owns in her old family house.

Although she spends a few days in her hometown—to which she can’t return permanently because her heart belongs elsewhere. With the help of a holy man, she must decide whether to let her bitterness engulf her or put the past behind her and move on.

Along the journey, the writer gives us glimpses of the devastation colonialism had on Moroccan peoples, from men and women to children. Independence and change in class status turns her husband into a cold, materialistic man. Going from poverty to a manor is unnerving for Zahara; she becomes depressed as she is slowly traded in for a younger woman. Having a chauffeur doesn’t make up for it.

Similarly, the unrelated stand-alone short stories deal with issues such as poverty and the struggle for national independence. In “The Discontented,” two male cousins, one rich, another poor, have a visit. The wealthier one offers the other a job which will give him better housing and money. Ultimately, he turns him down, arguing that he doesn’t want his children’s education ruined by elitist superiority. The fight for freedom brought the people of Morocco together, but paradoxically, freedom divided them.

Written by: Nicolette Westfall, January 15th 2010

The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New & Selected Poems

admin — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 22:44:00 +0000

By Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, Karen Van Dyck

Graywolf Press

The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems presents compositions drawn from Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke's extensive oeuvre and includes five new pieces. A native of Greece, Anghelaki-Rooke was the winner of the Greek National Prize for Poetry and the Greek Academy’s Poetry Prize. Her poetry is lusty; corporeal; and rooted in flesh, color and tactile sensation. Verse and prose both vibrate with descriptions of a lush and living Greece. At the same time, Anghelaki-Rooke's words reveal a preoccupation with the vacillating power dynamic between the tangible and the intangible. At one moment, the body is its own autonomous king reigning over the spirit, a mere prisoner within; the next, the soul reveals that it is the supreme animator of bone and blood.

Van Dyck has carefully chosen the translations in The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems, and acknowledges the fact that the author is “conjured” by a handful of different translators, providing the reader with a unique incarnation of the poet on nearly every page. The selected poetry spans Anghelaki-Rooke's career; the evolutionary cycles in her work create even more incarnations of the author. Van Dyck emphasizes a thread of voice that weaves itself through all of the poems, regardless of translation or time period. Anghelaki-Rooke's thoughtful, plush poems seem unharmed by their transition between languages. Whether this is due to the overwhelming voice of the author or the deft touch of the translators is arguable.

However, the real beauty lies in the differences between the poems. Case in point is the exploration of sex. Sex is grotesque and elicits feelings of squeamishness in the poem "Heat." Sex is transcendence in "When the Body" and annihilation in "My Plastic Thing." In fact, Van Dyck’s choice to use different translators (herself included) further emphasized with these contrasts. However, it would have been fascinating to see the same poem translated by an American living in Greece (Jane Assimakopoulos), a Greek living in America (Rae Dalven), a male scholar (Edmund Keeley) and a husband-and-wife team (Mary Keeley, wife to Edmund). It would have also been wise for Van Dyck to clearly note the date that Anghelaki-Rooke wrote each poem so that the readers could have appreciated the chronological differences in the compositions.

The weakest poems in the collection are those that invoke Penelope, wife of Odysseus, as a feminist figure. Despite the existence of works like The Scattered Papers of Penelope: New and Selected Poems and Margaret Atwood's The Penelopiad, the famously faithful wife still seems a poor choice for a strong, independent heroine. Anghelaki-Rooke's strongest poems are those that deal with feminism in her own day-to-day life, not her re-imagining of Penelope’s long vigil.

As perhaps alluded to in the title of the collection, Anghelaki-Rooke's English-translated poems were previously scattered in small literature magazines and short runs. Here, they are united in a dynamic volume. Van Dyck's thoughtful compilation of her friend and colleague’s work is an enjoyable offering.

Written by: Jo Ristow, March 27th 2009