Over at the New York Times, there’s a neat interactive feature showing a bunch of Western products and what their names are when transliterated into Chinese. This kind of thing is always a fun diversion . . . Here are my personal favorites:
Citibank = Star-spangled banner bank
This makes total sense, especially since Citibank really is all-American in their support of unequal wealth distribution and screwing the masses in favor of the 1%.
Heineken = Happiness power
This really lends itself to bad pick-up lines: “Hey baby, I’m totally full of happiness power, you know what I’m saying?”
Snickers = Honorary powerful support
I never thought a candy bar could sound so “of the Party.”
Tide = Gets rid of dirt
Somehow this is a bit too direct for comfort.
It’s a rare and wonderful book that begins and ends with violence and humor. At the start of Etgar Keret’s The Seven Good Years, Keret is in a hospital waiting for the birth of his first child while nurses, in. . .
Last year, Han Kang’s The Vegetarian was an unexpected critical hit. Now, it’s just been published in the U.S. and has already received a great deal of positive critical attention. The Vegetarian was a bold book to attempt as an. . .
It’s been almost a year since the publication of Nowhere to Be Found by Bae Suah, but despite being included on the 2015 PEN Translation award longlist, and some pretty vocal support from key indie presses, the book has. . .
Jorge Eduardo Benavides’ novel La paz de los vencidos (The Peace of the Defeated) takes the form of a diary written by a nameless Peruvian thirty-something intellectual slumming it in Santa Cruz de Tenerife in Spain’s Canary Islands. Recently relocated. . .
Anyone with any interest at all in contemporary Moroccan writing must start with Souffles. A cultural and political journal, Souffles (the French word for “breaths”) was founded in 1966 by Abdellatif Laâbi and Mostafa Nissabouri. Run by a group of. . .
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. . .
Like any good potboiler worth its salt, Fuminori Nakamura’s The Gun wastes no time setting up its premise: “Last night, I found a gun. Or you could say I stole it, I’m not really sure. I’ve never seen something so. . .