SYNOPSIS: The excerpt here is from his 2000 collection of “essays “On n’y voit rien:  Descriptions.

The chapters (on Velazquez, Titian, Bruegel, Tintoretto, Manet, Francesco da Cossa) are not essays in the usual sense.  In what has been called his brilliant “narrative and pedagogical strategy,” Arasse’s analyses of the paintings in question are presented as fictional tales, dialogues between an “I” (Arasse) and a foil who questions his ideas, forcing him to clarify them for us.  In the chapter presented here, the reader can see all the intelligence and humor Arasse brings to bear on his subject, in this case, the lovely snail in Francesco del Cossa’s Annunciation (1470). (Alyson Waters)

SYNOPSIS: The mainstream press has now reached the point where, in its rage to put a label on everything, it endlessly compounds errors with lies. In my case, after thinking I was some kind of cyber-nut or punk-blah-blah, it is now trying to promote the idea that I’m a reactionary (and not the press), burying me in every tawdry epithet currently available (fascist, separatist, eugenicist, bourgeois, nouveau riche), and has even invented an unlikely past for me as an ex-leftist because it turns out that I knew Jean-Bernard Pouy at the Lycée Romain Roland in Ivry-sur-Seine twenty-five years ago, and that my editor at Série Noire is Patrick Raynal. Primo, and so that the pretentious hacks get it into their heads once and for all...

SYNOPSIS: We called him “The Boxer” because his nose was beaten so flat it almost disappeared into his face.
Sometimes when I sat with him by the window in the evening and we smoked in the floodlights and waited for the night, he laid his big hand across his battered face and left it there until we got up and went to our beds.
We had plenty of beaten-up guys. I saw them at work, I saw them in the corridors and the yard; there were some who came in with really pretty faces and went out mashed up, but in all my time I never saw a nose as flat as the Boxer’s.

SYNOPSIS: Malaparte witnessed first hand the consolidation of Mussolini's dictatorship in the critical years 1922-1925. Highly intelligent, he was also a literary artist of distinction with a talent, typical of Tuscan writers since Dante, for barbed invective. These qualities led him to challenge Mussolini to make good on his promises of reform in the years when an open debate was still possible. "It was not Mussolini who carried the Fascists to the Prime Ministership, but the Fascists who had carried Mussolini to power," Malaparte thundered in 1924 in his newspaper, La conquista dello Stato. And, in the wake of his realization that Mussolinismo had triumphed over the kind of idealistic left-wing fascism he advocated, it was these same qualities that led him to write what the critic Giuseppe Pardini has labeled "one of the few strictly original products of fascist culture":  Don Camalèo:  A Novel About A Chameleon.

The American reading public was first introduced to Malaparte in the aftermath of the Second World War when Kaputt appeared in English in 1946. At the time, interest in Malaparte in the States was such that his portrait appeared on the cover of The Saturday Review of Literature on November 14, 1946. Two other books by Malaparte would make their way into English in later years. But Kaputt, that long, rich and macabre mediation on the horrors of war, remains the single book for which Malaparte is chiefly remembered today.

Don Camalèo, written in 1926-27, like Kaputt, has a strange publishing history that Malaparte describes in the preface he wrote to the first integral edition of the work, which appeared in Italy in 1946 and which I have included as part of my submission. At the time of the book's publication, Malaparte was basking in the international success of Kaputt, but his reputation in Italy remained suspect. Publishing Don Camalèo thus served two purposes:  it enabled Malaparte to offer his recently acquired immense readership yet another "new" novel at the same time as it bolstered his claim to have been part of a fronde within Fascism. Don Camalèo is also like Kaputt in that Malaparte relies upon a first person narrator modeled closely on himself, sharing his name and many of his biographical details, to shepherd the reader along the twists and turns of the story’s path. But there the similarities end. In lieu of a series of darkly surrealistic encounters with death, we find a spirited, fast-paced comedy in the form of an eighteenth-century roman philosophique by Voltaire or Diderot.

Malaparte wrote Don Camalèo to deny validity of the equation that fascism equaled Mussolini. At its most basic level, the novel is an anti-Mussolinian satire characterized from start to finish by the knowledge that the kind of revolutionary fascism that Malaparte and others had urged upon the regime since 1922 was dead and that Mussolini would do little more than mouth revolutionary platitudes as he maintained power by appeasing the reactionary elements that had always counted in Italian life. But the novel has a deeper side. Malaparte would later write:  "It is not possible to draw a portrait of Mussolini, without drawing one, too, of the Italian people. His qualities and his defects are not his own. Rather they are the qualities and the defects of all Italians." Accordingly, as it pokes fun at Mussolini, the reader also finds Don Camalèo cutting deeper to mock many of the centuries-old vices besetting the Italian people as embodied in a series of broadly drawn characters.

The initial chapter (of twenty-three), which I present here in translation, with its semi-serious use of classical erudition concerning the nature of salamanders, basilisks, and chameleons, sets the tone for the peculiar kind of jocular satire that will characterize the novel as a whole.

In the second chapter, current events then heave into view as Malaparte describes what it was like to have observed the March on Rome in 1922. He then recalls how one day he was outdoors horseback-riding with Mussolini when a chameleon appeared out of nowhere. This animal ex machina is what launches the tale since before Malaparte can object, Mussolini has assigned him the task of raising the beast, certain in the knowledge that the chameleon will be able to adapt to Roman political society.

Malaparte entrusts the chameleon to a Panglossian tutor by the name of Sebastiano, whose methods and mentality symbolize the hidebound nature of traditional Italian culture. Following this initial education, Malaparte introduces the chameleon, who has learned to speak, into political society, where he learns the finely-honed Italian art of trasformismo—what today’s spin doctors would call “triangulation”:  finding out what you need to say you will change in order to win support, and then maintaining the status quo. But by dint of spending time with Malaparte, the chameleon comes to believe in the Fascist Revolution. He takes to the street to protest the slow pace of reform and his popularity soars with the common people. Seeing this, Mussolini decides he has no choice but to invite the chameleon into his inner circle of advisors.

Malaparte cautions the chameleon:  "Everyone knows that the Head of the October Revolution, like any good Italian, doesn't love revolutionaries; in fact, it's likely that he despises them." And he adds:  “It's true that you're a chameleon, but if you join Mussolini in power, you'll change colors so furiously that you'll die from all the effort." But the chameleon accepts the invitation in the belief that he will make the Revolution live up to its promises. Sadly, the lizard’s proximity to Mussolini, day in and day out, in Parliament gradually causes his political positions to mutate yet again. When, in January 1925, Mussolini institutes his personal dictatorship and calls upon all good fascists to embrace order over the Revolution, the chameleon does likewise. The novel predates the Lateran Pact of 1929, but it is prophetic in that it depicts Mussolini introducing the chameleon to a certain Dr. Libero, a Jesuit, who inadvertently causes the animal to believe he is the Son of God by goading him into reading The Imitation of Christ. Things do not end well for the poor lizard at the book’s conclusion, which takes place in Saint Peter's Cathedral.

In sum, then, there remain three compelling reasons for Don Camalèo to appear in English:  to add to our historical knowledge of the period; to add to our knowledge of Malaparte's literary career and strengths as a writer; and, for the sheer enjoyment to be had from this minor literary gem, once believed to have been lost.

(Michael McDonald)

SYNOPSIS: The professional premiere of this adaptation will take place May 9-31, 2008 at Miracle Theatre Group in Portland, Oregon under the direction of Devon Allen.

It was originally commissioned and produced (November 17-25, 2006) by the UCSD Department of Theatre and Dance, La Jolla, California under the direction of Gerardo Ruiz, and developed at New Dramatists in New York City under the direction of Jean Randich. 

Special thanks to Leo Cabranes-Grant, Jorge Huerta, Ursula Meyer, Chris Parry, Gregary Racz, Darko Tresnjak, Phyllis Zatlin and all the actors and designers who have been part of this play’s development.

A Writer’s Labyrinth by Caridad Svich

“To enter that rhythm where the self is lost,
Where breathing:  heartbeat:  and the subtle music
Of their relation make our dance, and hasten
Us to the moment when all things become
Magic, another possibility.”
- Muriel Rukeyser (1962)

The Labyrinth of Desire is a play about transformation and the motor of human desire. Originally written by Lope de Vega in the 1600s under the title La Prueba de Los Ingenios (literally “A Test of Wits”), it falls under the category of a capa y espada/cloak and dagger play. It is a piece that true to its genre revels in the comedy of love and intrigue, and does so with Lope de Vega’s characteristic warmth, wit, and poetry. What raises this play above its genre is its great understanding of the essential mutability and fluidity of human desire. Pre-queer theory, pre-feminism and pre-Sex and the City, this play challenges the boundaries of prescribed sexual roles, and advocates for the delightful and essential mystery of love. The performance of self, gender identity, and sexual identity is at the core of this comedy, yet it also manages to address issues of class and the heteroglossic play of language.

In freely adapting this play for the American stage (and this is the first American English adaptation of this piece), I have taken many liberties with the original text:  cutting minor scenes and characters, re-assigning some roles and lines, borrowing a very short comedic sequence from Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, re-shaping and expanding scenes, and adding text of my own to clarify and deepen emotional moments as well as comedic ones. The ending in particular has a new twist that speaks to what I feel were Lope’s wholistic intentions with this play. In the use of language I have emphasized the colloquial and direct over the baroque. This choice is actually a mirror of the original’s taut and sharp energy. However, the meter and rhythms have necessarily changed. Nevertheless, my intention throughout my conversation with Lope de Vega across the centuries has always been to illuminate his vision for a new audience, one that most likely only knows, if at all, his classic historical play Fuenteovejuna. It is an audience, though, that is perhaps familiar with Marivaux’s The Triumph of Love and surely with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night—plays that are clear cousins to this one in spirit, if not in form, and I’ve taken this into account when re-considering this play. Obviously, this is a free adaptation. It is faithful to Lope’s architecture, but it is very much suffused with my own artistic sensibility as a playwright, which also centers on the crossing of normative social and sexual boundaries, women in society, the carnival-esque play with language and genre, and interculturalism. In addition, my history (in my parallel career) as a translator of Federico Garcia Lorca’s work, and other dramatists including Calderon de la Barca, has inevitably played a role in my approach to Lope de Vega. Any writer meets a text through their own experience with the page and with the dramatic form. So, call this a hybrid text, a fusion, if you will, of Lope de Vega and Svich. The process has been not unlike the lead character of Florela in this play: I have entered, as Muriel Rukeyser expresses in her poem so eloquently, “the rhythm where the self is lost,” and in so doing, have found an exultant vision of transformation.

SYNOPSIS: You’re going to read a Swedish play. Heavy. You’re thinking Ingmar Bergman, deep symbolism, whispers and cries, anguish, suicide, maybe some blonde sex in the sauna. Think again. The world of Sofia Fredén is more closely related to Larry David’s. Bergman’s characters are silent and closed. Sofia’s are open and naïve. They wear their psychology on the outside. They say what they feel. They are refreshingly selfish when you consider their context: a chilly, grey, and silent country where the motto, until quite recently, was “Duty above all else.” White Baby is a political comedy about a group of people who can’t seem to make place in their lives for a child. Most of it you’ll understand. But you probably won’t recognize similarities between the character Eva and Mona Sahlin, the present leader of Sweden’s social democratic party. You’ll listen to the scene in the postal service centre unaware that Post Offices have been completely phased out in Sweden and you’ll think it more absurd than we would when a character at the social service office asks to have his welfare check forwarded to Africa. Sweden and the U.S. are a bit different. We can’t help that. I am a great fan of Ms. Fredén and her work. White Baby is the fourth play of hers that I’ve translated. The earliest of rough drafts was workshopped at a theatre I ran about eight years ago. Three years ago Sofia and I took a version to a playwright’s colony in a nunnery in Winnipeg where she worked on it some more. Sofia has written about a dozen other plays while White Baby was in progress, so it had to wait until less than a year ago to get finished. It opened February 2007 at Göteborg Stadsteater. (Edward Buffalo Bromberg)

SYNOPSIS: I first encountered Bernard Da Costa's Boomerang when I played the role of the Teacher in a staged reading for New Jersey Repertory Company. I had serious problems with the translation, the wording of which felt awkward and unnatural to an English-speaking actor. Even in that form, however, the response was most gratifying—lots of laughter—and the entire audience stayed afterward for the post-show discussion, and seemed genuinely fascinated by these two troubled, passionate people.

When Bernard wrote to me, asking for my impressions of the play, I told him that I would love to attempt a new translation, and he gave me his blessing. As I worked on it, I found that both Isabelle and Pierre were wonderfully articulate, smart, fiercely defiant people—both among the Walking Wounded of the world—yet both refusing (against all reason) to surrender their dreams. What the audience had responded to, I felt, was this phoenix-like quality in both. Whatever their faults (and they are capable of terrible cruelty, and probably incapable of any intimate relationship with another human being), they cannot or will not abandon their unattainable goals. They certainly lack Don Quixote's nobility of mind, yet they are, in their own ways, akin to him. Their hopeless, blindered optimism makes them unsuited to the Real World, but they and their kind are part of what makes our world so endlessly fascinating. (Kathleen Huber)

SYNOPSIS: Playwright José Pliya, born in Benin, now running the National Theatre of Guadeloupe, bases his play loosely on the biography of Elisabeth Nietzsche, sister of the eminent German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. Given a State funeral by Chancellor Adolf Hitler, Elisabeth Nietzsche embodied, while perverting their sense, the superman qualities Nietzsche extolled in his famous essay, Thus Spake Zarathustra. Her heightened narcissism and incestuous love allowed her to spurn the world, refusing to acknowledge the worth of all those defined as “other.” By sketching in a flashback Elisabeth Nietzsche's astounding trajectory, José Pilya suggests the connections between colonization, racism, anti-Semitism, and fascist ideology.

It is 1935. Elisabeth Nietzsche is 87 years old and Hitler has already begun his project to “purify” Germany by eliminating the Jewish population.

Flashback to 1886: We are in Paraguay. Elisabeth Nietzsche and her inept and self-pitying husband Bernard Föster have established, with the blessings of the German Empire and several German investors, the colony of New Germany (Nueva Germania). In this first part of the play, comprised of six scenes, German capitalists enthusiastically celebrate the philosophical and commercial rationale for the colonization effort, while more intimate encounters develop the tension between the ambitious and hard-driving Elisabeth, her husband, and the men they must deal with: the wealthy converted German Jewish banker Fritz Klingbeil, who opposes colonization as exploitative of German settlers; Cirilio Solindade, the Paraguayan landholder who seeks full payment for the lands that the Fösters cannot manage to cultivate; and, Friedrich Nietzsche, who is never seen yet always present. The object of Elisabeth's thwarted love, Nietzsche, at least as she dreams him, fuels her desire for power as well as her monstrous ability to create false truths by acts of will.

Part II (eight scenes): It is the last decade of the 19th century. The widowed Elisabeth has returned to Germany , abandoning her commitment to New Germany to care for her now deranged brother. She drives away the chief rivals for his attention, her mother and the writer Lou Andréas Salomé, and subverts the work of his best friends, Peter Gast and Franz Overbeck, by re-orienting their studies of Nietzsche's thought. Klingbeil, ironically in thrall to Elisabeth, aids her by lending his money and talent to the construction of the Nietzsche myth that Elisabeth has imagined. Slipping into madness herself, Elisabeth can no longer distinguish between her banker fiancé, her adored brother, and the exalted Zarathustra whose words she echoes. (Judith G. Miller)

SYNOPSIS: Since 2005, when I finished writing Amelia Breathes Deeply (for a wonderful actress and close friend), the play has not ceased to surprise me. It has had a life of its own, from the very beginning. At first, lots of people of my age—and older—took it very personally. That, I could understand, especially in Romania. But it also happened in other countries, like Poland, Germany, the Czech Republic, and Hungary, and then it began to happen with younger people, who had been little children in the late ‘80s, therefore too small to remember communism and dictatorship.

Amelia... has been produced four times in Romania, and the latest production of the play, in Bucharest at the ACT Theatre, has been seen by people of an average age of 25, and the actress who performs it is 23.

Having been read at the Lark Play Development Center in May 2007, for an audience of artists and people who had known or been to Romania, some of them being Romanian immigrates, Amelia... was very well received. I was very happy and excited to participate in a second reading at hotINK. It was just another big test for the play, but also for the actress and director who have chosen to share the story of a woman from a world so obsolete, that they couldn’t have ever met with her, except by means of theatre. (Alina Nelega, playwright and translator)

SYNOPSIS: On many nights while Pascual dreamt he completed this which he was now doing, pressing the button of the doorbell of the old Millán house. He always woke up rancorous and annoyed with himself because of that weakness of the subconscious, ready to return as soon as possible to the hatred of twenty-five years, to the anger with which, without being able to avoid it, he usually muttered his brother's name. It's true that he had avoided an explanation—what good is it in a case like that?—so as not to cloud his mother's memory with so much sordidness. Perhaps someone believed he had made up figures for the probable value of the sparkling ring, the genuine pearl necklace, the topaz earrings. Not true. Pascual only cared that they had once belonged to his mother and that they had indeed accompanied her during her finest hour when her father was alive and she still had color in her cheeks. In exchange, he would have offered the small farm on Thirty-third which he had received in the bequest and which he didn't even visit.

SYNOPSIS: If I had had a mother and father, everything would have been different. But my only family was a maternal grandmother, and a maternal grandmother isn’t adequate for anything. Furthermore, she was missing almost all of her teeth and every time she spoke you thought she was going to spit out her remaining tooth. That probably signaled the beginning of her hatred toward me. She realized how terribly repulsed I was by her exposed and babbling gums. But I couldn’t avoid it, any more than she could avoid her hatred.

SYNOPSIS: Anne Garréta's La Décomposition, written over a four-year period and published in 1999, is the story of a serial killer. However, given that the author is a member of Oulipo, and the killer well versed in literature, we shouldn't be surprised to discover that victims are chosen from among the characters in Proust's In Search of Lost Time. Their flesh-and-blood counterparts are hunted in a contemporary Paris of video arcades, bars, and shadowy corners by the Seine. As the murderer dispatches the victims, their fictional counterparts are eliminated from a digitized version of Proust's magnum opus. Every reference to the “murdered” character is expunged from the book, reducing the novel's length with each fresh kill. To complicate matters, the philosophical and ruminative killer, who is, disturbingly, also the book's narrator, chooses these victims on the basis of a grammatical rule: they must agree in gender and number with the character in the novel. Otherwise, they are chosen randomly.

As should be obvious in a book with such a literary plot device, albeit a quirky one, La Décomposition is not simply the story of a serial killer, even a well-read one. For along with the victims, the narrator is also murdering Proust's novel, lopping off body parts bit by bit, cutting it down to manageable size. At one point in the beginning of the book, the narrator even comments, “For life is too short, and Proust is too long.”

In the novel two ideas widely found in twentieth-century literature are merged: the perfect crime and the gratuitous act. Through their amalgam the murderer hopes to raise murder to a fine art, to blend fiction and reality. And what better way to do so than to use a literary masterpiece as the scaffolding for one's crimes? For, in doing so, murder will wrap itself in the aesthetic mantle of the fine arts. But ethics is lost in aesthetics.

Filled with dark humor and with its dense, classically tinged prose, La Décomposition is ultimately not about serial killers but the role of the reader. For Garréta not only cuts Proust down to size, she questions literature's complicity with violence. In allowing us to identify with a murder, even a fictive one, literature provides a way for us to identify with evil, to absorb it through our sympathy with a character. In what is ultimately a profoundly ethical book, La Décomposition questions the mechanisms used by fiction to enable us to experience violence from within, vicariously, safely.

Robert Bononno

SYNOPSIS: It is heating up in a small village in the flat hinterlands. The villagers spend their weekends bathing at the gravel pit and when a new villager, the beautiful Miranda, appears from the water, a group of friends find their relationships changing. Both Victor, recently jilted by his girlfriend, and his friend, the older, married artist Rudolf, woo her desperately. Their friend Asta is a life-coach who lectures to businessmen around the country and yet is falling apart inside as she loses all contact with her children who live with their father in Berlin. She cannot understand the men's fascination for this pretty normal looking woman. Nor can Rudolf's wife Emma, who after a whole life with Rudolf is starting to realize she has sacrificed her own life for his, all for nothing it seems. Miranda herself is married, but no one has met her husband. As passions and tensions flare, a spate of animal killings begins, and Mr Allyours, a hare, and Fledgling McFeather, a heron, decide to solve the mystery. McFeather has the laudable motives of making their community safe again, and he is not impressed with Mr Allyours' motives: he is besotted by a young doe, Lady Why, and wants to capture the killer to prove his love to her.

SYNOPSIS: A Mother and Father, a Man and a Woman, a Doctor and a Nurse, and an unfortunate victim all cross paths in a hospital and become intertwined in ways that push all boundaries of the appropriate and expected. Exploring the deeper comic underbellies of violence, sexuality, and caretaking, the playwright seeks to unburden the audience, to help them diminish their fear about moral issues, illness, and death.

One evening in November 1918, Odemar Müller lurked near an advertising column in Potsdamer Platz, darting back and forth behind it as if he was playing hide-and-seek with someone, or looking in agitation for a particular theater announcement. In fact he was simply trying to dodge the hail of bullets directed by a detachment of machine-gunners at the railway station, where some Spartakists were holed up. ...

At the little station of M***, on the provincial railroad founded in 1883 with the materials of Kraus & Co. and championed by progressive citizens of the day, clusters of travelers were gathered waiting for the departure of the train to Finale. The prevailing, unrelenting color of their clothing was grayish-green, and the smell was that of the barracks. None of the men were in civilian dress, except for the one wandering from one door of the station to the other, wearing a tricolor armband and issuing orders, all the while doing his utmost to escape military attention. ...