Surviving Autocracy
Sort by:
Manifest
’Pemi Aguda
‘It is their turn to be silent. Your hand is throbbing in protest. There is blood on your knuckles.’ New fiction from ’Pemi Aguda.
Out of the Ashes
Geovani Martins & Julia Sanches
New fiction by Geovani Martins, with a translation and thoughts on translation from Julia Sanches.
Not the Foggiest Notion
Jung Young Moon
‘It didn’t matter to me what we would be doing or where. It didn’t matter to me in the least.’ Jung Young Moon, translated from the Korean by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton.
[The Delicate Architecture of the Withdrawal Agreement]
Kevin Breathnach
‘I, the pulse. I, the task. I, the ions of the documents extant. I, I, I as in, irrealidad, ingles, intruido.’
Scissors
Karina Sainz Borgo
‘They reached Cúcuta at midday. All of them except the grandmother were hungry.’
Drawings of Monsters
Jesse Ball
‘When I was 4 or 5 I sent the Queen of England drawings of monsters.’
Neoterics and the Field
(out of Callimachus)
John Kinsella
‘This oven this earth as dust this water we watch vanish and ancient’
Connecting Worlds, Inventing Worlds
José Eduardo Agualusa & Daniel Hahn
José Eduardo Agualusa and Daniel Hahn on translating and being translated. ‘As a humble, invisible translator, I let him get the last word.’
Black Car
Will Boast
‘It got into you. How many scrapes had he seen? How many wrecks?’ New fiction from Will Boast.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones
Edoardo Albert
Edoardo Albert, author of Warrior, writes about five archaeological findings that brought the past to life.
On Tastelessness
Adam O’Fallon Price
‘Write through your first ending is advice I give, again and again.’
Lauren Aimee Curtis | Notes on Craft
Lauren Aimee Curtis
‘I think that if we knew, really understood, the reasons why certain stories take hold of us, we would have no need for fiction at all.’ Lauren Aimee Curtis shares her notes on the craft of writing.
A Clean, Well-Lighted Place
Peter Stamm & Michael Hofmann
Peter Stamm on the oldest barber in Switzerland, and Michael Hofmann on translating Peter Stamm.
How to Take a Literary Selfie
Sylvie Weil
Sylvie Weil on what it means to take a literary selfie. Translated from the French by Ros Schwartz.
Jianan Qian | First Sentence
Jianan Qian
‘For every witness, history unfolded at some other time, and in some other place.’ Jianan Qian on the first sentence of her story, ‘To the Dogs’.
Real Men
Mohamed Mbougar Sarr
Anna Leader’s translation of ‘Real Men’ by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr is the winner of the 2019 Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize.
Lois and Varga
Lisa Taddeo
‘Shells, like the kind on the sand of the beach, that’s all they are. That’s all any of us are. All these colored shells, each one trying to be picked up before the rest.’ New fiction by Lisa Taddeo.
Little Nothings: Nabokov’s Road Notes
Elsa Court
Elsa Court on why Vladimir Nabokov immersed himself in the all-American world of roadside service stations.
Tale of Human Adventure
Diane Williams
‘The whole experience of writing this was enjoyable, as is the entire seriousness with which I take myself.’ New fiction by Diane Williams
Grief in Moderation
Diane Williams
‘The tiny daisies were scored by the shadows of the slats of the venetian blinds and the stripes were shivering.’ Diane Williams.
Julia Armfield | First Sentence
Julia Armfield
‘A first line is a threat, I think.’ Julia Armfield on the first sentence of her story ‘Longshore Drift’.
Love After Abuse
Lucia Osborne-Crowley
Lucia Osborne-Crowley on the complexity of navigating sexuality while recovering from sexual abuse.
we are seen by the world / what must be seen
Nisha Ramayya
‘oh dirty feet blood-clotter / oh grease monkey clod-hopper / oh cloud-devourer spit’
Facsimiles
Linda Mannheim
‘There is nothing where the Towers should be but smoke. There are no buildings.’
Three Poems
Chus Pato
‘you alone sit down at that table / facing the houses you tried to inhabit’
Translated from the Galician by Erín Moure.
Careless
Hiroko Oyamada
‘As I lay on the mattress, the white toe pads of the gecko floated up before me, against the vastness of the blue-black night. Rather than a presence, it seemed to me more like a trace, a barely discernible odour that flooded in on the air.’
