“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?
To work as a translator is to encounter a text with an active desire in mind, a desire that both constitutes and modifies the way that text is experienced.
In both World Wars, France used West African “colonial conscripts.” Deployed on the front lines, they were often the first to be killed.
The dead, the disappeared, and the forgotten—these Iberian poems make clear—can never be safely put away.
Ten years since the 2011 Syrian uprising, there has been a veritable literary boom of fiction writing from Syria. What does it reveal?
Why excavate these Reformation characters—the preacher and the werewolf—now? What do they have to teach us?