Archive for 2013

Sitzfleisch

Anyone who’s known me for a while knows what it means for me to throw something away. I wear my clothing until it is literally threadbare, not because I cannot afford to buy a new pair of pants to replace the ones whose hems are in tatters, but because the longer they belong to me, the more I love them. When I’m translating, I keep my place on the page with a little orange ruler I’ve had in my possession since I was in elementary school. I treasure it. So you can imagine what it means for me to throw away a chair I’ve owned since the fall of 1990. The chair itself was nothing special – a child’s desk chair purchased at IKEA for $25 on the occasion of moving into my first shared apartment as a PhD student at Princeton University. This was in the Butler Apartment complex on Harrison Street, a conglomeration of little aluminum trailers that the U.S. government put up right after WWII to accommodate married soldiers attending Princeton on the G.I. Bill. I think they were originally meant to stand for 5 or 10 years, but after a certain point Princeton took them over and converted them into semi-permanent graduate student residences. Basically the complex was a trailer park, complete with clotheslines strung between buildings for drying one’s wash. The walls were of aluminum very slightly insulated with something or other, and in winter each apartment’s one hot-air heater blew its stingy stream of warmth directly at the front door.

By the time I completed my doctorate in 1998, I had clocked a good five years sitting in that chair, and it also spent three years in storage while I held a job in Stuttgart and then traveled to Berlin for dissertation research. I rolled about on its plastic wheels in two different linoleum-floored apartments in the Butler complex and then on the narrow wooden planks of an attic room on Nassau Street where I finished my thesis. I’d say I spent nearly as much time in the chair as out of it, practicing a skill known in German as “Sitzfleisch” – literally “sitting flesh” (referring to the gluteus maximus), but the word really means the stick-to-it-ness needed to get anything of substance done. For better or worse, the vast majority of the work performed by those of us in the literary professions is done sitting down.

My desk chair accompanied me to my first post-degree teaching job at Bard College in the Hudson Valley, into the Catskill Mountains, and then back south to New York City. For the better part of 13 years, it was the only work chair I sat in. I translated something on the order of 20 books sitting in it. And now look at it: so old its foam padding has disintegrated and crumbled out through spots where the fabric cover has worn away. The mechanism, never terribly sturdy to begin with, has developed a distinct wobble. The chair has outlived its usefulness. I just bought a new one. And feel like a traitor. Do we owe it to the objects in our lives to keep them forever? Here’s one for the Museum of Treasured Discarded Objects: One desk chair, well-loved.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Blogging a Translation Cover to Cover

Well, the season of enforced merriment has arrived once more, and even though the winter solstice has come and gone – meaning that the days will now be getting longer again – it’s still only the second-darkest day of the year, and so you’ve got plenty of cause to look for a few good distractions. Enter Daniel Hahn, translation stalwart. I’m calling him that because he’s the programme director of the British Centre for Literary Translation and former chair of the Translators Association as well as a highly respected translator from several romance languages, of books by authors like José Luís Peixoto, José Saramago, Philippe Claudel and Pélé. His translation of The Book of Chameleons by José Eduardo Agualus won the 2007 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. But I’m calling him that especially because he is blogging in depth and detail about his current translation-in-progress: Carola Saavedra’s Flores Azuis (Blue Flowers).

He got started just before Halloween:

I’m about to start translating a novel.

It’s written in Portuguese, and it needs to be written in English. There is a Brazilian novelist at one end, and an American publisher at the other, and there’s me in the middle, tasked with giving the publisher exactly the same book the novelist has written, keeping it identical in absolutely every conceivable respect, except that I’ve got to change all the words.

The next thing you know he’s already gotten stuck just trying to translate the first two words of the book. Then he takes a step back and talks to us about his philosophy of first drafts; fidelity; structure; British vs. American English; and last I checked he was deep into heavy tinkering with the intricate innards of sentences and talking us through his process. Which is completely fascinating, especially observing the permutations by which a passage changes during revision. For example, his translation of this Portuguese passage:

Eu não disse nada, não chorei, não pedi explicações, não te implorei para ficar. Eu apenas permaneci ali, imóvel, muda, deitada na cama, enquanto você se vestia, pegava a mochila e ia embora.

morphs from the initial rough:

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t cry, I didn’t ask for explanations, I didn’t implore you to stay. I merely stayed there, immobile, mute, lying on the bed, while you dressed, took your rucksack and went away.

to a polished draft (via several intermediate steps) to look like this:

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t cry, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t beg you to not to go. I just stayed there, unmoving, silent, lying on the bed, while you got dressed, picked up your backpack, and left.

Along the way he has a lot to say about rhythm, tone and ways of approaching the revision process. I want all my students to read his blog. And I can’t wait to see the next installments myself. You can keep an eye on his progress and current entries here. Happy new year, Danny!

In memoriam Daniel Weissbort

Many readers of this blog have no doubt already heard that Daniel Weissbort, the much loved and respected translator of Russian poetry who directed the MFA Program in Translation at the University of Iowa for over thirty years, passed away several weeks ago at the age of 78. Since I had met him only in passing, I asked Bill Martin, who knew him well, to write a few words in remembrance. This is what he wrote:

Something about Danny that always struck me was his exclamation marks. In the world—that is, the world of the English-Philosophy Building, the classroom, his office, and the International Writing Program lounge, and of Iowa City itself, where I would occasionally run into him walking home along Linn Street—he gave the impression of someone who was staid, absorbed in thought or slightly abashed, speaking quietly and to the point. The impression he made in writing, whether in published essays or private emails, was a bit different; there he was obviously more directly communicative, even gregarious, but he was always thoughtful, unpretentious, and clear, and the same sense of introvertedness pervaded. The one thing that stuck out, for me at any rate, was that occasionally, usually at the end of a parenthetical aside or assessment of some just-recounted anecdote, an exclamation mark would appear out of nowhere and for a moment disrupt the otherwise quiet, even economy of his voice. As a gesture, the exclamation mark—known colloquially by more expressive terms like “bang”, “screamer”, and “shriekmark”—was at odds with Danny’s diffidence. And although it occurred often enough and usually had the effect of a brief, bright laugh of astonishment (rather than of screaming or shrieking!), its every instance appeared anomalous, out of place.

Danny’s commentary and insights in the classroom and in conversation could be similarly startling. Suddenly, out of his seeming revery at the other end of the table, as if produced there under the pressure of close, extended observation, would come a remark that shed new light on or reframed ever so slightly whatever it was that you or another student had just presented; but he always spoke with a gentle authority—as if he were just another peer who had been listening especially carefully, never from on high. His lectures were a means for sharing information—holding forth was not his metier—and he seemed genuinely interested in what his students had to say. In the impresario culture of the American university this sort of pedagogy, which was grounded in listening above all else, may have seemed incongruous to some people. Maybe he learned it from his older brother, George, who passed away in July this year, a painter known for his capacity to spend hours studying a single work by Vermeer, Rembrandt, or Ingres, and whom Danny himself once described as being “fixated on what he was doing, i.e. looking, not daydreaming or speculating… looking as worship of the natural world, formerly known as God’s” (PN Review 33:2). Like his brother and the philosopher Malebranche, Danny cultivated an ethic of attentiveness in his work, as teacher and writer and certainly as translator. It occurs to me now that this commitment to listening could have had something to do with his unexpectedly performative exclamation marks—if understood as “bangs” of accumulated attention, or necessary discharges of an aliveness in reserve. Maybe I’ve latched onto this minor detail of Danny’s prose style because in fact, as much influence as he had on me, I don’t remember many interactions or situations that might provide a better point of entry into this memorial. Also, my copies of his books and email correspondence are out of reach at the moment, packed away in boxes and floppy disks in a storage unit in Cazenovia, New York, while here in Berlin I’m dependent on twenty-five-year-old remnant neurons and online academic databases for material. He passed away a month ago.

Daniel Weissbort, who passed away on November 18th, was my professor at the University of Iowa and a mentor. I took only two classes with him: “Postwar Central and Eastern European Poetry” my sophomore year, in which I first read poets such as Zbigniew Herbert, Wisława Szymborska, Yehuda Amichai, and Paul Celan, and which inspired me to spend my junior year in Poland; and one graduate translation workshop that I took after returning from that year abroad, which he permitted me to participate in although I was still an undergraduate. But I also worked for three years as an office assistant for the International Writing Program, a residency program for writers through which Danny had first come to Iowa City almost two decades before and with which he continued to work closely in his capacity as Director of the MFA Program in Translation. And during my final semester at Iowa, Danny asked me to collaborate with him on editing and designing the fourth issue of the MFA student journal Exchanges. I think it was on his recommendation that I was accepted into the MA Programme in Translation Studies at the University of Warwick, where I planned to work with Susan Bassnett. I did not go, there being no scholarships for foreign students and not wanting to take out a loan, and applied instead to the University of Texas at Austin to study with another giant in the field of Translation Studies, André Lefevere, who sadly passed away shortly after I was accepted. In retrospect, now, I see that I could have returned to Iowa and resumed working with Danny in the years before he retired. The last time I saw him was at ALTA in New York in 1999. A few years later, I helped to initiate a visit for him and his widow, the scholar and translator Valentina Polukhina, in Kraków. After that, I fell out of touch.

Maybe this autobiographical excursus is excessive? But I think Danny would not have minded. He was interested not only in the practice of translation as an embodied activity, involving any number of decisions and material and intellectual influences, but in the lives of translators themselves, who were as much “carthorses of civilization” (as Pushkin put it, a phrase he liked to quote) as they were subjects of “chance or hazard.” For this reason he recommended, as an endeavor of Translation Studies, the collection of data not just on the process of translating but on the development of professional translators, writing about his own experience “as one case history out of many.” He presented this in a lovely essay published in 1981 in The Bulletin of the Midwest Modern Language Association titled “Who Would Be a Translator?” And most of his later publications, I would argue, constitute parts of the coherent, empirical project laid out there. Translating Poetry: The Double Labyrinth (1989), for instance, is a collection of superb essays by practitioners on specific experiences of translation. Survival: An Experience and an Experiment in Translating Modern Hindi Poetry, co-edited with Giradhara Rāṭhī (1994), reconstructs a somewhat controversial translation workshop that Danny undertook in India in 1990 with Hindi poets and English-language translators. From Russian With Love (2004), is a personal meditation on his friendship with and experience translating Joseph Brodsky. And his edition of Ted Hughes’ Selected Translations (2007) contains both an essay on the theory and practice of translation of his lifelong friend and collaborator, and a selection of work that is itself an argument for the centrality of translation for a generation of postwar British poets (of whom Danny himself was one).

Two key anthologies should also be mentioned as taking part in this practical, historically oriented, and pedagogical enterprise: The Poetry of Survival: Postwar Poets of Central and Eastern Europe (1991), which grew out of Danny’s experiences as the editor of Modern Poetry in Translation and as a teacher (the selection is almost identical with the course packet for the poetry course I took with him); and Translation—Theory and Practice: A Historical Reader, co-edited with Ástráður Eysteinsson (2007), which is a comprehensive selection of writings on translation that he began compiling in the early 1970s—there being no such anthology at the time—shortly after taking on the directorship of the newly minted MFA Program in Translation at Iowa. Which texts those early students of translation ought to read was not at all self-evident, and apparently the curriculum was developed in favor of “solidly historical” texts as opposed to “French critical theory”—since it had to be one or the other—a difference represented by Paul Engle, the program’s founder and an administrative heavyweight at Iowa, and Gayatri Spivak, then Chair of Comparative Literature, who was in the process of translating Derrida’s Of Grammatology. In a short essay published in 2007 in the PN Review, Danny mentions that he “went along” with Engle in this because he was “ignorant of critical theory”; but I suspect that his own preference for the “solidly historical” was due less to a lack of interest in some other methodology (after all, as his experience with Brodsky shows, Danny was remarkably open to revising his own views), than to a primary fascination for history as such, something he experienced immediately in the vagaries of his own life and, especially, in the phantoms of his parents’ experiences.

Danny’s profound sense of and commitment to history informs all areas of his work, not only as a scholar and teacher, but as a poet and as a translator and editor as well. In a 1991 interview with the Polish writer Grzegorz Musiał (which was conducted in English and translated into Polish for the weekly Tygodnik Powszechny, and which Danny commissioned me to translate back into English, my first paid gig), Danny recalls spending many hours tape-recording conversations with his mother a decade or so earlier, at the end of her life, conversations that inspired poems in his book Inscription. Prompted to discuss the “brutal openness with which [he] approach[ed] the delicate material of the Polish-Jewish relationship,” he responded: “I’m not interested in poetry written in the service of a pedagogical or sociological or any other kind of manifesto, especially when it concerns the fate of the Jews. I was more interested in the voice of my own mother, I wanted to live in that voice; that voice is a part of me, and her life is a part of my own.” He doesn’t mention what language he and his mother spoke during these conversations, but elsewhere he has described the curious linguistic circumstances of his upbringing: “while my parents would address me in French, I would respond in English, the point being that I was unconscious (or had repressed the consciousness) that two languages were being used. The net result of this was that English, though it had become effectively my only literary tongue, the only one in which I might myself aspire to write, was also experienced as foreign” (“Who Would Be a Translator”).

History and translation were inextricably linked for Weissbort even before he was born. While his parents spoke French, they had had to ‘translate’ themselves into it, having both grown up far away, in the Russian partition of Poland. “Especially my mother was proud of the fact that she remembered Polish so well,” he mentions, and elsewhere in the interview with Musiał recounts how his mother left Warsaw with her family in 1916, when the Germans invaded, and joined his father, who had already departed the Tsar’s empire some time before, in Belgium. They lived together in Brussels, where Danny’s brother was born, before emigrating to London at the beginning of the 1930s. Danny describes a letter written to his mother a decade earlier by his father, who was a businessman, then on an extended visit to Germany: “‘Germany is no place for a Jew’,” his father wrote, and “hinted at an incipient interest in England.” Their move there was both pragmatic and existential: “Although according to his letter, my father’s interest in England was one of business, I understood from his mood that he very acutely felt the tragedy approaching. Even then, at the beginning of the 1920s, he didn’t trust the Germans, and I don’t have the slightest doubt that it is to his uncanny intuition that I owe my life.” Danny’s sense of the contingency of his life is referred to again in a rejoinder to Donald Davie’s malicious review of The Poetry of Witness: “Of course, nobody who was not actually there [in the Holocaust or the War] can know how he or she would have performed, not even Davie. But as a Jew, the only member of my family to have been born in England, many of whose maternal and paternal relatives were deported to Bergen-Belsen and lived to tell the tale, I am not as remote from the whole affair as Davie imagines me to be.”

The plainspokenness and clarity of Danny’s own poetry, its focus on everyday life, the refusal in it of any kind of rhetorical or poetical artificiality, and his commitment to his own voice and to recognizing and articulating truth, all bespeak, I would argue, this existential position of being “not… remote from the whole affair,” a position he found operative in the work of other poets from Central and Eastern Europe, such as Tadeusz Różewicz and János Pilinszky, who had survived the Shoah directly, and that I also find resonant with the work of the American poet Charles Reznikoff. This position certainly informed his work as an editor: combined with his frustration with what he viewed as the sterility of British poetry in the fifties and sixties, it is what motivated his and Ted Hughes’s founding of Modern Poetry in Translation. And his work a translator was equally inflected by it, inasmuch as it involves the desire for freedom, such as that expressed with such eloquent irony in Aleksandr Kushner’s lines, translated by Danny, about the totalitarian falseness and bad music of Stalinist ideology during a mandatory concert: “And, oh god, how we longed to be free, / How we craved for light and air, / For there not to be dancing or singing, / And above all, no band up there!” (“I Sat on the Edge of My Seat”). A whole generation of poets who grew up and worked in the Soviet Union, such as Kushner or Natalya Gorbanevskaya, Nikolai Zabolotsky, Yevgeny Vinokurov, Regina Derieva, or Viktor Sosnora, who aspired under oppressive circumstances to locate the true music, all found their English voices in Danny Weissbort.

It is a sign of Danny’s genius as a translator and editor, and of his invaluable contribution to the Russian subcanon of English literature, that he did not commit his voice to only one or two great names—such as Brodsky or Voznesensky, both of whom he translated early on—but understood the importance of rendering a literary or poetic context or community, of shaping a target reader’s understanding of a source culture and its writers through instruments such as the anthology and the periodical in addition to the single-author volume. The space of twentieth-century Russian poetry in English today owes everything to the shape given it by Danny’s anthologies from the 1970s on, which include Post-War Russian Poetry (1974), Russian Poetry: The Modern Period, co-edited with John Glad (1978), and An Anthology of Contemporary Russian Women Poets, co-edited with Valentina Polukhina (2005). An assessment of his contributions to world literature as editor, for four decades, of Modern Poetry in Translation would take far more space and time than is available here. I wish, for myself, that I would have thought of these things while Danny was still alive, and expressed then my admiration to him. If only the present could be translated into a past present! But we were lucky! Hopefully the legacy of his multifarious work and genius and the qualities he enacted—attentiveness, the understanding of his own embodied history and contingency, a committed other-directedness—as well as his practical vision, collaborative spirit, and openness to a variety of approaches, will live on as models for future translators.

                                                                       —Bill Martin

Pierre Joris Wins MLA’s Aldo And Jeanne Scaglione Prize

The Aldo and Jeanne Scaglione Prize for a Translation of a Scholarly Study of Literature is awarded every second year by the Modern Language Association, and this year it has gone to poet, essayist and translator Pierre Joris, who translates from French as well as German, and has worked on and translated the poetry of the great Paul Celan for many years: including the volumes Breathturn, Lightduress, Threadsuns and Selections as well as the forthcoming Collected Later Poems of Paul Celan. And now Joris has been awarded the Scaglione Prize for his translation of Celan’s important poetological work The Meridian, which is generally regarded as a crucial piece of reading on the impact of the Holocaust on the world of letters.

Here’s what the jury had to say about their choice:

Paul Celan’s The Meridian was originally delivered as an acceptance speech to the German Academy for Language and Poetry, which had honored him in 1960 wi th its Georg Büchner Prize for Literature. It ranks as its author’s most powerful statement concerning the mysterious but powerful bond between poetry and life. Writing in the shadow of the Holocaust, Celan asks how our words and our art should deal with h uman violence and depravity. Richly supplemented with extensive notes and critical commentaries, Pierre Joris’s meticulous translation dramatically demonstrates why The Meridian stands as one of twentieth – century literature’s seminal documents. 

For more information on both prize and recipient, see the MLA’s press release.

Bravo and congratulations, Pierre!

Translation Night at Recession Art

Coming up tomorrow evening, Dec. 3, a reading at Recession Art in Brooklyn featuring a great line-up: Anne Posten and Kristina Kalpaxis (both translators from German) Eric Becker (Portuguese) and Ammiel Alcalay (Arabic and Bosnian) will read as part of Recession Art’s Salonukah, which will also include readings by BJ Dini, Matthew Scott Gualco and Michael Varley. What better way than to
recover from all that tofurky you ate last week? You’re already an Ammiel Alcalay fan, right? You’ll find more info on le Facebook.

The show starts at 7:00 p.m. at 47 Bergen St. in Brooklyn.

Remembering William Weaver

William Weaver, one of the greatest translators of all time – and also my teacher, mentor and friend – died this week at the age of 90. It was a privilege and also a pleasure to know him. He was one of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever met, both with his students – on whom he lavished seemingly infinite quantities of attention – and with his friends. He liked to sit with his guests on the broad front porch of his house on the Bard College campus, enjoying the pre-dinner hour, very much the Southern gentleman with his seersucker jackets, his exuberant hospitality and his love of storytelling. He liked to reminisce about his childhood in Virginia, often including the anecdote of how, when his Princeton classmates teased him for not knowing how to ride a bicycle, since he hadn’t had one growing up, he had responded (using a mock-sad voice for the first bit): “It’s true I didn’t have a bicycle. But I had a pony!”

William Weaver, photographed
in 1984 © Mariana Cook

It was always a treat to be invited for supper at Bill’s house – usually an Italian-style repast – whether it was for one of the big dinner parties he loved to throw or just family dinner, which he referred to as “just us chickens.” Both he and his long-time partner, Japanese architect Kazuo Nakajima, were excellent cooks. Neither one of them seemed to drive, though, and so sometimes I would pick them up for a trip to the grocery store or the movies. Only later did it occur to me to wonder about Bill’s lack of a driver’s license, given that he had spent World War II driving an ambulance around Africa and then Italy for the British Army. I guess his driving skills had gotten rusty during the many post-war years he spent in Rome, and then in New York and Rome, and then in Annandale-on-Hudson, where he lived in a house whose previous occupant had been his dear friend Mary McCarthy, and taught courses on translation, literature and (perhaps his greatest love) opera.

If you have read any of Bill Weaver’s translations, you don’t need me to tell you what a virtuoso he was, a master of English in all its most playful and most somber registers. I grew up reading volume after volume of his translations of Italo Calvino. Bill then hit the translation jackpot with Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, which became an international bestseller and then a blockbuster movie. He liked to quip that the success of that book made it possible for him to add on a room to the country house he owned outside Arezzo. His translation of Italo Svevo’s classic masterpiece about quitting smoking boldly recasts the title as Zeno’s Conscience. Bill also translated works by Alberto Moravia, Elsa Morante, Giorgio Bassani, Roberto Calasso, Carlo Emilio Gadda, Primo Levi and many others. I think it’s not much of an exaggeration to say that for a period of several decades pretty much every novelist in Italy wanted to be translated by him. And he turned out a staggering quantity of books, which I find particularly astonishing given the fact that I never saw him working, nor displaying even the faintest hint of stress over an impending deadline. He would just disappear into his basement office for a given number of hours each day and, with genteel savoir-faire (or so I imagine it), work through knotty passage after knotty passage until they flowed as smoothly as a length of silk.

If you’d like to hear Bill’s own account of how he became a translator (an excellent story), I recommend the interview Willard Spiegelman did with him for The Paris Review in Spring 2002. If you’d like to know how he worked, I recommend his essay “The Process of Translation” (published in the anthology The Craft of Translation edited by Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet), in which he walks the reader through several drafts of a translation of a particularly thorny paragraph by Gadda, who is notoriously difficult to translate. Bill makes it look – not easy, perhaps, but at least possible, and that’s somehow reassuring. He was reassuring with his students too. He taught the only translation workshop I ever took, at Princeton University, where I enrolled in his undergraduate translation workshop as a grad student because the chance to study with such a master was too great an opportunity to pass up. He taught us patience and to revise our work with meticulous attention to detail. He was a brilliant, incisive editor. I hope that somewhere in my papers I still have these early translations of mine with his penciled corrections.

In the summer of 2002, near the end of a sabbatical year spent in Berlin, I received a distressing phone call from the dean at Bard College asking if I would step in and teach Bill’s translation workshop that fall because he was too ill to return to the classroom. It turned out he had suffered a stroke while summering in Italy, and it had done terrible damage. His right side was paralyzed, he was able to speak only with extreme difficulty, and his brain had lost the ability to retain new memories, such that he remembered only the most recent 20 minutes – along with everything from before his stroke. At first the various therapists who came to the house every day (I was one of two friends involved with arranging his care when he first came home from the hospital, and met most of them) were optimistic about his chances of making at least a partial recovery. But then he spent months doing physical, speech and occupational therapy without his condition improving. It was so hard to see Bill – who had an incredibly rich vocabulary – struggling to speak. He obviously knew exactly what he meant to say, but somehow half the words couldn’t find their way from his brain to his lips. And since reading and writing are more or less impossible without a functioning short-term memory, this was the end of his translating, writing and teaching career.

Bill hung on for more than eleven years after the stroke. I think his maimed memory must have helped him. He was always cruelly aware of his physical limitations, but I believe he didn’t always understand – I hope not, in any case – how long he had been in this impaired state. Without a memory, he couldn’t make new friends (or even learn to recognize the nurses who cared for him during his final years), and about a year ago I realized that my visits were becoming confusing to him because I no longer looked the way he remembered me looking eleven years before. I took to beginning each visit by asking what he thought of my new glasses and claiming to have run into someone on the way over who hadn’t recognized me because of them. That seemed to help. Still, I must have seemed uncanny to him, a visitor from the future.

Here’s Bill as a visitor from the past, singing the praises of a colleague:

He leaves behind a rich legacy: dozens of truly glorious books and crowds of grateful former students. I don’t know who his opera friends were, but I’m sure he was as loved in that world as in the translation community. He will be sorely missed.

Translation Events Coming Your Way in NYC

Here’s what’s on tap this week and next:

• Thursday Nov. 14 – Saturday, Nov. 16: New Literature from Europe Festival. Not really a translation event strictly speaking, since the authors are appearing without their translators this year, but a good chance to hear the work of nine outstanding writers representing nine European countries, and the two main events will at least be moderated by a translator (Michael F. Moore). Oh, and representing Germany will be Ilja Trojanow, a really splendid writer whose life got more complicated last month after he wrote an article criticizing the NSA and as a result was refused permission to board an airplane to the U.S.; apparently his travel ban has now been lifted, at least for the time being (I wouldn’t count on his keeping his mouth shut in the future either). The festival kicks off with a big reading at the Center for Fiction at 6:30 p.m. on Thursday, 17 E. 47th St. For more information, visit the festival’s website.

• Friday, Nov. 15: Polish poet Anna Frajlich will join her translator Ross Ufberg for a trilingual reading (Polish, Russian, English) and discussion about the translation of poetry.  This one’s an afternoon event, starting at 4:00 p.m. on the Columbia University campus: International Affairs Building, Room 1219 (Marshall D. Shulman Seminar Room).

• Also Friday, Nov. 15: Brooklyn Rail Fiction editor Donald Breckenridge (a long-time lover and supporter of literature in translation) hosts a “crafted reading” of a translation-in-progress (first ever into English) of the Marquis de Sade’s novel Aline and Valcour by Jocelyne Geneviève Barque and John Galbraith Simmons. To be presented by Allan Graubard and Caroline McGhee featuring music by Cole Porter. Mellow Pages Library, 56 Bogart St. (Morgan stop on the L), 7:00 p.m.

• Wednesday, Nov. 20: The Bridge Series is back, this time in a co-presentation with Two Lines Press of two acclaimed translators from the French, Charlotte Mandell and Jordan Stump, presenting The Fata Morgana Books by Jonathan Littell (Mandell) and All My Friends by Marie NDiaye (Stump). This reading/discussion will be held at the Bridge’s usual venue, McNally Jackson Books at 52 Prince Street, but with a later start time than usual: 8:00 p.m. More details here.

• Saturday, Nov. 23: In connection with a thrilling new exhibition of manuscripts by Robert Walser and Emily Dickinson at the Drawing Center in Soho, I’ll be speaking about translating Walser’s microscripts as part of a little celebratory symposium around the launch of The Gorgeous Nothings, a facsimile edition of Dickinson’s “envelope poems” co-edited by poet Jen Bervin and Marta Werner and with an essay by Susan Howe, all of whom will be participating as well. I’m part of this party because Microscripts was the catalog for the Walser portion of this exhibition three years avant la [handwritten] lettre. 3:30 – 5:00 p.m. at the Drawing Center, 35 Wooster Street.

• Also on Saturday, Nov. 23 is a symposium at Poet’s House on Occitan poetry entitled Trobadors – featuring readings, discussions, a musical-poetical performance and a “Gascon Dinner” – that unhappily does not contain the word “translation” anywhere in its write-up, but several of the participants (Pierre Joris, Deborah Kapchan, Richard Sieburth) are well-known translators, so my guess is that translation and the discussion thereof will play a role. Reservations required, especially if you’d like to stay for dinner. See the Poet’s House website for the full program, reservation instructions and other details. 2:00 p.m. – 9:00 p.m., 10 River Terrace at Murray St.