The Buenos Aires Review, which, over the past few months, has been posting really interesting works of fiction and poetry, info about kick-ass bookstores, interviews, translator’s notes, and more, has just released its first quarterly issue entitled “Tongue Ties”:
This first quarterly issue of the Buenos Aires Review boasts new literary works from a variety of tongues—French, Galician, German, Portuguese, Russian, and a touch of Hungarian accompany the Spanish and English of always—and locales ranging from Rio de Janeiro, México, London, Paris, A Coruña, and São Paulo, to Moscow, Los Angeles, Costa Rica, Mar del Plata and New York.
Fiction. We unravel the mystery of Bola Negra, the shapeshifting piece by Mario Bellatin that led to a film and an opera, tap the spirit(s) of Mad Men with James Warner, and winter with Rosario Bléfari on the Argentine coast, while Juan Álvarez gets tangled up with hitmen and supermodels in Colombia and Sacha Sperling — France’s latest enfant terrible — takes on literary glam & doom.
Time Regained. We revisit the sublime and fantastic world of Paul Karl Wilhem Scheerbart (1863-1915) through the translations of Mariana Dimópulos and Joel Morris.
Conversations: on Conceptualisms. We listen in as Latin America’s first and foremost conceptual artist Roberto Jacoby sits down with Reinaldo Laddaga, Ubuweb founder and Uncreative Writer Kenneth Goldsmith binds past and present with Michael Romano, and American poet David Shook talks poetry drones with Pola Oloixarac.
Art. We join Ben Merriman in the factory that became Costa Rica’s best museum.
Translator’s Note. Fulbright scholar Adam Z. Levy takes a heady swig of Hungarian and Yiddish.
Definitely worth checking out.
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
In Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Private Life, a man harangues his friend about literature while walking through Barcelona at night:
When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .
Originally published in French in 2007, We’re Not Here to Disappear (On n’est pas là pour disparaître) won the Prix Wepler-Fondation La Poste and the Prix Pierre Simon Ethique et Réflexion. The work has been recently translated by Béatrice Mousli. . .
Even though the latest from Jean Echenoz is only a thin volume containing seven of what he calls “little literary objects,” it is packed with surprises. In these pieces, things happen below the surface, sometimes both literally and figuratively. As. . .
Who is this woman? This is the question that opens Xiao Bai’s French Concession, a novel of colonial-era Shanghai’s spies and revolutionaries, police and smugglers, who scoot between doorways, walk nonchalantly down avenues, smoke cigars in police bureaus, and lounge. . .
For the past 140 years, Anna Karenina has been loved by millions of readers all over the world. It’s easy to see why: the novel’s two main plots revolve around characters who are just trying to find happiness through love.. . .
Linn Ullmann’s The Cold Song, her fifth novel, is built much like the house about which its story orbits: Mailund, a stately white mansion set in the Norwegian countryside a few hours drive from Oslo. The house, nestled into the. . .
Karel Schoeman’s Afrikaans novel, This Life, translated by Else Silke, falls into a genre maybe only noticed by the type of reader who tends toward Wittgenstein-type family resemblances. The essential resemblance is an elderly narrator, usually alone—or with one other. . .