Thursday, August 21, 2014

Women in Translation Month: Some Contemporary Russian Reading Ideas

When the blogger known as Biblibio invited me to write a guest post for Women in Translation Month—it’s right now, this August—I was quick to agree to write something for both our blogs. For one thing, I’ve been enjoying Biblibio’s posts for years. For another, I knew it would be easy to put together a list of wonderful female Russian writers; I’ve even translated a book and two stories by a couple of them. Best of all, it’s always fun to make lists like this by remembering good books and the people who write them. Here are some of my favorites.

Margarita Khemlin is one of my very favorite writers, both because I love her books and stories, and because she’s one of the first writers I chose to translate. I started reading Khemlin with her first book, the story collection The Living Line, and moved on to her novels—Klotsvog, Krainii (The Endman), and The Investigator—reading each as soon as I could after it was published. Margarita’s stories and novels are generally about life in eastern Ukraine, and I particularly love the language she uses to tell, with quiet but dark humor and occasional dialogue in surzhik, a combination of Ukrainian and Russian, about Jewish heritage and the never-ending effects of World War 2. I’ve published translations of two of Margarita’s stories from The Living Line: “Basya Solomonovna’s Third World War” appeared in Two Lines (the “Counterfeits” edition, 2011) and was reprinted in the Read Russia! anthology, too (PDF download); “Shady Business” came out in issue 17 of Subtropics earlier this year. “Shady Business” took me forever: I knew the words (and got great help from Misha Klimov, a local colleague, on the ones I didn’t, those being the surzhik) but wanted to be sure I was capturing the emotions of elderly characters who’d survived the war. I still can’t believe how much feeling and history Margarita can pack into so few, seemingly simple, words. I’m sure that’s why I love her writing so much.

Marina Stepnova’s novel The Women of Lazarus also looks at history, through an unconventional family saga that begins just after the Russian Revolution and continues to the present, focusing on various women in the life of Lazar Lindt, the Lazarus in the title. I loved the novel’s combination of history, various forms of poshlost’, postmodernism, and cultural commentary when I read it but didn’t truly appreciate how much Stepnova had achieved until I was working on a late draft of my translation. (The many, many levels of new-found appreciation I find through translation are a big reason I love translating so much.) Stepnova, a literary magpie, fills her novel with colorful and changeable language, historical perspectives and figures (Beria has a cameo), Soviet science, references to pre-revolutionary cookery, and ballet. Among other things. But everything comes together, creating an almost ridiculously readable and comprehensive novel about the meaning of family and the meaning of country and culture and heritage. Among other things… it’s a very rewarding book that can be read on many levels.

Alisa Ganieva won notice by winning the Debut Prize for the novella Salam, Dalgat!, which she wrote under the male pseudonym Gulla Khirachev because of taboos against a woman writing about a world that is “absolutely male.” I loved Salam, Dalgat! for its story of a day in the life of a man searching Makhachkala, Dagestan, for a relative. As I wrote earlier, “With its mixture of humor, tradition (wife stealing even gets a mention, though a character says that’s a Chechen habit), and a sense of alarm about the future, Salam, Dalgat! felt unusually energetic and organic, all as poor Dalgat, seeking but never quite managing to find, trots along, a perfectly agreeable, generally patient, nearly blank slate of a character, the ideal figure for a reader like me, who’s never been to Makhachkala, to follow.” Translations of Ganieva’s writing are available and on the way: Nicholas Allen’s translation of Salam, Dalgat! appears in the anthology Squaring the Circle (Glas, 2011), Marian Schwartz’s translation of the story “Shaitans” is in the Read Russia! anthology (PDF download), and Carol Apollonio’s translation of The Russian Wall (Праздничная гора) will be published next summer by Deep Vellum.

Since I’ve been so chatty about the first three writers, I’ll keep things shorter and limit myself to brief notes on four more writers I’ve especially enjoyed reading. Each has a story in the same Read Russia! anthology I mentioned above and each has at least one novel already out in English translation… I’ve read quite a few books and stories by Ludmila Ulitskaya and think my favorite is probably Sincerely Yours, Shurik, which has never been translated into English. Of those that exist in English, I particularly enjoyed the polyphonic Daniel Stein, Interpreter, (which Arch Tate translated for The Overlook Press) about a Polish Jew who works for a Nazi officer and dies a Carmelite monk in Israel. The Big Green Tent is on the way, too, in Bela Shayevich’s translation… And then there’s Olga Slavnikova, whose 2017—beautifully stuffed with gems, metaphors, and plot lines—won the Russian Booker. I particularly enjoyed the expedition scenes and carnivalistic episodes; Marian Schwartz translated 2017 for The Overlook Press… Maria Galina’s Mole Crickets appealed to me because of the voice Galina creates for her narrator, a man who rewrites books (e.g. a classic by Joseph Conrad) by incorporating clients into the plot lines. Though Mole Crickets hasn’t been translated, Amanda Love Darragh won the Rossica Prize for translating Galina’s Гиви и Шендерович, as Iramifications, published in 2008 by Glas… Finally, there’s Anna Starobinets, whose Sanctuary 3/9 kept me up late at night: the novel’s combination of folk tale motifs, suspense, and creepiness is perfect. Sanctuary hasn’t been translated into English but three other Starobinets books have: An Awkward Age, translated by Hugh Aplin for Hesperus; The Living, translated by James Rann for Hesperus; and The Icarus Gland, coming this fall from James Rann and Skyscraper Publications.

Happy reading! And a big, huge thanks to Biblibio for the invitation... and all this month’s posts about books written by women.

Disclaimers: I’ve translated work by some of the writers mentioned in this post and met all of them, if only briefly. I work on occasional projects for Read Russia and have translated a book for Glas: appropriately enough, it’s Russian Drama: Four Young Female Voices, with four very diverse plays by Yaroslava Pulinovich, Ksenia Stepanycheva, Ekaterina Vasilyeva, and Olga Rimsha.

Up Next: Evgenii Chizhov’s Перевод с подстрочника (literally Translation from a Literal Translation), which I’ve finally finished. And which I already miss. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even slowing down a little in the last sections because I didn’t want it to end. Several books read in English, including a wonderful Dovlatov translation.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

DIY: Self-Posting About Self-Publishing

Several Russian-to-English translators have written to me in the last several months, telling me they’ve self-published books: some self-published their translations in collaboration with their Russian authors, at least one self-published translations of poems that are in the public domain.

I’m creating this post as a place for translators and/or writers to post comments containing information about the books they’re self-publishing. I’m interested in the information for lots of reasons: one book a translator told me about was pretty popular in Russia, another sounds like a young adult book, one contains a classic’s poems, one is a short story… and I have no idea what else might be floating around.

If you’d like to post a comment about your self-published translation, please be sure to include the following information:
  • Title of the book, preferably in both Russian and English
  • Names of the translator(s) and the Russian author(s)
  • ISBN, publisher/platform name, and year
  • A link to online information about the book
  • Broad genre information: novel, short story, poetry, play, history book, etc.
I’m interested in other things, too, if you feel you can summarize briefly enough for a comment:
  • A brief description of the book
  • Why you decided to self-publish the book in the first place
Thanks very much to everyone who posts—I’m looking forward to reading about your books!

Up Next: I’m still very much enjoying Evgenii Chizhov’s Перевод с подстрочника (literally Translation from a Literal Translation), which is still thick. Plus there are all those books in English, including a couple about the FSU written in English as well as Vladimir Sharov’s До и во время, which I’m reading in Oliver Ready’s translation, Before & During.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Favorite Russian Writers: T is for Titans Like Tolstoy and Turgenev

T turns out to be a strange letter for me and Russian writers: there are some big-name classics I love but not much (meaning, really, nothing) yet in terms of contemporary favorites…

Ilya Repin's 1901 Tolstoy
There’s only one Russian novel I’ve read four times—War and Peace is my favorite book of any type or era, the book that got me into Russian literature in a big way—so Lev Tolstoy gets top billing on my T favorites list. War and Peace (you know, that long book about family and the War of 1812) is also one of the few books on the blog to have its own tag: the tag leads to posts I wrote around five years ago during my fourth W&P reading. I’m not much of a rereader, largely because there aren’t many books that feel worthy of years-later repeats when I have shelves and shelves of unread books, but, yes, I’ve been thinking about a fifth reading… As far as other Tolstoy books, I still have an affection for Father Sergius, the first novella I read in Russian, in an independent study with a favorite teacher, which made the whole experience all the more fun. And then there are The Death of Ivan Ilyich, which I’ve been meaning to reread forever, The Cossacks, which I’ve also been meaning to reread forever, Resurrection, Anna Karenina, Childhood, Prisoner of the Caucasus… The odd thing about my reading and rereading of Tolstoy is that despite (or maybe because of?) all that repeat reading, I still haven’t gotten to books like Boyhood and Youth, or numerous stories, including Tolstoy’s collection of Sevastopol stories. Another note on Tolstoy: Russian Dinosaur has a fun post here about translating Anna Karenina; it even includes a “family tree of Anna Karenina’s Anglophone translators.”

And then there’s Ivan Turgenev, another writer I seem predisposed to reread: the generation gap in Fathers and Sons only got better with age (my own, anyway) and I loved my second reading about the superfluous man who’s the title character in Rudin. Even so, Nest of the Gentry, which I’ve only read once, might be my very favorite Turgenev thus far, with its superfluous man and ideal woman. I’ll readily admit my memories of the book are very skewed by Andrei (Mikhalkov-)Konchalovsky’s adaptation of the novel: the crumbling house and lush outdoor scenes have stayed with me. There’s still plenty of Turgenev left for me to read for the first time, including Smoke and “King Lear of the Steppes,” plus I feel like I should give A Hunter’s Sketches another chance after reading (and not liking) the book years ago in grad school.

As for poets, I’ve always enjoyed Fedor Tyutchev (Tiutchev), and not just for “Умом Россию не понять,” the famous poem about how Russia isn’t a country to understand with your mind. It’s four wonderful lines you can read in a multitude of translations, here. I suspect part of my enjoyment of Tyutchev comes from the fact that a Russian musician friend gave me a book-and-cassette set years ago… I started listening to poems as I read, feeling the rhythms and words, and even memorizing lines. As I type, I realize how rich the letter T is for me in terms of sound, which is a hugely important part of my translation practice. Professor Gary Saul Morson read passages of War and Peace and Fathers and Sons to my class of history and literature students, and then I came to have the Tyutchev cassette. Then, just last year, I was also extraordinarily fortunate to hear Boris Dralyuk and Irina Mashinski’s discussions and readings of “Field Hospital,” their translation of Arsenii Tarkovsky’s “Полевой госпиталь,” during last summer’s Pushkin House Russian Poetry Week in London and Translators’Coven in Oxford; the “Field Hospital” translation won Boris and Irina the 2012 Joseph Brodsky/Stephen Spender Prize. Which reminds me: if you’re planning to submit an entry for this year’s Compass Translation Award, you only have until July 31! This year’s poet for translation is, yes, Andrei Tarkovsky, a most worthy choice.

As for T writers for further reading... Well, after reading plenty of Iurii Tynyanov’s literary theory years ago, I want to read some of his fiction: I’ve had a wonderful old edition of Tynyanov’s “Lieutenant Kizhe” on the shelf forever and one of you has an enduring love for his Young Pushkin. And then there’s Aleksei K. Tolstoy and his Prince Serebryanny (a.k.a. The Silver Knight), an historical novel set during the rule of Ivan the Terrible that another friend has recommended more than once. As for contemporary writers, Tatyana Tolstaya’s The Slynx was disappointing for me but I may give her new story collection, Light Worlds, a try. There’s a fun English-language piece, here, from Art. Lebedev Studio, about designing the book.

Up Next: I’m very much enjoying Evgenii Chizhov’s Перевод с подстрочника (literally Translation from a Literal Translation) but it’s thick, meaning a couple books written in English about the FSU will probably come first.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Something Fishy in International Adoption: Children of Rogozhin

The strength of Nadezhda Belenkaya’s Рыбы молчат по-испански—which is listed in English on the Elkost literary agency’s Web site as Children of Rogozhin by author Nadia Guerman—lies in the novel’s gritty, character-based observations of international adoption. Belenkaya’s close narrative tells the story of Nina Koretskaya, a promising grad student who teaches Spanish and translates: Belenkaya follows psychological and external changes in Nina’s life after she begins translating and interpreting for an adoption agent named Ksenia, who collaborates with Kirill, a Canadian citizen who seldom makes appearances.

Though Children of Rogozhin is what I think of as a portrait novel and it’s a little lumpy with its tight focus on Nina, I can’t help but agree with Elkost that the book does develop into a “psychological suspense thriller,” if only toward the end. Belenkaya weaves in threads of naturalism, through horrifying stories of individual orphaned children that, along with the book’s dim view of the adoption industry, Nina’s tribulations, and Ksenia’s assertion that children are a natural resource, left me with the distinct feeling of a cautionary tale. I’ve seen little bits of adoption both as an occasional volunteer at a children’s shelter and an orphanage in Moscow, and as a Russian tutor and telephone interpreter for adopting families in my community. Which means I believe Elkost’s statement that Children of Rogozhin is based on a true story.

As for plot, Nina and Ksenia frequently travel from Moscow to Rogozhin, a small city within driving distance. Nina interprets for Spanish families, they butter up local administrators, and the two become frolleagues by spending more and more time together shopping, eating out, and even snacking on chips and caviar. Of course not all is cheery: their driver has some prejudices that trouble Nina, some families are offered children with serious problems, and documents are sometimes fabricated. Things really start to go out of control when Nina and Ksenia push Kirill out of the picture; this is where the suspense, thrills, and paranoia come in. Meanwhile, Belenkaya works in passages (and these are where the book sometimes gets lumpy) about Nina’s respect for her mentor, a woman who lives in an apartment in the House on the Embankment and has a beautiful view, as well as Nina’s hope to wrote a book about Salvador Dalí. All sorts of contrasts develop: Nina’s past and present, Ksenia’s materialness and Nina’s braininess, and an overlay of honesty versus bribery and corruption.

When I look at the notes I scribbled inside the book’s back cover, I can see why Belenkaya held my interest despite my usual ambivalence to portrait novels and despite the moments when the book felt a little melodramatic for my taste, as when Nina sees herself in the mirror as a Hitchcock blonde. Where Belenkaya excels is working in details of international adoption: a description of orphanage smells (urine, burnt milk, and unwashed children), foreign families’ dependence on local assistance, and the larger problem of indifference that an old friend of Nina’s, a woman who also formerly worked in adoption, sees as bigger than cruelty. And then there are those naturalistic stories of children’s lives, mini case histories that feel all too real...

Les Enfants de Rogojine - One note on the book’s Russian title, which would translate literally into English as something like Fish Keep Quiet in Spanish. The title comes from a slogan on a Cervantes Institute bookmark that Nina has kept: the slogan begins with “В Испании” (“In Spain”) but it’s the shortened version, the words used as the book’s title, that goes through Nina’s head when she lies awake at night.

Two other quick notes on the novel. It has been translated into French by Maud Mabillard and published by Nois sur Blanc, as Les enfants de Rogojine. Also, Alexander Klimin of Elkost noted in a comment back in February, when the book was nominated (twice) for the National Bestseller Award, that the provisional English title was Wake Up in Winter. Ah, titles!

Disclaimers: I received a copy of Children of Rogozhin from the Read Russia booth at BookExpo America, thank you very much! I have also collaborated on projects with Elkost literary agency.

Up Next: I just started Evgenii Chizhov’s Перевод с подстрочника (literally Translation from a Literal Translation), a finalist for this year’s Big Book Award…

Sunday, July 13, 2014

The 2014 Russian Booker Prize Long List

The Russian Booker Prize announced its long list the other day, selecting 24 of 78 novels eligible for the award. The list includes several books already on the 2014 Big Book short finalist list as well as the winner of this year’s National Bestseller award. Perhaps most interesting about the announcements I read were comments from jury chair Andrei Ar’ev, who said reading the nominees created a “слегка декадентская” (“slightly decadent”) picture of (I’ll ruthlessly summarize and generalize) contemporary literature with more fantasy, mysticism, and otherworldliness than realism. Ar’ev also noted editorial problems, such as typos and anachronisms. None of this comes as any surprise to me! Here are some of the books on the Booker long list… the shortlist will be announced October 8.

First off, there’s this year’s National Bestseller winner:
  • Ksenia Buksha: Завод “Свобода” (The “Freedom” Factory). About a factory called Freedom that was founded in 1920 then fails in a later era; based on real events.
Five (!!, though the overlap is no big surprise) finalists for the 2014 Big Book Award, two of which were also shortlisted for the National Bestseller:
  • Aleksei Makushinskii: Пароход в Аргентину (Steamship to Argentina). A novel about émigré life and Proustian searches.
  • Zakhar Prilepin: Обитель (The Cloister). A novel about the Solovetsky Islands in the 1920s.
  • Viktor Remizov: Воля вольная (Willful Will/Free Freedom… oh, how I want to preserve those common roots even if the title doesn’t work!). A policeman celebrates his promotion in the wild with a friend and then there’s a conflict with a local… and much more.
  • Vladimir Sorokin: Теллурия (Tellurium). On my NatsBest long list post, I wrote: A polyphonic novel in 50 highly varying chapters. Shortlisted for this year’s National Bestseller.
  • Vladimir Sharov: Возвращение в Египет (Return to Egypt). In which one Kolya Gogol (a distant relative of familiar old Nikolai Gogol) finishes writing Dead Souls. An epistolary novel. Shortlisted for this year’s National Bestseller.
There are also numerous books by familiar names, including:
  • Vasilii Aksyonov: Моление (Praying). (part one) (part two) The name may seem familiar but this is Vasilii Ivanovich Aksyonov, not Vasilii Pavlovich Aksyonov.
  • Vsevolod Benigsen: Чакра Фролова (The Frolov Chakra, also known as the “Kulbit” if it’s a pilot maneuver.). In which a film director named Frolov goes to Belarus in 1941 to film a high-performing kolkhoz.
  • Anatoli Kim: Радости рая (The Joys of Heaven). A book that sounds indescribable and mystical, apparently about timelessness.
  • Elena Kostioukovitch: Цвингер (Zwinger). A very long (220,000 words!) novel involving searches for art stolen by Germany during World War 2. Kostioukovitch, founder and creative director of the Elkost Literary Agency, draws on extensive research and her family history.
  • Aleksei Nikitin: Victory Park. Set in Kiev in 1986.
  • Elena Chizhova: Планета грибов (The Mushroom Planet). (excerpt) Chizhova won the Russian Booker a few years ago for The Time of Women.
  • Gleb Shulpiakov: Музей имени Данте (Museum Named for Dante). Journalist and book trader finds diary of unknown Dante translator… I almost bought this when I was in New York in May.
And a couple names completely (or seemingly?) new to me; I’ve chosen books out now in actual book form rather than books only published, thus far, in literary journals:
  • Sergei Zagraevskii: Архитектор его величества (His Majesty’s Architect).
  • Elena Minkina-Taicher: Эффект Ребиндера (The Rehbinder Effect). The effect is described, stubbily, on Wikipedia here.
Disclaimers: The usual.

Up Next: Probably Рыбы молчат по-испански (known in English as Children of Rogozhin). [Edit: to be clear, there is no current English translation of the book, only the provisional title.] Soon: some of the books sent by publishers that have piled up. Also, in case anyone’s wondering: I read more than half of Irina Ratushinksya’s The Odessans then abandoned the book for what I can only sum up as lack of narrative drive: Ratushinskaya creates lots of characters and situations but they feel horribly underdeveloped, very unfortunate for a book set during the Civil War. I’ve also set aside Bulgakov’s White Guard, though I want to start it all over again some day when my head is more prepared to really study the book—particularly its history and language play, which I thoroughly enjoyed—rather than just casually reading it.