The shortlist for the Prêmio Portugal Telecom de Literatura em Língua Portuguesa was recently announced and is made up of the following books:
Bom dia camaradas, Ondjaki (Agir)
Cantigas do falso Alfonso el Sábio, Affonso Ávila (Ateliê Editorial)
História natural da ditadura, Teixeira Coelho (Iluminuras)
Jerusalém, Gonçalo M. Tavares (Companhia das Letras)
Macho não ganha flor, Dalton Trevisan (Record)
O outro pé da sereia, Mia Couto (Companhia das Letras)
O paraíso é bem bacana, André Sant´Anna (Companhia das Letras)
O roubo do silêncio, Marcos Siscar (7letras editora)
O segundo tempo, Michel Laub (Companhia das Letras)
Por que sou gorda, mamãe?, Cintia Moscovich (Record)
Aside from the e-mail I got from the Ray-Gude Mertin Agency (which represents six of these titles), I’m having a hard time finding any coverage of this Prize in English. (No surprise.)
The rules of this Prize are a bit complicated as well . . . Seems that this Prize is awarded to the best book written in Portuguese and published in Brazil last year, that was originally published outside of Brazil between Jan 1, 2003 and Dec 31, 2006. The winner receives approx. 56,000 euros.
The link above does have descriptions of all the shortlisted titles, and I highly recommend using the Google translator to check these out. I’m particularly intrigued by this book:
Why I am fat, mother? – Cintia Moscovich
It deals with the auto-image crises of the gordinhos. It hates the food that the fattening, but loves the food that gives pleasure to it. These ambiguities are exceeded gradually, gram the gram, garfada the garfada one, chapter the chapter.
Though far from the most convincing reason to read literature in translation, one common side effect is learning of another culture, of its history. Within that, and a stronger motivation to read, is the discovery of stories not possible within. . .
Despite cries that literature is dead, dying, and self-replicating in the worst way, once in a while a book comes along to remind readers that there’s still a lot of surprise to be found on the printed page. To be. . .
“I was small. And my village was small, I came to know that in time. But when I was small it was big for me, so big that when I had to cross it from one end to the other,. . .
A few weeks after moving into a farm house in the Welsh countryside, Emilie, an expatriate from the Netherlands, starts to think about her uncle. This uncle tried to drown himself in a pond in front of the hotel where. . .
Think back to the last adventure- or action-type book you read. Wasn’t it cool? Didn’t it make you want to do things, like learn to shoot a crossbow, hack complicated information systems, travel to strange worlds, take on knife-wielding thugs,. . .
In Aira’s Shantytown, while we’re inside the characters’ heads for a good portion of the story, the voice we read on the page is really that of Aira himself, as he works out the plot of the book he’s writing.. . .
Noir is not an easy genre to define—or if it once was, that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away; as a quick guess, maybe Silver Lake, Los Angeles, 1935. When two books as different as. . .
Some time ago I read this phrase: “The page is the only place in the universe God left blank for me.”
Pedro Mairal’s short novel The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra is more about these blank spaces than the usual full. . .
“What if even in the afterlife you have to know foreign languages? Since I have already suffered so much trying to speak Danish, make sure to assign me to the Polish zone . . .”
So reads a typical aphoristic “poem”. . .
If you somehow managed to overlook the 2012 translation of Andrés Neuman’s breathtaking Traveler of the Century (and woe betide all whom continue to do so), you now have two exceptional works of fiction from the young Argentine virtuoso demanding. . .