After translating more than two hundred titles into Spanish and Catalan, Carles Andreu focuses on his translations of Jennifer Egan’s work to consider the role of intuition, that “invaluable resource that occasionally can also turn into a double-edged sword.”
Can contemporary reading methods catch up with the proliferation of and innovation in multilingual Arab literatures in ways that help combat ossified and misleading labels like “the Middle East” and “the Arab world”? The definition of “reader” should be widened to include anyone invested in reading Arab and Arabic texts.
Reviewing Ma Jian’s three-decades-long career, Elizabeth Fifer traces the banned and exiled Chinese writer’s deepening critique.
In this piece of flash memoir, a writer reflects on stereotypes, how Ireland has changed, and an aunt stuck in time.
Italian sci-fi master Clelia Farris conjures a solitary egglike being and the company eager to provide a piercing solution.
Following a hysterectomy, a woman is drawn to the gothic ambience of a stone statuary garden at her lover’s family’s home.
“I cooked because that’s what you do for your friends and family.” Tiffanie Vo interviews poet Clemonce Heard.
An interview with Mayyu Ali, young Rohingya poet, writer, and humanitarian activist who runs the Youth Empowerment Centre in the refugee camp at Cox’s Bazaar.
Alai is a prolific and versatile writer in contemporary China, having published poetry, short fiction, novels, and essays for more than thirty years. His novels Red Poppies, for which he received the Mao Dun Prize in 2000, and The Song of King Gesar have been translated into English by the distinguished translators Howard Goldblatt and Sylvia Lin.
A collection of short poems written by Rohingya living in the Cox’s Bazaar refugee camp
“It was pouring rain all around us / but her hair never got wet / or her fingers,” from “A Believer,” by Xiao An
“Still, we considered it a service / to the cul-de-sac — cull as many pests as possible; // scrape them into an inescapable jar. Their heads / red as fresh scabs; red as the 32ct matches” - from “Incen/diary,” by Clemonce Heard