Every culture seems to have its own set-up for literary awards. In France, there are millions. Literally. Bars give out prizes for the best work by a female author published between January and May. (Or so I’ve heard.) And these aren’t scoffed at prizes, but include ceremonies with glitz and celebrity.
In Spain and Latin America, most of the awards are given out by the publishing companies themselves. The Anagrama Essay Prize. The Planeta Prize. It’s pretty sweet marketing—the book you’re about to publish already won an award. This is what I believe marketing folks call “pre-publication buzz.” Buzz that you the publisher both created and get to reap the rewards of!
This isn’t meant to be facetious, it’s just a different system than our National Book Awards and Pulitzer Prizes. And like with any prize, some of the award-winning French/Spanish books that I’ve read are great, some are mediocre. That’s how it goes.
All this is a long prelude to announcing that yesterday Santiago Gamboa won the La Otra Orilla Literary Award for his novel Necropolis. La Otra Orilla is a literary imprint within Grupo Editorial Norma with an emphasis on Latin American literature. The Prize is awarded by an international jury of famous Spanish novelists (this year, it consisted of Jorge Volpi, Roberto Ampuero, and Pere Sureda), and the winner receives $100,000.
Gamboa is a young Colombian writer that I heard about not too long about, and whose work sounds pretty intriguing. In addition to Necropolis (more on that in a second), he’s the author of Turned Pages, To Lose Is a Question of Method, The Happy Life of a Youth Named Esteban, The Imposters, and Ulysses Syndrome. None of which have been translated into English. Of course. Although they have been translated into French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Greek (Greek!), Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, Czech, Russian, Polish, Basque, Rumanian, and Turkish.
He currently lives in New Delhi as the Colombian cultural attache (intriguing) and is considered one of the most innovative voices in new Colombian fiction. Manuel Vazquez Montalban (pretty impressive in his own right) actually declared that “Gamboa is, along with Garcia Marquez, the most important Colombian writer.” And the jury awarded Gamboa this prize for his “magnificent use of language, accomplishing the difficult task of bringing so many different voices to life whilst making each one authentic and unique.”
And here’s the description of Necropolis:
Following a long illness, a writer is invited to a biography conference in Jerusalem where the accounts of the odd lives of the conference participants come as a shock. These include the case of French bookseller and biographer Edgar Miret Supervielle, Italian adult film actress Sabina Vedovelli, and, above all, José Maturana, a former evangelical minister, ex-convict and recovering drug addict who, employing powerful language acquired on the most squalid streets, tells the story of his savior, a charismatic Latino messiah in Miami. Shortly thereafter, Maturana turns up dead in his hotel room. While everything points toward a suicide, certain doubts lie just beneath the surface. Who really was José Maturana?
In Necropolis, the narrator explores different versions of the same story while simultaneously listening to the shocking tales of the other attendees of the conference.
Always hard to tell what a book is like based on brief agent/publisher copy like this, but I’m personally interested in finding out more about Gamboa’s work. I’ve been reading fellow Colombian Juan Gabriel Vasquez’s The Informers (masterfully translated by Anne McLean, and a finalist for this year’s Independent Foreign Fiction Prize), and I’m getting the sense that Colombia has some really interesting young writers . . .
Randall Jarrell once argued a point that I will now paraphrase and, in doing so, over-simplify: As a culture, we need book criticism, not book reviews. I sort of agree, but let’s not get into all of that. Having finished. . .
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Let’s not deceive ourselves, man is nothing very special. In fact, there are so many of us that our governments don’t know what to do with us at all. Six billion humans on the planet and only six or seven. . .
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .