Here is part of the review:
WG (Wije) Karunasena is a Sri Lankan sportswriter who has been forced into retirement because he is a drunk. He is also on a fast track to an early death. But he can only write when he’s intoxicated, and his lifelong fascinations for cricket and alcohol propel his obsessive search for Pradeep Mathew, a cricketer who had a brief but spectacular career during the late 80s and early 90s. Mathew is able to accomplish impossible and yet for some reason, in spite of his exceptional abilities, he disappears, not only from the cricket field but from the world in general, after playing very few matches, including a test match that takes place in an empty stadium. Struggling to make sense of his life and accomplish something meaningful and lasting, Wije and his neighbor Ari leave behind their families and depart on a journey to locate Mathew. They have both seen Mathew play, which is the only evidence they have that he ever existed. People refuse to speak of him, and all records of him have been erased.
Cricket is the lens through which Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Legend of Pradeep Mathew shows a very telling portrait of the country. While the book is very much about cricket—it is littered with relevant descriptions and diagrams—it would be just as easy (but admittedly less fulfilling) to simply skip the sections of the book that are full of jargon. Because this book isn’t a book about cricket per se, but about how Pradeep Mathew became a legend when people simply stopped talking about him. His legend outlasted his presence in Sri Lanka, and fueled the obsession that carried Wije through the last few alcohol-blurred years of his life.
Click here to read the entire review.
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. . .