by Joe Gatt

Juan de Borgogna: Ss Jerome and Ambrose (c. 1510), Bowes Museum

Boasting about sales figures and large print-runs on book jackets is a vulgar practice reserved to blockbusters, but it is perfectly respectable for even the most “literary” of books to boast about the number of languages into which it has been translated. As if to say, “It’s so good it works in nineteen languages!”

The literary world is rife with scandals of fiery reviewers unacquainted with the object of their derision, established writers who trot out ignorant blurbs for agency stable-mates. But a translator’s endorsement is taken more seriously: the least that is expected of a translator…

by Joe Gatt

Clegg (1970)

So you’re just about to exit the plateau phase and it feels like your whole body is about to sneeze just like the sex-ed books had described it all those years ago and there’s just enough sweat for lubrication between your bodies and your whole torso is a clenched fist of determination when her phone rings.

What do you expect her to do? Carry on serenading you with her moans all the way to Arcadia? Carry on like it couldn’t be important? Like it couldn’t be the pathologist with news that the lower third vertebra was not…

Thousands of words for machines and humans; many in the right order.

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