Guide Biography: Patrick Kennedy

When I've written these blog posts, I've tried not to focus on myself too much. Odd for a blog, isn't it? Yet administering my Literature in Translation site has never really been about me; it's been about making sure that you, my readers, get the best literary education possible. Today, though, I'm making an exception. Since this will be my last blog post for some time, I would like to share a little about my own life as a writer and reader. In hopes, of course, that there will be some educational value to what I have to say.

I don't remember exactly when I first immersed myself in classic literature. But I do remember growing up surrounded by books, poring over everything from Halloween picture books to bird watching guides, eagerly awaiting the next trip to the library down the hill. During dull moments at swim meets, I'd have a biography in my hands. During break time at my summer jobs, I'd be working my way through a 19th-century novel. Don't think I'm bragging; there is a lot in life that I haven't done quite yet, and that I might have done if I'd been less busy reading Dante and Camus. Still, I like to think that I made these trade-offs for good reasons.

On my site, I have profiled books that make a case for the enriching and enlightening effects of literature and art. There's the epic poem Beowulf: the story of a warrior who complements bravery and ambition with almost poetic powers of self-expression. There are metafictions like "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote" by Jorge Luis Borges and Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino: experimental works that examine the elusive, vibrant, almost intoxicating qualities of writing and storytelling. There are stories such as Anton Chekhov's "A Boring Story" and Franz Kafka's "The Metamorphosis": stories that show how empty lives without literature can be, and that perhaps suggest the redemptive powers of art.

Respect, entertainment, moral and spiritual growth: all of these are fine reasons to read and write. I wonder which of these reasons are yours. From time to time, I have followed all of them myself. And yet, I can't help feeling that my own reasons defy explanation.

Why do I read? Quite simply, because it's a part of me that I could never live without.

Do you need a little suspense in your life, what with the end of Breaking Bad and the Yankees not making the playoffs? If so, never fear; literary awards season is here! In the U.S., we have the National Book Awards; in the U.K., the Booker Prize. And on the international scene, we have the Nobel Prize in Literature. This one is like the World Cup of writing prizes. Yeah, it's that important.

Since the Nobel is going to be announced very soon (early or mid October, that is), the Nobel is going to be our focus here. Do you have any predictions for the winner, any writers you really, really want to win? But before you get carried away, a few ground rules. To begin, any published writer in the world is eligible for the Nobel. Broad field, right? Um, not quite. After all, the Nobel is picked by human beings with tastes and quirks of their own. It's widely believed that the current Nobel committee has a distaste for American writers (sorry, Philip Roth). And even though Latin American writers like Isabel Allende and Paulo Coehlo are international bestsellers, they've never been presented as serious Nobel possibilities (sorry, latter-day magical realists).

Now that we've established all this, let's look at the contenders. For 2013, the oddsmakers are putting forward Japan's Haruki Murakami as favored to win. He was also favored in 2012, but that year's Nobel went to China's Mo Yan. It might be time to go with another well-rated yet well-know author (Amos Os, Milan Kundera, Salman Rushdie). Or maybe go with a younger writer who's racked up other literary awards. Per Petterson, for instance, is one of the memorable recent winners of the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Is the Nobel his logical next step?

The suspense is on. What are your predictions for this year's Nobel? Who will join Thomas Mann, Samuel Beckett, Albert Camus, and Gabriel García Márquez in the ranks of Nobel laureates. And if your author doesn't win, don't fret. Tolstoy, Proust, and Kafka didn't win Nobels either.

So, the summer of 2013 is officially over. Unless you're well out of college (or simply haven't looked at a calendar) school is back in session. I know, I know, this isn't the most enjoyable news in the world. Fortunately, if you take a look at Classic Literature in Translation, you'll find that the site is gearing itself to meet plenty of your back-to-school needs. Okay, so we can't get you a brand new laptop or the prom date of your dreams. But we can get you some really good grades.

How is that, exactly? In case you haven't noticed, I've spent the past month or two creating study guides for often-assigned school books, like Gustave Flaubert's "A Simple Heart", Yasunari Kawabata's Snow Country, and Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. And I've only begun to fight. Check back in the near future, and you'll find study guides to Chekhov's "The Lady with the Little Dog", Beckett's Waiting for Godot, and many, many more. All classroom favorites, all summarized and analyzed for you.

Of course, you may not be in a literature class that uses much literature in translation. (American Lit, anyone?) But that's no reason to ignore us until 2014. Wondering about a tough literary concept like romanticism, modernism, or metafiction? Just take a look at the "Terms and Definitions" section. Need to think of some good analysis topics for an honors project or your SAT essay? Try our study guides and reading lists

But the school year is young, and I'm taking requests. What would you like to see on Classic Literature in Translation during the next couple of months? How can we fit your back-to-school needs? Write in, let me know. And don't lament the end of summer; school can be an adventure of its own.

If you've read any books on the history of literature (or, better yet, explored my Classic Literature in Translation site) you've probably come across an "-ism" or two. Romanticism, realism, naturalism, magical realism, surrealism, formalism, structuralism, modernism, post-modernism--these are a few of the many, many "-isms" that literature scholars use. Normally, any given -ism will be used to stand in for a large, complex group of books, writers, and ideas. "Realism," for instance, is a classification that takes in hundreds of major authors, spread across three or four centuries. Lots of information: one easy-to-remember label. See why scholars love these?

These -isms, then, are pretty popular. But should they be? There are plenty of reasons why this terminology has caught on. Sometimes, authors themselves went around inventing -isms. (Émile Zola coined "naturalism" for his own novels, and a small army of 20th-century writers and artists dubbed themselves "the Surrealists.") Sometimes, too, the label is wonderfully appropriate. Authors as different as Tolstoy, Flaubert, and Thomas Mann all attempted to create complex, realistic characters. Hence, they're all grouped under "realism."

Now the downside. Even the best -ism can be misapplied. (Did Kafka consider himself a Surrealist? Not at all. So why do modern commentators describe him as one?) And even-long lived -isms stress similarity, not difference. Yes, Flaubert and Tolstoy are both realists, but they're two enormously different authors. Don't forget that, and don't think that knowing an -ism is a perfect replacement for sitting down and actually reading their works.

So write in and tell me: Do classifications like these -isms help you understand literature? Or just boggle your mind? Even if you are boggled, don't be shy about examining the -isms I talk about on my site. Classification or no classification, you're sure to discover some amazing literature.

Today, I'd like to talk about a part of my job that appears simple and completely straightforward, but is really nothing of the sort: writing summaries. If you've checked out any of the study guides on Classic Literature in Translation, you've noticed that the first thing I always provide is a brief overview of the book at hand. Plot, format, setting, characters: all of these go into one of my summaries, without any hyper-complex analysis or opinion. Sounds straightforward, right?

Wrong. A good summary isn't a laundry list; it's a smart, selective synopsis of a book's most important parts. And it should give you (yes, even in 500 words or so) a firm sense of that book's style, subtleties, and big ideas. It's quite a challenge to summarize a complex short story like Kafka's "A Hunger Artist", a novel of ideas like Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, or an intricate monologue like Albert Camus's The Fall. Yet somehow, I've summarized them all.

What, to your thinking, are some of the books that are hardest to summarize? Sometimes, the scope, size, or ambition of a work makes summary difficult. For instance, I've summarized Anton Chekhov's "A Boring Story". There are plenty of interesting episodes and psychological twists that I couldn't fit into my summary. Now imagine tackling a longer Russian work, like Tolstoy's War and Peace.

But there's another reason why a book or story can baffle even the best summarizers. A few of the works I've summarized (Calvino's Invisible Cities, Borges's "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote") aren't dauntingly long. Yet they use strange formats: formats that can require pages upon pages to adequately consider and analyze. And summarizers, alas, don't get pages upon pages.

So think this over, write in, and let me know which books (from your own experience) defy any attempts at summary. Who knows, maybe I'll do study guides for a few your picks. I'm always up for a challenge.

A few days ago, Classic Literature in Translation at About.com reached its one-year anniversary. Yes, everything you see here began in June 2012 with a handful of author profiles and a single study guide (Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, for the record). Since then, the site has become home to plenty of reading lists and study guides, dozens of author biographies, articles on advice books and books about romance, and overviews of Russian, French, and Japanese literature on film. Sounds like progress to me.

Okay, where do we go next? Over the past year, I've benefited a lot from the advice of literary critics, educators, and book lovers of all sorts. And I'm still listening, and listening hard. Is there anything you would like to see on the site going forward? An author, a feature article, or perhaps a whole new section?

I already have a few plans. First, more study guides. I've already got bios of Flaubert, Tolstoy, and Beckett; now, it's time to really delve into their works. Second, a whole section devoted to terms and definitions. Study guides are great, but a gigantic listing of literature phrases--everything from "romanticism" to "magical realism" to "roman à clef"--will clarify a lot of things. And third, more contemporary literature and more reviews. Again, I've discussed a lot of 19th- and 20th-century classic authors; time to do more with the great authors writing in our own time

Of course, all this is open to revision. So tell me, what would you like to see me add to the site? Write in! For now, though, I have a one-year anniversary to celebrate.

We all know that awards are important to authors (or, at least, to most authors). But today, we're considering the other side of the equation: How important are literary awards to readers like you? Does the number of honors, prizes, and all else that a book has won determine whether you will pick that book up? I'd love to know your thoughts. And this isn't just because I've spent a lot of time profiling everything from the Kafka Prize to the Goncourt Prize to the Cervantes Prize. Though yes, it did take a lot of time.

Just keep in mind that awards aren't everything. For instance, if you're interested in reading winners of the Nobel Prize in Literature, you'll read some intriguing Existentialists (Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus) and some richly imaginative political novelists (José Saramago, Gabriel García Márquez). But you'll miss out on Jorge Luis Borges, whose quirky, thought-provoking short stories are world famous. And Kafka. And Nabokov. And a lot of other fine writers.

But keep in mind, too, that awards are given out for a reason An award-winner can almost automatically merit a close look, no matter what the critics say. Consider Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho, whose inspirational writings were recently lambasted in the New Criterion. This isn't Coelho's first lambasting, yet Coelho has been honored by Brazilian institutions and by the UN. When an honored novelist provokes fiery debate, he or she just might be worth your time.

So, do awards have any bearing on your reading habits? Or do you pick your authors based on other criteria, awards or no awards? Choosing books shouldn't be a simple matter of who has the most medals, but a medal or two never hurt anybody.

For the better part of a year, I've been writing biographies of famous authors for this site. And if you visit the listing "Authors by Language and Nationality". you might notice a few things. For one, why is this list so French? For another, why are countries like China, India, and modern Turkey not there at all?

I have a few answers. If you look at a volume like the popular HERE, you'll notice that French, German, Russian authors get most of the attention. The same goes for many high school, college, and university courses in world literature. So I've followed suit. But I've also been waiting for the right time to sit down, read some new branches of literature, and get a few more "Languages and Nationalities" on the site. And that time is now!

Tell me: what new languages should I focus on? I've already decided on one: Portuguese. Last month, a bio of Portugal's most famous poet (Fernando Pessoa) appeared on the site. I've followed it up with a profile of Nobel Prize-winner José Saramago (from Portugal) and bestselling novelist Paulo Coelho (from Brazil). All important authors in their own right--and all authors who build upon the writers and writings I've already profiled. Coelho's works owe some huge debts to another celebrated Latin American author, Jorge Luis Borges. And if you're a fan of Kafka, Beckett, or Italo Calvino, by all means, check out Saramago's wildly original work.

Now it's your turn! Send in your requests for the next literary language that I'll profile. Yiddish lit, Korean, Czech, Gaelic? Help me decide our next step, even if it means giving me a whole new pile of books to read.

To some of us, translating a book can look like a lot of drudge work. (Think your translation assignments for French 101 are bad? Well, just try translating The Flowers of Evil, The Inferno, or Eugene Onegin in its entirety.) But looks can be deceiving. As someone who's had to translate world literature at several points in his career, I'll be the first to admit that there's an irritating "check this, check that, then double-check the dictionary" feeling to the whole task. Ah, but once you get beyond this, translation starts to be a matter of high artistic and intellectual value. At times, it can be as challenging as writing your own literature.

Don't take my word for it. Look, instead, at all the great authors who have doubled as translators. Look, also, at the PEN Prize, the Scaglione Prize, and other big-name translation awards.

But what is it, exactly, that makes translation a highly sophisticated activity and not a mere chore? I have a few ideas. Some kinds of writing are so difficult to take out of their original language that a translation, any translation, requires immense reserves of creativity and resourcefulness. Poetry is widely thought of as untranslatable, and some works (Flaubert's novels, James Joyce's prose experiments) hinge on effects of sound and pacing that a new language might not capture. But translation isn't all about demure library work. Like creative writers, translators compete with one another: for readers, for money, for commemoration, and for sheer excellence.

Those are a few reasons, but there are plenty more. Why, in your opinion, is translation an intellectual activity of the highest order? Or is it? Maybe it is all a big version of those French 101 assignments. The PEN and Scaglione people would tell you otherwise, but, well, it takes all kinds.

Welcome to the month of April, or National Poetry Month, as we literary types like to call it. In America, April is a time to remember, read, and perhaps write great poetry. Most of the credit for this 30-day celebration goes the Academy of American Poets, which founded Poetry Month in 1996. Okay, so what does this have to do with a Classic Literature in Translation site? Plenty.

Already, I have profiled poets such as Goethe, Baudelaire, and Pablo Neruda. These fellows have been enormously influential in American literature, and world literature for that matter. And since it's National Poetry Month, get ready, because more poet profiles are in the works. Pushkin, Rilke, Rimbaud, Lorca, Pessoa; look for bios of these great poets right on my site.

But why not extend the festivities well, well beyond April? Well, that's what I've decided to do. This month, I'm going to be instituting an entirely new, all-poetry section called "Poems in Translation". For this, I'll be taking major non-English works and linking you to different translated versions. And believe me, there are lots of versions out there. This will be your way to draw smart comparisons and decide which translation you want to delve into, or simply which one you like best. Up first: Dante's Inferno, Baudelaire's The Flowers of Evil, Boris Pasternak's lyric poetry, and Anna Akhmatova's Requiem.

As you can see, there's a lot in the works. Have I missed anything? Are there any poets you're still waiting to discover on About.com, or any poems you'd like to see under Poems in Translation? Let me know. Other than that, happy National (and, for our purposes, International) Poetry Month!