Iceland Featured in Words Without Borders for October 2011

The new Words Without Borders came out last week featuring writers from Iceland, poetry from China and a review of Juan Pablo Villalobos’s “Down the Rabbit Hole”.

Inferno
By Gyrðir Elíasson
Translated from the Icelandic by Victoria Cribb
Strindberg had ended up after death here, in a branch of IKEA in Iceland. more>>>

The Sound Words Have
By Þórarinn Eldjárn
Translated from the Icelandic by Lytton Smith
Once there was a town where no two people spoke the same language. more>>>

lithograph
By Sjón
Translated from the Icelandic by David McDuff
Marie was alone there and showed the painter how she and Pierre / wrestled with radium more>>>

solstice
By Sjón
Translated from the Icelandic by David McDuff
The earth (like the heart) leans back in its seat more>>>

the stone collector’s song
By Sjón
Translated from the Icelandic by David McDuff
Brimstone – pyrite – opal / and jasper – dear friends! more>>>

2093
By Andri Snær Magnason
Translated from the Icelandic by Victoria Cribb
He’ll eat anything except people and foxes. more>>>

Patriotic Poem
By Gerður Kristný
Translated from the Icelandic by Victoria Cribb
The cold makes me / a lair from fear. more>>>

Skagafjörđur
By Gerður Kristný
Translated from the Icelandic by Victoria Cribb
I try to be / kind to the children / so they’ll tend my grave more>>>

The Chamber Music
By Bragi Olaffson
Translated from the Icelandic by Lytton Smith
I’ll possibly throw myself onto the pyre more>>>

Dessert
By Kristín Ómarsdóttir
Translated from the Icelandic by Peter Constantine
You have all sucked at my breasts. more>>>

Three Women Poets
By Kristín Ómarsdóttir
Translated from the Icelandic by Peter Constantine
A man in a pirate sweater / comes in through the door more>>>

The Slayer of Souls
By Ólafur Gunnarsson
Translated from the Icelandic by Ólafur Gunnarsson
She very much enjoyed being made love to by her husband in a bed that had belonged to another woman. more>>>

Four Creaking Wheels
By Sindri Freysson
Translated from the Icelandic by Martin Regal
perhaps they’re kindling the ovens at the crematorium. more>>>

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