Last Thursday, the Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to two white Europeans: Olga Tokarczuk (one of the odds-on favorites going into the announcement) for 2018 (aka the “Year that the Sexual Abuse Scandal Killed the Nobel”) and Peter Handke for 2019.

I never wanted to write a Nobel Prize post—these posts are meant to be about baseball and the process of reading. About using different outlooks (like Big Data and sabermetrics) to come up with fun, weird ways to provoke people to think about books and publishing in a more nuanced, different way. Do they succeed? Probably not! But I’ll be back soon with a “normal” post about reading Saer’s The Regal Lemon TreeĚý(forthcoming from Open Letter in winter 2020) without any recollection of what the book was about and being totally knocked sideways on several occasions, wishing someone elseĚýwas in charge of writing jacket copy so that I could get a handle on what this book wasĚý˛ą˛ú´ÇłÜłŮ.Ěý

But for today? Let’s talk about fascism, two moments in history, and whether the Nobel Prize is totally bankrupt or not.

*

Scene: Thursday Morning. 4:30am. I wake up in an excited panic. There was speculation that Can Xue or Dubravka Ugresic could win the Nobel Prize. The committee had stated, publicly—although, as we came to find out, facetiously—that they had been too Eurocentric and would be looking to other parts of the globe for their big honor. So, Can Xue? Or Murakami? Probably Murakami. And probably Olga Tokarczuk—the committee will want to be “of the moment,” and given the way the English-speaking world serves as the de facto force behind what is popular and trendy (both of the recent titles from Tokarczuk to come out in English translation are from 2007 and 2009, but we’ll come back to that in her section), it felt like a foregone conclusion.

Text conversation with Will Evans after his Braves went down 10-0 in the top of the 1st inning.

In the midst of a Cardinals blow out in game 5 of the NLDS (which is pretty much the pinnacle of hope and joy for me) I had a dream moment . . . a second where I thought, “what if?” I mean, a Swedish (!!) press had contacted us about Can Xue’s rights earlier in the week—just as her odds shifted. Is that’s a coincidence? A conspiracy? A reason for hope? A prank??

But deep down, I knew. IĚýknew. Would it be great to sell more copies in a week than we have in all eleven years of our notable, but financially suspect existence? Fuck and yes it would! But, you, know, there are only like 50 other living authors equally deserving of a million dollar literary award and a place in history . . . it all feels like a coin flip, and there are three things I don’t think exist in today’s world: true democracy, anything resembling meritocracy, and good luck for anything Chad W. Post is involved in.

It took until 4:36am to figure out what the time it was in Sweden—not time for the announcement!—and then it took until 6ish to finally fall asleep, cautiously hoping that I’d wake up and the world would be a different place.

Fast-forward to 7:15am. ±á˛ą˛Ô»ĺ°ě±đ!Ěý±á˛ą˛Ô»ĺ°ě±đ!ĚýSure, he’s an Important European Author, butĚý±á˛ą˛Ô»ĺ°ě±đ!ĚýThis guy was friends with Slobodan Milošević, who, if you’re too young to know the history of the Yugoslav War and his attempts at genocide, well, let’s just say he’s one of history’s greatest monsters. Full stop. Don’t @ me with equivocations. If you encourage people to slaughter others based on their nationality, you are 100% a piece of shit.

Are Handke’s books good? I haven’t read all of the recent ones, but the early ones are, yes. Really good. But ¸é±đ±č±đłŮľ±łŮľ±´Ç˛ÔĚýis boring and solipsistic, and the second-half of his career feels like someone so intent on loving themselves that they don’t realize how far up their own ass they are.

From Wikipedia, which I’m quoting because . . . well, you’ll see:

My Year in the No-Man’s-BayĚý(:ĚýMein Jahr in der Niemandsbucht) is a 1994 novel by the Austrian writerĚý. It follows a writer’s attempt to describe a metamorphosis he went through two decades earlier, when he stopped being confrontative and instead became a passive observer. The task proves to be difficult and most of the book is instead concerned with the lives of the narrator, his family and the people in the Paris suburb where he lives. The book is 1066 pages long in its original German. It was published in English in 1998, translated byĚý.

When the English translation was published in 1998,Ěý‘s critic wrote: “Despite attaining moments of stylistic lucidity worthy ofĚý, the narrator more often comes across as gloomy and hostile. Nonetheless, numerous trenchant moments of insight make this work intriguing and provocative.”ĚýĚýreviewed the book forĚý. He described it as “one carefully observed image after another expanding into a cinematically eternal present tense”, which according to Siegel means that “in a sense, then, Handke’s novel is an argument for the superiority of film to the novel”. The critic continued: “Though at times intellectually bracing, this can make for pretty arid reading. And Handke’s attempts at elevating his epic of self-regarding banality often make matters worse. Rejecting character, plot and psychology as mere fictions, he relies on an ostentatious thematic framework that winds up being more implausible than any old-fashioned novelistic trick.” Publishers WeeklyĚýcalled the English translation “impeccable”, while Siegel called it “clumsy and overliteral”.

Yeah, I’m good. I’ve read this sort of man for many many years. And I really, really liked it. But then again, there are a million dudes writing in this same way, who may not get the international play (why do some writers succeed and not others? definitely not because of talent, I’ll guarantee you that), none of whom told Bosnian Muslims that the was faked and said “You can stick your corpses up your arse!” when called out on his wild claims. Christ. This guy. Really. A łľľ±±ô±ôľ±´Ç˛ÔĚýdollars.

And that’s just the start of it! Here are the screen caps I frantically took at a red light, driving my son to school, ˛őłŮłÜ˛Ô˛Ô±đ»ĺĚýthat anyone who’s openly friends with war criminalsĚýwon the Nobel Prize for Literature:

I know it’s long, butĚýread this. AndĚýread it here.ĚýWhy? Because it’s been completely deleted from Wikipedia. Not bits and pieces—the whole thing. .

The victors write history. Which is why “Never Forget” is not a phrase, but a warning.

*

While at that same red light, I whipped off an ill-conceived tweet (when are my tweetsĚý˛Ô´ÇłŮĚýill-conceived) and gotĚýso worked upĚýabout the podcast Tom Roberge and I were about to record. It’s called “Don’t Give a Million Dollars to a Fascist” and it is FIRE.

It also earned me the designation—on Twitter, the home of all intellectual thought?—as the “most insufferable man in publishing.” Which is AMAZING. I added this to my bio and will be riding it to the grave.

Chad W. Post, the “most insufferable man in publishing” died on XX in the year XXXX. He is known for: a) being blocked by Roxane Gay because of a drunken Super Bowl exchange regarding a half-time show, shitty referees, and nonsense (which he regretted all his years), b) complaining on Three Percent that no one liked his books (making it easier not to like his books), and c) the fact that he was very, very short, with a nasty balding situation.

I get the ire. The backlash to the “Handke doesn’tĚýdeserve it” backlash. I really do. There are authors I/we like that are not good people. And the work and the human who makes the work are two separate things—when you’re talking just about books. When you’re talking about giving someone a million dollars and a permanent spot in history? . . . I’m not so sure that argument holds. Or maybe it would’ve held, if the committee hadn’t had said anything. Instead of expanding their scope to, I don’t know, anyone in Latin America? Asia? Africa? Last I checked, Poland and Austria were very, very European. (And don’t pull this “Eastern Europe” shit. The center of Europe moved East very fast with Brexit.) And very, very, very white.

The thing is, you can claim that the Nobel is only about an author’s work, that the work is not the same as the person, but for an award of this stature that’s given out once a year to an author and their corpus, it comes to function as an award for the author themselves—at least in the minds of tens of thousands of people around the world. So whether you feel like the Nobel Prize for Literature should “only be about the work” or not, it functions as something larger within culture, and as a result, the Swedish Academy needs to keep that in mind.

I think someone subtweeted about me, claiming that my Handke outrage was linked to the fact that Dubravka Ugresic didn’t win. This isn’t entirely true. Am I upset that Dubravka didn’t receive the prize? Not exactly. Once you’ve been a bridesmaid for so long, it’s impossible to get angry when you miss the bouquet once again. But I am irritated on her behalf, since anyone who suffered through the Yugoslav War will 100% have their PTSD triggered when a genocide apologist who supported war criminals is awarded a million dollars. Especially women who suffered horribly through this conflict. It’s really cool that some white Austrian can take a shit on a region, and still be rewarded for it. Bully for him. It’s like telling Trump that “it’s OK, at least you’re trying.”

Dubravka was literally threatened by nationalists of the Handke sort. She was doxed in the national paper. People thought it was their patriotic duty to threaten her physically. Her work is still discriminated against because she’s not on board with ugly nationalist sentiments. She’s written more about border crossings, immigration, the impact of violence in the Balkans, the power of art, creation and the culture industry, than any living writer.

So, sure, Handke is a very talented Classic Male European Writer, but given the Academy’s statements, the scandal last year, the fact that most people think of them as a joke—a group of old white men selecting the buddies and idols they’d like to hang out with—that the impact of their decision far exceeds what it rationally should, that it would’ve been easy to choose anyone else . . . That’s why people say #EatShitHandke and #GivetheNobeltoDubravka. (No one actually says that, but they could and should. Hell, add #BoycottTheNobel to that.)

Again, white middle-aged literary guys—I’m one of you. I’m all about Art First. About complicated prose that’s contemplative and very wedded to History and Ideas. I’m all of those things, and I know why you’re pissed at the backlash against Handke, who embodies this very particular viewpoint more than anyone else I can name. (Just look at his pictures and you know what his books are like.) But you’re wrong this time. This isn’t the moment to try and stand for that argument. We live in the worst possible timeline, with everything completely falling apart—to pour fuel on that fire in order to defend your rights to choose whichever White Euro Male you want to receive Alfred Nobel’s money? That’s just plain irresponsible.

Dubravka and Can Xue and Everyone Else has to wait another year. And next fall, we’ll all be disappointed again. It’s an impossible situation. And, man, if an author Open Letter published won? The “we don’t even know who this is” think-pieces would lead me to suicide or heart attack. (THAT IS NOT A JOKE.) Instead of stumping for Dubravka, I think what we should argue for is the complete dissolution of the Swedish Academy. They’ve outlived their usefulness, are a pathetic group of trolls, and can’t even explain their decisions in English.

Seriously, this is your defense of Handke?

for an influential work that with linguistic ingenuity has explored the periphery and the specificity of human experience.

You know what that sounds like? Senility.

Even a random word generator can do better.

*

On the flip side—and there are think pieces to be written about this, about the two sides to the Nobel coin—Olga Tokarczuk is great! I’ve met her in person, and she’s really fun. Besides, she has dreads, and her books are good. Her first translator, Antonia Lloyd-Jones, is one of my favorite people to see at book parties. Jennifer Croft—who did Flights—and is working on The Books of JacobĚý(which would make a good Two Month Review book?) translates from PolishĚýandĚýSpanish, and received a for her memoir, ±á´Çłľ±đ˛őľ±ł¦°ě.ĚýThese are talented, deserving artists—congrats to all of you! (And all of Olga’s other translators. I don’t know who they are, but it should be noted that these books are available in more languages than just Polish and English.)

Without neglecting any of the current players in Olga Tokarczuk’s current English-language moment—Riverhead, Fitzcarraldo—I want to go back in time. To 2002. To when the world first discovered Olga’s writing.

2002 was the year that Tokarczuk’s fifth book,ĚýHouse of Day, House of NightĚýcame out from Granta UK in Antonia Lloyd-Jones’s translation. One year later, it was available stateside from Northwestern University Press as part of their “” series, which, if you don’t already know and you like Euro-lit, get thee to a library and/or used book store.

I have two personal comments about this series, one that could get me in a lot of trouble if powerful people ever read this blog: 1) This series changed my reading life, and 2) It’s the reason Sessalee Hensley at Barnes & Noble doesn’t really carry our books. (“Translations don’t sell. I carried Northwestern for years.” That’s verbatim.)

ąó°ů´ÇłľĚýThe Guardian‘s review ofĚýHouse of Day, House of Night:

Olga Torkarczuk claims her place among the greats of Polish letters with House of Day, House of Night

What other nation can boast two living Nobel laureates – Wislawa Szymborska and Czeslaw Milosz – and, in the late Zbigniew Herbert, a poet at least their equal? Add to these Ryszard Kapuscinski, Slawomir Mrozek and Pawel Huelle and the debt we owe to Polish letters becomes clear. It’s a distinctive list that draws on a powerful collective faith and an irony that often seems the only sane approach to the cruel joke of Polish history.

With House of Day, House of Night, her first full-length work here,ĚýĚýcan rightfully take her place among these writers. It is not so much a novel as a collection of linked short narratives, found stories, hagiography and incidental observations and is a delight to read – wonderfully inventive and by turns comic, tragic and wise.

That’s some strong praise from aĚý±ą±đ°ů˛âĚýwell-respected source!

How did the Northwestern edition do?

From the Northwestern book page (which has the same reviews as Amazon.com):

When I whinge and whinge about how American book culture is stupid . . . yes, I’m being a pompous, insufferable dick. But, c’mon. That’s it? Nothing onĚýPublishers Weekly . . .Ěýwho LOVED her new books.

Is History nothing but a Tale of Good Timing? Or something more sinister? A way of making sure power stays in power? Or a cruel joke? It’s easy to lean into any of these interpretations—especially if you read this book (in 2003!) and pursued Olga for years, but have been denied for one person’s opinion or another’s. (What is it like to be self-confident?)

Let’s flash ahead to Olga’s best book:Ěý, which was translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones as well and published by the incomparable Twisted Spoon. (So many good books! So little attention from American booksellers/reviewers/readers. Personal recommendation: Ěýby Hermann Ungar.)

As you can see from ,ĚýPrimevalĚýgotĚýway way wayĚýmore play than House of Day, House of Night. Although, again, noĚýPW, but there isĚýBooklist.ĚýNoĚýNew York Times, but aĚýWords Without Borders review. TheĚýReview of Contemporary Fiction reviewed it (probably why I knew of this particular book) and World Lit Today, but, let’s be honest: today’s tastemakers don’t care about RCF or The Modern Novel, although check this blurb from Malvern Books (!!):

This is Primeval: an enclosed snow globe, a world in itself, which it may or may not be possible to ever leave. Outside, wars rise and then break like waves, disgorging soldiers and refugees through the border of Primeval, whose residents are swept up in the flood without always being entirely certain whether the outside world really exists. [. . .] History, in this novel that spans the bulk of the twentieth century, is a thing that happens elsewhere, a dream that, like Goya’s Sleep of Reason, gives birth to monsters.

No other indie bookstores have mentioned this title to me over the past nine years. But I did buy my copy from City Lights way back when.

*

What is history if not for its forgotten players?

Olga’s Nobel is going to be about Riverhead and Fitzcarraldo because, well, memory is short and immediate. And good for them! That tracks, makes sense, and will keep two admirable publishers publishing good books for decades to come. But if she’s such an obvious Nobel Prize candidate, why do her four English translations have these pub dates: 2002, 2010, 2018, 2019? Four books in 17 years? Here’s her bibliography (arranged as if by a madman on the “infallible” Wikipedia):

What are we even doing here? Is there a meaning or message behind the awarding of the Nobel Prize? Is it just random? Is it about trends and popularity and Man Booker Awards and glorification of those who got there at the right moment? Is History written not by the victors, but by the people with the best timing?

*

This is actually supposed to be a post about Susan Harris, editorial director of Words Without Borders, former editor-in-chief of Northwestern University Press, and publisher of threeĚýNobel Prize winners—all of which came after her tenure at NUP ended.

In addition to doing Olga Tokarczuk in 2003, she publishedĚýtwoĚýHerta Mueller books—Land of Green Plums, which she acquired paperback rights to from a commercial house, and Traveling on One Leg, which was hers alone—and a couple Imre Kertesz titles—FatelessĚýshe inherited, but Kaddish for an Unborn Child, she acquired. And, because she was “let go” in March 2002, just months before Kertesz won the Nobel Prize, her editorial contributions were erased from history. She got none of the profile pieces, none of the glory or recognition.

*

Except among us.

Thank you, Susan, and I can’t imagine how weird it must be to “win” three times, and yet . . . But then again, is there an organization focused on international literature that’s more respected than Words Without Borders? The Grandmother of All Websites, WWB is legit AF. They’re theĚýGrand StreetĚýof post-millennium publishing. Wait, you don’t know ·Éłó˛ąłŮĚýGrand Street is?

To lay any doubts to rest, however, I must say that this anthology brought me joy. All the major and well known poets of the twentieth century are here represented (Rilke, Apollinaire, Akhmatova, Reverdy, Pasternak, Lorca . . . all in the first one hundred pages), but more importantly the selections made by Kaminsky shy away from their most famous and obviously anthologizable work to present us with equally impressive B-sides (just to pick one example, rather than choose Apollinaire’s “Le Pont Mirabeau,” we get “Zone,” the spectacular five page opener of Alcools and “The Little Car” from Calligrammes, the collection of Apollinaire’s more technically experimental concrete poetry). Thus each poet we thought we knew before becomes more multi-faceted with every page of this collection. And this principle extends out to those we don’t usually think of as poets: we find a Kafka parable, poems by Brecht, Raymond Queneau, Günter Grass, and Pier Paolo Pasolini (the latter’s work as a poet often getting overshadowed by the controversy of his films). It as if this anthology singlehandedly seeks to remind us that our greatest novelists and playwrights are, at heart, simply poets.

What I have yet to mention is that, to me at least, the majority of the poets in this collection were unknown, and therein lies its greatest pleasure. Be forewarned that while reading this anthology you may feel compelled to immediately go and snatch up the collected (or selected) works of every new find. Though this may be unorthodox in a review, the best way to convey this sense is to open the book to a random page and transcribe what is found there, though every page will be different—in theme, in style, in country . . .¹ Thus, on page 343, we find the poem “Destiny” by the Romanian Marin Sorescu:

The hen I’d bought the night before,
Frozen,
Had come to life,
Had laid the biggest egg in the world
And had been awarded the Nobel Prize.

The phenomenal egg
Was passed from hand to hand,
In a few weeks it had gone round the world,
And round the sun
In 365 days.

The hen had received who knows how much strong currency
Valued in pails of grain
Which she never managed to eat

Because she was invited everywhere,
Gave lectures, granted interviews,
Was photographed.

Often the reporters insisted
That I should be there too
In the photograph
Beside her.

And so, after having served Art
All my life

Suddenly I’m famous
As a poultry-breeder.

I had never heard of Marin Sorescu before this book, yet the biographical fact that he “was the most translated Romanian writer of the latter half of the twentieth century” says much more (I hope) about the status of translation in America than about my personal ignorance. In his introduction Kaminsky writes that “It is not unusual these days to hear an American translator say that she translated partly because she lives in an empire and sees translation work as a chance to educated the American readers about the voices of the larger world.” In this, the anthology succeeds admirably and both Kaminsky and Words Without Borders are to be commended for this contribution to that effort. But there is something more at stake, something that touches on the very reason we translate. Kaminsky puts it better than I ever could: “Languages are many, says Voznesensky, poetry is one. If this is true, then perhaps an avid reader of poetry from around the globe may have a chance to glimpse into the heart of the art of poetry itself—of that which exists between languages.” What we have here are “poems of perversion and praise and lament from a century of destroyed cities, molten borders between states and nations, apartheid, Hiroshima, Auschwitz, totalitarianisms, racism, world wars, massive destruction, torture, epidemics, struggle, resistance.” This is the world we still live in, and it does not end at, or exist solely outside of, America’s frontiers. To show us, through poetry, that we all feel the same pains and love as everyone else is the essential task of this work.

And Kaminsky may be the poet best suited for this task: forced to flee Russia with his family when the Soviet Union fell, his own life crosses the borders of his work. Unlike Homer he is partially deaf, literally tuned out of the glossolalia that makes us think we are different from anyone else. But perhaps we should say he is only second best, for the collection ends with an anonymous poem:

Listen, O earth; we shall mourn because of you
Listen, shall we all die on the earth?

¹ Since I can’t think of anywhere to put this in the body of my review, here seems as good a place as ever. I do have one complaint about this book. Poems are grouped by author and the authors are ordered chronologically by birth date (rather than by country), yet there is no date given to each poem, which I found extremely frustrating and which fact Ilya Kaminsky’s note in the introduction, that “we decided against accompanying poetry with lengthy biographical and critical information (only very brief notes are available at the end of the book), because those materials often affect the way poetry is read, and we feel that information ranging from awards to world wars has little to do with a ‘soul’s search for a release in language,’” though nice, hardly seems to adequately justify.

Anyway, Tim was an intern here in the summer of 2009 (which seems oh so long ago now), and is studying translation at Brown. (And he’s planning on starting some sort of translation magazine, but I’ll let him tell all of you about that once he’s got things set-up and underway), and has reviewed a bunch of books for us. He’s a lively writer, and his pieces are fun to read . . . Here’s the opening of the this review:

The joy of an anthology is similar to the joy of a college course in literature, of listening to the radio, of attending an art exhibition: it is the pleasure of having someone else tell you what is good and important and how it all connects together. You may find the joy of a discovery or an insight that you would probably never have stumbled upon on your own, a joy that puts them in the right. When they are wrong, your ego comes out unscarred, the validity of your own taste has been vindicated; for the reader, it is a riskless situation. Yet with an anthology such as The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry, edited by Ilya Kaminsky and Susan Harris, the stakes are higher on both ends. Reading it is the equivalent of attending a class taught by Nabokov or Nicholson Baker. Access is granted to the private preferences of one of our most promising young poets, so the fruits to be gained may be more succulent, but the disappointment more sour should they prove rotten. After all, how many friendships have ended because someone listens to too much Simon and Garfunkel? Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers . . .

To lay any doubts to rest, however, I must say that this anthology brought me joy. All the major and well known poets of the twentieth century are here represented (Rilke, Apollinaire, Akhmatova, Reverdy, Pasternak, Lorca . . . all in the first one hundred pages), but more importantly the selections made by Kaminsky shy away from their most famous and obviously anthologizable work to present us with equally impressive B-sides (just to pick one example, rather than choose Apollinaire’s “Le Pont Mirabeau,” we get “Zone,” the spectacular five page opener of Alcools and “The Little Car” from Calligrammes, the collection of Apollinaire’s more technically experimental concrete poetry). Thus each poet we thought we knew before becomes more multi-faceted with every page of this collection. And this principle extends out to those we don’t usually think of as poets: we find a Kafka parable, poems by Brecht, Raymond Queneau, Günter Grass, and Pier Paolo Pasolini (the latter’s work as a poet often getting overshadowed by the controversy of his films). It as if this anthology singlehandedly seeks to remind us that our greatest novelists and playwrights are, at heart, simply poets.

To read the full piece, just click here.

Anyway, the symposium took place a few weeks back and was absolutely amazing. Great panels, wonderful to see Ross Benjamin receive the award, very nice tribute to Breon Mitchell re: his new translation of The Tin Drum. (I maybe shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve never read this, although every time I see Breon I swear that it’ll be the next book I pick up . . . And it will be! Soon. Soon . . .)

I was planning on writing up some notes and thoughts and whatever from the day of panels, but well, it’s been a busy time and besides, WBEZ was there to record the whole symposium. And although I can’t imagine many people listening to all of these podcasts, they’re a much better record of what was discussed than anything I could babble on about . . .

If you do decide to listen, you might want to do so in order—at least when it comes to the “Increased Interest in Foreign Fiction?” and “Cultivating Audiences” panels, otherwise my random 15-minute speech at the beginning of the latter panel will make next to no sense . . .

So:

First off is the that included an interview with NY Times journalist David Streitfeld.

(There was another panel with Peter Constantine, Drenka Willen, Susan Bernofsky, Krishna Winston, Ross Benjamin, and Breon Mitchell, but I can’t find the podcast . . . Which sucks! This was a great conversation . . . Maybe I’m just missing something? If anyone knows where this is, please e-mail me.)

Then the panel with Dennis Loy Johnson of Melville House, Daniel Slager of Milkweek, Jeremy Davies of Dalkey Archive Press on

And then the panel that started with my rant and ended with all of us (Susan Harris of Words Without Borders, Susan Bernofsky, and Annie Janusch) talking about technology and reaching readers . . . while my phone buzzed with the dozen or so text messages I received during that panel . . .

Finally, we wrapped up with a contentious argument about Amazon.com discussion about Dennis Loy Johnson of Melville House, Henry Carrigan of Northwestern University Press, and Jeff Waxman of Seminary Co-op were on this panel, which was a great way to end the day, having moved from a grand appreciation of Breon and the craft of translation to the dirty details of the book business and how all the various segments always feel like their getting screwed. Speaking of screwing, this panel also had one of the funniest exchanges of the day:

Jeff: “Being a bookseller, it’s kind of an unrequited love affair with books where you know that you’re going to get screwed.”

Chad: “That’s not really an unrequited . . . It’s actually just a love affair.”

This then led to a series of sexually charged double entendres . . . Man, those end of the day panels—brilliant!

Anyway, this month’s episode features Susan Harris of who came on to talk about WWB’s educational programs and the that she edited along with Ilya Kaminsky. If you know Susan, than you know that this is a pretty funny and exciting conversation . . . and one that needed a bit of editing. Uh, yeah.

World-famous novelist Norman Manea, two premier experts in the realm of literature in translation—Susan Harris of Words Without Borders and Chad Post of Three Percent and Open Letter—and award-winning translator from German Susan Bernofsky address a literary zone in permanent crisis: the world of literature in translation.

They manage to cover a lot of ground pretty quickly—from editing translations, to the market for translations, to why the panelists read translations—and it’s interesting to see how they approach all of the issues from slightly different angles. Definitely worth a read.