But how much have things really progressed? While the International Booker might have heralded a rise in the status of literary translators, is there a commensurate deepening of appreciation for, and understanding of, translation itself? While translators are being made more visible, is translation being made more invisible?
I suppose I could be forgiven if I had taken a hard look at myself in the mirror the morning after that manic night in Boothbay Harbor and then let the Northwest Passage scheme float back out into the snowy dreamworld whence it had come. But in the days that followed, the idea stayed lodged like a splinter in my brain. And instead of creating a laundry list of excuses why I couldn’t do it—too much time away from home, too dangerous, too far, too cold—I asked myself one simple question: Was it even possible to sail a boat with a plastic hull through the Northwest Passage?
If the galaxy can give rise to a planet like Earth to develop life and technology, then we cannot rule out the possibility that other such planets exist. And if they do exist, and are actively exploring space like we are, isn’t it possible that their exploratory spacecraft could be lurking nearby? The possibility is worth keeping in mind as exploration of the solar system continues. But unfortunately, most scientific enquiry has tended to ignore the possibility of looking for extraterrestrial technology in nearby space, preferring instead to look far away.
The moment I step onto the platform, I take the deepest breath I’ve taken all morning. My more-than-an-hour-long commute involves a fifteen-minute walk to the subway station. Still ahead of me: one eastbound train, one southbound, a streetcar, and a seven-minute trudge through rain or snow. Once I step on board the subway, I’m ready to settle in.
At parties and dinners, I complain to anyone who will listen about this injustice (“more than an hour!”). But on these mornings, as I choose the perfect seat (window, facing forward), flatten my bag in my lap, and slip my headphones on, I am almost giddy: a whole hour with nothing to do.
Blue Light Hours by author and Grinnell College instructor Bruna Dantas Lobato perfectly encapsulates the sweet melancholy of being a child who has left, and a parent who has been left, immersing the reader in gentle goodbyes.
Ariel Courage’s debut, Bad Nature, supplies a snappy-enough premise: After receiving a terminal prognosis from one of her (many) New York City doctors, Hester, a once-highly-optimized corporate lawyer, resolves to kill her father—but not before setting off on a circuitous road trip across the United States.
Within the first 20 pages of David Szalay’s new novel, “Flesh,” I knew that I would be writing about the book, but I truthfully had no clue what I might have to say.
Several days after finishing the novel, I find myself in the same state of mind, which is a testament to the novel’s unusual approach, and because of that approach, its haunting power.