Gonçalo M. Tavares is the youngest winner of the prestigious Vergílio Ferreira Prize, created by the University of Évora in 1997 for the body of work of a Portuguese-speaking author dedicated to narrative and/or essay. Among the former laureates are Agustina Bessa-Luis, Mia Couto and Lídia Jorge.
From Malvern Books:
Join us for another installment of Novel Night, a monthly celebration of all things prose! Here’s how it works: published authors will read from their books and there’ll be an audience Q & A. And we’ll also have “Book Talk,” in which an intrepid Malvern staff member will introduce you to one of our favorite prose titles. Also worth noting: we’re offering 20% OFF ALL FICTION TITLES during Novel Night (from 6pm till closing).
This month we have two wonderful authors—Rob Reynolds and REYoung—and we’ll be celebrating the recent launch of Rob’s new novel, Wire Mother Monkey Baby.
Learn more and RSVP online at the Malvern Books Facebook page.
We are saddened to announce that Paul Otchakovsky-Laurens died in a car crash in the French Antilles. This is a blow to all of the writers that POL publishes from their headquarters in Paris, and to literature worldwide. Dalkey Archive Publisher, John O’Brien, who considered him a close friend, said: “There was no publisher or editor like Paul in the United States or Europe. He was guided by a commitment to literature and an aesthetic vision that he never compromised over. His loyalty to authors was the hallmark of his generosity and commitment to the people he was so proud to publish. These are dark days.” He thought so highly of Paul that he devoted an entire issue of the Review of Contemporary Fiction to POL (Fall 2010). This was only the second time in over 37 years that an issue of the Review was dedicated to a publisher, the other being Grove Press and Barney Rosset. Among the many brilliant writers Paul published are Patrick Modiano, Catherine N’Diaye, Gérard Gavarry, Edouard Levé, Dumitru Tsepeneag, Christine Montalbetti, Jacques Jouet, and Jean-Luc Godard, among many others. His writers and friends are deeply crushed by this loss, as is Dalkey Archive. Our warmest condolences go out to all of them across the world.
In the Irish Independent, Martina Devlin picks Best European Fiction 2018 as one of her books of the year: “Best European Fiction 2018 is an intriguing collection of short stories from across Europe . . . Some have a meditative quality, some a sly humour, others burn against the dying of the light.”
“Now in its ninth year, this dependable anthology of short stories from the always innovative Dalkey Archive Press provides a handy vade mecum for a journey through European fiction. […] The multifarious European voices on show here insist we take notice, just at the moment when our government is asking us to turn our backs.”
Dalkey Archive is pleased to have two titles included in World Literature Today’s list of 75 notable translations published in 2017.
Francis Riddle‘s translation of BODIES OF SUMMER, by Martin Felipe Castagnet
Ellen Elias-Bursac‘s translation of LOVE AT LAST SIGHT, by Vedrana Rudan
View the full list online at World Literature Today.
in researching out-of-print books that Dalkey should consider publishing. Please see our jobs page for more info.
It is with great sorrow that we announce the passing of William H. Gass, a brilliant novelist, a consummate prose stylist, a beloved professor, and a longtime friend of Dalkey Archive Press. Born in Fargo, North Dakota, in 1924, Gass studied philosophy before going on to write some of the most distinctive fiction of the late twentieth century, including Omensetter’s Luck, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, and The Tunnel. He was also one of the most prolific and talented essayists America has seen since Emerson, penning essays on subjects that ranged from the philosophy of metaphor to the color blue, from the elaborate syntax of Henry James to the “permanent avant-garde” of Kafka, Stein, Joyce, Beckett et al. For more than three decades, Gass was a professor—first of philosophy and then of humanities—at Washington University in St. Louis, a city that he came to call home. No writer more deserved to be called a genius—and few geniuses were such a delight to read. William H. Gass will be missed by all of us here at Dalkey who were privileged to work with him. Our deepest sympathies go to his wife, Mary, and their children.
João Almino’s Enigmas of Spring was among the winners of a Jabuti award this week in São Paulo for Brazilian books published in translation outside of Brazil. This is the first year the prize’s organizers, the Brazilian Book Chamber, has opened the award for Brazilian books published in translation. Pictured left to right are Dalkey authors Ignácio de Loyola Brandão (winner in the Crônicas category), João Almino, and associate director Jake Snyder.
Contemporary literature is, whether we like it or not, firmly yoked to its market value. A new novel comes to us packaged, promoted, and prone to be read in the light of its jacket copy, its reviews, even its author photo. There’s nothing inherently sinister about this state of affairs, although it does sometimes lead us to dismiss or embrace unfamiliar writing for reasons that have little to do with the writing itself. Even those who should know better sometimes treat new novels unconscionably, if unconsciously, as commodities—as the author’s merchandise. Today, the majority of book reviewers have altogether dropped the genteel pretense of literature as a realm apart. Instead, they proudly speak of writers “producing” novels, and readers “consuming” them.
The writer at odds with this brave new book-world is almost guaranteed to be ignored by it. He is hard to advertise, indifferent to review, unfriendly to the reader out to consume. Until he fell silent a decade ago, the Swiss writer Markus Werner was one such writer, out of joint—though not out of touch—with the times. Werner, who was born in 1944 and died in the summer of 2016, began as an academic; his dissertation was devoted to the fiction of his fellow Switzer Max Frisch. From 1975 until 1990, he was employed as a lecturer at the Kantonsschule in Schaffhausen, and it was during this period that he began to write novels, the first, Zündel’s Exit (Dalkey Archive, 2014), appearing in 1984, followed by six more, including Cold Shoulder (Dalkey Archive, 2016) and On the Edge (Haus Publishing, 2012).
All of Werner’s fiction is characterized by an extreme, borderline deranged sensitivity to the insults of modern life above all to the modern use and misuse of language. His protagonists are for the most part educated men, given to outrage and revolted by the vulgarity that surrounds them—men whose outlook the adjective “pessimistic” doesn’t begin to do justice. Also, these protagonists are funny as hell.
Here, for example, is Zündel, having just lost a tooth and discovered a severed finger in the restroom, scrutinizing his fellow train passengers:
All this continual assertion of self. Everything is hostile, everything that happens to me exceeds my capacity to endure it. Why does God have to send me a finger? And take my tooth. Sooner or later, everyone feels unviable. Humanity is assembled from partially reformed bed-wetters who never quite shake the feeling of existential displacement. No sphincter, no melancholy. Look at them, sipping their coffee.
Obviously, it’s fair to compare Werner to Frisch, as well as to Thomas Bernhard. All three of them are sublime misanthropists, capable of articulating a distaste for humanity which, fired by the humor and passion of their prose, detonates in great bursts of scathing, self-loathing soliloquy. You could say that a character such as Werner’s Zündel gives new meaning to the phrase “painfully self-conscious,” so long as you acknowledge that Herr Zündel himself would find both the phrase “gives new meaning” and “painfully self-conscious” excruciating to read.
Like many of Werner’s characters, Zündel would like to be a citizen of the world, a man among men; yet he is always butting up against his own inalterable prejudices and peculiarities. Arriving in a new city, he buys a newspaper (“after all I’m not an ostrich. I know there are more current things than me”), but no sooner has he ordered a Campari and started reading than he notes that all the “sentences and terms didn’t bore him so much as simply disgust him.” “The words stink and the sentences stink, as if they’d slipped out of the hemorrhoid-wreathed intestines of pest-infected morons.” A fairly lively definition of journalese.
To say the least, Werner has a gift for the well-turned vitriolic phrase. Zündel’s Exit abounds with examples, as does Cold Shoulder, in which the protagonist, Wenk, a didactic man, always lecturing, is asked why he hasn’t become a teacher: “He lacked the belief, he said casually, in the educability of the species.” Werner, like Bernhard before him, isn’t averse to taking his characters’ crankiness to extremes. The aging widower Thomas Loos, one of two main characters in On the Edge, launches into a particularly inspired diatribe on the state of men’s underthings:
I only wanted to say that normal briefs are being systematically squeezed out by underpants that are not fit for purpose, that have no fly and can thus hardly be distin-
guished from women’s panties [ . . . ]
But there it is exactly: the world is out of joint, and there is much we seek in vain therein.
Much of Werner’s writing depends on just this kind of ironic rhetorical turn. The state of men’s underthings becomes synecdochic for the state of the world. Righteous anger edges into ridiculous rant. Cynicism slides into self-parody.
I wouldn’t want to give the impression, however, that Werner’s only gift is for rancor. Zündel’s Exit is a frank depiction of a man’s descent into madness, a portrait of a person who cannot escape from his own mind and ends up absconding from his own life. The unexpectedly poignant ending of Cold Shoulder moved me almost to tears. And On the Edge, with its Conrad-like structure and submerged story of grief and love, is a masterpiece of oblique emotion—as well as a catalogue of deep-seated antipathies. Humanity, in Werner’s view, is horrific, but humans, taken one by one, are not all bad. Wenk, in Cold Shoulder, wanders one day into a village graveyard and sees a “rather ravaged-looking” grave overgrown with ivy. On the stone he reads:
And he finds himself delighted. “Was there a swifter way of formulating a life,” he wonders: “No, this was the fate not just of one individual, but of all mankind, even though the villagers might disagree and prefer their dismal ‘Released.’”
Werner has so far been a slight presence in English, although he has been extraordinarily well served by his translators—above all by Michael Hofmann, who has lent his hand (and inimitable ear) to both of the novels published by Dalkey Archive. Probably Werner is not destined to reach a much wider audience. His irony is too subtle, his humor too black to make him a writer fit for mass consumption. But his books are well worth the time of any reader who harbors misgivings about the march of human progress. He is a connoisseur—to borrow a few words from Hofmann’s foreword to Zündel’s Exit—of “the highly evolved, the uncontemporary, the thoughtful, the delicate, the unlikely.” A connoisseur of everything that today’s reductive literary consumerism would have us pass over in silence.