European Union Prize for Literature to Iris Hanika

The European Union has its own literary prize, the winners of which were announced last Wednesday. Nobody much seems to have noticed.

The award goes to "emerging writers" from a different selection of countries every year, chosen by a small group of experts from each nation. This year Germany was included, and the German winner is Iris Hanika for Das Eigentliche (published by Droschl Verlag in Austria, another indie publisher doing great work). They say it's "a novel about Germany ailing with its Nazi past, and therefore by no means a historical novel but a very contemporary one." I haven't read it but I'm reliably assured that Hanika is a great writer. This is her second novel, with the previous longlisted for the German Book Prize a couple of years ago.

My problem with the prize is its lack of visibility. Although it's supported by all kinds of writerly associations, it has a strange reek of unsexiness about it, perhaps because of the "European Union" in the title. Here's what they say in the press release:

Federation of European Publishers President, Fergal Tobin, added: “Today's announcements highlight the fundamental role of all players in the book value chain and put the spotlight on new literary talents in Europe. I am particularly pleased that together with the Commission and our natural partners, the writers and the booksellers, we are organising this Prize which increases the visibility of writers from all over Europe and contributes to the diversified European cultural heritage.”

Except it's not really increasing that visibility, is it? Perhaps a larger PR budget would be a good idea. Or not announcing the winners at the Frankfurt Book Fair, where everything else is announced as well and battling for column inches. Or not using the term "book value chain" in the announcement. Because it's an interesting initiative that deserves more attention than it seems to be getting.

What Katy Did in Frankfurt

Hell, if my parents went ahead and called me Katy, I can go ahead and milk the What Katy Did thing as much as I like. I might even make it a regular series.

So, you've been wondering what Katy did at the book fair? I know you have. I know you've been drooping in front of your computer screens with your tongues hanging out, waiting for all the juicy details. Well, here they come. Some of them.

This was my third visit to the Frankfurt Book Fair, but the first time I've really done it properly, in the actual having meetings and drinking heavily way. I'm not sure what I did the other times; probably just wandered the halls feeling lost and hung out in the Translators' Centre. Oh yeah, that was it.

This year, they made it more difficult for me to hide by abolishing the Translators' Centre. But in fact they replaced it with something else that was exactly the same; same chairs and tables, same place in Hall 5, same pointless registration desk, same neighbours, same hundreds of translators slurping coffee and gossiping, same events programme (with different events, obviously), same idea of translators doing their work on a big screen for all to see; different name, different carpet. So that was one good place to hide, as was the "young publishers' island" or whatever it's called, where I went to sit in a booth and look blank. Thanks for that, guys, it was very restful.

In between all this, I met some editors and publishers and foreign rights people and did actual business. I didn't go to any book presentations or readings or anything, but I did sort of check out what books were on display. Including the German Book Prize winner Tauben fliegen auf, which even the publishers Jung & Jung obviously hadn't expected to win - it's out of print already, they're waiting for 20,000 extra copies but you can't get the damn thing for love nor money. So I sat down and read it for half an hour just in case anyone asked me (and yes, two people did). I was underwhelmed, but what can you expect in half an hour? Let's hope the narrative is the hook, because although the writing is fine and subtle, it didn't get my boat rocking. I promise to read it when it's available in bookstores again.

And other than that, I did the whole book fair kit and caboodle. In the evenings, I mean. That means:

1. I went to a posh hotel bar and had drinks on someone else's expense account while lounging on a sofa. Someone stole my friend's drink while we were there, which I suspect is not uncommon, and a man who looked like Jude Law gazed into space across the room, whereas a bigshot editor who didn't look like Jude Law ogled my legs. I think there should be a rule that only men who look like Jude Law get to ogle.
2. I went to a reception in a publishing house where I hardly knew anybody, and of course the first person I did actually know didn't actually recognise me and the second person I knew got caught up in conversation with his editor. Luckily I had taken along some fellow liggers and changed into my best dress beforehand in a sort of dishwashing cubbyhole. I asked the man in there if it was OK and he didn't mind but said he couldn't close his eyes or his dishes wouldn't get clean. Anyway, the reception was very crowded indeed and there were free sarnies and wine, and complaints about the quality of said freebies. I think there should be a rule that people who get free food and drink should just shut up and enjoy it.
   
3. I went to the indie publishers' party, which was by far the best because any old hoi polloi could go along provided they paid the small cover charge. So I knew shitloads of really cool people there and kept greeting them effusively in a "Hey, I actually know someone!" kind of way. I think there should be a rule that, ummm, loads of people I know go to parties? Am I labouring this one too much?
4. I gatecrashed the same publisher's party twice. Turns out it's easier to get in if you're not on the list but accompanied by slightly drunk Germans who are on the list at about 1 a.m. than if you're not on the list but accompanied by very drunk Americans who are on the list at 3.30 a.m. Who'da thought it? Also at said party, I used the classic line: "I'd probably understand you better if I were sober." Always good for impressing important people. And I also let someone wind me up and prompt me to get all petulant and pathetic towards a seriously cool person, but I don't think many people noticed. Apart from said seriously cool person, and he may not remember it all that clearly.
   
5. I had the world's most awesome dinner with more cool people on another expense account, during which we planned the world's most awesome publishing party to unite the nations in, ummm, exchanging clothing, as I recall. And something about oranges, the juicy kind. Damn, I knew we should have written it down.
   
6. I discovered that good editors do not necessarily make good DJs. Sorry, but it's true. That's why they're editors and not internationally renowned disk jockeys jetsetting from Ibiza to New York to Berlin to Jakarta. But they do make good books.
7. I discovered the joy of drunken text messaging. May I just take this opportunity to apologise to all those people who got misspelled and pointless missives in the middle of the night? Thanks.
   

During all this, you must know, I had moments of extreme, and I mean extreme paranoia. Because for some reason, other people seemed to think I knew what I was doing and not actually bluffing my way around the whole thing. And I certainly wasn't going to let on that I had no idea what I was doing whatsoever. I think there should be a rule that everyone just assumes everyone else knows what they're doing. In fact, I think there already is.

And before you write rude anonymous comments, please consider that my everyday life is about as far removed from all this as you can imagine. Well, OK, I'm not a fruit fly in Addis Abeba, but you know. I'm a translator and I love German books.

Indie Hotlist Prize to Ulrike Almut Sandig

Sometimes it's not who you know, it's who you're sitting behind. The German independent publishers' book prize, pithily titled "Hotlist" - which of course doesn't really work when you apply it to a single winning book, but hey, why find a sensible name when an Anglicism will do perfectly well? - was awarded in Frankfurt on Friday. And what a ceremony it was!

There's something so fantastically German about staging utterly cool events in run-down locations, and indie publishers are really the best at doing this. It's like saying, Hey, we may have no money for gilt chairs and free booze all night long, but we're still gonna throw the best book fair party - and have our own award while we're at it. So the ceremony was held up a broken escalator with the guests sitting on benches, having paid a modest €4 to get in, and the moderators perched on the edge of an impromptu stage while I really, really hoped there was no asbestos behind the crumbling plastic wall panelling of the former diamond-trading centre.

The evening started with Der Freitag publisher Jakob Augstein, indie publisher Axel von Ernst and writer and literary organiser extraordinaire Traudl Bünger staging a turbo-rundown of the fifteen titles on the Hotlist. Four minutes for each explanation. The prize is an odd compound of democratic processes and despotism by jury - about half of the contenders were chosen by internet vote and the other half were proposed by a panel of experts, who then chose the actual winner. Which meant there were some pretty strange books on the list.

And here's where that non-existent seating plan came in. Because during this part of the event, I was sitting behind a woman in her early sixties and a conspicuously overdressed younger couple (because of course there's a special unspoken dresscode for these übercool events, which requires that you look like you've made no effort). And when Jakob Augstein ripped the piss out of one of the contenders, an epistolary novel written by a woman in her early sixties who enjoys gardening, based on her mother's non-romance with an Indian and dedicated to her children, the woman in her early sixties in front of me flinched visibly and the conspicuously overdressed couple stage-whispered offended comments about how Jakob Augstein had no idea and had never written a book of his own. Which is not strictly true, but whatever. It was awkward.

Anyway, after the break the actual awards ceremony part began, wonderfully hosted by Traudl Bünger again and Monika Schärer. This time I was sitting behind the writer Ulrike Almut Sandig and her beautifully bearded publisher Klaus Schöffling, purely by chance. But someone had dropped a big hint to me just seconds beforehand, so I was watching them carefully. And didn't those hostesses draw out the agony! All sorts of people were officially thanked and invited up on stage, asked what the Argentinean Hotlist is called ("Hotlist"), asked what independent publishers ought to be doing better – while the poor writers in the audience quaked in their own private purgatories.

And then, at last, the non-golden envelope was opened and the winner announced: Ulrike Almut Sandig for her beautiful prose debut, the short stories Flamingos. Cheers, applause, happiness. What was the stunned winner going to spend the prize money on? A treat for herself in Finnland. Grins all round, followed by much standing around clutching beer bottles in crowded spaces. Hooray.

It still feels ever so slightly home-made, but the Hotlist is now, I think, well and truly established and a genuine honour for its well-deserved winner.

Quick Thoughts on Tauben fliegen auf

I have a very brief window so these will only be unstructured thoughts before I leave for Frankfurt.

Melinda Nadj Abonji has won the German Book Prize, surprising pretty much everyone on the planet (except maybe those few people who don't follow these matters). She's Swiss, born in the part of former Yugoslavia that is now Serbia and grew up speaking Hungarian. Tauben fliegen auf is her second novel - she's also a performer and musician. Apparently she's not quite as much of an insiders' tip in Switzerland as she is in Germany, where everyone's going: "Melinda who?" But in fact she's been around for about ten years, keeping a fairly low profile whether voluntarily or not. I haven't read anything she's written, apart from the sample from her novel (pdf) and the sample translation by Rafael Newman.

What I know about the book is this: a family with two teenage daughters visits Serbia from Switzerland, where they have now settled. They are part of the Hungarian-speaking minority and the two girls long for everything to have stayed the same in their former village. In Switzerland they face prejudice but run a cafeteria, the mother employing all sorts of nationalities who argue among themselves. The father has problems coming to terms and turns to the demon drink. I will read it, because I very much hope there's more to the novel than this.

One of the judges, Jobst-Ulrich Brandt of FOCUS magazine, has written a nice piece singing its praises, which gives some grounds for optimism. Apparently Abonji writes in a very musical style and keeps the narrative tension up throughout.

But this novel is not harmless. It's about war and violence, racism and disrust – and about what our roots mean to us, and how difficult it can cometimes be, despite all willingness, to "integrate" into an unfamiliar society. As such, Tauben fliegen auf is also a very contemporary book – not a bad thing when it comes to choosing the "novel of the year".

FOCUS, I have to add, is not exactly a spearhead of left-wing politics, so I think we can safely say that literature by people writing in their second languages has officially made it. The judges have made a political choice at a time when the German-speaking world is chattering a great deal about the down side of immigration. I'm pleased about that, even though there were books on the shortlist of greater literary sophistication - to wit: Thomas Lehr's September and Peter Wawerzinek's Rabenliebe.

I'm also very pleased indeed for Abonji's publishers Jung und Jung. Based in Salzburg, they're an independent publisher with an excellent list of outstanding literary titles, mainly German-language. This is also the first time a Swiss writer has won the award, which I can't say gets my heart racing either way. I'll read and review the book and try to catch Melinda Nadj Abonji live at the book fair.

German Book Prize to Swiss-Serbian Novel

After a long, slightly annoying ceremony, they have now announced it.

The winner is (my heart is pounding):

Melinda Nadj Abonji for Tauben fliegen auf.

Goodness me. I hadn't been expecting that.

NYT Outdoes Itself

Amazingly, the New York Times managed to run two articles mentioning the word translation on one day. I know... I've heard the excuse (from a different media outlet) "Sorry, we've already had a piece about translation this week." But maybe my article was just crap.

First up there's a slightly rambling op-ed that everybody's loving: Michael Cunningham writes about being translated and the writing process.

And then they've done something very clever and asked a translator to review a translated book. And not just any old translator and any old book, oh no! It's Tim Mohr on Daniel Kehlmann, translated by Carol Brown Janeway. And my, does he get his teeth into the translation. And into Daniel Kehlmann too. I enjoyed every word. The only thing is, I'm hideously envious of Tim Mohr for being able to write "Tim Mohr is a translator and a former Berlin club D.J." in his byline. Mine would have to say "Katy Derbyshire is a translator and hideously envious of Tim Mohr."

Thanks to David and Harvey (and Shelley and Isabel and Susan) for the links.

Anyway, these two articles will help to while away the time before the German Book Prize is announced today at nineteen-hundred hours CET (which you can listen to on a Deutschlandfunk livestream at www.dradio.de). I'm incredibly, terribly, knee-shakingly excited about it, and I'm just going to hide away my two favourites in this unrelated post:

Thomas Lehr's September and Peter Wawerzinek's Rabenmutter.

You'll hear more from me on this subject this evening.

Literary Translation in the States and Britain

Anna Gielas has a cheerful (not) article about the dearth of translations in the USA in Die Zeit (in German). If you follow these things in English, you won't learn all that much, but it's interesting in that she talks to Riky Stock of the German Book Office, and the translators Esther Allen and Edith Grossmann.

I also like the way she doesn't bother brow-beating over why heavy German literature is to blame - because it's not, nothing much else gets translated either.

In fact, she points out:

But linguists and other experts see the lack of translations as a sign of a serious phenomenon: "English has become an invasive species," says Esther Allen from the Center for Literary Translation at Columbia University in New York. The language does not work as a lingua franca, as many claim. "Instead of taking in literature from other languages, it drowns it out and overwrites it – both in the USA and the rest of the world," says Allen. The German situation confirms her statement: 87 percent of the total 4155 literary titles translated last year were originally written in English.

Which brings us back to that "International" Literature Prize I wrote about on Wednesday...

Thanks to Harvey Morell for sending me the link. I'll just go and drink some bleach now.

Except no! I won't! Because Stuart Evers has a cheerful (really) article in The Guardian about my friends at And Other Stories, a "radical and community-based initiative, focusing on promoting great writing in translation".

Evers writes:

But can it really work? I would say yes. The whole operation seems carefully planned, well thought-out and radical not so much because of the involvement of reading groups, but in its acceptance of the reality of literary publishing. And Other Stories fully accepts that what they do is not just niche – it's a niche within a niche within a niche. The size of the opportunity for sales is tiny; tiny that is unless you know who you are selling to.

Hooray!? I've put the Domestos back under the sink.