A dispatch from Ukraine, two new Special Features spotlighting Swiss and Armenian lit, plus all the latest from Asymptote!
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Yes, yes, we know that the “slap heard around the world” is still trending as the most talked-about cultural moment this week but there were other momentous events such as CODA, the film that “allowed Deaf people to be normal, hard-working individuals trying to raise a family, and navigate the world,” taking the big prize on Oscar night. In terms of spoken languages, Drive My Car, adapted from Haruki Murakami’s short story of the same name, was the first Japanese film in the final race for Best Picture, while in the Live Action Short category, Swiss entrant Ala Kachuu–Take and Run was the debut Kyrgyz-language shortlistee! This got us hungry for more cinematic and literary treasures from Central Asia, and of course the Asymptote archive came to the rescue. For an entrée into what this too-often overlooked region has to offer, we suggest diving into the thrilling multilingual poetry of Anuar Duisenbinov from the current issue before checking out the unflinching dramaturgy of screenwriter Olzhas Zhanaidarov

Your Itinerary Today:

  1. TAKE OFF: Translators, take note: Submissions to two paid Swiss and Armenian Literature Features are now open (deadline: May 15)!
  2. POSTCARD ONE: Andrii Krasnyashchikh’s urgent letter from war-torn Ukraine
  3. IN TRANSIT: Staff reads from Japan and Vietnam
  4. PASSAGES: Spotlight on experimental drama from Ukraine
  5. REARVIEW: All the latest from the Asymptote blog

For our Summer 2022 issue and our Fall 2022 issue, we are partnering with Switzerland’s Pro Helvetia and Armenia’s Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation to host paid Special Features spotlighting Swiss and Armenian writing respectively. We’re especially keen to showcase new voices to the Anglophone world. Translators whose work is published in these Special Features will receive an honorarium of USD80. As with the recent call for Swedish literature, submission fees will be waived. Guidelines for these and regular submissions—we continue to welcome translations from other languages throughout the year—can be found here. Deadline: May 15, 2022. 

Andrii Krasnyashchikh writes from his hometown of Kharkiv, a town of literary renown, as Russian bombs fall. The added tragedy of the situation is that history is repeating itself, in a distorted form. Much of Kharkiv was reduced to rubble in World War II; now Andrii’s mother says: ‘they’re worse than the fascists.’ The other bitter irony is that Andrii is a Russian-speaking Ukrainian, a representative of the ‘Russian World’, whom Russia has supposedly come to liberate. In his sparse, tense style, Andrii documents the reality of life in a town under bombardment, everyday mundanities offset against the ever-present, terrifying backdrop of war. But hope is not yet lost, and humour is one of the coping mechanisms; Andrii's daughter finds an anecdote on the internet in which Putin returns to earth from hell, only to find that wherever he goes he is charged in the Ukrainian currency, the hryvnia; the whole world is Ukrainian now.  

Matthew Hyde

 

Mother Says

by Andrii Krasnyashchikh

 

Kharkiv, March 2022.

Mother says: they’re worse than the fascists.

She was born in 1946, she doesn’t remember the war. My father remembers, he was born in 1940. He talks about the missile which hit their house, how he and his brother fled through a field, how a bomb fell right next to them. He remembers plenty from the war.

Mother talks about her granddaughter, about when she was little, how she’d say ‘tyup’ instead of ‘soup’. Her granddaughter’s not so little now–ten years old already, she’s sure to remember this war.

Everyone else has left. All sixteen floors, three blocks. The neighbour upstairs, the son-of-a-bitch, is almost like family now; make as much noise as you like, make a racket if you want, we’re grateful, that way we feel less alone.

On the fifth day we learned how to distinguish the anti-aircraft guns, our very own Zenits. We don’t hide anymore, when they let loose. When they start thudding. The bombs from the aircraft fall with a crash. Or sometimes they thunder.

Why does all this crashing and thudding draw us to the window? To look out into the bright daylight, to see what’s happened. Has anything happened? Something will happen to you, if you don’t step back from the window. But of course no one does as they’re told.

From the window I see a long queue to the kiosk, the one that’s normally shut. I wonder what they’re selling. All sorts of stuff. Then the queue disperses.

Since the first day of war my feet have been freezing. They’ve never been so cold. I can’t seem to get them warm.

And another strange thing. When I eat, my head spins. I eat, it spins. The bodily sensations of war.

My daughter found an anecdote about Putin on the internet, she told it to me: So Putin dies, he’s up there in heaven, and then at the end the barman on Earth says: ‘Fifteen hryvnia’. I didn’t bother correcting ‘heaven’ to ‘hell’, there’s enough hell here as it is.

My friend the air heater hums away, drowning out the explosions. Go to sleep now.

Hey-ho Adorno? I can’t even read, ever since it started, I can’t read anything at all. Only the news feed.

Everyone’s helping the army, or they’re in the territorial defence. I sit with my parents, try to be supportive. I wonder how many more of us there are, territorial defenders sitting with their elders.

As a child I dreamed of going to war, becoming a hero, shooting up the fascists. Well now they’re here, the fascists, go shoot.

In wartime, everything’s scary. The bird outside the window. Even writing a few lines. What if it’s the fear talking, not you.

I’m afraid of being afraid. Fear draws danger closer.

At night the siren sounds, but I’m loath to wake my parents. Sometimes I wake them, and just stand there by their bed. As if to protect them.

I’ll shave when the war’s over. I hope I can shave soon.

Me and mother make my bed together. Although there’s no need for her to help. Mother looks after me, it keeps her mobile. Total mobilisation.  

‘Cif Анти-налёт. Налёт meaning limescale, and air raid too. And it really works. After the air raid siren. I’ve cleaned every single ceiling light at my parent’s place.

A student called: the internet’s not working, he can’t get through to his old teacher. I gave him her email address.

The teacher replied: her mobile’s not working, but the internet is. She’s still alive.

Snow falls. My daughter wants to go out to build a snowman. But it’s dangerous outside. Instead, she draws snowmen, doing battle with saboteurs. Up above, a plane marked with a ‘Z’ drops a bomb.   

‘Good night’ sounds different now. It’s too much, you don’t want to tempt fate.

The only thing worse than ‘good night’ is ‘good morning’. Every morning in the faculty chatroom they do a headcount: ‘Alive’, ‘Alive’, ‘Alive’.

Everyone avoids saying ‘fine’, ‘alright’. At the most: ‘OK’. More often: ‘so-so’.

My wife and our daughter are at my mother-in-law’s, hiding in the cellar. My daughter drew a picture of them, like gnomes, Nibelung, in their treasure trove of preserves, pickled vegetables.

My Russian is fading. Fast. I make mistakes, I forget how to spell some words. Is it ‘Морадёр’ or ‘мародёр’? Either way they’re marauders. 

Worst of all are the sounds. Anything not immediately identifiable is perceived as a threat. A towel brushing against the basin on top of the washing machine. And yet the howl of the air raid siren on my telephone doesn’t frighten me anymore.

The 1990s are back: endless queues, deficits, ‘what’ve they got there?’, ‘when are they opening?’. I smoke half a ‘Belomor kanal’ left over from back then. Anyone still want to go back to the USSR?

I hadn’t been out for a whole two weeks. And then everything had changed: people are polite to each other, they make way in the street, address you with ‘please’ and ‘excuse me’. No crowds or commotion in the supermarket. The reaction to the brutality of war–maximum humanity.    

I realised that the upstairs neighbours have stopped quarrelling, making a racket. Only their dog still barks. But even he sounds more cultured now.

I don’t have the style for war. I just can’t find it in me. And the old styles don’t work anymore. Adorno was right about that. 

The seventeenth night. I wake, turn off the siren on my ‘phone, go back to sleep.

It took a war to get me exercising again.

The shopkeeper says, when a friend asks if she’s afraid to be there, in the shop every day: ‘the thudding sounds the same whether I’m here or at home.’

I wait for the chemists to open, looking up at the signs. ‘Russian billiards.’ A loud thud from somewhere nearby.

A lot of young people about. I thought they’d all left. A guy standing behind me in the queue greets a young couple. ‘Oh!’, and they hug. ‘You stayed!’. We’re not going anywhere, they say in reply.

The thuds get louder, but the queue stands its ground, doesn’t budge. I also stand firm. No one so much as cursed.

I saw the patrol. They saw me. I was of no interest to them.    

The media here don’t talk about enemy Chechens, they talk about Kadyrov’s militia, they don’t talk about ‘Russkiye’, ethnic Russians, they talk about ‘Rossiyane’, Russians from Russia.

My daughter drew a picture: lunchtime. Something bright red on the plates. ‘Red caviar?’ I ask. ‘Carrot fritters.’  

‘…I visit my beloved with two carrots, carrying them by their green tails’. My beloved brings me carrots, and I bring her sausage and bread.

Thuds here, thuds there, we meet for a few minutes halfway. ‘Like Stierlitz the spy,’ my wife says.

On the first day, when we moved to our parents, we took the cat and some money, the paperwork for the flat, our marriage certificate, our daughter’s birth certificate. I took the book which I still haven’t read. Passports, diplomas. I forgot the flash drive containing my writing.

My wife writes: ‘The little one’s asleep now, but earlier she woke, crying out: Putin’s here. We’ll have to stop reading the news when she’s around.’

I don’t tell my parents all the news either.  

Translated from the Russian by Matthew Hyde

Consider a donation to support Ukraine via any of the non-profits listed here. More dispatches by the same author are forthcoming in Asymptote’s Spring 2022 edition, slated for release on April 21. 

In May of 1966, Thích Nhất Hạnh, 39 years old and not yet famous, arrived in Nyack, New York, at the invitation of the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR)—an American peace organization—to lecture on the escalating Vietnam crisis. He then traveled to Washington, D.C., and throughout the continental U.S., to present a Buddhist-led peace proposal that called for a cease-fire with the North Vietnamese government, followed by humanitarian assistance from the U.S. toward a peaceful reconstruction of Vietnam. Thích Nhất Hạnh’s 1966 peace tour included readings of his folk poetry, which he also translated into English, to portray the raw feelings of Vietnamese who “[could not] speak for themselves; [did not] know or care much about words like communism or democracy but [wanted] above all for the war to end….”  The poems were subsequently published in a chapbook entitled Thơ Vit Nam (Vietnamese Poetry), by Unicorn Press, Santa Barbara, California. Three of them, “Condemnation”, “Our Green Garden”, and “Peace”, also appeared in the June 9, 1966 issue of the New York Review of Books. Visceral and intimate, Thích Nhất Hạnh’s poems define the Vietnam War as a civil war. Beyond the Cold War context, all warring nations are seen as misguided brothers. Thích Nhất Hạnh’s peace sojourn was denounced by his brethren on both sides of the Vietnam conflict and turned what he thought was a three-month journey into a 40-year exile. He was eventually allowed to return to Vietnam and passed away on January 22, 2022, a month before Russia invaded Ukraine. 

Thuy Dinh, Editor-at-Large for the Vietnamese Diaspora

 

What do a lonely lightbulb and the traditional practice of teeth blackening have in common? Why does lacquerware lose its magical qualities in broad daylight or when illuminated by electricity? These are only a couple of the questions Japanese author Jun’ichirō Tanizaki attempts to answer in his seminal essay on aesthetics In Praise of Shadows, originally published in 1933. Far from being simply the “empty dreams of a novelist,” his nostalgic observations on the profound ideological contradictions between the East and the West reveal a long-lost world that possessed an uncanny awareness of darkness and its mysterious beauty. Even more pertinent are the passages that meditate on technological advancements and people’s respective success or failure to adapt to them. English-speaking readers can choose between two translated editions. We owe the first rendering, which appeared back in 1977, to Thomas Harper and Edward Seidensticker. The second version by Gregory Starr (Sora Books, 2017) is also worth checking out, especially if you are keen to discover the subtle differences in meaning the modernized text offers.

–Andriana Hamas, Editor-at-Large for Bulgaria

The Russian invasion of Ukraine has resonated across the world. In selecting my contribution for Passages, I looked to feature the voice of a Ukrainian writer that resonated with current events. I selected Dmitriy Levitskiy’s The Blue Bus, an experimental short drama that gives center stage to the Russian-Ukrainian conflict from the perspective of ordinary citizens, often marginalized amidst the raft of news articles usually highlighting only the political voices of the powerful. 

–Alan Mendoza Sosa, Editor-At-Large for Mexico


INNA: (speaking Ukrainian) Besides, you should know that the people at Maidan don’t just stand there, but they stand at their own cost. I took an unpaid vacation for two weeks. My boss also came there; he participated in Maidan in 2004. He came and saw the conditions I was in; he came to Maidan with his friends, actually. So when he saw the lie-in in front of the Prosecutor General’s Office of Ukraine, when he saw me in some interview, you know, he called me then and said, “Well, I’ll pay you up to the New Year for that you’re not just hanging out at Maidan, but helping guys to get free”.

MASHA: (speaking Ukrainian) Time shrinks, and you, well... Well, firstly, you forget about homemade food, you just don’t have any time to cook at home. Your schedule is like, for example, you spend the night at Maidan, at seven in the morning you leave Maidan, come home, take a shower, and you realize that you already have to go to Mohyla Uni. Besides that, when you come home at seven in the morning, you say to yourself honestly that no-no-no, now after Mogylyanka I’ll go home to have a sleep. But from the Kontraktova Station you go back, and as I live in the Holosiivo District, then it’s the Kontraktova Station and Maidan is on the way. And before this you promised yourself on oath that no-no-no, I’ll go and sleep off, I really want to sleep. But you’re passing Maidan, and you just can’t... You go out and say to yourself: “Well, I’ll just have a cup of coffee, just stand and watch, for no reason, well, some five minutes”. And finally, at seven in the morning... You always find some work for yourself. 

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by The VERBatsiya project

After finishing the rest of the drama here, take a deep dive through our archive, organized by issue and geographic region.

It’s the end of March–the northern hemisphere is seeing the first light of spring and the southern hemisphere is cosying up for cooler climes. No matter the weather, Around the World with Asymptote keeps traveling! In the last few weeks, we hit up Uzbekistan, Poland, Ukraine, India, Hong Kong, Japan, Guatemala, as well as El Salvador. Translation Tuesdays didn’t disappoint, offering up German poetry that looks at the world through a child’s eyes, an affecting love poem to Iraq, and tactile short fiction from Tunisia. As always, you can count on our staff to uncover What’s New in Translation: March brought us a radical anthology of Chinese science fiction and fantasy, María Gainza’s novel set in the art world of Argentina, the latest essay volume from Italy’s Elena Ferrante, and the book debut of Iraqi-born Swedish poet Iman Mohammed. We also reviewed Chilean writer Alia Trabucco Zerán’s follow-up to her novel debut, the piercing nonfiction study When Women Kill, translated by former Asymptote staff member Sophie Hughes; and a fascinating multilingual poetic showcase mixing Welsh, English, and Vietnamese. This month marked the inauguration of Poets with Poets on Poetry, featuring a dialogue with three Korean-American poet-translators on the intersection of poetry and translation, and their relationship with the Korean language. We then spoke to Meg Matich, the translator of February’s Icelandic Book Club selection, Quake. Finally, the first pieces from our new column, We Stand With Ukraine, were published on the blog: the translation of a seminal Vietnamese poem by Thanh Tâm Tuyn, a moving elegy for the late Captain Siderov by Sam Garvan, and a powerful new poem by Jonathan Chan. Keeping up with the latest in literary news is easy if you make the Asymptote Blog your daily window on world literature.

While you’re waiting for the next edition of Airmail to arrive, stay up-to-date through our Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram feeds. At Asymptote, we know that world literature is essential to keeping us connected across cultural and lingual borders. It’s with this in mind that our Book Club sends its lovingly-curated selection of the latest literature in translation straight to your door, while also conferring exclusive access to Zoom Q&As with the author and/or translator of each pick. Sign up by this coming Monday to give or receive your first title in April—a great way to usher in Spring! We’re proud to have our work in championing translated literature recognised by renowned writers like Valeria Luiselli, who says that “Every time I think of Asymptote I stop fearing for the future of translation.” Literature in translation needs our help, and we need yours, especially now that we’ve decided to discontinue our Fractured Atlas partnership in the US. A high monthly fee combined with low usage throughout the year meant that a substantial percentage of the funds raised through this channel did not actually accrue to us. We hope readers in the US—and elsewhere—will still consider getting involved in our vital mission as a sustaining or masthead member

Until next time,

Your friends at Asymptote

 
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