When Fish Fly…

I’m going to have to spin the “art of the dog” concept a little, in order to fit this post into this blog, but it’s my blog, right?

Translation is a dogged art. Some think it’s no art at all, but all agree that it requires persistence in the face of hopeless odds, and offers small rewards. Nonetheless, translation is one of my arts, and I persist.

My first book-length translation, of Peter Aleshkovsky’s novel Fish,  is about to be shipped from the printer. I doubt royalties from this project will pay Bullet’s entry fees to the next show, but nonetheless, one must take pause and consider the moment: a novel I have translated is published.

Here, then, is the best review of Fish I have found so far — one with which I agree wholeheartedly, and which, I hope, will prepare those who chose to read the book well for the experience of reading it:

Fish, which was short-listed for the 2006 Russian Booker Prize, contains plenty of great material about life in Central Asia, the stresses of the collapse of the Soviet Union, and personal trauma. Unfortunately, though, Fish plods its way through geographical and emotional territory, squandering opportunities to expand the book beyond an accounting of sites seen and indignities experienced.

The rest can be read here, and it is the kind of review I would be proud of writing — thorough, honest, and well-considered.

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