It is enough— Enough to be here, Beneath the bulb of a wonton shop.
I know of my feeble frame of its graying at the edges.
migratory animal Are you looking for a home?
It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one’s weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly.
The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me
"That’s why I have jars of jealousy, anger, sadness, monotony, but this – it’s important."
I will not even begin with the skies
One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.
Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced
Based on anecdotal evidence, complaints about the genre being “pure escapism”, “childish” and “uninteresting” are common. There are also reviews which accuse fantasy literature of being “formulaic”, “out of touch” and even “outdated”.
The sun goes down every day when it’s meant to be
A familiar voice echoed behind her as she was about to leave.
You must read like a reader and not like an academic student. If the book you’re translating is a general book, it’s going to be read by readers. Intelligent readers perhaps, but readers nevertheless.
The event, themed ‘Memory,’ took place on Sunday, May 21 at Dhanmondi’s DrikPath Bhaban, supported by Goethe-Institut Bangladesh and HerStory Foundation
The pleasing melancholia of Friday morning hovers through the window as a heavy gloom and sways within the fake plastic daisies lying on Marium’s table while the smell of burning spices filled her entire house. Marium’s mother couldn’t care less about the condition of the kitchen now. Her husband has just collapsed to the floor.
Han Kang explores the nature of her existence and it is all portrayed through objects and ideas unified by a single color: white.
It is the disease that maintains the upper hand in the plot. A jarring voice of its own, the toxins spilling across the pages in bold, chaotic words.
Here was a woman who was but a dot amidst the throngs of people who watched the Bosphorus Bridge being opened in October 1973, as fireworks erupted over a Turkey that now seamed Asia to Europe.
It began with a faint sound of walls being scratched. Initially, the man believed it to be the normal sounds of an old home settling during the middle of the night.
