We’ll be posting more commentary about this over the next few weeks, building up to the announcement of the winning title on May 3rd at 5:30pm the PEN World Voices/CLMP Fest taking place at the Washington Mews in New York.

Also, the finalists for poetry are going to be announced on the Poetry Foundation blog, and will be reproduced here as soon as that goes live.

The 2013 Best Translated Book Award Fiction Finalist

translated from the Spanish by Heather Cleary (Open Letter Books; Argentina)

translated from the French by Alyson Waters (Archipelago Books; France)

translated from the Persian by Tom Patterdale (Melville House; Iran)

translated from the Hungarian by George Szirtes (New Directions; Hungary)

translated from the French by Lorin Stein (Dalkey Archive Press; France)

translated from the Portuguese by Johnny Lorenz (New Directions; Brazil)

translated from the German by Philip Boehm (Metropolitan Books; Romania)

translated from the Russian by Marian Schwartz (Open Letter Books; Russia)

translated from the French by David Ball and Nicole Ball (Indiana University Press; Djibouti)

translated from the German by Donal McLaughlin (Seagull Books; Switzerland)

Special thanks needs to go out to all of our fine judges: Monica Carter, Salonica; Tess Doering Lewis, translator and critic; Scott Esposito, Conversational Reading and Center for the Art of Translation; Susan Harris, Words Without Borders; Bill Martin, translator; Bill Marx, Arts Fuse; Michael Orthofer, Complete Review; Stephen Sparks, Green Apple Books; and Jenn Witte, Skylight Books.

And we want to thank Amazon.com once again for underwriting the award and providing $25,000 allowing us to give $5,000 cash prizes to both winning authors and translators, along with providing a small honorarium for the judges.

by Urs Widmer, translated from the German by Donal McLaughlin and published by Seagull Books

This piece is by translator, critic, and BTBA judge, Tess Lewis.

Urs Widmer, woefully underappreciated in the English-speaking world, is one of SwitzerlandÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s most prominent and prolific writers. And My FatherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Book is one of WidmerÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s very best. A fictionalized biography of his own father, Walter Widmer, this novel is by turns heart-wrenching and laugh-out loud funny. Heady, intellectual passages alternate with slap-stick comedy in this exploration of how much we can know even those closest to us.

The narratorÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s father, Karl Widmer, is an unworldly, intellectually voracious man whose fiery temper is balanced by his essential good nature and extreme absent-mindedness. He lives primarily through the great works of French literature he translatesÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”Stendhal, Flaubert, Rabelais, Balzac, and Diderot, whom he treasures above all othersÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”and dies in his fifties of a heart ailment exacerbated by a life of chain-smoking. Karl is an inveterate idealist who venerates the Encyclopédistes and the rationalism of the dix-huitième. He becomes a Communist for a time, but is too impolitic for the Party. What he loves, he loves ardently. He only occasionally registers the fact that his beloved wifeÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s tendency to withdraw is a sign of unhappiness, and always too late.

According to tradition in KarlÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s remote ancestral mountain village, on his twelfth birthday he was given a book for him to record each dayÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s events throughout his life. On the day after his father dies, the narrator learns to his horror that his mother had already disposed of KarlÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s book along with mountains of manuscripts and unpaid bills. The narrator, who had only glanced through it the night before, resolves to rewrite his fatherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s book, now in the readersÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ hands. Widmer not only recalls the events and circumstances of KarlÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s life, he is able to render a sense of the manÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s internal life by quoting imagined passages from the imaginary book.

As the Germans advance through Europe, Karl, until now unfit for service, is called up along “with a few other oldish men with weak hearts” to protect Basel from the Wehrmacht. In the barracks at night Karl dutifully makes his daily entries in which mundane events alternate with vivid meditations on things literary.

‘19.5.40 Letter from Clara,’ my father wrote, once heÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d saved the quill from the hobnailed boots of a comrade racing to the toilet. ‘Kitchen duty for insubordination (the corporal asked meÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”it was to do with the dismantled gunlock I wasnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t able to put together againÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”whether I thought he was stupid and I said yes). The Germans still arenÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t here yet. General mobilization nonetheless. ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”In the ancien régime, ladies vaginae could speak too. Not just their mouths. Often the gentlemen would sit with their countesses and ducal lovers, having tea, and chatting to one another about an especially good bon mot of Madame de Pompadour or the PopeÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s last bull, while, simultaneously, from beneath their skirtsÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”many-layered mountains of materialÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”came a chattering and sniggering, the sense of which they didnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t quite catch. At any rate, there was almost constant chat from down there. The many different materials muffled the voices, but people sometimes thought they would hear their names, without knowing what the braying laughter beneath all the other skirts was all about. ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”The light! The light of the »å¾±³æ-³ó³Ü¾±³Ù¾±Ã¨³¾±ð, you donÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t get light like that nowadays.

My FatherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Book is a boisterous, expansive novel, an encapsulation of twentieth century Swiss life through an idiosyncratic and highly concentrating prism. This sense of breadth comes not only from the contrast of KarlÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s engagement in politics and his ludicrous stint as a soldier with his wifeÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s extreme introversion, but also from his appetite for life and the arts, which Widmer evokes beautifully. The sheer artistry of the writing in this novel alone would be deserving of the Best Translated Book Award, but in addition Donal McLaughlinÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s translation is pitch-perfect, capturing the various registers and tonalities of WidmerÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s prose and, most difficult of all, the many shades of his humor.