Am I the only one to feel uncomfortable with the rather fierce response to Benjamin Moser’s critical review of Katie Briggs’ This Little Art? I understand that people have strong feelings both about the book and about Moser’s review, but much of the response on social media reminds me of seagulls attacking a holidaymaker on the seafront.
And the ‘open letter’ to the New York Times strikes me as – frankly – rather odd: the ‘great and the good’ of the literary translation community declaring one of its members persona non grata. To my mind, an open letter is for an issue of public interest, not because some people liked a book and someone else didn’t. The invocation of status (“even after our many collective decades active in translation and translation studies”), the personal nature of the criticisms (“condescension”, “misogynistic”) and the list of signatures at the bottom all detract from rather than add to the force of the letter’s arguments.
More widely, I really worry for a community that responds to a critical review in this way. It sets up a particular approach and a particular way of writing about translation as an orthodoxy and, worse than that, raises the threat of ostracism against any individual who dares to challenge that orthodoxy. In that context, intellectual debate becomes impossible.
I have no intention of commenting on This Little Art publicly at the moment. I would, however, urge you to read it for yourselves. Support the publisher by purchasing it direct from their website:
I would also encourage people to read Benjamin Moser’s review. For what it’s worth, his review inspired me to read the book:
And finally, here’s the open letter:
Madrid, 12 December 2015
Her breath is like crystal. She has woken up in a room with red walls. It is still night. She sighs with relief. The curtains are slightly open. The light from a neon sign outside flashes on the bed, on her naked stomach. She doesn’t dare to move. She listens to the hum of late-night traffic rising up from the Gran Vía. She remembers where she is. Who she is. What she has done. He is still by her side, alive but submerged in dreams. “What time is it?” she wonders. She feels cold. Her nipples are frozen. Her legs swollen. Her stomach blue in the neon glimmer. Her loins still retain the memory of all that has happened. There can be no doubt that it was real. But she has to leave. It must be past two. What if he wakes up? Her heart is in her mouth. He is sleeping on his front, his face turned towards her. The outline of his naked male body, his skin against the sheets, bears witness to the facts. She gets up, her thighs ache, her head is dull, her lips are burning.
Trousers, shoes, jumpers, stockings are strewn across the floor. She reaches out, feeling for the items that are hers, and dresses quickly while keeping watch on him. Each time he moves or sighs, she stops and waits until he is quiet again. She finds her handbag on the desk. She checks the time on her phone; it’s already half past three. Next to the bag is a book, unseen by her a few hours earlier; she turns on the torch on her phone and flicks through the pages. Several of them are marked with sticky notes and comments in pencil, written in French. The book is titled Fog in Tangier and the author is Bella Nur. He likes reading, she thinks as she observes him. He’s lying on his back now, his groin illuminated by the flashing neon light.
A novel within a novel, sumptuous writing, a great cross-generational cast of characters – and a protagonist who is searching for meaning in her life.
Finalist: Premio Planeta. Published by Planeta, 2017. Rights: DosPassos.