Words Without Borders

In working through my own ideas of how I approach texts to be translated, a persistent issue that may never be resolved is that of the author’s role. As much as I tell myself that I should have a c...

There is a myth that journalistic endeavors interfere with the true vocation a novelist: writing novels. I find that the opposite is true. My journalistic excursions have, if anything, enhanced my ...

Kopag dropped his sharp chiseling knife, almost slicing open his own leg—and all because he’d detected a strange smell coming from the direction of the door, an aroma of dry leaves and damp wood. ...

When my mother died, her face changed. I was the first to notice. When other family members and friends came to pay their respects, what I saw in their eyes was doubt; none could believe that the d...

My husband and I always rise at 7:30 when the shadow of the cat crossing the tiled roof of our neighbor’s house forms a silhouette on our bedroom curtain. Who can figure out why that cat, without ...

Don’t forget to send the ticket for Cik Giok so that she can come to Jakarta. Don’t forget to buy something for Cik Giok to wear . . .
It was the planning meeting for my wedding. Why was Papa so w...

“Can you believe it? One of my friends threw her boss’s baby into a washing machine, just before going back to her village,” the woman beside me said in a flat voice. I turned my gaze to the darkne...

I began frequenting the Café Imperial on the same day that I moved into the apartment of my very dear friend Hernando Salcido, a spacious and well-furnished apartment on Jesús y María Street which ...

I
gush of penumbra
anchored in the calm
                     untouched  beyond.
soon to unearth
—poem written on the page—
the graveyard of words
II
past the other side of spring
bursts [...]

Ruth loved flour. Mother loved the kitchen. And I loved Ruth and Mother. I grew up at the large kitchen table, watching Ruth sift flour and mix various kinds of dough. I learned to walk while holdi...