Considering how the majority of Reddit users are from native English speaking countries, I’d imagine that many of us have a somewhat common conception regarding the literary canon and “books to read before you die”. The potential consequence of this is that there are perhaps literary masterpieces just as powerful as those that we know and love but, through know fault of our own, remain unknown to us.
Therefore, I wanted to create this space for non-Anglophone users of this sub to share with us what they consider the must-reads from their culture.
by Tom_The_Human
3 Comments
Alexandre Dumas is pretty good. Its nice to read it in the original language. Jean de la Fontaine is a must read. Jules Vernes is a blast.
My favorite author is Italian. Umberto Eco. But since he spoke French, he did participate in the French translations, which are noticeably better than the English ones. Still a must-read author in any language.
Poland’s got a lot of really wonderful litersture, but I think my favourite has to be Ferdydurke
As a Peruvian, aside from our nobel prize, our literature is really underrated in the English world.
Our greatest achievement is Cesar Vallejo, a writer so absurdly influential that is considered a before and after in Hispanic poetry. I would argue that he is more important than Mario Vargas Llosa. There are entire college courses about him. Sadly, he died unknown, lonely and hungry in a foreign land, never knowing the impact he would have in poetry as a whole.
Fun fact, when I was 10 he was the first writer that made me cry. He wrote a poem when his brother died.
To my brother Miguel, in memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama
would calm us: “There now, boys…”
Now I go hide
as before, from all these evening
prayers, and I hope that you will not find me.
In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not find you.
I remember we made each other cry,
brother, in that game.
Miguel, you hid yourself
one night in August, nearly at daybreak,
but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad.
And your other heart of those dead afternoons
is tired of looking and not finding you. And now
shadows fall on the soul.
Listen, brother, don’t be too late
coming out. All right? Mama might worry.