In this year's Sebald Lecture, AL Kennedy looks at the practical reality for an author of having work translated, of the language of one heart passing to another.
The thick walls of her house closed in on Khalamma like the bunkers her husband described. A freezing wind blowing from the darkest corner brought in the stench of dead rats.
At times I even found her in bed between my husband and myself.
Whenever she is alone, and the whole house is empty, when everyone is away…
There were ten or so Han kids in Kürti, and there was no Chinese school for them, so for a while they all ran loose in the village.
When people chase their ideals into their thirties, forties or fifties they become something ridiculous, like a deranged chicken.
Someone up there seemed to enjoy making things difficult for the living but got along with the dead just fine.
It reminded me that love almost never goes according to plan, even with the aid of witchcraft.
You were recently locked in a room with seven translators...
In the photo of my mother that bothers me the most, five men are sitting on a white sofa and she’s draped across their legs.