Tag: Europe

  • Publishers’ translation highlights 2015

    Stefan Tobler, And Other Stories

    It’s an exciting year for our translated fiction — as well as the year of our first British debut fiction (from Niyati Keni and Angela Readman). We have two new titles in translation from authors we have published already: Carlos Gamerro (in March The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón, a hilariously satirical novel that takes in business inspirational books and Argentine guerrilleros) and Oleg Pavlov (in July Requiem for a Soldier, a very dark absurd humour in the last days of the Soviet empire), as well as the following five authors previously untranslated in English:

    SJ Naudé has translated his own Afrikaans stories in The Alphabet of Birds. Published this month, the stories have been highly praised by many writers and are on their way to entering the canon of South African literature.

    In March we will publish our first of three upcoming novels from the much-talked-about young Mexican writer Yuri Herrera. Signs Preceding the End of the World (translated by Lisa Dillman) is a novel about a translator in some ways: the main character, Makina, has national and language borders to cross and must come to terms with how this changes her.

    In April comes the Swiss writer Anne Cuneo’s Tregian’s Ground (translated by Roland Glasser and Louise Rogers Lalaurie). This historical novel is also a remarkable, cross-border story, this time of the copyist and compiler of the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, Francis Tregian. In danger as a Catholic in the Elizabethan Age, he journeys across Europe, befriending Shakespeare, swapping scores with Byrd and Monteverdi, and playing in the French court.

    Haroldo Conti’s Southeaster (translated by Jon Lindsay Miles) is long overdue in English. Conti’s writing won major prizes and was praised by Gabriel García Márquez and Eduardo Galeano among others in the 70s, before he was ‘disappeared’ at the age of fifty-one by the Argentine dictatorship. Southeaster, the first of his books to be translated into English, is about a man drifting with odd jobs and a boat in the Paraná Delta.

    Susana Moreira Marques’ Now and at the Hour of our Death (translated by Julia Sanches) was the single book that most excited our readers in our Portuguese reading groups since 2011. We all fell in love with its beautiful, genre-defying approach. Accompanying a palliative care team, Moreira Marques travelled to a forgotten old corner of northern Portugal. She listens to families facing death and gives us their stories in their words as well as through her own reflections. It brilliantly combines the spirit of oral history with the sensibility of philosophical reportage.

    Bill Swainson, Bloomsbury

    Reckless by Hasan Ali Toptaş (translated from the Turkish by Maureen Freely and John Angliss) – March.  Hasan Ali Toptaş is one of Turkey’s leading writers. His books have won many prizes, including the Orhan Kemal Novel Prize and Yunus Nadai Novel Prize and have been widely translated though not published in English. Reckless (published in Turkish in 2013) is the story of a man fleeing the spiralling chaos of the big city in search of serenity in an Anatolian village of which he has heard dreamlike tales from an old army friend. But the village is no simple idyll and the mystery of just what he did on the Turkish/Syrian border 30 years earlier that places his friend in his debt eludes him.

    The All Saints’ Day Lovers by Juan Gabriel Vásquez (translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean) – May.  Achingly sad and exquisitely crafted, the seven stories in The All Saints’ Day Lovers together form an artistic whole, united by theme, mood, intense emotion and the starkly beautiful landscape of the Ardennes. ‘One of the most original new voices of Latin American literature’ Mario Vargas Llosa

    The Occupation Trilogy: La Place de l’Étoile; The Night Watch; Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano – August. The first three novels that the 2014 Nobel Laureate published in France, when he burst onto the Parisian literary scene at the end of the ’60s challenging the Gaullist myths, form a trilogy of the Occupation and evoke the city of that time, with its mystery, complicity and moral ambivalence. The Trilogy sees the first publication in English of La Place de l’Étoile (translated by Frank Wynne) alongside The Night Watch (translated by Patricia Wolf) and Ring Roads (translated by Caroline Hillier).

    Geoff Mulligan, Clerkenwell

    Gone to Ground by Marie Jalowicz Simonis the remarkable story of a young Jewish woman’s survival in Berlin through the Second World War. It is coming out in February and is translated by Anthea Bell.

    Eric Lane, Dedalus

    The Interpreter by Diego Marani, translated by Judith Landry follows on from New Finnish Grammar and The Last of the Vostyachs and forms a trilogy of novels on the theme of language and identity. The Interpreter is both a quest and a thriller, and at times a comic picaresque caper around Europe but also deals with the profound issues of existence.

    What Became of the White Savage by Francois Garde, translated by Aneesa Abbas Higgins is also a novel about language and identity and the need to belong. Based on a true story of a sailor who is abandoned in 19-th c Australia and spends 17 years living as an aborigine and when he is found and taken back to France cannot readjust to so-called civilised life. In France it won 9 literary prizes including the Goncourt in the first novel category.

    Lightheaded by Olga Slavnikova, translated by Andrew Bromfield is a zany, anarchic black comedy which satirises life in contemporary Russia. At its heart is the question what is important in life and what sacrifices an individual should be expected to make for the good of others. Winner of the Debut Prize.

    Ink in the Blood by Stephane Hochet, translated by Mike Mitchell. An artist gets his first tattoo and finds his whole being changes, what he feels and especially how he relates to women in this atmospheric and spine-chilling Euro short.

    Daniela Petracco, Europa Editions

    The book I’m most looking forward to publishing this year is The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante in Ann Goldstein’s accomplished translation.  The fourth and final instalment of the celebrated Neapolitan novels will be published in September.

    We are also adding some new authors to our list: Greek author Fotini Tsalikoglou with her melancholic novella The Secret Sister, out this month in Mary Kitroeff’s translation; French author Anna Gavalda with Billie, the urgently-told, inspiring story of two survivors, a novel that spent months in the number 1 spot on the French best seller lists last year and has been translated into 30 languages and counting. The English translation is by Jennifer Rappaport.

    In the Summer we’ll be publishing the first novel by none other than Nobel Laureate, actor and dramatist Dario Fo: The Pope’s Daughter, translated by Antony Shugaar, re-tells the story of Lucrezia and the Borgias as a shocking mirror image for the uses and abuses of power in our own time.

    Also in the Summer, a rediscovered classic by Jewish Austrian author Ernst Lothar, who, like his friend and associate Stefan Zweig, was forced to leave Vienna and seek exile abroad in the last years before WW2.  The Vienna Melody tells the story of a family of piano makers from the last years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to Austria’s Nazi takeover of 1938.  We are reissuing the original 1948 translation by Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood.

    Another title I much look forward to is the new novel by the young and gifted Viola Di Grado. The Hollow Heart, translated by Antony Shugaar, tells the story of a suicide – before, during and after – told in forensic, heart-breaking detail.

    In our World Noir series, we have new crime novels by Carlotto, Mallock, de Giovanni, and an exciting debut: The Night of the Panthers by Piergiorgio Pulixi is the first in a series that will explore organised crime and police corruption.

    Jacques Testard, Fitzcarraldo Editions

    The first translated book we publish this year is My Documents (April) by the Chilean novelist Alejandro Zambra (translated by Megan McDowell), his fourth to appear in English. The previous three were short novels, written with the author’s trademark irony and precision, humour and melancholy. My Documents, which is, on the surface, a collection of stories, is his longest work yet. Whether chronicling the attempts of a migraine-afflicted writer to quit smoking or the loneliness of the call-centre worker, the life of a personal computer or the return of the mercurial godson, this novel in fragments evokes the disenchantments of youth and the disillusions of maturity in a Chilean society still troubled by its recent past. In the words of Adam Thirlwell, ‘these stories are graceful, grave, comical, disabused. I guess what I mean is: My Documents represents a new form. When I think about Alejandro Zambra, I feel happy for the future of fiction.’

    In June, we publishe Kirill Medvedev’s It’s No Good, a collection of free verse and essays by ‘Russia’s first authentic post-Soviet author’ (Keith Gessen). Widely published and critically acclaimed as a poet, Medvedev is also a prominent political activist and a member of the Russian Socialist movement ‘Vpered’ [Forward]. His small press, the Free Marxist Publishing House, has recently released his translations of Pasolini, Eagleton, and Goddard, as well as numerous books on the intersection of literature, art and politics. Medvedev has also taken the unusual step of renouncing copyright — only pirated editions, no contracts. It’s No Good includes selected poems from his first four books of poetry as well as his most significant essays.  A collective of translators — Keith Gessen, Mark Krotov, Cory Merrill and Bela Shayevich — worked on the various texts.

    Following on from our launch title, Zone, published in August 2014, we publish Mathias Enard’s novel Street of Thieves in August 2015, once again brilliantly translated by Charlotte Mandell. It tells the story of Lakhdar, a young Tangerine who finds himself exiled from his family for religious transgressions related to his feelings for his cousin, Meryem. A bildungsroman set against the backdrop of the Arab Spring, Street of Thieves is also a story about immigration, and draws on a wealth of literary influences – Bowles, Choukri, Genet and Burroughs, to name a few.

    Jane Aitken, Gallic Books

    In February we are tremendously excited to publish best-selling Algerian author Yasmina Khadra’s novel The African Equation, translated by Howard Curtis. The story centres around Kurt, a Frankfurt doctor held hostage in East Africa whose view of the continent is challenged by a fellow captive. Khadra’s vivid imagining of the demise of Colonel GaddafiThe Dictator’s Last Night, translated by Julian Evans, will follow in October.

    April sees the publication of The Red Notebook, the much-anticipated new novel by The President’s Hat author Antoine Laurain. Translated in-house by Emily Boyce, we have a special attachment to this quirky, romantic tale with a bookseller hero who attempts to track down a woman based on the contents of her bag – which mysteriously include a signed copy of a novel by famously reclusive Nobel winner Patrick Modiano.

    Anne Berest’s fictionalised biography Sagan, Paris 1954out in June, draws a portrait of 18-year-old Françoise Sagan as her debut novel Bonjour Tristesse is poised to propel her to fame. The translator, Heather Lloyd, recently translated the Penguin Modern Classics edition of Bonjour Tristesse, so was the ideal choice for this intimate account of the novel’s continued relevance.

    Then in September comes our first foray into graphic novels, and what a way to start: Stéphane Heuet’s beautifully illustrated adaptation of Proust’s ‘Swann’s Way’, translated by Harvard academic Arthur Goldhammer. This ambitious project will give Proust-lovers a different way to approach the text, and, we hope, encourage new readers to discover it for themselves.

    Max Porter, Granta & Portobello

    We start the year with The Vegetarian by Han Kang (January, translated by Deborah Smith), a remarkable and unsettling novel about taboo and metamorphosis. It’s an essential read for anybody interested in illness, performance and trauma. It is also notable for Deborah Smith’s beautiful and intuitive translation.

    In March we have the mesmeric new novel by Man Booker International nominated Peter Stamm, All Days are Night (translated by Michael Hofmann). It tells the story of a perfect life that is violently shattered by tragedy. Like all Stamm’s work it is unadorned, insightful and quietly devastating.

    Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner? by Swedish economist and journalist Katrine Marçal (March, translated by Saskia Vogel) is an engaging and thought-provoking look at economics, equality and the mess we are in. As the general election approaches and the gender pay gap widens, it’s time we brought feminism and economics together.

    Valeria Luiselli, author of Sidewalks and Faces in the Crowd returns in April with a sparklingly intelligent and raucous comic novel The Story of My Teeth (translated by Christina McSweeney). Just in time for the Mexico market focus at LBF 2015 one of Latin America’s rising literary stars leaps into wonderfully flamboyant storytelling mode.

    Other highlights from Granta and Portobello in 2015 include The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret (July, translated by Sondra Silverston, Miriam Shlesinger, Jessica Cohen, Anthony Berris), a life-affirming collection of tragicomic essays by the author the New York Times called ‘a genius’.

    We have a previously unpublished collection of essays by the great Joseph Roth, called The Hotel Years, writings from inter-war Italy, Germany, Russia, Albania and Ukraine, by turns poignant, witty and unsettling  (September, translated by Michael Hofmann).

    Also in September Portobello Books will publish The Strange Case of Thomas Quick by Dan Josefsson (translated by Anna Paterson), the riveting story of a prisoner who posed as the worst serial killer in Swedish history, and the psychoanalyst who shaped the investigation.

    In November we publish Walter Kempowski’s last, great, novel All for Nothing (translated by Anthea Bell) a towering masterpiece of post-war German fiction comparable to Roth, Fallada and Grass, which also calls to mind Rachel Seiffert’s Dark Room and Richard Bausch’s Peace.

    Michal Shavit, Harvill Secker

    This year at Harvill Secker we have an incredibly strong selection of fiction in translation : An electrifying debut, Jesús Carrasco, Out in the Open, to be published in April. Beautifully translated by Margaret Jull Costa it tells the story of a boy in a drought-stricken country ruled by violence. A closed world where names and dates don’t matter, where morals have drained away with the water. It has been a huge best-seller in Spain and Holland and it marks the arrival of a major new Spanish writer.

    We are also excited to welcome to the list Mia Couto in August. It is an understatement to describe Mia Couto as Mozambique’s greatest novelist – he is in fact one of the most outstanding authors to have emerged in Africa’s post-colonial history. Based on a true story, Confession of the Lioness, translated by David Brookshaw, is set in the rural village of Kulumani as it is being besieged by killer lions. As the inevitable encounter with the lions approaches, the hidden tensions in the village are gradually exposed and the real theme of the novel becomes apparent: the war is not between man and nature but between the village’s patriarchal traditions and its long suffering women.

    And last but certainly not least, this March we are publishing the fourth volume of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s phenomenal My Struggle series, translated by Don Bartlett: Dancing in the Dark. 18 years old and fresh out of high school, Karl Ove moves to a remote Norwegian fishing village to work as a teacher. All goes well to begin with. But as the nights grow longer, Karl Ove’s life takes a darker turn. Drinking causes him blackouts and romantic adventures end in humiliation. As the New York Times Book Review put it: ‘Why would you read a six-volume 3,600-page Norwegian novel about a man writing a six-volume 3,600-page Norwegian novel? The short answer is that it is breathtakingly good and so you cannot stop yourself, and would not want to’.

    Susan Curtis, Istros Books

    We have seven lucky titles lined up for you in 2015: we start the year with Croatian poet Olja Savicevic’s beautiful debut novel, Farewell Cowboyfollowed by a collection of hard-hitting short prose pieces exploring the female condition in Turkey in Ciler Ilhan’s Exile – winner of the European Prize for Literature. We also have another EU prize winner in the Slovenian writer, Gabriela Babnik and an unusual love story set in Africa, Dry Season. Dream and nightmare are the themes of Evald Flisar‘s psychologically challenging novel, My Father’s Dreams, whereas fairy tales are the playground for Macedonian writer, Aleksandar Prokopiev in his collection for adults – Homunculus. We will also be treated to the final instalment of Andrej Nikolaidis‘ informal ‘Olchinium Trilogy’ – Till Kingdom Come and get to taste one of the biggest Balkan hits in recent years: Yugoslavia, My Country by Goran Vojnovic.

    Katharina Bielenberg, MacLehose Press

    O. Enquist’s The Wandering Pine (January, translated by Deborah Bragan Turner)

    In this venerated Swedish novelist gives us his life in the third person, as a national highjumper, as a journalist during the 1972 Munich Olympic hostage crisis, as a playwright who had the most tremendous Broadway flop, and as an alcoholic whose disease almost destroyed him. A startlingly bold autobiography.

    In Evelio Rosero’s Feast of the Innocents (January, translated by Anne McLean and Anna Milsom), a doctor chooses Carnival as the perfect arena in which to explode the myth of Simon Bolívar once and for all. A magical, exuberant riot of a book set in Colombia’s southern city of Pasto.

    Elias Khoury’s The Broken Mirrors/Sinalcol (translated from Arabic by Humphrey Davies) tells the story of two brothers divided by difference and civil war, between Beirut and France. Thought provoking, rich in language and character, beautiful constructed, another powerful novel from the Lebanese writer.

    With The Heart of Man (February, translated by Philip Roughton) Icelander Jón Kalman Stefánsson concludes his sublime trilogy, a profound exploration of life in the extreme north and its most crucial elements: love, food, warmth, literature – but most of all, love.

    Karim Miské’s Arab Jazz (February, translated by Sam Gordon) is a fast-paced crime novel from Paris’ 19th arrondissement that goes to the heart of religious extremism and the violence it can inspire. Recent horrific events in Paris are to some extent reflected in this novel by the Franco-Mauritanian documentary film-maker. Miské visits the UK in February for a series of events supported by PEN Promotes.

    Borders by Roy Jacobsen (March, translated from Norwegian by Don Bartlett and Don Shaw) is a gripping story of impossible choices in a theatre of total war, where family love, national identity, even military genius, count for nothing as the doomed German 6th
    Army fights for Stalingrad in WWII.

    Leica Format (translated by Celia Hawkesworth) by Croatian writer Daša Drndiƈ – author of Trieste – is a tale of cities, of how the past merges with the present, and of what constitutes a homeland. A narrative of poignant, vivid fragments and images that combine to form a haunting study of history and the processes by which we describe, remember, or falsify it.

    Fall of Man in Wilmslow by David Lagercrantz (May, translated from Swedish by George Goulding) explores the repressive atmosphere of Cold War Britain through the death and life of revolutionary mathematician Alan Turing. Lagercrantz’s writing is so clever and engaging that complex mathematical theorems become crystal clear. He is also the author of the continuation of Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series (coming in August)

    Later in the year we look forward to two novels by incumbent Nobel Prize winner Patrick Modiano (A Pedigree and So That You Don’t Lose Yourself in the Quartier), and novels by Andreï Makine, Peter Terrin and Norbert Gstrein, as well as Pierre Lemaitre’s 2013 Goncourt Prize-winner, the first in a magnum opus.

    Juliet Mabey, Oneworld

    We will be adding four novels to our growing list of fiction in translation, the first of which is A Perfect Crime by A Yi, translated from the Chinese by Anna Holmwood. A bored high school student murders his best friend to relieve the daily tedium of existence, and so begins a stylish psychological suspense novel, the literary love child of Camus’ The Stranger, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Kafka’s The Trial. Offering both a vision of China’s heart of darkness – the despair that traps the rural poor and the incoherent rage lurking behind their phlegmatic front – and a technically brilliant excursion into the claustrophobic realm of classic horror and suspense, this novel is generously supported by a PEN Award for translation and promotion.

    In July we are publishing a Norwegian YA novel in our new imprint, Rock the BoatMinus Me, written by Ingelin Rossland and translated by Deborah Dawkin, follows a young terminally ill teenager as she completes her bucket list and ultimately comes to terms with leaving.

    In October we are very excited to be publishing the critically acclaimed, multiple award-winning Laurus by Eugene Vodolazkin, translated from the Russian by Lisa Hayden. Winner of both the Big Book and Yasnaya Polyana Awards in 2013 and shortlisted for several others, this huge novel has been dubbed Russia’s The Name of the Rose. An enthralling chronicle of the Russian Middle Ages, a doomed love affair, and an epic journey all in one life-affirming, sprawling fable.

    And in November we are publishing the multiple award-winning French novel Meursault, Contre-enquete by Algerian journalist and writer Kamel Daoud, translated by Sandra Smith. This highly acclaimed debut is a powerful, lyrical, and politically charged re-imagining of The Outsider, narrated by the brother of the nameless Arab killed in Camus’ iconic novel, and is already a huge bestseller in France. It has won numerous accolades including the Prix François-Mauriac of the Académie Française and the Prix des Cinq Continents, and was a finalist for the Prix Goncourt, the most prestigious literary award in French literature.

    Meike Ziervogel, Peirene Press

    Peirene only publishes three books a year and I curate them in series. 2015 is Peirene’s year of Chance Encounter: Meeting The Other. A stunning Finnish tale about the human will to survive (White Hunger by Aki Ollikainen, translated by Emily Jeremiah and Fleur Jeremiah), a French love story about the art of reading (Reader for Hire by Jean Raymond, translated by Adriana Hunter), and a Norwegian drama about two middle-aged sisters whose existence is turned upside down when a stranger enters their lives (The Looking-Glass Sisters by Gøhril Gabrielsen, translated by John Irons).

    Amelia Fairney, Penguin

    Drone Theory, by Gregoire Chamayou, translated by Janet Lloyd. Beautifully argued, passionate and coherent, this is an urgent and important polemic that blends philosophy with reportage as it grapples with one of the most pressing issues in the world today: robot warfare

    Blood-drenched Beard, by Daniel Galera, translated by Alison Entrekin (paperback). This sultry, alluring and atmospheric novel by Brazilian rising star Daniel Galera is made all the more mysterious and compelling by the protagonist’s unusual disorder: he is unable to recognize the faces of any of the people he meets.

    Frog, by Mo Yan, translated by Howard Goldblatt (paperback). The latest novel by the winner of the 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature, Frogoffers a moving and eye-opening insight into Chinese society and the far-reaching reverberations of the one-child policy

    Paul Baggaley, Picador

    Monica Sabolo’s All This Has Nothing To Do With Me , translated by Georgina Collins, is an original, extremely funny and darkly moving glimpse into the depths of one woman’s psyche, and a delicious piece of Parisian comedy. When journalist ‘MS’ interviews the mysterious ‘XX’ for a job at her magazine, she hires him straight away – because he is gorgeous. As one date leads to another, her obsession spirals whilst the object of her affection remains aloof. There is voyeurism here, and the addiction of any glossy magazine, but the prose is also sublime – sharp, graceful and charming. And MS herself is a wonderfully sympathetic character. She has a wry awareness of how ridiculous her behaviour is even as it spins out of control, and she never takes herself too seriously; there is a touch of a 21st century Bridget Jones to her in this respect.

    One Hundred Days of Happiness, translated by Tony Shugaar is Italian film director Fausto Brizzi’s gorgeously funny and sweetly sad story about the last one hundred days in the life of Lucio Battistini. Lucio’s simple life takes a tumble when an indiscretion at work gets him thrown out of the apartment he shares with his wife and children.  That’s when he receives the news that he is seriously ill, an three months left to live. Lucio decides he must live his last days to the full, and there’s a lot to do. He wants to win his wife back and travel with his children, he needs to let everybody know how happy he was, in spite of everything. This novel has a fun-loving, roguish Italian charm to it and despite the inevitably sad ending it’s really about celebrating love and friendship, and it’s endlessly uplifting for that.

    Wilful Disregard, translated by Sarah Death, is Lena Andersson’s August Prize-winning novel about one Ester Nilsson, a sensible person in a sensible relationship. That is until the day she is asked to give a lecture on famous artist Hugo Rask. The man himself sits in the audience, spellbound, and, when the two meet afterwards, he has the same effect on her. This short, sharp novel is just brilliant, a sort of dark love story about desperate devotion and total self-betrayal and self-delusion. It’s cuttingly, sometimes cruelly funny and written with whip-smart panache and precision.

    A Whole Life by Robert Seethaler and translated by Charlotte Collins. The new novel from Austrian writer Robert Seethaler sold 100,000 copies in German last year. It is the story of one man’s life – his loves, battles, consolations and regrets – set in the Alps, as the modern world begins to erode the old ways. Told with dignity, humility and great beauty, it has been compared with John Williams’ STONER.

    The Sense of an Elephant  by Marco Missiroli, translated by Stephen Twilley is a powerful story of paternal love and hidden lives, set in a palazzo in Milan. Pietro arrives with a battered suitcase to take up the job as concierge, and from the outset shows a special interest in Dr Luca Martini and his family. Soon he’s letting himself into their apartment while everyone is out. What is the secret that binds the two men? This is a charming, atmospheric novel and it won Italy’s Campiello Prize in 2012.

    Adam Freudenheim, Pushkin Press

    At the end of January we publish the debut novel by Israeli writer Ayelet Gundar-Goshen, One Night, Markovitch (translation by Sondra Silverston).  This sensuous, whimsical and moving love story fuses personal lives and epic history.  It’s a true delight!

    At the end of February we are thrilled to publish, in a unique, reverse back-to-back edition, Karate Chop & Minna Needs Rehearsal Space by Dorthe Nors (translations by Marin Aitken and Misha Hoekstra).  This collection of stories and novella by Danish writer Dorthe Nors marks the appearance in English of one of the most original writers I know of.  These two books will knock your socks off, quite simply.

    At the end of March we publish the powerful allegorical novel The Boy Who Stole Atilla’s Horse by Ivan Repila, a young Spanish writer (translation by Sophie Hughes).  Atilla has echoes of Beckett and Cormac McCarthy but is a very much its own thing – a fable for the early 21st century of a Europe in decline.

    Pushkin Children’s Books releases early this year include The Whale That Fell in Love with a Submarine by Akiyuki Nosaka (translation by Ginny Tapley Takemori) – wartime Japan like you’ve never read about it before – and the Brazilian bestseller Fuzz McFlops by Eva Furnari, a charming tale of a depressed one-eared rabbit who happens to be a writer, too.  And in September we’re thrilled to be publishing the sequel to The Letter for the King – The Secrets of the Wild Wood by Tonke Dragt (translation by Laura Watkison, who has been shortlisted for this year’s Marsh Award).

    Hannah Westland, Serpent’s Tail

    Serpent’s Tail is starting the year with a debut novel by a really exciting Finland Swedish writer called Philip Teir who has been compared to Jeffrey Eugenides and Jonathan Franzen – The Winter War (translated by Tiina Nunally) is a brilliantly funny, sharp, moving account of the demise of a family over the course of one winter, taking place in Helsinki and London. We’ve then got Leonora (translated by Amanda Hopkinson), a fictionalised account of the life of the great surrealist painter Leonora Carrington, by Elena Poniatowska, who was a friend of Carrington’s over many decades and is Mexico’s greatest living writer. In May we’re publishing Alain Mabanckou’s The Lights of Pointe Noire (translated by Helen Stevenson), a beautiful meditation on homecoming and how the Congo has changed since his childhood. And in November we’re planning to shock everyone with Danish debut Am I Cold by Copenhagen’s enfant terrible Martin Kongstad (translated by Martin Aitken) – this furious satire on art, marriage and late capitalism set in a Denmark teetering on the edge of financial crisis is hilarious, fearless, and cuts like a knife.

    Hannah Westland, Tuskar Rock

    In 2015 we begin publishing Tuskar Rock Press’s wonderful books. Starting with Antonio Munoz Molina’s masterpiece of the Spanish civil war, IN THE NIGHT OF TIME (translated by Edith Grossman) in March, and followed by the inimitable László Krasznahorkai’s new novel SEIOBO THERE BELOW (translated by Ottilie Mulzet) in August.

  • Publishers' translation highlights 2015

    Stefan Tobler, And Other Stories

    It’s an exciting year for our translated fiction — as well as the year of our first British debut fiction (from Niyati Keni and Angela Readman). We have two new titles in translation from authors we have published already: Carlos Gamerro (in March The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón, a hilariously satirical novel that takes in business inspirational books and Argentine guerrilleros) and Oleg Pavlov (in July Requiem for a Soldier, a very dark absurd humour in the last days of the Soviet empire), as well as the following five authors previously untranslated in English:

    SJ Naudé has translated his own Afrikaans stories in The Alphabet of Birds. Published this month, the stories have been highly praised by many writers and are on their way to entering the canon of South African literature.

    In March we will publish our first of three upcoming novels from the much-talked-about young Mexican writer Yuri Herrera. Signs Preceding the End of the World (translated by Lisa Dillman) is a novel about a translator in some ways: the main character, Makina, has national and language borders to cross and must come to terms with how this changes her.

    In April comes the Swiss writer Anne Cuneo’s Tregian’s Ground (translated by Roland Glasser and Louise Rogers Lalaurie). This historical novel is also a remarkable, cross-border story, this time of the copyist and compiler of the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book, Francis Tregian. In danger as a Catholic in the Elizabethan Age, he journeys across Europe, befriending Shakespeare, swapping scores with Byrd and Monteverdi, and playing in the French court.

    Haroldo Conti’s Southeaster (translated by Jon Lindsay Miles) is long overdue in English. Conti’s writing won major prizes and was praised by Gabriel García Márquez and Eduardo Galeano among others in the 70s, before he was ‘disappeared’ at the age of fifty-one by the Argentine dictatorship. Southeaster, the first of his books to be translated into English, is about a man drifting with odd jobs and a boat in the Paraná Delta.

    Susana Moreira Marques’ Now and at the Hour of our Death (translated by Julia Sanches) was the single book that most excited our readers in our Portuguese reading groups since 2011. We all fell in love with its beautiful, genre-defying approach. Accompanying a palliative care team, Moreira Marques travelled to a forgotten old corner of northern Portugal. She listens to families facing death and gives us their stories in their words as well as through her own reflections. It brilliantly combines the spirit of oral history with the sensibility of philosophical reportage.

    Bill Swainson, Bloomsbury

    Reckless by Hasan Ali Toptaş (translated from the Turkish by Maureen Freely and John Angliss) – March.  Hasan Ali Toptaş is one of Turkey’s leading writers. His books have won many prizes, including the Orhan Kemal Novel Prize and Yunus Nadai Novel Prize and have been widely translated though not published in English. Reckless (published in Turkish in 2013) is the story of a man fleeing the spiralling chaos of the big city in search of serenity in an Anatolian village of which he has heard dreamlike tales from an old army friend. But the village is no simple idyll and the mystery of just what he did on the Turkish/Syrian border 30 years earlier that places his friend in his debt eludes him.

    The All Saints’ Day Lovers by Juan Gabriel Vásquez (translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean) – May.  Achingly sad and exquisitely crafted, the seven stories in The All Saints’ Day Lovers together form an artistic whole, united by theme, mood, intense emotion and the starkly beautiful landscape of the Ardennes. ‘One of the most original new voices of Latin American literature’ Mario Vargas Llosa

    The Occupation Trilogy: La Place de l’Étoile; The Night Watch; Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano – August. The first three novels that the 2014 Nobel Laureate published in France, when he burst onto the Parisian literary scene at the end of the ’60s challenging the Gaullist myths, form a trilogy of the Occupation and evoke the city of that time, with its mystery, complicity and moral ambivalence. The Trilogy sees the first publication in English of La Place de l’Étoile (translated by Frank Wynne) alongside The Night Watch (translated by Patricia Wolf) and Ring Roads (translated by Caroline Hillier).

    Geoff Mulligan, Clerkenwell

    Gone to Ground by Marie Jalowicz Simonis the remarkable story of a young Jewish woman’s survival in Berlin through the Second World War. It is coming out in February and is translated by Anthea Bell.

    Eric Lane, Dedalus

    The Interpreter by Diego Marani, translated by Judith Landry follows on from New Finnish Grammar and The Last of the Vostyachs and forms a trilogy of novels on the theme of language and identity. The Interpreter is both a quest and a thriller, and at times a comic picaresque caper around Europe but also deals with the profound issues of existence.

    What Became of the White Savage by Francois Garde, translated by Aneesa Abbas Higgins is also a novel about language and identity and the need to belong. Based on a true story of a sailor who is abandoned in 19-th c Australia and spends 17 years living as an aborigine and when he is found and taken back to France cannot readjust to so-called civilised life. In France it won 9 literary prizes including the Goncourt in the first novel category.

    Lightheaded by Olga Slavnikova, translated by Andrew Bromfield is a zany, anarchic black comedy which satirises life in contemporary Russia. At its heart is the question what is important in life and what sacrifices an individual should be expected to make for the good of others. Winner of the Debut Prize.

    Ink in the Blood by Stephane Hochet, translated by Mike Mitchell. An artist gets his first tattoo and finds his whole being changes, what he feels and especially how he relates to women in this atmospheric and spine-chilling Euro short.

    Daniela Petracco, Europa Editions

    The book I’m most looking forward to publishing this year is The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante in Ann Goldstein’s accomplished translation.  The fourth and final instalment of the celebrated Neapolitan novels will be published in September.

    We are also adding some new authors to our list: Greek author Fotini Tsalikoglou with her melancholic novella The Secret Sister, out this month in Mary Kitroeff’s translation; French author Anna Gavalda with Billie, the urgently-told, inspiring story of two survivors, a novel that spent months in the number 1 spot on the French best seller lists last year and has been translated into 30 languages and counting. The English translation is by Jennifer Rappaport.

    In the Summer we’ll be publishing the first novel by none other than Nobel Laureate, actor and dramatist Dario Fo: The Pope’s Daughter, translated by Antony Shugaar, re-tells the story of Lucrezia and the Borgias as a shocking mirror image for the uses and abuses of power in our own time.

    Also in the Summer, a rediscovered classic by Jewish Austrian author Ernst Lothar, who, like his friend and associate Stefan Zweig, was forced to leave Vienna and seek exile abroad in the last years before WW2.  The Vienna Melody tells the story of a family of piano makers from the last years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to Austria’s Nazi takeover of 1938.  We are reissuing the original 1948 translation by Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood.

    Another title I much look forward to is the new novel by the young and gifted Viola Di Grado. The Hollow Heart, translated by Antony Shugaar, tells the story of a suicide – before, during and after – told in forensic, heart-breaking detail.

    In our World Noir series, we have new crime novels by Carlotto, Mallock, de Giovanni, and an exciting debut: The Night of the Panthers by Piergiorgio Pulixi is the first in a series that will explore organised crime and police corruption.

    Jacques Testard, Fitzcarraldo Editions

    The first translated book we publish this year is My Documents (April) by the Chilean novelist Alejandro Zambra (translated by Megan McDowell), his fourth to appear in English. The previous three were short novels, written with the author’s trademark irony and precision, humour and melancholy. My Documents, which is, on the surface, a collection of stories, is his longest work yet. Whether chronicling the attempts of a migraine-afflicted writer to quit smoking or the loneliness of the call-centre worker, the life of a personal computer or the return of the mercurial godson, this novel in fragments evokes the disenchantments of youth and the disillusions of maturity in a Chilean society still troubled by its recent past. In the words of Adam Thirlwell, ‘these stories are graceful, grave, comical, disabused. I guess what I mean is: My Documents represents a new form. When I think about Alejandro Zambra, I feel happy for the future of fiction.’

    In June, we publishe Kirill Medvedev’s It’s No Good, a collection of free verse and essays by ‘Russia’s first authentic post-Soviet author’ (Keith Gessen). Widely published and critically acclaimed as a poet, Medvedev is also a prominent political activist and a member of the Russian Socialist movement ‘Vpered’ [Forward]. His small press, the Free Marxist Publishing House, has recently released his translations of Pasolini, Eagleton, and Goddard, as well as numerous books on the intersection of literature, art and politics. Medvedev has also taken the unusual step of renouncing copyright — only pirated editions, no contracts. It’s No Good includes selected poems from his first four books of poetry as well as his most significant essays.  A collective of translators — Keith Gessen, Mark Krotov, Cory Merrill and Bela Shayevich — worked on the various texts.

    Following on from our launch title, Zone, published in August 2014, we publish Mathias Enard’s novel Street of Thieves in August 2015, once again brilliantly translated by Charlotte Mandell. It tells the story of Lakhdar, a young Tangerine who finds himself exiled from his family for religious transgressions related to his feelings for his cousin, Meryem. A bildungsroman set against the backdrop of the Arab Spring, Street of Thieves is also a story about immigration, and draws on a wealth of literary influences – Bowles, Choukri, Genet and Burroughs, to name a few.

    Jane Aitken, Gallic Books

    In February we are tremendously excited to publish best-selling Algerian author Yasmina Khadra’s novel The African Equation, translated by Howard Curtis. The story centres around Kurt, a Frankfurt doctor held hostage in East Africa whose view of the continent is challenged by a fellow captive. Khadra’s vivid imagining of the demise of Colonel GaddafiThe Dictator’s Last Night, translated by Julian Evans, will follow in October.

    April sees the publication of The Red Notebook, the much-anticipated new novel by The President’s Hat author Antoine Laurain. Translated in-house by Emily Boyce, we have a special attachment to this quirky, romantic tale with a bookseller hero who attempts to track down a woman based on the contents of her bag – which mysteriously include a signed copy of a novel by famously reclusive Nobel winner Patrick Modiano.

    Anne Berest’s fictionalised biography Sagan, Paris 1954out in June, draws a portrait of 18-year-old Françoise Sagan as her debut novel Bonjour Tristesse is poised to propel her to fame. The translator, Heather Lloyd, recently translated the Penguin Modern Classics edition of Bonjour Tristesse, so was the ideal choice for this intimate account of the novel’s continued relevance.

    Then in September comes our first foray into graphic novels, and what a way to start: Stéphane Heuet’s beautifully illustrated adaptation of Proust’s ‘Swann’s Way’, translated by Harvard academic Arthur Goldhammer. This ambitious project will give Proust-lovers a different way to approach the text, and, we hope, encourage new readers to discover it for themselves.

    Max Porter, Granta & Portobello

    We start the year with The Vegetarian by Han Kang (January, translated by Deborah Smith), a remarkable and unsettling novel about taboo and metamorphosis. It’s an essential read for anybody interested in illness, performance and trauma. It is also notable for Deborah Smith’s beautiful and intuitive translation.

    In March we have the mesmeric new novel by Man Booker International nominated Peter Stamm, All Days are Night (translated by Michael Hofmann). It tells the story of a perfect life that is violently shattered by tragedy. Like all Stamm’s work it is unadorned, insightful and quietly devastating.

    Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner? by Swedish economist and journalist Katrine Marçal (March, translated by Saskia Vogel) is an engaging and thought-provoking look at economics, equality and the mess we are in. As the general election approaches and the gender pay gap widens, it’s time we brought feminism and economics together.

    Valeria Luiselli, author of Sidewalks and Faces in the Crowd returns in April with a sparklingly intelligent and raucous comic novel The Story of My Teeth (translated by Christina McSweeney). Just in time for the Mexico market focus at LBF 2015 one of Latin America’s rising literary stars leaps into wonderfully flamboyant storytelling mode.

    Other highlights from Granta and Portobello in 2015 include The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret (July, translated by Sondra Silverston, Miriam Shlesinger, Jessica Cohen, Anthony Berris), a life-affirming collection of tragicomic essays by the author the New York Times called ‘a genius’.

    We have a previously unpublished collection of essays by the great Joseph Roth, called The Hotel Years, writings from inter-war Italy, Germany, Russia, Albania and Ukraine, by turns poignant, witty and unsettling  (September, translated by Michael Hofmann).

    Also in September Portobello Books will publish The Strange Case of Thomas Quick by Dan Josefsson (translated by Anna Paterson), the riveting story of a prisoner who posed as the worst serial killer in Swedish history, and the psychoanalyst who shaped the investigation.

    In November we publish Walter Kempowski’s last, great, novel All for Nothing (translated by Anthea Bell) a towering masterpiece of post-war German fiction comparable to Roth, Fallada and Grass, which also calls to mind Rachel Seiffert’s Dark Room and Richard Bausch’s Peace.

    Michal Shavit, Harvill Secker

    This year at Harvill Secker we have an incredibly strong selection of fiction in translation : An electrifying debut, Jesús Carrasco, Out in the Open, to be published in April. Beautifully translated by Margaret Jull Costa it tells the story of a boy in a drought-stricken country ruled by violence. A closed world where names and dates don’t matter, where morals have drained away with the water. It has been a huge best-seller in Spain and Holland and it marks the arrival of a major new Spanish writer.

    We are also excited to welcome to the list Mia Couto in August. It is an understatement to describe Mia Couto as Mozambique’s greatest novelist – he is in fact one of the most outstanding authors to have emerged in Africa’s post-colonial history. Based on a true story, Confession of the Lioness, translated by David Brookshaw, is set in the rural village of Kulumani as it is being besieged by killer lions. As the inevitable encounter with the lions approaches, the hidden tensions in the village are gradually exposed and the real theme of the novel becomes apparent: the war is not between man and nature but between the village’s patriarchal traditions and its long suffering women.

    And last but certainly not least, this March we are publishing the fourth volume of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s phenomenal My Struggle series, translated by Don Bartlett: Dancing in the Dark. 18 years old and fresh out of high school, Karl Ove moves to a remote Norwegian fishing village to work as a teacher. All goes well to begin with. But as the nights grow longer, Karl Ove’s life takes a darker turn. Drinking causes him blackouts and romantic adventures end in humiliation. As the New York Times Book Review put it: ‘Why would you read a six-volume 3,600-page Norwegian novel about a man writing a six-volume 3,600-page Norwegian novel? The short answer is that it is breathtakingly good and so you cannot stop yourself, and would not want to’.

    Susan Curtis, Istros Books

    We have seven lucky titles lined up for you in 2015: we start the year with Croatian poet Olja Savicevic’s beautiful debut novel, Farewell Cowboyfollowed by a collection of hard-hitting short prose pieces exploring the female condition in Turkey in Ciler Ilhan’s Exile – winner of the European Prize for Literature. We also have another EU prize winner in the Slovenian writer, Gabriela Babnik and an unusual love story set in Africa, Dry Season. Dream and nightmare are the themes of Evald Flisar‘s psychologically challenging novel, My Father’s Dreams, whereas fairy tales are the playground for Macedonian writer, Aleksandar Prokopiev in his collection for adults – Homunculus. We will also be treated to the final instalment of Andrej Nikolaidis‘ informal ‘Olchinium Trilogy’ – Till Kingdom Come and get to taste one of the biggest Balkan hits in recent years: Yugoslavia, My Country by Goran Vojnovic.

    Katharina Bielenberg, MacLehose Press

    O. Enquist’s The Wandering Pine (January, translated by Deborah Bragan Turner)

    In this venerated Swedish novelist gives us his life in the third person, as a national highjumper, as a journalist during the 1972 Munich Olympic hostage crisis, as a playwright who had the most tremendous Broadway flop, and as an alcoholic whose disease almost destroyed him. A startlingly bold autobiography.

    In Evelio Rosero’s Feast of the Innocents (January, translated by Anne McLean and Anna Milsom), a doctor chooses Carnival as the perfect arena in which to explode the myth of Simon Bolívar once and for all. A magical, exuberant riot of a book set in Colombia’s southern city of Pasto.

    Elias Khoury’s The Broken Mirrors/Sinalcol (translated from Arabic by Humphrey Davies) tells the story of two brothers divided by difference and civil war, between Beirut and France. Thought provoking, rich in language and character, beautiful constructed, another powerful novel from the Lebanese writer.

    With The Heart of Man (February, translated by Philip Roughton) Icelander Jón Kalman Stefánsson concludes his sublime trilogy, a profound exploration of life in the extreme north and its most crucial elements: love, food, warmth, literature – but most of all, love.

    Karim Miské’s Arab Jazz (February, translated by Sam Gordon) is a fast-paced crime novel from Paris’ 19th arrondissement that goes to the heart of religious extremism and the violence it can inspire. Recent horrific events in Paris are to some extent reflected in this novel by the Franco-Mauritanian documentary film-maker. Miské visits the UK in February for a series of events supported by PEN Promotes.

    Borders by Roy Jacobsen (March, translated from Norwegian by Don Bartlett and Don Shaw) is a gripping story of impossible choices in a theatre of total war, where family love, national identity, even military genius, count for nothing as the doomed German 6th
    Army fights for Stalingrad in WWII.

    Leica Format (translated by Celia Hawkesworth) by Croatian writer Daša Drndiƈ – author of Trieste – is a tale of cities, of how the past merges with the present, and of what constitutes a homeland. A narrative of poignant, vivid fragments and images that combine to form a haunting study of history and the processes by which we describe, remember, or falsify it.

    Fall of Man in Wilmslow by David Lagercrantz (May, translated from Swedish by George Goulding) explores the repressive atmosphere of Cold War Britain through the death and life of revolutionary mathematician Alan Turing. Lagercrantz’s writing is so clever and engaging that complex mathematical theorems become crystal clear. He is also the author of the continuation of Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series (coming in August)

    Later in the year we look forward to two novels by incumbent Nobel Prize winner Patrick Modiano (A Pedigree and So That You Don’t Lose Yourself in the Quartier), and novels by Andreï Makine, Peter Terrin and Norbert Gstrein, as well as Pierre Lemaitre’s 2013 Goncourt Prize-winner, the first in a magnum opus.

    Juliet Mabey, Oneworld

    We will be adding four novels to our growing list of fiction in translation, the first of which is A Perfect Crime by A Yi, translated from the Chinese by Anna Holmwood. A bored high school student murders his best friend to relieve the daily tedium of existence, and so begins a stylish psychological suspense novel, the literary love child of Camus’ The Stranger, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Kafka’s The Trial. Offering both a vision of China’s heart of darkness – the despair that traps the rural poor and the incoherent rage lurking behind their phlegmatic front – and a technically brilliant excursion into the claustrophobic realm of classic horror and suspense, this novel is generously supported by a PEN Award for translation and promotion.

    In July we are publishing a Norwegian YA novel in our new imprint, Rock the BoatMinus Me, written by Ingelin Rossland and translated by Deborah Dawkin, follows a young terminally ill teenager as she completes her bucket list and ultimately comes to terms with leaving.

    In October we are very excited to be publishing the critically acclaimed, multiple award-winning Laurus by Eugene Vodolazkin, translated from the Russian by Lisa Hayden. Winner of both the Big Book and Yasnaya Polyana Awards in 2013 and shortlisted for several others, this huge novel has been dubbed Russia’s The Name of the Rose. An enthralling chronicle of the Russian Middle Ages, a doomed love affair, and an epic journey all in one life-affirming, sprawling fable.

    And in November we are publishing the multiple award-winning French novel Meursault, Contre-enquete by Algerian journalist and writer Kamel Daoud, translated by Sandra Smith. This highly acclaimed debut is a powerful, lyrical, and politically charged re-imagining of The Outsider, narrated by the brother of the nameless Arab killed in Camus’ iconic novel, and is already a huge bestseller in France. It has won numerous accolades including the Prix François-Mauriac of the Académie Française and the Prix des Cinq Continents, and was a finalist for the Prix Goncourt, the most prestigious literary award in French literature.

    Meike Ziervogel, Peirene Press

    Peirene only publishes three books a year and I curate them in series. 2015 is Peirene’s year of Chance Encounter: Meeting The Other. A stunning Finnish tale about the human will to survive (White Hunger by Aki Ollikainen, translated by Emily Jeremiah and Fleur Jeremiah), a French love story about the art of reading (Reader for Hire by Jean Raymond, translated by Adriana Hunter), and a Norwegian drama about two middle-aged sisters whose existence is turned upside down when a stranger enters their lives (The Looking-Glass Sisters by Gøhril Gabrielsen, translated by John Irons).

    Amelia Fairney, Penguin

    Drone Theory, by Gregoire Chamayou, translated by Janet Lloyd. Beautifully argued, passionate and coherent, this is an urgent and important polemic that blends philosophy with reportage as it grapples with one of the most pressing issues in the world today: robot warfare

    Blood-drenched Beard, by Daniel Galera, translated by Alison Entrekin (paperback). This sultry, alluring and atmospheric novel by Brazilian rising star Daniel Galera is made all the more mysterious and compelling by the protagonist’s unusual disorder: he is unable to recognize the faces of any of the people he meets.

    Frog, by Mo Yan, translated by Howard Goldblatt (paperback). The latest novel by the winner of the 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature, Frogoffers a moving and eye-opening insight into Chinese society and the far-reaching reverberations of the one-child policy

    Paul Baggaley, Picador

    Monica Sabolo’s All This Has Nothing To Do With Me , translated by Georgina Collins, is an original, extremely funny and darkly moving glimpse into the depths of one woman’s psyche, and a delicious piece of Parisian comedy. When journalist ‘MS’ interviews the mysterious ‘XX’ for a job at her magazine, she hires him straight away – because he is gorgeous. As one date leads to another, her obsession spirals whilst the object of her affection remains aloof. There is voyeurism here, and the addiction of any glossy magazine, but the prose is also sublime – sharp, graceful and charming. And MS herself is a wonderfully sympathetic character. She has a wry awareness of how ridiculous her behaviour is even as it spins out of control, and she never takes herself too seriously; there is a touch of a 21st century Bridget Jones to her in this respect.

    One Hundred Days of Happiness, translated by Tony Shugaar is Italian film director Fausto Brizzi’s gorgeously funny and sweetly sad story about the last one hundred days in the life of Lucio Battistini. Lucio’s simple life takes a tumble when an indiscretion at work gets him thrown out of the apartment he shares with his wife and children.  That’s when he receives the news that he is seriously ill, an three months left to live. Lucio decides he must live his last days to the full, and there’s a lot to do. He wants to win his wife back and travel with his children, he needs to let everybody know how happy he was, in spite of everything. This novel has a fun-loving, roguish Italian charm to it and despite the inevitably sad ending it’s really about celebrating love and friendship, and it’s endlessly uplifting for that.

    Wilful Disregard, translated by Sarah Death, is Lena Andersson’s August Prize-winning novel about one Ester Nilsson, a sensible person in a sensible relationship. That is until the day she is asked to give a lecture on famous artist Hugo Rask. The man himself sits in the audience, spellbound, and, when the two meet afterwards, he has the same effect on her. This short, sharp novel is just brilliant, a sort of dark love story about desperate devotion and total self-betrayal and self-delusion. It’s cuttingly, sometimes cruelly funny and written with whip-smart panache and precision.

    A Whole Life by Robert Seethaler and translated by Charlotte Collins. The new novel from Austrian writer Robert Seethaler sold 100,000 copies in German last year. It is the story of one man’s life – his loves, battles, consolations and regrets – set in the Alps, as the modern world begins to erode the old ways. Told with dignity, humility and great beauty, it has been compared with John Williams’ STONER.

    The Sense of an Elephant  by Marco Missiroli, translated by Stephen Twilley is a powerful story of paternal love and hidden lives, set in a palazzo in Milan. Pietro arrives with a battered suitcase to take up the job as concierge, and from the outset shows a special interest in Dr Luca Martini and his family. Soon he’s letting himself into their apartment while everyone is out. What is the secret that binds the two men? This is a charming, atmospheric novel and it won Italy’s Campiello Prize in 2012.

    Adam Freudenheim, Pushkin Press

    At the end of January we publish the debut novel by Israeli writer Ayelet Gundar-Goshen, One Night, Markovitch (translation by Sondra Silverston).  This sensuous, whimsical and moving love story fuses personal lives and epic history.  It’s a true delight!

    At the end of February we are thrilled to publish, in a unique, reverse back-to-back edition, Karate Chop & Minna Needs Rehearsal Space by Dorthe Nors (translations by Marin Aitken and Misha Hoekstra).  This collection of stories and novella by Danish writer Dorthe Nors marks the appearance in English of one of the most original writers I know of.  These two books will knock your socks off, quite simply.

    At the end of March we publish the powerful allegorical novel The Boy Who Stole Atilla’s Horse by Ivan Repila, a young Spanish writer (translation by Sophie Hughes).  Atilla has echoes of Beckett and Cormac McCarthy but is a very much its own thing – a fable for the early 21st century of a Europe in decline.

    Pushkin Children’s Books releases early this year include The Whale That Fell in Love with a Submarine by Akiyuki Nosaka (translation by Ginny Tapley Takemori) – wartime Japan like you’ve never read about it before – and the Brazilian bestseller Fuzz McFlops by Eva Furnari, a charming tale of a depressed one-eared rabbit who happens to be a writer, too.  And in September we’re thrilled to be publishing the sequel to The Letter for the King – The Secrets of the Wild Wood by Tonke Dragt (translation by Laura Watkison, who has been shortlisted for this year’s Marsh Award).

    Hannah Westland, Serpent’s Tail

    Serpent’s Tail is starting the year with a debut novel by a really exciting Finland Swedish writer called Philip Teir who has been compared to Jeffrey Eugenides and Jonathan Franzen – The Winter War (translated by Tiina Nunally) is a brilliantly funny, sharp, moving account of the demise of a family over the course of one winter, taking place in Helsinki and London. We’ve then got Leonora (translated by Amanda Hopkinson), a fictionalised account of the life of the great surrealist painter Leonora Carrington, by Elena Poniatowska, who was a friend of Carrington’s over many decades and is Mexico’s greatest living writer. In May we’re publishing Alain Mabanckou’s The Lights of Pointe Noire (translated by Helen Stevenson), a beautiful meditation on homecoming and how the Congo has changed since his childhood. And in November we’re planning to shock everyone with Danish debut Am I Cold by Copenhagen’s enfant terrible Martin Kongstad (translated by Martin Aitken) – this furious satire on art, marriage and late capitalism set in a Denmark teetering on the edge of financial crisis is hilarious, fearless, and cuts like a knife.

    Hannah Westland, Tuskar Rock

    In 2015 we begin publishing Tuskar Rock Press’s wonderful books. Starting with Antonio Munoz Molina’s masterpiece of the Spanish civil war, IN THE NIGHT OF TIME (translated by Edith Grossman) in March, and followed by the inimitable László Krasznahorkai’s new novel SEIOBO THERE BELOW (translated by Ottilie Mulzet) in August.

  • Yule love these books in translation 2014

    Roasting chestnuts on an open fire, taking the first whiff of mulled wine, and cracking open a great work of literature in translation: find your stocking-filler or winter-cheerer with these recommendations from top writers

     

    Jo Baker, writer

    Suspended Sentences, by Patrick Modiano, translated by Mark Polizzotti (Yale University Press)

    Together, these three novellas form a beautiful evocation of life in and around Paris towards the latter part of the 20th Century. They each centre on a noirish mystery – the search for a shadowy figure, or for something just out of reach – but these are stories that resist resolution. Ultimately, they’re more concerned with absences, with gaps, with what can’t quite be remembered or grasped, than with what has ‘actually happened’… and so they feel like lace, full of elegantly captured spaces. As the narrator of ‘Afterimage’ says: ‘Of all the punctuation marks… ellipses were his favourite’. He’s talking about the photographer Jensen, but that could equally be suggested of Modiano himself.

     

    Alexandra Büchler, director of Literature Across Frontiers

    Nowhere People by Paulo Scott (And Other Stories) stands way out among the books I read in 2014. It’s the kind of novel you read and already look forward to reading it again although it makes such a painful read. Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Daniel Hahn, it is an innovative and emphatic j’accuse by a former lawyer and activist, a great example of the possibility of political engagement through literature, a reminder of one of the worst crimes in the history of mankind, the crime of displacing and annihilating indigenous people around the globe. Read this if you don’t mind crying.  Kirmen Uribe’s Bilbao – New York – Bilbao (Seren Books) translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin is a mix of travel writing, family history and reflections on Basque culture and its place in today’s world. It is a book about journeys, the many journeys made by Uribe’s father and grandfather on Basque fishing boats and his own travels as a writer who has inherited their language. Read this if you want to be moved by the simple prose of an author who is primarily a poet.   Lasha Bugadze was one of the Georgian writers on board of Literature Express, a train carrying some 100 authors across Europe to celebrate the new millenium. His novel of the same title  translated from the Georgian by Maya Kiasashvili (Dalkey Archive Press), is a fictionalized account of that journey. Brilliant, funny, tragicomic, it pokes fun at the construct of Europe with its inherent hierarchies and inequalities played out in the environment of a literary festival on wheels. Read this if you want to laugh.

     

    Robert Chandler, translator from Russian

    Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment, trans. Oliver Ready (Penguin Classics).  At last we have a translation that brings out the wild humour and vitality of the original.  A.N. Wilson, who also chose this as a ‘Book of the Year’, is right to call it a ‘truly great translation’.  Prue Shaw, Reading Dante: From Here to Eternity (Liveright, 2014).  A book about Dante rather than a translation – but Prue Shaw succeeds brilliantly in making a foreign writer accessible to a wider readership, which is, of course, just what a translator does.  I have been reading and re-reading Dante all my adult life and have never read anything better, clearer or more inspiring about him.

     

    Jonathan Coe, writer

    The book I most enjoyed in English translation this year was Limonov by Emmanuel Carrère translated by John Lambert (Allen Lane). It’s rare to find a book so original in form (is it a novel? is it a biography?) and at the same time so compelling in content. A fascinating portrait, not just of a memorably grotesque, larger-than-life character, but of Russia itself.

     

    Geraldine D’Amico, Folkestone Book Festival and King’s Place Spoken Word Programmer and translator

    My favourite book this year was certainly Frederic Gros’ A Philosophy of Walking translated by John Howe (Verso Books). This is a book about the simplest, most basic thing human beings have been doing for ever, whether to go from point A to point B, to experience nature or as a form of exercise. Frederic Gros is both a keen walker and a philosopher. In his book he alternates chapters about his experience as someone who simply enjoys walking, preferably slowly, and chapters about famous thinkers and why walking was important for them: from Kant who had such a routine that you could set your watch by the time he appeared at a certain place, to Rimbaud, the wandering poet, Thoreau and his cabin in the woods and many more. It is a delightful book to be read from beginning to end or dipped in now and then, perfect to pack in a rucksack and pull out with one’s picnic, food for the mind and the soul.

     

    Boris Dralyuk, translator from Russian

    I’ve been lucky enough to review a number of books in translation in 2014 and I would eagerly recommend Bill Johnston’s inspired recreation of the contemporary Polish poet Tomasz Różycki’s mock-epic Twelve Stations (Zephyr, 2014), Bryan Karetnyk’s sensitive re-translation of the Russian émigré novelists Gaito Gazdanov’s ‘metaphysical thriller’ The Buddha’s Return (Pushkin Press, 2014), and John Lambert’s seamless rendition of Emmanuelle Carrere’s rollicking biographical novel Limonov (Allen Lane, 2014). But I’d be a fool to squander an opportunity to praise two more publications that are not to be missed. Anne Marie Jackson, Robert and Elizabeth Chandler, Clare Kitson, Irina Sternberg and Natalie Wase have done an extraordinary service to the Russian author Teffi (1872-1952) — and to the Anglophone reader — by selecting and translating Subtly Worded (Pushkin, 2014), a volume of stories that could not be more aptly titled. Teffi was not only a great wit and an impeccable stylist, but one of the twentieth century’s most perceptive and clear-headed observers. Subtly Worded is flawless — a true revelation. This year Antonia Lloyd-Jones, one of the premiere translators of Polish prose, has brought us Mariusz Szczygieł’s remarkably engaging Gottland (Melville House, 2014), an idiosyncratic chronicle of the Czechs’ Kafkaesque journey through the twentieth century. Szczygieł’s book exposes the dangers of compromise, the importance of memory, and the differences between the national experiences of two Slavic peoples – a particularly relevant subject, in a year when the Slavic world is again in crisis.

     

    Maya Jaggi, a cultural journalist and literary critic, a judge of this year’s International Impac Dublin Literary Award

    Tomás González is among the brilliant Colombian writers emerging from the shadow of Gabriel García Márquez. In the Beginning Was the Sea (Pushkin Press), translated by Frank Wynne, is about a 30-something couple from Medellín who buy a run-down estate on the Caribbean coast to live the good life, but whose rustic dream sours as they fatally antagonise the locals. It’s a forensic portrait of a doomed relationship and environmental hubris, with the irony of a plantation novel – and a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of escaping to the country. Joan Sales’s Uncertain Glory (MacLehose Press), a Catalan-language classic from the 1950s revived in Peter Bush’s translation minus the cuts of Franco’s censors, follows three men in love with the same woman in civil-war Spain. Sales fought for the Republicans in the Aragon trenches, and lays bare the absurdities of war with astringent satire through the disillusioned eyes of the defeated. I would also recommend Kirmen Uribe’s novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao (Seren Books), translated by Elizabeth Macklin. A reflective insight into three generations of Basque family history, it is crafted with the structure of a trawler’s net by one of Spain’s most exciting young novelists – who writes in Basque – and is the perfect read for anyone on a plane.

     

    Roland Gulliver, Associate Director, Edinburgh International Book Festival

    He has been hitting all the literary headlines this year but Karl Ove Knausgaard is definitely worth the hype. Reading the first three books in his series, Death in the Family, Man in Love and Boyhood Island translated by Don Bartlett (Harvill Secker), has been an incredible experience. Intense, insightful, funny, addictive; like all great books they make you see yourself and your world afresh, challenging your perspectives on art, literature and society. My great discovery this year was George Simenon (translated by David Bellos, Anthea Bell, Linda Coverdale and many more). Penguin have taken on the admirably impressive task of retranslating all of his novels over a 7 year period. I have to confess I had stereotyped Maigret as pedestrian Sunday night TV but the novels are fascinating. These short novels capture society in post-war France, highlighting the class divide and the rise of the petit-bourgeoisie, the growth of cities and the fear of immigration, and desperate measures people go to out of fear, greed or just trying to survive. Finally, my funniest book of the year is Weapons of Mass Diplomacy written by Abel Lanzac, drawn by Christophe Blain and translated by Edward Gauvin (SelfMadeHero). Set in the French Foreign Office at the time of the Iraq crisis, it is that rare beast of laugh out loud funny. A graphic novel version of The Thick of It with a unique Gallic twist!

     

    Daniel Hahn, translator from Spanish and Portugese

    My choice would be The Adventures of Shola, by Bernardo Atxaga, and translated by Margaret Jull Costa –  a charming, witty, spirited collection of stories about the exploits of an irresistibly characterful little dog. It’s a children’s book – Atxaga’s first in English – and a great Christmas present for children, but I think I may have to buy a few copies for adults, too…

     

    Amanda Hopkinson, translator from Spanish, Portugese and French

    One is – or rather are – two children’s books by Erich Kästner, translated from the German by the impeccable Anthea Bell. Just like Emil and the Detectives, Kästner’s best-known tale, The Flying Classroom and The Parent Trap are pitched at 9+-year-olds, and I enjoyed every word of both, before reluctantly passing them onto my grandson. They explore childhood with wit and invention while spinning magical yarns interwoven with the erratic and bizarre actions of adults and the independent-mindedness of children. Small wonder the Nazis saw fit to burn them!  My other choice does not have a translator but is, in a sense, still a translation. Only recently has Turkish novelist Elif Shafak started composing her books in English, and The Architect’s Apprentice is clearly an original, unfiltered through any word-for-word mental process. It spans an elephantine journey from Hindustan through the Ottoman Empire, relaying the adventures of a baby – then growing – elephant and his mahout. Stuffed with histories of new worlds and human ways, this is magical realism as it encounters Orientalism in a literary explosion akin to a New Year’s firework display.

     

    Michele Hutchinson, translator from Dutch and editor

    There are some fantastic Dutch children’s classics and Letter for the King by Tonke Dragt is one of them. Laura Watkinson’s skilful translation was published this year by Pushkin Press and garnered excellent reviews. The strapline reads, ‘A young messenger. A secret mission. A kingdom in peril’. A perfect gift for a young nephew or niece.  That same nephew or niece might also enjoy The Cat Who Came in off the Roof by Annie M.G. Schmidt, one of the best-loved Dutch children’s writers of all time. Beautifully packaged by (again) Pushkin Press in a retro-looking edition and charmingly translated by David Colmer.

     

    Antonia Lloyd-Jones, translator from Polish

    One of my favourite books to be published this year is Harlequin’s Millions by Bohumil Hrabal (Archipelago). Any Hrabal fans will recognise the nameless narrator as the beautiful heroine of his earlier work, The Little Town Where Time Stood Still. Now she and her husband Francin, manager of the brewery, and his charismatic brother Uncle Pepin, are finishing their days in a most unusual retirement home – a decaying castle that once belonged to a legendary count, where classical figures continue to pose and battle in crumbling paintings and sculptures. As the narrator reminisces and her fellow pensioners tell their stories of the past, we sense that rather than standing still, time is running in parallel, and the people in their colourful tales are still very much alive, while also being long since dead and gone. Meanwhile, the lovely ballet music of ‘Harlequin’s Millions’ drifts throughout the castle as a constant accompaniment to Hrabal’s lilting prose, which has lost none of its lyricism in Stacey Knecht’s magnificent translation.

     

    Catherine Taylor, literary critic, Deputy Director of the English PEN

    Elena Ferrante has been the year’s  most-talked about sensation in literature – quite possibly for the wrong reasons. The extreme reclusiveness of the author has led to debates which go far beyond any assessment of her actual work. And what subversive, sensuous work it is. In Those Who Leave And Those Who Stay, (Europa Editions) translated with aplomb by Ann Goldstein, the third volume in Ferrante’s Neapolitan series of novels about childhood friends Lila and Elena, she explores the intense rivalries of female friendship and nascent feminism against the backdrop of Italy in the 1960s.

    His first book, Traveller of the Century, was a bulky, quintessential novel of ideas. Talking to Ourselves, Andrés Neuman’s new book (Pushkin Press), is short, intense and unforgettable as a small family comes to terms with the terminal illness of one of its beloved members. Excoriating , painfully soul-searching and impeccably translated by Nick Caistor and Lorenza García. Lastly, Isaac Babel, the great Russian writer who died in 1940 at the height of Stalin’s purges, is well-served by a new translation of his best-known collection, Red Cavalry (Pushkin Press). Boris Dralyuk brings to vivid life Babel’s wry, unflinching account of his time as a correspondent in the Red Army during Russia’s civil war.

     

    Adam Thirlwell – writer

    The translated book I loved most this year was Michel Laub’s Diary of the Fall (Harvill Secker) translated by Margaret Jull Costa. Its themes seem pure grandeur – memory, the Holocaust, writing, nostalgia – but its construction is so original and elegant that the grandeur seeps into you, unawares. What I mean is: it might not seem the perfect Christmas present, but on the principle that you should give the best books to the people you love, then everyone you love should get Michel Laub’s new novel.

     

    Ros Schwartz, translator from French

    My choice is The Dead Lake by Hamid Ismailov, translated by Andrew Bromfield (Peirene Press). Exquisitely written and translated, searing, magical, inventive and poignant – one of those books that stays with you for a long time.  

     

    Naomi Wood, writer

    I’m afraid I’m only just crawling out from my Hemingway-sized reading hole, but the book I really enjoyed reading in translation was Elena Ferrente’s My Brilliant Friend (L’amica geniale, trans. Ann Goldstein, Europa Editions). She describes the intense, passionate and decidedly overwhelming friendship of two young girls in postwar Naples in such vivid prose; I adored this book, and can’t wait to read the next ones in the series.

     

    A.M. Bakalar, author

    Voices from Tibet: Selected Essays and Reportage by Tsering Woeser and Wang Lixiong, edited and translated by Violet S. Law (Hong Kong University Press). A short but powerful book on China’s rule over Tibet. These essays explore a wide range of topics, from the ongoing destruction of Tibetan culture, environment and freedom to self-immolation as a form of protest against the Chinese heavy-handed control.

    Wioletta Greg (or Wioletta Grzegorzewska in Polish) is a mesmerising voice of young Polish émigré authors. Finite Formulae & Theories of Chance by Wioletta Greg translated by Marek Kazmierski (Arc Publications) is a delightful collection of selected poems and prose, here published in Polish with English translation.

    Books that make you laugh are notoriously difficult to write. Two novels, published this year, in particular brought me to tears. Mission London by a Bulgarian author Alek Popov translated by Charles de M Gill (Istros Book) and Look Who’s Back by Timur Vermes translated from German by Jamie Bullock (MacLehose Press). The former describes the experiences of a newly appointed Bulgarian ambassador to London, the latter brings Adolf Hitler from the dead into contemporary Germany. I can’t remember when I laughed so much during reading in years.

     

  • Memory and Responsibility

    Having won the 2014 Jan Michalski Prize for Road to Donbass, Serhiy Zhadan writes for PEN Atlas about growing up in eastern Ukraine, a region now at war, and how love and attentiveness are the lessons of literature in a world of silence and oblivion.

    Translated from the Ukranian by Boris Dralyuk.

    Four years ago I wrote a book about the places where I was born and grew up, about my homeland. I wanted to talk about two things that are of great importance to me and to many of my compatriots: memory and responsibility. The Road to Donbass is, after all, about precisely this – memory and responsibility. And, of course, about all the other things associated with them.

    What does our memory give rise to? Our understanding of the past, our relationship with history, our awareness of our homeland. Responsibility, on the other hand, indicates a readiness to defend all this – our past, our history, our homeland. Something of this kind occupies the hero of my book – as he sinks deeper into his own memory, he discovers things that are at once simple and very important. After trying to recall everything once and put it in its proper place in the past, he comes to terms with his own future, with how he can go on, with what he can hold onto. And it is responsibility, in this case, that is the principle – sufficient and significant – which motivates the hero, lending logic and consistency to his actions. Responsibility to his family, to his friends, to shared secrets, to those who have left, and, most importantly, to those who have stayed and who rely on him. This responsibility is what makes one an adult, since it has a bearing on extremely serious things – like love and hate, or life and death.

    But this isn’t a matter of abstract concepts and categories. Thousands of wonderful books have been written about life, and even more about death. And the same goes for memory and responsibility. For me, the novel isn’t just a fictional story with conventional characters and fantastic situations. No, for me it’s associated with real landscapes and a very tangible geography. These landscapes really do exist – they stretch along the Ukrainian-Russian border, and they are now beset by fighting. You can see the locations described in my book on the news; the same gas stations where ‘more or less rotten’ fellows stood around squabbling are now encircled by Ukrainian ‘Grads’, Donbass’s system of defense against potential aggression.

    Reality has shown itself to be far more ruthless and unpredictable than any fantasy. After all, who could have imagined a year ago that columns of Ukrainian prisoners would be led down the streets of Donetsk, that the morgues of Ukrainian towns would be filled with torn bodies. Today, war, death, pain, loss and danger are part of our everyday reality. And reality itself has somehow wound up in the spotlight. People are talking about Ukraine, arguing about Ukraine – everyone must take a position. In Western Europe, which seems to have recovered and found peace after the impossibly bloody twentieth century, it suddenly became apparent that the threat of a new massacre, a new general war, is still quite real, that history marches on in the streets and in the trenches, and that subtle diplomacy and multibillion-euro contracts cannot protect civilians from the madness and paranoia of a single man, if that man happens to have a high domestic approval rating and a well-equipped army. Ukraine cannot be ignored. It is increasingly difficult to pretend that the war raging on its territory is an internal conflict, increasingly difficult to deny the presence of Russian tanks in the mining towns. The attempts of European leaders to flirt with the aggressor, to maintain a civilized conversation with a man who coolly wipes out hundreds of his own citizens and those of neighboring countries appear ever more dubious and equivocal. To be sure, for Europe, this is merely a nightmare unfolding at a safe distance. The nightmare must be reckoned with, it is impossible to circumvent, but, by and large, it remains at a relatively safe distance, at least for now.

    It’s a great shame that the world only remembered our country when it began to bleed. It’s a great shame that the news about Ukraine always presents bombed-out houses and the dead. It’s extremely painful to know that, even in this situation, Ukrainians have to convince many Westerners of their right to freedom and independence – ultimately, of their right to memory and responsibility. But it’s good that you’re listening to us, that you’re forced to listen, that you don’t pretend that nothing is happening, and that sometimes you even try to understand what’s really going on – in the East, beyond the realms of your comfort and security, beyond the realms of your experience and established notions. It may be precisely in this situation that literature, and culture in general, can be of some use. It may be that today literature provides the only real opportunity, however dubious, to explain something – without agitprop.

    Many among us in the East still believe that literature should educate, should teach. To me, however, this idea about the nature of writing always seemed rather false and frivolous; I’d always thought (and think even now) that literature can only teach love and attentiveness. Moreover, in many cases, these are one and the same thing. In this book, this novel, I also spoke about love and attentiveness. I was lucky to be born and to grow up in eastern Ukraine, yet I was always troubled by the absence of this region, of these landscapes, of these people from the surrounding text – I missed the presence of this air in literature, the presence of this geography in the pages of books. I wanted to write about all of this with love and attentiveness. I wanted to capture countless details and moments that seemed important and decisive. I wanted to understand what makes this region special, unlike any other place in the world.

    Today I realize that most of the things I described remain in the past. And there’s no chance of bringing them back. And there’s no sense in trying. Everything has changed. Even if these landscapes, fields, and valleys will be just as sunny, and the rivers just as warm, war has changed everything anyway, stripping us of many illusions. But, at the same time, it has stripped many of us of fear, of uncertainty, and of indecisiveness. It has left us our memory. And our responsibility.

    It so happened that we, the residents of eastern Ukraine, have now found ourselves in a warzone. The towns where we grew up, the streets and buildings in which we lived, are now the sites of battle or are near them. For many of us the war is a personal matter, even though the majority are not involved in the fighting. But one way or another, we are all now living this war, are all affected by it, all think and talk about it. Sometimes we’re short of interlocutors – people quickly tire of talking about bad, unpleasant things. Sometimes we’re short of words. All the same, one way or another, we must talk. And we must listen. What is said forms memory. And what is heard forms responsibility. Silence leads to death and oblivion. That is why today it is especially important to talk to one another, listen to one another. Listen, even if you don’t agree with what you hear. Listen, even if you know how this story ends.

  • But why do you write your books in English and Turkish?

    It is a question I hear often. Each time, I need to pause for a split second, the briefest hesitation within the span of a breathing space… How can I explain? How much can I tell? I try to offer a compact, rational answer that would do. Yet, I also know, deep down inside, that my urge to write stories in a language other than my mother tongue was an irrational choice, if it was a choice at all. I did not exactly decide to write in English. It didn’t quite happen like that. Rather than a logical resolution, it was an animal instinct that brought me to the shores of the English language. Perhaps I escaped into this new continent. I sent myself into perpetual exile, carving an additional space for myself, building a new home, brick by brick, in this other land. Being a stranger and an outsider in the English language intimidates me sometimes. It is a challenge, both intellectually and spiritually. Yet the joy and the pleasure I derive from the experience are so much bigger. And whatever pain there is, it is certainly less than the pain of feeling like a stranger and an outsider in my motherland. Somehow, that is heavier.

    I started learning English at the age of ten as I became a student at a British School in Madrid, Spain. At the time, Spanish was my second language. Yet as much as I loved the sound of Spanish, my passion for and pull towards the English language was something else altogether. It was the flexibility of its anatomy and the openness of its vocabulary that struck me, most of all.

    I started writing poems in English, keeping them to myself. When I took the step of writing and publishing my novels in English first, about 13-14 years ago, I was already an established author in Turkey. Immediately there was a negative reaction in my motherland. They accused me of betraying my nation, an allegation I had certainly heard before. They claimed I was ‘forsaking’ my mother tongue for the language of Western Imperialism.

    But I never felt I was abandoning anything. I never thought I had to make a choice between my two loved ones: English and Turkish. In truth, perhaps even more than writing in English or writing in Turkish, it is the very commute back and forth that fascinates me to this day. I pay extra attention to those words that cannot be ferried from one continent to the other. I become more aware of not only meanings and nuances but also of gaps and silences. And I observe myself and others. Our voices change, even our body language alters as we move from one language to another. At the end of the day, languages shape us while we are busy thinking we control them.

    I write my novels in English first. Then they are translated into Turkish by professional translators, whose works I admire and respect. Next I take the Turkish translations and rewrite them, giving them my rhythm, my energy, my vocabulary, which is full of old Ottoman words. Many of those words came from Arabic and Persian, and they have been plucked out of the Turkish language by modernist nationalists in the name of purity. Critical of this linguistic racism, I use both old and new words while writing in Turkish.

    Over the years I have learned that separation, too, is a connection. Writing in English, putting an existential distance between me and the culture where I come from, strangely and paradoxically, enables me to take a closer look at Turkey and Turkishness. Just to give an example, had I written The Bastard of Istanbul –a novel that concentrates on an Armenian and a Turkish family, and the unspoken atrocities of the past- in Turkish, it would have been a different book. I might have been more cautious, more apprehensive even. But writing the story in English first set me at liberty; it freed me from all cultural and psychological constraints, many of which I might have internalized without even being aware of it. The same goes for all my novels written in English first. Sometimes, the presence of absence strengthens a bond and distance brings you closer.

    In my heart, I am a commuter. This means I have to work twice as hard, spend twice as much time on each book. It is a completely irrational, illogical thing to do. Yet I do it because I love it and love, for me, is the key word.

    Like a child who plays with Lego bricks, I play with alphabets. It amazes me to see how a limited number of letters can create endless meanings, infinite stories. I am in love with words and they are never enough. We keep moving, expanding, travelling together. By nature, I am always aspiring to go beyond the boundary drawn in front of me, curious to know what lies beyond.

    That said, there are things I find easier to express in Turkish, such as sorrow and melancholy. There are things I find easier to write in English, such as humour, irony and satire. It is less a linguistic difference than a cultural one.

    ‘But if you are writing in English first, how can we call you a Turkish writer anymore? You are now one of them, not one of us,’ a critic said to me in Turkey last year.

    The truth is, I don’t believe in this artificial duality between ‘us’ and ‘them’.  As much as I respect writers and poets, such as Mahmoud Darwish, who claimed their mother tongue was their homeland, I also sincerely believe that there can be, and are, other paths in the world of creativity and storytelling. Some writers are just nomads. I happen to be one of them.

    I wish I could write in Spanish as well. And in Russian. Or Japanese. But I have no such talents. What I have is two wonderful, beautiful and magical companions of the road. The English language with its grammatical suppleness and immense and ever-green vocabulary and the Turkish language with its agglutinated masses of microparticles and inverted sentences, like the serpentine streets of Istanbul. I love them both and in very different ways and for very different reasons.

    Today, as more and more people are becoming displaced and replaced all around the world, our need to question static identity politics is also growing per day. Rather than a pre-given, fixed, monolithic identity, we can have multiple and fluid belongings. We can even love more than one person. Our hearts are wide and deep enough to do so. And yes, we can also dream in more than one language.

  • PEN Atlas Q&A: Helle Helle, author of ‘This Should Be Written in the Present Tense’

    Interview with Tasja Dorkofikis, PEN Atlas editor

    Dorte Hansen lives on her own, on the way to somewhere else. Everything looks ordinary on the surface even though the reader detects that something is wrong.  One has a sense that Dorte moves through life, letting chance make her choices, without getting too engaged in anything. Are all your heroines a bit like Dorte? Are you concerned about young women nowadays and their sense of purpose in life?

    I have a weakness for writing about women who allow themselves to be dragged along by events. All of a sudden they’re in Hamburg with an electrician or getting on the wrong train because the conductor waves his arm. They plan on having omelette, and end up with a pastry snail from the baker’s.  I find that my expressive energy is best generated if my characters fail to do what anyone else can plainly see would be good for them. This is true equally of men and women in my novels, though mostly I have written about young women aged about twenty like Dorte Hansen. At that age you’re at an exceptional stage in life: you leave school and leave home, and must find direction, forge your own path, discover who you are. The smallest, most accidental occurrences shape the rest of our lives. You run into a guy called Per Finland on a country lane and end up a teacher. Or you have a beer with an aspiring young poet and become a writer yourself.

    Readers often ask me why my characters can’t just pull themselves together: complete their education, find a job, move on, at the very least start eating properly. But it doesn’t make sense for me to write about people who are sorted out, people with well-defined aims in life. I sit and stare at the empty page, the words won’t come. Allowing one’s characters to drift aimlessly about may of course be a literary device to encourage the reader to read on, in the hope that someone eventually might do something sensible.

    ‘I didn’t know what to do with myself… I felt like I ought be doing something .’ For me, it was ambiguous whether Dorte is mentally ill or she is just drifting disillusioned and without plans. Are the boundaries between the two ever clear to you?

    Yes, they are, completely. I see no indication of any kind of mental disturbance. But certainly there is paralysis, an inability to do something about one’s own condition, but I consider that to be quite normal.

    Dorte’s aunt, also called Dorte Hansen, has a very important emotional role in the novel. Why do you give them the same name?

    The simple reason is I wanted the name on the door to say “Dorte Hansen X 2”. The two Dortes resemble each other, and yet they don’t. Aunt Dorte has a sandwich shop in a provincial town, she works hard and moves in with a new man every year. Dorte too drifts from one relationship to another. But at the same time she’s moving away from where she’s from. Maybe she becomes a writer. Maybe she ends up writing books about women with an incapacity to do something about their own condition. But this novel, This Should Be Written in the Present Tense, is not so much about moving from one environment to another as about making that transition without feeling you’re betraying where you’ve come from, I suppose.

    Most of your sentences are seemingly simple, pared down, inviting readers to read between the lines. The play between what you have chosen to say and to omit contains a whole story in itself forcing the reader to be very attentive, and giving this very intense reading experience, full of subtext. Can you let the reader know a bit more about this process of writing/selecting?

    Every time I start writing a new novel I make the same mistake. I imagine this will be the one that does it all. It will tell everything like it is and be a brilliantly perfect construction. Then a long time passes during which I gradually become despondent. I can’t find my language. I can’t put into words what I’m trying to say. Eventually, I’m completely broken down and have to admit to myself that the plan is no good. This is fortunate, because it’s such a good place to start writing. From there I inch myself forward, sentence by sentence. I consider every word, and the meanings they draw along with them.

    One of the most interesting things about writing is that changing one word can transform a book entirely. I’m not really that concerned with what’s between the lines, more with what’s on them. What’s essential for me is that each word has to convey something. There has to be a reason for its inclusion. Commas and full-stops are just as important, for the rhythm and music of the paragraph, the telling pauses.

    I do think of my novels as eventful stories, even if it’s easy to think that nothing much happens in them. But what I mainly write about is what my characters do and say, what goes on, and not so much about what they feel and think. Their movements and utterances are like peepholes on their feelings and thoughts. In that respect, of course, you’re right when you talk about reading between the lines.

    Your prose is full of ordinary, minute details of everyday life. Why this attraction to the pattern of daily realities?

    I have a weakness for the objects of day-to-day living, they make up a framework in all my novels. When I start to write I have a long list next to the computer that says, e.g. waterbed, suitcase, beef burger, bedsit, pastry snail. The tangible stuff of everyday life, things that for me have meaning and which I intuitively sense can impart something to the novel I want to write. The waterbed, the suitcase and the beef burger have to be significant for the main character as well.

    Do you have any stylistic heroes?

    I have a number of stylistic heroes. Norway’s Kjell Askildsen and Per Petterson are two, Beckett a third. And then there’s Hemingway, whom I envy for a lot of things, not least his vast practical knowledge. He knew so much about war and Paris and bull-fighting and grenades and fishing and hunting. Not much in the way of pastry snails and day-to-day living there.

    You make the reader doubt the reliability of the text from the beginning: ‘This is how it might have been’; you often negate what you wrote or suggest a different alternative; the timescale of the novel is not very clear and the final message is that the novel should really have been written in the present tense. Do you want the reader to see the reality as confusing and unreliable too?

    Personally I’m fond of reading novels that point to the fact that they are just that: novels. Books that do more than just tell a story in which the reader can indulge without thinking. That doesn’t really do anything for me. But if you can go from being totally absorbed in your reading to suddenly pausing and thinking this isn’t real, then literature is doing what I think it’s supposed to.

    When you write fiction, the language you use is the only thing that’s real. Words, like ‘waterbed’ and ‘suitcase’, commas and full-stops, a sentence such as ‘This is how it might have been’. But if it’s well written you may end up believing it anyway. Even if it is only printer’s ink.

    Your novel has been translated into English by Martin Aitken. Do you work closely with your translators?

    Translators should be allowed to work without the author interfering. Translation is writing the book again, and the translator is the best person to do that. Martin Aitken had a few small queries for me along the way, which I tried to answer. Language isn’t just information that can be transferred. It’s the myriad of small meanings that come with it. I really don’t understand how it can be done.

    Fortunately, Martin Aitken is even better at Danish than I am. And now that This Should Be Written in the Present Tense is on the desk here in front of me, I think of it as belonging to both of us.

    About the editor

    Tasja Dorkofikis is  editor of PEN Atlas and a freelance editor and publicist. She has previously worked as a publicity director at Random House and Associate Publisher and Commissioning Editor for Portobello Books. Tasja divides her time between London and a small village in Vaud in Switzerland.

    Helle Helle is arguably Denmark’s foremost modern novelist and its most popular. She has been awarded many prizes, including the Danish Critics’ Prize, the Danish Academy’s Beatrice Prize, and the P.O. Enquist Award. She was recently given the Lifetime Award of the Danish Arts Council.

    Her work has been translated into thirteen languages. This is her first novel to be translated into English.

    This Should Be Written in the Present Tense has just been published by Harvill Secker.

    You can buy This Should Be Written in the Present Tense through our book partner Foyles.

  • PEN Atlas Q&A: Helle Helle, author of 'This Should Be Written in the Present Tense'

    Interview with Tasja Dorkofikis, PEN Atlas editor

    Dorte Hansen lives on her own, on the way to somewhere else. Everything looks ordinary on the surface even though the reader detects that something is wrong.  One has a sense that Dorte moves through life, letting chance make her choices, without getting too engaged in anything. Are all your heroines a bit like Dorte? Are you concerned about young women nowadays and their sense of purpose in life?

    I have a weakness for writing about women who allow themselves to be dragged along by events. All of a sudden they’re in Hamburg with an electrician or getting on the wrong train because the conductor waves his arm. They plan on having omelette, and end up with a pastry snail from the baker’s.  I find that my expressive energy is best generated if my characters fail to do what anyone else can plainly see would be good for them. This is true equally of men and women in my novels, though mostly I have written about young women aged about twenty like Dorte Hansen. At that age you’re at an exceptional stage in life: you leave school and leave home, and must find direction, forge your own path, discover who you are. The smallest, most accidental occurrences shape the rest of our lives. You run into a guy called Per Finland on a country lane and end up a teacher. Or you have a beer with an aspiring young poet and become a writer yourself.

    Readers often ask me why my characters can’t just pull themselves together: complete their education, find a job, move on, at the very least start eating properly. But it doesn’t make sense for me to write about people who are sorted out, people with well-defined aims in life. I sit and stare at the empty page, the words won’t come. Allowing one’s characters to drift aimlessly about may of course be a literary device to encourage the reader to read on, in the hope that someone eventually might do something sensible.

    ‘I didn’t know what to do with myself… I felt like I ought be doing something .’ For me, it was ambiguous whether Dorte is mentally ill or she is just drifting disillusioned and without plans. Are the boundaries between the two ever clear to you?

    Yes, they are, completely. I see no indication of any kind of mental disturbance. But certainly there is paralysis, an inability to do something about one’s own condition, but I consider that to be quite normal.

    Dorte’s aunt, also called Dorte Hansen, has a very important emotional role in the novel. Why do you give them the same name?

    The simple reason is I wanted the name on the door to say “Dorte Hansen X 2”. The two Dortes resemble each other, and yet they don’t. Aunt Dorte has a sandwich shop in a provincial town, she works hard and moves in with a new man every year. Dorte too drifts from one relationship to another. But at the same time she’s moving away from where she’s from. Maybe she becomes a writer. Maybe she ends up writing books about women with an incapacity to do something about their own condition. But this novel, This Should Be Written in the Present Tense, is not so much about moving from one environment to another as about making that transition without feeling you’re betraying where you’ve come from, I suppose.

    Most of your sentences are seemingly simple, pared down, inviting readers to read between the lines. The play between what you have chosen to say and to omit contains a whole story in itself forcing the reader to be very attentive, and giving this very intense reading experience, full of subtext. Can you let the reader know a bit more about this process of writing/selecting?

    Every time I start writing a new novel I make the same mistake. I imagine this will be the one that does it all. It will tell everything like it is and be a brilliantly perfect construction. Then a long time passes during which I gradually become despondent. I can’t find my language. I can’t put into words what I’m trying to say. Eventually, I’m completely broken down and have to admit to myself that the plan is no good. This is fortunate, because it’s such a good place to start writing. From there I inch myself forward, sentence by sentence. I consider every word, and the meanings they draw along with them.

    One of the most interesting things about writing is that changing one word can transform a book entirely. I’m not really that concerned with what’s between the lines, more with what’s on them. What’s essential for me is that each word has to convey something. There has to be a reason for its inclusion. Commas and full-stops are just as important, for the rhythm and music of the paragraph, the telling pauses.

    I do think of my novels as eventful stories, even if it’s easy to think that nothing much happens in them. But what I mainly write about is what my characters do and say, what goes on, and not so much about what they feel and think. Their movements and utterances are like peepholes on their feelings and thoughts. In that respect, of course, you’re right when you talk about reading between the lines.

    Your prose is full of ordinary, minute details of everyday life. Why this attraction to the pattern of daily realities?

    I have a weakness for the objects of day-to-day living, they make up a framework in all my novels. When I start to write I have a long list next to the computer that says, e.g. waterbed, suitcase, beef burger, bedsit, pastry snail. The tangible stuff of everyday life, things that for me have meaning and which I intuitively sense can impart something to the novel I want to write. The waterbed, the suitcase and the beef burger have to be significant for the main character as well.

    Do you have any stylistic heroes?

    I have a number of stylistic heroes. Norway’s Kjell Askildsen and Per Petterson are two, Beckett a third. And then there’s Hemingway, whom I envy for a lot of things, not least his vast practical knowledge. He knew so much about war and Paris and bull-fighting and grenades and fishing and hunting. Not much in the way of pastry snails and day-to-day living there.

    You make the reader doubt the reliability of the text from the beginning: ‘This is how it might have been’; you often negate what you wrote or suggest a different alternative; the timescale of the novel is not very clear and the final message is that the novel should really have been written in the present tense. Do you want the reader to see the reality as confusing and unreliable too?

    Personally I’m fond of reading novels that point to the fact that they are just that: novels. Books that do more than just tell a story in which the reader can indulge without thinking. That doesn’t really do anything for me. But if you can go from being totally absorbed in your reading to suddenly pausing and thinking this isn’t real, then literature is doing what I think it’s supposed to.

    When you write fiction, the language you use is the only thing that’s real. Words, like ‘waterbed’ and ‘suitcase’, commas and full-stops, a sentence such as ‘This is how it might have been’. But if it’s well written you may end up believing it anyway. Even if it is only printer’s ink.

    Your novel has been translated into English by Martin Aitken. Do you work closely with your translators?

    Translators should be allowed to work without the author interfering. Translation is writing the book again, and the translator is the best person to do that. Martin Aitken had a few small queries for me along the way, which I tried to answer. Language isn’t just information that can be transferred. It’s the myriad of small meanings that come with it. I really don’t understand how it can be done.

    Fortunately, Martin Aitken is even better at Danish than I am. And now that This Should Be Written in the Present Tense is on the desk here in front of me, I think of it as belonging to both of us.

    About the editor

    Tasja Dorkofikis is  editor of PEN Atlas and a freelance editor and publicist. She has previously worked as a publicity director at Random House and Associate Publisher and Commissioning Editor for Portobello Books. Tasja divides her time between London and a small village in Vaud in Switzerland.

    Helle Helle is arguably Denmark’s foremost modern novelist and its most popular. She has been awarded many prizes, including the Danish Critics’ Prize, the Danish Academy’s Beatrice Prize, and the P.O. Enquist Award. She was recently given the Lifetime Award of the Danish Arts Council.

    Her work has been translated into thirteen languages. This is her first novel to be translated into English.

    This Should Be Written in the Present Tense has just been published by Harvill Secker.

    You can buy This Should Be Written in the Present Tense through our book partner Foyles.

  • PEN Atlas Q&A: Arno Camenisch, author of The Alp

    This article is part of the English PEN Between EU and Me project, supported by the European Commission 

    Interview by Tasja Dorkofikis, PEN Atlas editor

    The Alp by Arno Camenisch is the first book in the award-winning trilogy about vanishing life in a remote and rural part of the Swiss Alps, in a hamlet of Sez Nez, on the slopes of the mountain of the same name. It is set within one season on a small, isolated summer farm. The four unnamed characters are a dairyman, his farmhand, a cowherd and a swineherd, who all live and work in close proximity with livestock – but this is no Heidi. The lives on the mountain pasture are dangerous, solitary and full of cruelty; yet Arno Carmenisch’s description of his characters is full of affection and humour and he clearly has a brilliant ear for their voices and the sounds of the setting. The novel has just been published by Dalkey Archive Press. Two more books from the trilogy will follow in English. These and other Arno’s books have also been translated into many languages.

    The Alp was written both in German and in Romansch. Why did you decide to write it in both and how did you do it?  Is Romansch your first language?

    I wrote the first book in German and then after it was finished I wrote it again in Romansch. The original book is bilingual and published in a bilingual form. I felt that it was important to write it in Romansch (or Sursilvan, the most widely spoken regional variety of Romansch) as I was setting the book in that small language area. I think that small languages have to open themselves to the world. I grew up in two languages. Romansch is the language of my heart and German is my literary language. I speak Romansch with friends and family. I believe that you make love and die in the language of your heart. When I write in Romansch for me it is like seeing a tree, when I write in German I can see the whole wood. The difference, for me, is between being close, or being at a certain distance. I feel more empowered when writing in German.

    The Alp presents the life in the mountains as harsh, monotonous and cruel. Is it the world you know yourself?

    I got to know this world as a child and I lived the life on an alp over a few summers. I felt that people were unhappy there. They were confined to this one enclosed area for the whole summer; they could not leave. The weather was harsh and the work physically very hard. Despite the illusion of space one associates with mountains, being on an alp has a claustrophobic element. But this is my subjective view of this world and I am sure that an ethnographer would disagree with my version, name things differently.

    Indeed, The Alp could almost be described as a documentary novel.  Was it your intention to document the disappearing life in the Alps or did you set off to write something more universal?

    I really was writing about people and their interaction. I was interested in the closeness of people and nature, in the harsh conditions of their lives, in living with the oppressive presence of the mountains, and the feeling of being encaged by the Alps, like being on a ship. I grew up in Tavanasa (in canton Grisons/Graubünden), in a village of 50 people. For half of the year there you don’t see the sun as it is always hiding behind the mountains. The novel could be described as a docu-fiction, but it is a very subjective view of this world. My last novel in the trilogy, Last Last Orders, is about a group of people talking in a village bar – people always react to it as though it is set in their own village.

    ‘The cheese is swelling. During the night, the stone weights crash to the floor, waking everyone. The swineherd and the cowherd carry the over-ripened cheeses through the clear night, across the yard, through the cowshed, to behind the cowshed, and dump them in a slurry. Neither the dairyman nor his farmhand budges to help. They stay where they are in the doorway, their hands in their pockets.’  The Alp is written in small rhythmic and melodic vignettes, with no event taking precedence, but each miniature with its own drama, not dissimilar from flash fiction.  Why this interesting, horizontal structure?

    I wrote the book in images, in closed scenes, almost like scenes from a film. It is written chronologically, and the full book gives a full picture, like a mosaic. But I also believe that the book is not finished without the reader. The reader’s background plays a role as well in finding a meaning in a book. A book could be different with every reading depending on where the reader is and how the reader thinks.

    The rhythm of your prose makes it wonderful to read aloud. You perform your texts in public. Do you write your books with the underlying intention of reading them aloud?

    Yes, I love reading out scenes and the sound of the text matters. It varies depending on the language. The sound is stronger and a bit different in Romansch, maybe more musical than in English. I perform various texts a lot and this book renders itself to reading aloud too. I also belong to a Spoken Word ensemble ‘Bern ist überall’, so this aspect of writing is important to me.

    Donal McLaughlin’s translation mastered that rhythm of the language very well.  How do you work with your translators?

    I normally try to work very closely with my translators, to give them a lot of background and information. And in the case of this book, the life of the alp is very specific and it helps to understand the setting.

    And to come back to the issue of Romansch. Will you write your future novels in it as well? Do you feel that as a writer you have a role in keeping it alive?

    For most people who speak Romansch, the question of their language is not an existential question. Most of them are bilingual, work in German and speak Romansch at home. They are emotionally attached to it though, even young people. I live now in Biel/Bienne, which lies on the language boundary between French and German and it is a bilingual city, but you hear over 140 languages spoken here and it is very enriching to have so many sounds and so many cultures around. Linguistic diversity is good for openness and understanding. I don’t think that my role is to save Romansch – you cannot save a language, a language simply changes, moves. I write more in German then in Romansh: depends a bit on the weather. In the end, it is a question of writing, much more then a question of a language. I translate the pictures or scenes in my head onto paper. Of course, the language itself is really important, too. I’m interested in how people talk. The sound is the soul of the text.

    About the editor

    Tasja Dorkofikis is  editor of PEN Atlas and a freelance editor and publicist. She has previously worked as a publicity director at Random House and Associate Publisher and Commissioning Editor for Portobello Books. Tasja divides her time between London and a small village in Vaud in Switzerland.

  • PEN Atlas Q&A: Arno Camenisch, author of The Alp

    This article is part of the English PEN Between EU and Me project, supported by the European Commission 

    Interview by Tasja Dorkofikis, PEN Atlas editor

    The Alp by Arno Camenisch is the first book in the award-winning trilogy about vanishing life in a remote and rural part of the Swiss Alps, in a hamlet of Sez Nez, on the slopes of the mountain of the same name. It is set within one season on a small, isolated summer farm. The four unnamed characters are a dairyman, his farmhand, a cowherd and a swineherd, who all live and work in close proximity with livestock – but this is no Heidi. The lives on the mountain pasture are dangerous, solitary and full of cruelty; yet Arno Carmenisch’s description of his characters is full of affection and humour and he clearly has a brilliant ear for their voices and the sounds of the setting. The novel has just been published by Dalkey Archive Press. Two more books from the trilogy will follow in English. These and other Arno’s books have also been translated into many languages.

    The Alp was written both in German and in Romansch. Why did you decide to write it in both and how did you do it?  Is Romansch your first language?

    I wrote the first book in German and then after it was finished I wrote it again in Romansch. The original book is bilingual and published in a bilingual form. I felt that it was important to write it in Romansch (or Sursilvan, the most widely spoken regional variety of Romansch) as I was setting the book in that small language area. I think that small languages have to open themselves to the world. I grew up in two languages. Romansch is the language of my heart and German is my literary language. I speak Romansch with friends and family. I believe that you make love and die in the language of your heart. When I write in Romansch for me it is like seeing a tree, when I write in German I can see the whole wood. The difference, for me, is between being close, or being at a certain distance. I feel more empowered when writing in German.

    The Alp presents the life in the mountains as harsh, monotonous and cruel. Is it the world you know yourself?

    I got to know this world as a child and I lived the life on an alp over a few summers. I felt that people were unhappy there. They were confined to this one enclosed area for the whole summer; they could not leave. The weather was harsh and the work physically very hard. Despite the illusion of space one associates with mountains, being on an alp has a claustrophobic element. But this is my subjective view of this world and I am sure that an ethnographer would disagree with my version, name things differently.

    Indeed, The Alp could almost be described as a documentary novel.  Was it your intention to document the disappearing life in the Alps or did you set off to write something more universal?

    I really was writing about people and their interaction. I was interested in the closeness of people and nature, in the harsh conditions of their lives, in living with the oppressive presence of the mountains, and the feeling of being encaged by the Alps, like being on a ship. I grew up in Tavanasa (in canton Grisons/Graubünden), in a village of 50 people. For half of the year there you don’t see the sun as it is always hiding behind the mountains. The novel could be described as a docu-fiction, but it is a very subjective view of this world. My last novel in the trilogy, Last Last Orders, is about a group of people talking in a village bar – people always react to it as though it is set in their own village.

    ‘The cheese is swelling. During the night, the stone weights crash to the floor, waking everyone. The swineherd and the cowherd carry the over-ripened cheeses through the clear night, across the yard, through the cowshed, to behind the cowshed, and dump them in a slurry. Neither the dairyman nor his farmhand budges to help. They stay where they are in the doorway, their hands in their pockets.’  The Alp is written in small rhythmic and melodic vignettes, with no event taking precedence, but each miniature with its own drama, not dissimilar from flash fiction.  Why this interesting, horizontal structure?

    I wrote the book in images, in closed scenes, almost like scenes from a film. It is written chronologically, and the full book gives a full picture, like a mosaic. But I also believe that the book is not finished without the reader. The reader’s background plays a role as well in finding a meaning in a book. A book could be different with every reading depending on where the reader is and how the reader thinks.

    The rhythm of your prose makes it wonderful to read aloud. You perform your texts in public. Do you write your books with the underlying intention of reading them aloud?

    Yes, I love reading out scenes and the sound of the text matters. It varies depending on the language. The sound is stronger and a bit different in Romansch, maybe more musical than in English. I perform various texts a lot and this book renders itself to reading aloud too. I also belong to a Spoken Word ensemble ‘Bern ist überall’, so this aspect of writing is important to me.

    Donal McLaughlin’s translation mastered that rhythm of the language very well.  How do you work with your translators?

    I normally try to work very closely with my translators, to give them a lot of background and information. And in the case of this book, the life of the alp is very specific and it helps to understand the setting.

    And to come back to the issue of Romansch. Will you write your future novels in it as well? Do you feel that as a writer you have a role in keeping it alive?

    For most people who speak Romansch, the question of their language is not an existential question. Most of them are bilingual, work in German and speak Romansch at home. They are emotionally attached to it though, even young people. I live now in Biel/Bienne, which lies on the language boundary between French and German and it is a bilingual city, but you hear over 140 languages spoken here and it is very enriching to have so many sounds and so many cultures around. Linguistic diversity is good for openness and understanding. I don’t think that my role is to save Romansch – you cannot save a language, a language simply changes, moves. I write more in German then in Romansh: depends a bit on the weather. In the end, it is a question of writing, much more then a question of a language. I translate the pictures or scenes in my head onto paper. Of course, the language itself is really important, too. I’m interested in how people talk. The sound is the soul of the text.

    About the editor

    Tasja Dorkofikis is  editor of PEN Atlas and a freelance editor and publicist. She has previously worked as a publicity director at Random House and Associate Publisher and Commissioning Editor for Portobello Books. Tasja divides her time between London and a small village in Vaud in Switzerland.

  • The Weight of Language

    This article is part of the English PEN Between EU and Me project, supported by the European Commission

    France for me – long, long before Paris – was Yonville-l’Abbaye, eight leagues from Rouen. I remember crouching inside that place-name one afternoon, when I was barely fourteen, traveling through the pages of Madame Bovary. Slowly, over the years, thousands of other names of cities and towns followed, some near Yonville, others far away. But France remained essentially Yonville, as I discovered it one afternoon decades ago, and it seemed to me that at the same time I came upon the craft of making metaphors and upon myself.

    I certainly saw myself in Berthe Bovary, Emma and Charles’s daughter, and felt a jolt. I knew that I had my eyes on a page, I could see the words clearly, yet it seemed to me that I had approached my mother just as Berthe tried to approach Emma, catching hold of her par le bout, les rubans de son tablier (‘the ends of her apron strings’). I heard clearly the voice of Madame Bovary saying, with increasing annoyance, ‘Laisse-moi! Laisse-moi! Eh! Laisse- moi donc!’ (‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Won’t you leave me alone!’), and it was like the voice of my mother when she was lost in her tasks or her thoughts, and I didn’t want to leave her, I didn’t want her to leave me. That cry of irritation of a woman dragged away from her own bouleversements, like a leaf on a rainy day toward the black mouth of a manhole, made a deep impression on me. The blow arrived right afterward, with her elbow. Berthe – I – alla tomber au pied de la comode, contre la patère de cuivre; elle s’y coupa la joue, le sang sortit (‘fell at the foot of the chest of drawers, against the brass fittings; she cut her cheek, it began to bleed’).

    I read Madame Bovary in the city of my birth, Naples. I read it laboriously, in the original, on the orders of a cold, brilliant teacher. My native language, Neapolitan, has layers of Greek, Latin, Arabic, German, Spanish, English, and French – a lot of French. Laisse-moi (‘leave me alone’) in Neapolitan is làssame and sang (‘blood’) is ’o sanghe. It’s not so surprising if the language of Madame Bovary seemed to me, at times, my own language, the language in which my mother appeared to be Emma and said laisse-moi. She also said le sparadrap (but she pronounced it ’o sparatràp), the adhesive plaster that had to be put on the cut I’d gotten – while I read and was Berthe – when I fell contre la patère de cuivre.

    I understood then, for the first time, that geography, language, society, politics, the whole history of a people were for me in the books that I loved and which I could enter as if I were writing them. France was near, Yonville not that far from Naples, the wound dripped blood, the sparatràp, stuck to my cheek, pulled the stretched skin to one side. Madame Bovary struck with swift punches, leaving bruises that haven’t faded. All my life since then, I’ve wondered whether my mother, at least once, with Emma’s words precisely – the same terrible words – thought, looking at me, as Emma does with Berthe:  C’est une chose étrange comme cette enfant est laide! (‘It’s strange how ugly this child is!’) Ugly: to appear ugly to one’s own mother. I have rarely read-heard a better conceived, better written, more unbearable sentence. The sentence arrived from France and hit me right in the chest, it’s still hitting me, harder than the shove with which Emma sent – sends – little Berthe against the chest of drawers, against the brass fittings.

    The words entered and emerged from me: when I read a book I never think of who has written it, it’s as if I were doing it myself. So as a child I didn’t know the names of authors; every book was written by itself, it began and ended, it excited me or not, made me cry or made me laugh. The Frenchman named Gustave Flaubert came later, and by then I knew quite a lot about France: I had been there not only thanks to books and not happily, as in books; I could measure the true distance between Naples and Rouen, between the Italian novel and the French. Now I read Flaubert’s letters, his other books. Every sentence was well shaped, some more than others, but not one – not one ever had for me the devastating force of that mother’s thought: C’est une chose étrange comme cette enfant est laide! In certain phases of my life I’ve imagined that only a man could conceive it, and only a man without children, a peevish Frenchman, a bear shut up in his house honing his complaints, a misogynist who thought he was father and mother just because he had a niece. In other periods I’ve believed, angrily, bitterly, that men who are masters of writing are able to have their female characters say what women truly think and say and live but do not dare write. Today, instead, I’ve returned to the beliefs of early adolescence. I think that authors are devoted, diligent scribes, who draw in black and white following a more or less rigorous order of their own, but that the true writing, what counts, is the work of readers. Although the page of Flaubert is in French, Emma’s laisse-moi, read in Naples, has Neapolitan cadences, the brass fittings make ’o sanghe gush from Berthe’s cheek, and Charles Bovary stretches the child’s skin by sticking ’o sparatràp on it. It’s my mother who thought, but in her language, comm’è brutta chesta bambina (“How ugly this child is”). And I believe that she thought it for the same reason Emma thinks it of Berthe. So I’ve tried, over the years, to take that sentence out of French and place it somewhere on a page of my own, write it myself to feel its weight, transport it into the language of my mother, attribute it to her, hear it in her mouth and see if it’s a woman’s phrase, if a female really could say it, if I’ve ever thought it of my daughters, if, in other words, it should be rejected and erased or accepted and elaborated, removed from the page of masculine French and transported into the language of female-daughter-mother. That is the work that truly leads to France, juxtaposing sexes, languages, peoples, eras, geography.

    The central passages of this essay were conceived as a response to the Swedish publisher Bromberg, who, after acquiring the rights to The Days of Abandonment and reading the translation, decided not to publish it, considering the behavior of Olga, the novel’s protagonist, toward her children morally reprehensible (cf. ‘Ferrante molesta per la Svezia,’ by Cinzia Fiori, Corriere della Sera, October 21, 2003). The essay was later published, with some modifications, by Uitgeverij Wereldbibliotheek, of Amsterdam, for the 2004 Paris book fair, in the anthology Frankrijk, dat ben ik (Wereldbibliotheek; 2004), under the title ‘Het gewicht van de taal’ (‘The Weight of Language’). It also appeared in the Repubblica of June 28, 2005.

    You can read a review of Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay at The Telegraph website.

    You can buy Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay through our bookseller partner Foyles.