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EBRD Literature Prize Shortlist 2022

The award to The Orphanage sounds as though it gives appropriate background to the events in Ukraine which are so very tragic currently.

Tony Messenger's avatarMessenger's Booker (and more)

The European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (“EBRD”) Literature Prize was created in 2017 and is awarded to the year’s “best work of literary fiction”, translated into English, from the Bank’s countries of operations, and published by a UK publisher.

There is a €20,000 prize which is split equally between the author and translator. The two runners-up and their translators receive a prize of €4,000 each.

Past winners:

2018 – ‘Istanbul, Istanbul’ by the Turkish author Burhan Sönmez and his translator Ümit Hussein.

2019 – ‘The Devils’ Dance’ by Hamid Ismailov and translated from Uzbek by Donald Rayfield (with John Farndon)

2020 – ‘Devilspel’ by Grigory Kanovich and translated from Russian by Yisrael Elliot Cohen

2021 – ‘The King of Warsaw’ by writer Szczepan Twardoch and translated from Polish by Sean Gasper Bye

The judges for the 2022 Prize are Toby Lichtig (Chair), the Fiction and Politics Editor of the…

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Review of Free: Coming of Age at the End of History by Lea Ypi (Albania)

As you say, this book was given some very positive reviews and I think it has been on the radio too. Sounds really worth reading, thanks for posting.

imogen's avatarImogen is Reading and Watching the World: On Books, Film, Art & More

“I never asked myself about the meaning of freedom until the day I hugged Stalin. From close up, he was much taller than I expected. Our teacher, Nora, had told us that imperialists and revisionists liked to emphasize how Stalin was a short man. He was, in fact, not as short as Louis XIV, whose height, she said, they – strangely – never brought up. In any case, she added gravely, focusing on appearances rather than what really mattered was a typical imperialist mistake. Stalin was a giant, and his deeds were far more relevant than his physique.” (p. 3)

You might imagine that Free would be the driest of books. Lea Ypi is around my age, but the parallels stop there, as she is also an intimidatingly successful Professor of Political Theory at the LSE, who speaks about seven languages fluently. Her other books have titles like The Architectonic…

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Self Portrait as Extracts

Really loved that!!

Courtenay Schembri Gray's avatarCourtenay's Corner

Monday

I met up with X today. We ate pancakes. He said I look good. I wish he wouldn’t lie.

Tuesday

I don’t know what else to do. I have told him I’m sorry a dozen times.

Wednesday

He came to collect his things today. I couldn’t stop crying.

Thursday

Nothing sparks joy in me anymore.

Friday

I haven’t eaten since Wednesday.

Saturday

I saw him buying wine and chocolates at the corner shop. I wanted to die right there.

Sunday

I played poker with someone online. He stole my King, leaving a desperately lonely Queen.

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Autoportrait Day 79~ Shan Goshorn

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Forest Path, Smokey Mountains, Tennessee

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Japanese Garden, Portland, Oregon

Gorgeous colour combinations!

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Die Physiker

A fascinating play whose subject matter bears painfully close to the current Weltanschauung

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Favourite Irish women writers

Lisa Hill's avatarANZ LitLovers LitBlog

Cathy at 746 Books is hosting Reading Ireland Month, and since I’m the lucky one who won the giveaway for Nora by Nuala O’Connor, it seems only appropriate for me to whip up a post about my favourite Irish women writers. I haven’t yet read anything by Nuala O’Connor, but I feel confident that she will join my other favourites because her novel Nora is the fictionalised love story of of Nora Barnacle, wife and muse of my favourite male Irish writer, James Joyce…

However, these are the Irish women writers who are my favourites so far.  Links are to my reviews:

Elizabeth Bowen 

The Heat of the Day, and a Sensational Snippet: The Heat of the Day

Mary Costello

The River Capture

The China Factory, Guest Review by Karenlee Thompson 

Evelyn Conlon

Not the Same Sky, and on the wishlist Skin of Dreams, Stars in the Daytime…

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Stephen Romer, the warmth of Spring and Lentern Thoughts

The lines above come from Stephen Romer’s title poem in his 2008 collection Yellow Studio. This poetry book (Oxford Poetry Series ISBN978 1 90303985 4)I purchased having read some of his critical writings in the TLS (or was it the LRB?) Getting to understand a new poet inevitably takes time and I find that I have reached the point where actually I want to reassess my favourites; Auden, MacNeice, Yeats and Mahon). However, my interest in French Poetry remains strong and Romer is perhaps the leading translator. Incidentally, Romer keeps reminding me of the corresponding poetry and translations from German by Michael Hofmann. Here is a clip finding Romer reading at Worcester College, Oxford in 2019 about the warmth of the South,the approach of Spring, Air BnB and other matters.

Perusing the collection my eye was caught by the poems about returning to Paris.:-

Returning here

under the cold blue

the rue des Saules

is absurdly tender

with its pink house

on the corner

and the château des Brouillards

with its ruined vineyard

and secret trees

still a world on its own

(For more information on the misty castle opposite Renoir’s house see

https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ch%C3%A2teau_des_Brouillards )

Rue des Saules

Another section of Yellow Studio deals with the poets relaxation and remembering a friend/lover recently lost ;an elegy conceived in the garden and about the house. It is called Pottering About.

any sign of neglect or decay

weighs on my conscience

when you were always the one

somewhere at work among the birdsong

and the appleboughs, the place marked

by a stupendous oath

as the Allen Scythe choked

or where the odd chainsaw

was hurled into the undergrowth

and I dreaming on

among my books

in the yellow attic room.

Here is Stephen Romer in more sombre mood reading at Trinity College, Cambridge in 2018

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Des Winters Geist ist davon…

Wolfregen & Constanze's avatarDas poetische Zimmer

Foto: ©Wolfregen

Vorfrühlingstag

Der Himmel ist blau,
Die Erde noch grau,
Doch wach schon und emsig dabei,
Der Fluss liegt offen und frei;
Sein Wasser strömt kräftig dahin,
Es spiegelt sich Aufbruch darin.

Kein Zweig mehr bereift,
Ein Vogel hier pfeift
Mit wehmütig lieblichem Ton,
Des Winters Geist ist davon;
Die Sonne scheint golden und warm
Und doch ist der Boden noch arm.

Noch wenig bis nichts,
An Farbe gebricht‘s,
An Grün und lebendigem Rot,
Noch wirkt‘s gespenstisch und tot;
Ein Blümlein entdeckt ich im Wald,
Es folgen ihm viele schon bald.

©Wolfregen

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