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Articles tagged "Identity"

“Frantumaglia” by Elena Ferrante

Originally published by Edizioni E/O in Italian in 2003 and then progressively augmented with new material in subsequent editions, Elena Ferrante’s Frantumaglia features short notes and meditations by Ferrante, carefully selected correspondence between Ferrante and her publishers, as well as a variety of interviews with both Italian journalists and members of the international press. As Sandra Ozzola––one of the publishers of the edition––informs readers, this...

I am I

I know who I am Now I am here I might disappear at any moment But even if I do I am still I The truth is that not being I would be fine too I am to some extent a blade of grass Perhaps to some extent a fish A dully gleaming crystal too Whose name I do not know And of course I am mostly you            Because even after being forgotten I cannot fade away I am a repeating melody Hesitating, I am a faint wave-particle that came...

The Languages of Alta Ifland

Alta Ifland’s writing raises important questions about the legitimacy and practice of autobiography that are too often taken for granted by American writers. In an alert literary age, the fifty-three thought-provoking short prose texts of her Voice of Ice / Voix de Glace would have attracted considerable attention outside the circles of small magazines and bookshop readings, in which this book indeed attracted attention when it came out in 2007. The author, described in a...

From “El último Lobo”

There he was, laughing, but in trying to laugh in a more abandoned manner he had become preoccupied with the question of whether there was any difference at all between the burden of futility on the one hand and the burden of scorn on the other as well as with what he was laughing about anyway, because the subject was, uniquely, everything, arising from an everything that was everywhere, and, what was more, if indeed it was everything, arising out of everywhere, it would be difficult enough...

The Hidden Me

Here is the photograph. It was taken on the day my father came out of the Diyarbakır Prison. A huge convoy of hundreds was already at the Kızıltepe entrance and cut off my father's path. As before he was lifted high up on their shoulders, accompanied by drums and zurnas. We entered Mardin in a great procession. While he was in prison my mother and I came and went daily to and from Diyarbakır. Going along that road every day in the frightful heat of summer was...

Self-Portrait, 1925-1930

  On the spot where I write all this hodgepodge of verses stands Edward Hopper, in fact, who engenders them and who, neatly transcending space-time, sends me the signals.   His self-portrait is, as would delight the fantasist Borges, a mirror that reproduces not so much the painter's face as the static reflection of my image. Make no bones about it: Hopper and I form a single person.   His pose, untroubled and...

Time, Place, and Identity in the Literature of the “1948 Region”

A contemporary, retroactive review of the cultural identity of the Palestinian Arabs living inside Israel can form a basis for the critical study of the literary culture of this geographic area that is also known as the 1948 Region. The 1948 Region is delineated by a specific historical juncture and the momentous events related to it, which has had a pervasive, divisive, and acute influence not only on the culture of the Palestinians inside Israel-who are often referred to as Palestinians...

Is This Home?

In the days prior to my return I had decided to assume a cool demeanor and contemplate my country as a tourist might, and not as a rapturous and homesick returnee. I wanted to hold the moment in my hands, examine it, and write up the experience. And I wanted to minimize, to the extent possible, any emotional entanglement on my part, so that I could see things clearly. I've gotten tired of emotional entanglement . . . My entire life has been full of that. Now I am an old man who wants...

from Little Stain

In memory of Robert Mac Leod, Koné Ibrahima, Jean-Claude Grenier One must lose one's self to find one's self. --Ralph Ellison In the human world, time is three The time to speak The time to do The time to see So, when the day comes for your word to be spoken Speak up! When the day comes for the deal to be done, Act! And when the day comes to review all of this, Then take it all into account! In the human world, time is three. --Baba Sissoko (griot) There is nothing...

Echeverría

Note: This piece was originally written in Tzotzil. The village of Chamula, where Tzotzil is spoken far more frequently than Spanish, has maintained much of its Tzotzil Maya language and tradition. It was on a Sunday when he returned to the village. It was a feast day, the celebration of the patron saint. He came back tired of being among strangers. He remembered that he had a village, a place where he had been born, where he had left parents, brothers, countrymen, when he decided to...

The Sacvi of Chinango

Note: This poem was originally written in Mixteco. This is what our ancestors said, this is what our elders told us: that we lived in peace with our fellow men in this world, because we were all made of the same thing. We are on loan, passing through. In this world everyone speaks, and they say: if someone insulted or offended another, every one will pay for that, and then it is over. With respect to the language, remember: If we do not preserve our language, the time will come...

The Fatherland

Do not despair, my friend: The light that shines on our land will remain chaste. We still have time. Maybe next year, the year after- it will be enough. We will see the new face of Eban smiling over our lives. This land is good and its history teaches us we must not despair. This land is happy. Look, see the girls painting their cheeks? This land is continuously giving birth. Yemen is a happy country, the people die standing tall: they will not cower,...

Ego

I my umbrella both of us gray with a fine wooden grip from hand to hand we go I and my trusty umbrella he's always at hand even when it's not raining but when the sun comes out I let him down

You Know My Name

In February, during the Book Fair, my first novel was published. It merited two reviews, one in the May-June issue of El Caimán Barbudo, and the other in La Gaceta of July-August. The first was wary: the second frankly cryptic. I will cite one typical excerpt. "Nosotros los impotentes is, then, genesis and epiphany. The discursive continuum flows without stumbling, meandering from the initial spell to a sudden surprise, and at the end of the eternal adventure of reading, to the...

Red and White

I can't reread my old poems the being that wrote them distanced herself from me, with my very own hand I chased her away. I couldn't stand to see her wallowing in this reality without churches without God I replaced myself with another, but at vespers time I look for a green expanse concealed inside my mind or some tree bark and I make the pagan sign of the cross. At times reality...

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