Dear reader,
The door is open. Do come in. In New York City's Greenwich Village, a number of years ago, Darton and I used to meet, casually, with friends at a local cafe and engage in all manner of interesting conversations, debates, and sharing of obscure and not so obscure ideas. He called it "a penny university," as I remember; and we all relished those mornings over a baguette and raspberry jam or croissant or bread thing and a cup of joe. |
Many of us have moved—some, interestingly, to the countries where their immigrant grandparents were from, some up- or further downtown, some to other locales entirely; and the cafe is no more. In its stead is a hair salon with not so much as a whisker of our presence left behind. When I return to the city, the substitute cafe we found after that first one closed is still available; and a few of us encounter a promising soul ruminating over the same fare. But the guarantee of good conversation is not always there: the cafe du jour is full of more well-heeled clientele, the youthful ad execs, high tech crowd, folks pouring over their facebook pages rather than looking up, or mute and twittering in constipated, a-grammatical text. Not so many artists and writers any more. I miss that. I miss a good dialogue, digging in when you should be elsewhere, but the talk is just too good to resist and somehow feels vital to your soul.
Among other things, we intend to offer you something to talk about. In this issue, we continue our international focus and interest in literary dialogue among writers and reader of many languages. Indeed, I don't remember the exact words, but I wildly paraphrase American poet, Kenneth Patchen in saying that creations of the word provide a box in which all journeys are kept. So where are we taking you this time? Open, not only that door, but that box; come travel with us as we revisit the literature of Turkey, and read our featured translated work, an excerpt from Cihan Yurdaün's The God of Small Deaths, translated from the Turkish by Hardy Griffin. We caution you: the protagonist's journey is not humanly possible, but then, should it be? It will carry you along its circumlocuitous route easily, with the help of Griffin's translation, full of grace.
Our next "stop" is a new section , a "Pocket Anthology," in which we present work linked by theme or affinity, this issue from that most polyglot of cities, New York; and with it, the whisps of comfort and estrangement that come from accepting that such a condition is just what one lives with. I leave greater detail about the work of writers joining together under that moniker to Eric Darton's introduction of this issue's Pocket, "Writing at the Crossroads," but I also quote from a recent email exchange we have had:
BM: ... point being that in NYC at least, folks live with a sort of taken-for-granted kind of diversity not really flattened out an "American," whatever that means, whereas in [some other places], it's pretty much white bread. I just wonder
what that does to our writing behind our backs.
ED: oh, absolutely, you're right on the subtle affect it must have on us all. It's
different these days because there are so many mongrel types: in G.'s class at PS
11, it was not unusual for, say, a dad to be Argentine, the mother
from Thailand and the caregiver from Guyana -- four languages all in one day!
I leave it to you, the reader, to determine what machinations such sneaky polygottism has been up to while those authors were minding what they thought was their own business.
We move on to where New World linguistic and cultural "mongrelization" began in our hemisphere, the Caribbean, and where we Anglophones have lost one of our most eloquent writers, Derek Walcott. In that section, I have included a brief eulogy about his work and contribution to our literature, especially in recognition of his musicality of language and his honoring the humanity of his humble subjects. I am oddly reminded of the ordinary working stiff in Italy who was able to put his tools down in the evening and enjoy a local, live performance of lush music—Italian opera; or of the ordinary souls armed with rotten fruit or eggs in case the latest of Will Shakespeare's plays turned out to be a lemon. I do believe that Walcott did not think good work should be monopolized by one class, by only the academic or the hotsy-totsy.
All aboooooooard! Our next stop is another new section, "Remarkable Reads," in which we review books—not compelled to be off the bestseller lists or Goodreads—books that have compelled our attention from unexpected, even time-worn sources. I look at undersung Felipe Alfau, a Spanish-American who wrote in the first half of the twentieth century, and his first novel, Locos: A Comedy of Gestures. Hardy Griffin looks at The Accusation, a collection of North Korean short stories by Bandi (a gender-free pseudonym) which came to the translator and publishers through some much needed secret channels. These books both present us with some differing strategies for writing as well as some inspiring reads.
In "Portfolio," those who received our announcement of the new issue will recognize the first image. Indeed, we are pleased to share images of four stunning paintings by Scott Rossi. Last but not least, you will see our perioration—which is, in fact, editor Eric Darton's "Colophon," soon to appear in Spanish translation.
Now, you all have a device—bring it with you to your cafe. Bookmark us. Show your favorite quotes, stories, sentences even—show them to the stranger sitting next to you who is peering into his or her cup, perhaps wishing there were coffee grounds or tea leaves to read. Offer them some words instead. See what happens. Converse.
- Bronwyn Mills
Nota Bene: I wish to thank both Hardy Griffin for his dedicated assistance, especially in the midst of a major move, and Eric Darton, and his keen proof reading eye and patient support. You may also notice that we eschew a comments section. However, should you wish to communicate with us at length, all of us, writers, artists and editors, who have contributed our energies to this issue would welcome hearing from you at [email protected].
Return to Table of Contents
Among other things, we intend to offer you something to talk about. In this issue, we continue our international focus and interest in literary dialogue among writers and reader of many languages. Indeed, I don't remember the exact words, but I wildly paraphrase American poet, Kenneth Patchen in saying that creations of the word provide a box in which all journeys are kept. So where are we taking you this time? Open, not only that door, but that box; come travel with us as we revisit the literature of Turkey, and read our featured translated work, an excerpt from Cihan Yurdaün's The God of Small Deaths, translated from the Turkish by Hardy Griffin. We caution you: the protagonist's journey is not humanly possible, but then, should it be? It will carry you along its circumlocuitous route easily, with the help of Griffin's translation, full of grace.
Our next "stop" is a new section , a "Pocket Anthology," in which we present work linked by theme or affinity, this issue from that most polyglot of cities, New York; and with it, the whisps of comfort and estrangement that come from accepting that such a condition is just what one lives with. I leave greater detail about the work of writers joining together under that moniker to Eric Darton's introduction of this issue's Pocket, "Writing at the Crossroads," but I also quote from a recent email exchange we have had:
BM: ... point being that in NYC at least, folks live with a sort of taken-for-granted kind of diversity not really flattened out an "American," whatever that means, whereas in [some other places], it's pretty much white bread. I just wonder
what that does to our writing behind our backs.
ED: oh, absolutely, you're right on the subtle affect it must have on us all. It's
different these days because there are so many mongrel types: in G.'s class at PS
11, it was not unusual for, say, a dad to be Argentine, the mother
from Thailand and the caregiver from Guyana -- four languages all in one day!
I leave it to you, the reader, to determine what machinations such sneaky polygottism has been up to while those authors were minding what they thought was their own business.
We move on to where New World linguistic and cultural "mongrelization" began in our hemisphere, the Caribbean, and where we Anglophones have lost one of our most eloquent writers, Derek Walcott. In that section, I have included a brief eulogy about his work and contribution to our literature, especially in recognition of his musicality of language and his honoring the humanity of his humble subjects. I am oddly reminded of the ordinary working stiff in Italy who was able to put his tools down in the evening and enjoy a local, live performance of lush music—Italian opera; or of the ordinary souls armed with rotten fruit or eggs in case the latest of Will Shakespeare's plays turned out to be a lemon. I do believe that Walcott did not think good work should be monopolized by one class, by only the academic or the hotsy-totsy.
All aboooooooard! Our next stop is another new section, "Remarkable Reads," in which we review books—not compelled to be off the bestseller lists or Goodreads—books that have compelled our attention from unexpected, even time-worn sources. I look at undersung Felipe Alfau, a Spanish-American who wrote in the first half of the twentieth century, and his first novel, Locos: A Comedy of Gestures. Hardy Griffin looks at The Accusation, a collection of North Korean short stories by Bandi (a gender-free pseudonym) which came to the translator and publishers through some much needed secret channels. These books both present us with some differing strategies for writing as well as some inspiring reads.
In "Portfolio," those who received our announcement of the new issue will recognize the first image. Indeed, we are pleased to share images of four stunning paintings by Scott Rossi. Last but not least, you will see our perioration—which is, in fact, editor Eric Darton's "Colophon," soon to appear in Spanish translation.
Now, you all have a device—bring it with you to your cafe. Bookmark us. Show your favorite quotes, stories, sentences even—show them to the stranger sitting next to you who is peering into his or her cup, perhaps wishing there were coffee grounds or tea leaves to read. Offer them some words instead. See what happens. Converse.
- Bronwyn Mills
Nota Bene: I wish to thank both Hardy Griffin for his dedicated assistance, especially in the midst of a major move, and Eric Darton, and his keen proof reading eye and patient support. You may also notice that we eschew a comments section. However, should you wish to communicate with us at length, all of us, writers, artists and editors, who have contributed our energies to this issue would welcome hearing from you at [email protected].
Return to Table of Contents