In prose that flashes like black fire, a seething hush gathering in pockets of remarkable beauty, Hilbig circles a renewal that outstrips both the ravages of history and the ruins of the present. That regeneration, he seems to suggest, belongs to literature.
My Father's Dreams is considered by many critics to be Flisar's best novel.
Liu’s collection resides in a place of isolation, a place brimming with shadows, specters, and half-issued words.
Not a single novel from Madagascar, whether written in French or Malagasy, has ever appeared in English.
Besides, poverty’s not interesting, and I don’t want them to pity me
"First and foremost, what proves to me that you are what you say you are?"
Lehilahy tells his son that he must work harder in order to succeed, that knowledge is not easily attained.
We made God wait his turn, because we wanted to eat meat.
Story, story. If there is a falsehood in my tale, it is not I who has lied to you.
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