I've been going to the Leipzig book fair longer than I've been blogging, and I just looked back at my entries on it from 2008. Oh boy, was I enthusiastic. Three blogs in a row, one looking forward to it, one more general, and one on the now sadly defunct German-US literary festival Krautgarden. I don't bother with the ritual "looking forward to Leipzig" piece any more, partly because I don't want to write the same thing over and over again and partly because I'm a bit older and more jaded and don't get quite as excited about it any more. But I do still enjoy my first day at any book fair enormously.
This year I didn't go until the Friday. The fair opens on a Thursday, when the prizes are awarded. Unfortunately, these prizes seem to have little impact abroad. The translation section is kind of irrelevant to sales of German books (going this year to Miriam Pressler for Amos Oz's Judas) and the non-fiction prize tends to honour titles that are a too challenging or too specialized for your average British/US reader (in this case a history of neoliberal Europe by Philipp Ther). Even the "belles lettres" prize doesn't pack the punch of its autumn counterpart, the German Book Prize, with only five of the ten past winning titles either already in English or underway. To some extent, that's a good thing in my view, because it reflects the award's broader scope and less commercial orientation – the judges are all critics, with no one from the "real world" of bookselling involved, for example, and have given the prize to a number of short story collections (by Ingo Schulze, Clemens Meyer, Clemens Setz), to books that aren't straightforward fiction (David Wagner) and this year to a poetry collection. Only to two women ever, but hey. That's not their job. In Der Spiegel Georg Diez gets all het up that the winner isn't relevant to the world today, but hey. That's his job. Although I share his exasperation with the "eternally present" Hubert Winkels, I'm glad there is a prize that doesn't give a shit about societal relevance or commercial viability – even though that means I can't leverage it to get translation work.
This year, the fair also opened wide its metaphorical arms to embrace (German) book bloggers. They had a special lounge, which I didn't spot but then I didn't look for it either, and ran a campaign with bloggers reviewing the titles nominated for the prize. 54books assesses the highs and lows of the new focus – worth a read. So what was I doing? I was pretty much mooching around, noting down books I want to read and chatting to people I ran into, not a single appointment, not a single party or reading. And also I was being a mum, because my teenage daughter and a friend came along bright and early on the Saturday (hence the non-partying), mostly to see the second Manga Comic Convention. To be perfectly honest I wish I hadn't been there on the weekend, because the fair was incredibly crowded with visitors in groups of at least two, making navigation difficult at best and my mood, let's say, dampened. But we did have the added excitement of extreme numbers of cosplayers, who seem not to walk around quite as much as everyone else, which is kind of them. My daughter arrived all excited and announced eyes aglow that she'd seen a lady axe-murderer on the train. By the end of the day the two girls had counted 36 Pikachus. We sneered slightly because you can buy ready-made Pikachu onesies, and where's the inventiveness in that – but in fact, it must take guts to spend all day dressed as a yellow velventeen rodent in public.
In tribute to them, I intend to spend all of today in my pyjamas. The book fair is dead – long live the book fair.
Showing posts with label Leipzig. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Leipzig. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 March 2015
Thursday, 5 February 2015
Leipzig Book Prize Nominations
They've announced the shortlists for the three prizes awarded at the Leipzig Book Fair. The non-fiction list looks a little dry and male, except that one of the authors is rather attractive and another one is Rainer Stach with his latest Kafka book, so obviously that one will win. The translation list is interesting in that there are no books translated from English on it, and it varies from Lucretius to Modiano to the Swedish children's classic The Wonderful Adventures of Nils Holgersson.
And here's the fiction shortlist:
Ursula Ackrill: Zeiden, im Januar
A short novel set in Siebenbürgen, one of the German-speaking enclaves in Rumania but not the one Herta Müller comes from, during 1941. Rather fabulously, the author is a librarian in Nottingham and wrote her PhD on Christa Wolf. If ever there was a book to get picked up by British publishers, this is it. I'm glad the nomination has called attention to it because I for one wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. I shall be reading it.
Teresa Präauer: Johnny und Jean
You already know I love this book. I'm ecstatic to see it nominated.
Norbert Scheuer: Die Sprache der Vögel
This seems to be a novel about birdwatching in Afghanistan. I suspect it's less lightweight than Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.
Jan Wagner: Regentonnenvariationen
Surprise of the year, so far – a poetry collection shortlisted for a fiction prize! Jan Wagner is one of the German poets I can get my head around, so this makes me happy too.
Michael Wildenhain: Das Lächeln der Alligatoren
I like Wildenhain's writing a lot. He very precisely conjures up West Berlin in the seventies and earlier, a time that was very exciting and hasn't been written about as much as it could be. This new novel is set elsewhere but I suspect in the same sort of world, and I'm looking forward to reading it. I'm expecting it to be a literary confirmation that the personal is political.
Well, I don't know about you but I'm quite pleased and excited about this list.
And here's the fiction shortlist:
Ursula Ackrill: Zeiden, im Januar
A short novel set in Siebenbürgen, one of the German-speaking enclaves in Rumania but not the one Herta Müller comes from, during 1941. Rather fabulously, the author is a librarian in Nottingham and wrote her PhD on Christa Wolf. If ever there was a book to get picked up by British publishers, this is it. I'm glad the nomination has called attention to it because I for one wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. I shall be reading it.
Teresa Präauer: Johnny und Jean
You already know I love this book. I'm ecstatic to see it nominated.
Norbert Scheuer: Die Sprache der Vögel
This seems to be a novel about birdwatching in Afghanistan. I suspect it's less lightweight than Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.
Jan Wagner: Regentonnenvariationen
Surprise of the year, so far – a poetry collection shortlisted for a fiction prize! Jan Wagner is one of the German poets I can get my head around, so this makes me happy too.
Michael Wildenhain: Das Lächeln der Alligatoren
I like Wildenhain's writing a lot. He very precisely conjures up West Berlin in the seventies and earlier, a time that was very exciting and hasn't been written about as much as it could be. This new novel is set elsewhere but I suspect in the same sort of world, and I'm looking forward to reading it. I'm expecting it to be a literary confirmation that the personal is political.
Well, I don't know about you but I'm quite pleased and excited about this list.
Wednesday, 14 January 2015
Leipzig Book Fair Embraces (German-Speaking) Bloggers
Leipzig is Germany's big spring book fair, bigger than the London Book Fair but smaller than Frankfurt and more inward-looking than both – an important date for the German publishing industry and for readers, who are much more welcome there than at other fairs. The fair has just announced its buchmesse:blogger initiative, embracing (German-speaking) book bloggers by providing them with their own lounge in one of the halls. The space will apparently enable (German-speaking) book bloggers to network with each other and with industry professionals, including nominees for the SERAPH Prize for fantastic literature and the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair – after the winners are announced, I believe.
Before that, however, they have another initiative by the name of Bloggerpaten. (German-speaking) book bloggers can apply to "accompany the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair", which consists of getting a free copy of one of the fifteen nominated books and getting your review published on the Book Fair website. Plus a one-day book fair ticket and "the possibility of coveted tickets for the opening ceremony" and a seat with their name on it at the prize announcement ceremony.
(German-speaking) book bloggers can apply for accreditation in advance, to get trade visitor tickets and entrance to the bloggers' lounge.
It's just sour grapes but I wish these initiatives (like the Open Mike blog and the initiative around the German Book Prize), as encouraging as they may or may not be, wouldn't expressly exclude me. They are, however, recognition of the progress German-speaking book bloggers have made over the past few years.
Before that, however, they have another initiative by the name of Bloggerpaten. (German-speaking) book bloggers can apply to "accompany the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair", which consists of getting a free copy of one of the fifteen nominated books and getting your review published on the Book Fair website. Plus a one-day book fair ticket and "the possibility of coveted tickets for the opening ceremony" and a seat with their name on it at the prize announcement ceremony.
(German-speaking) book bloggers can apply for accreditation in advance, to get trade visitor tickets and entrance to the bloggers' lounge.
It's just sour grapes but I wish these initiatives (like the Open Mike blog and the initiative around the German Book Prize), as encouraging as they may or may not be, wouldn't expressly exclude me. They are, however, recognition of the progress German-speaking book bloggers have made over the past few years.
Friday, 9 January 2015
How to Fund Events?
The German-speaking countries have a fairly unique breadth of literary events. In Berlin, for example, you can choose from probably about a dozen readings most nights, from two poets at the back of a bookshop to a theatre full of fans drooling over a big-name novelist. Formats range from the sublime to the ridiculous, one of my least favourite being the two-hour session with three critics and one poor writer, while the audience wishes they'd brought along extra cushions.
German writers tend to be on the road a lot (and surprised when they don't get invited to tour the UK to promote their books in translation). Readings, you see, are a source of income for them. They can be a bit coy about prices, but I'd put a decent fee for a reading at around €300. It'shard impossible to make that much money back on the door without charging forbiddingly high prices. Add on the hours worked by all the other people involved – moderator, venue staff, organizers, etc. – and it becomes a mug's game.
This is something I've been thinking about a lot recently. I want to start an event series bringing together people writing in English and German in Berlin. But I don't want to ask people who usually earn €300 to appear on stage for free, or indeed for significantly less. For me, that meant applying for public subsidies. My first application was rejected and I hear back about the second one in February. Keep your fingers crossed that Berlin-Mitte's cultural funding will stretch to such a non-worthy undertaking. I have a Plan C up my sleeve if all else fails, though.
The UV - Independent Publishers' Reading is a major event to coincide with the Leipzig Book Fair in March. And the organizers are facing the same questions – their funding application for this year was rejected and they were advised to put the prices up (implicitly, I'd say that would also mean putting the authors' fees down). They solved the problem in 2013 with a crowdfunding campaign, but like me they seem to be in two minds about the crowdfunding principle.
My objection is that I think it favours snazzy, gimmicky projects that attract attention but don't necessarily – how can I say this? – make the literary world a better place. Yes, I know not everything has to do that. I know twenty people going home with a smile on their face is a fine thing, too, and that's part of what I want to do. The UV people ask: "Does crowdfunding really offer liberation from financial dependencies – or does the principle of begging to the crowd contribute to the privatization of a societal problem – the under-financing of culture – and make self-exploitation and exploitation of friends even more chronic?"
The option I see happening in the UK is sponsoring. I detest the idea of running, I don't know, "Coke Zero Book Nites" – where I and other people invest our passion and a corporation gets the credit and the literary credentials. Bleuch. Happily, I can't think of any examples in Berlin, although Readux events do sometimes involve free drinks donated by alcohol producers, and I admit I've drunk more than my fair share on occasion. Ach. Maybe I'll think it over properly when Coke Zero really does come knocking.
So what are the UV people doing to fund their huge eighteen-writer event? They're launching their own funding campaign: Make Your Own Superpublisher. I have to say, I don't quite get the difference between this and an ordinary crowdfunding thing, but then I've got a terrible cold and my brain's not working very well. Either way, you can purchase either postcard sets of sort of dress-up-doll publishers (slim, white, kinda male, trousered but I suppose you could colour him/her in or alter him/her in other ways) plus adhesive accessories, or life-size cardboard cutout publishers with stick-on facial and head hair, shirt and of course glasses. It's quite funny. I mean, it won't solve the problem once and for all and it seems to involve quite a lot of up-front effort by someone or other (file under: self-exploitation) – but it's a very eye-catching way to raise the issue.
So: more public funding for culture, please, and until then hooray for all the crazy people who do this literary event stuff out of the goodness of their hearts. If you've been looking for a cardboard-cutout of a publisher, this is your chance. Darts not included.
German writers tend to be on the road a lot (and surprised when they don't get invited to tour the UK to promote their books in translation). Readings, you see, are a source of income for them. They can be a bit coy about prices, but I'd put a decent fee for a reading at around €300. It's
This is something I've been thinking about a lot recently. I want to start an event series bringing together people writing in English and German in Berlin. But I don't want to ask people who usually earn €300 to appear on stage for free, or indeed for significantly less. For me, that meant applying for public subsidies. My first application was rejected and I hear back about the second one in February. Keep your fingers crossed that Berlin-Mitte's cultural funding will stretch to such a non-worthy undertaking. I have a Plan C up my sleeve if all else fails, though.
The UV - Independent Publishers' Reading is a major event to coincide with the Leipzig Book Fair in March. And the organizers are facing the same questions – their funding application for this year was rejected and they were advised to put the prices up (implicitly, I'd say that would also mean putting the authors' fees down). They solved the problem in 2013 with a crowdfunding campaign, but like me they seem to be in two minds about the crowdfunding principle.
My objection is that I think it favours snazzy, gimmicky projects that attract attention but don't necessarily – how can I say this? – make the literary world a better place. Yes, I know not everything has to do that. I know twenty people going home with a smile on their face is a fine thing, too, and that's part of what I want to do. The UV people ask: "Does crowdfunding really offer liberation from financial dependencies – or does the principle of begging to the crowd contribute to the privatization of a societal problem – the under-financing of culture – and make self-exploitation and exploitation of friends even more chronic?"
The option I see happening in the UK is sponsoring. I detest the idea of running, I don't know, "Coke Zero Book Nites" – where I and other people invest our passion and a corporation gets the credit and the literary credentials. Bleuch. Happily, I can't think of any examples in Berlin, although Readux events do sometimes involve free drinks donated by alcohol producers, and I admit I've drunk more than my fair share on occasion. Ach. Maybe I'll think it over properly when Coke Zero really does come knocking.
So what are the UV people doing to fund their huge eighteen-writer event? They're launching their own funding campaign: Make Your Own Superpublisher. I have to say, I don't quite get the difference between this and an ordinary crowdfunding thing, but then I've got a terrible cold and my brain's not working very well. Either way, you can purchase either postcard sets of sort of dress-up-doll publishers (slim, white, kinda male, trousered but I suppose you could colour him/her in or alter him/her in other ways) plus adhesive accessories, or life-size cardboard cutout publishers with stick-on facial and head hair, shirt and of course glasses. It's quite funny. I mean, it won't solve the problem once and for all and it seems to involve quite a lot of up-front effort by someone or other (file under: self-exploitation) – but it's a very eye-catching way to raise the issue.
So: more public funding for culture, please, and until then hooray for all the crazy people who do this literary event stuff out of the goodness of their hearts. If you've been looking for a cardboard-cutout of a publisher, this is your chance. Darts not included.
Saturday, 16 March 2013
Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair to David Wagner
I'm back from Leipzig with the not quite fresh news that yes, my favourite book of the season did in fact win the big prize of the season. David Wagner's Leben is king of the German-language fiction castle, and deservedly so. Read my review here to find out what's so amazing about it.
The non-fiction prize went to Helmut Böttiger for Die Gruppe 47, apparently the first serious look back at the Gruppe 47 literary mafia and how its players shaped the German-language literary bizz. And Eva Hesse won the translation prize for her rendering of Ezra Pounds's Cantos. Congratulations!
I don't have much else to report from the book fair. For some reason I didn't go to any parties at all. It was most odd.
The non-fiction prize went to Helmut Böttiger for Die Gruppe 47, apparently the first serious look back at the Gruppe 47 literary mafia and how its players shaped the German-language literary bizz. And Eva Hesse won the translation prize for her rendering of Ezra Pounds's Cantos. Congratulations!
I don't have much else to report from the book fair. For some reason I didn't go to any parties at all. It was most odd.
Wednesday, 13 March 2013
Leipzig Book Fair
I shall be away at the Leipzig Book Fair for a couple of days. It is always good. This year, allow me to recommend you catch some of the following, should you be attending:
Jacinta Nandi and Jakob Hein promoting their amusing new book, Fish'n'Chips & Spreewaldgurken - in which a Londoner imagines what East Berlin must have been like and an East Berliner imagines what London must have been like. Guffaws galore, various times and venues.
Benjamin Stein and his translator Brian Zumhagen talking about Die Leinwand/The Canvas, I hope, rather than the less interesting topic of German-Israeli identities as billed. Interlingual fun, Thursday 2 p.m.
A big old panel on the future of the book featuring German and American publishing people, hidden away in the depths of the fair, also Thursday at 2.
David Wagner reading from Leben - they've called it "Life" in English but really it ought to be called "Lives" because the name comes from a bit of a Freudian spelling mistake, but anyway this is the book I want to win the big prize. Sad, dull, happy, exciting, exhilarating prose, various times and venues.
The big awards ceremony, Thursday at 4.
The Lange Leipziger Lesenacht with all the sexy people in a conglomeration of darkened rooms, Thursday night.
A panel of international translators trying to look on the bright side, Friday 11 a.m.
The Party der Jungen Verlage, the same as LLL above but without the readings, Friday night.
The fabtastic Deborah Levy presenting the German version of her novel Swimming Home, Saturday 11 a.m.
Various Irish writers on Saint Patrick's Day, Sunday 2 p.m.
Enjoy. I intend to.
Jacinta Nandi and Jakob Hein promoting their amusing new book, Fish'n'Chips & Spreewaldgurken - in which a Londoner imagines what East Berlin must have been like and an East Berliner imagines what London must have been like. Guffaws galore, various times and venues.
Benjamin Stein and his translator Brian Zumhagen talking about Die Leinwand/The Canvas, I hope, rather than the less interesting topic of German-Israeli identities as billed. Interlingual fun, Thursday 2 p.m.
A big old panel on the future of the book featuring German and American publishing people, hidden away in the depths of the fair, also Thursday at 2.
David Wagner reading from Leben - they've called it "Life" in English but really it ought to be called "Lives" because the name comes from a bit of a Freudian spelling mistake, but anyway this is the book I want to win the big prize. Sad, dull, happy, exciting, exhilarating prose, various times and venues.
The big awards ceremony, Thursday at 4.
The Lange Leipziger Lesenacht with all the sexy people in a conglomeration of darkened rooms, Thursday night.
A panel of international translators trying to look on the bright side, Friday 11 a.m.
The Party der Jungen Verlage, the same as LLL above but without the readings, Friday night.
The fabtastic Deborah Levy presenting the German version of her novel Swimming Home, Saturday 11 a.m.
Various Irish writers on Saint Patrick's Day, Sunday 2 p.m.
Enjoy. I intend to.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
A Hiatus
I'm not blogging this week, as you may have noticed. That's because I'm taking part in the international translators' programme at the Literary Colloquium Berlin. This year there are 36 translators from 27 countries, ranging from Thailand to Finland, and we've been blasted morning, noon and night with information on German-language literature, readings, informal discussion sessions and even less formal meals and drinks with writers. If you translate out of German, I can't encourage you enough to apply next year. I've been lucky enough to take part a few times because I live in Berlin, and it's always been an inspiring event that leaves me physically exhausted but mentally raring to go.
Tomorrow we're all off to the Leipzig Book Fair. If you're there too you could watch me nursing my hangover on this panel all about the translators' programme and German-language literature around the world. It's at 10.30 on Friday morning, so don't expect rocket science.
As ever, I can't wait for the book fair. Leipzig for me is perfect - a book fair with a bare minimum of business meetings and maximum literary input. In fact I've been blowing Leipzig's trumpet for so long and so loudly that I run into more and more people I know every time I go there. Ten zillion readings in a smallish, friendly city, parties where you don't even have to gatecrash, a big glittery book prize announcement everyone can watch - and kids dressed up as Japanese killer princesses.
Tomorrow we're all off to the Leipzig Book Fair. If you're there too you could watch me nursing my hangover on this panel all about the translators' programme and German-language literature around the world. It's at 10.30 on Friday morning, so don't expect rocket science.
As ever, I can't wait for the book fair. Leipzig for me is perfect - a book fair with a bare minimum of business meetings and maximum literary input. In fact I've been blowing Leipzig's trumpet for so long and so loudly that I run into more and more people I know every time I go there. Ten zillion readings in a smallish, friendly city, parties where you don't even have to gatecrash, a big glittery book prize announcement everyone can watch - and kids dressed up as Japanese killer princesses.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Blagging in Leipzig
Here I am, back from the blagathon that is the Leipzig Book Fair. While hordes of people amble through the halls collecting freebies in oversized paper bags that poke into other people's legs on the tram back, no doubt to be tipped out on the kitchen table at home and sifted through with 90% of the stickers, catalogues, sample chapters, bookmarks, flyers and general crap landing (at best) in the recycling, I perfected the art this year of blagging free food, drink and preferential seating.
It all started in Berlin with the Internationales Übersetzertreffen at the Literary Colloquium. Twenty-odd translators of German literature, including the very talented Shelley Frisch and Lyn Marven, were invited to Berlin and Leipzig for an intense taste of contemporary writing. I was invited to talk to them along with Cristina Vezarro, the founder of the brand new in-German literary translation blog Gemischtes Doppel. Hence free lunch, preceded by a reading by Benjamin Stein (whose excellent The Canvas is being translated into English as we speak by Brian Zumhagen for Open Letter Books), followed by sneaking in to an evening event without paying where the critic Richard Kämmerlings talked about his interesting-looking book on contemporary German writing, Das kurze Glück der Gegenwart and Ulrich Peltzer (whose excellent Part of the Solution is coming out from Seagull Books in July, trans. Martin Chalmers) talked about writing German fiction.
Then on Thursday I went to the award ceremony for the Alfred Kerr Prize for literary criticism. It was just part of the book fair, you didn't need an invitation, and there were free drinks afterwards, rather delicious sparkling wine. The prize went to my actual favourite German critic, Ina Hartwig, who is incredibly clever and has impeccable taste. The speech was held by the writer Clemens Meyer (whose excellent short stories All the Lights I am translating as we speak for And Other Stories). And it was really rather moving, sitting in an enclosure with lots of other literary critics hearing a writer's self-proclaimed declaration of love to a critic. Not something I'll forget for some time to come.
Now while I was sitting there I mentioned to an acquaintance that I wanted to go to the announcement of the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair not long afterwards, and expressed my envy for all those people who get to sit in front of the cordon while the ceremony takes place, rather than standing up and jostling for a good view at the back. And lo and behold, it's not what you know, it's who - he whipped out a spare ticket! Then it turned out that the entire hierarchy is actually three-tiered: there are the book-buying plebs standing at the back, the bourgeoisie seated in the middle, and a literary aristocracy made up of publishers and the like at the front, who have seats reserved in their names. And I happened to run into a very friendly member of said aristocracy, who invited me to be his +1 (the only item of useless paper I brought back with me is the label from my seat). I probably ought to say something virtuous like It makes no difference where you sit. It's all about the literature. But in fact I spent the entire time feeling very pleased with myself and savouring the close-up view of the judges, candidates and prize winners, imagining my face on the evening news and soaking up the rather tense atmosphere with all the people who had a stake in the outcome. I'll post the winners in a separate entry.
Thursday evening is always the Lange Leipziger Lesenacht, zillions of young-ish writers reading in a medieval dungeon-type affair. I enjoyed Selim Özdogan, Rabea Edel and Susanne Heinrich, then I got a free drink token from one of the above. I would have liked them anyway though. Other than that, the combinations were rather odd - the oldest author reading with the youngest, YA literature paired with very literary fiction, fairly experimental writing with a plainly autobiographical (but not uninteresting) report on a psychiatric clinic posing as a novel. Challenging.
Friday kicked off (more or less) with free drinks for translators. Fuelled up on more sparkling wine, I then wandered around aimlessly looking at books and getting lost and meeting friends and acquaintances and generally not achieving anything. Much the best way to cope with the hectic fair - all hazy and friendly and no inhibitions about physical contact. Ahhh. I shall do that again.
Dinner was on the Goethe Institut, in Auerbach's Keller of Faust fame. Which was full of other literary types eating dinner on expense accounts, rather than poodles turning into devils and the like. Later on to the reading by the German writers' football team, Autonama, who have an anthology out soon by the cringeworthy name of Fußball ist unser Lieben. To prove my loyalty to the team, I actually skipped out on an opportunity for more free drinks to attend. Which was amply rewarded by the discovery of Jörg Schieke, who read a story so awesome that it made everyone else look pale in comparison - even the collected odes to the members of the German women's football team.
And on to the Young Publishers' Party, which cost €5 to get in but was worth it. Dancing, star-spotting, small-talking, putting names to faces in the dark and slightly too much drinking. Ahhh. I shall do that again. My friend didn't want our photo taken, but you can see other gorgeous drunk publishing people here.
If you get a chance, you'd be foolish not to go next year. See you there!
It all started in Berlin with the Internationales Übersetzertreffen at the Literary Colloquium. Twenty-odd translators of German literature, including the very talented Shelley Frisch and Lyn Marven, were invited to Berlin and Leipzig for an intense taste of contemporary writing. I was invited to talk to them along with Cristina Vezarro, the founder of the brand new in-German literary translation blog Gemischtes Doppel. Hence free lunch, preceded by a reading by Benjamin Stein (whose excellent The Canvas is being translated into English as we speak by Brian Zumhagen for Open Letter Books), followed by sneaking in to an evening event without paying where the critic Richard Kämmerlings talked about his interesting-looking book on contemporary German writing, Das kurze Glück der Gegenwart and Ulrich Peltzer (whose excellent Part of the Solution is coming out from Seagull Books in July, trans. Martin Chalmers) talked about writing German fiction.
Then on Thursday I went to the award ceremony for the Alfred Kerr Prize for literary criticism. It was just part of the book fair, you didn't need an invitation, and there were free drinks afterwards, rather delicious sparkling wine. The prize went to my actual favourite German critic, Ina Hartwig, who is incredibly clever and has impeccable taste. The speech was held by the writer Clemens Meyer (whose excellent short stories All the Lights I am translating as we speak for And Other Stories). And it was really rather moving, sitting in an enclosure with lots of other literary critics hearing a writer's self-proclaimed declaration of love to a critic. Not something I'll forget for some time to come.
Now while I was sitting there I mentioned to an acquaintance that I wanted to go to the announcement of the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair not long afterwards, and expressed my envy for all those people who get to sit in front of the cordon while the ceremony takes place, rather than standing up and jostling for a good view at the back. And lo and behold, it's not what you know, it's who - he whipped out a spare ticket! Then it turned out that the entire hierarchy is actually three-tiered: there are the book-buying plebs standing at the back, the bourgeoisie seated in the middle, and a literary aristocracy made up of publishers and the like at the front, who have seats reserved in their names. And I happened to run into a very friendly member of said aristocracy, who invited me to be his +1 (the only item of useless paper I brought back with me is the label from my seat). I probably ought to say something virtuous like It makes no difference where you sit. It's all about the literature. But in fact I spent the entire time feeling very pleased with myself and savouring the close-up view of the judges, candidates and prize winners, imagining my face on the evening news and soaking up the rather tense atmosphere with all the people who had a stake in the outcome. I'll post the winners in a separate entry.
Thursday evening is always the Lange Leipziger Lesenacht, zillions of young-ish writers reading in a medieval dungeon-type affair. I enjoyed Selim Özdogan, Rabea Edel and Susanne Heinrich, then I got a free drink token from one of the above. I would have liked them anyway though. Other than that, the combinations were rather odd - the oldest author reading with the youngest, YA literature paired with very literary fiction, fairly experimental writing with a plainly autobiographical (but not uninteresting) report on a psychiatric clinic posing as a novel. Challenging.
Friday kicked off (more or less) with free drinks for translators. Fuelled up on more sparkling wine, I then wandered around aimlessly looking at books and getting lost and meeting friends and acquaintances and generally not achieving anything. Much the best way to cope with the hectic fair - all hazy and friendly and no inhibitions about physical contact. Ahhh. I shall do that again.
Dinner was on the Goethe Institut, in Auerbach's Keller of Faust fame. Which was full of other literary types eating dinner on expense accounts, rather than poodles turning into devils and the like. Later on to the reading by the German writers' football team, Autonama, who have an anthology out soon by the cringeworthy name of Fußball ist unser Lieben. To prove my loyalty to the team, I actually skipped out on an opportunity for more free drinks to attend. Which was amply rewarded by the discovery of Jörg Schieke, who read a story so awesome that it made everyone else look pale in comparison - even the collected odes to the members of the German women's football team.
And on to the Young Publishers' Party, which cost €5 to get in but was worth it. Dancing, star-spotting, small-talking, putting names to faces in the dark and slightly too much drinking. Ahhh. I shall do that again. My friend didn't want our photo taken, but you can see other gorgeous drunk publishing people here.
If you get a chance, you'd be foolish not to go next year. See you there!
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Away with the Fairies
I'm going to the Leipzig Book Fair tomorrow and will return with prizewinners, gossip and book tips. I can tell already that it's going to be effing fantastic, by the number of times the events programme website has crashed while I've been trying to plan my literary itinerary. I've stopped counting.
If you feel the need for live-ish blogging, try Kolja Mensing at the Robert Bosch Stiftung blog, or impressions from the lovely participants in a Goethe Institut trip.
If you feel the need for live-ish blogging, try Kolja Mensing at the Robert Bosch Stiftung blog, or impressions from the lovely participants in a Goethe Institut trip.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Donal's Eye View: berlinleipzigrevisited
A friend, fellow translator, writer, blogger and participant in the Angry Sheep translators' mega-event - the one and only Donal McLaughlin - is recording his impressions of the workshop and the Leipzig Book Fair at berlinleipzigrevisited. It looks a dash more coherent than my version.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Things I Did Last Week (Part 2 - Leipzig)
So after three full days of fun at the Literary Colloquium, all 60 of us got to go to the Leipzig Book Fair. The others took a bus and stayed at hotels miles away from anywhere, but I went for the luxury version and booked a train ticket and my secret apartment right at the heart of town. Christian Hansen, nominated for the translators' prize at the fair for his version of Bolano's 2666, kept me amused on the train and we had a nice view of the curly top of Ingo Schulze's head over in the first-class carriage.
And then I arrived and dived into the scrum. The first day always seems a little calmer, with fewer pudgy teenagers dressed as cartoon characters clogging up the aisles. I'm actually a big fan of the cosplayers at Leipzig - unlike one writer I talked to, who advocated violence against them. I love their enthusiasm, especially against the backdrop of all those jaded publishing professionals at the book fair. Day one was Clemens Meyer day, with the man himself promoting his new book Gewalten everywhere you looked. I saw him interviewed by big-cheese Ijoma Mangold, and was later told I rolled my eyes. Some of the questions seemed to indicate that the interviewer hadn't read the book as carefully as he might have done, but perhaps I was reading too much into it.
Otherwise lots of Hey, how are you!?-ing and Long time no see!-ing and air kissing (although I don't actually do that except with a particular auntie of mine - I'm more of a hugger, with or without back-pats. If I back-pat you that's an attempt to diffuse the hug slightly, just so you know). And translators everywhere you looked, and men in big black clunky glasses even more so. Can glasses be clunky? I think so. And all the women in boots of all descriptions, I don't think I saw a single pair of shoes.
And then I let readings be readings and books be books and bagged a seat for the awards ceremony and launched into a long girly chat that was a breath of fresh air. The VIPs arrived in dribs and drabs and I felt my usual resentment that they were inside the rope and I was outside, but hey, it made as good as no difference, what with all the translators hanging outside the rope. Oh, the awards? First the head of the jury held a speech defending their nomination of Hegemann's Axolotl Roadkill - yes, it's still good stuff, people, and they can nominate whoever they like, for God's sake, no matter what Günter Grass says about it. And then Ulrich Blumenbach won the translation prize for Infinite Jest, and Ulrich Rauff won the non-fiction award for Kreis ohne Meister about that nasty elitist Stefan George's posthumous influence. And there was a big nonplussed sigh as Georg Klein won the fiction prize for Roman unserer Kindheit. How utterly unsexy, we all thought, a book about growing up in West Germany. By a man who later crowed that he has no problem using the word "N*ger", and some of his best friends are Africans. What year was this again? And then after a brief longing look on my part we all donned our sunglasses and marched out of there to do tourist stuff in town.
And on Thursday night the Lange Leipziger Lesenacht, with slightly more breathing space than usual for some reason, which was surely nothing to do with the line-up. A brief hello to a less than shy organiser hiding in a remote corner of the Moritzbastei - celebrating daddyhood in a Godfather-like outfit. And then up to the Oberkeller to bag seats for the delights to come, expertly moderated by Michael Hametner. Kristof Magnusson was on fine form, such a sweetie and going all out for his punchlines, in contrast to Roman Graf whose book is apparently hilarious but nobody was laughing. And then a surreal story brilliantly read by Christiane Neudecker, against which Leif Randt didn't have a hope in hell with his lacklustre performance. Ulrike Almut Sandig I thought was great, a tight story well presented, although there were discontented mutterings afterwards - but what do they know? And then the man of the moment was back, bowling people over with his knockout story "German Amok". The audience reaction was a sight to behold, confusion giving way to laughter giving way to shock and then nervous relief.
Afterwards drinks and schmoozing (in the English sense) and I found out what editors do all day long and I stayed up just that bit too late because we were waiting for a camera crew and the man of the moment was getting more and more irritated by the minute and the likelihood of the live broadcast going wrong rose exponentially with every beer. But then it didn't and we bitched about journalists and all went home happy, except I may have inadvertently insulted the Godfather because I can't take my drink.
Friday more tired Hellos and a podium discussion on German literature in the ROW, something I've sat through too often to enjoy now even though a few good points were made and there was a little optimism to be heard amidst all the comments on funding and pay. I may have seen some people from Litaffin on the escalator, but maybe not - they weren't wearing their badges and mine was positioned quite tactfully by that point. New media star Leander Wattig gave a presentation on social media in publishing, which was pitched too low to be of any interest so we gave up after five minutes and bitched about his suit. And then I sat down in the Mairisch booth and everyone I know in the whole world walked past and I dragged them in and introduced them to Finn-Ole Heinrich, who I love even though he's much too young for that facial hair. And he was sweet and I pretended to know something about writing, which I regret slightly now. More clunky black glasses, at one point everyone but me was wearing the things, and the world span round slightly for lack of sleep.
On to my one business appointment of the fair, with a refreshing drink of fat Coke (you can't get thin Coke at the fair for love nor money, thank God it's only once a year) and a lovely chat and a nice quick transition from Sie to Du. Why are rights people such delightfully optimistic types? Presumably they'd commit suicide otherwise. And so to bed, to gather my strength for the evening's entertainment.
Starting with Czech oddball and sudden tee-totalist Jachym Topol, inexpertly moderated by some big editor who had to leave halfway through and couldn't cope with Topol's sense of humour. Then on to a riotous translators' reception, where we got to see big boss Oliver Zille's black eye close up but didn't find out how he got it. And the wine flowed freely and there were meatballs with cheese on top, every vegan's nightmare, and everyone loved each other and ignored the fact that the toilets were up a dark flight of stairs and last year's venue was much posher - but this year there were just too many of us, what can you do?
Off to the Young Publishers' Party with my posse of lovely English girls - but they were all far too sensible and didn't want to dance and didn't want to pour beer down their gullets until the early hours making small talk to strangers in clunky black glasses either. So it was just me and the lads, and they didn't want to dance either, but they did want to drink and make small talk so that was OK. And then it seemed easier to go home to my secret apartment at the heart of town than make the long trip to the toilet again, despite the revealing view into the gents' that taught us never to eat peanuts at the bar because men don't wash their hands afterwards. But you know when it's three in the morning and it takes hours to leave, and then you're standing outside drunkenly and along comes some critic and accuses you of rolling your eyes and then you re-ignite an old argument about translators' royalties and manage to actually win merely by dint of being less drunk and pretending you're really offended and just going to leave at any moment? And then some editor says why don't we all have another beer and make up and some writer wants to suggest to the critic that he really should review his latest book, and the critic pretends to get it muddled up with another book, or maybe he really does get it muddled up, and so you end up staying until four in the morning? Well, that happened.
So Saturday was all a bit of a blur, until the evening back in Berlin, when the 60 translators met up again for the final session of free food and drink and schmoozing with writers. And I had my annual life counselling session with one lady writer from Neukölln and my annual dose of admiration from an older lady writer not from Neukölln, whom I promised to adopt if she dyed her hair blonde. And then I got a taxi home and slept for what felt like 48 hours.
And then I arrived and dived into the scrum. The first day always seems a little calmer, with fewer pudgy teenagers dressed as cartoon characters clogging up the aisles. I'm actually a big fan of the cosplayers at Leipzig - unlike one writer I talked to, who advocated violence against them. I love their enthusiasm, especially against the backdrop of all those jaded publishing professionals at the book fair. Day one was Clemens Meyer day, with the man himself promoting his new book Gewalten everywhere you looked. I saw him interviewed by big-cheese Ijoma Mangold, and was later told I rolled my eyes. Some of the questions seemed to indicate that the interviewer hadn't read the book as carefully as he might have done, but perhaps I was reading too much into it.
Otherwise lots of Hey, how are you!?-ing and Long time no see!-ing and air kissing (although I don't actually do that except with a particular auntie of mine - I'm more of a hugger, with or without back-pats. If I back-pat you that's an attempt to diffuse the hug slightly, just so you know). And translators everywhere you looked, and men in big black clunky glasses even more so. Can glasses be clunky? I think so. And all the women in boots of all descriptions, I don't think I saw a single pair of shoes.
And then I let readings be readings and books be books and bagged a seat for the awards ceremony and launched into a long girly chat that was a breath of fresh air. The VIPs arrived in dribs and drabs and I felt my usual resentment that they were inside the rope and I was outside, but hey, it made as good as no difference, what with all the translators hanging outside the rope. Oh, the awards? First the head of the jury held a speech defending their nomination of Hegemann's Axolotl Roadkill - yes, it's still good stuff, people, and they can nominate whoever they like, for God's sake, no matter what Günter Grass says about it. And then Ulrich Blumenbach won the translation prize for Infinite Jest, and Ulrich Rauff won the non-fiction award for Kreis ohne Meister about that nasty elitist Stefan George's posthumous influence. And there was a big nonplussed sigh as Georg Klein won the fiction prize for Roman unserer Kindheit. How utterly unsexy, we all thought, a book about growing up in West Germany. By a man who later crowed that he has no problem using the word "N*ger", and some of his best friends are Africans. What year was this again? And then after a brief longing look on my part we all donned our sunglasses and marched out of there to do tourist stuff in town.
And on Thursday night the Lange Leipziger Lesenacht, with slightly more breathing space than usual for some reason, which was surely nothing to do with the line-up. A brief hello to a less than shy organiser hiding in a remote corner of the Moritzbastei - celebrating daddyhood in a Godfather-like outfit. And then up to the Oberkeller to bag seats for the delights to come, expertly moderated by Michael Hametner. Kristof Magnusson was on fine form, such a sweetie and going all out for his punchlines, in contrast to Roman Graf whose book is apparently hilarious but nobody was laughing. And then a surreal story brilliantly read by Christiane Neudecker, against which Leif Randt didn't have a hope in hell with his lacklustre performance. Ulrike Almut Sandig I thought was great, a tight story well presented, although there were discontented mutterings afterwards - but what do they know? And then the man of the moment was back, bowling people over with his knockout story "German Amok". The audience reaction was a sight to behold, confusion giving way to laughter giving way to shock and then nervous relief.
Afterwards drinks and schmoozing (in the English sense) and I found out what editors do all day long and I stayed up just that bit too late because we were waiting for a camera crew and the man of the moment was getting more and more irritated by the minute and the likelihood of the live broadcast going wrong rose exponentially with every beer. But then it didn't and we bitched about journalists and all went home happy, except I may have inadvertently insulted the Godfather because I can't take my drink.
Friday more tired Hellos and a podium discussion on German literature in the ROW, something I've sat through too often to enjoy now even though a few good points were made and there was a little optimism to be heard amidst all the comments on funding and pay. I may have seen some people from Litaffin on the escalator, but maybe not - they weren't wearing their badges and mine was positioned quite tactfully by that point. New media star Leander Wattig gave a presentation on social media in publishing, which was pitched too low to be of any interest so we gave up after five minutes and bitched about his suit. And then I sat down in the Mairisch booth and everyone I know in the whole world walked past and I dragged them in and introduced them to Finn-Ole Heinrich, who I love even though he's much too young for that facial hair. And he was sweet and I pretended to know something about writing, which I regret slightly now. More clunky black glasses, at one point everyone but me was wearing the things, and the world span round slightly for lack of sleep.
On to my one business appointment of the fair, with a refreshing drink of fat Coke (you can't get thin Coke at the fair for love nor money, thank God it's only once a year) and a lovely chat and a nice quick transition from Sie to Du. Why are rights people such delightfully optimistic types? Presumably they'd commit suicide otherwise. And so to bed, to gather my strength for the evening's entertainment.
Starting with Czech oddball and sudden tee-totalist Jachym Topol, inexpertly moderated by some big editor who had to leave halfway through and couldn't cope with Topol's sense of humour. Then on to a riotous translators' reception, where we got to see big boss Oliver Zille's black eye close up but didn't find out how he got it. And the wine flowed freely and there were meatballs with cheese on top, every vegan's nightmare, and everyone loved each other and ignored the fact that the toilets were up a dark flight of stairs and last year's venue was much posher - but this year there were just too many of us, what can you do?
Off to the Young Publishers' Party with my posse of lovely English girls - but they were all far too sensible and didn't want to dance and didn't want to pour beer down their gullets until the early hours making small talk to strangers in clunky black glasses either. So it was just me and the lads, and they didn't want to dance either, but they did want to drink and make small talk so that was OK. And then it seemed easier to go home to my secret apartment at the heart of town than make the long trip to the toilet again, despite the revealing view into the gents' that taught us never to eat peanuts at the bar because men don't wash their hands afterwards. But you know when it's three in the morning and it takes hours to leave, and then you're standing outside drunkenly and along comes some critic and accuses you of rolling your eyes and then you re-ignite an old argument about translators' royalties and manage to actually win merely by dint of being less drunk and pretending you're really offended and just going to leave at any moment? And then some editor says why don't we all have another beer and make up and some writer wants to suggest to the critic that he really should review his latest book, and the critic pretends to get it muddled up with another book, or maybe he really does get it muddled up, and so you end up staying until four in the morning? Well, that happened.
So Saturday was all a bit of a blur, until the evening back in Berlin, when the 60 translators met up again for the final session of free food and drink and schmoozing with writers. And I had my annual life counselling session with one lady writer from Neukölln and my annual dose of admiration from an older lady writer not from Neukölln, whom I promised to adopt if she dyed her hair blonde. And then I got a taxi home and slept for what felt like 48 hours.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Angry Sheep
I may not be blogging much this week, as I'm one of 60 translators out of German enjoying input galore at Berlin's beautiful Literary Colloquium. From critics to writers to publishers to other translators, there's a fantastic programme designed all around German-language literature. All under the name of Angry Sheep, after Katja Lange-Müller's really rather excellent novel Böse Schafe, which has been translated into eight languages so far (not English yet!). In fact the author herself gave us a warm welcoming speech, complete with translation-themed joke, this evening.
All 60 of us will also be descending on the Leipzig Book Fair en masse as of Thursday. So expect to hear enraged bleating in Arabic, Turkish, Slovenian, Italian, Portuguese, Czech, Chinese, English – pretty much any language actually – as we angry sheep spread out all over the fair. Plus, you can catch us all in the flesh in Vortragsraum 10 on Friday morning to find out about the state of play for German literature in translation.
All 60 of us will also be descending on the Leipzig Book Fair en masse as of Thursday. So expect to hear enraged bleating in Arabic, Turkish, Slovenian, Italian, Portuguese, Czech, Chinese, English – pretty much any language actually – as we angry sheep spread out all over the fair. Plus, you can catch us all in the flesh in Vortragsraum 10 on Friday morning to find out about the state of play for German literature in translation.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Looking Forward to La-La-Leipzig
My regular readers will be yawning already, because there comes a time every year when I just can't hold back. The sun's actually shining, the people of Berlin are actually smiling - and I've just booked my ticket to Leipzig from a woman in a stained Deutsche Bahn waistcoat. I even managed to coax a reluctant grimace out of her with my infectious enthusiasm.
Yes! It's nearly time for the lovely, the luscious, the luxuriously leisurely Leipzig Book Fair (I really think the letter L is utterly sexy). It's like no book fair you've ever been to, O English-speaking readers, for it is there for us, the readers. There are events and readings from morning to night, around the city itself and at the fair, which is bigger than London but smaller than Frankfurt and friendlier than both rolled into one.
And there's a prize too (see my brief run-down of the nominees). I have made it a tradition to stand just outside the official seated area at the awards ceremony, seeing as the publishing world has yet to acknowledge my infinite importance by inviting me in, and rejoice along with the great and the good of German writing. This year, Publishing Perspectives tells us, mere mortals got to express an opinion on who ought to win the fiction prize, and plumped for Lutz Seiler with his short story collection Die Zeitwaage. You can also bet on the outcome, or at least I think you can, at a site called Hubdub. There too, Seiler is tied with Jan Faktor to win.
Just in advance, I have to say I've met Lutz Seiler twice, but I was rather intoxicated on the one occasion. He was very nice but he probably won't remember me if you ask him. Anyway I was rather underwhelmed by the story I heard him read from the book, "Turksib", which did however win him the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize. We shall see who really does win.
Did I mention I'm looking forward to it?
Yes! It's nearly time for the lovely, the luscious, the luxuriously leisurely Leipzig Book Fair (I really think the letter L is utterly sexy). It's like no book fair you've ever been to, O English-speaking readers, for it is there for us, the readers. There are events and readings from morning to night, around the city itself and at the fair, which is bigger than London but smaller than Frankfurt and friendlier than both rolled into one.
And there's a prize too (see my brief run-down of the nominees). I have made it a tradition to stand just outside the official seated area at the awards ceremony, seeing as the publishing world has yet to acknowledge my infinite importance by inviting me in, and rejoice along with the great and the good of German writing. This year, Publishing Perspectives tells us, mere mortals got to express an opinion on who ought to win the fiction prize, and plumped for Lutz Seiler with his short story collection Die Zeitwaage. You can also bet on the outcome, or at least I think you can, at a site called Hubdub. There too, Seiler is tied with Jan Faktor to win.
Just in advance, I have to say I've met Lutz Seiler twice, but I was rather intoxicated on the one occasion. He was very nice but he probably won't remember me if you ask him. Anyway I was rather underwhelmed by the story I heard him read from the book, "Turksib", which did however win him the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize. We shall see who really does win.
Did I mention I'm looking forward to it?
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair: Nominations
The shortlist is out for Germany's big spring book awards.
We have only five titles, one of which I've read so far.
Jan Faktor, Georgs Sorgen um die Vergangenheit oder Im Reich des heiligen Hodensack-Bimbams von Prag - not out until March, but Faktor is a great writer who plays with language most impressively. The book is about growing up in socialist Prague and sounds like great stuff.
Helene Hegemann, Axolotl Roadkill - need I say more?
Georg Klein, Roman unserer Kindheit - this time a fantastic story of growing up in smalltown southern Germany.
Lutz Seiler, Die Zeitwaage - short stories from a hugely talented poet.
Anne Weber, Luft und Liebe - a twist on a love story by a novelist and translator who writes in French and German, highly recommended to me just the other day.
There are also prizes for non-fiction and translation - the nominees being Ulrich Blumenbach for DF Wallace's Infinite Jest, Christian Hansen for Bolano's 2666, Grete Osterwald for Hédi Kaddour's Waltenberg, Rosemarie Tietze for a new version of Anna Karenina, and Hubert Witt for Abraham Sutzkever's Wilner Getto 1941–1944 – Gesänge vom Meer des Todes.
We have only five titles, one of which I've read so far.
Jan Faktor, Georgs Sorgen um die Vergangenheit oder Im Reich des heiligen Hodensack-Bimbams von Prag - not out until March, but Faktor is a great writer who plays with language most impressively. The book is about growing up in socialist Prague and sounds like great stuff.
Helene Hegemann, Axolotl Roadkill - need I say more?
Georg Klein, Roman unserer Kindheit - this time a fantastic story of growing up in smalltown southern Germany.
Lutz Seiler, Die Zeitwaage - short stories from a hugely talented poet.
Anne Weber, Luft und Liebe - a twist on a love story by a novelist and translator who writes in French and German, highly recommended to me just the other day.
There are also prizes for non-fiction and translation - the nominees being Ulrich Blumenbach for DF Wallace's Infinite Jest, Christian Hansen for Bolano's 2666, Grete Osterwald for Hédi Kaddour's Waltenberg, Rosemarie Tietze for a new version of Anna Karenina, and Hubert Witt for Abraham Sutzkever's Wilner Getto 1941–1944 – Gesänge vom Meer des Todes.
Thursday, 23 July 2009
New Jury for Leipzig Prize
I like to take an interest in who chooses the books that win awards, and the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair has just announced its new jury. The award is probably German literature's second most important for single titles after the German Book Prize, but goes further with categories for fiction, non-fiction and translation.
I like the look of the new wielders of power. Now chaired by Verena Auffermann (scroll down), they're a surprisingly youngish bunch. Or maybe I'm just old. There's my fave critic Ina Hartwig, the man with the impressive hair Volker Weidermann, plus Elmar Krekeler and Kristina Maidt-Zinke - both of whom have very resounding names, don't you agree?
The new kids on the block are Adam Soboczynski and Jens Bisky. You can read an extract from Soboczynski's latest book The Art of Parting Gently with Female Admirers on Litrix (trans. Zaia Alexander). He's a bit of a cosmopolitan, hailing from Poland and studying in Bonn, Berkeley and Saint Andrews. And he's younger than me!
And Bisky has my admiration (female or not) for pissing off Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Bisky revealed the name of the anonymous author of A Woman in Berlin after Enzensberger published it, as the Guardian reported. Bisky felt the book should be judged as a work of history and so we need to know who wrote it to treat it as a reliable source. Of course Enzensberger republished it after her death, as she had prohibited publication during her lifetime. Which kind of makes both of them look pretty shabby if you ask me. Incidentally, City-Lit Berlin should include a passage from the book itself, in case you want a taster before you go whole hog and buy the translation. Just to get a quick plug in there.
So we can expect a bumper crop of resoundingly named, well-coiffed, irreverent and cosmopolitan young winners at Leipzig next year. I can hardly wait.
I like the look of the new wielders of power. Now chaired by Verena Auffermann (scroll down), they're a surprisingly youngish bunch. Or maybe I'm just old. There's my fave critic Ina Hartwig, the man with the impressive hair Volker Weidermann, plus Elmar Krekeler and Kristina Maidt-Zinke - both of whom have very resounding names, don't you agree?
The new kids on the block are Adam Soboczynski and Jens Bisky. You can read an extract from Soboczynski's latest book The Art of Parting Gently with Female Admirers on Litrix (trans. Zaia Alexander). He's a bit of a cosmopolitan, hailing from Poland and studying in Bonn, Berkeley and Saint Andrews. And he's younger than me!
And Bisky has my admiration (female or not) for pissing off Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Bisky revealed the name of the anonymous author of A Woman in Berlin after Enzensberger published it, as the Guardian reported. Bisky felt the book should be judged as a work of history and so we need to know who wrote it to treat it as a reliable source. Of course Enzensberger republished it after her death, as she had prohibited publication during her lifetime. Which kind of makes both of them look pretty shabby if you ask me. Incidentally, City-Lit Berlin should include a passage from the book itself, in case you want a taster before you go whole hog and buy the translation. Just to get a quick plug in there.
So we can expect a bumper crop of resoundingly named, well-coiffed, irreverent and cosmopolitan young winners at Leipzig next year. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Prizes Prizes Prizes
I received an anonymous tip-off that three former East German writers are to share the €60,000 National Prize, awarded by the liberal-conservative Deutsche Nationalstiftung. According to big bod Kurt Biedenkopf, the three "promote our mutual awareness of history and a sympathetic feeling of being a single nation (Wir-Gefühl) in an exemplary way." The authors in question are Erich Loest, 83, Monika Maron, 68, and German Book Prize winner Uwe Tellkamp, 40 - thus showering money on three generations of writers who work towards the foundation's goal of "promoting the national identity of the Germans in a united Europe" by explaining the former East Germany for readers who never experienced it first hand.
Tonight also sees the awards ceremony for Berlin's Fontane Prize, worth €15,000, which goes to the lovely and very trinkfest Emine Sevgi Özdamar. Various other artists including Dietmar Dath also get € 5000 each. Berlin - poor but sexy, eh? According to the jury, "Emine Sevgi Özdamar is an example that the consequence of differences meeting up is not necessarily a levelling, but that a mixture of different ways of thinking, speaking and feeling can create something new that is of profit for both sides." You can read a number of her novels in English, most recently The Bridge of the Golden Horn (trans. Martin Chalmers, a man who knows a thousand songs and a good few pubs).
And then of course there was the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair last week. The three winners each get €15,000 too, and I was there to see the ceremony. The translation award went to Eike Schönfeld, looking very dapper as always, for his translation of Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift. I was a bit nonplussed by the laudatory speech, in which a critic spent more time talking about Saul Bellow than the translation. Schönfeld has a lot of translations and re-translations under his belt and proclaimed loudly that he doesn't like to read books through before he starts work on them - that maintains the element of surprise and is a darn sight quicker too. The non-fiction award went to the beardy historian Herfried Münkler for Die Deutschen und ihre Mythen. And the fiction prize to Sibylle Lewitscharoff for Apostoloff, an apparently wickedly funny anti-Bulgaria novel that is at the top of my pile.
Interestingly enough, Daniel Kehlmann, who was also nominated for the prize and was one of the writers who complained about the terrible pressure of such occasions last year in the run-up to the German Book Prize, didn't attend the announcements ceremony. I also spotted a heavily bearded Andreas Maier slipping out just seconds after the fiction winner was announced. Ulrich Greiner, literary editor of DIE ZEIT, even referred to the criticism of pitting authors against each other for awards in his opening speech. He pointed out that these big prizes are a way to publicise good books independently of advertising budgets - although a look at the nominees shows that small publishers don't get a look-in either way. Having slipped into the VIP area after the deed was done thanks to an attractive friend and two sets of batted eyelashes, I can at least confirm that hanging with the big guns isn't as spectacular or interesting as it looks from the other side of the cordon. But at least you get to drown your sorrows for free if you don't win.
Tonight also sees the awards ceremony for Berlin's Fontane Prize, worth €15,000, which goes to the lovely and very trinkfest Emine Sevgi Özdamar. Various other artists including Dietmar Dath also get € 5000 each. Berlin - poor but sexy, eh? According to the jury, "Emine Sevgi Özdamar is an example that the consequence of differences meeting up is not necessarily a levelling, but that a mixture of different ways of thinking, speaking and feeling can create something new that is of profit for both sides." You can read a number of her novels in English, most recently The Bridge of the Golden Horn (trans. Martin Chalmers, a man who knows a thousand songs and a good few pubs).
And then of course there was the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair last week. The three winners each get €15,000 too, and I was there to see the ceremony. The translation award went to Eike Schönfeld, looking very dapper as always, for his translation of Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift. I was a bit nonplussed by the laudatory speech, in which a critic spent more time talking about Saul Bellow than the translation. Schönfeld has a lot of translations and re-translations under his belt and proclaimed loudly that he doesn't like to read books through before he starts work on them - that maintains the element of surprise and is a darn sight quicker too. The non-fiction award went to the beardy historian Herfried Münkler for Die Deutschen und ihre Mythen. And the fiction prize to Sibylle Lewitscharoff for Apostoloff, an apparently wickedly funny anti-Bulgaria novel that is at the top of my pile.
Interestingly enough, Daniel Kehlmann, who was also nominated for the prize and was one of the writers who complained about the terrible pressure of such occasions last year in the run-up to the German Book Prize, didn't attend the announcements ceremony. I also spotted a heavily bearded Andreas Maier slipping out just seconds after the fiction winner was announced. Ulrich Greiner, literary editor of DIE ZEIT, even referred to the criticism of pitting authors against each other for awards in his opening speech. He pointed out that these big prizes are a way to publicise good books independently of advertising budgets - although a look at the nominees shows that small publishers don't get a look-in either way. Having slipped into the VIP area after the deed was done thanks to an attractive friend and two sets of batted eyelashes, I can at least confirm that hanging with the big guns isn't as spectacular or interesting as it looks from the other side of the cordon. But at least you get to drown your sorrows for free if you don't win.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Looking Back at Leipzig
This time around, my visit to the Leipzig Book Fair was slightly different to usual. First off, I usually have a trusty partner in crime but he couldn't make it this year, what with cycling around the Middle East and all that. Instead I got to know a few of the vagaries of the Balkan literary world, as my companion hailed from Macedonia. There were also more events aimed specifically at translators than ever - and also, I got the feeling, more translators into English popping up all over the place at unexpected moments. So although it was great to see all these people, it felt rather more like business than pleasure at times. There was lots of talking shop with publishing people and gossiping with colleagues, which is fun in its way but inevitably left less time for consuming literature. But I was tickled to talk to Wolfgang Hörner, who had indulged in a spot of vanity googling and found my glowing praise of his person.
Still, I did manage to catch a few readings, if not the usual overflowing cornucopia. I went to a couple of Krautgarden events and rather liked Aleksandar Hemon, who read from The Lazarus Project - although as usual I was annoyed by Sigrid Löffler, the critic who presented him. She's a person I always mean to respect but fail to do so because she just talks so much - in this case combining the role of interpreter and moderator into an almost one-woman show while Hemon leaned back and looked bemused, uncomprehending.
And at the glorious Lange Leipziger Lesenacht I enjoyed Benjamin Lebert's reading from his new novel Flug der Pelikane (sample in German here). The book is set in Hamburg and the USA, with a young man becoming obsessed with an escape from Alcatraz. A couple behind me got my goat by whispering "Isn't he cute?" all the way through, but it's true. The man is 27, looks about 15 - and has the talent of an accomplished writer, having debuted ten years ago. He's even taught creative writing in New York, bizarrely enough. Peter Constantine's translation of Lebert's previous novel The Bird is a Raven won him the Helen and Kurt Wolff Translation Prize in 2007.
I also saw Maria Cecilia Barbetta in interview and reading from Änderunsgschneiderei Los Milagros (on the German Book Office's latest list for translation funding, by the way). I had met her on Monday and fawned rather, being quite a fan of her beautiful and playful novel. And seeing her at the book fair confirmed my impression of a really smily and charming - and stylish - person who loves writing.
The highlight for me though was swinging back to the positive side of my seesawing attitude to Feridun Zaimoglu. He was one of six European authors invited to write a piece on the subject, "Where is Europe drifting?" and present it at the fair. The texts will be published in the journal Sprache im technischen Zeitalter. Zaimoglu was on finest form, reading his provocative text in a slightly restrained version of his usual lyrical singsong. He described attitudes on the ground to migration and Europe in the North - Kiel - the South - Istanbul - and the East - Prague. Apparently the West was implicit as a phantom throughout, but I was vaguely offended that he hadn't worked his stay in Wales into the piece, which was more prose than essay. Best of all, and I'm sure he was pleased too, the text made a number of elderly ladies all hot under the collar. They left, shaking their heads in protest, during the section where Zaimoglu had "collated" opinions from a fictitious (?) working mens' bar in Kiel. It was like Kanak Sprak all over again, only this time the Germans were shitting on the Turks (and the Poles and the Czechs and so on), not the other way around. But although he claimed he finds the statements of the man on the street "truer" than what you hear in cappuccino bars, the man is reflective enough to admit that he can't possibly represent those people - who, he said, have a voice of their own. And the presenter Thomas Geiger finally nailed him down on his political position: "salon lefty". Well well well.
I spent all of yesterday recovering.
Still, I did manage to catch a few readings, if not the usual overflowing cornucopia. I went to a couple of Krautgarden events and rather liked Aleksandar Hemon, who read from The Lazarus Project - although as usual I was annoyed by Sigrid Löffler, the critic who presented him. She's a person I always mean to respect but fail to do so because she just talks so much - in this case combining the role of interpreter and moderator into an almost one-woman show while Hemon leaned back and looked bemused, uncomprehending.
And at the glorious Lange Leipziger Lesenacht I enjoyed Benjamin Lebert's reading from his new novel Flug der Pelikane (sample in German here). The book is set in Hamburg and the USA, with a young man becoming obsessed with an escape from Alcatraz. A couple behind me got my goat by whispering "Isn't he cute?" all the way through, but it's true. The man is 27, looks about 15 - and has the talent of an accomplished writer, having debuted ten years ago. He's even taught creative writing in New York, bizarrely enough. Peter Constantine's translation of Lebert's previous novel The Bird is a Raven won him the Helen and Kurt Wolff Translation Prize in 2007.
I also saw Maria Cecilia Barbetta in interview and reading from Änderunsgschneiderei Los Milagros (on the German Book Office's latest list for translation funding, by the way). I had met her on Monday and fawned rather, being quite a fan of her beautiful and playful novel. And seeing her at the book fair confirmed my impression of a really smily and charming - and stylish - person who loves writing.
The highlight for me though was swinging back to the positive side of my seesawing attitude to Feridun Zaimoglu. He was one of six European authors invited to write a piece on the subject, "Where is Europe drifting?" and present it at the fair. The texts will be published in the journal Sprache im technischen Zeitalter. Zaimoglu was on finest form, reading his provocative text in a slightly restrained version of his usual lyrical singsong. He described attitudes on the ground to migration and Europe in the North - Kiel - the South - Istanbul - and the East - Prague. Apparently the West was implicit as a phantom throughout, but I was vaguely offended that he hadn't worked his stay in Wales into the piece, which was more prose than essay. Best of all, and I'm sure he was pleased too, the text made a number of elderly ladies all hot under the collar. They left, shaking their heads in protest, during the section where Zaimoglu had "collated" opinions from a fictitious (?) working mens' bar in Kiel. It was like Kanak Sprak all over again, only this time the Germans were shitting on the Turks (and the Poles and the Czechs and so on), not the other way around. But although he claimed he finds the statements of the man on the street "truer" than what you hear in cappuccino bars, the man is reflective enough to admit that he can't possibly represent those people - who, he said, have a voice of their own. And the presenter Thomas Geiger finally nailed him down on his political position: "salon lefty". Well well well.
I spent all of yesterday recovering.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Leipzig
Last year I wrote How Do I Love Thee, Leipzig? - and this year they're organising a party by the same name.* I'll be talking, dancing and quizzing with Ulrike Almut Sandig, Mathias Irle (brandeins), Frank Patitz and his Retrovelo-Soundsystem and Claudius Nießen at the release party for the new Moleskine City Notebook Leipzig Special Edition 600 Years of Universität Leipzig. Tomorrow night. At Paris Syndrom.
I'm really quite excited about it all, the highlight of my literary year - the Leipzig Book Fair in all its glory, with grown men and women dressed as manga characters, crowds of schoolkids, readings galore and parties parties parties. Luckily (or not, as the case may be) I overexercised by liver at the lcb the other night, so I won't be tempted to go too wild.
You shall know me by my groovy new "I heart german books" badge, in case any fellow German book lovers happen to bump into me.
*Not strictly a coincidence. We translators move in mysterious ways.
I'm really quite excited about it all, the highlight of my literary year - the Leipzig Book Fair in all its glory, with grown men and women dressed as manga characters, crowds of schoolkids, readings galore and parties parties parties. Luckily (or not, as the case may be) I overexercised by liver at the lcb the other night, so I won't be tempted to go too wild.
You shall know me by my groovy new "I heart german books" badge, in case any fellow German book lovers happen to bump into me.
*Not strictly a coincidence. We translators move in mysterious ways.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair - Nominations
Germany's biggest literary award of the spring season has announced its nominees for fiction, non-fiction and translation.
The fiction nominations are:
Wilhelm Genazino: Das Glück in glücksfernen Zeiten (Carl Hanser Verlag)
Reinhard Jirgl: Die Stille (Carl Hanser Verlag)
Daniel Kehlmann: Ruhm. Ein Roman in neun Geschichten (Rowohlt Verlag)
Sibylle Lewitscharoff: Apostoloff (Suhrkamp Verlag)
Andreas Maier: Sanssouci (Suhrkamp Verlag)
Julia Schoch: Mit der Geschwindigkeit des Sommers (Piper Verlag)
You can read extracts from the novels on the website of the award, and there are some rather nice audiofiles at Literaturport.
Three of the titles (Jirgl, Schoch, Lewitscharoff) aren't available in bookshops yet, but will be when they announce the winners on 12 March. Which makes the voting at Zeit Online a little unfair.
I'll do my best to report on the ceremony. And the programme for my favourite book fair will be announced in six days' time. I'm counting down the hours.
The fiction nominations are:
Wilhelm Genazino: Das Glück in glücksfernen Zeiten (Carl Hanser Verlag)
Reinhard Jirgl: Die Stille (Carl Hanser Verlag)
Daniel Kehlmann: Ruhm. Ein Roman in neun Geschichten (Rowohlt Verlag)
Sibylle Lewitscharoff: Apostoloff (Suhrkamp Verlag)
Andreas Maier: Sanssouci (Suhrkamp Verlag)
Julia Schoch: Mit der Geschwindigkeit des Sommers (Piper Verlag)
You can read extracts from the novels on the website of the award, and there are some rather nice audiofiles at Literaturport.
Three of the titles (Jirgl, Schoch, Lewitscharoff) aren't available in bookshops yet, but will be when they announce the winners on 12 March. Which makes the voting at Zeit Online a little unfair.
I'll do my best to report on the ceremony. And the programme for my favourite book fair will be announced in six days' time. I'm counting down the hours.
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
€ 15,000 for Fritz Vogelgsang
Yet another great thing about the Leipzig Book Fair (let me know if this is getting tedious, but I don't get out much) is that it awards a very public prize for the best translation. This year's winner is the tricky-to-pronounce Fritz Vogelgsang, for his German version of Joannot Martorell's Old Catalan epic romance Tirant lo Blanc.
The prize money is nothing to be sniffed at, although Vogelgsang once allegedly threw away a letter telling him he'd won the Wilhelm Merton Prize - he thought it was advertising from a bank - so maybe he's not bothered. The judges commented:
Vogelgsang has put Martorell's Old Catalan into an elegant and laudably modern form of German. His text transports the colourful, entertaining, exciting nature of this first realistic novel to perfection.
And according to the VdÜ, Vogelgsang has had a pretty colourful, entertaining and exciting life himself. Born in 1930, he studied in Spain and spent time studying No theatre in 1950s Japan. He's been a freelance translator for an impressive 28 years, writing out his translations by hand and typing them up later. He has won squillions of prizes, including a Bundesverdienstkreuz medal. Vogelgsang has translated Teresa von Ávila, Juan Goytisolo, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, Juan Ramón Jiménez and Antonio Machado - among others.
What I found most entertaining and exciting at the awards ceremony was the contrast between him and the other prize winners. The translators go first, as - let's face it - fewer people are interested in us than in the non-fiction and fiction categories. So the winner was announced, and Fritz Vogelgsang got to his feet calmly, made his way to the stage and graciously accepted the proferred large blue folder and bunch of flowers - "For me?" He was wearing a lentil brown ensemble, slightly stretched as it seemed, and carrying what I can't help calling a matching handbag, with long brown suede tassles.
The other two winners - Irina Liebmann and Clemens Meyer - were about a million times more worked up than the seasoned translator. Both swayed to the stage, weighed down by adrenalin, and held excited and slightly incoherent Oscar-style speeches. Both had dressed up rather than down, I think it's safe to say. And both seemed, in contrast to Vogelgsang, like absolute amateurs at the whole prize acceptance game. Not that I'd be any different...
The prize money is nothing to be sniffed at, although Vogelgsang once allegedly threw away a letter telling him he'd won the Wilhelm Merton Prize - he thought it was advertising from a bank - so maybe he's not bothered. The judges commented:
Vogelgsang has put Martorell's Old Catalan into an elegant and laudably modern form of German. His text transports the colourful, entertaining, exciting nature of this first realistic novel to perfection.
And according to the VdÜ, Vogelgsang has had a pretty colourful, entertaining and exciting life himself. Born in 1930, he studied in Spain and spent time studying No theatre in 1950s Japan. He's been a freelance translator for an impressive 28 years, writing out his translations by hand and typing them up later. He has won squillions of prizes, including a Bundesverdienstkreuz medal. Vogelgsang has translated Teresa von Ávila, Juan Goytisolo, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, Juan Ramón Jiménez and Antonio Machado - among others.
What I found most entertaining and exciting at the awards ceremony was the contrast between him and the other prize winners. The translators go first, as - let's face it - fewer people are interested in us than in the non-fiction and fiction categories. So the winner was announced, and Fritz Vogelgsang got to his feet calmly, made his way to the stage and graciously accepted the proferred large blue folder and bunch of flowers - "For me?" He was wearing a lentil brown ensemble, slightly stretched as it seemed, and carrying what I can't help calling a matching handbag, with long brown suede tassles.
The other two winners - Irina Liebmann and Clemens Meyer - were about a million times more worked up than the seasoned translator. Both swayed to the stage, weighed down by adrenalin, and held excited and slightly incoherent Oscar-style speeches. Both had dressed up rather than down, I think it's safe to say. And both seemed, in contrast to Vogelgsang, like absolute amateurs at the whole prize acceptance game. Not that I'd be any different...
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