6 Catalan Authors At PEN World Voices Festival ’08 · language of Gaudí, Dalí, Miró and Adrià is Catalan - the old language of the Romanesque hermitages in the Pyrenees and

Private Lives

6 Catalan AuthorsAt PEN World Voices Festival ’08

Public Lives

Private Lives

AN EVENING OF POETRYWith Joan Margarit and Philip LevineThursday, May 17:00 p.m.

* Housing WorksBookstore126 Crosby Street, N.Y.

THEATRE AND POETRY:VISIONS AND METAPHORWith Kristín Ómarsdóttirand Àngels AymarThursday, May 17-9 p.m

* Martin E. Segal TheatreCUNY Graduate Center365 Fifth Avenue

READING THE WORLD With Janet Malcolm,Halfdan Freihow, PeterCarey and Francesc Serés Friday, May 21-2 p.m.

* Scandinavian House58 Park Avenue

READINGS FROM EUROPE AND MEXICOWith Coral Bracho, ArnonGrunberg, Andrés Ibáñez,Carme Riera,and P.F.ThoméseFriday, May 21-2 p.m.

* Instituto Cervantes 211-215 East 49th Street

LEARNING TO SPEAK With Jean Hatzfeld, XiaoluGuo, Halfdan Freihow, andCarme Riera Saturday, May 35-6:15 p.m.

* The French Institute,Alliance FrançaiseFIAF: Tinker Auditorium 55 East 59th Street

DISCOVER NEW CATALAN FICTION With Colum McCann, JaumeSubirana, Mercè Ibarz, JosepM. Fonalleras and FrancescSerésSaturday, May 38:00 p.m.

* Lillian Vernon CreativeWriters House at NYU,58W. 10th St., NY.

6 Catalan Authorsat PEN World VoicesFestival 2008April 29-May 4

Public Lives/Private Lives

What would you say is “el mejor libro del mundo?” In Cervantes’ famous work,Don Quixote awards this title to Tirant lo Blanc by Joanot Martorell - one of thegems of 15th-century Catalan literature. A few months ago, during the openingin Frankfurt of the largest book fair in the world, another writer reduced anaudience of hundreds of publishers and literary agents (with a front line full ofpresidents and ministers) to laughter with his speech. The author of thespeech, Quim Monzó, recited a popular Catalan tongue-twister in reflection ofhis own amazement as representative of the guest of honor (Catalan culture) atthe Fair, which broke for once with the implacable logic of a world of officialcountries. So, with five centuries setting them apart, what do Tirant lo Blancand Quim Monzó have in common? The answer is that both are outstandingrepresentatives of Catalan literature - the literature written in a romancelanguage with a thousand years of history; sister of Portuguese, Spanish,French and Italian, alongside which it has made its way from the middle ages to the avant-garde, producing a torrent of books, theater plays, magazines andauthors - a heritage that is one of the last hidden treasures of European culture. Today, everyone in the world knows where Barcelona is. Many have seen thebuildings of Gaudí, the artistic genius of Dalí and Miró, and they have evenheard of the cuisine of Ferran Adrià. But not everyone who knows these namesis also aware that Barcelona is the great capital of Catalan culture, or that thelanguage of Gaudí, Dalí, Miró and Adrià is Catalan - the old language of theRomanesque hermitages in the Pyrenees and of the Gothic cathedrals inGirona, Palma and Valencia, a language spoken today by several million peopleand written by international bestselling authors, renowned essayists and youngalternative poets. Catalan was the language of the kings’ chroniclers in the 13thcentury; it was into Catalan that the Divine Comedy was translated into versefor the first time; Catalan continued to be written in France, Chile and Mexicoby many of the writers who were exiled after the Spanish Civil War. In the 20thcentury, the novels of Mercè Rodoreda or the poetry of Salvador Espriu (bothauthors translated into English are international references for our literature).But today, with over 9,000 titles published in Catalan every year, it is difficult torepresent this wealth and its presence in a dynamic society, an effervescentculture where design, architecture and gastronomy obviously have their ownliterary correlative. New Catalan Fiction reflects this wealth and also thestrength of the contemporary Catalan short story where, alongside thelandscapes that have made us a world tourist destination, there are newneighborhoods, immigrants, the weight of memories and the tensions of aunique society in a globalized world. Like Barcelona itself, and like Catalan art,our literature is a small but great piece of reality, always open to the events ofthe world and always, as the poet said, “enthralled by the new and in love withthe old.” Being far from what is evident brings it close to many.

CatalanLiterature, Old and NewJaume Subirana

Jaume Subirana (www.jaumesubirana.com) is a writer and scholar. He has recently editedNew Catalan Fiction for Dalkey Archive Press.

THURSDAY May 1

7:00 p.m.AN EVENING OF POETRY Housing Works Bookstore126 Crosby Street, N.Y.The paths of both poets, Catalan Joan Margarit and Californian Philip Levine meet at searching for universal truths, and their plain-speaking poetry is a testament to the durability of love, the strength of the human spirit and thepersistence of life in the face of death. They will read from theirworks; Margarit will read from hisbook of poems, Tugs in the Fog. Free and open to the public.Cosponsored by the Institut Ramon Llull.

7-9 p.m.THEATRE AND POETRY: VISIONS AND METAPHORMartin E. Segal TheatreCUNY Graduate Center365 Fifth AvenueJoin playwrights KristínÓmarsdóttir, from Iceland, andÀngels Aymar, from Catalonia,Spain, for a discussion with specialreadings from their work. Free and open to the public. No reservations.Cosponsored by the Martin E. SegalTheatre Center, The Graduate Center, CUNY

FRIDAY May 2

1-2 p.m.READING THE WORLDScandinavian House58 Park AvenueNew Yorker staff writer and nonfictionauthor Janet Malcolm plunges usback into wartime France and the livesof Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklaswith a reading from her most recentbook, Two Lives. Halfdan Freihowoffers us a more personal journey tothe heart of his family and hisrelationship with his young sonGabriel. Booker Prize-winning novelistPeter Carey takes us to Australia witha reading from his just-released novel,His Illegal Self. Francesc Serés will give voice from the languages of theperiphery to the uprooted, disarrayed,and neglected main characters of theworks from which he will be reading.Cosponsored by The American-Scandinavian Foundation.

1-2 p.m.READINGS FROM EUROPE AND MEXICO Mercantile Library17 East 47th StreetJourney across the globe as we travelfrom Catalonia and Spain with CarmeRiera and Andrés Ibáñez to theNetherlands with P.F. Thomése andArnon Grunberg, and finally land inMexico with Coral Bracho.Free and open to the public. No reservations. Cosponsored by Instituto Cervantes andthe Consulate General of Spain

Program 6 Catalan Authorsat PEN World Voices Festival 2008Public Lives/Private Lives

April 28th-May 4th

SATURDAY May 3

5-6:15 p.m. LEARNING TO SPEAKThe French Institute, AllianceFrançaise: Tinker Auditorium 55 East 59th StreetXiaolu Guo writes of learning tospeak English in her delightful and funny novel, A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers. She talks about the sometimes funny,other times poignant andheartbreaking moments that occurbetween two people who don’talways quite understand what theother is saying. Halfdan Freihowhas to place every word carefully and precisely when he speaks to hisautistic son, Gabriel. The wrongword, or the right word in the wrongplace, can result in severe fracturesin his little boy’s life. Jean Hatzfeld,acclaimed journalist of wartimeRwanda, has helped the traumatizedpeople of Rwanda tell their stories.Through the works of Hatzfeld wecan hear the voices of the survivorsand those of the killers to betterunderstand the tragedy of the warthere. Carme Riera, Catalannovelist, will share differentperspectives of her own experience:as a women emerging from theFranco years, as a Catalan writerfollowing the repression under theSpanish dictatorship, and as anauthor who recovered the memory of the Jews expelled from Spain inthe 15th Century.

Moderated by Sam Tanenhaus of The New York Times.$12/$8 FIAF/PEN members/studentswww.Ticketmaster.com or (212) 307-4100

Cosponsored by French Institute:Alliance Française.

8:00 p.m.DISCOVER NEW CATALAN FICTION Lillian Vernon Creative WritersHouse at NYU58 W. 10th St., N.Y.Launch of New Catalan Fiction(Dalkey Archive Press), an issue of over fifteen short stories writtenby a broad range of contemporaryCatalan writers.Author Colum McCann willintroduce the event which willinclude a short statement by thejournal’s editor and JaumeSubirana, responsible for theselection of the texts. WritersMercè Ibarz, Josep M. Fonalleras,and Francesc Serés will read briefexcerpts from their works inCatalan followed by actors’ readingsof the English translations. The presentation will close with ashort Q. & A. with the authors.Moderated by Mary Ann Newman,director of the Catalan Center at New York University’s Center forEuropean and MediterraneanStudies.

Organized by the Institut Ramon Llull.

THEATRE AND POETRY:VISIONS AND METAPHORWith Kristín Ómarsdóttirand Àngels AymarThursday, May 17-9 p.m

* Martin E. Segal TheatreCUNY Graduate Center365 Fifth Avenue

Woman(Standing beside the JOURNALIST)Now I’ll give everyone beads, andbefore you leave make a wish infront of the tree. You have tothrow the beads so that theycatch on a branch, if you wantyour wish to come true.

WifeI’ve left a lot of wishes hangingon those branches.

ManAnd none ever came true?

WomanMaybe the wind blew them off, oryou didn’t wish hard enough.

WifeMaybe it was the wind . . .

HildeI always forget what I wish for. Ionly remember the wish thatcame true after I threw a coin inthe Fountain of Trevi.

MartinaAnd what was the wish?

HildeA change in my life. Afterwardswe broke up.

Senyora (dreta al costat del PERIODISTA)Ara els donaré un collaret acadascun, perquè abans demarxar demanin un desig davantde l’arbre. L’han de llençar ambforça i ha de quedar penjat d’unade les seves branques si volen quees compleixi.

EsposaJo hi he deixat molts desitjossuspesos d’aquestes branques...

HomeI mai se li han complert?

SenyoraPotser han caigut pel vent, o noels ha demanat amb prouconvicció.

EsposaPotser ha estat el vent...

HildeJo sempre m’oblido del que he

demanat...només en recordo un,que se’m va complir després dellençar una moneda a la Fontanade Trevi.

MartinaI què vas demanar?

Translated by Marion Peter Holt Àngels AymarMagnolia Café

ElenaI don’t believe that throwingcoins in a fountain or in ariver, or rubbing statues withyour finger, or tossing beadson a Magnolia tree can changeyour life . . .

MusicianJust as you can’t believe in thestars affecting your life orpalm reading.

MartinaI do believe in palm reading.

MartinaOne is superstition and theother astrology.

PhotographerIt all depends in the faith youput in it. When I was a younggirl, a fortune teller told me Iwouldn’t have a long life. For a long time I believed thateverything I did was for thelast time. It was a terriblefeeling, but now I can say thatI’ve never lived so intensely as Idid in those years, and I realizethat it was the best part of mylife. One day I ran across thefortune teller again in anairport. I was going to India

HildeUn canvi de vida. Després em vaigseparar...

ElenaNo crec que per llençar unesmonedes a una font o en un riu, oper resseguir escultures amb un dita La Gran Place, o llençar collaretsal Magnòlia, et pugui canviar lavida...

MúsicAixí tampoc deus creure en lesestrelles, ni en les línies de la mà.

MartinaJo en les línies de la mà sí que hicrec.

ElenaUna cosa és la superstició i l’altral’astrologia.

FotògrafaTot depèn de la fe que hi posis.Quan era joveneta una vident em vadir que no viuria massa anys.Durant molt de temps vaig creureque tot ho feia, per última vegada.Era una sensació terrible, però arapuc dir que mai he viscut tantintensament com en aquella època,i reconec que va ser la millor de lameva vida. Un dia fent escala en un

and she was coming back . . . Irecognized her by the peculiarway she dressed . . . She didn’tremember me, but I went up toher and said: “I have lived allthese years in a state of anxietyand it’s all your fault. You toldme that I would die young.”She looked deep into my eyes,deeper than anyone ever hassince, and answered: “If I toldyou that, it’s because I did seeit at that moment, but withineach of us there exists thestrength to change the courseof the river of our destiny. Ifyou hadn’t possessed thatstrength, you wouldn’t bespeaking with me today. It’sbeen a pleasure seeing you.”

ElenaWell, I think you were civilizedabout it. Someone else wouldhave smashed her face afterthe shitty thing she did to you.

aeroport vaig trobar la vident, joanava a l’Índia i ella en tornava... lavaig reconèixer per la peculiarforma d’ anar vestida... ella no emrecordava... m’hi vaig acostar i livaig dir: «he viscut tots aquestsanys amb una gran inquietud ivostè n’és la culpable. Em va dirque moriria jove». Ella em va miraral fons dels ulls, d’una manera comcrec que no m’hi ha tornat a mirarmai més ningú i em va respondre:«Si jo li vaig dir això és perquè hovaig veure en aquell moment, peròdins cadascun de nosaltres existeixla força per alterar el curs del riudel nostre destí. Si vostè no hohagués sabut, avui no estariaparlant amb mi. M’he alegrat deveure-la»

ElenaDoncs trobo que vostè va ser proucivilitzada, una altra li trenca lacara després de la ‘putada’ que li vafer dient-l’hi.

Àngels Aymar Magnolia Café

AYMAR, Àngels (Barcelona, 1958)

Biography

EnglishA Female Scene. Three Plays by CatalanWomen, Five Leaves Publications,2007. (Anglo-Catalan Society).FrenchLa camionette. Accident. Entre chien etloup (La camioneta, Accident, El color delgos quan fuig), Les Éditions del’Amandier, 1999.Trois hommes attendent (Tres homesesperen), Les Éditions de l’Amandier,2002.Les Phalènes (Les Falenes), Les Éditions

She received a degree in Drama fromthe Institut de Teatre de Barcelona in1983. She is currently residentplaywright at the Teatre Nacional deCatalunya. Àngels works as an actress,playwright and theater director. Shecreated her own company Lunranlaltrein 1990. As an actress, she hasappeared in international and Spanishfilms, on Catalan TV and in plays byOscar Wilde, Bertolt Brecht, JeanAnouilh, Michael Frayn, WoodyAllen, and Marc Camoletti, amongothers. She has directed her own playsincluding The Van, Brainstorm, Brossain the Eyes, and Dalírium. She haswritten twenty plays in Catalan thathave been translated and published inSpanish, English, French, Romanian,German and Italian, and her work has

been presented in Europe (France,Italy, and Spain), Latin America(Mexico and the DominicanRepublic), and the United States (New York and San Francisco). She has also received several awardsfor her playwriting. With thecollaboration of the North AmericanEmbassy, Italian Culture Institute,O.I.B. of Brussels and the NewDramatist New York, she designedand coordinated the FirstInternational Interchange of Writers for the Association of Stage Creators-Project Vaca. She received a grant from the Generalitat deCatalunya (Catalan government) forresearch work on the Wilma TheaterCompany in Philadelphia in 1992.

Selected works in translation



If I write that father istalking on the phone andclosing down hisbusiness or that-to add abit of drama, makingguilt the driving force ofthe story in the chaptersthat follow-he isarranging a date with hislover who works withhim at the office whilehis young daughter pullson the bottom of hisjacket, trying to impresson him the seriousnessof mother’s accident (sheslipped in the bathroom,hit her head on thefaucet, mostunfortunately, rolled in adaze against the stool,where they regularly sitto cut their toenails, andis now stretched outupstairs, unconscious, apuddle of blood alreadyspreading, threateningto become a riverflowing from its sourcein the bathroom downthe stairs like a waterfallonly to end up in theswimming pool, whichwill be stained withmother’s blood, and

Si escric que el pare estàparlant per telèfon i quetanca un negoci o que - perfer-ho més dramàtic, i pertal que el sentiment deculpabilitat, en els capítolssegüents, sigui el motordel relat - està concertantuna cita amb l’amant quetreballa amb ell al despatx,mentre la nena li estira lavora de l’americana perfer-lo adonar de la gravetatde l’accident de la mare,que ha relliscat al quartode bany amb tanta malafortuna que el cap ha topatamb l’aixeta i, després, lamare ha rodolat,estabornida, fins altamboret que fan servir, demanera habitual, per seurei arreglar-se les ungles delspeus, i que ara la mare ésestirada a dalt,inconscient, i que ja hi haun toll de sang ques’escampa i amenaça deconvertir-se en un riu queneix al quarto de bany ique baixarà per l’escala,com un salt d’aigua, i queanirà a parar a la piscina ique la piscina es tacaràamb la sang de la mare, la

Translated by Martha TennentJosep MariaFonalleras The Reader WillThink My StoryImplausıble

when the water has turned red,she will be dead, irremediably)--should I write this, the readerwill find my story implausible,for if only the girl cries out loudenough, convincingly, fatherwould be obliged to hang up thetelephone (and not close downthe business or arrange a datewith any lover) frantically dashup to the bathroom, and, afterconsidering the gravity of theinjury, phone for an ambulancewith (frightening?) composurethat would later be praised byfriends and family on both sides,whereby his cool-headednesswould save mother’s life and hewould be able to use the time shewas recovering in the hospital tofinish closing down the businessand arrange with his lover notjust a date but an entire weekendin a little hotel, in which casethis story would no longer beimplausible but merely a slice ofdaily life, one that has nopedigree and holds no interest,or anything for that matter.

qual, quan l’aigua sigui de colorvermell, ja s’haurà mort del tot ija no hi haurà res a fer, si escricaixò, el lector es pensarà que estracta d’una història exagerada, ique si la nena cridés prou, i ambconvicció, el pare es veuriaobligat a penjar el telèfon (i notancaria el negoci i no concertariacap cita amb cap amant) i pujaria,rabent, al quarto de bany i, uncop analitzada la profunditat dela ferida, amb una tranquil·litat(¿esfereïdora?) que seria lloadadesprés pels amics i pels familiarsde tots dos, trucaria al serveid’urgències i així, gràcies a la seva sang freda, salvaria lavida de la mare i podria aprofitarel període de convalescència al’hospital per acabar de tancar el negoci i per concertar, ambl’amant del despatx, no pas unacita sinó un cap de setmanasencer en un hotelet, amb la qualcosa aquesta història ja no seriauna història exagerada sinó unfragment de vida quotidianad’aquests que no tenen ni pedigrí,ni reputació, ni res de res.

Josep Maria Fonalleras The Reader Will Think My Story Implausible

FONALLERAS, JosepMaria (Girona, 1959)

Biography

Writer and columnist. Josep Maria Fonalleras haspublished numerous newspaper articles, some ofwhich are collected in Interior de balena (1999)[‘Inside the Whale’] and Itinerari recomanat (2003)[‘Recommended Itinerary’]. He works in thegenres of the short story, the novel and children’sliterature. He is always noted for havingdeveloped a writing style and manner of his own.His is a narrative that constructs itself in eloquentsilences, stylistic prose, precise verbiage and adistancing irony incredulous to the point ofsarcasm. He has published his short stories inBotxenski i companyia (1990) [‘Botxenski andCompany’] and Avaria (1990) [‘Breakdown’] andhas collected a good part of his work in Llargavista (2003) [‘The long View’]. In the genre of thenovel, he has published La millor guerra del món(1998) [‘The Best War in the World’], which wonthe Ciutat de Palma Prize in 1997; also, August &Gustau (2000). In 2006 he won the Crítica Serrad’Or Prize for his book of short stories Sis homes(2005) [‘Six Men’]. His latest book is Un any dedivorciat (2007) [‘One Year Divorced’].


EnglishNew Catalan Fiction. The Review of ContemporaryFiction, Dalkey Archive Press, 2008GermanAugust & Gustau, A1 , 2007SpanishBochenski y compañía, Empúries, 1989

These days Christine was talking a lotabout the ugliness of new buildingsand blocks of flats, was furious aboutthe absence of balconies and the barefacades bereft of any decorative relief-work. We talked about the city of worksas if nothing more important washappening or - and now I see it - as iftalking about the transformation of thecity was talking about the cancer thatwas consuming her and that had mebaffled. She, who was dying, wasthinking about the present and futureof the balconies, while I, who wouldsurvive her, was thinking about thegloomy mansions in the Eixampledistrict and the abandoned houses allover the city.

The minimal and repetitive solutionsof the present seemed to her an anti-musical offence. She said over and overagain that forms and ornaments hadalways been in houses and urbanplanning because they’re architecture’sway of being like music and, forpeople, the way we can believe we’reinhabiting our own space, just likeeveryone has a personal tune, or aballad, or an aria or blues song. Or asilence, a space between two notes ofthe music.

Christine was a dyed-in-the-woolmodernist. Compared with her I ammore of a sarcastic modernist.Sometimes I used to say she was

En els últims tempsChristine parlava sovint dela lletjor dels edificis ipisos nous, s’enfurismavaamb la manca de balcons iles façanes sense relleus.Parlàvem de la ciutat enobres com si no hi passésres de més important o,ara ho veig, com si parlarde la transformació de laciutat fos parlar del càncerque a ella se la menjava i ami em confonia. Ella, ques’estava morint, pensavaen el present i el futur delsbalcons, mentre que jo,que la sobreviuria,pensava en els casalotstètrics de l’Eixample i enles cases abandonades pertota la ciutat.

Les solucions mínimes irepetitives del present lisemblaven un atemptatantimusical. Deia un i altrecop que les formes i elsornaments han estatsempre a les cases i al’urbanisme perquè són lamanera que l’arquitecturaté d’assemblar-se a lamúsica i, per a lespersones, la manera decreure que habitem un

Translated by Julie WarkMercè IbarzFragility of Walls



decadent, but she wasn’t. Her feeling and sensibilities wereindependent of fashions. Her rage was aimed at the bogus eliteswhich, she said, had destroyed artisanal memory. If you followed hertrain of thought and linked up the arguments, intuitions, decisionsand commitments that her taste expressed, hers was a dialogue withthe squat skyscrapers that had begun to proliferate in the city: yes,inside you have a lot of light and are probably agreeable at first sightto inhabitants and visitors or to buyers and office workers, but you’reugly to look at; you’re made to be not looked at, you don’t want to belooked at, you want to be penetrated, you only want people to comein and out, you don’t want anything to take root, just as you don’twant balconies or window sills because you don’t want to knowanything about the world outside, or to let anyone that inhabits youlook at anything; it’s not good for business, attaches too muchimportance to life in the street.

In the time since she died, the same tongue-tied, isolating solutionshave come to the city’s old neighbourhoods, whose agglomerationsof uninhabitable dwellings have now been mopped up (as someurban planners say) and replaced by housing with windows that arehorizontally-barred - in aluminium, pristine material - and that don’teven let you hang out your washing, or allow you to see bodies in thewindow thinking about their stories, or to gaze out to find out what’sgoing on in public.

Now I’d like to know what Christine would say about theornamental border that follows the stairs up to the second landingwhere I’ve stopped to catch my breath. My lungs have gone back tobreathing at their proper pace and I’m looking at the frieze: it’s astuccoed edging that the painters have respected and protected, aspace of colour that powerfully contributes to the sensation ofcleanliness and pulchritude. Artisanal memory makes its presencefelt wherever it can. Here, it has created this kind of miracle that letsthe passer-by rally again: a well-painted frieze in the diabolicalstairway of an interior of labyrinthine distribution where the order ofthe flats is lost.

I have the feeling that Christine’s laughing, wherever she is.

espai propi, com cadascú té una tonada o una balada o una ària o un blues personal. O un silenci, un espai entre dues músiques.

Christine era una modernista empedreïda. Al seu costat, jo mésaviat sóc una modernista sarcàstica. De vegades li deia decadent,però no ho era, el seu sentit i la seva sensibilitat eren independentsde les modes. La seva ira s’adreçava a les falses elits, que, deia, handestruït la memòria artesana. Si li seguies la veta i anavesencadenant els arguments, intuïcions, resolucions i compromisosque el seu gust traduïa, el seu era un diàleg amb els gratacels ajagutsque havien començat a proliferar a la ciutat: sí, per dins soulluminosos i probablement agradables a primer cop d’ull alshabitants i als visitants o als compradors i als treballadors d’oficines,però sou lletjos de mirar: esteu fets per no ser mirats, no voleu sermirats, voleu ser penetrats, només voleu que la gent entri i surti, queres no hi arreli, de la mateixa manera que no voleu balcons ni ampitsde finestra perquè no voleu saber res de l’exterior ni deixar queningú que us habiti miri res: no és bo per als negocis, dóna massaimportància a la vida al carrer.

En el temps que fa que ella és morta, les solucions aïlladores iemmudides han arribat també als barris vells de la ciutat, esponjats(diuen alguns urbanistes) d’aglomeracions de cases impossiblesd’habitar que han estat substituïdes per cases amb finestres reixadeshoritzontalment-d’alumini, matèria sense empremtes-que nodeixen ni estendre roba, ni veure cossos a la finestra pensant en lesseves històries, ni mirades xafardejant la cosa pública. Ara m’agradaria saber què diria Christine de la sanefa que ressegueixl’escala al segon replà on m’he aturat a respirar. Els meus pulmons han tornat al bon ritme i miro la sanefa: fa una randaestucada que els pintors han respectat i protegit, és un espai de colorque contribueix poderosament a la sensació de neteja i pulcritud. Lamemòria artesana sobresurt així que pot; ha creat aquí aquestaespècie de miracle perquè el caminant es refaci: una sanefa benpintada en una escala diabòlica d’un interior de distribuciólaberíntica i on s’ha perdut l’ordre dels pisos.Em fa l’efecte que Christine riu, on sigui.

Mercè Ibarz Fragility of Walls

IBARZ, Mercè(Saidí, 1954)

Biography

Narrator, essayist and journalist. Her prose writingincludes La terra retirada (1994) [‘The WithdrawnLand’], an attractive and multifaceted text thatevokes the life of her town, Saidí, on the Aragon-Catalan border. Her novel La palmera de blat (1995)[‘Corn Palm’] combines memory, anthropology anddreams. A la ciutat en obres (2002) [‘In the City ofWorks’] is a tryptic formed by three novellas thattogether form a small altarpiece of women walkingthrough the city and revisiting friendship in thepost-Franco period. Three years later she publishedthe collection Febre de carrer (2005) [‘Street Fever’], in which the protagonists, more powerful than ever,live in nomadic circumstances and create a poetryof space and travel, looking for the other and, thus,themselves. She has also published articles andessays on literature, arts, film and photography,such as her study Buñuel documental. Tierra sin pan y su tiempo (1999) [‘Buñuel Documentary. Landwithout Bread and its Time’]. She recentlypublished the essay/novel Rodoreda: Exili i desig(2008) [‘Rodoreda: Exile and Desire’], her personalvision of the life and works of Catalan writer, Mercè Rodoreda.


EnglishNew Catalan Fiction. The Review of ContemporaryFiction, Dalkey Archive Press, 2008FrenchDans la ville en chantiers [A la ciutat en obres], Tintablava, 2004 Le Saut de l’ombre [La palmera de blat], Tinta blava, 2005

AN EVENING OF POETRYWith Joan Margarit and Philip LevineThursday, May 17:00 p.m.

* Housing WorksBookstore126 Crosby Street, N.Y.

Joan Margarit

In the dreary Girona of my seven-year-old self,where post-war shop-windowswore the greyish hue of scarcity,the knife-shop was a glitterof light in small steel mirrors. Pressing my forehead against the glass,I gazed at a long, slender clasp-knife,beautiful as a marble statue.Since no one at home approved of weapons,I bought it secretly, and as I walked along,I felt the heavy weight of it, inside my pocket.From time to time I would open it slowly, and the blade would spring out, slim and straight,with the convent chill that a weapon has.Hushed presence of danger: I hid it, the first thirty years, behind books of poetry and, later,inside a drawer, in amongst your knickersand amongst your stockings.Now, almost fifty-four,I look at it again, lying open in my palm,just as dangerous as when I was a child.Sensual, cold. Nearer my neck.

En la Girona trista dels set anys,on els aparadors de la postguerratenien un color gris de penúria,la ganiveteria era un esclatde llum en els petits miralls d’acer.Amb el front descansant damunt del vidre,mirava una navalla llarga i fina,bella com una estàtua de marbre.Com que els de casa no volien armes,vaig comprar-la en secret i, en caminar,la sentia, pesant, dins la butxaca.A vegades l’obria a poc a poc,i sorgia la fulla, recta i prima,amb la conventual fredor de l’arma.Presència callada del perill:vaig amagar-la, els trenta primers anys,rere llibres de versos i, després,dins un calaix, entre les teves calcesi entre les teves mitges.Ara, a prop de complir els cinquanta-quatre,torno a mirar-la, oberta al meu palmell,tan perillosa com a la infantesa.Sensual, freda. Més a prop del coll.

First LovePrimer amor

Translated by Anne Crowe

Her thigh-bones broken under the weight of ninety years,suspicious and greedy, my mother-in-law watched us closely,and that coward of a father-in-law, chronically obese,held his tongue in ten languages. My son, with a dark,cold hole in his head, sat stuffing himself with food,his face in front of the television.My brother was gorging himself to death, swelling visiblyand uttering obscenities at the white table-cloths.My parents, withered and dumb from years of mutual hatred,wore on their faces a look of terminal loneliness.This was a moral banquet, disgusting, fantastical.Having salvaged our friendship from the wreck,you smiled as you gazed at me,but so many years of monsters have been relentless.

Amb els fèmurs trencats pel pes de noranta anys,malfiada i golafre, la sogra ens vigilava,i el covard del meu sogre, sota l’obesitat,en deu llengües callava. El meu fill, amb un poufred i fosc al seu cap, s’atipavadavant de la televisió.El meu germà es matava, engreixant-se i cridantprocacitats vulgars a les tovalles blanques.Dissecats, els meus pares, muts de tant odiar-se,duien la soledat terminal a la cara.Era un banquet moral, repugnant i fantàstic.Amb la nostra amistat salvada del naufragisomrient em miraves,però tants anys de monstres han estat implacables.

At home there were scarcely any booksfit for adolescent restlessness.The essays on town planning bored meand Catalonia, a luckless peoplewas too sad a title.I picked up Mein Kampf, a small black bookthat seemed profound to me. I made my debut,via the filthiest spot in literature.Hitler’s words, utterly vulgar,revealed a dark pit.I haven’t forgotten it in spite of not remembering it.It was lucky to bump into reality.That is where poetry began,difficult, with no false hopes.I have always done what the wild boar does,who searches for and, delicately, selects and eatsthe bulb, of what is known as the orchis, of the orchid.

Adients al neguit adolescent,a casa no hi havia gaires llibres.Els tractats d’urbanisme m’avorrieni Catalunya, poble dissortat era un títol massa trist.Vaig agafar el Mein Kampf, un llibret negreque em va semblar profund. Vaig començar,pel lloc més brut de la literatura.Les paraules de Hitler, tan vulgars, mostraven un pou negre. No l’he oblidat malgrat no recordar-lo.Va ser una sort topar amb la realitat.Allí va començar la poesia, difícil, sense falses esperances. Jo sempre he fet igual que el porc senglar,que busca i, delicat, tria i es menjael bulb, que se’n diu orquis, de l’orquídia.

The BanquetEl banquet

The Orchid-hunterEl buscador d’orquídies

English Tugs in the Fog, Bloodaxe Books, 2006 Barcelona Final Love, Proa, Barcelona2008 (Catalan-Spanish-English)Hebrew [Mai no m’he tingut per grec], Keshev,2005[The Eyes in the Rear-view Mirror]Keshev, 2008GermanJoana und andere Gedichte, EditionDelta, Stuttgart, 2007

Russian[Els llums dels instants], St. PetersburgUniversity Press, 2003SpanishEstació de França, Hiperion 1999Joana, Hiperión, 2002El primer frío (Poesía 1975-1995), Visor,2004Cálculo de estructuras, Visor, 2005Arquitecturas de la memoria, Cátedra,2006Casa de misericordia, Visor, 2007Barcelona amor final, Proa 2008

MARGARIT, Joan (Sanaüja, 1938)

Biography

Poet and architect of structuralengineering. Joan Margarit has been,since 1968, a professor at the BarcelonaSchool of Arquitecture. It was in theeighties that Margarit, who until thenhad been writing in Spanish, changedto Catalan as his primary poeticlanguage. Among his numerous booksare Cants d’Hekatónim de Tifundis(1998), winner of the Crítica Serra d’OrPrize; Vell malentès (1981) [‘OldMisunderstanding’], winner of theCrítica Prize, Mar d’hivern (1986) [Seaof Winter], winner of the Carles RibaPrize; La dona del navegant (1986) [TheWife of Seafarer], winner of the Serrad’Or Prize, Estació de França (1999)[‘Railway Station’]; Joana (2000). Hispoetry is realist in nature, with a strong autobiographical character,and his protagonists range fromanonymous characters to jazz

musicians. It is precisely this passionfor jazz that has brought him and themusicians to record Paraules de jazz[‘Words of Jazz’], a CD that combinespoetry with jazz standards. In 2001 hepublished his collection of poetry,Poesia amorosa completa (1980-2000)[‘Complete Love Poetry’], and in 2004 a great part of his work was publishedunder the title Els primers freds (2005)[‘The First Frosts’]. The following yearhe received the Crítica Serra d’Or Prizefor Càlcul d’estructures [‘Calculation ofStructures’]. In this year he receivedthe Crítica Prize for Casa de lamisericòrida (2007)[‘House of Mercy’],his lastest book. All of his poetry istranslated to Spanish by the poethimself. His book of poetry, Tugs in the Fog (Poetry Book Societyrecommended translation), has beentranslated to English.


IThe morning found themawake. They taste that dawnlike a bitter-sweet dish. Most ofthem worked all night andprayed. In a very low voice, intheir own homes, they intonedpsalms of praise andthanksgiving. They unearthedtubs, searched hiding places,rummaged in drawers.Anything that might be of usewas put to one side: money,gold, jewels. The women sewedpockets and pouches, addedworsted linings to skirts. Theykneaded and baked bread,prepared cakes. But when theyheard Eloi, they put down theirneedles, extinguished fires,closed workshops and changedinto the best clothes they hadto attend Mass.They took holy water andprepared to fulfill theirobligation. Dotted about thechurch, they do not stint intheir devotion.At the end they returned toSegell and Argenteria, butnobody changed into workclothes. They kept on their fineclothes, their Sunday best, togo for a stroll. The women tooka bundle with the bread,

ILa matinada els ha trobatsdesperts. Com un menjard’agredolç han tastat aquesta alba.La majoria han feinejat tota la nit i han resat. En veu baixíssima,cadascú a ca seva, han entonatsalms de lloança i d’agraïment.Han desenterrat les alfàbies,escorcollat els amagatalls,remenat els calaixos. Tot quantpugui ser de profit ha estat triat:els doblers, l’or, les joies. Les doneshan cosit butxaques i butxacons,han afegit folres d’estam a lesfaldetes. Han pastat pa i l’hanenfornat, han fet pujar les coques.Però en sentir n’Eloi han deixat lesagulles, han apagat els focs, hantancat els obradors i s’han mudatamb les millors robes de quèdisposen per anar a missa.Ja prenen l’aigua beneïda i esdisposen per complir amb elprecepte. Disseminats pel templeno escatimen devoció.En acabar, han tornat al Segell i al’Argenteria, però cap no s’haposat roba per feinejar. Hanconservat els vestits bons, elsvestits de festa, per anar a ferquatre passes. Les dones hanagafat un farcell amb el pa enbutxaca, perquè han deciditaprofitar el bon dia, un dia net

Translated by Jonathan DunneCarme RieraIn the Last Blue

READINGS FROM EUROPE AND MEXICOWith Coral Bracho, ArnonGrunberg, Andrés Ibáñez,Carme Riera,and P.F.ThoméseFriday, May 21-2 p.m.

* Instituto Cervantes 211-215 East 49th Street

LEARNING TO SPEAK With Jean Hatzfeld, XiaoluGuo, Halfdan Freihow, andCarme Riera Saturday, May 35-6:15 p.m.

* The French Institute,Alliance FrançaiseFIAF: Tinker Auditorium 55 East 59th Street

having decided to make the most of the fine day, a clear day with aglorious sky, to lunch on the seashore and enjoy a spring that seemsto have come two weeks early and promises sweetening softness.They didn’t leave together. They left in small groups, some with theirfamily, others on their own. Nobody attracts attention. They greetacquaintances, bow right down in front of lords and ladies and evenkiss the bishop’s precious amethyst when they bump into him on hisway back to the Palace. The bishop blesses them and pats the childrenwho come up to him. The children walk alongside the women,jumping and shouting. They look clean, with a perfectly straightparting. The men on reaching the King’s Garden pass in front ofthem. They gather and form a solid group. They precede the othersthrough the sea gate, look to see where the best place to rest wouldbe, what people they might meet on the shore. Some of the old oneslag behind, dragging their feet, limping, going as fast as they can,afraid that they won’t be on time. It’s cost them a lot of money and alot more words to be accepted and they can’t believe that the time hascome at last. They’re weighed down. They’re carrying all they have inpouches stitched into their shirts, which are tight because of theirvests; in their baggy pants, disguised by the folds, they’re hiding therichest merchandise.

amb un cel de glòria per dinar a la riba i gaudir d’una primavera que sembla haver-se avançat quasi dues setmanes al calendari ipromet suavitats endolcidores. No han sortit junts. Ho han fet enpetits grups, alguns amb la família, d’altres tots sols. Cap d’ells nocrida l’atenció. Saluden els coneguts, s’inclinen amb una bonacapada davant els senyors de categoria i fins i tot besen l’ametistapuríssima del Bisbe en topar-se’l casualment devers la Portella,quan torna a Palau. El bisbe els beneeix i descambuixa els infantsque se li acosten. Els infants caminen devora les dones botant icridant. Van nets, amb les clenxes ben dretes. Els homes en arribara l’Hort del Rei els passen davant. Es reuneixen i formen un grupcompacte. Precedeixen els seus en travessar la Porta del Mar, albiren quins llocs seran millors per descansar una estona, quinagent trobaran per la Riba. Endarrerits queden alguns vells,arrossegant les passes, peu coixeu, fan també via, així com poden,amb el temor de no arribar a temps. Els ha costat molts de doblers imoltes més paraules de ser admesos i qualcun no es pot avenir que ala fi hagi arribat l’hora. Van carregats. Duen tot quant tenen dins lesbosses ripuntades al cos de les camises, ben estretes amb elsguardapits; dins els calçons amb bufes, dissimulades pels plecs,hi traginen les mercaderies més riques.

Carme Riera In the Last Blue

RIERA, Carme(Palma, Mallorca, 1948)

Biography

Full professor and director of the José A. GoytisoloChair of the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. Shebegan her literary career in 1974 with Te deix, amor, lamar com a penyora [‘I Leave You, my Love, the Sea asmy Token’], a volume of short stories. Her first novelwas Una primavera per a Domenico Guarini (1980) [‘ASpring for Domenico Guarini’). But it was Dins eldarrer blau [‘In the Last Blue’] that brought her toprominence as one of the most powerful voices in thepanorama of Catalan literature. The following yearshe won the National Prize for Narrative 1995, whichfor the first time was given to a novel written inCatalan. In 2000 she published Cap al cel obert[‘Towards the Open Sky’], in 2004 La meitat de l’ànima[‘Half of the Soul’] and in 2006 L’estiu de l’anglès [‘TheSummer of English’]. Most of her work has beentranslated into Dutch, English, French, German,Greek, Italian, Turkish and Spanish.


English Mirror Images, Peter Lang, 1993Report, Serpent Tail, 1993A Matter of Self-Esteem and Other Stories, Holmes &Meier Publishers, 2001In the Last Blue, Overlook Press, 2007

Spreading out like a denseforest, shaking and ripplinglike a field of corn combed bythe north wind, a hypnoticwave, a river above craggypeaks, the flock is like a cloud-filled sky when a storm ismounting, when more than athousand eyes are needed toencompass them all or none,so as not to see them at all,and hear the simultaneousfluttering and fashioning ofthis hologram, the flockabove, a whole mirror.

‘Do birds float?’‘Yes, of course they float,’ his

father says, ‘and seeeverything, smell everythingwith the sharp noses theyhave, and know everything,through their small, beadyeyes that are always still,though they say nothing, theyknow everything. Now theharvests are poor they feelstarved, and nervous, and livefearfully above the plains; eversince we started killing them,they are afraid of the nets andtarred branches. Yet still theyswoop down. Fly down and eatthe olives or peck at maize, orgo inside barns and steal feed.The forest is black, pitch

La bandada, tot plegat com unbosc espès que tremola fent lesmateixes aigües que el blat sota elcerç que el pentina; com un oneighipnòtic, com el riu des de daltdels penya-segats, sembla el cel desota els núvols quan es carrega latempesta, quan hom voldria tenirmés de mil ulls per mirar-ho totensems o no tenir-ne cap perveure-ho tot i sentir a la vegadal’aleteig i la faiçó d’aquestholograma que és la bandadadamunt nostre, tot un mirall.-¿Els ocells suren?Sí, sí que suren els ocells, diu elpare, i ho veuen tot, tot hoensumen amb aquest nas esmolatque tenen, ho saben tot, els ocells,els entra dins dels ulls petits i viusque no es mouen, encara que nodiguin res, ho saben tot. Ara queles collites no van bé se’ns afigurenafamats, per això estan nerviosos iviuen esporuguits a les planes;d’ençà que els matem, tenen por deles xarxes i de les branques ambpega. Malgrat això, davallen.Baixen a menjar les olives o adesgranar el panís, o per entrardins de la granja i furtar el pinso.El bosc és negre, ben negre, i cautremolant de dalt del cel ballant laseva forma sense parar, apareixenti desapareixent, només ho fan els

Translated by Peter BushFrancesc SerésField of Battle,Field of Fruit

READING THE WORLD With Janet Malcolm,Halfdan Freihow, PeterCarey and Francesc Serés Friday, May 21-2 p.m.

* Scandinavian House58 Park Avenue



black, and falls from high in the sky, an ever trembling, dancingmass, appearing, disappearing, and only thrushes fly this way. Hugeflocks of thrushes float and darken the sky like thunder clouds,change direction and the light and allow the sun to shine, in unison,as if the flock had a single brain; the bastards know everything, canmove all at once,’ says his father. Yes, of course the birds float, float through the air and move quickly

like fish, fins fluttering; they float approaching from afar like a darkforest, a distant, rippling line that keeps thickening. There are timeswhen the whole sky is covered in black and neither in the distancenor beyond the plains can you see clearings where there are nothrushes, and then they drop down, as if plummeting vertically: fromour farmhouse I saw the plains turn black, and us shut inside so theydidn’t know we were inside, peering through the crack in the woodendoor, the holes in the windows and listening to their nails scrapingthe tiles. The first two years they left us no olives, grapes, corn ormaize, and there was a shortage of oil and wine and bread as well, andgreen walnuts didn’t manage to heal the wounds left by the firstflocks for the next wave had already eaten them.

tords això, és el seu vol. Suren bandades immenses de tords que araenfosqueixen el dia com bromes de tronada i ara canvien la direccióde vol i també la llum deixant sortir el sol, tots ensems com si labandada tingués un sol cervell; els malparits ho saben tot, sabencom fer-ho per anar tots alhora, diu el pare.Sí, sí que suren els ocells, suren en l’aire i es mouen ràpids com elspeixos, també, aletejant; suren, vénen de lluny com un bosc fosc ques’apropa, tot just una línia llunyana tremolosa que es va engrossint.Hi ha vegades que s’ha cobert tot el cel de negre i ni lluny, ni mésenllà de les planes es veuen forats on no hi hagi tords, i aleshores esdeixen caure, com si la baixada fos a plom: jo he vist des del masennegrir-se les planes, nosaltres tancats perquè no sabessin queérem allà dins, mirant-los entremig del clivellat de la porta de fusta,pels forats de les finestres mentre senties com les unglesesgarrapaven les teules. Els dos primers anys no ens van deixarolives, ni raïm, ni blat, ni panís, i l’oli escassejà i el vi i el pa també, iles nous verdes no arribaven a cicatritzar les ferides de les bandadescapdavanteres que les següents ja se les havien menjat.

Francesc Serés Field of Battle, Field of Fruit

SERÉS, Francesc (Saidí, 1972)

Biography

Francesc Serés has a degree in Fine Arts as well as inAnthropology and has been lecturer of Ancient andMedieval Art History at the Pompeu FabraUniversity (Barcelona). In 2003 under the title Defems i de marbres [‘On Manure and Marble’], hepublished the trilogy he had been working on upuntil then: El ventre de la terra (2000) [‘The Earth’sWomb’], L’arbre sense tronc (2001) [‘The Tree Withouta Trunk’] and Una llengua de plom (2002) [‘A LeadLanguage’]. The trilogy looks to slowly measure theevolution experienced by farmers from westernCatalonia over the past decades with the will totestify to social transformations experienced there.His lastest works, Matèria primera (2007) [‘RawMaterial’] is an impressive book with La força de lagravetat (2006) [‘The Force of Gravity’] in which thestories of one - taut, bare narratives, calibrated asthough by a high-pressure instrument - and thearticles of the other could have been interchanged.While in the first appear rangers, farmers, minersand port workers who want to understand thereason for mortality, in the second there are nurseswho cannot sleep and truck drivers who enter andleave from a scene in which nothing happens. Hehas won, among other awards, the National Prizefor Literature (2007).


English New Catalan Fiction. The Review ofContemporary Fiction, Dalkey ArchivePress, 2008Spanish El vientre de la tierra, Alpha Decay, 2004 El árbol sin tronco, Alpha Decay, 2004Una lengua de plomo, Alpha Decay, 2004

Edited by Institut Ramon Llull

©TextÀngels Aymar: from Magnòlia cafè(Associació d’Actors i Directorsprofessionals de Catalunya, 2002);“Magnolia Café” in A Female Scene: ThreePlays by Catalan Women (Five LeavesPublications, 2007). Translated by Marion Peter Holt.

Josep Maria Fonalleras and Translated by Martha Tennent.

Mercè Ibarz: from “Fragilitat de les parets”,A la ciutat en obres (Quaderns Crema, 2002)[‘Fragility of Walls’, ‘In the City of Works’]. Translated by Julie Wark.

Joan Margarit: “Primer amor”, “El banquet”,Els motius del llop (Columna, 1995) [‘TheMotives of the Wolf ’]. “El buscadord'orquídies”, Casa de la Misericòrdia (Proa,2007) [‘House of Mercy’].Translated by Anna Crowe.

Carme Riera: From Dins el darrer blau(Proa, 2007); In the Last Blue (Overlook Press, 2007).Translated by Jonathan Dunne.

Francesc Serés: from “Camp de fruit ibatalla”, Un arbre sense tronc, dintre de De fems i de marbre (Quaderns Crema, 2003)[‘Field of Battle, Field of Fruit’, ‘A TreeWithout a Trunk’ in ‘On Manure andMarble’]. Translated by Peter Bush.

© PhotographyMerce Ibarz by Carme Esteve; Josep M. Fonalleras by Txema Salvans; Joan Margarit by Tanit Plana; Carme Rieraby Daniel Riera.

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