Tag: Middle East

  • Why Kahramana?

    Kahramana fascinates me. She is a character in the tale ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’ from A Thousand And One Nights. Kahramana, Ali Baba’s slave girl, is the scheming one who protects Ali Baba from the band of 40 thieves and their leader. She moves the story along, takes action while life just happens to happy-go-lucky Ali Baba. It was Ali Baba’s luck that drew him to the treasure, it was luck that savvy Kahramana managed to hide his trace from the thieves and it was his luck again that Kahramana killed the 40 thieves and their leader in one night to save Ali Baba’s life. (I know, she’s cold blooded and brutal.)

    What does Kahramana get in return for her loyalty? Well for starters the story is not called ‘Kahramana and the Forty Thieves’. As for her fate, Ali Baba rewards her for rescuing him by marrying her off to his son. Kahramana stays in Ali Baba’s household and so does the secret of the treasure.

    So I’ve always viewed Kahramana a badass underdog. She’s smart, cruel and undermined.

    When an immigration officer at Heathrow Airport waved a finger at me, called me a liar and told me I was to be deported, naturally I thought of Kahramana. I woke up the next morning in my room in London, after they released me with a throbbing headache, dry mouth, lump in my throat from holding back my tears all night. I was angry and humiliated when I wrote ‘Kahramana’. My Kahramana story was a sort of a ‘Fuck You’ to everyone. I had never been so angry in my life and I had never felt so small.

    Comma Press had been waiting for over a year for me to contribute to the anthology but every time I sat down trying to write something I struggled. I’ve never written anything futuristic or science fiction, certainly not comedy. But that morning I got out of bed, sat to my laptop and feverishly typed away before I even got up to wash my face. When I was done with it I emailed it to Ra at Comma Press thinking ‘surely he’s going to hate it’, and ‘it’s going to offend him’. Ra was expecting Hitchcock and I gave him South Park. But for once in my life, I didn’t care. I was astonished when Ra wrote back telling me he loved ‘Kahramana’ and asked me to expand and tell him more.

    In the story, I wanted to mock the way the humanitarian world handles migration. I’ve seen it often; the disillusioned European or American 20-something aid workers who are annoyed that refugees don’t appreciate the sacrifices they made to leave their ‘civilized’ homes and be in those camps and war zones; the aid workers who’ve become irreversibly desensitized to human suffering; the ones who think every Syrian, Iraqi or Afghan refugee – and even a non-refugee – is a saint, a victim who needs to be cuddled. ‘Kahramana’ exposes and exploits that.

    I also wanted to joke about political propaganda, something every Iraqi was force-fed since infanthood. When I listen to ISIS babble on their radio station or when I follow their statements on social media, I am struck by the resemblance to war statements on Iraq’s national television station during the Iraq-Iran war in the 1980s. By the end of the long stretches of pompous rhetoric, I could never tell if they were winning or losing. And as in all totalitarian systems, everything in Wadi Hashish, Kahramana’s birthplace, was mandatory. It’s mandatory to cheer in support of the government’s decision to wage wars, to march to your doom when you don’t understand or don’t believe in what you’re fighting for, and to sing and dance and throw rose petals at a dictator even if he’s sent your entire family to the gallows. Every Arab country, to some degree, has an element of this.

    Human life and suffering was as insignificant a side-effect during the 1980s Iraq-Iran war as it is in Iraq and the region today – all for the greater cause, of course! Kahramana is casual about other people’s lives. To her they’re ants behind the T-walls, waves of migrants trying to get in on the sunny side. Mullah Hashish (the leader of the radical Wadi Hashish people), NATO (in trying to obliterate Wadi Hashish and its leader) and the aid workers (shaving heads and tagging the people fleeing Wadi Hashish) all have as little regard for human life as Kahramana. The only people who do care are the ‘Kuchan Sulemani’ activists – and they are burnt out and frazzled the whole time.

    So to sum up, Kahramana is my way of giving people in the gutter a chance to laugh at their do-gooders, clergy and oppressors. Kahramana is evil and manipulative, and I just wanted to unleash her onto the UN employee who pointed at Syrian aid workers, asked them to stand up while we all sat down, and said ‘let’s clap for the refugees’; onto babbling buffoons who insist that if I am ‘good’, then poof! wars will end and there will be unicorns with wings. I wanted to unleash her as I sat there at Heathrow Airport, resenting people speeding away and resenting myself for being there, confined, stripped of my passport, angrily and anxiously waiting to be deported. Kahramana is all of my pent-up frustrations. If not for her I’d burst in anger all over my keyboard.

    To the Kahramanas of the world: cheers!

    Iraq+100 will be published on 27 October 2016.

    Award-winning author and Iraq+100 editor Hassan Blasim and a number of the book’s contributors will appear at an event at Southbank Centre as part of the London Literature Festival on Saturday 15 October. Find out more and book tickets.

    Photo: Kahramana Statue, Baghdad, UNAMI/Sarmad Al-Safy on the United Nations Information Centre Flickr stream, creative commons licence.

  • 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.

  • Why I write what I write?

    In May 1979, excited by the news of the revolution, I skipped the graduation ceremony at the University of Iowa and fled to Iran. I wanted to be part of this massive uprising against the 2500 years of monarchy. I arrived a few months after the first revolutionary riots. The Shah had already fled the country and Iran had an interim government. The political atmosphere was extremely open and Iranians enjoyed immense freedom – something they had never experienced before.

    But between 1979 and 1983, when the political power fell completely into the hands of the Islamic clergy and the last political party was shut down and its members imprisoned, the young revolution went through a massive transformation. This change buried the hopes of the nationalists, liberals and Marxists. The religious fundamentalists under the leadership of Ayatollah Khomeini created a blood bath, which resulted in the execution of thousands of Iranians who were labelled enemies of God.

    According to the new imposed ideology, I was considered an enemy of God. I was a professor of playwriting and dramatic literature and a dramaturge for the Theatre Division of the Ministry of Culture and Art (soon to change its name to the Ministry of Islamic Guidance). I ran the literary pages of a progressive newspaper and participated in political and feminist activities. When the ‘turn to the right’ happened, the Islamic agents began to interrogate the secular intellectuals in all the organisations. A process of purge began.

    I remember the day that I was teaching playwriting to a small group of women. An hour after class, armed guards broke through the classroom door and pointed their Kalashnikovs toward us. They ordered us to move back and face the wall. I was teaching the American playwright Arthur Miller. The guards collected the books and papers and told us these were ‘communist documents.’ Spontaneous executions happened every day and once I’d seen a crazy mullah machine-gunning prostitutes against a brick wall. Now standing next to my trembling students, I thought this was serious and these young boys would shoot us any second. But one of the students who always wore a large black scarf was allowed to talk. She told the boy-guards that her husband was one of the commanders of the Revolutionary Guards and if they killed us, he’d execute them with no mercy. With a phone call this was confirmed and we were saved.

    A short while after this incident I was fired from my jobs. The newspaper for which I worked was closed as well. This was the winter of 1983, when my first full-length play was being rehearsed. The director was hoping to produce it for a major stage. But the guards locked and sealed the theatre and arrested him and the actors.

    Now the clock ticked, as if in a count down. Each day more and more of us, ‘the others’ – those who didn’t want to join the Army of Allah – were arrested. The nightly TV shows of repentance began and the leaders of different political parties under severe psychological and physical torture broke down and appeared in fuzzy videos confessing to their sins (the sin of having different ideologies or religions).

    Soon, the execution of the political prisoners began and escalated. A dark dictatorship, a religious fascism opened its black wings over my country. One of the ugly peculiarities of this theocracy was a deep-rooted animosity toward women. Some women at the time of their executions were denied the right to stand on their feet. They were executed in tightly tied burlap sacks. This image haunted me for years and appeared in recurring nightmares, until finally I portrayed it in a scene at the end of my first novel, At the Wall of the Almighty.

    Many women left the country, those who couldn’t and remained, fought for their freedom. Some showed their anger and agony in self-destructive ways. I remember the physician who burned herself in a public plaza as protest against the humiliation of the mandatory veil.

    After my close friends, colleagues, and relatives were arrested in the massive round-up of 1983 I went underground. Now I realised that it was necessary to leave the country. I had already lost my jobs and my name was black-listed. Soon the guards would invade my apartment and take me to Evin prison with my two-year old son. So in a dark night, holding my sedated baby on my back, I walked on minefields and followed the turbaned smugglers who led me out of my country.

    At that time I was not aware that in future I will turn all these terrifying incidents into works of fiction. But seven years after exile, I wrote my first novel, At the Wall of the Almighty. I portrayed an imaginary prison that is mazelike and the only door to outside faces the wall of God, where prisoners are executed. Shortly after, I wrote, The Bathhouse, narrated by an innocent seventeen-year old girl who is arrested by mistake and taken to a facility by the name of the Bathhouse. After thirty days of torture she ends up at the wall of the execution. Most of the stories of my collection, The Crazy Dervish and the Pomegranate Tree are about the revolution or the consequences of it. In Against Gravity, my third novel, the female protagonist who has escaped the inferno of Iran finds herself entangled in a typical American scenario: she is stalked and shot at by an insane man who is obsessed with her.

    But in The Drum Tower, recently published in the U.S. and U.K, simultaneously, I’ve travelled back to the early days of the revolution and dealt with the predicament of an emotionally disturbed girl who has to escape from the prison of her house and prison of her country.

    Thirty-two years have passed since that gloomy night when I stepped out of my country and the bridges burned behind me. But the memories are alive and vivid – the eruption of a massive revolution, the death of my friends in the massacre of 1988, the suffering of my family and the families of thousands whose sons or daughters were executed. All these still urge me to write; there are many stories untold and voices unheard. My people are still hostages of a medieval regime. So I begin another project, because someone has to write what happened in Iran and what is still happening.

    Farnoosh Moshiri published plays, short stories, and translations in Iranian literary magazines before she fled her country after a massive arrest and execution of secular intellectuals, feminists, and political activists. She lived in refugee camps of Afghanistan and India for four years before emigrating to the U.S. Her novels and collections include At the Wall of Almighty, The Bathhouse; The Crazy Dervish and the Pomegranate Tree, Against Gravity, and The Drum Tower. Among other awards and fellowships, she is the recipient of Barthelme Memorial Award, C. Glenn Cambor/Inprint Fellowship, two Barbara Deming Awards for writing of peace and social justice; two consecutive Black Heron Awards for Social Fiction, and Valiente (courage) Award from Voices Breaking Boundaries for artists who have taken risks to speak out and act as advocates. She has taught literature, playwriting, and creative writing in Universities of Tehran, Kabul, Houston, and Syracuse. In 2012, with collaboration of the composer, Gregory Spears, she created a chamber opera by the name of ‘The Bricklayer’ commissioned by the Houston Grand Opera. The world premiere was on March 16, 2012.

    Currently she is teaching at the University of Houston-Downtown and working on a new novel.

    You can find out more about Farnoosh Moshiri at her website and her publisher profile.

    The Drum Tower is available to buy in the UK.

  • Art and Culture from the Frontline: In the hope that Syria Speaks even more!

    Contributing to Syria Speaks, a book that brings together texts and visual arts from the Syrian uprising, offered me an opportunity to ponder – yet again – the perennial question:  what must art and literature actually do in times of war and catastrophe? Do they have an active role to play?

    This question instantly brings to mind works of art and literature that are linked to unfortunate circumstances in the country that produced them, and makes one mentally revisit that art’s outstanding features and consider what one wants to read, and what one doesn’t. A story like Boule de Suif by Guy de Maupassant, which shows the misery of war without entering the battlefield, always stood out to me as an example of a literary work that sensitively documents war’s impact on the self, without lecturing or being reduced to a blunt factual illustration or direct message.

    When I was asked to contribute to Syria Speaks, the old question presented itself to me, but the other way around. Before I knew anything much about the book or who else was taking part, I was asking myself: what do people out there, abroad, want to know about us? And what’s the relevance or importance of a piece of writing by me that looks at the Syrian revolution from a slight remove? Some people seem to think that absolutely all the young people here are activists, spending their time meeting in secret basements and planning the overthrow of the Assad regime; others think that we are all tripping over corpses in the street on our way to work (which of course is not an exaggeration, in some areas of Syria).

    Maybe the best thing, then, would have been for me to simply set down what actually happened to me personally – given that the newspapers are already full of political commentary representing all possible extremes and points of view, for anyone who wants to look at them. In the end I dug out an old text written in the first month of the uprising, just before I left my job working for Syrian state television. At that point there was more hope than there is now; but at the same time the torture videos shot on mobile phones by Assad’s shabiha and leaked by them or their FSA captors – were still a new phenomenon, and therefore the shock of being exposed to their horror was greater than it is now.

    After submitting that text to the editors, I had the chance to look more closely at other parts of the book, as I translated some of the English material for the Arabic edition. Then, and even more so when it was published and I saw the whole thing, I was glad to see this rich collection present the cultural aspect of the revolution in a fitting and honest way. Each writer and artist had expressed what was on their mind, from their own particular corner and in their own way – ranging from academic articles that analyse the art of the revolution, to actual examples of the works under discussion, and interviews with active figures who have played an influential role in the movement.

    These contributions will be useful for anyone confused by the Syrian revolution and hoping to catch a glimpse of it from a different vantage point. Rather than highlighting where the revolution intersects with the reader’s idea of terrorism, Syria Speaks presents a young and admirable movement that, despite the catastrophic scale of the horror, is intent on fighting one of the most vicious regimes currently to be found on the face of the earth.

    This leads us once again to the question of art and its role: as an enthusiast of ‘art for art’s sake’, I don’t actually want to see literature playing a press or documentary role. What could be worse than the site of such desolation turning into a mere prop for everyone to explore their artistic expression around? Nobody is at all shy anymore, it seems, to make use of the misfortunes of their fellow human beings as material for a creative writing drill. I hope that the opposite will transpire, that this ongoing political and social storm will rage through the predictable, tired fixtures of literary expression and sweep them aside, healing one of the worst things that the long years of subjugation have resulted in for Syrians: the loss of individuality. Individual artistic inclination was treated with such contempt, and was so successfully abased, that many of us were too intimidated to engage with ideas that really touched us personally or strayed from the prescribed set of major stock themes. Our individuality was melted down into a unified mass and then recast in a compulsory conformist mould.

    New artistic approaches and works that have emerged so far with the revolution – some examples of which are to be found in Syria Speaks – are merely the initial point of departure for the revolution aspired to in literature: a revolution that will turn all that has prevailed until now upside-down and carve out new paths for itself in the worlds of narrative writing and visual arts, not only in terms of content but also form. And then everything that we have kept silent about will be addressed, at last. Perhaps it is difficult for this to unfold right now, and perhaps the wave that has swept over thousands of Syrians still needs some time before it can have such an obvious (and hoped for) impact on the stagnation which has pervaded Syrian creativity for such a long time.

  • No more trips to the beach, no more ice cream in Gaza

    Last year I took my three year old son, Zino, to Gaza on his second trip to visit his grandparents, three uncles, four aunts and many cousins. It was warm; the April wind wasn’t too chilly for his half-English, half-Palestinian olive skin. Despite waiting for hours at the Egyptian side of the Rafah border, we got in and, to Zino’s delight, a family beach trip was planned for the next day. He is in love with the fresh air and sea water and was thrilled when he was taken by my two fishermen uncles on their small fishing boat.

    Today, Zino is four and a half years old, a bit older, and asking difficult questions. Not just the ‘How was I born?’ type, but also ‘Why is Gaza being bombarded?’ The innocent soul inside him doesn’t comprehend why that lovely holiday place is being ruined. A few days into the assault on Gaza, he was watching Channel Four News and saw images of destruction from the tragic attack on four children playing football on the same beach where he once stood and had an ice cream. I will never forget the look on his face as he turned around to me. He recognised the beach but only said, ‘Oh no, there will be no ice cream in Gaza, and it is too hot.’

    gazaboy

    The ones who are paying the heaviest price in this tragic situation are those innocent souls. Zino is thousands of miles away in London, yet he is having his fantasy world of Neverland shattered in front of his eyes on the small screen. The children living in Gaza have of course paid a higher price than anyone, not just with their bodies, but with the destruction of their own fantasies, the same ones that may have kept them going in what has now become a wasteland around them. Seeing their beach, playgrounds, schools, hospitals, homes, mosques all being targets for the Israeli war machine has left them with nowhere to go, not even the little worlds inside their heads. Over the phone, my six-year-old nephew tells me, ‘Spiderman and Batman cannot come to Gaza to fight the baddies because the border is always shut.’

    This kind of thing doesn’t make the news on a lot of international media outlets, who keep on reporting Israeli propaganda without even any fact-checking, always giving the same excuse of a Palestinian rocket having been fired from the vicinity of a school.

    Even if we assume this is correct, which hasn’t been proven, does this give anyone the excuse to target an area deliberately, knowing that it is highly likely that children will be killed?  Those very same children have now witnessed three wars on Gaza in less than six years.

    I have written about those previous wars and had hoped that I wouldn’t have to again. Now I am writing this and dedicating it to the spirit of those children in Gaza, not those who died, because hopefully they are happy somewhere else, but to those who are still there, to those who have become Hogwarts ghosts as the assault rages on. Thousands are either badly injured or waiting for their turn.

    Zino wants to go back to Gaza as soon as the border is open. He already knows that it will be different from last time. But he says he wants to go so he can take the recipe for ice cream. His Teta (grandmother) can make it then give it to the children in Jabalia Refugee Camp.

  • Life in War

    Nayrouz Qarmout follows her short story for PEN Atlas with a gripping diary piece from the heart of the conflict in Gaza, describing what it’s like to look after family, prepare food, and scan the internet for messages as the missiles fall.

    Translated from the Arabic by Ghada Mourad and Tyson Patros.

    I sleep for only a few hours at a time. I haven’t really been able to sleep since the beginning of the war on Gaza. My eyes hurt; I have a constant headache, never-ending worry. I do not know what the date is, or how many days have passed in this war. Night has merged with day. In the early morning hours I try to think of nothing other than the sound of birds, an antidote to the hum of warplanes and drones, to which my eardrums tremble. My bed and my window shake when missiles fall and crash like earthquakes.

    I try to relax in the hope of getting some sleep. My white cat, with her fluffy fur, sneaks onto my bed. She moves her whiskers on my face and bites my feet to woo me into giving her some food. I feed her despite my drowsiness. With every powerful hit of a missile the cat races, terrified, to shield herself beneath a table or chair – it’s her survival instinct. Even my cat is trying to preserve her life during the war. I know the location of the missile strikes by observing which direction she runs away from danger.

    I have a beautiful canary, but he no longer chirps like the rest of the birds. He too is afraid of the sound of explosions. I try to talk to him, and sing for him, until he pecks at my fingers. Then I know that he has returned to life.

    I decide to take a few hours sleep in the morning, given that I didn’t sleep at night. But every time I hear a powerful strike I unconsciously take my iPhone from the side of my bed and begin to browse and read the news, commentaries, and people’s reactions to what’s happening in Gaza. I make sure that my friends and relatives who are on Facebook are okay. I read the articles that discuss the war on Gaza and share the links, but I don’t understand my mixed feelings. In every moment of fear, I look to the daylight and I feel reassurance engulfing me. I don’t know, perhaps it’s faith in life.

    Amid the warplanes and the navy ships and the tank shells, Israel imposes a curfew without announcing it directly to residents. I remain at home, fearing the danger of moving in the streets or leaving the house. I feel like I’m in a tiny prison, like those held in the prisons of the occupation. I try to have a nice and meaningful day. I love to walk, and so I walk for long hours inside the house. I count the tiles on the floor. I recount the tiles on the floor. I organise my thoughts. I envision my world. I think about what’s happening. Sometimes an idea of what to write occurs to me while walking. I walk until I reach a window and I stand beside it. I look out onto the street, to the sea, and to the colours of the sky near the sea. I take a deep breath and feel relieved that I still sense the beauty of the image.

    My brother’s daughter – the brother who married recently – is only four months old. I play with her a lot. She is very beautiful. Her eyes are bright. She has a huge smile wide enough for the world. Two days ago she realised that she can take hold of the things around her. She grabbed my hand and it made me rejoice. But when somewhere nearby was bombed, she clenched my hand firmly, and as soon as the sound of the strike ended her smile returned. I feared for her. I hugged her for a long time. She is truly an amazing child that knows no fear.

    The electricity regularly cuts out. We try to compensate with electric generators and UBS batteries, and thanks to them we are able to operate many of the appliances. I turn on the television to see the live broadcast of events in Gaza, the opinions of political analysts and the international perspectives about what’s going on. I feel bored. A lot of repetitive talk. As soon as I see the images of massacres and blood in Gaza I feel sad, I weep, but I quickly regain my composure and turn off the television.

    I turn on the radio to listen to the local stations. Their correspondents broadcast from the field and announce the names of the martyrs and the wounded. They play uplifting revolutionary songs. I talk to my father, who has a deep knowledge of Palestine’s history, and we try to predict what might happen.

    My mother is also very keen to discuss the situation in Gaza. She shares her conclusive opinions about what’s happening on social media using her iPad. In this month, the month of Ramadan, we’re accustomed to preparing so many delicious dishes and meals. As soon as my mother feels in danger she prepares the most wonderful food with hints of rare spices. She has mastered cooking the food of Damascus; she was born there. She craves a cigarette after fasting, even though she stopped smoking years ago. But she began smoking again with the onset of the war. She laughs and says that our life is going up in smoke ‘so let me enjoy my cigarette!’ She recounts for us the circumstances that the Palestinian people have faced and the struggle she and my father have gone through. They joined the Palestinian Liberation Organisation. She said ‘we were young then, and we could resist with all our energy’. I help her. I joke with her. I provoke her a bit, because I love her anger.

    Our housekeeper cannot come to work. His house is far away and the road is dangerous. He also has a small family to look after. My sister and I take it upon ourselves to clean the house and arrange the belongings. I love to clean the floor and see it shine. In this act, I think that everything becomes clearer in my mind. Every day I take great pleasure in wiping clean the dust of the bombing and destruction that engulfs the house and its furniture. We leave the windows open to avoid a build up of air pressure in case of bombing. And I cannot turn on the air conditioner or the fans as they require the windows to be closed and need electricity. The summer is very hot here. You don’t find a lot of plants and trees in Gaza. The occupation has uprooted most of our trees, which increases the heat, and increases the humidity of the air because Gaza is on the coast.

    I love to polish cups and glasses. I search for tranquillity and calmness within me. I reorganise the cups in the cupboard. I watch satirical Ramadan television programmes on Arabic channels with my brothers. They steal us away from the stifling atmosphere of war, which lays siege to our movements, dreams and aspirations.

    My brother loves to smoke nargilah and play guitar. I love the embers of the charcoal when they burn, the pull of the water pipe and the scent of fruit that flavours the tobacco – even if it is harmful for your health. I love listening to music. When people smoke nargilah the conversation and joking intensify. We become sad when we remember my uncle who was martyred by a direct hit of an Israeli missile years earlier. It was my uncle who taught us how to prepare the head of the nargilah and fill it with tobacco. My uncle was so happy when we returned to Gaza from abroad after the Oslo Accords. He pulled me out of the car window to kiss me, all those years ago. He hadn’t seen my father for more than twenty years as he had been forcibly exiled from his country. We discuss what’s happening as if we are young again. We have points of view which we try to analyse and connect to reality. We drink coffee to help us stay awake and alert if danger arises. The smell of coffee is amazing. It is lovely.

    I love to prepare desserts. We prepare a special dessert during Ramadan – Qatayef. It’s a pancake that we glaze with butter, then fill with cream, sprinkle with grated pistachios, and soak in honey and rose water. We feel distressed and pray even more for people who have no food; they already lost everything. And yet I don’t want us to lose the beauty of this month despite the harshness of the circumstances. We have to live.

    I shower a lot because of the severity of the heat. I love water and the lather of soap. Even though we filter the water several times with specialised equipment to be able to use it, it’s still polluted. Israel stole our water. I think of those who were displaced from their homes and not even permitted to bathe. They have no water. They have no beds to sleep in. We try to donate through aid that is collected by every single neighbourhood; clothes, food, money and many other necessities. But I know that they are not at peace as they lost their homes and their stability. I thank God that we still have our home. But there is an ache in my chest for those expelled from their homes.

    I write and I write. I write my diaries, or a political article, or a prose poem, or a short story. I burst with anger at what’s happening. My people deserve nothing but life. I observe the various cities throughout the world that are in solidarity with us. I feel reassured that true humanity has not dissipated. Many friends, here and abroad, contact us to check on us. They raise our morale. They ask, ‘how are you all doing?’ We always say that we are doing well. But the reality is that Gaza is not well. We are trying to persevere until the end.

    I try to sleep again, but I am very alert. Any movement wakes me. My brother sneaks into my room quietly and takes my computer charger. He wants to exploit the electricity before it cuts out again. His movement wakes me even though he walks with extreme caution. I laugh. I try to go back to sleep.

    One night among these nights of war, my family and I felt that the air was suffocating us. People said that toxic gases had been released into the air. We must be wary of them, shut the windows and drape soaked cloths over our noses. We were confused and didn’t know whether to open the windows for fear of bombing or to shut them for fear of poisonous gases. We were not able to sleep. Laughter pervaded the house. My brother and sister and I don’t know why we laugh. We figured that maybe it was laughing gas. It is the irony of the situation in which we live.

    On another night, the Israeli Occupation Forces launched a missile to warn us of a more intense bombing that would be arriving shortly. We deferred our sleep until the strike, and gathered in the middle of the house searching for safety. We do not have any safe shelters. The bombing was delayed. Where is the warplane? Bomb us and finish your disgraceful work, we want to sleep!

    Israel drops flyers from the sky, advising that we vacate our homes, warning that they will invade some of our territories. I scoff at these flyers. I prefer death over serious injury or another exodus. I do not want to be displaced. I shall die in my home. Yet I swear that I love life.

    Ghada Mourad is a PhD student in Comparative Literature at the University of California, Irvine.

    Tyson Patros is a PhD student in Sociology at the University of California, Irvine.

    The Book of Gazaedited by Atef Abu Saif, and published by Comma Press, brings together some of the pioneers of the Gazan short story from that era, as well as younger exponents of the form, with ten stories that offer glimpses of life in the Strip that go beyond the global media headlines; stories of anxiety, oppression, and violence, but also of resilience and hope, of what it means to be a Palestinian, and how that identity is continually being reforged; stories of ordinary characters struggling to live with dignity in what many have called ‘the largest prison in the world’.

    Another testimony from Nayrouz Qarmout has been published in The Electronic Intifada.

  • Who wants to kill a million?

    We don’t really know the Syrians. For forty years Syrian people were hidden behind the monolithic al-Assad family dictatorship. A peaceful uprising that began in March 2011 threatened to topple the edifice; but when the revolt became militarised after ten months, the voices and concerns of ordinary people were obscured, again by violence. Our book Syria Speaks: Art and Culture from the Frontline – featuring over 50 Syrian contributors – sets out to open a line of communication between the nonviolent activists, artists and writers active in Syria or in exile, and the rest of the world. This is not being overambitious. In their fiction, memoir, reportage, poetry, art and photography, the Syrians are critical, compassionate, hilarious and articulate; they speak clearly and loudly for themselves.

    For me, the original impetus for the book lies at the heart of two images. One is a Ferzat cartoon of a prison guard sobbing and watching a soap opera on a portable TV in a cell, while all around him hang the body parts of the man he has finished torturing. The second is Top Goon: Diaries of a Little Dictator by the anonymous Syrian theatre and film collective, Masasit Mati. These hysterically funny short cyber films, such as ‘Who Wants to Kill a Million?’, document the permutations and aspirations of a revolution in flux – its follies and tragedies – with finger puppets. Both Ferzat and Top Goon are examples of Syria’s blackest humour forged in the fires of adversity. Politically and aesthetically engaged, they dare to dream about changing their society.

    After Ferzat’s 2012 London exhibition, the first discussion about a possible book took place in a taxi racing to catch a lecture by the Italian visual critic and Syria-watcher Donatella Della Ratta, at SOAS. She showed new moving images from the Syrian uprising with films such as Conte de Printemps by Dani Abo Louh and Mohamad Omran. The book idea was placed on hold while an exhibition on uprising art, film and photography toured Amsterdam, Copenhagen and London. Last June, the book began to take shape. This June, Syria Speaks is ready for the world.

    Syria Speaks is a celebration of a people determined to reclaim their dignity, freedom and self-expression. It showcases the work of over fifty artists and writers who are challenging the culture of violence in Syria. Their literature, poems and songs, cartoons, political posters and photographs document and interpret the momentous changes that have shifted the frame of reality so drastically in Syria.

    The Syria Speaks book tour begins its 7 city tour next week.

      • Discussion on free expression in Syria at the Hay Festival on 26 May at 1pm
      • An evening of readings, music and film at Rich Mix, London, on 11 June at 7pm
      • Readings and discussion as part of the Festival of Ideas, Foyles Bookshop, Bristol, on 12 June at 6pm
      • Public lecture at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford on 13 June at 6.30pm
      • An evening of readings, screenings and discussion at The Bluecoat, as part of the Liverpool Arab Arts Festival, Liverpool on 14 June at 5pm
      • Readings and presentation at the FUSE Gallery, Bradford on 15 June at 4pm
      • Public event at Durham University, School of Government and International Affairs on 16 June

    To find out more and book tickets please see our events page.

    Syria Speaks: Art and Culture from the Frontline, is edited by Malu Halasa, Zaher Omareen and Nawara Mahfoud (Saqi Books, 2014)

  • The Greatest Turkish Novel?

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

    I belong to a generation that often measures the success of authors not by their literary achievements but by their political stance. Since my school days, I saw how the artistic sins of a writer could be readily forgiven as long as the author in question had progressive views. After all, we believed, it was their politics, rather than their artistic talents, that mattered most. This category mistake is still made today. When my friends ask me to name the best contemporary author in Turkey, I sense their actual question is: “Which Turkish contemporary author has the views you accept/like the most?

    So imagine the surprise when my generation of young Turks discovered the works of Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, an author who had made a mockery of the idea of progress in his comic novels and who had found little to like in the culture of modernity. For Tanpınar, this dissatisfaction was the starting point of a number of books which fed on the discrepancy between the traditional and the modern.

    Tanpınar is not an easy writer. Reading The Time Regulation Institute (translated by Maureen Freely and Alexander Dawe in a handsome edition by Penguin Classics) provides ample evidence of that. This comic novel features the adventures of a group of ‘institution men’, who, heroically and absurdly, try to synchronise all the clocks of Turkey. The result is a challenging and hilarious read and, for me, perhaps the best Turkish novel of the 20th century alongside Orhan Pamuk’s The Black Book.

    Tanpınar’s language is rich with Turkish, French and Ottoman words. The narrators in his books are carefully planned and richly imagined by a novelist, rather than an ideologue. Tanpınar excels at parody, psychological realism and dramatic irony. He is also a poet, but most critics believe that his prose is much superior to his verse.

    Tanpınar’s grammar is nothing like the proper, neat Turkish grammar taught at school. Unlike his contemporary Turkish social-realists, for whom language was merely a tool with which to educate the ‘ignorant masses’, Tanpınar’s prose is impressionistic and musical. It glows and echoes, and one never quite forgets the strange taste of his sentences after reading them.

    He has no patience for the kind of reader who has no patience with the complexities of history and culture. His books are a living challenge to the cultural policies of the modern Turkish state, which has long demanded that writers use language ideologically and for political ends. Tanpınar’s other major novel, A Mind at Peace (also available in English), provided an antidote to the soulless ‘modern’ novels taught to us in academic curricula. In those ideological novels, an eternal and clichéd struggle takes place between preachers and adversaries of modernity. In Tanpınar’s novels things are a bit more complicated. The spiritual characters are cherished rather than demonised. He carefully handles fragile traditions rather than breaking them into pieces.  

    Belittled in his time for his unfashionable intellectual interests, Tanpınar was called Kırtıpil (shoddy) Hamdi by the cultural elite and earned himself a rather tragic image. He came to be seen as a sort of sacred but forgotten figure because of his acute interest in tradition. New studies on Tanpınar and his recently published memoirs (Günlüklerin Işığında Tanpınar’la Başbaşa, 2007) challenge that tragic image. Not only a brilliant author, but also an energetic politician and a member of the establishment, he served in parliament during the single party era and never stood on the sidelines. His critique of modernity owes most of its insights to the fact that he had been a servant of its institutions.

    In my school years, when Tanpınar quickly rose to academic and literary hipness, it was increasingly the norm, rather than the exception, to question the process of modernisation. Modernity’s obsession with progress and efficiency had been largely embraced by the earlier generation of authors who treated them like sacred objects. For Tanpınar, a break with history and tradition was not a cause for celebration. On the contrary, that rupture provided him with a sense of duty about the importance of recollecting the past. I first read his works in black-covered Yapı Kredi editions where he was in good company. The same publishing house published the first complete Turkish translation of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past.

    Like Proust, and Pamuk, Tanpınar opens doors to other books and ideas. I am curious about what thousands of new readers (some of whom must have first heard his name on Oprah Winfrey’s Book Club where the Institute was recently recommended) will make of him. I think Tanpınar’s crowning success was that, unlike his progressive or conservative contemporaries, no political organisation or school can claim him today. Perhaps the only institute he can be a member of is his own Institute of Time Regulation.

    Kaya Genç is a novelist and essayist from Istanbul. His work has appeared in the Paris Review Daily, the Guardian, the Financial Times, the London Review of Books blog, Salon, Guernica Magazine, Sight & Sound, the Millions, the White Review, the New Inquiry, The Rumpus, Index on Censorship, the Guardian Weekly, HTMLGIANT, Songlines, and PankL’Avventura (Macera), his first novel, was published in 2008. He is the Istanbul correspondent of the Los Angeles Review of Books.

    You can follow Kaya Genç on Twittter.

    For more on Kaya Genç and his writing visit his website.

    Ahmed Hamdi Tanpınar was a beloved Turkish novelist and essayist and a member of Turkish parliament. Born in Istanbul in 1901, Tanpinar came to be educated in several Turkish cities and and travelled widely throughout Europe. The Time Regulation Institute is his most celebrated novel, followed by A Mind at Peace.

    The Time Regulation Institute, by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, translated by Maureen Freely and Alexander Dawe, is available from Penguin Classics.

  • PEN Atlas Q&A: Otto Dov Kulka

    Interview by Tasja Dorkofikis, PEN Atlas editor

    Landscapes of the Metropolis of Death combines your experience of Auschwitz as a boy between September 1943 and January 1945, your ‘private mythology’, with deep historical analysis and understanding, which you have acquired as a historian later in life. At what point did you decide to combine these two individual perspectives?

    It always was with me. However, in my scholarly work I have strictly separated these two dimensions while completely avoiding the mentioning of my autobiographical experience as a boy in Auschwitz. There was no place for exploring my own past in my historical research, which was always based on documentary, mostly archival material, and its analysis and evaluation. But this was not the case the other way around. Auschwitz was ever present, but only in my diaries and dreams and, from a certain point on, also in tape-recorded monologues, where I dived into the ‘Landscapes’ that I have called the Metropolis of Death. In these ‘Landscapes’ my reflective thoughts as a historian were already present.

    You recorded your memories of Auschwitz and you kept them private for a long time. Why did it take you so long to make your recordings public?

    I started the recordings in 1991 and continued until 2001. All these recordings and my diaries existed for my self-understanding only and, as mentioned above, I regarded it as illegitimate to mix them with my scholarly, strictly impersonal research (for example: an article on the Familienlager found in the appendix of my book – written in the ’70s) but when I was diagnosed with advanced cancer fifteen years ago, after an operation and chemotherapy, the surgeon told me that I had only two to three years to live. This was in 1997.

    I decided to have the recordings and diaries typed up, and did another recording, to round off the series. I consulted a publisher friend and told him that I wanted the texts to be part of my literary estate. He said there was a chance that they might be considered for publication and that I had to make up my mind about this. I gave the transcript to a few colleagues and friends to read, and had a selection translated into English. But for a long time I doubted whether these texts could reach anyone other than me. I sent the English text to a few colleagues abroad, and first and foremost to Ian Kershaw, with whom I have worked together in research and exchanged ideas for years. Ian and others analysed and commented on it in great depth. But the first to hear some of the recordings was my friend, the historian Saul Friedländer, who a few years earlier published his book When Memory Comes. Saul told me unequivocally that I must publish. All of them tried to persuade me to make this manuscript accessible to the public. But it took me another decade to decide. Only after publishing three major documentary and research projects between 1997 and 2010, on which I was working many years before, was I ready to embark on the new road of publishing my ‘non-scholarly’ work.

    You survived Auschwitz in Familienlager, or ‘Family Camp’ allowing families to be housed together, their heads unshaved and wearing civilian clothes. You describe it yourself in the book as a ‘miracle, whose meaning no one understood’. The history of the family camp is relatively unknown to the general public. Can you tell our readers more about the role of the Red Cross in this part of the Holocaust’s history?

    I have written a scholarly article on the history of the so-called Family Camp based on the documentary material that I discovered in one of the German archives. You will not find a trace of my personal experiences in this article, written in 1980. It appears as the appendix in the book Landscapes of the Metropolis of Death. I refer to it in my book and not the other way around. But beyond the documentation mentioned in my article, I did not research further on the role of the Red Cross during the Nazi-period. I only wish to clarify here that the documents include an exchange of letters and negotiations between Adolf Eichmann’s department in the Main Security Office of the SS and the German Red Cross, and between the German Red Cross and the International Red Cross in Genève. The negotiations discussed the question of a possible visit to the Ghetto of Theresienstadt and a Jewish camp in the East, which could have been identified as the Family Camp in Auschwitz, by the International Red Cross.

    You talk about the cultural life in the camp, about concerts, performances and classes. You say that these experiences ‘form the moral basis of your approach to culture, to life, almost to everything. Historical, functional, and normative values and patterns of life were transformed into something in the order of absolute values’. How do you think this was possible?

    What I mean here is that the education that went on, even in the world of the children’s block of the Family Camp, was unprecedented. Since education is, in its essence, always oriented to the future and the future was the only thing that certainly did not exist for those children and their educators in Auschwitz, it was not performed for any other purpose than for its own existence. That makes the values underlying this education ‘into something in the order of absolute values’.

    The book describes some ‘fond memories’ like classes in history and literature, a friendship with a young man who gave you his copy of Crime and Punishment, or an image of blue skies above the camp, signifying for you: ‘the colour of summer, the colour of tranquility, the colour of forgetting.’ How do you think these positive memories managed to stay with you, and were even possible?

    The only possible answer I have is my existence, and the fact that those memories are living with me and shaped my entire life.

    Your book tries to look at how your memory preserved and processed the trauma of Auschwitz.  This is, of course, a very personal and unique process. You experienced Auschwitz as a 10-11 year old boy who was confronted on a daily basis with images of death and atrocities. How do you think this differs from experiencing Auschwitz as an adult? From remembering it?

    We, the children in the children-and-youth barrack, were not directly exposed to the atrocities that were part of the daily life of the adult inmates. But we were of course aware of the presence of the Great Death and of, what I call in my diaries and in the book, the ‘Unalterable Law of the Great Death’, meaning that there was no way out of Auschwitz and we were all doomed to die there. Through these metaphors and other abstractions I have been able to internalise and express the world of these atrocities.

    You describe an episode when a children’s choir learnt to sing ‘Ode to Joy’ in a lavatory barrack where the acoustics were good. You wonder in the book whether the choice of music and that particular text was an act of defiance, expressing belief in absolute values despite the reality of the camp, or a case of ‘extreme sarcasm.’ Which interpretation do you lean towards?

    In my professional life as a teacher at the university I am trying to understand and convey my understanding of absolute values, of the humanistic interpretation of history, including this period. But the other case you mention is always present within me with all its ambivalence. My own attempt to understand this history and my approach to it is shaped by this polarity.

    The ‘Immutable Law of Death’, the ultimate certainty that one was going to die, was how you saw what was happening in Auschwitz. Yet you survived through chance. ‘However much I know that I must be caught. I always know, too, that I must be spared. It’s a kind of circle’. You talk about this a lot in your book and about other images of escape and return. Are you finally free from them now?

    No.

    What do you think is the role of ideology when exploring the history of the final solution? And how is scholarship and understanding of that period at all possible when one is faced with events of such utter horror?

    There is a very nice sentence that often appears in the rhetoric of commemoration: ‘What happened in this period was perpetrated by humans to other humans.’ In my eyes this is not much more than a truism. What happened then was perpetrated by humans who have devoted themselves to a radical racialist ideology or were ruled by it. They believed in it or believed in its necessity to ‘save’ the nation or even the world from what they regarded as disastrous, universalist ‘Jewish spirit’ and its bearers were the Jews. This ‘redemptive anti-Semitism’ was the very core of national socialist ideology and the imperative behind the attempt at the ‘Final Solution’. Once this ideology and its charismatic leadership were defeated, or in other words, when Germany was liberated from them, most of the former perpetrators returned to being normal liberal citizens of post-war European society.

    After your visit in Auschwitz in 1978 you never went there again. Why?

    The impressions of my return to the deserted landscapes of the ruins of Auschwitz in 1978 were so powerful and are imprinted in my memory and imagination so deeply, that I am not willing to reshape or overwrite them. These were my own childhood landscapes, in which I always find a kind of freedom, which exists only for me. I am always afraid that I will be alienated from these impressions through receiving different images.

    You moved to Israel when you were still very young and your father stayed in Czechoslovakia. What does Israel mean to you?

    I moved to Israel in the year 1949 at the age of 16 in the awareness that I am participating in the great historical event of the return of an exiled and dispersed nation to its ancient homeland. This also meant for me and my generation an attempt to create a new society based on humanistic values and the active participation in the revival of an ancient language and the creation of a modern culture built on a historical heritage. My father first stayed in Prague, with his new family. But in 1968, after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, which crushed the dream of the Prague Spring, he joined me.

    About the editor

    Tasja Dorkofikis is the editor of the PEN Atlas as well as a freelance editor and publicist. She used to work as Publicity Director at Random House and most recently at Portobello Books as Associate Publisher and Commissioning Editor. Tasja shares her time between London and a small village in Vaud in Switzerland.

    Landscapes of the Metropolis of Death recently won the the Jewish Quarterly-Wingate Prize 2014. The book was translated by Ralph Mendel.

    The memoir explores Otto Dov Kulka’s haunting memories of a childhood spent in Auschwitz. Breaking years of silence, it is now translated into 17 languages.

    Landscapes of the Metropolis of Death is available from Penguin.