1. “1.
    The translator meets himself emerging from his lover’s bedroom. So much for fidelity, he thinks.”

    — from "The Death of the Translator" by George Szirtes, at The White Review

  2. Are we finally getting the hang of foreign fiction? →

    And in the same Sam Jordison article he praises the recently released The Adventures of Sindbad by Gyúla Krudy and translated by George Szirtes: “The first thing to notice (and Szirtes’ translation must partly be to thank here) is how beautifully it is written. The prose drips autumnal richness: colourful, sensual descriptions; a sense of warmth and languor, of plenty and fruitfulness. True to autumn, there is also an awareness of imminent loss; a foreknowledge of a long, cold winter to come. Everywhere there is nostalgia, rarely directly stated, but evocatively suggested…”


    Sam Jordison over at the Guardian Books Blog echoes our sentiments about the importance and power of translated works:

    One thing I am wondering, however, is if we in the English-speaking world are becoming better at understanding the value of good translated literature. In that earlier article, I noted that “although around 60% of all translations are taken from the English language, English readers take only around 2-3% of their books from other languages”. I haven’t been able to find contradictory figures, but anecdotal evidence suggests that the imbalance is becoming less marked. Stieg Larsson continues to sell by the bucketload; Roberto Bolaño is ever more revered; new imprints such as Gallic Books, focusing exclusively on translation, are thriving. In the meantime, the exemplary New York Review Books has brought out so many translations of such high quality that a serious reader could take in nothing else for years and still feel entirely satisfied.