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Nadya Radulova is a writer, editor, and literary translator. She has a PhD in comparative literature and is a part-time lecturer in the Translation and Editing Master’s program at Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski. Her academic interests are related to the field of Anglo-American modernism, gender studies, and literary adaptation. Radulova has written five books…
It’s music night at Mihalis’ taverna, and the musicians wait for the darkness, for the desperation of the cicadas to quiet. They’re the loudest they’ve ever been, everyone says, and the noise is all anyone can talk about. But compared with the last topic of conversation—the fires—it’s an improvement. Mihalis is Aspa’s father, and she…
Maria Vassileva is a Ph.D. candidate in Slavic languages and literatures at Harvard University. She has published two books of poetry, and is the co-editor of Found Life: Poems, Stories, Comics, a Play and an Interview, a selection of works by Russian author Linor Goralik. Her translations of contemporary Bulgarian poetry have previously been published…
Last year, Julie Maroh published another graphic novel, Body Music, a series of short vignettes about people and their love stories. It takes place in Montreal, starting July 1st – the day when people usually move out or in – and spans one year, coming back full circle.
When I began to make a concerted effort to study Irish in college, I could not help but feel at times that the process was less one of starting from zero than of anamnesis, the slow recollection of a dormant inborn knowledge.
What does it mean to be culturally legible? And what does cultural legibility mean with regard to writing about or from within one’s own culture?
In David Grossman’s award-winning novel A Horse Walks into a Bar, the narrator, a retired judge, describes one night in the life of the protagonist, Dovaleh, a stand-up comedian in his late fifties and his lost childhood friend.
A homeless woman at the reference desk asked, “Am I an angel, or merely a supernatural creature?” She was agitated, all the muscles of her narrow face in nervous motion, and I was too startled to answer. A man I worked with, who often ignored patrons for his own reading, rose and stepped forward to stand…
I’m stepping into an espresso bar, fragrant with strong coffee and sweet cornetti, when my attention is drawn uphill by a weathered pink-and-green sign offering a vacancy at Il Piccolo Tesoro. The small treasure. I’m not greedy. The adjective appeals as much as the noun promises. I chose this Ligurian village in the sensible way,…
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