To lament the almost overwhelming failure in the publishing world to translate African-language writing ironically reinforces the false, popular conception that modern Africa is an ongoing catastrophe. Even more ironic, the only remedy for such widespread misunderstanding is precisely the translation of more African-language writing. More than any other continent, Africa is not only unread—to speak of the thousands of writers in all genres who write and remain untranslated in indigenous rather than colonial languages like English or French—Africa is also misread: with the most popular and accessible African writers, who are far fewer in number, choosing colonial languages for their work. To address this problem, translation of the work of Eritrea’s premier historian, Alemseged Tesfai, who writes in Tigrinya, would be one of my first choices. While he has translated some of his short stories, plays, and creative nonfiction himself into English, the translation of his two major works of history (over 1,000 pages)—Aynfelale (“Let Us Not Separate”) and Kab Matienzo ksab Tedla Bairou (“Eritrean Federation with Ethiopia: From Matenzo to Tedla”)—could be a catalyst finally to change American foreign policy in the Horn of Africa, which was formulated in 1950 during the Eisenhower administration and has led—the word is inescapable—from one catastrophe to another, up to the present in Somalia. As secretary of state delivering a lengthy policy speech in Kenya earlier this year, Hillary Clinton asserted that although “the story of Africa is told in stereotypes and clichés about poverty, disease, and conflict—the story we also need to tell, and tell it over and over again, is that many parts of Africa are rising to 21st-century challenges. We have seen the changes, and we know what is happening right now.” But do we know, and what do we know about Africa, if we don’t recognize that it must come from Africa first and in Africa’s languages, not ours?
Charles Cantalupo is a professor of English, comparative literature, and African studies at Penn State University.
The latest posts at the blog of The Quarterly Conversation
I’ve been thinking a lot about heat waves. The thick summer weather has felt like a wall of fire that must be bravely pushed through to order to exit from an air conditioned office building and make my way to the corner to board a bus crowded with sweaty citizens. So perhaps it’s no surprise that [...]
"What’s not so up for dispute is that Markson accomplished what, by all rights, should be a literary impossibility." (Colin Marshall for The Millions)
"Ich liebe dich. No sentence pronounced by a judge could be more threatening. It means that you are about to receive a gift you may not want." Via Dylan Suher, Greg Gerke's sort-of review of William H. Gass's Reading Rilke in BIG OTHER.
A fan of Herman Melville must have patience. He must appreciate digression and the dissolution of pattern or plan. He must enjoy the sheer rush of words, a proper Biblical torrent of them. And he must be able to find pleasure in philosophical dialogue as much as in wild anecdote. But must he read Clarel? Can [...]
This is just one small example.
Thomas Bernhard is certainly one of the major, titanic writers of any era, any country. Enormously influential, unremittingly bleak and pessimistic but never without a sense of humor, his style evolved into single-paragraphed philosophical rants extending hundreds of pages, the best of which are Woodcutters, ‘Walking’ (from Three Novellas), and Gathering Evidence. I have finally [...]
Ever since Penguin's 75th Anniversary roadtrip I have intended to address the somewhat simultaneous release of Penguin 75, a sort of vanity book of Penguin covers. This book is delightful, but flawed. Delightful, but misleading.
In The Unicorn Hunt (1993), the fifth book of Dorothy Dunnett’s cycle of historical novels of early Renaissance Europe, the House of Niccolo, Dunnett tells of the deficiencies of wealthy merchant Anselm Adorne’s relations with women thus: His wife Margriet could have warned him. He was familiar with motherly wives and the skittish ways of other [...]
Janet Holmes, director of Ahsahta Press, based at Boise State University in Idaho, took the time this week to share her thoughts on poetry publishing as part of my ongoing series of publisher profiles. Ahsahta publishes seven full-length collections of poetry a year, including recent works by Kate Greenstreet, Lisa Fishman, Rusty Morrison, and Julie Carr. Like some other small presses, Ahsahta offers a yearly subscription option, which is one of my favorite ways to buy poetry and encounter the work of many poets who are new to me, as well as poets whose newest books I always look forward to reading. Janet says more about this and what it's like to craft a press's identity and consistent aesthetic.
An unfortunate side effect to the lengthy transition of print to digital is our long suffering endurance of stale articles in mainstream media rehashing the same points as every other article in mainstream media.
The latest articles published in between issues
In Ransom, Malouf satisfyingly gives us a meeting between Priam and Achilles that builds from the interiority of Priam. The novel seems to want to teach the importance of doing something human to those who might never get around to picking up Homer or who, if they do, might wish they could get into the character's heads.
Winterson has always told and retold the same fictions: of parents and children; of origins, and adoptions; of differences, of margins; of love; of passion; she has always manipulated rhythm and language as an excavation of sources. Much of her fiction mirrors what we know of Winterson's own story, but she agitates against the idea that her work has to be considered as fiction or autobiography, laying claim to both. In Art Objects she writes: "The question put to the writer 'How much of this is based on your own experience?' is meaningless. All or nothing may be the answer. The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts, it is an entirely different way of seeing"; a "separate reality." At every turn she eludes the critic, the interviewer, the reader; she offers truth, but not the truth. "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
It's difficult to pin down exactly why books as objects mean so much to me. I wasn't alive when William Goyen's excellent Come, The Restorer was published, but owning an original printing with the dust jacket—as it would have been purchased at the time of its release—makes the book more special to me than some beat-up paperback reissue. If it's signed, even more so. I'm only really interested in modern first editions (say, post-1950 or so)—before that books get quite expensive, but also I don't think they look as nice, since many were issued without dust jackets, and at that time the dust jacket wasn't considered a permanent part of the book, so they're often missing. So why the obsession and collecting, and why is it so important?
Wood can be harsh, yes, but he is seldom unfair. Wyatt Mason was wrong to accuse him of having suggested, by dint of a string of negative reviews, that no good contemporary literature exists. (He has written favorably of McEwan, Bolaño, Robinson, Ozick, Kirsch, Sebald, Roth, Saramago, Swift, Carey.) He never simply dismisses a writer (in the manor of, say, Dale Peck); on the contrary, his criticism, even at its most polemical and uncompromising, is inexplicably bound to larger concerns about the direction of contemporary fiction. Two major concerns have dominated James Wood's writing: realism and religion. In The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief, his first collection, newly available in paperback from Picador, these two concerns are beautifully imbricated, resulting in what is surely among the finest achievements in recent literary journalism.
To say that Mark McMorris's Entrepôt is about writing poetry is to do a huge disservice to this beautiful and penetrating book, whose ostensible subject of contemplation is how to live, love, and make do in a time of war, if not cultural crisis. On the other hand, the book's greatest service, at least to my eye, is in its exploration of just what it means to be a poet—I should be more specific and say a lyric poet—amid our contemporary terrors.