by Elinor Potts
“The road along the end of our street which runs towards Hackney Marshes is busier than I've seen it in over 10 years”
Nichola Smalley is a Swedish-English translator who works for And Other Stories, a Yorkshire-based independent publishing house which champions innovative international literature.
Having recently launched their Northern Book Prize as a sign of their commitment to new writing from the North of England, And Other Stories are dedicated to opening up the Anglophone publishing to counteract the industry’s elitist veneer (“posh freemasonry”), striving to move the publishing industry away from “London, Oxford and their environs”.
We arranged our chat long before "circumstances changed". I introduced myself in an excitedly rambling email, explaining my interests in Nichola's PhD thesis. As a fellow enthusiast of language and its varieties, Nichola's thesis is a richly compelling examination of contemporary Swedish urban vernaculars in a variety of cultural forms: namely rap and literature. Before "strange times", we agreed to meet to discuss Nichola’s translation and academic work over a light Japanese lunch.
Then, the latch dropped. Daily routines shed like dead skin. I spent my days battling a mouse infestation overlooked by an enormous pink moon. Sheltering from outside circumstances I stared hungrily at a white screen, waiting for words to appear. Other times, I baked lemon drizzle cakes for my neighbours and fixed the garden fence with twine. But all of this is besides the point, because I am supposed to be interviewing a Very Important And Lovely Person.
As with every other exchange I’ve shared with friends, family, supermarket workers and job centre employees in the past month, our discussion is fronted with recognition of the infirm elephant in the room; the "difficult times" floating through emails like sullen rubber ducks.
It would be strange to start a conversation any other way than this. Like me, Nichola is based in London. "It's still really busy in East London," she says, "The road along the end of our street which runs towards Hackney Marshes is busier than I've seen it in over 10 years."
Whilst I've lived in London for half the time that Nichola has, lockdown London feels closer in spirit to countryside ramblings, 'frosty' Londoners thawing with each weakly traded smile.
Nichola’s soon-to-be published translation of Andrzej Tichý’s Wretchedness is a dizzy montage of hedonistic consumption, deftly transferred to the English language with all the intricate details of its polyglot composition.
“It’s such a major aspect of Swedish culture,” Nichola emphasises. “From this multiculturalism comes the amazing creative act of co-opting and sharing languages which in turn, creates a whole new version of the language. Language actively signals that you belong to a group. A different translator might have translated this book and stripped out [these elements].”
Wretchedness, originally published in Sweden as Eländet in 2016, is far from a breezy read. Set in the fringes of suburban Malmö, a well-to-do cellist meets a down-and-out junkie. After this point, narrative and temporal certainties dissolve.
This restless, paranoid, wandering prose is awash with formal transmutations carrying directionless characters. This is fully-formed, experiential fiction interwoven with a strong critique of Swedish media and the inhospitable political climate. “I got to the end of the book feeling totally wrapped up in the atmosphere,” Nichola tells me, “It was like something had just happened to me and I had absolutely no idea what it was. There is a lot of creativity and play in translation, even when translating conventionally straightforward novels. It’s like Tetris, moving words around and reformatting the work into the new language.”
Whilst Tichy’s critique of tabloids is embedded in the text’s bricolage construction, our conversation later turns to the differences of arts coverage in the UK and Swedish media.