On Judging the Italian Prose in Translation Award

This past year, I was a judge for the Italian Prose in Translation Award, given each year by the industry association known as ALTA (the American Literary Translators Association).

And what that's meant is tons of Italian literature making its way to my house. Or maybe better yet, just more than usual. It has also illustrated to me in a very personal way how difficult it is to nail a good translation. So many variables, so many tricky word combos to get right.

The five finalists were all quite worthy. They included an intriguing murder-mystery by an author I'd never encountered before (Piero Chiara) and a translator (Jill Foulston) whose work was so fluid, I forgot at times I wasn't reading in the original language; and a fictional account of the women charged with pre-tasting Hitler's food to screen out poisons (written by Rosella Postorino and translated by Leah Janeczko).

Ultimately, the award went to Frederika Randall, who translated the wonderfully innovative novel, I Am God by Giacomo Sartori. I am sorry to say the awarding was posthumous as we lost Randall this year (after impressive careers in journalism AND literary translation).

More information and the full list of IPTA finalists here:

https://www.literarytranslators.org/tags/ipta

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What I'm not writing about (for Brevity)

My father, age 84, is ill and for the most part, I am not writing about it.

I don’t want to write about it, beyond forcing myself to record some basic facts in my journal for the future me who may want to reconstruct how everything went so terribly wrong. 

For example, one morning while I was staying with my parents last month, my father woke up and said, “We were robbed last night.”

Aware this hadn’t happened, I said, “Oh really?”

And he replied with great certainty, “They were convicts.”

I jotted down the moment in my journal like you might a bad dream.

Please read the rest at the Brevity Nonfiction Blog:

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2020/07/01/what-i-am-not-writing-about/

Italian diary, May 2017 (re-post)

I’m back in the “in-between” world, the space where sentences begin in one language and end in another. 

It’s a world that I inhabited for many years and then withdrew from (in Allentown, when I resigned myself to being stateside).

The in-between world is one I love and I loathe – loving it because Italian quickens my pulse! I become Italian Jeanne -- who has the luxury of walking everywhere, yes everywhere, every day, which only serves to ratchet up my already overflowing reserves of enthusiasm and energy. I might just walk someone to death in Italy, purely out of the joy of movement in my adopted country!

I also loathe the in-between world because it plunges me into saudade. What was, what could have been, what wasn't. America is the land of opportunity -- but it is not, for the most part, a land with an excess of perfectly-planned, grand public spaces linked by achingly beautiful cobblestone streets to other perfectly-planned, grand public spaces, where you can be both with and without people. Where you can see something heart-stoppingly beautiful outside of yourself and something deep inside of you, too.

I walk through the streets of Torino (or insert here whatever Italian city that I happen to be visiting) and I want to consume everything. Not merely a panino or a gelato, the things one normally consumes, but buildings, nooks, mossy courtyards, caffes, signs – especially signs, any vehicle for the Italian language that falls under my sight. Also: cobblestone streets and the tight juxtaposition of shops and restaurants, piazzine, too, which are tiny, often hidden lands frequented only locals. Yes, I want to consumer those piazzine, those cortili (which especially in Torino seem to give access to worlds unseen), I want to mainline the way bikes cross piazzas and how content and confident the riders appear. I want to inhale how toddlers bound across the grand squares of Torino without a car in sight -- how Italian cities are made for children to be children.

I want to gobble up how homey some of the cafés appear – their singular arrangement of product and signage and sumptuously-arranged display window and ancient door, making me want to eat and drink items I don’t even like or simply don’t care for at the moment (no I don't need another caffe or brioche, and yet, well, while I am here...).

Seeing these homespun creations, I want to order 3 cappuccini, 4 ciambelline (like donuts but not), and also some other pastry that looks yummy and appena sfornata, a glass of acqua gassata, un bicchiere di vino rosso and maybe something else (I actually had breakfast twice every day I was in Italy this trip -- che golosa!).

It’s almost tender, how beautiful Italian cities are (and how welcoming their public and consumer spaces are). Made to be lived in, made for life outdoors, in the streets, in public. As if the Italians’ need for picturesque boulevards and quaint eateries is something they can’t help wear on their sleeves, as if it’s a remnant of the warm, coddled world of their childhood. That need to be welcomed and wanted by the world around us, by the barista, the giornalaio. That need for human contact.

At the risk of repeating myself, it will never be anything else but thrilling that Italy is a place I’ve called home, a place that’s still home to a very significant part of my mind. Somehow I am lucky enough to know this foreign country in the most intimate way. I didn’t simply live in Italy – it lives in me. Every time I’m here, I’m thoroughly inhabited by this bewildering, beloved, bedazzling country. 

Inhabited in a way that makes me spring to life, as if in Atlanta or America in general, I’m merely treading water, moving ahead instead of bursting onto the street and through piazzas as I do in Italy.

You may grow tired of reading this, and other posts that are similar, but I, at least, never seem to lose that thrill of contact with the culture. Even in moments of difficulty – where Italians insist on something absurd – this is still my Italy.

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Italy on my mind (more than usual)

I keep thinking about Italy, about being in Italy, about walking the streets of Italy. 

It's the thing I want to do most right now, not simply when the quarantine is lifted. But right now. It's visceral. And also not possible, and not practical. 

So instead, as I mentioned in a previous post, I am listening to programs like Prima Pagina and watching videos on Facebook (especially The Jackal) to gain even just a glimpse of il Bel paese.

I am also thinking back to the last time I was preparing to return to Italy, and re-reading old posts ... like this one:

https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2018/07/an-italophile-prepares-for-trip-to-italy.html

Un abbraccio -- ci vediamo presto!

*&*&*&*&*& --30-- *&*&*&*

Do good work (c/o Melanie Vugich's Facebook feed)

My students are still keeping a journal

As I mentioned in a previous post, I asked my students to keep what I called a Coronavirus Journal when our course went from live lessons to remote learning, and they continued to post in our journal up until the last class.

They wrote about so many things -- anxiety, boredom, hope, love, and the big things that seem small and the small things that seem big, to paraphrase the memoirist Beth Kephart. One student wrote about being the product of a divorce, which meant during her childhood she didn't know her half siblings very well. Now they are sharing a house under quarantine and catching up on the lost years. Heart breaking -- mine is.

Some treated the diary -- which we posted to an online forum that's part of the course's cyberhome -- as a private account where they could say anything. Indeed, one student remarked that he would probably never see any of us again and so he divulged his most intimate preoccupations, his failures, his worries. Then he would write that he hoped no one was reading his posts. Still, they were there -- and I read them.

These students are graduate students, not undergrads. But the tenderness, the loneliness, the fear inherent in their posts rendered them more like high school students, and I say that as a compliment. They didn't hold back. Didn't posture.

Here's the post I contributed to Brevity magazine's Nonfiction Blog about it:

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2020/04/27/my-students-are-finally-keeping-a-journal/

Poetry translations published by Asymptote Journal

Asymptote Journal has published four poems by Edith Bruck that I translated from Italian. It provides me with a much-needed respite since last week I should have been studying her works (and the Italian works of other women writers who survived the Holocaust) at the New York Public Library as part of a fellowship I won last year.

Instead, we are all home (the NYPL postponed my fellowship, and understandably so) ... but we can read poetry. And that is no small comfort.

You'll find on the journal's site not only my translations but also the original text of the poems in Italian, a Translator's Note in which I attempt to characterize Bruck's poetry, and recordings of Signora Bruck reciting the poems in Italian.

You can find the poems at this link or read the shortest one below:

https://www.asymptotejournal.com/poetry/edith-bruck-versi-vissuti/

Maybe

Of the men who count
In life
There’s only one:
The father who is missing

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"Prima Pagina" -- an ode to my favorite Italian radio show

When I launched this blog, I wrote to reflect my own joy in knowing Italian, studying Italian and speaking Italian and also to inspire that joy in others.

Now I write here about everything that sparks joy (to steal a line from Marie Kondo, my letter to her over on the right side of this blog, notwithstanding).

Yet Italian pleasures remain paramount, especially now that my beloved adopted country is suffering so much on account of COVID-19.

One small joy in these dark days has been listening to *Prima Pagina*, a RAI radio program where – I kid you not – a journalist reads and discusses the front pages (= prima pagina) of all of the major Italian newspapers.

Each week, a different journalist is asked to read through the Italian papers aloud, commenting on each article he or she finds on the front page. Commenting, but not commentating. The journalist is presenting the news, at times pointing out relevant facts or dates, but not giving an opinion on anything beyond noting, say, that a particular subject is covered by each paper or covered in different ways by the various pubs.

I imagine Italian housewives listen to it, but it would appeal to anyone who wanted to follow the news without sitting down to read the newspaper -- or really, every major paper in the country! 

I suppose for a news junkie/news industry professional like me, it's an obvious draw. But I think it would benefit students of Italian because the program deals heavily with the headlines, which are short combinations of words that, if you wanted, you could even find online. Meaning, you could read along as the journalist of the week reads, reinforcing comprehension.

Coronavirus Journal ... for the Brevity Nonfiction Blog

I've asked my students at Wesleyan to keep a coronavirus journal -- a diary of their days as they navigate what are truly unprecedented times. (I asked the "student" in the photo here, too, but so far, no go).

I see it as a tiny, silver lining to the crisis and the quarantine because while it will be a new assignment, it's likely to be one that taps into writing (or at least thinking) they are already doing. I say "tiny" because I hesitate to wax poetic about the "good" that will come out of the pandemic since it almost seems anathema, but there's no question these extraordinary times will inspire us to do things we normally don't do.

Indeed, at the start of the term, I asked them to keep journals but had the sense few were writing in them outside of class (it's a course on memoir). Now I suspect they are galvanized. This hot-house atmosphere of illness and fear has them living in new ways, with inspiration a-plenty, and a desperate need to vent their frustrations somewhere. And their entries are LONG!

I was so inspired by their writing that I pitched a column to the Brevity Nonfiction Blog about it and the editors, I'm thrilled to say, decided to run it. You can read it here:

https://brevity.wordpress.com/2020/04/27/my-students-are-finally-keeping-a-journal/

As I say in the piece for Brevity, "An unusual moment in our world has created an opening for me as a teacher to reinforce the very principles I've been trying to convey (write whenever you can, track details, take your mental temperature). But ... how to replicate next time?"

In any event, my students so far are capturing exactly what I imagined, as I mentioned in my piece for Brevity; "the small changes, the absence of one activity or obligation creating space for something else, the repercussions of our new routines (one student fears the increased screen time from working virtually is interfering with her sleep and I would agree!)."

I don't plan on sharing their entries but here are two of mine:

*March 26, 2020*

File under, Thank God/silver lining/finally: I am in love with James Baldwin’s “Notes of a Native Son.”

In an introduction to the older edition I am reading, borrowed from Olin, Baldwin writes, “I love America more than any other country in the world, and exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”

*March 25, 2020*

Leo yesterday had a Zoom meeting with his teacher. The same Zoom software I am using to teach my class at Wesleyan, except it’s not AT Wesleyan anymore.

He’s above average in reading and likes Math a lot, so perhaps we are lucky in some ways because I don’t think he will miss out as much as one might fear.

Nonetheless, a part of me grieves that he’s been robbed of the fundamental social nature of school, particularly as an only child.

Yet I am always of two minds – literally always, before coronavirus and probably always, and I think of it as an occupational hazard as a journalist.

He should be in school but in MY HOME SCHOOL he can rock in his chair or even slump (for a while at least), he can stand up to do math problems, he can walk around the computer room on the third floor while he explains fables to me. Oh, and we have gym every day, multiple times a day.

And yet – the other mind weighing in again – he has not played with a friend in a week.

-30-

Review: A GIRL RETURNED by Donatella Di Pietrantonio

Finally, my review of one of the best Italian novels of 2019 has run! You can find my whole review of A GIRL RETURNED here on the Kenyon Review's site, and a short excerpt of the piece here below:

"In the gripping new Italian novel in translation A Girl Returned, a young girl’s adoptive parents suddenly bring her back to her birth mother, thirteen years later, as if she were an expired item. Adoptions are typically permanent, no? Not in this novel by Donatella Di Pietrantonio, who deftly grapples here with the holy trifecta of human emotions (and thus, fiction): love, longing and loss.

"The stunning turn of events propels the girl into a new world. The first person she meets in the other home is Adriana, a sister whose existence she has heretofore known nothing about. The move to the new house forces her to exchange life as an only child for a home where she shares a bedroom with four siblings, including three teenage boys. Her sense of alarm (and the reader’s) is underscored when she tries to escape by pretending she has left something in her adoptive father’s car. Once inside the car, she activates the locks, begging him to take her back. As he forcibly removes her, the narrator comments, “In his grip I no longer recognized the hand of the taciturn father I’d lived with until that morning.” It seems an act of unmitigated cruelty by the father—and in one way, it surely is—but maverick plot twists revealed later in this startlingly suspenseful book will somewhat attenuate that verdict."

-30-

From the Leo Journal: ROAR!

Feb. 22, 2017

2:17 p.m.

While he plays by himself, I overhear him as he says again and again one word: “Roar!” He loves to pretend he’s a baby puma. Whence the obsession? Also, who cares?

Hearing a child yell "roar" must be one of life’s tender mercies. Oh wait, there's more. It’s my child, the one I think hangs the moon.

***
Dept. of Lost Diary Entries

This one's for Brenda and Eddie (or post-Italy blues)

Driving home in a trance from JFK, some 20 hours after leaving our hotel in Rome, Mike prowled the radio dial for anything that would keep him awake while behind the wheel. Before long, the unmistakable bars of Billy Joel’s "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" came across, serenading us through our disorientation and regret as only the Piano Man can. Oh it felt right to this former Long Islander. Just as Brenda and Eddie went back to the green (even though “you can never go back there again”), we, too, had returned. To our green. Italy. 

Billy got it wrong – you can go back, but you probably can’t stay. That’s the catch. And fate will have you driving across the Whitestone Bridge, commiserating with Brenda and Eddie – who started to fight when the money got tight and just didn’t count on the tears – but it will be another grievance that you’re nursing. 

A grievance that torments inasmuch as it pulls you in two different directions at once. 

Forget time travel. I want to be here – and there. Qui ma anche lì. At the same time. And 20 years is a long time to be pulverized by this particular type of Italian torque. 

So what will it be, a bottle of red or a bottle of white?

***
Lost diary entry

Octopus arms

Dec. 31, 2017 -- From the Leo journal:

“It would be great if people could live on Earth forever --”

*Pause*

“-- and have octopus arms.”

***

Lost diary entry

Jhumpa Lahiri and the Rapture of Italian

I am not a full-time literary critic, which has one particular advantage: I get to choose which books I review. And I jumped at the chance to review a new anthology of Italian short stories in translation, curated by none other than Jhumpa Lahiri, someone who's so far had two distinct literary lives -- one fabulously successful one in English, and one, unexpectedly and joyously, in Italian. I reviewed the anthology for the Three Percent Blog, run by the University of Rochester's one-of-a-kind literary translation program. And in reviewing it, I gleefully found I have a kindred spirit in Lahiri as she, too, is drawn to overlooked Italian women writers whose work should reach wider audiences. In particular, the anthology includes the five authors writer Dacia Maraini calls her "literary mothers": Lalla Romano, Anna Maria Ortese, Elsa Morante, Natalia Ginzburg and Fausta Cialente.

Here is a short excerpt -- read the whole review at Three Percent's site, and prepare to become intrigued by authors you may have never heard of before!

Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories ed. Jhumpa Lahiri
Translated from the Italian by Various
528 pgs. | hc | 9780241299838 | $30.00
Penguin Random House
Review by Jeanne Bonner

Novels and memoirs often become labors of love for the authors who birth them. But what about an anthology? How often do we imagine the editor of a large, door-stopper compilation of, say, short stories, calling the arduous task of sorting and selecting the entries a labor of love? And what if the short stories are in a foreign language and the editing also involved commissioning new translations and tracking down old ones?

Author Jhumpa Lahiri, who edited the new Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories, doesn’t use those exact words in the anthology’s introduction, but she comes pretty close as she describes what inspired her to want to curate such a collection. It’s of a piece with what inspired her in 2012 (a dozen years after winning the Pulitzer Prize) to move her family to Rome so she could surround herself with the Italian language: “I surrendered to an inexplicable urge to distance myself, to immerse myself and to acquire a second literary formation.” That second literary formation she mentions (it makes me think of “formazione,” which in Italian means training or education) has been fruitful. In addition to publishing two books in Italian, including In Other Words, based on the Italian diary she kept in Rome, Lahiri has translated Domenico Starnone’s novels Ties and Trick, and now the short stories of underappreciated or overlooked authors such as Corrado Alvaro, Aldo Palazzeschi, and Fabrizia Raimondo—all of which appear in the anthology.

It’s not unprecedented for an author to go abroad and lose her head over a language and a country (James Joyce also decamped to Italy, and would converse with his children in Italian; James Baldwin lived for decades in France, as did Mavis Gallant). But how often does such an author—especially one gifted enough to receive this country’s highest literary honor—master the new language enough to write in it or translate important works, as she has done? Indeed, Lahiri’s role as not only a booster of Italian lit, but also a practitioner arguably transformed the process of editing and curating the Penguin anthology (just as, in her diary, she wrote how Rome had transformed her). The result is a primer on short fiction from Italy that, given its thorough and nuanced selections, will likely be used as a college text. Indeed, Lahiri’s inclusion of a side-by-side chronology of Italian literary and historical events—a copy of which may go up on my wall—is peerless in a general interest book of this kind.

Click here for the full review

The Year in Reading (What I actually read)

I set myself a goal of reading 50 books this year (almost to dare myself to read that many), with the idea of starting off with a set of particular books I planned to read. But I have had quite the year of exploring new books and of deliberately seeking out books in the genres I'm most interested in cultivating (books from the Fascist period in Italy, for example). That means that I often will put aside a book I am reading to make room for a new arrival. Hence, the best laid plans of mice and men....But here's what I actually wound up reading:

Books I read:
1. L'Isola di Arturo -- Elsa Morante
2. La Lunga Vita di Marianna Ucria -- Dacia Maraini
3. Sagittario -- Natalia Ginzburg
4. Le voci della sera -- Natalia Ginzburg (re-read)
5. Happiness as Such -- Natalia Ginzburg
6. Suspended Sentences (Part I) -- Patrick Modiano
7. Paris Nocturne -- Patrick Modiano
8. Villa Triste -- Patrick Modiano
9. Suspended Sentences (Trilogy -- Part II) -- Patrick Modiano
10. L'uomo che non ho sposato -- Rossana Campo
11. Country Girl (memoir) -- Edna O'Brien
12. Harry Potter, Book 3
13. Wide Sargasso Sea -- Jean Rhys
14. Best American Essays, 2018
15. Autumn Light: Season of Fire and Farewell -- Pico Iyer
16. Starting Out in the Evening -- Brian Morton
17. A Girl Returned -- Donatella Di Pietrantonio
18. County Girls trilogy (fiction) -- Edna O'Brien
19. Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories (edited by Jhumpa Lahiri)
20. Je vois des antennes partout -- by Julie Delporte (in French, yes, but it is a graphic novel and I missed lots of words)
21. In Patagonia -- Bruce Chatwin
22. Harry Potter, Book 4
23. Harry Potter, Book 5 (new fave in the series?!)
24. The Little Book of Sleep: The Art of Natural Sleep, Nerina Ramlakhan
25. Walden

Annual re-reading
26. A Christmas Carol -- Charles Dickens (I have read it now for several years running)

(More after the jump)

The Year in Writing (and Translation) -- 2019

The year -- in writing, in living, in anything -- never quite turns out how you planned it, right?

Sad to say, I rarely get all the writing done that I'd like. But one reason -- one culprit! -- is literary translation. And in fact, to be fair, this letter to myself is a roundup of what I accomplished in writing AND translation this year. Next year I might add 'thinking' -- because maybe that counts (?). Or maybe I am doing a whole of thinking but not a whole lot of doing?

I'll start with the writing first, given the origins of this annual column, which began after I read a similar piece by the novelist, essayist and sometime travel writer Alexander Chee (proud to say he is also a Wes alum!). I always hesitate to mention this because swinging around a name like that can create expectations and then I have to hasten to add that I didn't accomplish anything near what Chee accomplished, that year or any subsequent year. But it remains my inspiration, and it's also useful as a reality check. By the time he wrote his roundup, he was way more successful than I am -- yet still charting out the year.

With that said, I am happy to report I landed my first byline with Longreads. (Hopefully my first of several since it is truly a wonderful space for writing). And not just any byline, but a piece where I could retell the rebirth of my writing life.

https://longreads.com/2019/07/23/notebook-reading-list/

I also published an essay on Ploughshares magazine's website about the novel I am translating, Passaggio in ombra by Mariateresa Di Lascia. It was my first byline with Ploughshares but more importantly, it was my way of keeping this project on the collective radar of the wider literary community. I was thrilled to win a $5,000 grant from PEN America last year for this translation project-in-progress, but I really want to see it come into English. And I need a publisher to do that (preferably one who sees value in publishing a novel that exposed the pains of #MeToo long before the #MeToo era). You can read the piece by clicking here.

But I suppose the big news for me was really once again translation-related: I won a short-term fellowship at the New York Public Library to study the works of Holocaust-era writers, one of whom I've begun to translate. I'll be at the library for two weeks in April and I presume I will float in bibliophilic ecstasy around the stacks, and in the great reading room, and maybe out front with the lions. The New York Public Library! Pinch me.

So much was not finished (a long essay on Italy, for starters). And oy, the rejections! So many. They particularly sting when they involve translations because I feel as though I have let down the Italian author whose words I have the privilege of ferrying over to the Anglophone world.

Of course, I also lived this year, and lived in a way that both frustrated writing and fostered it. I say frustrated because I've actually set a goal for myself to live more, write less (yes, you read right). At the same time, we visited Montreal again, my new home-away-from-home, and I was so swept up in Francophilia that I wrote loads, if only in my journal. I shouldn't say 'if only,' though, since my journal is not merely the record of my thoughts but the incubator for many writing projects.

One more "distraction": teaching. Two milestone moments in my nascent teaching career: I taught a course on Italian Women Writers (my passion) in Italian (yes), and I taught a course on the Literature of Travel at my alma mater, Wesleyan University. This kind of "distraction" (from writing/translating) is seriously welcomed! Revisiting the place where I came of age intellectually (or tried to), I found I walked the campus, not alone this time or with friends, but with the Ghosts of Jeanne Past.


I'll end on a note that I typically post to Facebook when I publish this column: What did you accomplish this year? In writing or translation or running or anything. Where's your Year in Writing or Year in Running (or insert field of endeavor here)?

I always ask this question ... but who will answer? Give me a Christmas gift and answer the question. I know you did something you're proud of. Please tell us! (here or on Facebook)

**Peace and love**

Time for the panettone (redux)

I've always thought about panettone at this time of the year, even back before you could find the little Italian Christmas loaves everywhere in America. And I'm reposting this essay -- about the ritual of going to buy a panettone in Florence -- from a few years back:

                      ********
I opened the panettone.

I wasn't going to. I bought it last week at the Whole Foods store on Ponce in Atlanta with the idea of bringing it somewhere as a special treat.

But then I thought, well, I would like a special treat. Right here, right now.

So I opened it, and still mulling over a long-awaited email I had received from a British friend this morning, I had a flashback to the days when I lived in Florence and I would buy a panettone to bring for Christmas dinner.

Read the rest of the post here.

Dear Marie Kondo -- from the archives!

Dear Marie Kondo,

I know that your book has helped many people pare down, and since a relocation has consumed me for much of 2017 – moving away from my Atlanta home of 9 years to begin a new life in Connecticut – I thought it might make sense to seek you out.

If I got it right, you tell people to ask -- as they inventory their things -- does it “spark joy”?

Except, Marie -- can I call you Marie? -- you don't understand how many things spark joy for me.

Or merely incite some kind of emotion inside.

Or, in the case of Elmo Peter Elson, represent a line in the sand. He’s my childhood teddy bear – and he’s dressed in my childhood clothes (a blue windbreaker with a faulty zipper and riotous 1970s toddler pants). I can’t throw him out now. (No, I don’t know why his name is Elmo Peter Elson.)

Elmo’s making the journey along with a cassette tape of U2’s “Boy” album that’s unspooled, and half-used notepads engraved with the name of my deceased uncle and a button for a failed political campaign where I volunteered 20 years ago, plus a vintage pin from Bayonne, N.J., my father’s hometown (because sometimes other people’s mementos, especially one’s parents, are even more potent than your own) and the pregnancy tester stick – positive! – that forget ‘changed my life’ – it gave me the life I didn’t know I was even craving. Also: bus, train and plane tickets, mainly to and from Italy, and a lot of Lira – Italy’s old currency -- that can no longer be used. But they’re like my bank statements from Cassa Di Risparmio di Firenze, which remind me that I was lucky enough to live long enough in the city of Dante to open up an account at the Florence Savings Bank. (I’ve also kept the Enrico Coveri scarf Melanie gave me and the plastic shopping bag she used to give it to me because while it is a relatively ordinary yellow and green plastic bag it is also instantly recognizable as a bag not produced in the US or used by a US retail establishment. Reason to keep it.)

Plus writing journals.

Lots and lots of journals, including ones from grammar school that I find unreadable (some thoughts should be kept inside, I’ve concluded.)

Lots of letters, too, including the one from a very dear friend that remains unopened and will likely stay in that virgin state until we die. You see, Marie, it’s a condolence card. Everything there was to know -- and everything we didn’t want to know -- is discernible on the outside of the card. Her careful handwriting, our names, the date stamp the week Mike’s father died -- without any need to open it. She is sorry and we are sorry and nothing can be done to erase the death that occasioned the card. To paraphrase the poet Donald Hall, the dead stay dead. So it’s still sealed but my God, Marie, how can I throw it out? Her kindness can’t be discarded.

I also still have Doug K.’s business card. In fact, I have two of them. I know what you're thinking -- who uses business cards anymore? Especially one for a man I last spoke to back in 2000. No, I don't need it. But you see, I do.

We named Doug Security Director of the Year in 2000, back when I was an editor on a trade pub that covered security systems and metal detectors and locks with audit trails.

He'd done such a bang-up job in his position as security director of -- wait for it -- the World Trade Center, that he won the annual contest that year. Security Director of the Year. In Doug’s case, it might as well have said ‘of the decade.’ His picture was on the cover and everything, with the two towers looming behind him. And then on Sept. 11 – you know the year -- I tried calling the number on the business card but I couldn't get through. You see what I mean, Marie? I've got to keep his business card. I need something to remember him by. Just like the page I ripped from an old calendar of New York. The last image I have of those Twin Towers. Where we went after we saw "Annie" on Broadway with Uncle Pat and Aunt Maureen, before they had children -- a thousand years ago, give or take.

After the translation conference

I study the program, zeroing in on the participants' bios. The section where the gold is hidden.

That's what I do after the conference.

This is especially so of the American Literary Translators Association conference, which concluded in Rochester on Sunday. I still have the program from the 2016 edition, and until a few months ago, I would occasionally pore over the bios on nights when I desperately needed a distraction (and a dream), nights when I would climb into bed with a piece of chocolate.

I read the section with the participant bios like you might the box scores or the obits. They brim with details of a particular kind, details that are literary catnip.

Oh she published a translation there?

Oh he won that award?

Oooh, she studied there?

Like take this one above -- of Chad Post (I know Chad won't mind).

Doesn't he sound fancy?! Interesting? The cool thing is the ego factor is at a minimum at ALTA. People are truly nice and helpful -- even some of the ones who have accomplished the most.

Maybe it's because we all know we're beholden to a mission that is pretty difficult -- making Americans/Anglophone readers care about books written far away and in some cases long ago, in a different language.

A map of my places

May 2019

I was out for a walk the other day before an early editing shift and I strolled over to the old cemetery -- the small one, the one I love, the one no one notices, The one with very old tombstones. And I thought, this is one of my places here in Connecticut. I don’t have many – I haven’t had time or the inclination to build up walking routes in my “new” town. And I thought, I need a Map of Jeanne's Places.

It would be an unassuming map, for sure. The small pocket park you dead-end into if you make the left after Cosmos on Farmington. The UCONN Law School campus, a lovely Anglican-style (or so it seems) place buried in a neighborhood by Elizabeth Park (itself, another "point" on the map). 

And this cemetery, with its cherub-faced tombstones. 

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Lost Diary entry