My name is Sarah Young, but Chad calls me Sarah Two because I was the second intern named Sarah to start at Open Letter this summer. I know my nickname is not as cool as “Quantum Sarah” or “Paranoid Sarah” (whose name is actually Rachel), but I’m just grateful my parents didn’t give me a weird, hyphenated last name and I don’t live in fear of being taken to a concentration camp in the Midwest. Later today, Alek will be posting my review of Second Person Singular, a new novel by Sayed Kashua chronicling the lives of two Arab Israelis working in Jerusalem. Also, Quantum Sarah and I wrote a joint review of Alessandro Barricco’s Emmaus, which should be up soon.
I’m an English/Creative Writing major at University of Rochester, minoring in Spanish and Biology. People often think the Bio minor is random, but it makes sense in my head. For instance, Wallace Stevens? Great companion reading to cell biology. Anyway, I ended up at Open Letter after taking a course in translation studies last fall. I initially enrolled in it because just about every visiting author I met in my fiction workshop agreed that translating is one of the best ways to improve your own writing. Now, I think translation is my favorite way to study language.
When I’m not writing reviews, making spreadsheets, or mailing large quantities of books for Chad, I like to read, bike, cook, and knit. During the academic year, I work as an undergraduate peer writing tutor for our campus’s College Writing Program and write plays for a student run theatre company, The Opposite of People. Last summer, I submitted a one-act to the Samuel French Off Off Broadway play festival, and by some miracle they accepted it. Phillip Witte (an intern from the days of yore) directed it, and Kelsey Burritt (one of last summer’s interns) acted in it, making the production an Open Letter intern lovechild. I’m thrilled to have been given the opportunity to work with such a unique publishing house, and I look forward to a summer full of good books and good company.
Pedro Zarraluki’s The History of Silence (trans. Nick Caistor and Lorenza García) begins with the narrator and his wife, Irene, setting out to write a book about silence, itself called The History of Silence: “This is the story of how. . .
There are plenty of reasons you can fail to find the rhythm of a book. Sometimes it’s a matter of discarding initial assumptions or impressions, sometimes of resetting oneself. Zigmunds Skujiņš’s Flesh-Coloured Dominoes was a defining experience in the necessity. . .
In a culture that privileges prose, reviewing poetry is fairly pointless. And I’ve long since stopped caring about what the world reads and dropped the crusade to get Americans to read more poems. Part of the fault, as I’ve suggested. . .
I would like to pose the argument that it is rare for one to ever come across a truly passive protagonist in a novel. The protagonist (perhaps) of Three Light-Years, Claudio Viberti, is just that—a shy internist who lives in. . .
The last five days of the eleventh-century Icelandic politician, writer of sagas, and famous murder victim Snorri Sturleleson (the Norwegian spelling, Snorre, is preserved in the book) make up Thorvald Steen’s most recently translated historical fiction, The Little Horse. Murdered. . .
We all know Paris, or at least we think we know it. The Eiffel Tower. The Latin Quarter. The Champs-Élysées. The touristy stuff. In Dominique Fabre’s novel, Guys Like Me, we’re shown a different side of Paris: a gray, decaying. . .
One hundred pages into Birth of a Bridge, the prize-winning novel from French writer Maylis de Kerangal, the narrator describes how starting in November, birds come to nest in the wetlands of the fictional city of Coca, California, for three. . .
At 30, the Mexican writer Valeria Luiselli is already gathering her rosebuds. Faces in the Crowd, her poised debut novel, was published by Coffee House Press, along with her Brodsky-infused essay collection, Sidewalks. The essays stand as a theoretical map. . .
Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires: An Attainable Utopia (narrated by Julio Cortázar) is, not disappointingly, as wild a book as its title suggests. It is a half-novella half-graphic novel story about . . . what, exactly? A European tribunal, Latin. . .
Marie NDiaye has created a tiny, psychological masterpiece with her Self-Portrait in Green. In it she explores how our private fears and insecurities can distort what we believe to be real and can cause us to sabotage our intimate relationships.. . .