I am often challenged about what sort of canon I am engaged in the creation of—about what the totality of the books I work on means together, what translating Vladimir Sorokin plus Michael Lentz plus Antonio Moresco plus Constance Debré plus Louis-Ferdinand Céline plus Hans Henny Jahnn plus Alberto Laiseca plus Jonathan Littell plus writing myself signifies. I am interrogated about the political meaning of the work I do, bothered by the non-notion of “brodernism,” with the very figure of the Book Bro, who looms so large with his batch-brew coffee and small-press pints, his dog-eared copies of G.R. and JR under the armpits…Article continues after advertisement

But what these books have in common has nothing to do with the gender or ethnicity of their scribes. What these books represent is the protracted and obstinate attempt to go out as far from shore as their writers can manage. There is great risk inherent to this pursuit. As Antonio Moresco wrote to me over email regarding his own modus operandi, “I’ve often said how it makes no sense that a race car driver, a motorcyclist, or a boxer has to risk their life for their profession, yet a writer doesn’t. Louis-Ferdinand Céline, who was a doctor, said the same thing: writing in a certain way wrecks your coronary arteries.”