Translator Elizabeth Bryer on The Palimpsests, and her work as a translator

As a part of our Women in Translation Month series, here we have intern Ethan Resek in conversation with Elizabeth Bryer, the translator of The Palimpsests. Together, they dive into Bryer’s work as a translator and writer, and the particular joys of translating Aleksandra Lun’s debut novel, which will be out from Godine on October 24th.


You have become a prolific translator of Spanish-language novels within the last five years, including of a winner of the prestigious Premio Las Américas de Novela. How did you first become interested in translation and, specifically, Spanish translation?


Well, it may look prolific going by publication dates, but there is behind-the-scenes work that goes into a translation project long before publication day arrives. I started work on some of these years before they were published and have other projects that are yet to find a home; such is the nature of translating novels that you believe in deeplyit takes time and dedication and perseverance.

And yes, Claudia Salazar Jiménez, whose novel Blood of the Dawn was the first book I translated, won the Premio Las Américas de Novela, an incredible achievement for any writer, but especially so for a few reasons: she was awarded it for a debut work; that work was experimental and radical and addressed a difficult topic; and it was published by a small independent publisher, Animal de Invierno, in Peru, a country that doesn’t have a robust publishing industry. We’d been working together for maybe a year when she won that prize, and while some English-language publishers had expressed interest, one of the practical eventualities to come out of her win was that it brought her work to the attention of Deep Vellum Publishing.

As for my interest in Spanish and translation, I learned Spanish as a happy accident of living for a year in Arequipa, Peru, as an eighteen-year-old in 2004. Since then I’ve gone back most years. I’ve always been an avid reader, and initially I studied translation and interpreting with the idea of support my creative writing through work in those fields. During my studies I was drawn to literary translation (as opposed to professional translation), but I resisted it, even though it was a perfect marriage of my interests, because I thought that financially speaking having two poorly paid vocations would be at the very least impractical, and probably impossible. But a few years later I read Blood of the Dawn and wanted to press it into the hands of everyone I knew. Once I’d translated that novel, I picked up Aleksandra Lun’s The Palimpsests and, reading it, got the same tingles up and down my spine. That was when I realized that I was hookedso much so that I now rarely do professional translation, am still managing to feed myself, and couldn’t imagine life without both literary translation and creative writing in it.


What was it, exactly, that attracted you to The Palimpsests?


So much! The Palimpsests is an erudite, madcap romp of a book. The Barcelona bookseller who pressed it into my hands said, “If you want to read something that says this much”he opened his arms wide“then this is the book for you.” He was right. The Palimpsests’s slight dimensions belie how truly exceptional and ambitious it is.

And the humour! I’ve never laughed out loud so often while sitting alone at my desk. Much of that humour is thanks to the precision of Lun’s language and the bolero effect she so brilliantly creates, the crescendo of repetitions and near repetitions that, in every new context, adds further layers of absurdity. There is a special kind of joy when you find a dazzling work that fires your imagination and stretches you creatively and intellectually as a translator, especially when the author turns out to be so gracious and encouraging. I very much lucked out with this one.


In the “Translator’s Note” section of The Palimpsests, you say that the translation put you in a “state of low-level paranoia.” One of the causes you mention was the process of finding and translating the variety of esoteric literary references scattered throughout the novel. Could you talk more about this process, what steps you took, and what that was like?


That comment was a little bit tongue-in-cheek, given I was translating a work set in an asylum! But the proliferation of covert references throughout the novel meant that any time a famous author character spoke, I researched different possible translations in case the dialogue incorporated something that the flesh-and-blood author had written or said during his or her lifetime.

This was especially important for authors who wrote in English; I didn’t want to back-translate their words from Spanish, but to incorporate their words as they had written them so that the ring of familiarity would sound for readers. As for authors who wrote in other languages, translations can become fossilized in a language until they are thought of as “originals,” so I wanted to make sure I was using the word choice of their works’ previous translators into English.

The task was made more challenging by the fact that Lun had slightly reworked many of those quotes to fit the context. I would likewise massage the quotes to fit the context in English translation, but first needed to know what the quote was so that I was indeed massaging it, not changing it completely. So I pored over the authors’ books and interviews they had done. The internet was a help, but so was making several trips to the library. It was also a good excuse to buy books, including Ágota Kristóf’s The Illiterate, translated by Nina Bogin (I was already a huge fan of her Notebook trilogy, so it was just the excuse I needed. Needless to say I thought Przęśnicki’s prostrating himself in the form of a cross before her was the only thing to do. Bravo, Przęśnicki.). Finally, I asked Aleksandra about any lingering doubts, all of which turned out to be author-esque, i.e., her invention, based on the diction or preoccupations of the flesh-and-blood authors.


Humor is such a critical element of The Palimpsests, and your “Translator’s Note,” for example, includes a detailed breakdown of the pun behind Kaskader, the main character Przęśnicki’s novel “about a Polish stunt double who leaps into the void by day and writes a novel in an astronomical observatory by night.” How difficult was it to maintain comedic timing while translating, especially with such an intricate translation? I know the Kaskader pun had to change slightly in the English translation, but there were many other moments where you had to change the timing or phrasing to preserve the overall effect?


Hmmm, it is hard to remember specific instances of changing the timing or phrasing. But assonance and alliteration were a big consideration in achieving the overall the effect, so I tried to hit those notes where they worked (e.g. “limited likelihood” for “pocas probabilidades”, instead of “little chance”, “fat chance”, etc.). And I tried to think carefully about word choice and how it could add to the humour. So, for example, choosing “thinning on top” to me seemed more gently humorous than either “with little hair” or “balding” for “con escaso pelo.” Or, given that Przęśnicki is locked in an asylum, “unhinged” seemed the best translation for “desquiciado” (“deranged” and “crazy” are other options).

I also thought about what the English language had to offer this work, and one of the things I came up with was its verbs. So, for example, miserable immigrants set foot on the white continent “clutching” their newly-acquired passports (not just “con”/ “with” their newly-acquired passports), or the pope is “draped” in a white garment (rather than “llevando”/“wearing” one), or the cable car is “dangling” in the Swiss Alps (rather than “colgando”/“hanging”), all of which I thought set a slightly more humorous tone than the alternatives. And I often found myself reworking sentences with special attention to rhythm, to where the hard stresses fell. I spent a lot of time ensuring those hard stresses were arranged in the most comical configuration possible.

A final example, which I mentioned in my note. It combines alliteration, metaphor, and animalification, as well as a humorous rhythm: I translated “la rigidez capilar y mental de las dependientas” (the shop assistants’ capillary and mental rigidity – an allusion to their perms and authoritarian inflexibility) as “the shop assistants’ rigidity of mind and mane.”


Przęśnicki gets beaten up constantly by native Antarctic writers who resent him for using their language. While this is a more absurd and humorous example of the physical ramifications of the politics of language, your new novel, From Here On, Monsters, delves into this concept in a different way. One of the two major narrative threads in your new book follows a character as he translates a text related to Spanish colonialism. What inspired this branch of your novel?


Well, that narrative thread isn’t about Spanish colonialism per se, but about European colonialism generally and the colonization of Australia specifically. (More)

That part of the novel was inspired by the long, ingrained and ongoing history of denialism in Australia with regards to the violence and genocidal designs of colonialism. The government’s refusal to acknowledge the humanity of Australia’s First Nations (and I mean this literally: First Nations people had no right to vote until 1962, were not counted in the census until 1967, and several states managed Aboriginal affairs through departments that also handled flora, fauna and wildlife), or to acknowledge their sovereignty over the land that they cared and still care for (no treaties were ever signed), are compounded nowadays by the unwillingness to recognise and celebrate such strength and resilience in the face of the barbarity inflicted on them and the land stolen from them. More First Nations kids are removed from their families today than before the 1997 Bringing them Home report on the Stolen Generation (see Grandmothers Against Removals).

As for Jhon’s translating the codex [in From Here On, Monsters], it’s a text that has had quite the journey before coming into his hands. While the codex’s presence at the historic encounters between people from all parts of the globe is a little bit of fiction magic, the network of relations that make the encounters possible is not (e.g. the Arabic seafarers who inspired the story cycle of Sinbad the Sailor probably reaching Australia; the Translation Movement in Baghdad’s House of Wisdom; the vast libraries left by the Muslims in Spain and Alfonso the Wise’s royal scriptorium translators; Saramiento and Quirós’s being inspired by Inka histories; Bugis noblewomen writing the longest work of literature in the world in the Lontar script; the Yolngu, Makassarese and Chinese trade relations…). So that part of the thread was inspired by real encounters, and it charts a circulating of ideas across time and cultures that I find fascinating, and integral to our humanity, and a cause for celebration.


As a Spanish translator, what is your responsibility in navigating a topic like colonization through the language of the colonizers?


There are a lot of subtleties to unpack when translating from Spanish, a colonial tongue, into English, another colonial tongue. But while The Palimpsests at times gestures towards colonialism (the Māori Pioneer Battalion; the native Antarctic writers being put into reservations), its primary concerns lie elsewhere, with the immigrant experience generally and that of exophonic writers specifically. So it’s more to do with the chauvinism of native speakers when the language spoken is ascribed official status and is in service to ‘national’ literature. It wryly charts, for example, how ‘miserable immigrants’ should learn the host country’s language in order to ‘organize free concerts featuring folkloric songs from [their] respective countries’ never to write.

Yet thinking about how to navigate colonialism was at the forefront when translating Blood of the Dawn, which I mentioned earlier. One responsibility was to be very attuned to language use in the source text: Was the author messing with the coloniser’s tongue, in any way? (That got a resounding ‘yes’ because an Andean character, a Kechwa speaker, bends the Spanish language to reflect Kechwa syntax and sprinkles her recollections with Kechwa words and concepts shaped by an Andean worldview. I had to think of ways to echo this in English.)

And while both English and Spanish have unresolved and ongoing colonialism in common, it’s still worth thinking about the power dynamic not only in their own spheres, but in relation to each other. For example, if publishing a book in the United States, why assume the reader is monolingual? I generally think about which words might be worth maintaining in Spanish in the English translation, particularly if they are culturally bound. (Though it would also depend on the preferences of the publishing house, of course.) If it’s a cultural practice or a food that has a rough equivalent in English, I usually choose the Spanish word, because who am I to assume the reader is monolingual? I don’t think it’s elitistit’s inclusive. Plus, these days it’s so easy to look up a term on the internet, and my using an English equivalent might actually hinder curious readers’ endeavours to find out more about a cultural practice. And while again it will often depend on a publisher’s house style, I prefer to avoid italicising those words, too. I think it’s a bit of a problem that italics can be used either for emphasis or for foreign terms. It means it can be read in two ways: that you’re showing off by italicising the foreign term (“Look at this word I know and you don’t!”), or that you’re othering that term, that you’re saying, “This word doesn’t belong here.” That’s not about colonialism; it’s more about recognising that English is the dominant language in this globalised world. Anything to mess with English is a good thing, in my view.

Finally, this power dynamic is also something to think about when choosing books to translate. What are the intersectional power structures, among them colonialism, that make it harder for some writers to have their voices heard? I try to do extra legwork to expose myself to works that are not written from the centre of those power structures.


Now that The Palimpsests is coming out in October and you’ve published your first novel, what’s the next project on the horizon?


In terms of writing, I’m starting to feel the low-level itch that means I will probably need to get back to it soon, but for the moment, I’m recovering from the intense 4 years of writing that From Here On, Monsters demanded. When I’m working on a writing project, I wouldn’t want life to be any other way, but I emerge from the process shell-shocked. And, I don’t want to write the same book again, so I’m happy to be taking a break for the moment, even if there is the slight unease of something missing in my life.

As for translation projects, I’ve just finished translating José Luis de Juan’s Napoleon’s Beekeeper for Giramondo Publishing, which will be out in 2020, so I have that editorial process to look forward to. Otherwise, I’m currently between contracts. I am about to get back to Ecuadorian writer Mónica Ojeda’s first novel, The Silva Disfigurement, which I’m translating through a PhD that combines critical and creative translation practice. Ojeda is an incredible writer and, since she has published a second and third novel in Spain, a lot more people are sitting up and taking notice. Fingers crossed that this means The Silva Disfigurement will be picked up before long! I came across the novel in Cuba in March 2016 and couldn’t put it down, and I’ve been crazy about it ever since. I’m also hopeful that a few other translation projects, including works by Aniela Rodríguez and María José Ferrada, will find the right homes. And, finally, I’ve recently bought stacks of books in Peru and Spain, so am looking forward to slowly working my way through those.

Elizabeth Bryer is a translator and writer. In 2017 she was a recipient of a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant to translate Aleksandra Lun’s The Palimpsests. Other translations from Spanish include Claudia Salazar Jiménez’s Blood of the Dawn, winner of the 2014 Americas Prize. Her debut novel, From Here On, Monsters, is out with Picador.

A Conversation with Aleksandra Lun

For Women in Translation Month, Godine intern Ethan Resek corresponded with Aleksandra Lun, an accomplished translator and the author of The Palimpsests, an experimental novel in translation which, through the lens of absurdist humor, comments thoughtfully on immigration, cultural ownership, and our personal relationships with language. Their conversation below dug into many of these themes.

The Palimpsests is her debut novel and will be out from Godine on October 24th.


One of the first things that the reader sees when they open the book is an epigram from “Against Poets” by Witold Gombrowicz: “It would be more reasonable of me not to get involved in drastic issues because I find myself at a disadvantage. I am a completely unknown foreigner, I have no authority, and my Spanish is a small boy who can barely speak.

There seem to be a lot of subtle connections between this quote and both the content and construction of your book, especially when it comes to who holds the power in language. Unlike Gombrowicz, who tries to avoid “drastic issues” in this foreign land, Przęśnicki writes full novels in his non-native language and gets into a whole lot of trouble with the natives because of it. Was there a linguistic conflict in your life or in the translating world that inspired you to write this book about the linguistically conflicted Przęśnicki?


Rather than a conflict, I would say there is a general misconception. When you enter another culture there is a silent expectation that you will—linguistically—stay quiet. Your acquired language is supposed to be purely utilitarian, a necessary vehicle of communication. You only need it to work or socialize, and you are supposed to revert to “your” language as soon as you can, especially when undertaking an intimate activity like writing. You are not supposed to talk to yourself or write a diary in a foreign language because it is “not yours.” 

And yet, as Jacques Derrida said, a language doesn’t belong to anyone. Then who claims to own it? And why? One not only immigrates into a country; one immigrates into a language, but there is this cultural expectation of a correct way to be an immigrant meaning, amongst other things, being faithful to your mother tongue.

According to this script, an immigrant called Samuel Beckett would be working at a call centre in Paris, only using his French to speak with his work colleagues and then rushing home to watch Irish TV. Fortunately for us, Beckett wrote in French and ended up winning a Nobel Prize in Literature, and he and other illustrious immigrants, like Joseph Conrad, Vladimir Nabokov, or Ágota Kristóf, whose language choices I describe in my book, didn’t follow the official script, one so naïve in perceiving identity and mother tongue as static and impermeable concepts.

In my case, nine years ago, after spending twelve years in Spain, I moved to Belgium. So culturally, as a Polish citizen living in Belgium, I have even less “right” to write in Spanish. My answer to that is that I have earned the right to write in Spanish because I had to pay for Spanish lessons to learn something that native speakers got for free—so let me write novels in your language or give me my money back!


When did you decide you wanted it to be a Spanish-language book rather than one of the many other languages you know?


Let’s say that when I write in Polish, my mother tongue, I am an experienced and overconfident driver of a giant truck. I don’t need a map because I know the highway by heart. I proudly observe the road from the height of my homey cabin as the radio plays The Beatles’s “Yesterday.”

Writing in Spanish I drive a stolen sports car. It’s much smaller than the truck but also faster. I get to see more since I replaced the GPS with a portable radio playing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”. I sing along as I pull over to hide from a police patrol looking for language thieves. It’s a linguistic “Thelma and Louise,” hopefully with a better ending.

Continuing with the automotive metaphor, writing in English I would be driving a convertible bought on credit—in a snowstorm. In French I’d drive a rental car through mountain roads, not able to see beyond the curve. In Catalan it would be a cozy and comfortable campervan, and in Italian a scooter (you don’t really want to see me driving a scooter). In Romanian I would be observing my vehicle being towed away. And in Dutch I’d stick to a bicycle for now.


Przęśnicki worries and thinks excessively about his writing and his language choices in the book. He explains to his therapist that she “should be happy I wrote in Antarctic and not in Polish. Slavic languages, with the freedom proffered by their declensions, presented an added difficulty for the writer faced with a blank page, for if an Antarctic writer was met with innumerable possibilities, then a Polish writer came up against infinity. If I wrote in my mother tongue I would grow even more anxious when faced with a blank page and it was not in my interest to get anxious, given that I was dependent on the health sector of a country that had had no government for the past year.”

As a translator of a variety of languages, do you find yourself relating to this statement made by Przęśnicki that some languages provide distinct opportunities for writers and translators? When you read the English translation of Los Palimpsestos for the first time, did you find yourself lost in the differences?


Reading the English translation of The Palimpsests was a delightful experience because I fell in love with that funny and intelligent book that I was reading for the first time. Elizabeth Bryer’s translation is excellent, and I am very grateful for her creativity and sense of humor. To continue with the previous automotive metaphor, we could say that every language is a different type of car, and yet they can all get you where you want to go: in a different style or through a different path, but with a good translator, like with a good driver, you always enjoy the ride. Borges said that translation was a translation of spirit and that is what Elizabeth did with her translation of my book, unsurprisingly awarded the PEN/Heim translation grant.


Sex, sexuality, and desire play a big role in the novel. Occasionally it seems that Przęśnicki is just as controlled and restricted by his sex life (and the infrequency with which he has “sexual relations”) as he is linguistically in the asylum. What connections did you see between the two (sex and language) when you were writing the novel?


I wouldn’t say that sex plays a big role in my novel; it is rather Przęśnicki’s fantasies and experiences that lead to his frustration, which is logistically inevitable because he somehow manages to only desire deceased people. Hemingway is only one of the famous dead bodies he wants to cuddle with. That’s the danger of literature: it can entertain you and it can lift you up to spiritual heights, but it can also make you have sexual fantasies about people who died two centuries before your grand-grand-grandfather even had his first sexual intercourse.

Are sex and language connected? They probably are. It is our key contemporary ritual to connect everything to sex, including sales or the fall of the Roman Empire.


There is a precise repetition in both the narrative and the language of the story. Besides adding an extremely effective comedic element, what else did you want to effect through this narrative tool?


My repetitions are a comic tool but also a musical one since I conceive writing as composing music, and I need a particular rhythm. I have no musical training, so I cannot explain how it happens technically, apart from the fact that I often read aloud as I write. If I was a musician in a previous life, I just hope I wasn’t Wagner.


What are you working on now? Do you have any translations or novels coming out soon? Anything else on the horizon that you are especially excited for?


I am now finishing my second novel that I am very excited about. It is also written in Spanish: that’s something I am asked a lot. When I was writing my first book, I got plenty of surprised comments on the fact that I was writing it in Spanish. I thought that question got answered once and for all with the publication of The Palimpsests, but it turns out it didn’t. Now I am asked all the time if my second novel is also in Spanish. I guess it will continue till the last novel I publish. I imagine my funeral full of very surprised people.

Aleksandra Lun (Gliwice, 1979) left Poland at 19, financed her studies in languages and literature in Spain by working at a casino, and now lives in Belgium. She translates from English, French, Spanish, Italian, Catalan, and Romanian into Polish, her mother tongue. Among other works, she has translated a book of conversations with Jorge Luis Borges. Her first novel, The Palimpsests, written in Spanish, has already been published in France, where it garnered critical acclaim, and its translation into English by Elizabeth Bryer won a PEN/Heim grant from PEN America. She is currently studying Dutch and working on her second novel.

Stephen King and Joshua Bodwell Organize Readers in Support of Maine Regional Book Reviews

The New York Times recently reported on author Stephen King’s online effort to rescue the Portland Press Herald‘s book reviews section.

King, alerted to the Press Herald’s decision to remove book reviews from its annual budget by Joshua Bodwell of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance, leveraged his large Twitter audience to supply the paper with much-needed new subscribers. King and Bodwell stressed the importance of robust local press coverage for authors who rely on these outlets to connect audiences with their work.

We salute Bodwell, series editor of The Collected Short Stories & Novellas of Andre Dubus, and King for their advocacy on behalf of writers and newspapers in Maine and around the country!

Read the whole story here:

Bodwell Reflects on Editing Godine’s Three-Volume Dubus Series

Joshua Bodwell, Executive Director of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance, lists The Collected Short Stories & Novellas of Andre Dubus among his favorite books of 2018.

As the series’ editor, he developed an especially close bond to Dubus’ remarkable work. “Twenty years ago,” he writes, “I got lucky and stumbled upon Dubus’s masterful short stories. To have the opportunity to work so closely with his writing, and help introduce it to more readers, has been one of the most truly humbling gifts of my life.”

We thank Joshua for his incredible work!

Read about more of the titles on Joshua’s list here:

More Praise for Dubus in America Magazine

Kevin Spinale contributes an insightful theological perspective on The Winter Father, Volume 2 of Godine’s Collected Short Stories & Novellas of Andre Dubus.

“The energy packed into Dubus’s stories throbs with Old Testament clarity,” Fr. Spinale observes. “The stories of The Winter Father are human stories–filled with ugliness and moments of grace.”

To read the rest of the article, including Fr. Spinale’s incisive questions for reader reflection, please follow the link here:

The Unclassifiable Author and the Imaginative Ekphrasis

Intern Bailey reviews Gert Hofmann's Parable of the Blind

Parable of the Blind, by Gert Hofmann, translated by Christopher Middleton, 978-1-56792-563-0, $18.95, coming November 2016.

The German post-war writer Gert Hofmann (1931-1993) is, famously, an unclassifiable writer. This crisis of identification stems, in part, from the lack of a unifying thread of subject or medium in his work: It was only late in his career that he turned from his preferred medium of radio plays to the writing of novels, publishing his first in 1980 and continuing to produce one or two a year until his death.

When discussing why he eschewed an academic career at a young age and decided to pursue a creative life, Hofmann claimed that he lacked a certain stultifying pedantry necessary for the former. His work as a novelist is marked by this refusal to obsessively mine a single theme, to rest with feet upturned within the grooves of an entrenched style. Perhaps his most famous novel, The Spectacle at the Tower, winner of the Alfred Döblin Prize, concerns the trip a couple in a strained marriage makes through a sere landscape toward a tower.

The Parable of the Blind, published a few years later, while superficially similar, is something entirely different. It presents itself as an origin story, a sort of imaginative ekphrasis that tracks the beleaguered provenance of one of Western art’s most curious masterpieces: Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s The Blind Leading the Blind.

Our six protagonists are the variously purblind subjects of the painting. Some of them are named, some nameless. They recount in a leaky first-person plural narration the events of the day on which they are scheduled to be painted: They are woken by a knocking; they are fed; they relieve themselves; they are led and misled through the numinous countryside, on their way to the home of the painter.

Hofmann’s short novel, especially in its first half, is lightly redolent of Beckett. The blind troupe traipses aimlessly through an amorphous countryside; they trip and tumble and collapse in tragicomic pratfalls; they are fundamentally unclean, grotesque. Among the members of the group a senseless, circular call-and-response sometimes springs up—voices, as in Beckett, are set entirely at cross-purposes, while simultaneously deprived of an awareness of different states of being. One cannot even understand that one has been misunderstood.

But Hofmann is playful, too. In The Parable of the Blind, it is not, as in Beckett, the inherent blindness of literary representation that cauls the text. It is a very literal blindness. All of the derelicts have been blinded in different ways, and they are all in different ways blind—none is quite sure of the specifics of the former, nor the extent of the latter. The very perception of perception is deluded, stripped of any power. And that is enough, Hofmann seems to say, to muddle our conception of the text, of narrative.

Where Beckett’s vagrants are frequently nodes lost in a muted landscape, Hofmann’s cadre forms a line—though they’re invested with no trajectory because of this. In fact, senselessness multiplies as the blind ones crocodile through their shaded world. It is as if Hofmann is suggesting that even before the state of utmost solitude that Beckett so effectively limns there are still unimaginable depths of darkness to be plumbed. “Even if the world slipped away from us entirely, we wouldn’t miss it,” the blind ones say. “Instead of pressing forward into it with words, we curl up without words inside what’s still there” (34). The individual armed only with language is eschewed in favor of the instinctual will-to-community—the animalistic curling-up that the blind ones propone is a more tactile engagement with the world; Hofmann wants us to feel senselessness, not simply dread it.

Though Beckett’s not the only influence to be reckoned with, here. When the blinded finally reach the home of the famous painter (whose name, within the novel, is withheld), the influence of another writer begins to be felt. The painter speaks with an inborn aggression, cantankerousness, and cynical vitriol that recall the works of Thomas Bernhard, another German writer and heir to Beckett whose life was roughly contemporaneous with Hofmann’s.

The painter’s thoughts are curiously italicized, as those of Bernhard’s protagonists frequently are. Of the signs of destruction he notes everywhere in the world, the painter muses: “The sea boiling and very far off, the sky covered by a pall of smoke, glare of a fire behind soaring mountains—a memory of the far Alps—are signs that even the remoter parts of the world have been devastated” (89-90). Of the significance of the world’s dying: “Even himself the painter can easily identify in the pictures of these spaces…himself dying, dead already. At night he is walled in by these spaces with their pictures, thus also by himself” (90).

The cruel and barren logical extension of “thus also by himself” is classic Bernhard, and the disconcerting italicizations that give hint of a madness that is yet logical in its own mad way contribute to the sense of exaggeration that pervades The Parable of the Blind. The novel itself is an exaggeration, a blow-up, as it were, of a particular moment in time, a particular image. But there is a paradoxical tinct to the nature of this exaggeration: As, for Beckett, silence was in a way the ultimate form of eloquence, so for Bernhard and Hofmann exaggeration refines rather than dulls or occludes the senselessness of the world.

It is not for nothing that Hofmann’s blind ones search for comfort, that at the start of the novel they have just woken from sleep and at novel’s end they appear to be preparing once more for slumber. For Bernhard, and I think also for Hofmann, exaggeration is like a blanket that is draped over and occludes the subject matter—but that is draped, nevertheless, with care, and affection. It doesn’t annul the confusing welter of the world, but preserves it instead.

The painter’s art relies on traps, Hofmann tells us, “like the length or brevity of the brush strokes, pigmentation, peculiarity of texture, the arrangement of the background” (106). And while this trap keeps one still and reproduces one’s image, it is still a soulless and antagonistic affair. It is Hofmann’s aim to lay down a blanket and show us the creatures beneath it: sorry, tawdry, and grotesque, but undeniably there.

Author Interview: David Cundy

Intern Amy asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know

Animals Spell Love teaches readers of all ages how to express the word “love” in sixteen languages from around the globe, using critters made of letters. With its vivid colors, striking design, and positive message, it’s an especially good read during this holiday season. As an enthusiastic, lifelong lover of children’s books, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn more about the process of creating them. Having also studied literary translation and foreign languages in college (though sadly I know only one other language, not sixteen!), I’m always intrigued to learn more about how language can translate to image, and vice versa. I was thrilled to interview author and designer David Cundy about the creation of Animals Spell Love, his debut children’s book and to hear more about his design and life philosophies.

I’m interested in how you came to write Animals Spell Love. Is this a project you’ve been thinking about for a long time, or was there some event that sparked the idea?

Animals Spell Love was six years in the making. It came from serendipity: I composed the Czech lovebirds to illustrate a poem I’d written, and was greeted by the necessary book.

You’ve been working in art and design for most of your adult life—how/why did you decide to translate those skills to a book?

You mean books plural! Planning ahead about a decade ago, I knew I’d want to engage in fulfilling work in my “Third Age” – the stage of life after youth, employment and family raising. Writing, the recoalescence of my early-career aspirations to be an artist and poet, was the natural path. And because books endure, authors are able to create cultural memory, and to influence the future. The inspiration behind Animals Spell Love was the opportunity to “accentuate the positive,” to demonstrate the universality and diversity of love throughout the world, to educate children and to remind adults. I’m well into the sequel, so stay tuned!

You mention that your “linguistic explorations” have included French, Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, and Spanish. What inspired these explorations? Where and how did you study these languages?

The first source of inspiration would be my middle school Latin teacher, who showed us how so many English words are classically derived. By then, I was immersed in mythology, which is subliminal storytelling. Latin led to Greek, which is more difficult because you need to learn a new alphabet, and Greek to Sanskrit, the hat-trick Indo-European language, which inspired Animals Spell Love’s blue monkey – Hanuman, the Monkey King from the Ramayana.

How did you decide which languages to include in the book? Some of them are commonly understood (Spanish, French) but others, like Amharic, are specific to one country or region of the world. What kind of tools did you use to research languages you were not as familiar with?

I selected the sixteen languages in Animals Spell Love to represent as many people as possible, and to cover the widest geographic territory. Over three billion people speak the languages used in Animals Spell Love! Chinese, for example, is spoken by almost a billion people, Hindi and Spanish by around 500 million each, and Amharic and Thai by over 20 million each.

What was your creative/design process for Animals Spell Love?

The process was – using type as my palette – to evaluate what I had to work with, and then to experiment, to look for happy accidents. And to vary the illustrations stylistically to communicate diversity visually in the same way the languages and letterforms literally did.


The images were sometimes homages – the crickets to Kazue Mizumura’s If I Were a Cricket, and the ducks to Marjorie Flack’s and Kurt Wiese’s The Story About Ping. The ducks themselves were modeled on a pair of Qing dynasty boxes from the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s image collection, and the illustration itself (a shaped poem inspired by Apollinaire’s calligrams) is literally a Spring poem by Du Fu, which tenderly closes, “two ducks are napping on warm sand.”

What were some of the challenges you faced in creating Animals Spell Love (i.e. working with unfamiliar languages/alphabets, creating recognizable creatures from letters)?

Besides pronunciation, the most difficult linguistic challenge came down to the fact that in some languages, “I love you” takes a different form for masculine, feminine, platonic, romantic and honorific. For example, in Amharic, the form is different if you are addressing an elder; in Chinese and Japanese, the literal sentiment would be considered too personal, so it’s replaced by something like, “I like you.” Structurally, Arabic was most difficult to compose because its letters have initial, medial and final (as well as isolated) forms, and because, like Hebrew, it reads from right to left.

Illustrating Animals Spell Love, on the other hand, was pure fun. Constructing the animals from letterform and ideogram building blocks was like playing a game or solving a puzzle, and when the images materialized, it was like seeing magic tricks performed! And foreign languages are inherently mysterious – like hieroglyphs or secret messages.

What authors or illustrators have influenced and inspired you the most?

Growing up with great children’s books in an era of great children’s book illustrations, I came to admire many author/illustrators and illustrators. Inspirations included the icons – Tenniel, Potter, Rey, McCloskey, Lawson and Seuss, and lesser-knowns like Wanda Gág (Millions of Cats) and Nicolas Mordvinoff (Finders Keepers). Artists who inspired illustrations in the book include Durer, Hiroshige and Peter Max. Graphic designer Bradbury Thompson’s typographic face for Westvaco, a paper company, is a direct antecedent of the illustrations in Animals Spell Love.

Animals Spell Love is ostensibly a children’s book, but it’s complex enough for adults to enjoy as well. Did you intentionally design the book to appeal to a broader audience? Who do you hope will read this book?

The artistic, cultural and literary allusions are entirely intentional – there’s something for everyone! I’m hoping the book will appeal to readers from 5 to 95: that it will be enjoyed by parents and children, and grandparents and grandchildren, since love is experienced when sharing a book; that it will inspire children to appreciate and learn languages, which are instrumental in kids’ development of empathy; and that teachers will use it as a springboard tool. Because I’m a bit of a romantic, I’m also hoping that lovers of all ages will fall in love with Animals Spell Love and share it as a gift.

You talk about how Animals Spell Love represents your life philosophy. Are there any specific events, interactions, or memories that led you to that philosophy, the idea that we “owe it to ourselves to make each other’s lives better”? How does Animals Spell Love represent that philosophy?

My mother was a saint and teacher who gave me an optimistic temperament and a lifelong love for books. Parents endeavor to make their children’s lives better; as an author, I guess I’m transmitting my mother’s meme – that the way to live is to be loving and kind. I hope that Animals Spell Love conveys that helpful message to people today – and in the future.

What’s your favorite image or animal in Animals Spell Love, and why?

While I haven’t chosen any favorites, I look forward to hearing from readers about theirs! Actually, some of my favorite things in Animals Spell Love are its secret pleasures, like the foil stamped LOVE lunette hidden under the dust jacket, and Tchaikovsky’s “Gentle Stars” song in the Russian vignette. To notice these things, you’ve got to C#! And the book closes with an elfin pair of tangram mice sharing cheese, the animal metaphor for my approach and message, which are to persuade with subtlety and humor, and to convey the still revolutionary idea that, to paraphrase the Beatles, “all we need is love.”


Superior Person’s Tuesday: Bradykinetic

If you're a Patriots football fan this is counter-intuitive

Bradykinetic a. Moving very slowly. Alternative Sense: one who jumps up dynamically to switch off the TV when The Brady Bunch comes on. (Or a Jets football fan.)

This is a good example of a bradykinetic creature.
This is a good example of a bradykinetic creature.

This is not.
This is not.

On Tuesdays we offer up a Superior Word for the edification of our Superior Readers, via the volumes of the inimitable Peter Bowler. Be on the look out for a new edition of The Superior Person’s Complete Book of Words, now available for purchase.

You can also win a FREE copy of The Superior Person’s Complete Book of Words by entering this Goodreads Giveaway.

Superior Person’s Tuesday: Deterration

Deterration, interrogation, what's the difference? They both get to what's underneath somehow.

Deterration n. Not the act of deterring, but the discovery of an underlying object by the removal of earth around it. From the Latin de and terra.

“Young man, you will proceed immediately to the bathroom. The time has come from the deterration of your feet.”

Under that mermaid body is Joey. We guess the Friends will have to perform a deterration.
Somewhere under that mermaid body is Joey. We guess the Friends will have to perform a deterration.

On Tuesdays we offer up a Superior Word for the edification of our Superior Readers, via the volumes of the inimitable Peter Bowler. Be on the look out for a new edition of The Superior Person’s Complete Book of Words, now available for purchase.



Superior Person’s Tuesday: Hyperhedonia

In honor of Election Day, we are pleased to present a very special Superior Person's Tuesday

Hyperhedonia n. A condition in which abnormally heightened pleasure is derived from participation in activities which are intrinsically tedious and uninteresting. For a case study near you, GO TO THE POLLS!

Person voting
Your voice matters. Your vote matters. Be a Superior Person and GO VOTE.

No matter for whom you vote today, it is important that you do so. We promise, if you participate in the local, state, and federal politics today, something usually seen as tedious and dull, you will derive immense pleasure from participating in a history-making election, for this country has never had two candidates such as these.

Today, let’s all be affected with hyperhedonia.

On Tuesdays we offer up a Superior Word for the edification of our Superior Readers, via the volumes of the inimitable Peter Bowler. Be on the look out for a new edition of The Superior Person’s Complete Book of Words, now available for purchase.

You know what they say about screen adaptations…

…you should always read the books first!

Well, even if you started watching the utterly charming and gorgeous Durrells in Corfu on PBS Masterpiece Theater, it’s never too late to pick up the books! Especially with the final episodes coming up, we know you’ll need something to tide you over until Season Two premieres!

The Durrells in Corfu is based on Gerald Durrell’s Corfu Trilogy. The books in that series are:


And once you’ve made your way through that series, check out other books by Durrell:

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What the critics are saying about The Durrells in Corfu:

All the Durrells seem to find themselves in Corfu. Viewers will find them irresistible.The Wall Street Journal

The series is a rich family portrait based on the somewhat autobiographical Corfu trilogy by naturalist Gerald Durrell…you will savor this laidback, elegant entertainment.—The Boston Globe

Watch “The Durrells in Corfu,” a lavishly executed production in the Masterpiece tradition, but read Gerald and Lawrence Durrell’s books, too. They offer pleasures that promise to endure long after this public TV series is through.—The Christian Science Monitor

Watch if you like stories about plucky families achieving things. —The New York Times

Author Interview: Adam Van Doren

Intern Allie asks the hard-hitting questions we all want to know.

Adam Van Doren is the author of The House Tells the Story (2015), and An Artist in Venice (2013).  Van Doren’s artwork is included in the collections of the Art Institute of Chicago; The Wadsworth Atheneum; The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; The Princeton University Art Museum; and The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. His work has been exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington D.C., among other institutions. Van Doren teaches at Yale University, where he is also an Associate Fellow, and is a graduate of Columbia University. He has written and directed two documentaries about the arts which were broadcast on PBS and cable television: James Thurber: The Life and Hard Times, narrated by George Plimpton, which was awarded a major grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities; and Top Hat and Tales: Harold Ross and the Making of The New Yorker, narrated by Stanley Tucci.

In your introduction you explain that the criteria for the houses featured was (1) that the house for the most part be architecturally interesting, (2) that the choice be apolitical, (3) that you should be granted permission to visit it, and, knowing that presidents have lived in more than one house in their lifetimes, (4) that you consider residences that have an especially intriguing connection to the presidents themselves. With so many to choose from, I imagine it was a difficult decision. Which residences almost made the final cut, but didn’t?

Others that were high on the list were Reagan’s ranch in California, Andrew Jackson’s The Hermitage in Nashville [Tennessee], Lincoln’s house in Springfield [Illinois], LBJ’s ranch in Texas, and James Madison house in Virginia. (Maybe a sequel is in order!)

You mention the great tradition of illustrated letters in your introduction as well, along with the 2007 Smithsonian exhibition More than Words that featured many of these correspondences. Browsing through some of them online, I was particularly intrigued by Joseph Lindon Smith’s letters to his parents (his handwriting is fascinating), Allen Tupper True’s letters to his daughter, and Rockwell Kent’s letters to Frances Kent (especially the “My darling—I do!”). Were there any that struck you in particular or that served as inspiration for your own illustrated letters to David McCullough?

Yes, a wonderful collection of letters by Edward Ardizzone was a great source of inspiration. I can’t imagine a better artist/writer for this ”genre.”

Early on, you explain that this was an ideal project due to your interests and background in both art and architecture. Which house was the most enjoyable to paint, and which did you find the most architecturally interesting? Are these things directly correlated with one another in your personal experience?

I would say Teddy Roosevelt’s house at Sagamore Hill because I happen to be a great admirer of the great shingle style houses of the Gilded Age, which are masterpieces of a complex, asymmetrical design.

Many of these houses have beautiful libraries. Did any of the books on the shelves surprise you? You listed several titles for Truman, but I was curious if there were others.

I was interested in Jimmy Carter’s personal library (in the house he nows lives in) which has many poetry collections, including Dylan Thomas, one of his favorites.

You mention presidential artifacts such as FDR’s stamp collection, Jefferson’s souvenirs from Lewis and Clark, and Teddy Roosevelt’s assortment of rifles and hunting trophies. Which collection or artifact was most interesting to you, and which did you find to be most revealing about its owner?

I would say Truman’s home. Many of his personal items were not valuable per se, but they were meaningful to him and his family, and they reveal a great deal about who Truman was as a person.

You mention a quote from Jefferson that clearly states his opinion on architecture: “Palladio is the Bible.” Do you agree with him?

Yes, it is required reading for any understanding of great architecture. It is a classic treatise that teaches timeless lessons about proportion, planning, decoration, etc. that can apply to both traditional and modern architecture.

Aside from the White House’s intense security and the oppressive heat in the summer at Mount Vernon, were any of the houses challenging to paint in other ways, logistically or otherwise?

Yes, getting access to the Kennedy compound in MA, and the homes of the Bushes and Jimmy Carter required a fair amount of planning with the presidents themselves and the secret service, since these homes are private and not open to the public.

Describing Jefferson’s genius in his design of Monticello, you write that he had somehow managed to “plan for spontaneity!” Do you try to do something similar when you paint by creating the optimal conditions to allow room for spontaneity in your work?

Yes, I always come prepared. I paint on site, so I have to be ready for all sorts of change in weather and sunlight. I also work on both white papers and tinted papers, and I often make a decision on the spot which ones I want to paint on.

The insides of the houses are just as fascinating as their exteriors. I was surprised to learn that George Washington chose a bold green for his dining room in keeping with the latest fashions of his time, and I was less surprised to learn that Teddy Roosevelt had an original man-cave. Have any rooms in particular left lasting impressions on you more than others?

I was taken with JFK’s bedroom at his parents’ home in Hyannis. It has been left exactly as it was when he last visited it, including the objects in the room and the prints on the wall. It was very moving to see.

Do you find you paint architecture differently after learning more about a place and its inhabitants? Where do you locate the subjectivity in your paintings?

Once I learn more about a president, I tend to emphasize certain aspects over others. For instance in the case of George H. W. Bush, I wanted to emphasize the isolated, exclusive quality to the family compound, so I choose the vantage point of the rocky outcrop which the house sits on, by the ocean’s edge, so you get a sense that the structure is all alone.