Elizabeth Harris’s translations from Italian include Mario Rigoni Stern’s novel Giacomo’s Seasons (Autumn Hill Books) and Giulio Mozzi’s story collection, This Is the Garden (Open Letter Books). She has won a 2013 Translation Prize from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Culture (Rome) for Rigoni Stern’s Giacomo’s Seasons, a Banff International Centre Translation Residency, and a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Prize from the PEN American Center for Antonio Tabucchi’s Tristano Dies“:http://archipelagobooks.org/book/tristano-dies-a-life/ (forthcoming with Archipelago Books). She teaches creative writing (fiction) at the University of North Dakota.
With the 2013 Nobel Prize in Literature going to Alice Munro and George Saunders’ nonstop prizes for his recent collection (his latest, the £40,000 Folio Prize—the equivalent of $67,000), we might say that the short story in English is having a very good year. Likewise, in the selections for the Best Translated Book Award, we’ve seen some remarkable story collections, and I think Stig Dagerman’s Sleet (David Godine Publisher), in Steven Hartman’s beautiful translation, tops the list. This is not a collection pretending to be a novel, not a series of linked short stories. It’s just a collection, one beautiful story after the other. Dagerman may not be famous in the US (yet), but he was the darling of Sweden, a prolific post-WWII fiction writer and journalist, whose collected articles on the aftermath of war in Germany, German Autumn, were considered a brilliant examination, according to Hartman, of the “very nature of human suffering and the moral complexities of justice.” Dagerman’s suicide in 1954 at the age of thirty-one was considered a national tragedy.
Dagerman has been compared to literary giants like Anton Chekhov and James Joyce. Alice McDermott, in her preface to Sleet, ties Dagerman to Joyce, especially, with his “ability to depict the intractable loneliness of childhood, but time and again…[Dagerman] tempers this loneliness with brief gestures of hope, connectedness….There are tears in these stories, for sure, cruelties, eruptions of violence, but none of this is offered without pity…” There is humor here, too, often mixed with sorrow, and there are the beautiful, beautiful details that create the vivid worlds of Dagerman’s stories, the rural and urban, working-class Sweden of the 1940s and 50s.
The title story, “Sleet,” is a fine example of the power of Dagerman’s short fiction. It is a beautifully crafted story, subtle in structure, and told from the point of view of a child as so many of these stories are, with a narrator whose voice—in no small part due to Hartman’s translation skills—is remarkably vivid. Here is an example of the charming, vibrant voice of the story, from the opening paragraph, as the narrator tells us:
So here we are, sitting in the barn, cutting the tops off big muddy carrots. If you want to, it’s easy to pretend other things, like how it’s not really carrots that are losing their heads but something totally different, like kids at school that you don’t like, or even vicious animals.
And when I think of how they know all over America—all over that incredibly big America, on the other side of the Atlantic—how Arne Berg in Mjuksund, Sweden, hasn’t ever seen his daddy, then I can’t help it. Suddenly I don’t see the green carrot tops anymore and the tears drop slowly down the chaff-cutter.
There isn’t a story in the collection that doesn’t have this same level of detail and character development, this same level of artistry. Equally impressive is the stylistic variety here. Every story’s voice is decidedly different, the points of view and tones vary from the distant, chilling, rhythmical third-person voice of “To Kill a Child” (the most famous story of the collection and also placed perfectly, our first taste of this author is this little masterpiece); to the intimate and heartbreaking third-person voice of the story of a shared secret between mother and son, “The Surprise”; to the first-person plural voice of impoverished farm children in “The Stockholm Car” (there is a single narrator, but he barely exists, blurs into the impoverished in general, the unnoticed); to the extremely colloquial, brutal, self-destructive first-person voice of the final novella-length “Where’s My Icelandic Sweater?”
In reading these stories, I was perhaps struck most by this stylistic variety: there are great short story writers—Flannery O’Connor, for example—whose books you must set aside for a time before their stories begin to bleed together. Not so with Dagerman. He’s simply a master of the form—and Hartman, too, must be considered a master, for he is the one who recognized what was there in the originals and then created all these nuances of voice and character and style in the English.
For you to get a taste of Hartman’s work on voice in the stories—his work at creating these voices—let me just show you a passage from the dark ending of “To Kill a Child.” This classic story, originally commissioned by the National Society for Road Safety in order to promote safe driving, was to become, as Hartman points out in his translator’s note to the collection, one of the greatest of Swedish short stories, as Dagerman, the consummate artist, took this “redressing of a particular social problem as the starting point rather than as an end in itself and out of these mundane materials created a poignant tale of choice, chance, and human loss that rises to the highest levels of art, literary balance, and philosophical concision.”
Here is the rough, literal version of the final lines of the story:
For it is not true that time heals all wounds. Time does not heal a killed child’s wounds and it heals very badly the pain of a mother who forgot to buy sugar and sends her child across the road to borrow and just as poorly does it heal the angst/anxiety of a once happy man who killed it.
For the one who has killed a child does not go to sea. The one who has killed a child drives slowly home in silence and beside him he has a mute woman with her hand bandaged and in all the villages they pass, they do not see a single happy person. All shadows are very dark and when they separate it is still in silence and the man who killed the child knows that this silence is his enemy and that he will need years of his life to defeat it by screaming that it was not his fault. But he knows this is a lie and in his night’s dreams he instead will wish to get a single minute of his life back in order to make this one minute different.
But so mercilessly is life against the one who has killed the child that everything afterwards is too late.
Because it’s not true that time heals all wounds. Time does not heal the wounds of a dead child, and it heals very poorly the pain of a mother who forgot to buy sugar and who sent her child across the road to borrow some. And it heals just as poorly the anguish of a once cheerful man who has killed a child.
Because the man who has killed a child does not go to the sea. The man who has killed a child drives home slowly, in silence. And beside him sits a mute woman with a bandaged hand. And as they drive back through the villages, they do not see even one friendly face—all shadows, everywhere, are very dark. And when they part, it is in the deepest silence. And the man who has killed a child knows that this silence is his enemy, and that he will need years of his life to conquer it by crying out that it wasn’t his fault. But he also knows that this is a lie. And in the fitful dreams of his nights he will try instead to gain back just a single minute of his life, to somehow make that single minute different.
But life is so merciless to the man who has killed a child that everything afterward is too late.
And Hartman, along with his skills in bringing Dagerman into English, has played another very significant role in creating this book: he’s the one who selected the stories and put them together as a collection. As Hartman told me, he arranged the stories roughly according to the age of the protagonist as well as according to what he sees as a “thematic arc” to the book and according to “atmosphere and stylistic variation, which has a certain ebb and flow throughout the collection.” There is also, he points out, a general split between rural stories and those set largely in working-class Stockholm. Hartman speaks to the thematic unity of the work, how all the stories are “to some extent about the death of childhood, whether literally” as tied to child protagonists or “psychically/spiritually among the other adults in the same story.” Hartman goes on to say:
The (often premature) death of childhood is evident in different ways in the collection, sometimes in painful glimpses of emotional trauma…sometimes in exposing the tyranny of circumstance and situation…. Even in the case of a couple of stories that may seem less obviously to fit this mold, “Men of Character” and “Icelandic Sweater,” the adult characters have to let go—however imperfectly, belatedly, and unwillingly—to childlike illusions that can no longer be sustained in worlds hostile or indifferent to their needs.
Dagerman and Hartman’s Sleet is an extremely strong story collection at a time when story collections in English seem to be increasingly respected. A collection has never won The Best Translated Book Award. Maybe that’s about to change.
Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer’s La Superba is appropriately titled after the Italian city of Genoa, where, after escaping the pressures of fame in his own country, the semi-autobiographical narrator finds himself cataloguing the experiences of its mesmerizing inhabitants with the intention. . .
It took reading 44 pages of Intervenir/Intervene before I began to get a sense of what Dolores Dorantes and Rodrigo Flores Sánchez were up to. Recurring throughout these 44 pages—throughout the entire book—are shovels, shovel smacks to the face, lobelias—aha!. . .
As presaged by its title, contradiction is the theme of Peter Stamm’s novel, All Days Are Night. Gillian, a well-known television personality, remains unknowable to herself. And Hubert, a frustrated artist and Gillian’s lover, creates art through the process of. . .
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. . .