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Articles tagged "Angolan Literature"

If Nothing Else Helps, Read Clarice

I’m afraid of turning on the TV and, like someone going into the Underground at rush hour, of having my intelligence stepped on, whether out of carelessness or malice. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Curled up in a corner of the room, I turn on the telly, pretending I’m not there; but if I stumble across some brutal-looking individual, I turn it off right away. Then I close my eyes and dream up a fish. An old fisherman from Pernambuco taught me how. I...

An Interview with José Eduardo Agualusa

José Eduardo Agualusa, 46, is a growing name in world literature. Born in Huambo, Angola, Agualusa has already been embraced across the Portuguese-speaking literary world—especially in Brazil and Portugal, where his novel Creole was a best seller and awarded the Portuguese Grand Prize for Literature. Now that he has received this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in the U.K. for his latest novel, The Book of Chameleons, readers in English, too, may finally begin...

A Practical Guide to Levitation

I do not like parties. The idle chat, the smoke, the fatuous talk of drunks, I find them all tiresome. Plastic plates annoy me even more. And plastic cutlery. And plastic cups. I'm served roasted rabbit on a plastic plate, forced to eat it with plastic cutlery, on my lap because there's no more room at the table. Inevitably the knife breaks. The meat is thrown onto my trousers. I spill my wine. Besides which, I can't stand rabbit. I make a great effort not to be noticed, but...

The Book of Wheeling

Today, for some unknown reason, I've decided to share with you certain indiscretions that even my wife is unaware of. Of course this is just a figure of speech, for the truth is that women seldom know everything that their husbands think and above all what they do, it being necessary only to add—for the consolation of any possible female readers or, for that matter, to feed the cynicism of my male readers—that the opposite is ever truer, because everyone, men and women...

Comrade António and the Cuban Teachers

"But Comrade António, don't you prefer to live in a free country?" I liked to ask this question when I came into the kitchen. I'd open the refrigerator and take out the water bottle. Before I could reach for a glass, Comrade António was passing me one. His hands made greasy fingerprints on the sides, but I didn't have the courage to refuse this gesture. I filled the glass, drank one swallow, two, and waited for his reply. Comrade António breathed. Then...

I brought flowers . . .

I brought flowers They're not all white, Mother But they're morning's fresh flowers They opened yesterday I kept them by me all night While straining the honey And weaving my dress It's not white, Mother But it will do for the sacrificial table I brought the tacula* cream Used in Grandmother's day It's not thick, Mother But it covers my body I brought the candles Of wax and bees' wings They're not pure, Mother But they can burn all night I...

Dragonfly

for Dr. Carvalho if from these stones one announced what creates silence: here, close by, [ . . . ] this would open, like a wound you would have to plunge into --Paul Celan, "The Power of Light" A fluid sound ran through the house, brushed against the dust on the garden vines, swayed the mangoes and the papayas as they ripened, terrified a drunken dragonfly that was dozing there, made the sun diminish, and settled still strong, still distinct, at the woman's ear. Followed by a...

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