The fine print attached to the Best Translated Book Award states that in order to be eligible, a work cannot have been previously translated. I don’t disagree with the rule, especially as we already over 350 books to consider, but worry that because of this stipulation we may miss out on notable books that we, as a jury, should in some way recognize. It’s with this concern in mind that I offer here a handful of new translations/reprints not eligible for the BTBA but nonetheless worthy of some attention.
The Woman of Porto Pim, by Antonio Tabucchi (Archipelago), trans. Tim Parks
Tabucchi is one of the great post-War Italian novelists and despite his place in the pantheon of European letters, he seems little appreciated in the U.S. The Women of Porto Pim is an ideal introduction: it’s as much a travelogue as a collection of tales about the remote volcanic outcrop of the Azores. Broken into two sections (with the evocative and impossible to resist titles, “Shipwrecks, Flotsam, Crossings, Distances” and “Of Whales and Whalemen”), this slim work, previously published along with The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico in the early 90s, is a gorgeous, sometimes oblique portrait of a fascinating culture.
The Smell, by Sonallah Ibrahim (New Directions), trans. Robyn Creswell
In flat, unaffected prose that works more through what’s left unsaid, or what, for political reasons can’t be said, Ibrahim’s 1966 novel provides insight into Egypt that’s still relevant today. Written as a diary of an ex-prisoner finding his footing after his release, That Smell is a stark and haunting chronicle of life on constant threat of lock and key.
Happily, New Directions is publishing another of Ibrahim’s novels next spring, Stealth.
The Transylvanian Trilogy (or the Writing on the Wall trilogy), by Miklos Banffy (Everyman’s Library), trans. Patrick Thursfield and Katalin Banffy-Jelen
Comprised of They Were Counted, They Were Found Wanting, and They Were Divided, Banffy’s epic masterpiece is the Transylvanian (Romanian) equivalent of the great 19th century Russian novels. Set in the years leading up to WWI, the trilogy concerns itself with an enlightened landowner, Balint, who watches helplessly as his country slides into disaster. It’s an old story—that of the idle rich unconcerned with the sad and soon unavoidable state of the world—but Banffy, who like his protagonist was a politician who tried to get his countrymen to see the writing on the wall, handles the whole thing with grace and humor, though his story is bleak.
Winter Journeys, by Georges Perec and the Oulipo (Atlas Press), trans. Ian White, John Sturrock, and Harry Mathews
Georges Perec’s “The Winter Journey” is a story about a man who discovers a book, also called The Winter Journey, containing a secret that overturns everything we know about modern French literature. Unfortunately, this fictional discovery occurs in 1939 and with the outbreak of WW2, the book is lost and all attempts to track it down prove fruitless. Winter Journeys collects what turned out to be Perec’s prompt and twenty successive tales, each in some way building off another. A fine, playful time is had by all.
[A shameless plug: we’ll be hosting Oulipians Paul Fournel, Hervé Le Tellier, and Daniel Levin Becker for a reading of Winter Journeys at Green Apple Books on November 8.]
Black Spider, by Jeremias Gotthelf (NYRB Classics), trans. Susan Bernofsky
This is an insanely creepy (and, Happy Halloween, timely) novella full of spiders, heartless and vicious landowners, desperate weak-willed farmers, bold women, satanic strangers, more spiders, cosmic horror, and even more spiders. Written in the mid-19th century by a Swiss priest, Black Spider was considered by Thomas Mann as a premonition of Nazism and is considered a classic of horror. Susan Bernofsky’s new translation of Gotthelf’s unique dialect and High German is full of life. A chilling book.
The only thing the typically spot-on NYRB Classics got wrong was not using Edward Gorey’s brilliant cover illustration from the old edition of Nineteenth Century German Tales (via 50 Watts), seen below.
One of the greatest services—or disservices, depending on your viewpoint—Bertrand Russell ever performed for popular philosophy was humanizing its biggest thinkers in his History. No longer were they Platonic ideals, the clean-shaven exemplars of the kind of homely truisms that. . .
The best way to review Alejandra Pizarnik’s slim collection, A Musical Hell, published by New Directions as part of their Poetry Pamphlet series, is to begin by stating that it is poetry with a capital P: serious, dense, and, some. . .
Upon completing Albertine Sarrazin’s Astragal I was left to wonder why it ever fell from print. Aside from the location, Astragal could pass as the great American novel. Its edginess and rawness capture the angst and desires we all had. . .
When my eyes first crossed the back cover of Fabio Genovesi’s novel Live Bait, I was caught by a blurb nestled between accolades, a few words from a reviewer for La Repubblica stating that the novel was, however magically, “[b]eyond. . .
“I preferred the war to the plague,” writes Curzio Malaparte in his 1949 novel, The Skin. He speaks of World War II and the destruction it has wrought on Italy, the city of Naples in particular. But the plague he. . .
With the steady rise of feminist scholarship and criticism in recent decades, it is little wonder that the work of Louise Labé should be attracting, as Richard Sieburth tells us in the Afterword to his translation, a “wide and thriving”. . .
In Conversations, we find ourselves again in the protagonist’s conscious and subconscious, which is mostly likely that of Mr. César Aira and consistent with prototypical Aira style. This style never fails because each time Aira is able to develop a. . .
You are not ashamed of what you do, but of what they see you do. Without realizing it, life can be an accumulation of secrets that permeates every last minute of our routine . . .
The narrative history of. . .
Literature in translation often comes with a certain pedigree. In this little corner of the world, with so few books making it into this comforting nook, it is often those of the highest quality that cross through, and attention is. . .
Alessandro Baricco’s Mr. Gwyn is a set of two loosely interlinked novellas that play with narrative and the construction of character. Ably translated by Ann Goldstein, Mr. Gwyn plays some subtle metafictional games as Baricco delves into what it means. . .