Fairy tales—like Li’s Book of Goose—are so scary because there is no cushion between you and the will of the world, no room for mistakes.
The translator can’t go where the writer hasn’t gone. But it feels good to bound eagerly toward a text’s limits.
“I was more impressed by what I heard from my mother than by what I read in the library.”
Maria Dahvana Headley’s translation of “Beowulf” forces us to think about what we need to be true about the past, and our access to it.
“I have an appetite for silence,” Emily Dickinson wrote, for “silence is infinity.” But are women today relishing in their solitude?
Latin American authors must defer to “Latin America”—as imagined by centers of literary power—to be translated, to sell, to make money.
What Chinese readers consume diverges from what is translated into English. Writers of ordinary life are often left untranslated—until now.
As fascist armies conquered much of Spain, a writer publicly and famously denounced high-ranking officers right to their faces. Or did he?
Between the lines, Cervantes critiqued the Catholic church, and lamented over the systematic destruction of Islamic culture in Spain.
A Taiwanese scifi novel—set under the sea, after the surface becomes unlivable—reveals the remarkable burst of cultural freedom in 1990s Taiwan.
Which matters more, intent or interpretation? What if a juxtaposition of images in literature or art is just that—a chance encounter?
“For those of us who can feel unsettled in terms of identity, translation can feel like home.”
The artist comes as a class outsider to the factory, marveling at the complexity of its machinery and the dexterity and dangers of manual labor.
Within western poetry, women writers of color—and their lived experiences—are not nearly as recognized nor represented as their white peers.
The global literary market is a body of books in translation that, despite being from very disparate contexts, sound a lot like each other. Why?
Discussing Murakami within the Japanese literary tradition is in itself rare. He is, by his own admission, less well-loved in Japan than abroad.
If memory is an unreliable narrator, how can it be the medium through which we arrive at the truth about ourselves?
Two memoirs trenchantly critique the ways in which France has framed sexual consent, legally and culturally, since the 1970s.
Despite using a pseudonym, Ferrante has made clear how readers should understand her work. Should critics listen?