Shine Bright, Fierce Star: On the Loss of Daša Drndić (1946-2018)

My dearest, dearest Daša.

For two days now, I have been crying. You are gone and I have only this: memories of a friend. So indulge me.

I'll start at our first meeting; an entirely unremarkable one, the same as any between reader and writer. Back in July 2012, I was in London, perusing the new releases in Hatchards. For some reason, I was drawn to one book in particular. Its dust jacket was a simple tan, the colour of unbleached pulp. The author's name was unfamiliar to me, though I must confess a soft spot for part of it. My grandmother's name was also Daša. And those red lines, stark bolts bleeding from the letters of the title: TRIESTE. Train tracks, perhaps, bent briefly out of shape to form the symbol that still strikes fear into any Jew who might happen upon it. SS. I flicked through the pages, saw the photographs, the documents, the transcripts, the lists. I read the first page right there in store, Haya Tedeschi sitting with her box of memories, and I was transfixed. I went to the counter, bought it, and spent the rest of the day under your spell. I knew right away that I had stumbled across an outright classic, a revelation.

Had I only read your magnificent book, it would have been enough.

I reviewed it a couple of weeks later on this blog. You must have set up a google alert, because within a few days I received an email. Polite, but unimpressed. "Dasa Drndic calling," it began. "Thank you for understanding my book." You then took issue with one aspect of what I'd said. I had been sucked in to a controversy surrounding Trieste, that you thought unfounded. We discussed it at length, emails flying back and forth, and I was swayed by what you had to say. For the first (and last) time ever, I printed what amounted to a retraction. Trieste went on to become my Book of the Year. At which point, it should have ended. Who has the chutzpah to write to a blogger to complain, anyway? Isn't that the cardinal rule: "Ignore your reviewers"? Do not engage. It can only end badly. But somehow, in those furious few days, we had proven the adage wrong. We had forged a bond. You, the literary titan of Croatia. Me, a struggling writer here in Australia, who spent most of his time procrastinating, reading books by the dozen and pontificating about them on the internet, when he should have been writing. We were, dare I say it, becoming friends.

I have spent the last two days reading over our six years of correspondence. In it I found entire lives - ours, our families', our books'. We spoke of everything: literature, criticism, politics, the mundane and the ridiculous, often punctuated by you with cat emojis. I was reminded of that first while, when everything about you struck me as intense, fierce. Your extraordinary intellect intimidated me no end, and I was always waiting for the moment you would cut me off. You were cynical and sarcastic, unforgiving and unrelenting. Holy shit, you were impressive. But here's the kicker, the thing that made it all the more delightful to speak with you. You were funny. Like, fuck off, fall-on-the-floor-laughing funny. Yes, behind that uncompromising wall was one of the funniest people I've known. You made me laugh through some pretty dark times. Both mine and yours. And you were generous. You knew me only as some guy across the world who once said something infuriating about a book he loved and who you set straight. Yet, when I told you about my friends Mieke and Will, editors at the literary journal Higher Arc, who wanted us to have a conversation "on the page", you jumped at the opportunity. I've read over it today, cringing at my contributions. But you, you answered so beautifully, every word a deadly weapon. You doubled down on your ferocious railing against the shitness of the world. It was, like much of what you wrote, a massive middle finger to convention, to complacency, to human failing. Yes, a warning to us all: Do better.

The years passed, and the books kept coming. Leica Format, which you were disappointed to hear I didn't like as much. And then Belladonna. You sent me the uncorrected proof, made me promise I wouldn't tell your publisher that I had it. What a magnificent achievement it was; arguably an equal to Trieste, and one for which you are still garnering great praise. Also, Doppelgänger and EEG, which have yet to be translated. In the background, I was finishing The Book of Dirt. You hadn't read a word but you were unwavering in your support. When at last it was done, I spent weeks building the courage to ask you to read it. "Yes," you said without pause. "Send it over." Did you know that impressing you was the single most important thing for me at the time? Did you see in what you read, a letter of devotion and admiration? Did you realise, at that point, that you had taught me how to write, had shown me the potential of unconventional literary form? In your work, I discovered the key to my own voice. I waited the next however long, nervously checking my inbox each day, wondering if you'd read it. Then: an interrogation. We spent a couple of hours on Messenger while you subjected me and the book to critical vivisection. I got defensive, upset. We argued. And then, at the point of greatest despair, you laughed and told me I'd passed the test. Of course you liked it. You would provide a quote. If you could only have seen me then, a shaking mess on the floor of my study, giggling like a maniac.

When the diagnosis came, you slipped it casually into conversation. "And now some bad news..." you said. It became a constant cloud over our chats. We spoke as we always did, but there was the odd comment about a bad test, some pain, a setback. You didn't let it dampen your vigour, though. You were always rushing off to this book fair, that literary festival. There were book launches and celebrations. You sent me photos, always smiling. Yes, there were flashes of anger, of despair. But they were soon washed away by another excitement: a new book, a different edition, some achievement by your daughter. Mostly, you deflected the conversations back to me, to my book. You took pride in its success like a godmother might. And, above all, you wanted to know about my little girl. That always made you happy. Knowing you, in part, inspired her name. "I miss it, having little children," you wrote. "She makes me smile."

A few months ago, I asked you to send me a signed book. I wanted something inscribed from you, a token of our friendship. Neither of us said it, but we both knew why. Things were not good. You were in bed, with back pain. The cancer was spreading. You said you'd try. "When I'm feeling a little better." I didn't say anything. We had tried once before. A friend of mine was on a panel with you in Edinburgh. You gave him a book for me, but he was unable to take it. So you had your publisher mail it to me instead. It got lost along the way. I like to think it is in some Kafkaesque postal nightmare, maybe even an existential Escher painting. Anyway, I waited and didn't push the point. Then you told me you just received the Italian edition of Doppelgänger. "It's ugly," you said. "But I will send it anyway." A few days later, this: "I went last night to send you the little ugly book, it was cold and pouring, and i forgot to write anything inside, i haven't even signed it. I feel like punching my nose. So sorry... the post office is less than a kilometre from my home. It took me almost an hour to limp there and back." This time it arrived, much cuter that you made out. The inscription, of course, is what's on the envelope. My name in your handwriting. And the knowledge of your effort to send it. That I possess a clean copy of a book I've never read in a language I can't understand is the kind of absurdity you loved. We laughed about it together. You said you'd send something else when you had the chance.

Our last exchange was from our respective sickbeds. Your health was rapidly deteriorating. The cancer had reached your brain. I, meanwhile, had just had a minor stroke. We talked about brains and memory and language. "I just said parmesan instead of marzipan," you said. "It's ok," I replied. "I prefer parmesan anyway." And you left me with a somewhat reassuring thought as I waited for the results of my MRI: "Don't worry. If your brain is broken there's nothing to find out. Relax." Followed by five emojis of cartoon sheep blowing kisses. It was the last I'd hear from you.

Last month I sent you the link to an article in an Australian paper in which, as always, I raved about Trieste. You didn't write back, though you shared it on your Facebook page. I wrote to you again a week later but you didn't see it. I tried not to think what that might mean. And again last week. But you didn't see that either. I didn't have the guts to say goodbye. I hoped that you would pull through and write something back. I didn't want to have to explain that I might have given up on you. You would have ripped me to shreds. Also, like now, I was not ready for our friendship to end. You fundamentally changed me as a person and as a writer. I still can't imagine not having you to turn to when things get too hard in this shitty writing caper.

You are already being spoken of as one of the greats, as one of the most important emerging voices from Europe. A successor to Ferrante, The Guardian said only two weeks ago. Yes, your star is still very much on the ascent. And I will be at the frontline, screaming your name to anyone who might listen. We will continue to talk. That is, I suppose the magic of what we do. Our voices live on even when we are gone. Knowing there are books of yours that have yet to be translated, that are in the process of being translated, means that I can look forward to new conversations, new arguments. Yes, we will continue to speak for many years to come. Because yours is a voice I refuse to stop hearing.

My dearest, dearest Daša. Thank you for everything. I will miss you forever. And I will hold you close for just as long.

First World Reading Problems Vol. 1: Translation Constipation

Translation Constipation (n): The anxious but seemingly fruitless wait for newly translated works by your favourite authors to be released into the swishing toilet of public consumption.

Without a doubt, my reading discovery of 2013 has been Goncalo M. Tavares. The guy is everything I look for in an author; funny, intelligent and mind-meltingly original. After the braingasm that was The Neighbourhood, I jumped headfirst into his Kingdom series, starting with Jerusalem and then moving straight on to Joseph Walser's Machine. It seemed each book I read was better than the last. But then something awful happened. I came to the end of the trail. As I reached for Learning To Pray In The Age of Technology, I realised that it was the last of Tavares's books available in translation.

Cue the neuroses, the night sweats.

I put the book back down, afraid to find myself bereft of such literary gold. Ever the resourceful guy, I went straight to the website for Dalkey Archives to investigate. The Kingdom series is made up of four books; the three I mentioned and another called Klaus Klump: A Man. Leaving aside how absolutely awesome a book called Klaus Klump just has to be, I thought it logical that Dalkey would be set to release it any day now. I mean, who would leave a brother hanging like that? I'll tell you who. Dalkey Archives. Clicking through the forthcoming titles page I saw a whole lot of hullabaloo being made of Desmond Hogan and Alvaro Enrigue but there's sweet nada about Tavares. It's an outrage, I tell you!

I vaguely recall feeling similar frustration with Hans Fallada and Irene Nemirovsky but, for as long as I was loving their work, there always seemed to be another title in the offing. I also know that a number of other non-English-speaking authors that I love have works yet to be translated: Enrique Vila-Matas, Laszlo Krasznahorkai, even Saramago. So why such an extreme reaction when it comes to Tavares? Because the guy is literary crack cocaine and I'm damn well addicted, that's why. Not just Pepsi Max 1.25 litres a day addicted, either. I'm talking beat up a nun, mug a girl scout, rub myself against broken glass addicted.

Please Dalkey Archive... Just Klaus Klump. Then I won't annoy you again. Until the bats come calling again in my poor empty warehouse of a brain... We all know there's another 13 instalments of The Neighbourhood you have yet to release. Don't do it for me. Do it for that sweet, innocent nun.

Premium Drafts: On Publishing Discarded Or Otherwise Unfinished Works

Legend has it that my favourite book of all time never got past the drafting stage. Truth is, there's no way to know how close to completion Franz Kafka's The Trial actually was but I suspect that it was much further down the track than Max Brod would have had us believe. Same goes for David Foster Wallace's The Pale King, irrespective of the hoo-ha that accompanied its release earlier this year. The only thing that monolith lacked was a good edit. Either way, at least both of those books can be read as entire works which is more than can be said for 2009's publishing sensation (read: fraud), The Original of Laura by Vladimir Nabokov; a few cue cards, beautifully presented but ultimately inconsequential. Nabokov would have choked on a butterfly had he known his jumbled thoughts would see the light of day.

The publication of unfinished works is hardly new, but for some reason we seem to currently be drowning in a sea of offcuts. Even as I write, Arthur Conan Doyle's The Narrative of John Smith, written before the appearance of Sherlock Holmes, is hitting bookstore shelves worldwide. So what's with this deluge of (for the most part) dross? Perhaps it is a crass money-grabbing exercise by publishers who are reluctant to invest in new talent at a time when the book market is in such an extreme state of flux. Maybe demand is dictating supply; readers are simply desperate for words from the grave by authors they know and love. Or maybe it is a toast to a disappearing process; we read abandoned drafts because, thanks to the scourge of technology (and yes I appreciate the irony of bitching about it on a blog), 'drafts' as such are likely to become a thing of the past. Most likely it's a combination of all these. And more.

Having read a fair number of these 'newly discovered' drafts I can safely say that very few do anything to further the names of their authors. There is, however, one wonderful exception and, not surprisingly, it comes from one of the most exciting small publishing houses in business today. Without fanfare, Other Press has just put out Two Friends by Alberto Moravia. Regular readers would know how much I love Italy's post-war litgod. Yep, I'd read pretty much anything with his name on it. Thankfully, Two Friends is more than the preliminary scribblings of a great mind. Indeed, what makes it particularly enticing is that it was written (and abandoned) between my two favourite Moravia novels, The Conformist (1951) and Contempt (1954) and not only shows the development of his political thinking but does so three times over. You see, Two Friends isn't just one draft. It is three. Each with significant differences - in perspective, outcome and emphasis. The central question, however, is the same: to what extent will an individual compromise their personal morality to the greater cause? Sergio desperately wants to convince his rich friend Maurizio to join the Communist Party. Maurizio isn't the slightest bit interested but seizes the opportunity to play with Sergio's heart and test his conviction by offering an indecent proposal. He will join the party if, and only if, Sergio can convince his beautiful, loyal girlfriend to sleep with his him.

All three versions have their strengths, but it is the second that really shines. Taken on its own, it would have made a creditable addition to the Moravia canon. It is therefore intriguing to think that Moravia went on to discard many of its strongest aspects in draft three before ultimately giving up altogether. Reading this book in its entirety provides a prescient warning for budding authors: keep your drafts because sometimes it takes failed progress to appreciate what you already have. I hope other publishers now learn from Other Press's example and only publish unfinished works for which there are multiple drafts. Cobbling together a "final product" does the writer a disservice. There is, after all, a reason the thing was abandoned. However, exposing the entire process gives the reader a remarkable insight into the literary mind. Plus it doesn't hurt to be reminded that our heroes don't just click their fingers and have a masterpiece appear.

Reconsidering Roth (Joseph, Not Phil)

German Literature was the great bludge subject of my undergraduate degree. Firstly, it wasn't taught in German, which is fortunate given that I speak barely a word of it (aside from schizer, but that's more from allusions in South Park to types of Teutonic porn). Secondly, it had the coolest, funniest lecturer, whose translation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is still the unrivalled standard in his homeland and who once entertained us with an hilariously mocking rendition of the Bavarian thigh-slap dance. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I had already read half the books, including my all-time favourite novel, Franz Kafka's The Trial. The subject was, as I saw it, a chance for me to boast to a German native of my personal connection to my hero, even if years later it would prove to have been a load of hokum. But beyond the brilliance of Brecht, Borchert and Boll, despite the discovery of another all-time favourite, Heinrich Mann's The Man of Straw, German Lit was not a complete winner. There were a few dreary moments, not the least of which was Joseph Roth's unbearably drab supposed masterpiece The Radetzky March. Yeah, it was grand. It was sweeping. But most of all it was dull. I swore that I would never waste my time with Roth's treacly nostalgia for the Austro-Hungarian Empire again.

Then, recently, a strange thing started happening. People whose opinions I respected, and whose tastes have always been quite similar to my own, began extolling the virtues of the tragic imp. I had lumped him in with the verbose vomiters of the German old-school but, according to his ever-growing cheer squad, he was much more closely linked to the Walsers and Kafkas of this world. I was shocked. Nowhere in The Radetzky March did I see signs of malevolent, hidden forces crushing the average man. At no point was my mind, to use the vernacular, fucked. I did a quick search and was pleased to find that the majority of Roth's novels - and there were a lot of them (is there something about the name that makes an author so prolific?) - are short and so I figured it couldn't hurt to give him another try. Scanning a few blurbs, the one that seemed to have the instant appeal was Rebellion.

The novel starts off with a crippled organ grinder... A crippled organ grinder? Yes!!! This is already my sort of book. And it just keeps getting better. Returned from the first World War, where his leg was blown off, Andreas Pum is a hopeless beggar until he marries a fat, wealthy aristocrat (yeah, in German lit they are always fat) and gets a taste of the high life. All is going swimmingly for about ten pages until he is mistaken for a fake, wrongly considered the aggressor in the resultant altercation, decks a cop, and is thrown into jail. Through no fault of his own, the life of this simpleton-come-good turns to crap. And then he dies. Perfect!

Roth is cold and brutal about the societal winds of indifference that might just as well blow us over as lift us up. Rebellion is a cynical little gem, spiteful and pithy but kept in check by a true master. It has single-handedly changed my opinion of Roth and caused me to order almost his entire catalogue. Which makes me wonder whether I have to revisit some of the other German Lit disappointments - Fontane, Christa Wolff, some others I have chosen to forget. Perhaps it is wrong to base one's opinion of an author on a single work, even if it is held out to be their masterpiece. And now there is a deeper, burning question simmering in the backgound... Must I read another Dan Brown?

The Power of the (Wrong) Word

As you would know by now, this here bookworm prefers to make his burrow in foreign soil. Consequently, I am always on the lookout for new and improved English versions of books that I have loved in the hope that somehow I might get to experience the work as the author intended it without having to take a crash course in every language imaginable. The other day I was in my favourite bookstore and was intrigued to see what appeared to be a new translation of Antonio Tabucchi's great novel of small-time political rebellion, Pereira Declares. Or should I say, in mid-1990's Prince style, "the artist formerly known as Pereira Declares"? Set in wartime Portugal, it is the story of an ageing journalist, living out his sunset years as editor of the cultural pages of a small-time Portuguese newspaper who meets a young wannabe writer and is drawn into the fight against the country's tyrannical, Nazi-loving regime. What begins as projected affection for a son he might have had becomes an ideological metamorphosis and, ultimately, causes Pereira to take drastic, reckless action of his own. It is a wonderful book about the small man's ability to make moral choices in an immoral environment and is well worth you taking the time to read. But that is all by the by.

What made me believe this was an altogether new translation was that the title has been changed from Pereira Declares to Pereira Maintains, which is supposedly a more accurate rendering of the original Italian title Sostiene Pereira. I, of course, wouldn't know. I don't speak Italian. Yet this seemingly minor change in the title (and consequently most repeated line in the book) completely alters the way we read the thing, especially in our understanding of the consequences of Pereira's final act of rebellion. The book ends with our hero trying to flee the country, having set himself on a path of almost certain torture and death if he remains. So, if Pereira "Declares", it suggests that he is bearing witness from abroad, that he did indeed escape, and that he is letting people know of the murderous activities of the Portuguese authorities. However, if Pereira "Maintains", it suggests that he was caught and he (or his legal representative) is telling his side of the story in a way that paints his actions in the most favourable light. The book becomes a plea for his life. There is also the possibility that it is being told by a member of the secret police or prosecutor, with an air of sarcastic disbelief. No matter what Pereira "maintains", we are invited to believe his fate is sealed. Interestingly, either translation suggests that we are hearing the story from an unreliable narrator but siding with one Sostiene rather the other will change whose unreliable retelling we are receiving.

Alas, readers of the original translation need not rush back. A quick look at the front leaf shows that this is not an entirely new version but merely (somewhat oddly for such a well-regarded novel) the first British edition. The translation is copyright 1995. Which means that, having decided that "Maintains" is the correct translation of "Sostiene" (my rudimentary latin suggests that "Sustains" is, in fact, the literal translation), the publishers simply did a "Replace All" job on the text and sent it off to press. They might have wanted to read through the thing though. On page 149, towards the end of the book, we find the sentence "The next morning, he declared, Pereira was awakened by the telephone." Fairly nondescript, I know. But I wish I could read Italian because I'm intrigued to see if Tabucchi uses a different word at this point, which might give that particular assertion some extra piquancy. If so, it becomes the only definitive statement in the whole novel.

The Pereira switcheroo has shaken my confidence in translations. One word, translated differently, can change the entire meaning of a book. Which gives me a sneaking suspicion that Anna Karenina was pushed. Who's with me on this?

Lost In Retranslation

As I continue to revel in the brilliance of Breon Mitchell's new translation of The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass, I can't help but wonder whether it needed to be revisited. Back at university I studied German literature and loved Mannheim's perfectly functional translation of the book that Professor Graewe set us. That version adequately captures the terse cynicism and surrealism of the German original (insofar as I believe it is there), as well as the remarkable density of Grass's prose. The author, however, disagrees. This new translation was his idea. To celebrate fifty years since it was first published, Grass wanted a translation that properly reflected The Tin Drum as he insists he wrote it. Indeed, he oversaw Mitchell in the process to ensure its fidelity. Almost fifteen years have passed between readings for me and though I am greatly enjoying this new version, I can't discern any particular difference between it and Mannheim's translation. I'm sure I'm wrong, but that is hardly the point.

Masterworks of foreign literature tend to be translated over and over again. I can only speculate as to why. Integrity, perhaps? Conflicts of interpretation? Newly discovered restored texts? Who can doubt that any of Kafka's work, as edited by his butcher/executor Max Brod, is vastly different from the original versions as the author appears to have intended them? Two new major retranslations appeared in the past year - the Grass and Solzhenitsyn's In The First Circle. The latter contained several new chapters that had previously fallen victim to censors and as such, was an easily justifiable endeavour. But what is to be made of this new Tin Drum and, more generally, 'new' translations of other great novels?

I have read Kafka's The Trial in at least five translations and there are certainly differences to be found. I enjoyed Breon Mitchell's the most - he brought Kafka's complex humour out to a greater extent than any of the others. Both Robinson and Wylie's translations felt clunky. The Muirs' was good, but a product of their time. As it happens, it is the first version that I read, translated by Waller and Scott that spoke to me in the most meaningful way. This might have something to do with it having been my first encounter, but I suspect there's more to it. I can no longer find my copy, but I clearly recall that in their translation the first line is rendered in a manner that, from my reading of the others, might actually have been better than Kafka's original!

Compare:

Muir and Muir: Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.

I. Parry: Somebody must have made a false accusation against Josef K., for he was arrested one morning without having done anything wrong.

B. Mitchell: Someone must have slandered Josef K, for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.

D. Mitchell: Someone must have been telling tales about Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested.

D. Wylie: Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested.

R. Robinson: Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested.

As I recall it, compared to all the translations above, Waller and Scott's reflects the tone I wanted Kafka to have; absurd, slightly humorous hopelessness and frustration. They also use "telling lies" which has a vastly different meaning to "false accusations", "telling tales" and "slandering". But the rest of their sentence has a more solid flow than the Muirs or Wylie, both of whom use "telling lies". And therein lies the issue. Reading in translation is more than a matter of trust. It is a leap of faith. Translations appear to be as much about the interpretation the translator chooses to imbue into the text as what the author put on paper. Hence Kafka the dark absurdist, Kafka the humourist, Kafka the oracle, Kafka the tedious bore. Which translation you happen upon will almost certainly influence your perception of the original, despite you having no idea how accurately it has been rendered. Without being able to speak any useful Czech or German, the two languages in which the majority of my favourite novels were written, I am a slave to my literary faith. As such, I am glad to have a multiplicity of testaments!

As for The Tin Drum, if you have yet to read it pick up Breon Mitchell's translation. I can't really comment on the nuance and fidelity of the translation, but irrespective of such things it is one of the greatest novels of the last century.