Dreams of unraveling love and belonging on the path to Jihad.
A lively selection of Poland’s women poets writing before and after the fall of communism.
Valtinos explores the twists and turns between perpetrating and being the victim of violence amid the confusions and contradictions of civil war.
A powerfully distilled meditation on the competing costs of freedom and dependence.
Pizarnik is a heroic voyager slaying demons and recovering lost languages . . . . Dabral returns again and again to childhood, to the difference between city and countryside, to a nagging sense of loss.
The old to the new: recent Korean poetry in translation.
A sensual, surreal, and challenging novel by the first woman to win the International Prize for Arabic Fiction.
A gritty, down-and-out debut novel from one of Croatia's “lost generation.”
A memoir calling attention to the tremendous injustices wrought during China's cultural revolution.
In form, Oblivion is like a detective story. This investigation turns frighteningly political, however, when it leads him to Russia’s northern Tundra region, which once housed Stalin’s gulags.
Jergović roots his stories firmly in local Bosnian, Croatian, and Serbian turf. History is back.
The reader is left with the question: in the case of an unhappy marriage, would it be better to follow the advice of Tolstoy or Ben Jelloun?
Daniel Sada’s One Out of Two is a sleeper agent of a book. . . . a brilliant, and welcome, act of literary sabotage.
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.
Andrus Kivirähk’s The Man Who Spoke Snakish interrogates not only the literary logic of the allegorical mode but also the relationship we have—as individuals and as readers—to the dueling lures of tradition and change.
Mujila has given a curious twist to a timeworn genre: Tram 83 is a picaresque novel in stasis, its hero waylaid by adventures he is constantly hoping to avoid. The language ranges from slangy to poignant, with philosophical asides and frequent pastiches of received ideas of Africa in the west.
Stendhal said that a novel is a mirror carried along a highway. The Story of My Teeth is a mirror carried by a Highway Sánchez Sánchez: a coded yet gleeful journey through Mexico City, rich with details, offering . . . “a fissure in the relationship between style and reality.”
When I first read Lispector in the 1980s, I fell deeply, inexplicably in love. I wanted to know her work inside and out; I wanted to know everything about her. I read all I could find, which was not much and mostly in French translation . . .