“The Time of the Ghosts” by Gillian Polack: A multilayered story with lots to offer

How does one spend retirement? For some people, the answer lies in quaint gardens and relaxed hobbies – but what if that hobby is ghost hunting? In Jewish Australian writer Gillian Polack’s 6th novel, The Time of the Ghosts (2017), work doesn’t end with retirement. The story follows the three (in several respects) old friends Ann, Mabel and Lil, who spend their evenings tracking down and scolding away the supernatural creatures of Canberra that do not belong and have been imported in the course of colonization and globalization. One day, 15-year-old runaway Kat is taken in by the trio and joins them in their adventures. Evil forces threaten Australia, and only with Kat’s help the trio has a chance to stop them.

But everybody has their ghosts. Each friend struggles with their own: Ann, who has just retired and who is nearing an ugly divorce, struggles to find her purpose and thereby becomes an easy target for the evil spirits that haunt Canberra. Mabel, who has trouble letting people in, finds herself in a bizarre love affair that simply cannot have a happy ending. Lil fights with the ghosts of her past, which have caused her to give up on her future a long time ago. Lastly, Kat has seen no other choice than to flee from a home of neglect, and must now try to get back on her feet. Accompanying the story of the four friends are the tales of Melusine: an ancient fairy from Western Europe who tells her life over the centuries in short stories, telling tales of the supernatural, immigration, human tragedy, and secret identities. Melusine must disguise herself as a human and, most of the time, hide her Jewish heritage in order to be able to live among others in peace, but consequently never finds true connection to those around her.

Polack’s novel has a lot to offer to a broad readership; with its heart-warming premise of the grandmas taking in a kid in trouble, it certainly feels empowering to watch Kat slowly heal from her past and from her bad habits. But as may have already become clear, the book runs even deeper than the characters’ friendship: Polack touches on difficult topics such as abuse and neglect, but also on themes connected to Australia and its history, among which are Jewish immigration, colonialism and the consequential import of cultures foreign to the continent, and Australia as a convicts’ colony – the ghosts in The Time of the Ghosts surely are not all just of mythological nature. While one could criticize the fact that these serious topics are mostly lurking beneath the surface of the story and are not discussed extensively, the novel seems not to lay the focus on the issues themselves, but on how those affected manage to deal with the aftermath in their own lives; this could transform the underlying victimhood of those suffering to a form of agency and self-reflection.

The slow burn with which the tales of Melusine develop may seem slow paced and interjected randomly in the beginning, but the more the reader gets to understand their connection to the main story line, the more intriguing and engaging they become, until the reader feels like a proper detective about to solve a puzzle. The story is also full of parallels and doubling-elements for the reader to spot, like the similarities of Kat and Lil’s secret identities (especially considering their relation), their need to flee, and their tendency to process their emotions in the form of writing – Lil in her autobiographies and Kat via her blog. 

But what might be most intriguing is the uncertainty with which Melusine frames her stories: while fairy tales are usually known to be invented, nobody can say for certain with the tales of this fairy. While the experiences described seem to be the real experiences of the character, Melusine herself chooses to cause chaos by suggesting that her stories might not even be true and by mixing up the timelines.

The Time of the Ghosts is a multifaceted love letter to artistic blurring of lines combined with a bitter-sweet story of friendship, loss, identity crises and growth. Despite its dark undertones, the novel offers hope and a much needed happy ending – or does it? 

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Jewish-Australianness and Gillian Polack’s ‘Melusine’

Gillian Polack is an important Australian writer and Medievalist who was born and raised in Melbourne. Her heritage and religion have had a great influence on her writing, but not only that – her Jewish-Australianness shows us the importance of representation and diversity in print media.

Polack shows in her writing and in her interviews that the strength and empowerment that came from her Jewish-Australianness should not be underestimated. It shows that bicultural identities should be valued and supported in order to underline the beauty of it. Being part of one culture does not eradicate or diminish the other part of a person and even showcases that a person is not half of anything. They are a whole entity, an entire and complete person that is part of more than one culture and religion. Jewishness does not disregard one’s Australianness, neither does one’s Australianness disregard their Jewishness. On the contrary, transcultural identities enrich the amount of perspectives that come into play and show the diversity of society and represents the state of the world. This is emphasised ever so effortlessly by Polack, for instance in her novel The Time of the Ghosts.

Her protagonist is a fairy named ‘Melusine’, also referred to as Lil (presumably short for Lilith) at times – Melusine’s background derives from the European folklore figure and is described as half woman and half serpent or fish. In The Time of the Ghosts, however, ‘Melusine’ is depicted as a Jewish fairy. This fascinating occurrence of both Melusine’s having more than one identity comes as no surprise once we remind ourselves of Polack’s expertise in Medieval studies. Her writing strikes the audience’s interest especially when you bear in mind that there is a personal nuance and influence on it as well. You can approach this perspective from a biographical point of view by taking Polack’s medievalist background into account and take a closer look at ‘Melusine’, the folklore figure and Polack’s character ‘Melusine’ – the first one is a woman who must hide her true identity as a female spirit of fresh water from her husband and her surrounding and the other one as a fairy who has to hide her Jewish identity as well as her fairy-being in order to protect and shield herself at times.

This depiction in Polack’s The Time of the Ghosts indicates that all the different cultures that a person consists of make them who they are. ‘Melusine’ serves as a great metaphor in this sense and helps people to understand the struggles of growing up in multiple and mixed cultures. The beauty and enrichment it can bring to you once you learn about your cultures and beliefs by getting in contact with them is an important aspect in staying in touch with your culture and familiarising yourself. Learning your language or also trying to connect to your cultures’ cuisines are tools to stay in contact with your heritage, as Polack herself has done through cooking with her Jewish grandmother and trying to learn Yiddish and Hebrew.

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Welcome to the Blog ~ Winter Term 2021/2022 Edition

This winter term, it is time for a new group of HHU English literature students to start blogging. Long time readers do not need to worry, though. Our lecturers, Tina Burger and Lucas Mattila, are still par for the course and we are happy to tell you that they will continue to blog alongside us. Together, we will explore Australian speculative fiction!

We are a group full of ideas and every one of us is eager to dive into a different direction. Our blog posts are therefore going to cover a lot of ground. For instance, we are not just going to discuss novels, but also short stories, graphic novels, movies, and video games. We will examine extraordinary worlds filled with horror, fantasy, science fiction, magical realism, and so much more. By casting such a wide net, we hope to convey how similar analytical approaches can be applied to various media and genres. Furthermore, it is important to us to compare and contrast these different text forms, because they can offer us insight into their overarching themes and individual interpretations.

This blog offers the unique opportunity to highlight the many Australian voices who are normally drowned out by their American counterparts. Thus, it is going to be our mission to make you understand why Australian speculative fiction deserves your attention. Australian identities can be highly complex and all too often it can become hard to decipher their exact relation to nature, postcolonialism, religion, and gender. Nevertheless, Australian writers are shaped by these environments and reflect upon them in their work.

Over the next three months, we are going to share our discoveries with you in the form of blog posts, podcasts, and videos. In December, you can expect to read a lot about Gillian Polack’s The Time of the Ghosts, a novel that is so rich that we can all approach it from a slightly different angle. In January, you will notice a split between detailed posts about short stories and introductory posts about major themes and movements of Australian speculative fiction. And in February, you will finally find out what every one’s favorite work of Australian speculative fiction is and why we adore it so much. So stay tuned!

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The Dance of Chances

It was mere chance and a heavy dose of good luck that made me notice Gillian Polack’s twitter appeal to find more Jewish Australian writers of science fiction and fantasy – as she could only list four so far on her blog, including herself! Being a scholar of Australian Speculative Fiction in Germany in particular, I knew at once that I had to ask her for more information.

I couldn’t have made a better decision.

Gillian was immediately kind enough to offer a meeting via zoom so she could give me some pointers to start with my research into Jewish Australian Speculative Fiction Writing and my first preparations to teach at least some examples in our online class. Not only did this lead my colleague and I to include her novel The Time of the Ghosts in our course on “Blogging Australian Speculative Fiction“ – from whose students you will hear on this blog very soon!

No, we also started planning an extraordinary online event – a conversation between the four Jewish Australian Speculative Fiction writers Gillian had already listed on her blog. Gillian got us in contact with Jack Dann, Jason Franks, and Rivqa Rafael, while we took care of German bureaucracy (forms… lots and lots of forms to fill out).

top part contains four round images of human heads, authors; background is the shape of Australia, surrounded by planetary orbits

And soon enough, a date for the event was finalised (thanks, doodle!) and we were able to start forcing kindly asking our students to register!

On Wednesday, 17th November, at 10am (MEZ), we will meet with Gillian Polack, Jack Dann, Jason Franks, and Rivqa Rafael on WebEx to talk with them about their writing – and of course, we invite anyone who is interested to join us!

If you’d like to attend, please register at: australianprojectnrw@googlemail.com – we’d love to see you there!

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Review: “Water” by Ellen van Neerven

by Johanna Edler

The short story “Water” from the collection Heat and Light by Ellen van Neerven was published in 2014 and discusses the treatment of Indigenous people in a futuristic Australia. Van Neerven is an Aboriginal Australian herself and an award-winning writer and poet.

Personally, I really enjoyed the short story, especially because it introduces many new plot threads that were very interesting to see unfold and sometimes surprised me a lot. The story really is a new perspective on the way Aboriginal people are treated by others in Australia and how a future might look like for them.     

The story’s main character Kaden is a young Aboriginal woman who identifies as queer which lets us as the readers see the world through her eyes. I find this representation not only refreshing and interesting but also very important as it gives space for a new perspective and voice that has not been heard that much before.

The genre of the short story is not very easily identified which again shows the versatility of the story as there are many different elements that could be considered magic realism, science fiction or even dystopian. In my opinion this makes the story even more interesting as it is not clearly confined to one genre but offers many different layers and lenses to analyze it through. Magic Realism shines through on many occasions, especially because the story feels very grounded in present-day problems and politics for example when considering the rights of Indigenous people and “Australia2”. Science Fiction on the other hand can be seen as well in the future setting or the way the “formula” is a scientific experiment that is performed on the plantpeople. The situation with Indigenous people in Australia, the problems they have to face and where they stand in society also seems to be relatable to dystopian settings which again shows the many different layers the story has. The mixture is what makes the story even more captivating which Ellen van Neerven manages quite well in her writing.     

In conclusion, I think that “Water” is an important contribution to all these genres and brings a new voice of an Aboriginal Australian woman into the discourse surrounding the addressed problems. I highly recommend the story to everyone who is interested and I am definitely going to see what else Ellen van Neerven publishes in the future.

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Solutions to the Mystery of Picnic at Hanging Rock in the “lost” chapter 18

Picnic at Hanging Rock describes an unsolved mystery that people have been fascinated by since it was published. In the author’s note at the beginning of the novel Joan Lindsay claims “Whether Picnic at Hanging Rock is fact or fiction, my readers must decide for themselves”. With this she leaves open the possibility that the vanishing of the girls could actually have happened, skillfully leaving the reader with a fascination of a real mystery that is left for them to be solved. But how come the captivation of this mystery spread all across Australia and even internationally? Dr. Julia Shaw, a research associate at University college London and an expert on criminal psychology says that “we like true crime because it’s something we can talk about as a group. We can gossip, speculate, and be afraid or excited together.” Perhaps this is the reason that there are so many theories about what happened to the girls in the end and why people are drawn to the story.

girl in a white Victorian dress, with a red ribbon in her hair, sitting on brownish grass, eating strawberries
image by Anika Klose

With this in mind it makes sense that Lindsay’s publishers stopped her from including chapter 18 in the final version of the novel, not wanting the readers to know what really happened and thereby creating a long-lasting interaction with the text. But Lindsay decided that the chapter should be published after all and many more interpretations and possible solutions came to light. And while many of them seem absurd or unfitting, it is especially worth to at least acknowledge them considering Lindsay changed the author’s note after having published the novel to “fact or fiction or both” (Taylor 4). It seems in her eyes the explanation has no need to be completely reasonable. But this also opens up a lot of space for new propositions.

While it would fill many pages to consider every possibility, I would like to offer a quick but somewhat broad range of solutions based on chapter 18. The Secret of Hanging Rock includes a commentary by Yvonne Rousseau and an interpretation by Mudrooroo aside from chapter 18 itself. Mudrooroo puts forward one of my favorite interpretations that I have considered so far, which is alien abduction. And as out of place as it may seem I rather think that the fact that it somewhat fits the narrative of the last chapter, shows how even the most absurd can make sense in the context. Mudrooroo argues that the monolith at which the girls had suddenly fallen asleep resembles the way many have described an UFO in an oval shape. When Miss McCraw appears, they do not recognize her, which may be because she herself is an alien as her “long-boned torso was flattening itself out on the ground beside the hole, deliberately forming itself to the needs of a creature to creep and burrow under the earth” (Lindsay 18). The girls act dazed and entranced and observe “a hole in space” (17), which Mudrooroo argues may be the entrance to a spaceship.

Rousseau proposes multiple solutions, one of which is an Aboriginal supernatural interpretation. Using “the Dreaming”, she suggests that Miranda and Marion represent human forms of Australian Ancestors. We learn that “they fell asleep so deep that a lizard darted out from under a rock and lay without fear in the hollow of Marion’s outflung arm, while several beetles in bronze armour made a leisurely tour of Miranda’s yellow head” (Lindsay 14). This would mean that for Marion lizards are what she represents and for Miranda it is the beetles. This point of view would also explain why Irma is the only one to come back from the Rock, because she has “little hands, soft and white” (Lindsay 19), perhaps too foreign to have a spiritual connection.

Rousseau’s other explanation has to do with dimensions of time, and she states that to her, the girls, except for Irma, have died after climbing up the mountain. She sets up three regions. One is our world, the second is where Edith left the Rock and Miss McCraw cannot be recognized (Time One), and the third is a light, into which they pass in the end (Time Two). She also explains that after their death, they are in Time Two, and not in our world anymore. In the beginning of chapter 18 Lindsay writes “To the four people on the Rock it is always acted out in the tepid twilight of a present without a past” (13). To Rousseau this past that they do not have is their existence in a physical sense. They have left the physical world and cannot be found. For this theory she also has a reason why Irma is excluded. Since Marion and Miss McCraw are skilled mathematicians and Miranda is philosophically inclined, Irma would have the most problems comprehending a complex plane of existence.

To me a solution that revolves around different perceptions of time makes a lot of sense. Joan Lindsay herself once said that she never wore a watch, because she said they stopped all the time. Similarly, the watches at the picnic also stop. But also, looking at the dates in the novel we can see that the picnic is said to be on a Saturday, even though it should be a Wednesday. Furthermore, their corsets hang in the air after they tried to throw them down the Rock, suggesting that they are stuck in time.

I personally also favor a feminist view of the novel in which the girls run away because they would not submit to what society expected from them. They plan to leave and even throw away their clothing, but especially their corsets, which so nicely stand as a metaphor for their entrapment, having to give in to society’s expectations of getting married soon after finishing school, which they were all close to doing. The Rock stands as a symbol for freedom, because it is far beyond and separate to the English society. Taking off their corsets “a delightful coolness and freedom set in” (Lindsay 15).  They decide that risking their lives on Hanging Rock to gain some freedom is better than being forced into a life they never wanted. Only Irma changes her mind and is later to be rescued, but she is also “the wealthiest student at the College” (Lindsay 12), and arguably the one able to make choices more freely.

A theme that we can see throughout the novel is its interconnectedness with nature. Peter Weir’s film Picnic at Hanging Rock illustrates the enchanting and mysterious character of the Australian landscape. It is a fascination to the extend of the sublime. Especially when the girls are on the top of Hanging Rock, seeing the picnickers from above as “a lot of busy little ants”, and the monolith “pulling, like a tide” (Lindsay 14). Up on the mountain “the whole air was clamorous with microscopic life” (15). As a contrast the English picnickers sit far down beneath them as invaders in a strange landscape. Only Albert was able to save Irma from the Rock after Michael found, but barely made it out alive. From this perspective the Australian landscape entrances them so much that they become disoriented, get lost and never return, because they could not withstand the nature of Australia.

In the introduction to The Secret of Hanging Rock John Taylor says that “[Joan Lindsay’s] own account was that the story “just came to her” in stages as she lay awake at night, to be written at high speed the next day” (Taylor 4). They were not exactly dreams, but laying awake at night I would argue, close to them. All these possible interpretations can be backed up by evidence from the text and worked out much further than I did, to provide a short overview. Considering the dream-like origin of the story I would argue that the interpretations all have some truth to them. It is likely that Lindsay was influenced by many things in her life and her surroundings. That way, facts and fiction mixed into one new thing, making it impossible to find the one true solution. The decision to not have chapter 18 published was made so that the mystery would remain. But the chapter does not really give the reader concrete answers either. The mystery remains all the same. If anything, the chapter provided more to interpret; more mystery. This gives the reader the freedom to make the story their own, which is why it is natural for readers to go look for solutions and interpret the novel their own way. Joan Lindsay said she “had moments of wishing she had published the final chapter and saved herself the pestering” (Taylor 9). In her opinion, since everyone in the story would be dead anyway by the time the novel was published, “it hardly seems important”. And while I enjoy looking for new clues and new solutions, in the end I have to agree with her. It’s about the mystery, especially because it is so unclear what really happened. It’s a bit paradoxical. We want answers, but if we got them, it wouldn’t be as good. If we did get answers, it would become about the solution instead.


References:

Lindsay, Joan. Picnic at Hanging Rock. London: Vintage. 1998.

Lindsay, Joan. The Secret of Hanging Rock. Sydney: ETT Imprint. 2016.

Shaw, Julia. “Why are we so fascinated by true crime?” BBC, www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/3W2DpMtxRtXnFYk75fN1djL/why-are-we-so-fascinated-by-true-crime. Accessed 14 February 2021.

Taylor, John. “Introduction” The Secret of Hanging Rock. Sydney: ETT Imprint. 2016.

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Review: Across The Nightingale Floor

In the following, I will talk about Lian Hearn’s Across The Nightingale Floor, an Australian fantasy novel. You might wonder why Australian fantasy specifically? Why am I not saying it is a fantasy book?

There is a reason for that. In Australia, there is the Australian fantasy subgenre, which differentiates itself from the fantasy genre. The difference is not as obvious as an Australian author or the author writing their book in Australia. If this sparked your interest you want to read up on it, I suggest you check out John Ryan’s Reflections on an Australian Fantasy. Constructing the Impossible.

For this review, I will focus on Lian Hearn’s connection to Australia in this book and why it falls under the subgenre Australian fantasy. As mentioned, the story plays out in pseudo-medieval Japan. This sounds very confusing now but let me shed some light on the matter. Between Australia and Japan exists a literary tradition, which intel’s that the Japanese write about Australia and vice versa but that is not the only reason why her book falls under the subgenre of Australian fantasy. If you pay attention you can also find aspects of Australia in how Hearn describes her world. Specifically the description of nature.

Now after this short detour, let’s get into it.

Across The Nightingale Floor by Lean Hearn was first published in 2002 and is the first book of her Tales Of The Otori book series. We are introduced to a pseudo-medieval Japan called The Three Countries. Tomasu is the protagonist and belongs to a persecuted religious group called the Hidden. One day, he returns home and finds his village burning and his family killed. To escape their fate he runs away but runs into the horse of Iida Sadamu, a feared man across the three countries.

His men chase after Tomasu but luckily the mysterious Lord Otori Shigeru, who later adopts him and changes his name to Takeo saves him. On their journey, Takeo learns a lot about himself and his family. Eventually, he is sucked into a scheme with his adopted father, their clan and a secret society called the Tribe. The Tribe turns out to be a huge part of his destiny.

Check the book and the author out https://www.lianhearn.com/

Across The Nightingale Floor is full of mysteries, secrets, love, betrayal, suspense and so much more. If you are as attracted to any of this as much as I am, this is the book for you. In her own way, Hearn explores Japanese culture with this book and if you want to know more about it, you should visit her website, where she talks about the experience of writing about another culture and the difficulties that come along with it.

I honestly was not able to put the book down once I started reading. The experience was such an adventure and hence I was completely drawn into the story and the characters. I felt so many different emotions ranging from happiness, sadness to anger, and probably a lot more. A complete whirlwind.

I read the book as a part of a seminar from my university, and I was doubtful. My experience with good and enjoyable books assigned by school or university was slim. However, I will totally read them again and check out the other books of the series. I personally think that Lian Hearn’s writing has a lot to do with it. I often read books of authors, with amazing plots but the writing not doing it justice. That is not the case here at all. She has a way with words, which sucks you in completely. Sometimes I didn’t even feel like I was reading anymore but watching a movie. Sounds odd but it does happen to me sometimes with very good books. So, to wrap this up, I can only recommend this book. It was amazing.

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Language and Form

by Selina Kraft, Anna Herkelmann, Laura Zimmermann and Sarah Riedel

While translating “Oil”, not only the correctness of the translation was a problem we had to face in the process. “Oil”, a poem by Fatimah Asghar, is about a teenage girl with diverse identities, among them Muslim, South Asian and Middle Eastern, facing an existential crisis following the events of 9/11, using oil as a metaphor to link the events with the speaker’s crisis. The poem is one of many from Asghar’s collection If They Come for Us (2018). The form of the poem is closely connected to the content, so we had to be careful to keep an eye on that while translating. This led to choices such as rearranging German sentences and leaving out obligatory punctuation. The tone of the poem was a task we had to face as well.

While reading Asghar’s poem “Oil”, we noticed the unusual form. While the text needed six pages in total, it could have been printed onto half of the pages by looking at the lines. One part of the text even is upside-down and written almost without spaces between words. In our first meeting, we as a group decided immediately that we wanted to keep the form of the poem since we thought that Asghar wrote it intentionally in that form. It could be because of the torn feelings of the speaker or because of other things; ours is just one of a million ways to interpret the form. We tried to keep the form as close to the original as possible, including learning from fellow students from our group on how to turn a text upside-down in Microsoft Word.

Sometimes this was not as easy as it seems. To keep the translation grammatically correct in German, the line breaks could not be kept word by word. This means that we weren’t always able to break the line at the same words as in the original, e.g. one of the lines breaks at the word “doctor” but due to German grammar, we were only able to break the line at the word sagt because the object could not stand before the verb.

By switching words and lines for the purpose of maintaining formal integrity, we also had to be aware that the German language needs more words to form a correct sentence than English. To keep the form, we had to rearrange the longer German sentences. While writing down the translation, we also had to be aware of the legibility. This was one of the biggest problems to tackle because the English original in some instances only needed half the words to form a proper sentence than our translation. We tried to write in a non-halting German so that the reader could read the translation in a flow, just like the original.

The last important thing while we were thinking about how to manage our translation was word choice and punctuation.

We read through “Oil” again and again, looking at our notes from the session on the poem. We asked ourselves “Who is the speaker in the poem?” The speaker, we agreed, had to be a teenage girl in Middle School or High School. This was crucial for some choices on the language of the translation. We decided to keep an informal style for the translation, appropriate for a teenager. This led to choices like translating “my people” not as “mein Volk” (which also had a slightly strange overtone for us) but as “meine Leute”.

While reading through the first draft of the translation, we noticed something the German grammar loves to bits: commas. Our translation had lots of commas that were necessary for being grammatically correct. That interrupted the reading and poetic flow we tried to keep. We were worried that the poem could be interpreted differently because the reading flow was stopped more often than in the original poem. For keeping this very flow, we decided to leave out some commas. In particular when the thinking speed of the speaker seemed to be faster in our interpretation, we left commas out so the reader can read faster and therefore can understand and feel the speaker’s stress and distress throughout the poem.

The bridge between languages is built by every translation of a text. However, not only the choice of words and the correctness of the translation are important. It is also important to look at the outside form, putting aside syntactical and grammatical correctness. Looking at a poem can have its own effects without reading it. When the work is then read, little things like commas can be changing the whole meaning and the interpretation. If a translator looks at a work to translate, these little details have to be transported from the original to the translation as well.

  • Asghar, Fatimah. If They Come For Us. One World, 2018.
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Translating and Keeping the Respect

by Annalena Steffens, Renee Czyganowski, Michelle Chiru and Audrey Heimann

Translating a piece of writing from one language to another can lead to several difficulties, many of which we encountered during our project with Fatimah Asghar’s “Oil”, a poem in Asghar’s poem collection If They Come For Us (2018). “Oil” deals with a speaker with diverse affiliation, among them them Muslim, South Asian and Middle Eastern, who struggles with their cultural identity, both socially and politically, particularly in the wake of 9/11 and uses oil as a metaphor that brings their identity together.

As we set out to translate “Oil”  from English to German, we came across problems concerning foreign expressions, metaphors and underlying meanings.

How does one handle non-English words in a multilingual text? When looking at “Oil”, we decided to stay as close to the original as possible, and thus keep foreign words as written in the original. While translating a word such as badam, a tropical tree known as country almond, Indian almond, Malabar almond, as well as  a few other names in English and Katappenbaum in German, would make it easier for the reader, the author had an intent in intertwining languages, and thus cultures. An intent that we, as translators, decided to keep in order not to change future interaction with the poem.

However, sometimes we were forced to intervene in this relationship between the original and the reader of the translation.

One difficulty we came across was the difference in grammar between English and German, especially when the grammar includes meaning. While “no one heard” is grammatically correct in English, the German language forces you to include an object, and thus we had to deviate from the original and write down an interpretation of who or what could have been meant, instead of sticking to the openness of the original.

Mixing interpretation into translation doesn’t stop there, but continues throughout the entire process. Especially in a genre such as poetry, where literal and metaphoric meaning are woven together, one cannot bypass making interpretational decisions in the translation. Very few words have the exact same meaning in two, or more, languages. Those cases become even rarer upon trying to navigate metaphors and double-meanings and in the end the translation shows our interpretation of what we have found in the original.

Upon starting this project, we set ourselves the task to be mindful of the original, not to change words and meaning if we didn’t have to. And while we managed to do so for the most part (or at least we hope we did), there are always instances in translating where the translator has to step into the role of the interpreter as well, changing the original a little to bridge the gap between languages.

  • Asghar, Fatimah. If They Come For Us. One World, 2018.
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Comparing Australian and Non-Australian Speculative Fiction: Uncommon Zombie Narratives in Illuminae and His Dark Materials

Illuminae is an Australian science fiction novel by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, published in 2015. The first novel of the Illuminae Files trilogy focuses on Ezra and Kady, who try to survive the ongoing war over a planet as well as a deadly plague. The story is told in the unconventional form of a dossier of several types of documents and media.

His Dark Materials is a fantasy trilogy by British author Philip Pullman, first published in 1997. As a retelling and inversion of Milton’s Paradise Lost, the novels tell the story of the child Lyra, in who’s world human souls exist outside of the body in animal form as the so-called dæmons. She later travels between the worlds and reimagines humanity’s fall from paradise. Thereby the trilogy mediates themes like the difference between children and adults, innocence and experience, but also deals with the concept of sin and what makes us human.

The zombie is a well-known and popular element of our culture, especially in the Sci-Fi genre. Nowadays, zombie narratives are almost impossible to avoid – examples include The Walking Dead, iZombie, or Dawn of the Dead

However, I would like to take a look at unconventional representations of the zombie, which is why I chose His Dark Materials and Illuminae. What is so different about Illuminae’s zombies? And what does this Sci-Fi novel even have to do with His Dark Materials? Well, please do keep on reading.

“So little between it and us and us and it.” (Kaufman and Kristoff 157)

To start off, I would like to bring your attention to the novel that could not be more relevant to us right now. Illuminae’s zombies draw from the famous plague narrative, leading to an increasing contagion paranoia – sounds awfully familiar, does it not? 

The transformation to zombies happens through the mutagenic Phobos Virus, which was designed as a bioweapon by BeiTech Industries to attack the ice planet Kerenza IV.  Later, the virus spread on the spaceship Copernicus, where refugees were stationed. 

There are three possible versions of the virus: Alpha, Beta, and the final form (Kaufman and Kristoff 155). All of them attack victims’ bodies in rather nasty ways: Patients spread the airborne virus by seeking physical contact and comfort from the people around them and actively try to avoid treatment (ibid.). In the worst cases, victims will start becoming increasingly paranoid, repeat “Stop looking at me” (158) all the time and develop ill thoughts towards others. Consequently, the patients start to murder people by cutting off their heads and removing their eyes – yum! 

As typical as this might seem for a zombie narrative, it is not. Kristoff and Kaufman rationalise the zombies by assigning them a pathology (cf. Mattila). Their depictions are not mindlessly after brains, but their death drive in the final stage is caused by on-growing madness. In contrast to that, Illuminae’s zombies embody the fear of the uncontrollable consequences of a plague. In addition to that, the mutating virus ties into the zombie characteristic of being capable of mutation and quick adaptation, which underlines the danger associated with them.

Most importantly however, the zombies are not reanimated corpses, but they are living, sentient beings. This is why the mindless consumption of human flesh is very much de-emphasised (cf. Mattila). Furthermore, Illuminae makes use of children as zombies (Kaufman and Kristoff 153), which is also rather uncommon, as the depiction takes away some of the hope a reader might have for the future generations (cf. Mattila). By using these apocalyptic and science fiction narratives and turning them around completely, it definitely defies conventions.

“Africans have a way of making a slave called a zombi. It has no will of its own; it will work day and night without ever running away or complaining. It looks like a corpse.” (Pullman 317f.)

Now onto His Dark Materials: While this choice might be a little confusing at first, the novels actually share many unexpected parallels to Illuminae. The zombie in fantasy literature is certainly not as established as it is in Sci-Fi, although Game of Thrones expanded the rule book quite drastically. When I first read His Dark Materials, the zombies did not even strike me as such until the word was clearly written on the page. Reason for that is, amongst other things, the use of two types of zombies. 

At first Pullman introduces the zombies I will call intercision zombies. They include all people who have undergone intercision, a process which severs the link of a human and their dæmon. If the operation succeeds, humans and and their souls do not die, but live on separately. Victims are described as not-humans, ghosts, or something uncanny which does not belong to the world of sense (Pullman 184), while their surviving dæmons are equally ghost-like, “bewildered and frightened and pale as smoke” (222).

The second version is the one I will call Spectre zombies: Their state is caused by Spectres, translucent parasitic entities who consume the dæmons of adults. As their effect is stronger than intercision, as their soul is consumed entirely. Victims of the Spectres are described as “dead in life” (618).

The great difference between these two types of zombies is that the ones after the intercision process are clearly sentient. Reason for that lies in the survival of the dæmons, because they grant humans their consciousness. While they still have no fear, free will, and fight till they are torn apart (522), part of their soul remains. Still, they are weaponised by humans to serve their need for power and acts of war.

This is why these zombies loosely remind us of the Haitian voodoo zombie generation, which finds its origin in slavery and colonialism (Boluk and Lenz 3f.). The reanimated corpses are controlled by a witch doctor, who stood in for a colonial master (ibid.). A great comparison can be made to the character of Mrs Coulter, who gets attributed quite a lot of witch-like characteristics. She uses the zombies she created as bodyguards and her own personal army (Pullman 522). 

Just as the intercision zombie is directly created by humans, the Spectre zombie is created as a consequence of reckless human behaviour. As the window to another world at the end of the first book is created through the energy release of intercision, Spectres begin to flood the world and consume their victims’ consciousness. 

What is so unconventional about this depiction is not only the use of children as zombies, but also the fact that zombies can neither spread their affliction, nor are they actually aggressive. Their state very reminiscent of hypnosis, as the zombies only evoke ill intent when they are told to do so – they are literal slaves. In contrast to Illuminae, the zombies are not associated with madness, but with a general state of mindlessness: “The zombie looks and acts just like a human, but lacks conscious experience, thus demonstrating that human subjectivity consists of more than the physical” (Boluk and Lenz 9).

The point of this comparison? All authors de-familiarise the zombie to such an extent, that one first questions whether they are actual zombies at all. Their representations are taken from the conventions and their characteristics are stretched out, leading to a re-familiarisation, which is so common for Australian Sci-Fi texts (cf. Mattila).

Even though certain aspects of the two zombie narratives differ, they come together in one important point: Both works reflect on humanity’s interference with either technology or biology in order to weaponise members of society. As Boluk and Lenz put it, the zombies reveal “terrible truths about human nature, existence and sin.“ (7). The human body becomes a machine; a means to an end; the themes of power and control are clearly underlined. Furthermore, we find the plague narratives in both series, as the zombie virus is presented as a secular or spiritual force. 

In accordance to the domestication of the zombie in American culture (Edwards 70), the two narratives focus on the transformation of a dehumanised zombie to a sentient being, which can be read as a “metaphor for alienated otherness“ (Spooner 183). In the end, Illuminae and His Dark Materials both shine a light on the monstrousness of humans and, to an extent, defend marginalised outcasts.

Works Cited

Boluk, Stephanie and Wylie Lenz. “Introduction: Generation Z, the Age of Apocalypse.” Generation Zombie: Essays on the Living Dead in Modern Culture, edited by Stephanie Boluk and Wylie Lenz. McFarland & Company, 2011, pp. 1-17. 

Edwards, Justin D. “Contemporary American Gothic.” The Cambridge Companion to American Gothic, edited by Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock. Cambridge University Press, 2017, pp. 71-82.

Kaufman, Amie and Jay Kristoff. Illuminae. Rock the Boat, 2015. 

Mattila, Lucas. “Impossible to Ignore. Australian Science Fiction.” YouTube, uploaded by Lucas Mattila, 1 July 2020, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmhazzLHQGY.

Pullman, Philip. His Dark Materials. Northern Lights. The Sublte Knife. The Amber Spyglass, 1995. 1997. 2000. Everyman’s Library, 2011.

Spooner, Catherine. “Twenty-First-Century Gothic.” Terror and Wonder: The Gothic Imagination. Ed. Dale Townshend. London: British Library, 2014, pp.180–207. 

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