Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910297
Saliha Haddad
The Cheikh BookstoreOne of Few Still Standing in Algeria Saliha Haddad (bio) THERE ARE VERY FEW HISTORICAL BOOKSTORES to be found in Algeria, and one of them is the Cheikh Bookstore (Librairie Cheikh) located in Tizi Ouzou. Hosting books and writers, the bookstore's history dates back to the 1930s when it was founded by the grandfather of its present owner, Omar Cheikh. And as it was during the French colonial presence in the country, the avenue on which it was built initially had a colonial name, Ferdinand-Aillaud Avenue, which became the Abane Ramdane Avenue after independence in 1962. Besides my love for books, it is its resilience to survive that makes the bookstore one of my favorite places. Over the decades, it had to navigate very turbulent times and remain open through many rapid changes occurring in the country—from the French occupation to the War of Liberation and subsequent independence, and from the Berbers' protests to the civil war—a feat Omar Cheikh is proud of as he recalls the wave of nationalization initiated by then-Algerian president Houari Boumédiène in the 1970s, a particularly troubling time for him as it was a threat to the bookstore's freedom in the books it acquired and sold. "Despite the nationalization of Boumédiène, though, my father's library still operated independently," he said, as above all he values freedom when it comes to the place he inherited from his father and started running in 1984. Freedom is not the only thing troubling Omar Cheikh's mind, though; he is also anxious about the future of the bookstore after he is gone—and about the difficulties in keeping one open. "On Abane Ramdane Avenue, unfortunately, so many bookstores shut down," he says. "I don't know what will happen in the future." So, to keep up with rising expenses and thinning numbers of new readers, the Cheikh Bookstore opted to sell textbooks in addition to stationery items in the bookstore's ground floor way back in 1986. Click for larger view View full resolution To get inside the bookstore, one must climb a very narrow staircase that leads to an expansive room from which floods an impression of peace and bygone days. And that even to someone who did not have prior knowledge of the store's long history, as the walls are generously decorated with old photos of the building, its past owners, and the writers it hosted as well as old newspaper excerpts written about it over the decades. After roving one's eyes over these historical archives on display alongside some ancient Berber items, it is difficult to make a choice from the vast range of books on the shelves and bookstands. There are new, recent, and classic books in the four main languages of the country: Tamazight, Arabic, French, and English. Click for larger view View full resolution Photos courtesy of the Cheikh Bookstore These rich offerings are not the only things book lovers can expect. Deeply committed to the Algerian literary world, the bookstore often hosts both debut and ren
{"title":"The Cheikh Bookstore: One of Few Still Standing in Algeria","authors":"Saliha Haddad","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910297","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910297","url":null,"abstract":"The Cheikh BookstoreOne of Few Still Standing in Algeria Saliha Haddad (bio) THERE ARE VERY FEW HISTORICAL BOOKSTORES to be found in Algeria, and one of them is the Cheikh Bookstore (Librairie Cheikh) located in Tizi Ouzou. Hosting books and writers, the bookstore's history dates back to the 1930s when it was founded by the grandfather of its present owner, Omar Cheikh. And as it was during the French colonial presence in the country, the avenue on which it was built initially had a colonial name, Ferdinand-Aillaud Avenue, which became the Abane Ramdane Avenue after independence in 1962. Besides my love for books, it is its resilience to survive that makes the bookstore one of my favorite places. Over the decades, it had to navigate very turbulent times and remain open through many rapid changes occurring in the country—from the French occupation to the War of Liberation and subsequent independence, and from the Berbers' protests to the civil war—a feat Omar Cheikh is proud of as he recalls the wave of nationalization initiated by then-Algerian president Houari Boumédiène in the 1970s, a particularly troubling time for him as it was a threat to the bookstore's freedom in the books it acquired and sold. \"Despite the nationalization of Boumédiène, though, my father's library still operated independently,\" he said, as above all he values freedom when it comes to the place he inherited from his father and started running in 1984. Freedom is not the only thing troubling Omar Cheikh's mind, though; he is also anxious about the future of the bookstore after he is gone—and about the difficulties in keeping one open. \"On Abane Ramdane Avenue, unfortunately, so many bookstores shut down,\" he says. \"I don't know what will happen in the future.\" So, to keep up with rising expenses and thinning numbers of new readers, the Cheikh Bookstore opted to sell textbooks in addition to stationery items in the bookstore's ground floor way back in 1986. Click for larger view View full resolution To get inside the bookstore, one must climb a very narrow staircase that leads to an expansive room from which floods an impression of peace and bygone days. And that even to someone who did not have prior knowledge of the store's long history, as the walls are generously decorated with old photos of the building, its past owners, and the writers it hosted as well as old newspaper excerpts written about it over the decades. After roving one's eyes over these historical archives on display alongside some ancient Berber items, it is difficult to make a choice from the vast range of books on the shelves and bookstands. There are new, recent, and classic books in the four main languages of the country: Tamazight, Arabic, French, and English. Click for larger view View full resolution Photos courtesy of the Cheikh Bookstore These rich offerings are not the only things book lovers can expect. Deeply committed to the Algerian literary world, the bookstore often hosts both debut and ren","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"144 4","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161194","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910272
Min Zhang
Reviewed by: Crocodile (E Yu) by Mo Yan Zhang Min MO YAN Crocodile (E Yu) Hangzhou. Zhejiang Literature and Art Publishing House. 2023. 197 pages. NOBEL LAUREATE MO YAN once swore in front of the Shakespeare statue in Stratford upon Avon to take advantage of the rest of his life to focus on the transition from novelist to playwright. The publication of his latest drama, E Yu (Crocodile), can be read as a brilliant delivery on that promise. During this process, as a successor to the oral literary tradition, Mo Yan continues to use comic styles in language, sometimes mixed with Chinese limericks and slang, contributing to the black humor of this play. Drama has always played an important role in Mo Yan's writing. Whether his debut work, Divorce (an unpublished play), or the dramatic elements in some novels, such as the interaction between traditional Chinese dramatic structures and novelistic text in Frog, it is no surprise to find that playwriting stems from his interests, rather than an alternate route he has taken in desperation. Just as Mo Yan admitted, "playwriting has been my dream for years. I do have a distinct understanding toward it. Besides, it is really enjoyable for the playwright to watch his plays performed on the stage." Crocodile revolves around a corrupt government official who subverts these legitimate governmental processes, misspends the public's money, and finally escapes to another country. Its anticorruption consciousness not only keeps up to date with social developments but also contains unique cultural connotations, representing a rational reflection of the responsible writer on the cultural values related to government officials. Despite being rarely seen on the contemporary Chinese stage, this theme is familiar to the audience who has read Mo Yan's novel The Republic of Wine. Mo Yan insists that "writing is not on behalf of ordinary people, but as ordinary people." It is worth noting that these down-to-earth experiences of sorting out files in the procuratorate and interviewing prosecutors provides him with much inspiration for this creation. Mo Yan examines many characters like intellectuals, officials, and businessmen through the lens of folk values. Shan Wudan, a dissociated defector, frequently mentions his concern for common people. Due to the fact that he sprang from peasant stock, this former mayor has a clear understanding about where political power comes from, thus frequently emphasizing the significance of the masses, pointing out that "there are some things unknown to God, but there is nothing unknown to ordinary people." The more compelling aspect of the play involves the crocodile being able to talk. Just like Eugène Ionesco's Rhinoceros, the metaphor of animal here serves to highlight the alienation of human nature. As the embodiment of greedy human beings, the crocodile is confined to a tank with the characteristic that, once given enough space, will never stop growing. Over the past ten years, Shan Wuda
{"title":"Crocodile (E Yu) by Mo Yan (review)","authors":"Min Zhang","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910272","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910272","url":null,"abstract":"Reviewed by: Crocodile (E Yu) by Mo Yan Zhang Min MO YAN Crocodile (E Yu) Hangzhou. Zhejiang Literature and Art Publishing House. 2023. 197 pages. NOBEL LAUREATE MO YAN once swore in front of the Shakespeare statue in Stratford upon Avon to take advantage of the rest of his life to focus on the transition from novelist to playwright. The publication of his latest drama, E Yu (Crocodile), can be read as a brilliant delivery on that promise. During this process, as a successor to the oral literary tradition, Mo Yan continues to use comic styles in language, sometimes mixed with Chinese limericks and slang, contributing to the black humor of this play. Drama has always played an important role in Mo Yan's writing. Whether his debut work, Divorce (an unpublished play), or the dramatic elements in some novels, such as the interaction between traditional Chinese dramatic structures and novelistic text in Frog, it is no surprise to find that playwriting stems from his interests, rather than an alternate route he has taken in desperation. Just as Mo Yan admitted, \"playwriting has been my dream for years. I do have a distinct understanding toward it. Besides, it is really enjoyable for the playwright to watch his plays performed on the stage.\" Crocodile revolves around a corrupt government official who subverts these legitimate governmental processes, misspends the public's money, and finally escapes to another country. Its anticorruption consciousness not only keeps up to date with social developments but also contains unique cultural connotations, representing a rational reflection of the responsible writer on the cultural values related to government officials. Despite being rarely seen on the contemporary Chinese stage, this theme is familiar to the audience who has read Mo Yan's novel The Republic of Wine. Mo Yan insists that \"writing is not on behalf of ordinary people, but as ordinary people.\" It is worth noting that these down-to-earth experiences of sorting out files in the procuratorate and interviewing prosecutors provides him with much inspiration for this creation. Mo Yan examines many characters like intellectuals, officials, and businessmen through the lens of folk values. Shan Wudan, a dissociated defector, frequently mentions his concern for common people. Due to the fact that he sprang from peasant stock, this former mayor has a clear understanding about where political power comes from, thus frequently emphasizing the significance of the masses, pointing out that \"there are some things unknown to God, but there is nothing unknown to ordinary people.\" The more compelling aspect of the play involves the crocodile being able to talk. Just like Eugène Ionesco's Rhinoceros, the metaphor of animal here serves to highlight the alienation of human nature. As the embodiment of greedy human beings, the crocodile is confined to a tank with the characteristic that, once given enough space, will never stop growing. Over the past ten years, Shan Wuda","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"151 2","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161442","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910254
Mirja Lanz
They Flew by Night Mirja Lanz (bio) Translated by Catherine Venner (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 26] I. Northward January 2, Arrival By night they flew, korvat kuin korpit, ears like ravens, who hear a bark. They listened to the forest rustling; to the storms in the woods. Crowns of conifers, webs of branches bustling in the dark. Over the continent webs lustred while the earth was asleep. Northward the ravens followed linnunrataa, the pathway of the birds in the night sky. They did not see a skylark in the comet's splattered stream, nor half a finch in the stardust. No whisper of a wagtail in the cosmic whirl, not even a swallow's wing in the galactic sweep. Ears like a raven, who hears a bark. The ravens did not turn back. On the same night, Aava booked a flight in the internet's pale glow. The plane thundered along electronic routes over shores and seas. Aava landed on the runway, and so she traveled directly onward, in a train. Tammikuu, January It was a land of wealds and water through which Aava traveled in a train, on a winter's day so windless that it appeared as if through a liquid lens. The rail lines followed shorelines northward. Lakes reposed in tangled bosks. Shores appeared and disappeared. The rail lines steered the train through the afternoon. In the smooth water, a reflection of the woods. World and netherworld met each other on the strand: maa and manala. Janus-faced, about-faced. [End Page 27] In the window glass Aava's face ghosted like a gauze. Veil-like, it glided across the land. Her cheeks sweeping through fir trees. The corners of her mouth sinking into the silent seam of the shores. Aava felt soft as silk on that afternoon, in a train. In H., the cold wrapped itself around her. She yanked her suitcase away, away from the station up the hill to the hotel. The suitcase's rollers rattling. Darkness from the trees penetrated the pools of light from the lamps. The walkway wound in the incline beneath her numb feet, where the night had already sunk its teeth. Aava stabbed a slender key into the room door. She slid the leaden lock. The suitcase swept over the threshold onto the carmine carpet. The carpet swallowing her steps. The window watched her while the furniture withdrew. Aava sat in the seat. For how long? Silence settled over her. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my elders' eye. The place that drove my grandfathers from their beds at night when the fish were biting. I'm seeking a spot where rings ripple over still water and hooks hang in the deep. I'm not journeying into the unknown. I'm journeying to my ancestors' home. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my mind's eye, Aava said to the cold twin on the other side of the window. Two nights later, a thin sheet of ice sealed lakes, bays, and shores. The water was gone. The harbormaster recorded the date. The cold spread. Sheet by sheet, it fed the thin ice. The ice thickened and awoke with a snap. It stretched, shivered, and strengthened ag
他们在夜间飞行Mirja Lanz(传记)翻译Catherine Venner(传记)点击查看大图查看全分辨率[结束页26]1月2日，向北到达他们在夜间飞行，korvat kuin korpit，耳朵像乌鸦，谁听到吠叫。他们听着森林的沙沙声;树林里的暴风雨。针叶树的冠，树枝的网在黑暗中忙碌。大地沉睡的时候，大陆上的网在发光。乌鸦沿着林努拉塔向北，林努拉塔是夜晚天空中鸟儿的路径。他们没有看到彗星溅起的溪水里有一只云雀，也没有看到星尘里有半只雀。在宇宙的旋涡中没有摇尾的低语，在银河的扫掠中甚至没有燕子的翅膀。耳朵像乌鸦，能听到叫声。乌鸦们没有回头。当天晚上，Aava在互联网的微弱光芒中预订了一张机票。飞机沿着电子线路轰隆隆地飞越海岸和海洋。艾娃降落在跑道上，于是她坐着火车直接往前走。塔米库，一月，这是一片充满了田野和水的土地，阿瓦坐着火车经过这里，那是一个无风的冬日，就像透过液体透镜一样。铁路线沿着海岸线向北延伸。湖泊在错综复杂的丛书中休息。海岸出现了又消失了。铁路引导着火车行驶了整个下午。在平静的水面上，树林的倒影。人间和冥界在沙滩上相遇:玛阿和玛纳拉。口是心非的,大变脸。在窗玻璃上，艾娃的脸像纱布一样模糊。它像面纱一样在陆地上滑行。她的脸颊掠过冷杉树丛。她的嘴角沉入寂静的海岸。那天下午，在火车上，艾娃感到柔软如丝。在H，寒冷包围着她。她拖着行李箱离开车站，上山去旅馆。旅行箱的滚轮嘎吱作响。树林里的黑暗穿透了灯火的亮光。人行道在她麻木的脚下的斜坡上蜿蜒着，黑夜已经把它的牙齿咬了下去。艾娃把一把细长的钥匙刺进房门。她撬开铅制的锁。手提箱越过门槛，落在胭脂红的地毯上。地毯吞没了她的脚步。家具退了出去，窗户看着她。艾娃坐在座位上。要多久?寂静笼罩了她。我在寻找长辈眼中的渔场。这个地方在鱼儿上钩的夜里把我的祖父们从床上赶了出来。我在找一个地方，那里的环在静止的水面上泛起涟漪，钩子挂在深处。我不会去未知的地方旅行。我要去我祖先的家。“我在寻找我心灵之眼的渔场，”艾娃对窗户另一边冰冷的双胞胎说。两晚之后，一层薄薄的冰封住了湖泊、海湾和海岸。水没了。港务长记录了日期。感冒蔓延开来。它一层一层地滋养着薄冰。冰变厚了，啪的一声惊醒了。它伸展着，颤抖着，又加强了。每一天，它都变得更深，有一小段时间，它把远处太阳的光辉反射回天空。白色的形体在黑色的冰面上编织:分叉、手指状、喙状的形状和线条，预示着缓慢的、无处不在的霜冻。在清晨的黑暗中，商人们迈着沉重的脚步匆匆穿过旅馆的走廊，穿过艾娃半睡半醒的状态。天渐渐亮了，艾娃下楼去吃早饭，但吸尘器已经在餐厅里发出刺耳的声音了。当艾娃走进酒馆时，午饭已经被清理干净了。下午，当她裹得严严实实地站在旅馆外面寒冷的空气中散步时，太阳已经下山了。黄昏像一个拉绳袋聚集在一起;白天变成了黑夜。Aava忍受。她啪的一声把灯打开。窗外的墙壁和家具从霜冻中显露出来。这个房间把一个侧房变成了……
{"title":"They Flew by Night","authors":"Mirja Lanz","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910254","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910254","url":null,"abstract":"They Flew by Night Mirja Lanz (bio) Translated by Catherine Venner (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 26] I. Northward January 2, Arrival By night they flew, korvat kuin korpit, ears like ravens, who hear a bark. They listened to the forest rustling; to the storms in the woods. Crowns of conifers, webs of branches bustling in the dark. Over the continent webs lustred while the earth was asleep. Northward the ravens followed linnunrataa, the pathway of the birds in the night sky. They did not see a skylark in the comet's splattered stream, nor half a finch in the stardust. No whisper of a wagtail in the cosmic whirl, not even a swallow's wing in the galactic sweep. Ears like a raven, who hears a bark. The ravens did not turn back. On the same night, Aava booked a flight in the internet's pale glow. The plane thundered along electronic routes over shores and seas. Aava landed on the runway, and so she traveled directly onward, in a train. Tammikuu, January It was a land of wealds and water through which Aava traveled in a train, on a winter's day so windless that it appeared as if through a liquid lens. The rail lines followed shorelines northward. Lakes reposed in tangled bosks. Shores appeared and disappeared. The rail lines steered the train through the afternoon. In the smooth water, a reflection of the woods. World and netherworld met each other on the strand: maa and manala. Janus-faced, about-faced. [End Page 27] In the window glass Aava's face ghosted like a gauze. Veil-like, it glided across the land. Her cheeks sweeping through fir trees. The corners of her mouth sinking into the silent seam of the shores. Aava felt soft as silk on that afternoon, in a train. In H., the cold wrapped itself around her. She yanked her suitcase away, away from the station up the hill to the hotel. The suitcase's rollers rattling. Darkness from the trees penetrated the pools of light from the lamps. The walkway wound in the incline beneath her numb feet, where the night had already sunk its teeth. Aava stabbed a slender key into the room door. She slid the leaden lock. The suitcase swept over the threshold onto the carmine carpet. The carpet swallowing her steps. The window watched her while the furniture withdrew. Aava sat in the seat. For how long? Silence settled over her. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my elders' eye. The place that drove my grandfathers from their beds at night when the fish were biting. I'm seeking a spot where rings ripple over still water and hooks hang in the deep. I'm not journeying into the unknown. I'm journeying to my ancestors' home. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my mind's eye, Aava said to the cold twin on the other side of the window. Two nights later, a thin sheet of ice sealed lakes, bays, and shores. The water was gone. The harbormaster recorded the date. The cold spread. Sheet by sheet, it fed the thin ice. The ice thickened and awoke with a snap. It stretched, shivered, and strengthened ag","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"142 6","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135160991","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910265
Erik Gleibermann
Traveling Mexico City's Body by Metro Erik Gleibermann (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo courtesy of Eve Orea http://Shutterstock.com Speeding on a packed rush-hour Metrobus from La Bombilla (Lightbulb) station for Chilpancingo (Wasp), I suddenly imagined myself as one of countless urban particles carrying this city's vital energies. The Metro lines are indeed Mexico City's neural pathways. Across 195 underground, 270 street-level, and two aerial stations, the Metro unifies twenty-two million Chilangos into a single body, as the subsidized $.29 fare allows them, regardless of income, to freely travel the vast network. As they do, the Metro transmits collective arousal, pain, memory, even messages to heal. The Metro holds consciousness. It preserves memory. In a city world-famous for museums, the Metro is a living museum. When station Pino Suárez was under construction before the system opened in 1969, workers excavated a cylindrical temple dedicated to Ehécatl, the wind god. Many other stations also express ancient history and Indigenous myth. Cuitláhuac portrays the warrior brother of Moctezuma, who briefly held off Spanish subjugators before the fall of Tenochtitlán. Mixiuhca honors the ritual island once located nearby where women gave birth in ancient times. Like Mixiuhca, which is represented by a white pictogram of a woman holding a newborn, every station has its own distinctive white icon telling a tiny cultural story. The graphic symbols appear on station walls, inside the carriages, and on network maps. Together, they comprise a playful cartography of the city's soul. On my first ride to the Roma district I passed through Theater of the Insurgents, represented by a curved, white hand delicately holding [End Page 47] what I first imagined to be a pearl between thumb and forefinger. When I looked up the meaning online, I learned the icon is actually a minimalist rendition of an image in Diego Rivera's mural on the nearby Teatro, a hand cradling the eye of a figure in masquerade. The Obrera (Worker) station icon of a hard hat surrounded by rotating gears presaged one excursion I made that revealed a striking class contrast. After my first week in the city, I'd developed a genteel ritual of riding Metrobús línea 1 from the university district where I was staying to tree-lined Roma. I'd settle in at Cafebrería el Péndulo, a spacious three-story bookstore café, order a mocha, and write longhand in my journal. One morning I scribbled initial impressions for this postcard. Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Javier Santos Guzmán on Unsplash But on another morning I took a more muscular excursion for a research task in a working-class district out near Benito Juárez airport. At the Pantitlán transfer point around 7am, I found myself in a mass boarding scramble. I girded my forearms at the chest, elbows bent out, and surged in with the urgent crowd of almost all men, the majority of faces bearing strong Indigen
墨西哥城的身体旅行Erik Gleibermann(生物)点击查看大图查看全分辨率图片由Eve Orea提供http://Shutterstock.com在拥挤的高峰时间，我从La Bombilla(灯泡)站超速行驶到Chilpancingo(黄蜂)，我突然想象自己是无数城市粒子中的一个，承载着这个城市的重要能量。地铁线路确实是墨西哥城的神经通路。地铁横跨195个地下车站、270个街道车站和两个空中车站，将2200万名奇兰戈斯(Chilangos)统一为一个整体。29的票价使他们无论收入如何，都可以自由地在庞大的铁路网络中旅行。在此过程中，地铁传递了集体觉醒，痛苦，记忆，甚至是治愈的信息。地铁拥有意识。它能保存记忆。在一个以博物馆闻名的城市，地铁就是一座活的博物馆。在1969年系统开通之前，皮诺站Suárez正在建设中，工人们挖掘了一个圆柱形的寺庙，供奉风神伊姆萨卡特。许多其他电台也表达古代历史和土著神话。Cuitláhuac描绘了蒙特祖玛的战士兄弟，他在Tenochtitlán沦陷之前短暂地击退了西班牙征服者。美秀岛是古代妇女生育的地方附近的一个仪式岛。就像Mixiuhca一样，每个车站都有自己独特的白色图标，讲述着一个小小的文化故事。这些图形符号出现在车站墙壁、车厢内部和网络地图上。它们共同构成了一幅有趣的城市灵魂地图。我第一次坐车去罗马区时，路过了起义军剧院(Theater of the rebels)，那里有一只弯曲的、白色的手，细腻地握着我最初想象中的大拇指和食指之间的一颗珍珠。当我在网上查找它的含义时，我了解到这个图标实际上是迭戈·里维拉(Diego Rivera)在附近剧院(Teatro)壁画上的一幅图像的极简主义版本，那是一只手托着一个戴假面舞的人物的眼睛。奥布雷拉(工人)站的标志是一顶被旋转齿轮包围的安全帽，预示着我所做的一次短途旅行，揭示了一个惊人的阶级对比。在我来到这个城市的第一个星期之后，我养成了一种优雅的习惯:从我住的大学区骑车Metrobús línea 1到绿树成荫的罗马。我会在Cafebrería el pembrodulo(一家宽敞的三层咖啡厅)书店安顿下来，点一杯摩卡，手写日记。一天早上，我草草写下了这张明信片的初步印象。点击查看大图查看全分辨率图片由Javier Santos Guzmán on Unsplash但是在另一个早晨，为了一项研究任务，我在贝尼托Juárez机场附近的一个工人阶级区进行了一次更为肌肉发达的短途旅行。早上7点左右，在Pantitlán转机点，我发现自己陷入了大规模的登机混乱中。我把前臂束在胸前，弯着胳膊肘，和那群几乎全是男人的急迫人群挤在一起，大多数人的脸上都有明显的土著特征。我们一动不动地站在车里，竖着的雪茄堆在一个振动的盒子里。我戴着黑色的新冠口罩，对旁边那个额头上满是汗水的人低声说:“你能帮我从爱国者报下车吗?”他的额头离我只有9英寸远。他点了点头。虽然觉得很有趣，但我也感到不安，因为我的下半身被他的大腿压得动弹不得。我一直在研究性骚扰和性侵犯在地铁上是一个多么严重的问题。进步的市政府试图解决这一问题，他们设立了专门的女性专用汽车和车站，并设置了单独的等候区，以典型的粉红色为重点。在一次拥挤的上下班路上，我站在粉色分界线外几英尺的地方，注意到旁边的车厢里有一位戴着太阳镜的妇女在看《Prensa》，另一位正在给她年幼的儿子整理夹克(12岁以下的孩子也可以进去)。虽然这些可选的地铁安全空间代表了公众对遏制性别暴力的承诺，但它们也清醒地提醒了奇兰戈斯，这个问题是多么持久。el femicidio这个词的意思是谋杀一个女人，因为她是女人。我是在抗议中看到的……
{"title":"Traveling Mexico City's Body by Metro","authors":"Erik Gleibermann","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910265","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910265","url":null,"abstract":"Traveling Mexico City's Body by Metro Erik Gleibermann (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo courtesy of Eve Orea http://Shutterstock.com Speeding on a packed rush-hour Metrobus from La Bombilla (Lightbulb) station for Chilpancingo (Wasp), I suddenly imagined myself as one of countless urban particles carrying this city's vital energies. The Metro lines are indeed Mexico City's neural pathways. Across 195 underground, 270 street-level, and two aerial stations, the Metro unifies twenty-two million Chilangos into a single body, as the subsidized $.29 fare allows them, regardless of income, to freely travel the vast network. As they do, the Metro transmits collective arousal, pain, memory, even messages to heal. The Metro holds consciousness. It preserves memory. In a city world-famous for museums, the Metro is a living museum. When station Pino Suárez was under construction before the system opened in 1969, workers excavated a cylindrical temple dedicated to Ehécatl, the wind god. Many other stations also express ancient history and Indigenous myth. Cuitláhuac portrays the warrior brother of Moctezuma, who briefly held off Spanish subjugators before the fall of Tenochtitlán. Mixiuhca honors the ritual island once located nearby where women gave birth in ancient times. Like Mixiuhca, which is represented by a white pictogram of a woman holding a newborn, every station has its own distinctive white icon telling a tiny cultural story. The graphic symbols appear on station walls, inside the carriages, and on network maps. Together, they comprise a playful cartography of the city's soul. On my first ride to the Roma district I passed through Theater of the Insurgents, represented by a curved, white hand delicately holding [End Page 47] what I first imagined to be a pearl between thumb and forefinger. When I looked up the meaning online, I learned the icon is actually a minimalist rendition of an image in Diego Rivera's mural on the nearby Teatro, a hand cradling the eye of a figure in masquerade. The Obrera (Worker) station icon of a hard hat surrounded by rotating gears presaged one excursion I made that revealed a striking class contrast. After my first week in the city, I'd developed a genteel ritual of riding Metrobús línea 1 from the university district where I was staying to tree-lined Roma. I'd settle in at Cafebrería el Péndulo, a spacious three-story bookstore café, order a mocha, and write longhand in my journal. One morning I scribbled initial impressions for this postcard. Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Javier Santos Guzmán on Unsplash But on another morning I took a more muscular excursion for a research task in a working-class district out near Benito Juárez airport. At the Pantitlán transfer point around 7am, I found myself in a mass boarding scramble. I girded my forearms at the chest, elbows bent out, and surged in with the urgent crowd of almost all men, the majority of faces bearing strong Indigen","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"146 2","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161327","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910296
Susan Blumberg-Kason
Reviewed by: Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair by Rosa Lowinger Susan Blumberg-Kason Rosa Lowinger Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair New York. Row House. 2023. 339 pages. IN THE FIELD OF ART conservation, the term "dwell time" describes the time in which it takes for a cleaning product to work on a targeted material. As art conservator Rosa Lowinger writes in her new book, Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair, the term can also refer, for instance, to the duration one lives in a certain place or waits to get into a country. Lowinger covers these issues, namely her early childhood in Havana, her family's exile, and her return to Cuba as an adult, all while recounting her stellar rise in art conservation. Lowinger's family roots in Cuba do not go back very far—about four decades—yet her parents fully embraced Cuban culture. They spoke Spanish at home, even decades after they went into exile in Miami. Lowinger's mother, Hilda, was named after Caridad, the patron saint of Cuba. Her father, Leonardo, was called Lindy and was also born in Cuba. Both sets of grandparents, however, were Romanian Jews born in the old country. In the 1920s, it wasn't unusual for eastern European Jews to yearn for a better life in goldene medinah, the Yiddish term for the golden land of the United States, but restrictive, xenophobic immigration laws made it much more difficult for Jews to enter Ellis Island than had been possible a couple decades earlier around the turn of the century. It was easier in the 1920s to get to Cuba, which was rarely viewed as a final destination and instead a stepping stone to the US as travel between those two countries was frequent and easy. Jews who landed in Havana usually made it to the US within six months. Lowinger's grandfathers on both sides were the exception and stayed in Cuba. Life was not easy, but not because Cuba wasn't a refuge for Jews, both Ashkenazi and Sephardic. Lowinger's maternal grandmother died three weeks after giving birth to her mother, Hilda. Relatives took in Hilda for several years but couldn't take care of her for the long term. They sent young Hilda to a Jewish orphanage in Cuba that was part of an Ashkenazi women's home at a time when she was just old enough to start forming lasting memories. She never got over the abandonment of her deceased mother and the father who could not take care of her. These abandonment issues would affect the way Hilda treated her daughter and husband, often hitting Lowinger in front of friends and threatening to leave her husband, Lindy. Lowinger likens her family drama to the different materials she works with as an art conservator, and she names each chapter in her memoir after one of these materials. As she writes in the beginning of her book, conservation is the art of understanding damage, whether it's in a painting, mural, fresco, statue, or building. In the chapter on plastic, Lowinger points out that this material is unique because it is re
{"title":"Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair by Rosa Lowinger (review)","authors":"Susan Blumberg-Kason","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910296","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910296","url":null,"abstract":"Reviewed by: Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair by Rosa Lowinger Susan Blumberg-Kason Rosa Lowinger Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair New York. Row House. 2023. 339 pages. IN THE FIELD OF ART conservation, the term \"dwell time\" describes the time in which it takes for a cleaning product to work on a targeted material. As art conservator Rosa Lowinger writes in her new book, Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair, the term can also refer, for instance, to the duration one lives in a certain place or waits to get into a country. Lowinger covers these issues, namely her early childhood in Havana, her family's exile, and her return to Cuba as an adult, all while recounting her stellar rise in art conservation. Lowinger's family roots in Cuba do not go back very far—about four decades—yet her parents fully embraced Cuban culture. They spoke Spanish at home, even decades after they went into exile in Miami. Lowinger's mother, Hilda, was named after Caridad, the patron saint of Cuba. Her father, Leonardo, was called Lindy and was also born in Cuba. Both sets of grandparents, however, were Romanian Jews born in the old country. In the 1920s, it wasn't unusual for eastern European Jews to yearn for a better life in goldene medinah, the Yiddish term for the golden land of the United States, but restrictive, xenophobic immigration laws made it much more difficult for Jews to enter Ellis Island than had been possible a couple decades earlier around the turn of the century. It was easier in the 1920s to get to Cuba, which was rarely viewed as a final destination and instead a stepping stone to the US as travel between those two countries was frequent and easy. Jews who landed in Havana usually made it to the US within six months. Lowinger's grandfathers on both sides were the exception and stayed in Cuba. Life was not easy, but not because Cuba wasn't a refuge for Jews, both Ashkenazi and Sephardic. Lowinger's maternal grandmother died three weeks after giving birth to her mother, Hilda. Relatives took in Hilda for several years but couldn't take care of her for the long term. They sent young Hilda to a Jewish orphanage in Cuba that was part of an Ashkenazi women's home at a time when she was just old enough to start forming lasting memories. She never got over the abandonment of her deceased mother and the father who could not take care of her. These abandonment issues would affect the way Hilda treated her daughter and husband, often hitting Lowinger in front of friends and threatening to leave her husband, Lindy. Lowinger likens her family drama to the different materials she works with as an art conservator, and she names each chapter in her memoir after one of these materials. As she writes in the beginning of her book, conservation is the art of understanding damage, whether it's in a painting, mural, fresco, statue, or building. In the chapter on plastic, Lowinger points out that this material is unique because it is re","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"150 5","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161445","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910280
Colleen Lutz Clemens
Reviewed by: The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff Colleen Lutz Clemens PARINI SHROFF The Bandit Queens New York. Ballantine Books. 2023. 352 pages. PARINI SHROFF'S DEBUT novel, The Bandit Queens, uses the story of Phoolan Devi (the "Bandit Queen") as a vehicle to consider the violence women endure when at the mercy of patriarchal cultural structures—and what means are available to them to resist such violence. The protagonist, Geeta, has been living for years as a perceived "childless churrel-cum-murderess" after the disappearance of her husband, Ramesh. The stigma and fear attached to her has allowed her a mobility and invisibility that she has come to appreciate. Societal gender norms are not imposed upon her, a cypher who is not quite cast out of the community. Geeta is part of a community of women who have taken microloans to create their own businesses. The women do not particularly like Geeta, but when Farah, the only Muslim woman in their community, misses her payment, Geeta covers the cost. When Geeta sees Farah's bruises, she knows that the latter's husband has once again physically abused his wife. Farah, assuming Geeta killed her own husband, asks for Geeta's help in ending her abuse by killing her husband. When the local widower Karem invites Geeta into the city with him (little does he know she is there to purchase materials to murder the abusive husband), their encounter with an organized crime family leads to Geeta finding herself in danger and, moreover, the owner of a blind dog she aptly names Bandit in honor of her hero. Geeta and Farah's darkly comedic journey of finding a way to kill the husband successfully begins a Phoolan Devi-esque vendetta against the violent husbands of the women in the microloan group. In their homes, the women have suffered from acid burns, marital rape, financial ruin, and physical abuse—meanwhile, young girls are being assaulted as they use the newly installed public bathrooms. The group of Bandit Queens finds that the only way they can end their terrors is to end the lives of their tormentors, even though they acknowledge that the systemic violence will only change when the patriarchal norms unravel in rural India. The perceived impossibility of women enacting such crimes enables them to do just that. As Saloni, Geeta's childhood friend, reminds her, "Because we are middle-aged housewives. Who's more invisible than us? We can get away with murder." And they do. Shroff is careful to complicate Devi's actions as Geeta continues to wonder about Devi's life and motivations. While Geeta has a simplistic view of the Bandit Queen early in the novel—she has a photo of Devi in her room as inspiration—by the end and through her own journey of being forced to use violence to survive in a patriarchy, Geeta has situated Devi within a larger cultural context that asks the reader to consider what needs to happen at a structural level in order for women to find safety and liberation. Colleen Lutz Clemens Kutztown Uni
{"title":"The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff (review)","authors":"Colleen Lutz Clemens","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910280","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910280","url":null,"abstract":"Reviewed by: The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff Colleen Lutz Clemens PARINI SHROFF The Bandit Queens New York. Ballantine Books. 2023. 352 pages. PARINI SHROFF'S DEBUT novel, The Bandit Queens, uses the story of Phoolan Devi (the \"Bandit Queen\") as a vehicle to consider the violence women endure when at the mercy of patriarchal cultural structures—and what means are available to them to resist such violence. The protagonist, Geeta, has been living for years as a perceived \"childless churrel-cum-murderess\" after the disappearance of her husband, Ramesh. The stigma and fear attached to her has allowed her a mobility and invisibility that she has come to appreciate. Societal gender norms are not imposed upon her, a cypher who is not quite cast out of the community. Geeta is part of a community of women who have taken microloans to create their own businesses. The women do not particularly like Geeta, but when Farah, the only Muslim woman in their community, misses her payment, Geeta covers the cost. When Geeta sees Farah's bruises, she knows that the latter's husband has once again physically abused his wife. Farah, assuming Geeta killed her own husband, asks for Geeta's help in ending her abuse by killing her husband. When the local widower Karem invites Geeta into the city with him (little does he know she is there to purchase materials to murder the abusive husband), their encounter with an organized crime family leads to Geeta finding herself in danger and, moreover, the owner of a blind dog she aptly names Bandit in honor of her hero. Geeta and Farah's darkly comedic journey of finding a way to kill the husband successfully begins a Phoolan Devi-esque vendetta against the violent husbands of the women in the microloan group. In their homes, the women have suffered from acid burns, marital rape, financial ruin, and physical abuse—meanwhile, young girls are being assaulted as they use the newly installed public bathrooms. The group of Bandit Queens finds that the only way they can end their terrors is to end the lives of their tormentors, even though they acknowledge that the systemic violence will only change when the patriarchal norms unravel in rural India. The perceived impossibility of women enacting such crimes enables them to do just that. As Saloni, Geeta's childhood friend, reminds her, \"Because we are middle-aged housewives. Who's more invisible than us? We can get away with murder.\" And they do. Shroff is careful to complicate Devi's actions as Geeta continues to wonder about Devi's life and motivations. While Geeta has a simplistic view of the Bandit Queen early in the novel—she has a photo of Devi in her room as inspiration—by the end and through her own journey of being forced to use violence to survive in a patriarchy, Geeta has situated Devi within a larger cultural context that asks the reader to consider what needs to happen at a structural level in order for women to find safety and liberation. Colleen Lutz Clemens Kutztown Uni","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"142 5","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135160992","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910253
Michelle Johnson, Etaf Rum
7 Questions for Etaf Rum Michelle Johnson (bio) and Etaf Rum (bio) In Etaf Rum's second novel, Evil Eye, a young Palestinian American artist and mother of two contends with the effects of intergenerational trauma and her complicated relationship with her mother. While centering mental health, the novel illustrates the value of therapy and the power of having one good friend. Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Angela Blankenship Q As the owner of Books and Beans in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, you're a bookseller as well as an author. You're also a Book of the Month Club Ambassador. What new books are you most excited about? If you were curating a box of books for our readers, what would be in it? A New releases I'm most excited about include Ann Patchett's Tom Lake, Jean Kwok's The Leftover Woman, Melissa Rivero's Flores and Miss Paula, and Susan Muaddi Darraj's Behind You Is the Sea. If I were curating a box of books for your readers, it would include Toni Morrison's Beloved, Nawal El Saadawi's Woman at Point Zero, Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, and Michael A. Singer's The Untethered Soul. Q Yara, the protagonist of Evil Eye, is teaching a class called Responding to Art at a college in North Carolina and attempting, against some resistance, to expand the syllabus beyond the European impressionists. Would you share an artist or two who should be better known? A Palestinian artist Raeda Saadeh, whose work often focuses on issues of displacement and identity, particularly how the lives of Palestinian women have been impacted by the Israeli occupation. Moroccan photographer Lalla Essaydi, whose work focuses on Arab female identity, commenting on the way women are frequently seen as merely decorative objects (see WLT, March 2013, 62). Q In Evil Eye, you paint a beautiful picture of fall in North Carolina. Where are your favorite spots in the state for inspiration? A Thank you. Some of my favorite spots in the state to get lost in include driving along Blue Ridge Parkway, which is truly one of the most scenic and breathtaking drives in the country; hiking along the trails, waterfalls, and peaks of Hanging Rock State Park; and (my favorite) walking along the miles and miles of pristine, undeveloped, and quaint beaches of Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks. [End Page 24] Q Evil Eye is rich in food description, and the pictures of food from @booksandbeans make me hungry (that lentil soup looks amazing). Are you a foodie? If you're having a dinner party, what does that look like? A Yes, I'm definitely a foodie. Hosting and cooking for friends and family helps me feel closer to my roots as a Palestinian woman. To honor my heritage at a dinner party, I would include stuffed grape leaves, beef kebabs, cheese and zaatar pastries, homemade hummus, tabbouleh, baked eggplant with tahini and pine nuts, and, of course, spiced basmati rice with toasted almonds and a generous dollop of tzatz
在埃塔夫·拉姆的第二部小说《邪恶之眼》中，一位年轻的巴勒斯坦裔美国艺术家、两个孩子的母亲与代际创伤的影响以及她与母亲的复杂关系作斗争。小说以心理健康为中心，说明了治疗的价值和拥有一个好朋友的力量。点击查看大图查看全分辨率图片来源:安吉拉·布兰肯希普Q作为北卡罗来纳州落基山一家书店的老板，你既是一名作家，也是一名书商。你还是每月之书俱乐部的大使。你最感兴趣的新书是什么?如果你要为我们的读者策划一箱书，里面会有什么?最令我兴奋的新片包括安·帕切特的《汤姆·莱克》、郭富城的《剩女》、梅丽莎·里韦罗的《弗洛雷斯和宝拉小姐》，以及苏珊·穆阿迪·达拉杰的《你身后是海》。如果我要为你们的读者准备一箱书，我会包括托妮·莫里森的《宠儿》、纳瓦尔·萨达维的《零点的女人》、拉尔夫·埃里森的《看不见的人》、西尔维娅·普拉斯的《钟形罩》、保罗·科埃略的《炼金术士》和迈克尔·辛格的《被解放的灵魂》。《恶眼》的主人公Q Yara正在北卡罗来纳州的一所大学教授一门名为“回应艺术”(Responding to Art)的课程，并试图克服一些阻力，将教学大纲扩展到欧洲印象派之外。你能分享一两个应该更出名的艺术家吗?巴勒斯坦艺术家Raeda Saadeh，她的作品经常关注流离失所和身份问题，特别是巴勒斯坦妇女的生活如何受到以色列占领的影响。摩洛哥摄影师Lalla Essaydi，她的作品关注阿拉伯女性身份，评论女性经常被视为仅仅是装饰品的方式(见WLT, 2013年3月，62)。问:在《邪恶之眼》中，你描绘了一幅美丽的北卡罗莱纳州秋天的画面。你最喜欢在这个州的哪些地方寻找灵感?A谢谢你。在这个州，我最喜欢迷路的地方包括沿着蓝岭公园路开车，这是这个国家风景最优美、最令人惊叹的开车路线之一;沿着悬岩州立公园的小径、瀑布和山峰徒步旅行;还有(我最喜欢的)沿着外滩奥克拉科克岛(Ocracoke Island)绵延数英里的原始、未开发、古色古香的海滩散步。Q Evil Eye有丰富的食物描述，@booksandbeans上的食物图片让我很饿(那个扁豆汤看起来很赞)。你是吃货吗?如果你要举办一个晚宴，那是什么样的呢?A是的，我绝对是个吃货。招待朋友和家人，为他们做饭，这让我感觉更接近我作为巴勒斯坦妇女的根源。在晚宴上，为了纪念我的传统，我会包括葡萄叶馅、牛肉串、奶酪和扎塔尔糕点、自制鹰嘴豆泥、塔博勒沙拉、烤茄子配芝麻酱和松子，当然，还有香喷喷的印度香米配烤杏仁和一大团酸奶。问:我们似乎被一连串的坏消息困住了。你的两部小说都涉及严肃的主题，比如家庭暴力，但仍然充满希望。在最黑暗的日子里，是什么让你振作起来?是什么让你保持希望?好书、音乐和艺术让我充满希望，也让我相信，无论是个人还是整个社会，积极的变化确实是可能的。问:如果你能让每个美国人都阅读另一位作者的一本书，并讨论这本书，你会选哪本书，为什么?埃克哈特·托尔的《当下的力量》。这本专注于正念的书改变了我。它教导我们活在当下的重要性，这样才能获得更充实的生活，超越自我，获得内心的平静。我怎么推荐这本书都不为过。问:最近有哪些文化产品或趋势引起了你的注意?A对“过去的好时光”的强烈怀念，我们如何倾向于在过去寻求庇护，以及最近对90年代的迷恋……
{"title":"7 Questions for Etaf Rum","authors":"Michelle Johnson, Etaf Rum","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910253","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910253","url":null,"abstract":"7 Questions for Etaf Rum Michelle Johnson (bio) and Etaf Rum (bio) In Etaf Rum's second novel, Evil Eye, a young Palestinian American artist and mother of two contends with the effects of intergenerational trauma and her complicated relationship with her mother. While centering mental health, the novel illustrates the value of therapy and the power of having one good friend. Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Angela Blankenship Q As the owner of Books and Beans in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, you're a bookseller as well as an author. You're also a Book of the Month Club Ambassador. What new books are you most excited about? If you were curating a box of books for our readers, what would be in it? A New releases I'm most excited about include Ann Patchett's Tom Lake, Jean Kwok's The Leftover Woman, Melissa Rivero's Flores and Miss Paula, and Susan Muaddi Darraj's Behind You Is the Sea. If I were curating a box of books for your readers, it would include Toni Morrison's Beloved, Nawal El Saadawi's Woman at Point Zero, Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, and Michael A. Singer's The Untethered Soul. Q Yara, the protagonist of Evil Eye, is teaching a class called Responding to Art at a college in North Carolina and attempting, against some resistance, to expand the syllabus beyond the European impressionists. Would you share an artist or two who should be better known? A Palestinian artist Raeda Saadeh, whose work often focuses on issues of displacement and identity, particularly how the lives of Palestinian women have been impacted by the Israeli occupation. Moroccan photographer Lalla Essaydi, whose work focuses on Arab female identity, commenting on the way women are frequently seen as merely decorative objects (see WLT, March 2013, 62). Q In Evil Eye, you paint a beautiful picture of fall in North Carolina. Where are your favorite spots in the state for inspiration? A Thank you. Some of my favorite spots in the state to get lost in include driving along Blue Ridge Parkway, which is truly one of the most scenic and breathtaking drives in the country; hiking along the trails, waterfalls, and peaks of Hanging Rock State Park; and (my favorite) walking along the miles and miles of pristine, undeveloped, and quaint beaches of Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks. [End Page 24] Q Evil Eye is rich in food description, and the pictures of food from @booksandbeans make me hungry (that lentil soup looks amazing). Are you a foodie? If you're having a dinner party, what does that look like? A Yes, I'm definitely a foodie. Hosting and cooking for friends and family helps me feel closer to my roots as a Palestinian woman. To honor my heritage at a dinner party, I would include stuffed grape leaves, beef kebabs, cheese and zaatar pastries, homemade hummus, tabbouleh, baked eggplant with tahini and pine nuts, and, of course, spiced basmati rice with toasted almonds and a generous dollop of tzatz","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"145 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161191","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-11-01DOI: 10.1353/wlt.2023.a910256
Lana Spendl
Weekend House Lana Spendl (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution A refugee from the Bosnian War, Lana Spendl recalls family weekends in the country outside of Sarajevo: her friend with one cow, her grandmother's garden, butterflies, and her father's Bosanski lonac. Some weekends we escaped our apartment in Sarajevo for our vikendica in the country. The white, red-roofed house stood on a long concrete slab, with one end serving as the driveway. Periodically, we'd fill the partitions of the driveway with fresh tar and my head would swim with pleasure. My dad taught me that in some places on the globe—a globe that expanded with sights and colors and lights the more I learned about it—people would get tarred and feathered in punishment. This was confirmed to me by cartoons, and although I loved lying on my stomach on the stone to smell the dark substance or press my nails into its freshness to create crescents, I imagined that being covered in it would be too much. To the other side of the house stood a water pump as tall as I was. To fill the watering can, you'd have to pump with all your might and then carry the thing with both hands, body leaning away for balance, to the garden behind the house. There, my grandmother grew potatoes and tomatoes, carrots and green beans and parsley—they grew only when you weren't looking—and propped peas on sticks so they could reach for the sun. We'd walk the rows and pluck pea pods into bowls and carry them to the driveway, which sat shaded by that hour, and shuck them with our fingers into a pot. I could only do this for minutes at a time before my eyes wandered the grounds for what to do next. But my grandmother or my parents stayed on task. They'd take the peas and other vegetables [End Page 31] into the kitchen and set them to cook in a pressure cooker with beef and lamb. Dough that had been rising for hours under a kitchen towel would slide into the oven. And the warm scents of Bosanski lonac would fill the house, permeating the walls, saturating them through, and drifting into the garden where I played outside. I would walk inside slowly as the sun was coming down. And then there was my friend, who lived permanently in the village. Sadly, I cannot recall his name, nor do I know what befell his family in the war. They owned the fenced-in plot across the road, with one permanently chewing cow. My dad taught me that cows had multiple stomachs, and I envisioned the creature's insides to be cartoon sausage links from one end to the other. My friend, one summer, heard from another kid that when butterflies soaked their wings, they could no longer fly. So, one afternoon, armed with a plan to catch one, we filled glasses at the pump and walked the village's dirt paths. When a butterfly flapped onto a flower or onto a blackberry bush lining the path, we tossed our overeager water in its direction, and it fluttered this way and that and ascended toward the sky. Our stomachs dropped and we ran again to the pu
{"title":"Weekend House","authors":"Lana Spendl","doi":"10.1353/wlt.2023.a910256","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/wlt.2023.a910256","url":null,"abstract":"Weekend House Lana Spendl (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution A refugee from the Bosnian War, Lana Spendl recalls family weekends in the country outside of Sarajevo: her friend with one cow, her grandmother's garden, butterflies, and her father's Bosanski lonac. Some weekends we escaped our apartment in Sarajevo for our vikendica in the country. The white, red-roofed house stood on a long concrete slab, with one end serving as the driveway. Periodically, we'd fill the partitions of the driveway with fresh tar and my head would swim with pleasure. My dad taught me that in some places on the globe—a globe that expanded with sights and colors and lights the more I learned about it—people would get tarred and feathered in punishment. This was confirmed to me by cartoons, and although I loved lying on my stomach on the stone to smell the dark substance or press my nails into its freshness to create crescents, I imagined that being covered in it would be too much. To the other side of the house stood a water pump as tall as I was. To fill the watering can, you'd have to pump with all your might and then carry the thing with both hands, body leaning away for balance, to the garden behind the house. There, my grandmother grew potatoes and tomatoes, carrots and green beans and parsley—they grew only when you weren't looking—and propped peas on sticks so they could reach for the sun. We'd walk the rows and pluck pea pods into bowls and carry them to the driveway, which sat shaded by that hour, and shuck them with our fingers into a pot. I could only do this for minutes at a time before my eyes wandered the grounds for what to do next. But my grandmother or my parents stayed on task. They'd take the peas and other vegetables [End Page 31] into the kitchen and set them to cook in a pressure cooker with beef and lamb. Dough that had been rising for hours under a kitchen towel would slide into the oven. And the warm scents of Bosanski lonac would fill the house, permeating the walls, saturating them through, and drifting into the garden where I played outside. I would walk inside slowly as the sun was coming down. And then there was my friend, who lived permanently in the village. Sadly, I cannot recall his name, nor do I know what befell his family in the war. They owned the fenced-in plot across the road, with one permanently chewing cow. My dad taught me that cows had multiple stomachs, and I envisioned the creature's insides to be cartoon sausage links from one end to the other. My friend, one summer, heard from another kid that when butterflies soaked their wings, they could no longer fly. So, one afternoon, armed with a plan to catch one, we filled glasses at the pump and walked the village's dirt paths. When a butterfly flapped onto a flower or onto a blackberry bush lining the path, we tossed our overeager water in its direction, and it fluttered this way and that and ascended toward the sky. Our stomachs dropped and we ran again to the pu","PeriodicalId":23833,"journal":{"name":"World Literature Today","volume":"148 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135161316","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
京公网安备 11010802042870号
京ICP备2023020795号-1
扫码关注我们
求助内容：
应助结果提醒方式：