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My Struggle: Book Three is a New York Times Notable Book of the Year!

We are pleased to announce that The New York Times Book Review named Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle: Book Three a New York Times Notable Book of the Year!

Visit The New York Times website to see the full line-up of the 100 Notable Books of 2014.


100 notable books



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My Struggle: Book Two nominated for the 2015 International Dublin Literary Award

We are proud to announce that Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle: Book Two – A Man in Love, translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett, is nominated for the 2015 International Impac Dublin Literary Award!

“Book 2 of the six-volume literary masterwork My Struggle flows with the same raw energy and candor that ignited the series’ unprecedented bestselling run in Scandinavia, a virulent controversy, and an avalanche of literary awards.”

142 books have been nominated by libraries worldwide for the €100,000 award, the world’s most valuable annual literary prize for a single work of fiction published in English. Nominations for the 2015 Award include 49 novels in translation with works by 37 American, 19 British, 9 Canadian, 9 Australian and 7 Italian authors. For the first time, translated titles comprise over one third (34.5%) of the longlist!


Head to Dublin Literary Award’s website to see the full list of nominees.



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Our Lady of the Nile Named a "Best Book of 2014" by Publishers Weekly


We are honored that Our Lady of the Nile, by Scholastique Mukasonga, has made the Publishers Weekly “Best Books of 2014” list!

Mukasonga’s debut novel uses the titular girls boarding school, perched on a ridge near the source of the Nile, as a lens through which to examine the Hutu and Tutsi conflict in Rwanda. Mainly setting her story 15 years before the 1994 genocide, Mukasonga, through the girls’ daily experiences at the school, sheds light on the growing political, ethnic, and social hostility of a country moving toward disaster.”

Head to their website to see the full line-up.

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Thank You for Celebrating With Us!

Dear Friends,


Our warmest thanks for attending Archipelago Books’ Tenth Anniversary Gala. It was a magical evening, and we were so moved to see all of you—the community that surrounds and supports this press—come together to celebrate our translators and authors, and international literature as a whole.


We were so pleased that you were able to be with us to hear Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s impassioned words about the importance of publishing underrepresented voices from outside the Eurosphere, the vital and poignant connection that Paul Auster drew between the work we do as publishers and the sociopolitical climate of this country, as well as our beloved translator Bill Johnston’s personal reflections about his ongoing journey with Archipelago. We were delighted to share these moments with so many of our friends and supporters.


This was not only a beautiful evening, it was also our largest fundraiser to date. Your generous contributions will allow us to continue publishing extraordinary translations of classic and contemporary literature from outside our borders. Many of you have been involved with the press from the very beginning, and it is from a deep place that we thank you for your continued collaboration. And to our new friends, welcome! We hope you will remain involved for decades to come.


We’ve posted a few photos from the dinner and cocktail party below. Thank you again for being a part of this milestone event. It was a joy celebrating with you.


We thank you.


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A Love Letter to Archipelago Books

Monica Carter has just published a love letter to Archipelago Books on the Three Percent blog!

“What sets Archipelago apart from most publishers is not only their impeccable taste, their faith in their writers and their translators, but it is this magical element – they have faith in readers out there, in you and me. I don’t know about you but I feel underestimated by most American media, including publishers, and I appreciate that someone doesn’t assume I will run screaming from the bookstore because a book is over 300 pages.

You can read the whole post here.

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Interview with Jill in BOMB!

BOMB Magazine has just published an interview between our own Jill Schoolman and Bibi Dietz:

BD Every translation is a delicate dance between writer and translator. What must be in place for that dance to be graceful?

JS There’s a third dancer involved as well, one that for the most part remains invisible: the editor. The translator is dancing with the author—reinventing, transporting, and transforming the author’s words and spirit, rhythms and tones. And an editor offers his or her eyes and ears.

You can read the full interview on the BOMB website, here.

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Remembering Deborah Pease


We are mourning the loss and celebrating the life of Deborah Pease (1943 – 2014), a dear and devoted friend. The people Deborah cared about were at the very center of her world. Her kindness, her gentle humor, her uncanny insight and perceptiveness, her intimate connection with words (and sensitivity to the world), her groundedness, her integrity, her quiet guidance (Deborah had a beautiful way of guiding by questioning and by voicing her reflections—much like her poems, and she was a great listener), her enthusiasm for our books (she was a maternal – or big sisterly – figure for the press, and for me personally), her inner strength, her keen eye and ear, her vision, her generous spirit, her presence and light will be deeply missed.




At Ease with Mystery

“Come to me, come away with me,” he says.

“But we are away,” she says.

“Further, much further away,” he says,

Undeterred by her infirm



They reach white temple ruins––

Fluted blue columns encircled

By hillsides filled, she fears, with artillery.

She spies on tiny crustaceans

Strangely out of place.


Out of her pack come the guide books,

Cumbrous, distracting.

“Put back the books,” he says.

She resists, then for once

Does as she is told.


They reach the wine-sweet sea––

Black cove of sifted volcanic glass.

In the heat, he is deliriously happy

In the sun, the sea, the precious sand,

Happy she is with him, this woman

Often moody and difficult, she watches

Him plow his walrusy swath

Toward the shore, toward her, he laughs

At his doggy aquatic self, laughs

Gently now as she approaches.


Take an Object

Take an object

And allow it

To be more

Than it is, much


Everything in this room

Has a history

Even if it is new.

If it’s new

I bought it

Because it reminded me

Of someone I once

Loved, and love still.


As for gifts—

They break

My heart.

I would keep here

In these cramped quarters

A red wheelbarrow

If given

With love.


My Father

One evening last fall

On a clear, crisp night

I entered this hotel,

Shoving through the revolving door

(Always slightly hazardous)

And as I was being revolved

Into the grandiose lobby

I glanced through the glass partitions

Of this bizarre invention for human traffic

And saw you, my father, being revolved

Out onto the sidewalk.

We came within inches of colliding

In a (slightly hazardous) hug.

But the inexorable feature

Of revolving doors

Is that the revolution cannot stop.

So there we were—

You pushing (and being pushed) out,

Me pushing (being pushed) in,

At the very same moment.

As we hurtled past each other

I felt the whirl of centrifugal force:


For less than a second

I saw a hurried stranger,

Too tall for this contraption,

Pleasantly distinguished,

A bit awkward with two big shopping bags.

Then I saw you,

A dramatic metamorphosis

That did something to my blood.

I saw your whole self

As I have always known it

(And after an interval of years).

I saw, too, that we were trapped

In this whirligig predicament.

Unaware, you strode into the night

While I went helplessly around

A second time, and then a third.

Finally inside, I grasped for air and froze.

I couldn’t move for such spun wondering.


So Like Leaves

So like leaves

These feathers seem

They might have fallen

From a tree

Devised of sky.


Two blue feathers

With black bands

And white tips.

Leaves still


To the ineffable.


Flight in its True Aspect

The hummingbird, stunned,

Throbs like a heart in my palm.

It came at the plate glass

With its winged roar

Headed straight for the floral armchair.

Grouse do it too, and doves, and the moths

Battering in blizzards at night

Against our undefended glare.


I’m afraid of its beak

But more fearful of its jeweled death,

Its diminished sheen.

My hands are icy with trying

Too hard to warm

This bumblebee bird, its hum

Uniquely attuned to air,

A palpability of soul.


Cautious as a novice, I lift

Between fingertips

A condemned rainbow, the slightest

Misplaced pressure

Capable of murder.

I lean close to its secret, when sudden

As a heart’s leap

It’s free.


––Deborah Pease