It’s about showing how poetry in translation is intertwined with innumerable parts of society, and can create resonances and collaborations that are precious, that last, that matter.

When we celebrate the increasing visibility of translation, we should also ask about what languages and literatures—and, consequently, what human experiences—are afforded visibility.

I thought I could create a space for sharing women’s global experiences through literary fiction. 

Her mother was dead, she knew that, but she did not know why her aunt and her uncle were the ones who took her in.

London, which seems all sprawl and braggadocio, is at the same time self-contained and fiercely defended.

Humor was essential for my Ramayana.

I have come to think of any “definitive text” largely the same way that I think of a mother tongue, at least in my case: an inherently debatable, perpetually relative concept.

A translated work’s pitch is aided by comparisons.

This game of comparisons, while not always accurate, can open doors and be thought-provoking.

Geography has been destiny for Georgia and its literature.

Oxford is one hidden city layered over another.

London is a self-enclosed world that contains all worlds.

In this troubling context, the need for portrayals of queer lives around the world becomes even more urgent.

There are feminist or postcolonial translation strategies so why not queer ones, too?

“And that shadowy bit you see up there, that’s the thing that has me worried.”

A “new girl” is always more desirable to the regular clients.

in the basement she coughs then lights a smoke

Neruda’s odes are neither didactic nor artificial.

Astonishing as it may seem, we haven’t published any crime novels from Scandinavia.

It is clear that there is a strong link between the strength of a novelistic tradition in a country and the power of the editor.

In addition to her freelance writing for the New Yorker’s Goings On About Town and her frequent forays into dance criticism, Marina Harss is also a versatile and prolific translator from French, Spanish,…

Editors’ Note: This month we present the first in a series of dialogues: two translators produce versions of the same text, then discuss their choices and approaches. Here Daniel Hahn and Clifford…

Petty tyrants / who founded kingdoms at the foot of their sorrow

Here I wanted my house built.

San Malanzo was old, so old. San Malanzo was poor, so poor.

A warden takes me by the arm as I slip on my blindfold and step out of the cell.

He forced himself to take shallow breaths, even though his instinct was to swallow huge heaving gulps to relieve the sense of suffocation he felt in the crowds and the alleyways.

These essays don't even deserve a zero.

I don't usually talk about my religion.

Short said nothing, and no one found a word of comfort.

Sorrow is a dirt for her, the moment she notices a speck of it smeared on her body, she scrubs it off her skin.

First, the woman writer systematically refrains from writing on sexuality until she is old.

She whispers in my ear that she wants to be a singer in Nadia El-Arees's famous salon, and makes me promise to keep this desire of hers a secret.

These are among the words discussed by Christopher Moore in In Other Words:Arabic taarradhin Many commentators have pointed out that Arabic has no word for “compromise,” in the sense of reaching…

The moment you understand the words and phrases and the wonderfully sensible concepts that they frequently encapsulate, you have come some small way toward understanding the people who employ them.

Smooth, dark slabs; floor to roof boxed / with stone shelfs like doorless cupboards.

From the airplane, streaks of light pick out / a little town, plumped down there by chance:

Birth's struggle done, the midwife sets off home / down Neegirt's fields, with lit peat held for light.

The Emperor Constantine / battling with a traitor / three hundred years later

And all the pointless fights that come / from thinking we can only see one way,

You are fresh words / on the old stone of time.

she'll turn your dreams to Scotch mist, / bone comb your hair with tugging wind / scrub your faces with rain.

I’d like to make picturesinstead of poems.That wayeach one would have its taleof sales and robberiesof rooms where it had hungof women and dear friendswho got it as a gift.They would have to be…

there is no stone where the hawk soars, / no hawk where the stones stand

In a certain region of China,in the southwest, not far from the mountains of Yunnan,a kind of apple is to be foundwith such an exquisite flavorthat in ancient times the emperors would spendtheir gold…

The loch knows its deeper stretches / where danger lurks;

Before long your poem songs got you known, / to Edinburgh city next you were gone.

In this poem, two of the region’s hills speak to each other. When a vehicle was needed for telling the story of Foot and Mouth, the hills seemed appropriate; they are very ancient, stand above the…

“It’s a scandal.” My companion, a distinguished translator of British literature into Greek, sighed and shook his head as we walked one night last summer through the tangle of streets…