Women in Translation Month 2019: a conclusion

This ends another wonderful month of reading and sharing #WomenInTranslation! It was a good challenge this year -- lots of intriguing data, as usual, over at Biblibio - the originator of #WITMonth. And the 100 Best WIT! Lots to follow up on.

I enjoyed this month; I wasn't as organized as last year, and wasn't planning to review books every day, but I had a bit of a backlog of novels to talk about, and then I kept seeing such great recommendations that I just kept reading. I still have four titles that I've finished to talk about, and another half done.

And that brings me to my conclusion: Women in Translation is not just a monthly phenomenon. We should continue reading and sharing all year long. Many publishers, translators, bookstores and more are getting in on the action these days, and the more we as readers respond and ask for more, the better off we'll all be.

I'll still be sharing my reviews over the next year, and trying to read along with the 100 Best WIT list as I'm able. And also continue to read off my own shelves -- I have so many books by women in translation that I still have waiting for me. A project I'm going to try to focus on over the next year is to read more Quebecois novels as well. There are so many French Canadian writers that I haven't yet read.

I hope you have enjoyed this month as much as I have, and have added to your TBR thanks to all the wonderful reviews shared, especially on Twitter under the #WITMonth tag. Happy Reading!

Kitchen

Kitchen / Banana Yoshimoto;

 trans. from the Japanese by Megan Backus

New York: Grove Press, 2006, c1988.

152 p.

Making my list of 100 Best WIT nominees yesterday made me realize that I have never talked about one of my most cherished reads on my blog. I read it so long ago that it was pre-blog years, imagine!

So I reread it this week, and enjoyed it all over again. Reading it alongside some of Yoshimoto's later works shows that she was already an accomplished writer by the time this first work was translated.

Kitchen contains both the title novella and a slightly shorter one, Moonlight Shadow. Both are clear and simple, in her patented style, and feature food, love, loss, and a tinge of the supernatural. These themes and stylistic signatures remain in her later novellas.

In Kitchen, Mikage loses her grandmother, her last living relative. She ends up moving in with Yoichi and his mother Eriko -- she only knows them slightly but they take her in during her time of grief, when she has to move out of her grandmother's old apartment as well as dealing with her death.

She becomes emotionally involved with this eccentric duo, and when tragedy strikes again, she has to return the favour and hold Yoichi stable in his grief.

It's a beautiful story, with lovely imagery, some thoughtful commentary on love and grief, and with a thread of hope and positive resolution running through it.

Moonlight Shadow is a briefer look at the same themes: Satsuki and Hitoshi are soulmates, but when they've been together for four years, Hitoshi dies suddenly. Satsuki's overwhelming grief is shared by Hiirage, Hitoshi's younger brother, who also lost his girlfriend in the accident.

There is a much stronger presence of the supernatural in this story; Satsuki takes up running as a solace, and comes across a very unusual woman on the bridge that is the midpoint of her run. This woman invites to return on a specific day to see something unusual and wonderful that only happens once every hundred years. Satsuki is mystified but feels a strong sense that she should believe this woman -- the reader can pretty much guess what the outcome is going to be, but it's still a lovely journey through Satsuki's confusion and grief to the kind of end that we all might wish for. 

This book is still a compelling read, one that engages and wraps you in its storyline despite the brevity and the very simple narrative style. Somehow the simplicity increases the importance of the daily mundane activities that Yoshimoto describes, and imbues them with grace. 

Still a favourite. I'd recommend starting with this and then going right on to a much more recent work, Moshi Moshi, a longer and more complex book but with all the same concerns. 

100 Best WIT

Reading along for Women in Translation month is always vastly engaging and illuminating. Not only do I find fabulous book and stories from around the world, but I also enjoy founder Meytal Radzinski's hard work compiling stats and posting information about the state of women in translation. 

This year she went even further, and crowdsourced a list of the "100 Best WIT" -- knowing of course that this is a list of favourites with all that entails. There were more than 800 nominations, and she's now posted the top 100, with promises to dig deeper into that list to examine the Eurocentric bent, the bias toward recently published titles, and more. It should be fascinating! 

There's already a Goodreads group set up to read and discuss the top 100. If you're on Goodreads, join in -- it should be fun to follow along. 

I've read 20 of the top 100 titles so far, and have 2 more started already. And the first 6 of my own nominations made it to the top 100! But to highlight my own choices, I am sharing my own current top ten picks that I nominated this year. I may change or add to this list by next year, but this is what it looks like right at this moment. There are so many great reads it is hard to narrow things down, but here are my picks for my 10 favourites:

1. Kitchen / Banana Yoshimoto; trans. Megan Backus

I love this brief duo of novellas that was my first introduction to Yoshimoto many years ago. It's simple but really sticks with you. 

2. Disoriental / Negar Djavadi; trans. Tina A Kover

Read just last year, this new translation is so, so good. Looking at a family living through the Iranian revolution it is just beautifully told.

3. End of Days / Jenny Erpenbeck; trans. Susan Bernofsky

Although I have enjoyed all of Jenny Erpenbeck's books, this one was particularly memorable for me. I really liked the unusual structure and the haunting 'what-ifs' of this story.

4. The Summer Book / Tove Jansson; trans. Thomas Teal

Gorgeous! In Jansson's typical style, this book is a series of brief experiences between a young girl and her grandmother over the course of a summer. It's sharp and realistic; the girl is truly young, the grandmother fully old. Nature is mysterious and overwhelming. A must read.

5. The Ten Thousand Things / Maria Dermout; trans. Hans Koning

A classic which I just discovered, this one is poetic, lovely, edgy and violent, dreamy. A moving reading experience.

6. Flights / Olga Tokarczuk; trans. Jennifer Croft

While this long book took me a while to read, and some patience to adjust to the fragmentary style, it comes together into a powerful and unforgettable read.

7. Broken / Karin Fossum; trans. Charlotte Barslund

Fossum usually writes crime thrillers (also good) but this one is a bit more -- it's an author haunted by her characters who want her to write their story. Fascinating and clever.

8. Wildlives / Monique Proulx; trans. David Homel & Fred Reed

This Quebecois novel is a dreamy summer vacation all by itself. Flawed characters but a massively sensory dip into a lake community over one summer, and a young boy's obsession with Harry Potter too 

9. Amatka / Karin Tidbeck; trans. Karin Tidbeck

This was a wonderfully discombobulating read, unsettling, creative and thought-provoking. I want more people to read it! 

10. Time of Mute Swans / Ece Temelkuran; trans. Kenneth Dakan

Beautifully written, historically illuminating book about two families in Turkey circa 1980 as coup d'etats and unrest shake their world. Unforgettable images and strong characters make this a powerful read. 

The Jewish Husband

The Jewish Husband / Lia Levi;

trans. from the Italian by Antony Shugaar

NY: Europa, 2009, c2001.

209 p.

This was a really interesting read; I didn't know anything about it going in, which perhaps added to the experience. 

It's an epistolary novel, a series of letters from an older man living in Tel Aviv, to someone...we only find out who about halfway through. Dino Carpi, now David Katz, is slowly telling his life story, methodically and step by step. He's explaining how he's ended up where he is to someone who might not be inclined to listen. 

As a young man in Mussolini's Italy, Dino (son of hoteliers) falls in love with a beautiful rich girl, Sonia Gentile (really her name). Their love is strong and determined, even in the face of her family's disapproval. They finally manage to get married, in a Pauline marriage, one which allows for a Catholic to marry a non-Catholic, and they have one son. 

But fascism is growing, and Sonia's family are great supporters of Mussolini. As race laws are passed and Jews forbidden from owning property, running businesses, working in education, and more, and more, Dino loses his professorial job, his parents must quickly give the hotel over to a trusted employee, and life becomes more and more precarious. 

Then the Gentile family comes up with the perfect solution to keep Sonia and little Michele safe and privileged -- too bad it requires the erasure of Dino's existence. 

The creeping growth of indignities and oppression in Fascist Italy is not something I've read much about. This novel gives a picture of daily life in 'normal' times when prejudice against Jews is just an everyday occurrence; then traces the barely noticeable steps as prejudice grows and becomes more normalized, then becomes outright legal oppression. I think this is a valuable lesson right now; pay attention, because something that might be seen as a tiny one-off can lead to much more. 

It's a quiet, steady novel, perhaps due to its format as a series of letters. It feels formal, with the emotional impact of some of the events muted as they are told baldly, factually rather than in the heat of the moment. But in some ways I found this more striking. It has all happened, there is no recourse, there are only explanations to be given and forgiveness and understanding to be asked for. 

There are no outsize characters in this one, no outrageous eccentrics or villains or even heroes. Just real people struggling along with their regular life in very troubled times.

I was impressed, and pleased once again with Europa's choice to translate this and publish it in such a well-designed form. I really liked it.

Sleepless Night

Sleepless Night / Margriet de Moor;
trans. from the Dutch by David Doherty
Toronto: Anansi International, 2019.
102 p.

This slim novel was a treat. A widow bakes in the depth of night while her lover lies sleeping upstairs (though I did wonder why he didn't wake up with the noise of baking, mixing etc or from the delicious smells...) She thinks of her life while she's insomnia baking; the story moves back and forth between the present, the recent past, and the more distant past to explore her lingering questions about her young husband's suicide - why he did it, and whether she can trust herself to find love again.

In this small book of night thoughts, shared while her bundt is baking, we learn quite a lot about the narrator. Her short marriage, just 14 months, was ended when her husband unexpectedly killed himself. She's questioning why, looking at their past together, trying to figure out reasons when you can't ask the dead for explanations. They met at university, and she goes over their university days and the group of friends that led to their meeting and marriage. This included his sister, who is now moving away from the family farm, where the widow has stayed despite herself. 

So many small interactions cross her mind, so many connections, and yet she can't decide where she stands in all of this. The man upstairs is her potential for the future, a man who has also been abandoned, though his wife simply left him. 

It's short, spare, but thought provoking. There are clues sprinkled throughout which an attentive reader may piece together to form their own conclusions as to why he might have done it. I know I have my own theories. Because of its size and the conceit of recollections in the middle of the night by one person, there isn't a great range of characterization but it is a wonderful study of one woman and her experience of marriage and loss, and the painful continuation of life nonetheless. 

I haven't read any other of Margriet de Moor's books, but she is a prolific and award winning Dutch writer, and I'm intrigued enough by this book to search out any of her other translated works. 

The Ten Thousand Things

The Ten Thousand Things / Maria Dermout
Translated from the Dutch by Hans Koning
New York: Vintage, 1984, c1955
244 p.

This classic was a beautiful, dream like book. I first heard of it only last year during WIT Month, and so when I saw it on the shelves of my favourite second hand bookstore I grabbed it.

Set in the Spice Islands of Indonesia, it traces three generations of (mostly) women who live at the Small Garden, a family estate that was once much larger. 

From childhood legends to religious beliefs to the clash of local and Dutch culture, there is a sense of the mysterious about this story. The narrative style reflects this, too. The past seems to live within the present; time is fluid, characters come and go from their different eras in one flowing narrative. 

Felicia returns to the Moluccas from Europe with her baby son, after her husband abandons them. She comes back to the Small Garden where her grandmother still lives, and together they become the ladies of the garden. They make a bit of money for a while selling herbal concoctions, even if trade is beneath their station. They find a way to make it less obvious, with servants and boats and meetings and so forth. They are both still living in a past that is full of legend, rote, mystery, while facing a present of necessity for money, and a soldiering life for her son as he grows. 

The lives of the other inhabitants of the island intertwine with theirs; from the family in the past whose three young daughters, killed young, are said to haunt the Small Garden, to the servants and their extended families, to the colonial soldiers who are based on the island -- they all affect one another sharply.

It's hard to describe this book. It's dreamy, dangerous, dark, deceptively simple. There are moments of sharp violence and fear, and moments of beauty and peace. It evokes a life that stays constant in many ways over generations of this family, a lifestyle that is coming to an end. 

I found the writing to be gorgeously poetic, descriptive and beautiful even when relating terrible events. It felt like an enchantment was woven over the reading experience; I became completely absorbed in the pace and the setting of the story. Definitely a classic to explore, especially if this is an area you're interested in. I didn't know much about this area or its history, so this was a powerful introduction, one that has stayed in my mind for a long time after finishing it.

The Time in Between

The Time In Between / Maria Duenas;
trans. from the Spanish by Daniel Hahn

NY: Atria, 2011, c2009.

615 p.

This sprawling saga was exactly the satisfying read that I was looking for. It follows Sira Quiroga, a young woman who grows up as a dressmaker's apprentice alongside her mother, in prerevolutionary Spain. She doesn't know who her father is, at least not until she is in her late teens.

When she becomes engaged to a quiet, meek young man of her own social class, she thinks she knows how the future will unroll. But she's so wrong. When they go to buy a typewriter (her fiancé is convinced that learning to type so that she can become a civil servant rather than a dressmaker is the best idea for them) she meets a charming, charismatic salesman. And her life changes.

As the civil war in Spain heats up, Sira and her lover flee to Morocco; then Sira moves on when she's abandoned, to form a new life as a society dressmaker -- which requires quite a few shenanigans to get started. And her dressmaking leads her to more: to spying, using her dress patterns and sketches to communicate her results.

The story is a series of obstacles put into Sira's way, and the revelation that she can manage all of them despite thinking of herself as a meek girl from the lower working classes. She forms and reforms herself to shape her life to what is given to her. She's a fascinating character, a very likeable main character who does what she has to but never hardens. The setting is fabulous -- I learned a lot about Spain in the era, including the geographical as well as political realities.

Sira even goes to Portugal near the end, to act as a spy in the guise of a fabric buyer; there are barely any good materials left in Spain. Her fake name is quite literally her real name backwards, which seems just a bit amateur to me. But she infiltrates the office of the man she's to track down. However, as a good dressmaker, she's distracted by the quality of the silks and fabrics he has for her and for a moment forgets the other part of her mission. I could relate!

I loved the way that sewing is an integral part of this story, not just a tacked on profession to give the main character something to do. Her sewing and designing changes her life, it gives her the ability to reinvent and better herself, to continue to live and to create, and leads to her involvement in the spy world. In the disaster of war and abandonment, she finds herself again when she picks up her needle once more:

There is verisimilitude to the sewing parts that makes me feel that I can trust the other more historical elements as well. It's an entertaining, absorbing spy novel; a historical context which breathes; and has some fabulous characters. I really loved this one and the 615 pages flew by as I could not put it down. It has romance, intrigue, smoothly flowing writing, a great setting, and strong female characters. Recommended!

Hardboiled and Hard Luck

Hardboiled & Hard Luck / Banana Yoshimoto;
trans. from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich
NY: Grove, 2006, c1999.
149 p.

I always enjoy Banana Yoshimoto's work, and this was no exception to that rule. This is two short novellas, both on the theme of loss, grief, and acceptance. They are quite different from one another in many ways, but are both beautifully told, with her typical young female narrator and stories focused on relationships and the ephemerality of life. 

In Hard Boiled, an unnamed woman is hiking to a small town on the anniversary of a former lover's death. She passes a creepy shrine on the way, and somehow spirits and visions follow her and fill her night. She is haunted both by visitations of her former lover when she sleeps, and by the local hotel ghost when she's awake. It reminds me a little of the spirits and otherworldly creatures found in Japanese film. 

But the solid reality of the hotel's desk clerk, and of sunshine the next morning, clears her mind and she comes to an understanding of what has happened to her. It's beautiful, steeped in memory and nostalgia, regret and loss. And yet also of a vision of the future. All in such a short piece. 

Hard Luck focuses on a young woman whose sister Kuni is in a coma and about to be declared dead. She visits her sister in the hospital and remembers their childhood and their friendship; all the things they used to do and wanted to do in future. It's sad; the way that Yoshimoto keeps emotion cool and in check in her stories almost broke here; I choked up at one point. 

We also hear how the loss of this hardworking girl is affecting her parents, who are taking it in different ways. And though the coma was brought about by overwork (very Japanese) her coworkers are also feeling the loss. 

Kuni's fiance has abandoned the family for the most part; but his older brother, an unusual type who isn't a businessman at all, visits regularly to check up on Kuni and the whole family. He's attracted to the narrator but clearly states that the time isn't right to start anything, which they both agree on. Maybe after she returns from Italy where she will go to study once Kuni is gone. 

All these small moments around the loss of a sister and the way that life must continue build up into a quiet, strong story about life itself. It reveals quite a lot about Japanese culture in an offhand way, and has the strength that Yoshimoto excels at, that of showing the peace that life and its continued routines bring even in moments of extreme suffering. 

I found both of these touching and memorable. If you like slow, thoughtful, introspective stories that don't go too deep and yet touch on meaningful themes, you will probably like this too. 

The Master Key

The Master Key / Masako Togawa;

trans. from the Japanese by Simon Grove

NY: Pushkin Vertigo, 2017, c1962.

192 p.

This slim little mystery from 1962 still holds its claustrophobic, creepy factor 50 years later. It's set in a Tokyo rooming house for single ladies; it's a hold-out from the days in which young women couldn't live alone and keep a good reputation. Most of the residents have been there for a long, long time -- the apartment block is full of older ladies, including the two concierges. 

In the preface we see a crime being committed, and there's evidence of a witness. And then the book gives us hints and clues until we think we've figured it all out. But we haven't. It's a cleverly constructed mystery that makes sense once all is revealed but before that there are multiple scenarios that also make sense. It's all very startling. 

This isn't the kind of book I expect to read when I pick up a Japanese title. It feels Hitchcockian in some ways, and it's more about the individuals and their foibles than about the place or setting. Each of the women in this block of rooms has a secret of one kind or another, and they all come together in the perfect storm this summer as they wait for their building to be raised from its foundation and moved, with all of them still inside, to make room for a new roadway. 

All this unsettles the occupants both physically and psychologically. We hear bits of the story from different viewpoints of various characters, including the concierges who of course see everything and know all. It's similar to French novels in that way. From long-ago affairs, jiltings, or family issues, to questions of money or status or reputation, so many secrets reveal their outcomes in this story. 

I can't really explain the plot -- it's all so complicated and intertwined. Nearly every woman in this apartment is involved in some way, not to mention the strange new spiritual leader who starts holding meetings in their building. People are misled, confused, fed false information, manipulated, and most of the time also proven wrong. 

I found it a very fast read; I couldn't put it down. What exactly was going on here? I had to know. For an unexpected visit to an enclosed community, so to speak, and a mystery that will surprise you in the end, try this classic written by a multitalented woman who was a singer/songwriter, actress, feminist, novelist, LGBTQQIAP community icon, former night club owner, metropolitan city planning panelist, and music educator.

Translation Thursday

It's Translation Thursday! Each Thursday this month I'm going to share the translation I'm currently reading plus a few more on my reading list. Here's today's list:


Currently Reading:

Family Lexicon / Natalia Ginzburg;
trans. from the Italian by Jenny McPhee
NY: NYRB, 2015, c1963.
224 p.

To Read:

The Jewish Husband / Lia Levi;
trans. from the Italian by Anthony Shugaar
NY: Europa, 2009, c2001.
209 p.

Neapolitan Chronicles / Anna Maria Ortese
trans. from the Italian by Ann Goldstein & Jenny McPhee
NY: New Vessel Press, 2017, c1953.
200 p.

Adua / Igiaba Scego;
trans. from the Italian by Jamie Richards
NY: New Vessel Press, 2017, c2015.
183 p.

The Summer Book

The Summer Book / Tove Jansson; 

trans. from the Swedish by Thomas Teal

NY: NYRB, 2008, c1972.

170 p.

This exquisite book has been read by so many people I feel like it doesn't need any introduction! I've been reading quite a lot of Tove Jansson over the past year, including the entire Moomin series, and her memoir, The Sculptor's Daughter. 

I feel like this book has so many of her recurring themes in it, and the feel of childhood and old age being very similar. And the discovery of nature, isolation, quirkiness, being cranky as part of life -- all that appears again here.

This is a beautiful book. Told in 22 chapters, each one a glimpse into the lives of Sophia, 6, and her grandmother, it feels like a spotlight is pointed at various moments of  their summer on this island where the family has been going for years. Only her father is there with them.

From trying to keep a cat to finding a new friend, from walking around the island to taking the boat out on the sea in a storm, from isolation to curiosity about a new neighbour, Sophia and her grandmother do it all together.

But I love how the grandmother is realistically old; she gets tired and needs to nap, she can't walk quickly, and she isn't always patient and loving. Sometimes she needs some time to herself to just be quiet and read.

The relationship between the two is wonderful. It's touching, funny, wise, and so engaging. I couldn't stop reading this book. I loved the grandmother so much; and I also loved Sophia who is a curious, lively, brave little girl who explores the island and its flora and fauna with gusto - but she also has a contemplative and imaginative side. She gets angry and loud when she's tired or hungry, or just justifiably mad at something. She doesn't hide any part of herself or feel self-conscious about her life.

It's really a sharply beautiful book that I'll keep and reread. It distills Jansson's unique sensibility into perfect form. 

Jagannath

Jagannath / Karin Tidbeck; trans. from the Swedish by Karin Tidbeck

NY: Vintage, 2018, c2011.

161 p.

I read Tidbeck's speculative novel Amatka last year and have been trying to encourage people to read it ever since. It was so discombobulating, so good! So I was happy to find her story collection Jagannath to read this month.

Besides the beautiful cover, there is a lot that is magical about this collection. The stories range from quirky fables to creepy gothic fantasy to mysterious realism to science fictiony stories of machines and worlds ending. 

It's a wild mix. But they all have the unsettling feel that she does so well. In these thirteen stories she moves from horror to enchantment to dark fantasy and to quirky charm. In the story "Who Is Arvid Pekon?" she channels Kafka and his bureaucratic mixups in the best possible way -- in a call centre where the operators pretend to be the people that callers want to talk to, Arvid gets a strange customer... 

And in the title story, a futuristic world in which a human colony lives inside a giant insect, we learn that the host is dying. It's grossly physical and yet moving and imaginative. 

Then there are gentler stories like "Herr Cederberg" which reminds me of small French animated films -- I could almost see it -- the quiet quirkiness of his experience would work well as a short film.

And stories which depend on myth, legend, and the enchantments of folklore: "Britta's Holiday Village" is one; a writer retreats to her aunt's holiday camp while it's uninhabited, but discovers something unusual about her family.

Another was "Reindeer Mountain", a longer story, and probably my favourite in the book. Two sisters return with their mother to their family home in the mountains, where legends of the Vittra (a fairy like race) abound. The younger sister, a solid, realistic girl, nevertheless dreams of the Vittra, and would gladly go with them into their fairy halls. Her older sister, mentally unstable but tall, thin and beautiful, doesn't care. You can guess how this might end. Was it really fairies? Or is that just the story the family tells themselves afterward? This was so rich with family lore, with magic, with sibling dynamics, with women's lives. I loved this one. 

This book has only increased my appreciation of Karin Tidbeck. Some of the stories were written in English, and some in Swedish which were then translated into English by Tidbeck herself. So I feel this fits wonderfully into my women in translation reading, and I can only hope to find another work by her translated soon. 

The Other Woman

The Other Woman / Therese Bohman; trans. from
the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy
NY: Other Press, 2015, c2014.
201 p.

This book has been on my shelves for a couple of years; I finally read it this month, and I am so glad I did. I think I'd kind of been putting it off because I wasn't sure I'd like a novel from the side of the "other woman" in a affair. 

But this is so very much more than simply an apologia for affairs. We meet our narrator as she heads to work; she's currently a hospital cafeteria server. It's a menial job for sure, but she's working at what she can in her small town of Norrkoping, while dreaming of becoming a writer, of going to Stockholm to college. 

She's clearly intelligent, sarcastic, clever -- but there's some level of stagnation going on, she can't push herself to change. She criticizes everyone, including her friends, for their acceptance of everyday life; she reads Notes From the Underground and sees herself in it, she likes men and masculine writing, and dismisses feminism since she likes to dress up and attract men & can't see how that's compatible. 

She sounds very believably young. 

And into this dull life comes an attractive doctor. She meets his eye while serving him lunch, and he comes around more often, and offers her rides home on rainy nights. And inevitably, they start an affair. She doesn't mind that he's married, until she does. And the affair is steeped in issues of power, class, work, self-identity, and pretty much every single part of her life. 

Meanwhile she meets a young woman, Alex, at a party. Alex begins to become a big part of her life; she even thinks that Alex might be in love with her. But when she discovers who Alex is and why she's worked to become friends with her, it changes everything.

I wasn't sure where this was going. About halfway through I was annoyed with the characters and feeling like this was going down a well-trodden path, I was slightly bored by how I thought it was all going to end. But I was wrong.

It turns a corner, and suddenly the power differential shifts, and our narrator suddenly grabs on to some sense of self. She makes a choice, she's shaken out of her paralysis. And the ending is hopeful, positive and satisfying. It didn't come about in an obvious way, rather a pretty shocking one, but it changes her. And the gloom and night settings of most of the early book are washed away in the hope of summer and transformation. 

I really enjoyed this book, the writing is clear and the translation is smooth. The character starts out as a bit insufferable but grows throughout. It reads very quickly and you just don't want to put it down until you know what she's going to do. I felt immersed in her world while reading and was glad to see her future looking better than her present. That's always a good sign, when you close the book happy for the characters! 

My overall impression is that this read was really satisfying, both in the emotional arc of the story, and in the intellectual engagement with the main character's self-examination and her studies. 

Celestial Bodies

Celestial Bodies / Jokha Alharthi;
trans. from the Arabic by Marilyn Booth
Inverness, Scotland: Sandstone Press, 2018, c2010.
256 p.

I had to be sure to read this year's International Man Booker prize winner. It's a slim book, comprising chapters told from different perspectives and focusing on different characters. 

It's the first book by an Omani woman to be translated -- that's a lot of pressure on her to represent everything about Oman! This book takes one family as its centre, tracing the lives of three generations to reveal changes in the culture. 

I did learn quite a lot about Oman and its inhabitants, and their expectations of life, but in an indirect manner. Alharthi talks about the family quite naturally, not lecturing or informing a foreign audience, but telling a story to those who would already know the context. 

The cover and the beginning of the book both suggest that this is the story of three sisters, which it kind of is, but also kind of isn't. The narrative makes a lot of space for their father's story, and there are also many interspersed chapters from the eldest daughter's husband's perspective. 

The middle sister fades away after her marriage and all we know about her is that she is having many, many children. The youngest sister's story is interesting but we only get glimpses of it, not the full story or any emotional connection. I liked all the sisters, though, and wanted to know more about them. 

There was a lot that I didn't know about this culture. The family has a slave/servant family, originally stolen and sold from Africa. The son is beginning to be vocal about this history, but the mother just goes along and feels Omani. There are Berbers living near the town; the patriarch gets involved with one of the women, to dramatic effect. 

It's a short book that was fascinating, but ultimately I found it just faded out in the end. The last chapter is from the contemporary voice of the husband, and I didn't enjoy that as much -- also, it left much of the narrative only partially complete. So, I appreciated this book, and it has stayed in my memory, but I could have read it at twice the length and enjoyed a bit more expansion of the sister's lives. 

Marzi

Marzi: a memoir / Marzena Sowa; illus. Sylvain Savoia
trans. from the French by Anjali B. Singh
NY: Vertigo Comics, 2011, c2008.
240 p.

I picked this one up by chance when it was recommended to me by a coworker. I loved it! I've been reading a string of novels about the USSR and the Soviet lifestyle -- this one carries on from early and mid-Soviet life in Russia to late communism in Poland. 

Marzi is a small girl during this time; born in 1979 she's recalling her childhood in communist Poland as things are starting to crumble and people are getting sick of the constraints and rules and lack of everything they need. 

The book is organized in a series of interconnected short stories, I'd say. They are brief flashes at moments in this child's life, from the mundane to the terrifying, like when her father doesn't come home from work and she's imagining the worst. It's a straightforward narrative, in a confessional tone, nothing overly literary or experimental about it. Even the illustrations are consistent, always in a six block panel per page, with grey, brown, black dominating, with hits of red/orange and brighter colour here and there. It feels like normal life although joy isn't always in evidence, even in the colour scheme. I am quite taken by the way that Marzi is drawn with huge eyes while everyone else is portrayed in a more realistic style. It's a great image for a child who is always watching everything and telling us about it now. 

There are delightful memories; sledding with her father, visiting her grandmother's village, taking a trip to Krakow with her grandmother, playing silly games with the other children in her apartment block -- and darker ones where we are suddenly introduced to the history of Poland's uprising, albeit from a child's viewpoint. 

I found that it worked well. It was engaging, with the narrator acting in a believably child-like way, bringing her naive perspective to all the things around her that she didn't understand. It feels thorough, and it is fascinating to see how her memories and the only lifestyle she knew are portrayed, looking back.

This makes a great final Soviet era read for this month, showing yet another facet of life under Russia's control. Recommended for fans of memoir or graphic novel style stories. 

Compartment No. 6

Compartment No. 6 / Rosa Liksom
Translated from the Finnish by Lola Rogers
London: Serpent's Tail, 2014, c2011.
182 p.

This book was pretty evenly balanced between good and bad for me. The good: it gives what is essentially a travelogue through the station stops of a train ride from Moscow to the eastern edges of the Soviet Union. Each place is described and then left behind, and compared to Moscow in our main character's mind. 

The bad: the revolting man who travels with her in her carriage all the way to Ulaanbaatar. 

A young Finnish student suffering from a tragic love affair heads out of Moscow to the end of the line, as an escape. But into her train carriage comes Vadim Nikolayevich Ivanovo, a middle-aged ex-soldier who is crude, talkative, smelly, and rides with her for her entire trip. 

I guess having strangers sharing sleeping cars, despite the age and gender difference, wasn't so odd in the Soviet Union of the 80s? At least they seem to take it as a given, even if she does find him a bit annoying. It was just strange to me. I don't know what the purpose was, what role he was supposed to play in her life. His constant talk of sexual conquests, his crude language, and his coming on to her was disgusting and showed the worst possible side of Soviet men. Our female lead seems to just take it in stride, and by the end is ready to head back to Moscow quite happily -- what did she possibly learn from this trip? That her young husband wasn't half bad in comparison? I'm not sure, but I certainly didn't see Vadim as an earthy, realistic man with something important to say, as some reviewers seem to think. If I was her I'd have pushed him out of the train early on. 

I ended up flipping through a lot of the conversations they had, anyhow. He irritated me immensely. I stopped and read the descriptions of the land they were travelling through, and her thoughts about her own past. And I enjoyed the parts where she gets off the train and stays overnight in one of the many stops. The best parts of the book are simply the evocation of the places she sees. 

But other than that descriptive power, and the evocation of the Soviet landscape, I didn't much like this book. The female lead was passive; Vadim was unbearable. There wasn't much plot other than movement through a landscape, and the conclusion was a bit weak also. There wasn't too much to conclude anyhow, other than the train ride. 

Not a huge hit for me, unfortunately. 

Translation Thursday

It's Translation Thursday! Each Thursday this month I'm going to share the translation I'm currently reading plus a few more on my reading list. Here's today's list:

Currently Reading:

The Time in Between / Maria Duenas;
trans. from the Spanish by Daniel Hahn
NY: Atria, 2011, c2009
615 p.

To Read:

The Vestigial Heart / Carme Torras;
trans. from the Catalan by Josephine Swarbrick
Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 2018, c2008.
264 p.

Desire for Chocolate / Care Santos;
trans. from the Spanish by Julie Wark
Richmond UK: Alma Books, 2015
340 p.

The Wind that Lays Waste / Selva Almada;
trans. from the Spanish by Chris Andrews
Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf, 2019, c2012.
136 p.

There Once Lived a Girl Who Seduced Her Sister's Husband and He Hanged Himself

There Once Lived a Girl... / Ludmilla Petrushevskaya

trans. from the Russian by Anna Summers

NY: Penguin, 2013.

171 p.

These stories live up to their complicated and weird titles -- I've seen quite a few of Petrushevskaya's collections and they are all similarly titled. And I think it gives a sense of the unbalancing nature of her writing. This one is a collection of stories first published  between 1972 and 2008.

This is the first writing by Petrushevskaya that I have been able to read, and it was definitely worth it. She has a sharp eye, and uses it to skewer everyday life in Soviet Russia. She doesn't talk about politics directly but it permeates all her stories -- the personal is political. I was very engaged by the way she uses understatement masterfully to expose the bleak nature of both daily life and of souls. It seems to be the logical outcome of a system started by men with no appreciation or understanding of beauty as a part of life. (see Teffi's characterization of Lenin early on in the Soviet experiment).

Many of these stories focus on women, and the lives they lead in their tiny shared apartments, looking for love or companionship. The style is flatly narrative: this happened, then this happened. I think it matches the content well, and the sense of living in a flat grey Soviet world. I've been reading a few books set in the Soviet era over the last while, and it feels like she has that theme cornered here.

Like Mavis Gallant notes, short stories are best read one by one with a pause in between. I think that's especially true here, as the stories are structured in similar ways and cover similar topics. Take a breather between them or they might start to blend together a bit. I interspersed reading these with some of the other great titles I've shared so far this month and it worked well. 

I think many of my favourite stories were found in the first section of the book -- Like Penélope, or The Goddess Parka -- but also later ones, especially Milgrom. These do feature sewing in them so maybe that's why they sparked a particular fascination for me. But they were beautifully written too.

Like yesterday's read, Sofia Petrovna, the women in these stories have to manage uncertain, crowded living spaces and tenuous family relationships, but unlike that novel of the 30s, Petrushevskaya's characters also have an edge; they are more accustomed to Soviet style life by now. 

These "love" stories are anything but; hard-edged, desperate, lonely, cynical... these best describe our characters. They are trying to get what they can within this unwinnable system. 

If you're in the mood for bleak humour, stark cultural commentary and stories about women's lives in the midst of enormous bureaucracy, try some of these. Slowly, bit by bit. 

Sofia Petrovna

Sofia Petrovna / Lydia Chukovskaya;
trans. from the Russian by Aline Werth
Evanston, IL: Northwestern UP, 1994, c1965.
120 p.

This slim novel has a story much bigger than its size implies. One of the only novels of the Soviet purges of the 1930s written contemporaneously, the author points out the degredations, the corruption and the suspicions of this totalitarian society. Most importantly, she points out how it affects every single citizen, high and low. 

In this society, a whisper holds power and a person can go from powerful government official to prisoner in a day. This uncertainty makes everyone afraid to trust, afraid to connect, even splitting spouses and families.

Sofia Petrovna is a simple woman, a widow who works at a stable job as a typist at a publisher's house. But the jealousies between office mates change as Stalinist propaganda grows -- now those jealousies and desire for someone else's job, someone's apartment, can lead to denunciations based only on wishes and dislikes. 

Sofia has a son, a young man who she is very proud and protective of. He's become an engineer and  been sent off to some camp somewhere to work. He comes up with a great innovation and is praised in the newspapers. Sofia feels relief; surely this will be enough to save him from any purge. 

But no. He's arrested, and Sofia then spends all of her time waiting in line at the prison, believing that he is innocent so of course, therefore, as soon as the officials understand this her son will be freed. She doesn't grasp that innocence has nothing to do with anything any longer. 

She doesn't get to see him, and hopes for a letter from him so that she can send him something -- food, clothing, anything he needs -- to keep him well. But she waits and waits. And in the meantime there are more suspicions, more disappearances, and a close friend who commits suicide rather than continue. Sofia is slowly becoming adapted to the atmosphere of the purges. 

And then she does get a letter. And the final few pages are shocking, terrifying, and immensely sad. I didn't expect what was coming but it says so, so much about this kind of society in just a few words and actions. 

This is an immensely striking book, powerful and truthful in a way that feels very personal. I'd recommend it to anyone, especially now.