Culture
Tilted Axis Press Took a Big Risk on Translated Literature. It Paid Off.
A few years ago, the translator Jeremy Tiang was browsing in a bookstore in Singapore when he came across an unusual book of stories.
Written in Chinese under a pen name, the book, “Delicious Hunger,” drew on the author Hai Fan’s 13 years fighting in the jungles of Malaysia and southern Thailand as a guerrilla soldier with the Malayan Communist Party.
Tiang knew it might be hard to land an English-language publisher for a story collection from a Singaporean author writing under a pseudonym. But there was one publisher, a small press in Britain called Tilted Axis, that was known for seeking out subversive, experimental works in translation. Tiang submitted a sample, and Tilted Axis snapped it up.
Tiang’s translation, released in Britain last fall, won an English PEN Translates Award, becoming the first book from Singapore to win the prize.
Publishing it in the United States proved more difficult. “Delicious Hunger” was submitted to 29 American publishers, but none made an offer.
So Tiang was elated when he learned that Tilted Axis is expanding its footprint to North America. “Delicious Hunger” will go on sale here this June, one of nearly 20 titles from the Tilted Axis catalog coming out in the United States this year. The first batch arrives this month.
“I don’t know that the book would have found its way into translation or into the U.S. or U.K. distribution without someone like Tilted Axis to give it a platform,” said Tiang, who has translated more than 30 books from Chinese into English. “All too often it’s small, scrappy presses that take these risks, and they pay off.”
Since its founding a decade ago, Tilted Axis has gained a reputation for bringing out a wide range of groundbreaking, genre-defying literature in translation. With only eight employees working part-time on a tight budget, it has published 42 books translated from 18 languages, including Indonesian, Thai, Vietnamese, Hindi, Telugu, Tamil, Eastern Armenian, Kazakh, Kannada, Bengali, Uzbek and Turkish.
Publishing works from languages, regions and subcultures that have long been overlooked, they face little competition from bigger houses, which tend to gravitate toward established trends and books with a proven market (see Scandinavian noir and Japanese healing fiction). Perhaps for that reason, Tilted Axis has carved out a unique literary niche, and has caught the attention of critics and prize juries, landing major awards and winning acclaim for writers who were unknown in the Anglophone world.
“There are so many different forms of literature that people don’t even know exist because we don’t have access to them,” said Kristen Vida Alfaro, Tilted Axis’ publisher. “Every translation from different parts of the world has the potential to give you not just a different perspective, but a window into an entirely different imagination.”
At a moment when nationalism and isolationism are rising in both Europe and the United States, the window that literature can provide into other cultures feels essential, Alfaro said.
“What we publish, and who we are and the community that we’ve created, it’s exactly what this climate is trying to eradicate,” she said.
With its emphasis on overlooked languages and narratives that often have a queer or feminist bent, Tilted Axis has helped to transform the landscape for translated fiction, which makes up just a small fraction of the work published in English, and remains heavily Eurocentric.
The number of translated titles released in the United States has hovered around just a few hundred titles a year for much of the past decade.
“Literature from Asia was generally ignored before specialist publishers like Tilted Axis,” said Anton Hur, whose translations include the Tilted Axis title “Love in the Big City,” Sang Young Park’s novel about a young gay man’s romantic escapades in Seoul.
Translators and authors say Tilted Axis is also helping to transform the field of translation — bucking longstanding conventions around not only what gets translated, but who gets to translate, and how.
For decades, the profession was dominated by white translators who came from academic backgrounds. Tilted Axis often hires translators from the global south, many of whom grew up steeped in the language and cultures of the books they are working on. Ten of their translators published their debut translations with the press, and several more first-time translators have books under contract.
Tilted Axis put translators’ names prominently on its covers from the start, well before it became more common. It also gives them a cut of royalties and sub-licensing deals, which is still not the standard. Its small staff includes several translators who collectively speak more than a half dozen languages.
To draw more people into the field, Tilted Axis has organized translation workshops, including two programs in London last year that focused on Vietnamese and Filipino literature. It published a book on the art of translation, which explores the way colonial legacies have shaped literary translation, and features essays from 24 writers and translators. The anthology, “Violent Phenomena,” is now taught at university translation programs in the United States and Britain.
“What translations get published, who gets to translate, all these issues are still a huge problem,” said Khairani Barokka, a writer who also translates from Bahasa Indonesia into English, and who contributed to the anthology.
The Chinese writer Yan Ge said she was surprised to find an English-language publisher for her novel, “Strange Beasts of China,” a surreal story about an amateur cryptozoologist who studies otherworldly creatures. Since its release in China in 2006, it had never drawn any offers from Western publishers.
When Tilted Axis released the translation by Jeremy Tiang in 2020, it drew admiring reviews and comparison to works by Jorge Luis Borges and Italo Calvino.
Tilted Axis embraced the novel’s weirdness, and helped her find “space where I can exist as a writer in the English language,” Yan said.
“They don’t try to shoehorn anything to fit into this imaginary English reader’s taste,” she said. “They respect how it’s done in its original language and how it relates to its own cultural values.”
The novelist and translator Thuận, who writes in Vietnamese and French and lives in Paris, had published seven translations of her books in France before any of her fiction made it into English. In 2022, Tilted Axis published her English-language debut, a translation by Nguyễn An Lý of her novel, “Chinatown,” which unfolds in a single unbroken paragraph and takes place on a stalled Metro in Paris, where a Vietnamese woman gets lost in her past.
Thuận, who was born in Hanoi during the Vietnam War, had long wanted to see her books in English — not only to reach more readers, but to counter stereotypes about Vietnam that persist in Western literature and film.
At an event held by Tilted Axis in London last September to celebrate “Elevator in Sài Gòn,” Thuận’s latest English-language release, a mostly young crowd packed into Libreria, a small bookstore near Brick Lane, occasionally posing questions in Vietnamese.
Speaking through an interpreter, Thuận described how having her work released in English has taken her fiction in new directions, and gave her an idea for her new novel, “B-52,” she said.
“When I learned that my books would be translated and published by Tilted Axis Press in English, I immediately had the idea for a war novel for Anglophone readers,” she said. “There’s still very little written from the perspective of North Vietnamese on the topic, and I believe the Americans still don’t understand the war if they don’t understand how North Vietnamese people experienced the war.”
From the start, Tilted Axis stood out for its unconventional taste and willingness to publish quirky, boundary-pushing work.
The press was co-founded in 2015 by the translator Deborah Smith, who made a name for herself when her translation of Han Kang’s novel, “The Vegetarian,” won the International Booker Prize. It was Smith’s first full-length translation, and the first English publication of a novel by Han, a Korean novelist who won the Nobel Prize for literature last year.
Its first books included Prabda Yoon’s surreal, postmodern short story collection “The Sad Part Was,” translated from Thai by Mui Poopoksakul, “Panty,” Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay’s erotic novel about a young woman’s sexual awakening in Kolkata, translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha, and Hwang Jungeun’s fantastical novel “One Hundred Shadows,” about a rundown neighborhood in Seoul whose residents’ shadows detach from the ground and rise, translated from Korean by Jung Yewon.
Within a few years of its founding, the press caught the attention of prize committees and foreign publishers. In 2022, Tilted Axis had three of its books on the longlist for the International Booker Prize, and won with Daisy Rockwell’s translation of Geetanjali Shree’s “Tomb of Sand,” a formally daring Hindi novel about an elderly woman who won’t get out of bed.
Still, surviving as a small press has often been a struggle. To fund its translations, the press, a nonprofit, often relies on grants. The budget is so tight that its eight employees all have other jobs. Even its publisher, Alfaro, who took over when Smith left in 2022, works part-time at a publishing house specializing in art and children’s books.
Alfaro hopes the press’s fortunes will improve this year with Tilted Axis’ expansion into North America, which will give them access to a much larger market.
Until now, Tilted Axis has had to license its translations to American publishers to get its books into the United States, and just nine of its titles were acquired. Now that it can sell directly through American bookstores, Tilted Axis is bringing out a mix of new books and older works that never landed a U.S. publisher.
The first batch of 11 titles arriving this month offers a sampling of the press’s stylistic and geographic range, with works like “Again I Hear These Waters,” a collection featuring poetry by 21 Assamese writers, translated by Shalim M. Hussain; “I Belong to Nowhere,” a poetry collection by the Dalit feminist activist Kalyani Thakur Charal, translated from Bengali by Mrinmoy Pramanick and Sipra Mukherjee, and Hamid Ismailov’s novel “The Devils’ Dance,” translated from Uzbek by Donald Rayfield.
Ismailov, who fled Uzbekistan under threat of arrest in 1992 and settled in Britain, originally published “The Devils’ Dance” in Uzbek on Facebook, chapter by chapter, after finishing it in 2012. A sample translation caught the attention of Tilted Axis, which published it in 2018.
The novel — which interweaves the story of the Uzbek writer Abdulla Qodiriy, who was executed in 1938 during Stalin’s purges, and the historical novel that Qodiriy was unable to finish — became the first major literary work from Uzbekistan to be translated into English. Its success led to the translation of several more of his books.
Ismailov credits the press with “giving voice to the silenced, making the unheard heard, and supporting banished writers from all over the world,” he said in an email.
“To this day, I remain banned in Uzbekistan as a writer, as a name,” Ismailov said. “Tilted Axis was bold enough to publish my work.”
Culture
I Think This Poem Is Kind of Into You
A famous poet once observed that it is difficult to get the news from poems. The weather is a different story. April showers, summer sunshine and — maybe especially — the chill of winter provide an endless supply of moods and metaphors. Poets like to practice a double meteorology, looking out at the water and up at the sky for evidence of interior conditions of feeling.
The inner and outer forecasts don’t always match up. This short poem by Louise Glück starts out cold and stays that way for most of its 11 lines.
And then it bursts into flame.
“Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” comes from Glück’s debut collection, “Firstborn,” which was published in 1968. She wrote the poems in it between the ages of 18 and 23, but they bear many of the hallmarks of her mature style, including an approach to personal matters — sex, love, illness, family life — that is at once uncompromising and elusive. She doesn’t flinch. She also doesn’t explain.
Here, for example, Glück assembles fragments of experience that imply — but also obscure — a larger narrative. It’s almost as if a short story, or even a novel, had been smashed like a glass Christmas ornament, leaving the reader to infer the sphere from the shards.
We know there was a couple with a flat tire, and that a year later at least one of them still has feelings for the other. It’s hard not to wonder if they’re still together, or where they were going with those Christmas presents.
To some extent, those questions can be addressed with the help of biographical clues. The version of “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” that appeared in The Atlantic in 1967 was dedicated to Charles Hertz, a Columbia University graduate student who was Glück’s first husband. They divorced a few years later. Glück, who died in 2023, was never shy about putting her life into her work.
But the poem we are reading now is not just the record of a passion that has long since cooled. More than 50 years after “Firstborn,” on the occasion of receiving the Nobel Prize for literature, Glück celebrated the “intimate, seductive, often furtive or clandestine” relations between poets and their readers. Recalling her childhood discovery of William Blake and Emily Dickinson, she declared her lifelong ardor for “poems to which the listener or reader makes an essential contribution, as recipient of a confidence or an outcry, sometimes as co-conspirator.”
That’s the kind of poem she wrote.
“Confidence” can have two meanings, both of which apply to “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson.” Reading it, you are privy to a secret, something meant for your ears only. You are also in the presence of an assertive, self-possessed voice.
Where there is power, there’s also risk. To give voice to desire — to whisper or cry “I want you” — is to issue a challenge and admit vulnerability. It’s a declaration of conquest and a promise of surrender.
What happens next? That’s up to you.
Culture
Can You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?
Cold weather can serve as a plot point or emphasize the mood of a scene, and this week’s literary geography quiz highlights the locations of recent novels that work winter conditions right into the story. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, the questions offer an additional hint about the setting. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the books if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
From NYT’s 10 Best Books of 2025: A.O. Scott on Kiran Desai’s New Novel
When a writer is praised for having a sense of place, it usually means one specific place — a postage stamp of familiar ground rendered in loving, knowing detail. But Kiran Desai, in her latest novel, “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” has a sense of places.
This 670-page book, about the star-crossed lovers of the title and several dozen of their friends, relatives, exes and servants (there’s a chart in the front to help you keep track), does anything but stay put. If “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” were an old-fashioned steamer trunk, it would be papered with shipping labels: from Allahabad (now known as Prayagraj), Goa and Delhi; from Queens, Kansas and Vermont; from Mexico City and, perhaps most delightfully, from Venice.
There, in Marco Polo’s hometown, the titular travelers alight for two chapters, enduring one of several crises in their passionate, complicated, on-again, off-again relationship. One of Venice’s nicknames is La Serenissima — “the most serene” — but in Desai’s hands it’s the opposite: a gloriously hectic backdrop for Sonia and Sunny’s romantic confusion.
Their first impressions fill a nearly page-long paragraph. Here’s how it begins.
Sonia is a (struggling) fiction writer. Sunny is a (struggling) journalist. It’s notable that, of the two of them, it is she who is better able to perceive the immediate reality of things, while he tends to read facts through screens of theory and ideology, finding sociological meaning in everyday occurrences. He isn’t exactly wrong, and Desai is hardly oblivious to the larger narratives that shape the fates of Sunny, Sonia and their families — including the economic and political changes affecting young Indians of their generation.
But “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” is about more than that. It’s a defense of the very idea of more, and thus a rebuke to the austerity that defines so much recent literary fiction. Many of Desai’s peers favor careful, restricted third-person narration, or else a measured, low-affect “I.” The bookstores are full of skinny novels about the emotional and psychological thinness of contemporary life. This book is an antidote: thick, sloppy, fleshy, all over the place.
It also takes exception to the postmodern dogma that we only know reality through representations of it, through pre-existing concepts of the kind to which intellectuals like Sunny are attached. The point of fiction is to assert that the world is true, and to remind us that it is vast, strange and astonishing.
See the full list of the 10 Best Books of 2025 here.
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