One novelist spotlights an object, feeling, or sensation where the relay between past and present, or present and future, becomes visible.
"My task was to make this ancient poem about death feel vividly, unarguably alive."
Turkish literature shows how difficult it is to balance political critique with literary experimentation. But it can—and, perhaps, must—succeed.
Despite the fact that Hindi is the language of more than 400 million people, Hindi fiction is rarely translated.
Did this 1940 novel use symbolism not for aesthetic purposes, but, instead, to conceal its critique of Italian fascism from the regime’s censors?
A dystopian buddy story shows misogynist violence emerging spontaneously—almost casually—from male camaraderie, from ennui, from dipshit youth.
Mr. President shows widespread corruption around a fictional Guatemalan dictator. This did not please the country’s real dictators.
Mexico once cultivated a “special relationship” with death. But cultural globalization and rising violence is weakening that bond.
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?