The Deserters by Mathias Enard, translated from the French by Charlotte Mandell (International Booker Prize 2026) “…the trace of violence is never easily erased.”

 

“…he’d like to tear the war out of him like a dead scab - the rifle is still on his knees, though, the memories inside him…” (p. 108)

I kept looking for a connection between the bedraggled soldier coming out of the bush, covered in slime and filth and dried blood, to the story of Paul, and Maja, and their daughter, Irina. 

I think the best connection is the bond they share in suffering the effects of war.

We don’t know the war from which the soldier deserted; I can’t help but wonder if it was WWII which had so much effect on Paul. But, does it matter which war? They’re all horrifying. And Mathias Enard makes mention of so many: WWII, the attack on the Towers in New York City, Russian invading Ukraine, and even now we find ourselves involved with Iran.

Paul Heudeber, director of the Mathematics Institute of the Academy of Sciences in GDR, is a politician, a mathematician, a communist, the lover of Maja, and the father of Irina. Maja is a politically active woman from the West, and their daughter narrates their story for us.

It is particularly poignant how she speaks of the love between her parents. Though never married, they never stopped loving each other.

“You are my malady - my passion has the malady of infinity, my love can only be written with your name. There is no other way to designate love but to say your name. Come back to me soon.” ~Paul, in a letter to Maja (p. 42)

They are not the only couple in the novel, however. The deserting soldier has found a woman, walking with a wounded donkey and several packs of her belongings. Her hair is shorn, her fear is great, with reason, we learn later on. Together they make it to the Black Rock, to what they hope will be utter escape and freedom. 

I think one of the points Enard is so eloquently making is that there is no escape. There is no freedom, in a world which always seems so capable of producing a new war. A new way of wounding one another. We can only hope, and search out peace, as the soldier tries to do.

“…after the border will I be returned to myself, will my wounds be erased, I’ll look for a place to heal, a place to get cured, a place of oblivion.” (p. 133)

May he find it. May all our wounds be erased. 

The Wax Child by Olga Ravn, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (International Booker Prize 2026)

 

“We knew so little about the Devil in those days, now everyone knows so much about him.” (p. 42)

The Wax Child has been growing on me, holding me in a power all its own. At first, I thought, “Okay, witches. The seventeenth century. How is this relevant, and who cares?”

(I knew it was a mistake to read The Remembered Soldier first.)

But, now I keep thinking of The Wax Child. Indeed, it has woven a spell over me, just as the incantations of the women themselves were spoken periodically throughout the book. Here are a few:

“Take a swallow bird. Take her heart and roast it on a  stick. Take then the swallow’s tongue and place it under your own. Eat then the swallow’s heart. Carry with you thereafter the swallow’s tongue, and whenever someone is angry with you place the swallow’s tongue underneath your own and speak to the person who is angry and her anger toward you will at once be stilled.” p. 26

“Cast some blood of a jar into the fire, so that it makes a smell, then all the girls of the house will piss themselves. Or  give them blood from a bat and those who have mixed with men will play piss themselves.” p. 61

“Take the water from the eye of a stallion that has not yet been led to a mate, and with it wet your own eyes, then all can be seen that would otherwise be unseeable, and this three mornings in succession.” p. 76

Jomfru Christenze Axelsdattar Kruckow, a noblewoman, has fashioned a doll made of wax. It is this doll, who cannot open her lips, or move her mouth, which tells us the tale of Christenze, Maren, Apelone, and Dorte. They do unspeakable, unchristian things. They meet in secret, and their very existence seems to threaten the men around them. They ultimately meet their demise at the hand of these men; all but Christenze are tied to a ladder and burned alive. Christenze herself is beheaded.

“Since they (the women) are weak, they find a secret and easy manner of vindicating themselves by witchcraft. Where there are many women, there are many witches.”  (p. 73)

Ah, now I see the point. Judging by appearances, judging out of fear, judgment of any kind cannot be made blanketly, with any amount of accuracy. Ravn calls into question men who judge falsely, creating what is termed feminist fiction. But, I think it is a more widely applicable problem in our society.

The mood she has created, blending her imagination with fact, is commendable. The novel reads as a poem, and a disturbingly horrific one at that.

(Thank you to New Directions for sending me a copy for review.)

Taiwan Travelogue by Yang Shuang-zi, translated by Lin King (International Booker Prize 2026)

Reading anything after The Remembered Soldier was bound to be a disappointment, and as such this is the spirit with which I opened Taiwan Travelogue. I’m not terribly interested in Taiwan, any more than any other country, and yet, every once in a while I came across a quote which struck my jaded point of view.

Consider this passion to record one’s thoughts, so similar to my own:

“What drove me to write was neither a political agenda nor money, but a simple desire to record my observations whenever I saw or heard anything interesting, or whenever I felt moved to reflect on something…Over time, piles of notebooks and scraps covered my desktop and drawers, and slowly consumed the study’s bookshelves, windowsills, and floors.” p. 73

Thus speaks Aoyama, a young novelist who has traveled to Taiwan to document the country. She has been given a translator, named Chizuro, to accompany her. It is through their eyes that we glimpse Taiwan when it was a colony of Japan. Many of our glimpses depict food. It seems, in fact, that most of the novel is about the food they consumed, for Aoyama is passionate about it.

“My gluttony isn’t limited to exquisite or expensive foods, either-whenever I start craving something, anything, my stomach burns with this insatiable greed until I get my hands in whatever it is. That’s the monster in me.” p. 83

I would say that the monster within her concerns more than food. The homosexual undercurrent in this novel begins in a fairly subtle way, and then becomes more and more pronounced. I am not interested in reading about lesbian mentality, especially when the writing itself is not very good. There is no subtle nuance, there is no real plot, nor, to me, much of a redeeming point in Taiwan Travelogue. Ultimately, it both bored, and disappointed, me. 

Read it, if you want to read endless descriptions of food, on every page, along with Aoyama’s ever growing attraction to her translator. How it won the National Book Award, let alone a place on the International Booker Prize long list, is beyond me.

The Remembered Soldier by Anjet Daanje, translated from the Dutch by David McKay (International Booker Prize 2026)

 

…she leans over the retouching desk restoring other people’s lives. 

I think, more than any other line, this quotation encapsulates The Remembered Soldier. Yet, how can one fragment of a sentence thoroughly impart the impact of this book? It can’t.

When I first saw the title, and the cover, on the International Booker Prize, I balked. “I do not want to read a book about war,” I said to myself. But, The Remembered Soldier is about so much more than war. It is about memory, and identity, being a soldier, and perhaps most importantly of all, being married.

An American author would come out and tell you everything boldly: Julienne found Amand, after searching for eight years, in an asylum; he’d lost his memory, but she claims to be his wife; going home together, they forge a life together. That wouldn’t be much of a story, would it? 

Fortunately, it is not nearly so simple. The nuances must be carefully gleaned to solve this puzzle. We must live through his memories, or lack thereof, and while relying on Julienne’s stories for background we wonder if perhaps she is lying, just to keep him with her.

Julienne says marriage is just like having children, it’s for life, she says, he’s not a dog you can get rid of if you’re not satisfied, and her candor is so disarming that he almost wishes he really were her husband.

Is he? Isn’t he? We don’t know, although we read of their life as a married couple. He builds her a special table to retouch the photographs she takes, as photography is their business. He wakes up next to her in their shabby bed, gets the coal, picks the milk up from outside the door, heats the water so she can wash. In a thousand ways, they are one. 

And then, he must pursue the vision he has, of Kathe, in yellow…

And he dreams he finds not Kathe, but the war, and he realizes that’s what he’s been looking for the whole time, it’s just that he gave his war a woman’s name, and her body is ravaged and cold and infertile and she’s married to death. 

Don’t be deceived. Read on, my friend, to find out who Kathe is. Who Julienne is. Who the remembered soldier is. And as you’re reading, prepare to be mesmerized by writing the likes of which I have never known. This is a book which will I never forget, a mystery I would never have conceived on my own, the quality of which I am unable to accurately describe.

In my opinion, it is the only true contender for the International Booker Prize 2026, and most certainly ought to be declared the winner.

Anticipating The International Booker Prize 2026

We’re about to embark on an epic journey across the world’s fiction, traveling paths forged by the magic of translation. I can’t wait to share the treasures we discover. ~Natasha Brown, Chair of the International Booker Prize 2026 judges

The International Booker Prize will announce the long list of thirteen books on Tuesday, February 24. Once again, the Shadow Jury awaits this announcement with great anticipation. What will this year bring us from the world of translated literature? Which author, and which translator, will equally share the £50,000 prize?

Our Shadow Jury for 2026 is comprised of the following bibliophiles:

• Stu, who is mostly found on Bluesky here and on Instagram here.
• Vivek is on Instagram here.
• David is writing the blog David’s Book World, and can be found on Bluesky here.
• Frances is found on Bluesky here and on Instagram here.
• Paul is on Goodreads here.
• Jeremy is on Bluesky here and on Substack here.
• Marina is writing the blog Finding Time To Write, and can be found on Bluesky here.
• and me, here at Dolce Bellezza and (rarely) on Instagram here.

Together we will read and review the books which are on the long list, eagerly discussing amongst ourselves which we deem most worthy of the prize. Sometimes, we agree with judges. More often, I dissent. But agreeing with them or not, in no way deters from the pleasure of reading books in translation and going through the door they open to broader understanding of the world in which we live. Although I am a reader, and not a translator, I feel much as one of the judges describes below:

To translate is to undertake a powerful act of generosity, creativity and connection to ferry literature across from one language to another, to forge kinship across distance. ~Nilanjana S. Roy, International Booker Prize 2026 judge

I cannot predict with any amount of certainty what will be revealed as a contender for the prize on February 24. However, I am hopeful that a few of my favorite books in translation, which have been published from May 1, 2025 to April 30, 2026, will be selected. Specifically, I am hopeful to see these books (click on the cover to go to the publisher):

As you can see, my knowledge base is largely Japanese, but I have read all of these books and consider them to be exceptional. We shall see what the judges have considered exceptional in the weeks to come…

Sisters in Yellow by Mieko Kawakami (“It’s only because I have you guys that I can do any of this.”)

The power of Sisters In Yellow stunned me.

I could not read it quickly, for the pages dwelt inside me with increasing heaviness. As Hana told her story, my compassion for her grew such that I could hardly contain it.

Where do you go when you have no one to turn to? Hana seemed to begin with a color. Yellow, to be specific.

Yellow was how all this started. I met Kumiko, who had yellow in her name, and she was the first one who’s taught me about yellow bringing fortune, and that was how I was able to leave Higashimurayama and find my own place and my own life.

Hana’s mother has no capacity for parenting. She works at a bar, connecting with the men she finds there for brief interludes, leaving Hana on her own. Hana must be the responsible one in the family. So, it is easy for her to leave with Kimiko, a friend of her mother’s, in search of a better home.

Kimiko and Hana set up a bar, which Hana names Lemon, and soon they have more money than Hana has ever known. The new adults in her life, Kimiko and her friends, show her ways to survive that make her feel she is thriving. Until the mounting dangers, and fear, show her that her life is really crumbling. 

The despair that Hana feels is heart wrenching. What does she have? No career, no family ID, no education.

How do people go on living? People I passed on the street, people reading newspapers in the cafes or drinking booze in the izakaya, eating ramen, going out with friends to make memories, people coming from somewhere, going elsewhere, laughing, raging, crying, people who live for today and would wake up and do the same tomorrow. How did they do it? I knew they had honest jobs, earned honest money. But embarrassed I didn’t understand was how they’d first obtained the qualifications to live within that honesty. How had they made it to that side? I wanted someone to tell me. My nights were sleepless, filled with worry, tossing and turning, and my thoughts grew distorted, so much so that I almost called my mother.

But, Hana’s mother can’t help her. And when Hana’s friends suggest that Kimiko and the other adults in their circle, have taken advantage of her, Hana cannot help but feel betrayed.

I’d always believed Kimiko had saved me. And the more I got to know her, the more I became convinced that she couldn’t live without me either, that there was no other way. That was why I’d been so desperate. But, I was wrong…

This is the crux of the novel, I believe. Did Kimiko take advantage of Hana? Or, as one of my principals said when I expressed disgust over a parent’s behavior, was she simply doing the best that she could? What ultimately matters is how Hana faces the reality of her life. She cannot answer for how she has been treated; she can only answer for how she will, in turn, treat others. 

As we all, one day, will do.

The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino (“Sometimes, all you had to do was exist in order to be someone’s savior.”)

“The last time I met Ishigami, he presented me with a mathematical conundrum.,” he said. “It’s a famous one, the P=NP problem. Basically, it asks whether it’s more difficult to think of a solution to a problem yourself or to ascertain if someone else’s answer to the same problem is correct.” 

Is there anything like a good mystery? I mean, a really well-thought out puzzle resembling a mathematical problem which begs to be solved? Such is the mystery which Higashino gives us in this novel. 

But, maybe the most important part of the novel isn’t about who committed a crime. 

When Ishigami comes forth with the confession that he has killed Yasuko’s ex-husband, the whole point of the novel suddenly becomes clear. It was never about who committed the crime.

It was about the devotion of one of the suspects. 

In fact, perhaps this should be labeled more of a desperate love story than one of murder. Although there are an abundance of clues, and curiosity about who will discover the truth (the detective or the physicist), these aren’t the most important elements.

The most important element is Ishigami’s character. He is a lonely teacher at the High School, working there only for the money as his passion is solving mathematical problems. Bur, his passion extends to his neighbor, Yasuko, as well.

I am gobsmacked by Higashino’s cleverness. He masqueraded a tale of devotion as one of murder and had me sidetracked all along. The Devotion of Suspect X is as brilliant a thriller as I have ever read.

Sunday Salon: Life is Sometimes Stranger Than Fiction

 

This week, one of my sons’s grandfathers turned 94. 

The other grandfather died.

You can’t make it up. Sometimes, I’m reading a Japanese novel, and I think, “This could never have happened. Never!” And then I look at my life and think, “But, it does.”

My husband took the photo of my mother and I with my father on January 15. (I am in the black shirt, she is in teal; people often confuse us since I am silver now.) He is strong, and no one is more amazed than I am. If you have been around my blog for a while, you may know of the prayers I’ve asked for him, this man with 34 stents in his heart. He even had several open heart surgeries before stents were placed. If there’s one thing I learned it is do not worry. I could have saved myself thirty years of anxiety if I had obeyed that philosophy.

In January 14, my son texted me that he’s just learned his paternal grandfather had died of a heart attack in Ohio. Quite suddenly, he had woken up with chest pain, driven himself and his wife to the hospital, and suffered the attack which took his life. 

My son had to go to one grandfather’s funeral, while missing the other grandfather’s birthday. 

Our days are not in our hands.

I sprained my foot, quite badly, and so I have been reading on the loveseat under the window in the dining room and gaining weight. It’s really a lovely time over here. But, I have finished three books for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19, two other books which were not, and am now starting The Devotion of Suspect X by Keigo Higashino which Lesley must have sent me ten years ago. She wasn’t a fan, but she knew of my passion for Japanese literature and sent it over. I am a great fan of Higashino, so I am going to devour it today. 

We will also watch the Bears in the playoffs against the Rams. Those poor Rams, coming to play in Chicago temperatures when they are used to Los Angeles. Imagine that the Bears have made it this far! It’s been a long time since I watched them win the Super Bowl when I lived in Germany. In 1986.

Find more Sunday Salon links here.

Best Offer Wins by Marisa Kashino

 

It always amazes me to see the books that are selected for Reese’s Book Club, or Oprah’s, or The Good Morning America Book Club. They are nothing if not trite. Or, poorly written. At least Marisa Kashino seems to use her experience as a reporter, and her Japanese-American ethnicity, to support her novel, Best Offer Wins.

When I put this book on hold at the library, I actually thought it would be suitable for the Japanese Literature Challenge 19. 

It is not.

Instead, it is a novel that resembles The Devil Wears Prada in that we have a young, professional woman, aspiring to achieve more than she has. In fact, Margot borders on having a psychosis so eager is she to have a house. And a baby. But first, the house.

When she hears of a home which will soon be listed, she stalks the owner, getting herself invited to the owner’s home for dinner, and consequently ruining any chance of buying it before it hits the market when her ruse is uncovered.

But, her plans to obtain this house continue to unfold, each more bizarre than the next, until we are left with an outrageously tragic scenario that further spoiled the whole plot with its unbelievable, overly dramatic, nature.

Maybe it’s because I already have a house. Maybe it’s because I’m not materialistic. Maybe it’s because I know that things do not a person make. But, I am shocked by the accolades that this book has received, from Alex Michaelides for one, because personally, I cannot wait to return to a piece of true literature.

And, I have some advice: do not get sucked into reading what celebrities endorse. It’s has never been worth the effort for me.

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata (Part Two) “He stood gazing at his own coldness, so to speak.”

 

(Click on image for information.)

I learned about Chijimi linen in Part Two of Snow Country. Ojiya Chijimi is the art of turning plant fibers into fabric with the help of sun and snow. One of the last steps of making this special fabric is to lay it on the snow for ten to twenty days, where it is bleached by the elements. 

Why does Kawabata include this tradition in his novel? To be sure, he tells of one of the art forms in the country he is depicting. But, maybe, in the stretch of my imagination, it also points to the condition of Komako’s heart. For surely she loves Shimamura, just as surely, he cares very little that she does. Her heart seems to be bleached by the coldness of his heart just as the linen is bleached by the sun when it lies on the snow.

It makes me sad.

Kawabata won the Nobel Prize, for which Snow Country was one of the novels commended, in 1968. It is an incredibly spare, and often, to me, disjointed novel. As the characters speak, they don’t seem to be answering one another. It’s as if each is carrying on with his or her own thoughts, regardless of what the other has just said. I found myself reading, and rereading, certain passages for clarity. And maybe that is just the point: Shimamura and Komako are never truly communicating. Not in any meaningful, or lasting, way.

How can this be called a love story? To me, a love story involves two people who care about each other, and it is clear that Shimamura is able to care for little but himself. 

If a man had a tough, hairy hide like a bear, his world would be different indeed, Shimamura thought. It was through a thin, smooth skin that man loved. Looking out at the evening mountains, Shimamura felt a sentimental longing for the human skin. (p. 85)

This longing doesn’t mean it becomes actualized, however. Kawabata doesn’t give us a clear indication as to why Shimamura is so emotionally detached. Could it be, in part, because he comes to the snow country from Tokyo?

Tokyo people are complicated. They live in such noise and confusion that their feelings are broken to bits. Everything is broken to bits. (p. 90)

Maybe this accounts for some of his emotional aloofness. But, Komako attributes this distance to gender. 

It will be the same wherever I go. There’s nothing to be upset about…And I can’t complain. After all, only women are really able to love. (p. 98)

Even as they watch a fire destroy a cocoon-warehouse, and a woman’s body fall from the balcony, it is Komako who is screaming and Shimamura who is passive. 

If Shimamura felt even a flicker of uneasiness, it was lest the head drop, or the knee or a hip end to disturb that perfectly horizontal line…Komako screamed and brought her hands to her eyes. Shimamura gazed at the still form. (p. 128)

I have no ability to comprehend such a cold and heartless person; whether a person comes from a city or a small mountain town, whether a person is male or female, whether a person has a tough hairy hide or a thin skin, we are meant to love one another. It is a sad story that Kawabata gives us, and the fact that Snow Country contributed to a Nobel Prize means it must have a lot to say to a lot of people who ponder the heart of mankind. 

Or, the coldness therein. 

On The Calculation of Volume III by Solvej Balle (“I want to escape this day, but there is no escaping.”)

“His name is Henry Dale, and I don’t need to tell him that time has ground to a halt. He already knows.” p. 3

I was surprised, upon opening Volume III of On The Caluclation of Volume, that Tara has met someone else who is stuck in the eighteenth of November. More and more, I am reading this book less as a piece of science fiction, or fantasy, and more as a work which is actually applicable to real life.

“I could never have imagined that I’d meet someone already walking around in my loop.” 

How many times have I thought that? Have I searched for someone else who “walks around in my loop” and therefore understands the experiences which have made me who I am? I can’t tell you how often I feel completely alone.

Tara’s thoughts, her experiences, often mirror my own. “Why am I here?” I think, and, “While I am here, surely I can do some good?”

“I lived in one November day. On repeat. I had tried to make time pass. But it stood still. The eighteenth of November was a container, or at least that’s how I saw it. I had tried to figure out why I was here. And to do as little damage as possible.”  p. 18

She is happy to have met Henry, who is a companion and not a lover, stumbling around in the loop of living the eighteenth of November ad nauseam. But, it isn’t without sacrifice.

“There is the certainty of having gained a travel companion, but also the sense of having been assigned some of the responsibility for their baggage.” p. 33

Henry looks at reliving the eighteenth of November with a different perspective than Tara’s.

“In many ways, the repetition of the 18th of November came as a relief. A day that made no assertions of progress and propulsion and promotion. At least the eighteenth of November is honest, he said. It wipes the slate clean.” p. 35

I would like a clean slate. I would like, as my third graders used to say, a “do over.” Have a chance to get things right, or at least better, than I have in my first attempt. It seems I am not alone, for at the end of the novel, two more people join Henry and Tara. Olga has come to Tara, at Henry’s advice, to have someone help her find Ralf. The two of them, Olga and Ralf, have an idea of seizing the opportunity to make this world a better place.

“She (Olga) didn’t want to return to standard time, as she called it, without having seized the chance to change the world. She saw the repetition as an opportunity. To see things more clearly. To get your fucking eyeballs polished, she said.” p. 130

Well, that’s certainly one way to look at one’s purpose in life. But, I am more inclined to side with Tara, who says, “I do not feel unhappy. I feel I am among friends. But I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I wouldn’t know what to say if anyone asked.” p. 157

How fascinating it is to look at these questions through the eyes of Solvej Balle, in her imaginative world presented in these slim volumes.