Sofia Samatar, Keguro Macharia, Aaron Bady in conversation
'Increasingly, or, perhaps better, consciously, I’ve tried to “erase” in my work (actually from the very beginning) the demarcation between fiction and nonfiction. All literature is a form of lying, and in the hierarchy of such, I view the autobiographer as the biggest liar for claiming to remember everything as it happened, whereas memory has already done its powerful editing. Next in the hierarchy of liars is the biographer, who dares to claim that he can “know” another’s life. The most honest of the hierarchy is the fiction writer, who says in effect, “This is a lie, a fiction, and I’m trying to convince you it’s all true. …”'
Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi is one of the most fresh and important African writers that you—if you are a reader in the United States or the United Kingdom, or any other part of the Anglophone world that isn’t East Africa—have not been able to read. Her novel, Kintu, is not available on Amazon.com, or Amazon.co.uk, or any of the other arms of the imperial octopus bookseller that brings the spoils of world literature to your door. I had to get mine directly from the publishers (he says, smugly); the director of Kwani Trust, Angela Wachuka, handed me a copy when I came to visit their offices in Nairobi, and if you want a copy, I’m not sure what to tell you. I guess you could go to Kenya.
Renowned author Dan Brown woke up in his luxurious four-poster bed in his expensive $10 million house – and immediately he felt angry. Most people would have thought that the 48-year-old man had no reason to be angry. After all, the famous writer had a new book coming out. But that was the problem. A new book meant an inevitable attack on the rich novelist by the wealthy wordsmith’s fiercest foes. The critics.
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