When Mr. Vik Roman looked at the time with flinching eyes, it was around 3:30 am.
The city still wants to breathe.
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
At a gathering in the unfinished community hall, Saleha raises a question: "They gave us walls. But what do we want to grow inside them?"
In Lakshmi’s Secret Diary, Ari Gautier crafts a dazzling, multi-layered narrative that is as whimsical as it is profound.
I know my engine is dying. I know that, by the time the next Eid rolls around, the busy little humans will have taken me apart to create something new.
When he was handing over the money to Naimuddin, their father, Kalam silently cried, holding Dholi’s neck in the yard.
Institutional racism in colonies, migration, flawed anti-monarchy sentiments stemming from personal vendettas, and the need for rebellion permeate the lives of these characters.
There is an element of the unexpected in the twinning of fiction and ecology. A sense of unease of sorts exists in the pairing together of fiction, a form of narrative that is untrue, with the imminent ecological disaster, an environmental inevitability that is true.
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 There are also reviews which accuse fantasy literature of being “formulaic”, “out of touch” and even “outdated”.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.
