Works (Originally in English)
A collection of works originally published in English.
Oct 17, 2022
EKA KURNIAWAN, hailed by the BBC as “Indonesia’s most exciting author,” writes novels, short stories, essays, and screenplays. His books include Beauty is a Wound (2015), a New York Times Notable Book; Man Tiger (2015), a finalist for the Booker Prize; and Vengeance is Mine, All Others Pay Cash (2017), which was adapted into a film that won a Locarno Leopard Prize. What follows are excerpts from essays that were originally published on Kurniawan’s blog—brief reflections on reading, writing, and Indonesian society. The weekly posts have recently been collected in two anthologies, A Louder Silence and Attempts at a Reading Genealogy (both 2019), published by Yogyakarta-based Circa Press. —Annie Tucker
Letters and Fists, Notes of an Indonesian writer
by Eka KurniawanEKA KURNIAWAN, hailed by the BBC as “Indonesia’s most exciting author,” writes novels, short stories, essays, and screenplays. His books include Beauty is a Wound (2015), a New York Times Notable Book; Man Tiger (2015), a finalist for the Booker Prize; and Vengeance is Mine, All Others Pay Cash (2017), which was adapted into a film that won a Locarno Leopard Prize. What follows are excerpts from essays that were originally published on Kurniawan’s blog—brief reflections on reading, writing, and Indonesian society. The weekly posts have recently been collected in two anthologies, A Louder Silence and Attempts at a Reading Genealogy (both 2019), published by Yogyakarta-based Circa Press. —Annie Tucker
Jul 09, 2022
Exploring new ideas of what it means to be a good mother eases this writer into a life that doesn't orbit around her child anymore. A brown-skinned woman with close-cut hair is standing in a metal room, facing a metal door. Millions of miles away from Earth, this door is all that separates her from lightless, airless space. Her teenage son watches her through a glass pane from the adjoining hallway. The woman’s mind is made up. She injects blood oxygenator into her thigh and pushes a button; the door slides open. Barefaced and suitless, she shoots out of the ship like an arrow through the vacuum between stars.
Far From The Son
by Cynthia Dewi OkaExploring new ideas of what it means to be a good mother eases this writer into a life that doesn't orbit around her child anymore. A brown-skinned woman with close-cut hair is standing in a metal room, facing a metal door. Millions of miles away from Earth, this door is all that separates her from lightless, airless space. Her teenage son watches her through a glass pane from the adjoining hallway. The woman’s mind is made up. She injects blood oxygenator into her thigh and pushes a button; the door slides open. Barefaced and suitless, she shoots out of the ship like an arrow through the vacuum between stars.
May 23, 2022
“Life really isn’t stranger than fiction, but you have to keep reading, and rereading, to know that.” A Clean, Well-Lighted Place He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing. They generally were clean, and lighted, though not necessarily well, the places I occupied in exchange for a salary during the past forty-eight years of my life. Like Hemingway’s old man, I could stay for as long as those responsible for keeping the lights on would let me. We don’t know if the old man, whom one waiter believes has money, ever earned a salary. We know little for certain about the old man, except that he is old and drunk and lonely. I, on the other hand, was employed at numerous businesses or multinational corporations, primarily in Hong Kong or New York but also in other cities, for the first twenty-four years, and for the latter twenty-four as a teacher of creative writing at universities or colleges around the world. I was seldom lonely or drunk in those clean places, whether well or badly lighted, because familiar strangers usually surrounded me. But such clean work spaces will become increasingly less accessible to me now that I am older, although not yet quite as old as the old man. This excerpt from The Work Book, a memoir in progress by Xu Xi, appears in the latest issue of The New England Review.
Xu Xi on Living the Transnational Literary Life
by Xu Xi“Life really isn’t stranger than fiction, but you have to keep reading, and rereading, to know that.” A Clean, Well-Lighted Place He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing. They generally were clean, and lighted, though not necessarily well, the places I occupied in exchange for a salary during the past forty-eight years of my life. Like Hemingway’s old man, I could stay for as long as those responsible for keeping the lights on would let me. We don’t know if the old man, whom one waiter believes has money, ever earned a salary. We know little for certain about the old man, except that he is old and drunk and lonely. I, on the other hand, was employed at numerous businesses or multinational corporations, primarily in Hong Kong or New York but also in other cities, for the first twenty-four years, and for the latter twenty-four as a teacher of creative writing at universities or colleges around the world. I was seldom lonely or drunk in those clean places, whether well or badly lighted, because familiar strangers usually surrounded me. But such clean work spaces will become increasingly less accessible to me now that I am older, although not yet quite as old as the old man. This excerpt from The Work Book, a memoir in progress by Xu Xi, appears in the latest issue of The New England Review.
Apr 26, 2021
I have a confession to make: I prefer writing in present tense because I don’t really know my tenses. I did learn English when I moved to Singapore at the age of 7, but since I moved back to Indonesia seven years ago, I feel my grasp of the language slipping. Plus, the other two languages that I speak (very badly, I might add), Indonesian and Mandarin, don’t have tenses. So I find myself always speaking in present tense, which gets a bit confusing…and embarrassing.
My Broken English Isn’t an Excuse for Your Disrespect
by Jesse Q. SutantoI have a confession to make: I prefer writing in present tense because I don’t really know my tenses. I did learn English when I moved to Singapore at the age of 7, but since I moved back to Indonesia seven years ago, I feel my grasp of the language slipping. Plus, the other two languages that I speak (very badly, I might add), Indonesian and Mandarin, don’t have tenses. So I find myself always speaking in present tense, which gets a bit confusing…and embarrassing.
Mar 26, 2021
In my Chinese Indonesian family, massage has been the sole consistent method to work through pain, to recover our sense of choice. My massage training began when I was 4 years old. On Sundays after church, my father would lie belly-down, head hanging off the side of the bed, while my mother guided me, step by step, up and down his back. The first few times, her arm hovered beside me as a guardrail in case I slipped. Beneath the human skin are many valleys, mounds, crevasses, and knobs. Balance and concentration are required to read this landscape of aches. Because I was small, I needed to use my full body weight to apply pressure. When my father groaned from the pain, my mother instructed me to press down with the heel of my foot until I could feel the hard spot crack inside him.
My Mother’s Pain
by Cynthia Dewi OkaIn my Chinese Indonesian family, massage has been the sole consistent method to work through pain, to recover our sense of choice. My massage training began when I was 4 years old. On Sundays after church, my father would lie belly-down, head hanging off the side of the bed, while my mother guided me, step by step, up and down his back. The first few times, her arm hovered beside me as a guardrail in case I slipped. Beneath the human skin are many valleys, mounds, crevasses, and knobs. Balance and concentration are required to read this landscape of aches. Because I was small, I needed to use my full body weight to apply pressure. When my father groaned from the pain, my mother instructed me to press down with the heel of my foot until I could feel the hard spot crack inside him.
Feb 11, 2021
Watching her mom’s condition deteriorates through video calls from overseas, she is weighed by the heaviness and helplessness of grief in the time of pandemic.
Grieving in the Time of Pandemic: Watching My Ailing Mom from Overseas
by Tita Alissa BachWatching her mom’s condition deteriorates through video calls from overseas, she is weighed by the heaviness and helplessness of grief in the time of pandemic.
Aug 27, 2020
This blog post is part of issue 125 of Feminist Review, which explores theories of the archive within feminist, queer, crip, decolonial, and diasporic studies. The issue, which brings academics, artists, and archivists into conversation with each other, launched in July 2020. Blog posts in this series can be found here. While writing this piece, I had a flare up, or a relapse, of extreme pain (in fact, two relapses); words that inadequately describe what is more akin to a bomb exploding inside of you. And I thought: My god—I would be so enraged if someone told me not to describe this pain as the searingness it is, the stabbing knives, for hours on end, days. In previous years, for months. Brutality that fragments all sense of space, time, speech and even self.
Hurt and Words: On Language and Pain in Public
by Khairani BarokkaThis blog post is part of issue 125 of Feminist Review, which explores theories of the archive within feminist, queer, crip, decolonial, and diasporic studies. The issue, which brings academics, artists, and archivists into conversation with each other, launched in July 2020. Blog posts in this series can be found here. While writing this piece, I had a flare up, or a relapse, of extreme pain (in fact, two relapses); words that inadequately describe what is more akin to a bomb exploding inside of you. And I thought: My god—I would be so enraged if someone told me not to describe this pain as the searingness it is, the stabbing knives, for hours on end, days. In previous years, for months. Brutality that fragments all sense of space, time, speech and even self.
May 30, 2020
Intan Paramaditha is the author of Apple and Knife, a collection of dark stories about disobedient women. Her first novel, The Wandering, won a PEN Translates Award and is published by Harvill Secker.
Books That Changed Me: Intan Paramaditha
by Intan ParamadithaIntan Paramaditha is the author of Apple and Knife, a collection of dark stories about disobedient women. Her first novel, The Wandering, won a PEN Translates Award and is published by Harvill Secker.
Mar 02, 2020
"Travel was and will always be about exclusion." Jakarta, 1994: I wanted to write a story about magic slippers that would take me anywhere. I ended up writing a novel about demonic red shoes as an adult, with more complex reasons than fulfilling my simple wish to go to Singapore, but there were times when travel was an unattainable obsession. I thought of Singapore because my imagination as a Third-World 90s teen did not stretch far enough. Japan was too costly, Cambodia was unthinkable, and America only existed on TV. Singapore was the place where my wealthy friends would go shopping, although they also visited other countries. In one girl’s house, I saw a family photo in Dutch costume taken in Volendam, and in another girl’s mansion, photos of family vacation to Disneyland California were hung on the wall. Our friendship lasted long, despite being occasionally haunted by the not-so-ghostly presence of different class. My parents lived in Jakarta as common people, raising two kids who would be common people, doing whatever common people do.
On the Complicated Questions Around Writing About Travel
by Intan Paramaditha"Travel was and will always be about exclusion." Jakarta, 1994: I wanted to write a story about magic slippers that would take me anywhere. I ended up writing a novel about demonic red shoes as an adult, with more complex reasons than fulfilling my simple wish to go to Singapore, but there were times when travel was an unattainable obsession. I thought of Singapore because my imagination as a Third-World 90s teen did not stretch far enough. Japan was too costly, Cambodia was unthinkable, and America only existed on TV. Singapore was the place where my wealthy friends would go shopping, although they also visited other countries. In one girl’s house, I saw a family photo in Dutch costume taken in Volendam, and in another girl’s mansion, photos of family vacation to Disneyland California were hung on the wall. Our friendship lasted long, despite being occasionally haunted by the not-so-ghostly presence of different class. My parents lived in Jakarta as common people, raising two kids who would be common people, doing whatever common people do.
Jan 18, 2020
Hello, When you receive this letter, which I stored in a used milk can, please hand it to the one it is intended for, my mother. Of course, I know I shouldn’t really throw used milk cans into the ocean. Maybe sometime later, you can come by my house – I wrote the address on the back of the can – so you can tell me that you handed the letter to my mother, and that you disposed of the can in the proper place, because according to Bu Salimah, my teacher, waste tins will pollute the ocean and make fish sick. Please forgive me, but I so want to talk to my mother and I don’t know how else to send her this letter. Okay, you can have a look at it, for I am pretty certain that – in the end – you will be the one handing it to my mother.
Letter in a used milk can
by Angelina EnnyHello, When you receive this letter, which I stored in a used milk can, please hand it to the one it is intended for, my mother. Of course, I know I shouldn’t really throw used milk cans into the ocean. Maybe sometime later, you can come by my house – I wrote the address on the back of the can – so you can tell me that you handed the letter to my mother, and that you disposed of the can in the proper place, because according to Bu Salimah, my teacher, waste tins will pollute the ocean and make fish sick. Please forgive me, but I so want to talk to my mother and I don’t know how else to send her this letter. Okay, you can have a look at it, for I am pretty certain that – in the end – you will be the one handing it to my mother.
