Marie, among the animals (or plants) that appear in the collection, do you have a personal favorite?

Among the plants, I feel closest to the Xanadu philodendron, which is plagued by a housing crisis and its own sensitivity to the cold. But there’s nothing it can do about that, because it’s a tropical plant. It’s one of the few poems where I allowed myself to project my own feelings and worries onto someone else. I’m talking about the plant and, at the same time, about myself. Or to put it another way: the philodendron in the poem is me, and I am the philodendron. Among the animals, my favorites are my cat Luna and my tomcat Ferenc. With them, too, I allowed myself to be very personal. After all, I wrote a book of poetry, not an ornithological guide or atlas.

Do you remember the initial impulse for the collection? Was it a specific image or situation, or rather a long-term observation of the city?

It was an encounter with a pheasant at a construction site in Bubny. But it was preceded by other encounters, some dating back to my childhood. And also a certain awareness that our perception of nature as something opposed to the city stems from ingrained habits and perhaps even a kind of blindness.

When you let animals and plants “speak,” how do you find that fine line so their voices don’t come across as too humanized or too didactic, yet still feel authentic?

Letting animals and plants “speak” is always problematic. There’s a danger of excessive anthropomorphism—that is, projecting human traits or experiences onto them. Nevertheless, I decided to write some poems from the animals’ perspective. These include texts where rats or peacocks speak about their coexistence with humans. Or a text where a bat has a nightmare about becoming human. I seriously considered including a note somewhere describing how perfect a bat’s organism is—how its metabolism burns away all the diseases that develop in us humans, and how, relative to its size, it lives an extraordinarily long time. That’s why the idea of becoming human terrifies it. But in the end, I had to give that up so as not to be too didactic… In similar poems, I’ve always relied on scientific facts and worked with them. When I write that rats “squeak with laughter,” it’s not a poetic metaphor or my own invention.

It’s also important to note here that animals are capable of things we previously considered exclusively human. We know they can play, mourn, or care for older members of the pack or flock. So what is still anthropomorphism, and what is the attribution of traits we previously reserved only for ourselves?

I tried to balance the poems written from the perspective of animals or birds with texts offering a different perspective, where the speaker and observer is a human. In those, I often ask questions rather than answer them. Or I question the language we use to talk about animals. It’s similar with didacticism; I know that in some places I pushed the boundaries. I was aware of all these risks, and I also knew that they couldn’t be completely avoided.

Urban habitats such as streams, rubble piles, street canyons, or green corridors appear in the poems. Is there a place that you are drawn to the most, somewhere you like to return to?

I like these hidden corners of the city. When I lived in Libeň, I really loved the spots by the river where a new neighborhood has since sprung up. In Žižkov, I loved the meadows and thickets that stretch along the train tracks beyond the Žižkov Tunnel. In the book, it’s more of a sum of all these places, a sort of essence of them. The poem about the rubble is written with Kyiv in mind, where there are many modernist brick buildings falling into disrepair, and every brick bears a specific mark that tells its story. I also really love urban streams—overlooked, often dirty, channeled underground, and only occasionally surfacing. People from Prague will surely think of the Botič or the Rokytka, but I’ve read that there are more than a hundred of them in Prague.

The collection also works with the motif of traps (glass, light, bars…). Was it important for you to show that life in the city isn’t just idyllic?

Yes, that was one of my motivations, and it’s one of the book’s central themes. From the perspective of birds and animals, the city is full of traps. People are only gradually becoming aware of this, but they are becoming aware of it nonetheless. And things are starting to change a little.

While reading, I was reminded of Gary Snyder more than once; he, too, focuses heavily on animal themes, and you quote him in the introduction. Was he an inspiration to you? Who else influenced you while writing?

Gary Snyder is one of the most important authors for me. My text about pheasants that hunt people is a direct paraphrase of one of his poems. I shifted it a bit, but the meaning remained the same: the hunter and the hunted have swapped roles. The works of Louise Glück and the Polish poet and naturalist Urszula Zajączkowska were also important to me; both have poems about plants. At the end of the book is a complete list of the scholarly and popular science literature I drew upon. I knew critics would hold that against me, and that’s exactly what happened. But that was my intention and my method: I based my poems on facts and real stories.

The collection is now being published in German translation. This is your first German translation, isn’t it? How do you feel about that? To what extent were you involved in the translation process?

I’m very happy about the publication. I was quite closely involved in the collaboration, though of course only to the extent possible without knowledge of the target language. The translator, Julia Miesenböck, and I discussed how to handle certain passages. At the same time, I let her do what she thought was best, because I know her and trust her.

What was it like working with Mariko Gelman? What do you think the illustrations bring to the collection, and how do they influence the way we read it? What drew you to her work in particular?

From the moment I saw her sketches of cities, I knew I’d like to work with her. I think illustrations generally add another dimension to a book, and when done well, they elevate the book to an aesthetic artifact.

The theme of travel often runs through your work. Where do you feel most at home right now? And which recent trip abroad inspired you the most?

My home is in Prague. But I perceive the concept of home more broadly. Rather than a single point, it’s more like concentric circles. Thanks to my roots and the fact that I love to travel, I feel at home throughout Central Europe. And traveling around Europe often reinforces this sense of an expanded home. My stays in Barcelona and Berlin were a great inspiration for me, as were all my trips to Kyiv, where I return regularly. I consider Kyiv my second home, and I have another one in the Broumov region.

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Photo: Petr Gojda
The interview with author Marie Iljašenko was conducted by Karolína Tomečková.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

Antonín Zhořec: Poems come to me on their own, but in order to capture and write them down, I need to be calm, uncluttered, sufficiently empty and spacious for them to settle within me. I feel that rather than inspiration, calmness or restfulness is essential for me when writing. Poems find their inspiration elsewhere; they settle within me almost fully formed. Perhaps they then grow verbally, taking on a more precise shape. Otherwise, I have the impression that they do not come directly from me, and that I do not feed them from outside (inspiration). I am merely their scribe. When a poem passes me by and I am fresh enough to notice it, I record it.

Štěpánka Borská: I find inspiration in everyday observations of everything around me, in conversations, my own emotions and those of others, in events at home and around the world, in the forest, the city, or in interesting-sounding words. I write down anything that catches my attention in notes on my phone. I used to use notebooks, but I kept forgetting to take them with me everywhere I went.

Sufian Massalema: In my writing, I often work with what could be called the “general” themes — family history, childhood, or my hometown. At the same time, I like to incorporate traditional Islamic narratives and aesthetics into my texts. In the Czech cultural context, these elements can gain new and unexpected meanings. I enjoy experimenting with what works and what does not. In my first book, a central motif was my fascination with places or things that feel niche, strange, or somehow “not quite right.” I tried to anthropomorphize them or place myself within them in order to search for my own position in the world. In my next book, I would like to revisit and further develop this idea. However, I want to shift the focus toward human traditions and the stories we tell each other — even when they are unnatural or odd — and explore how we have gradually normalized them.

What does poetry mean for you?

Antonín Zhořec: Lately, it mainly means fear that I won't be able to give it all the care I think it deserves and that I owe it. Fear makes me restless, and then I don't have enough space inside me to capture it, and I find myself going round in circles. But I believe that I will find a way out of the circle, that I will discover a secret door or kick through a hatch in its floor. Then I will be able to capture and write again. I wanted to write that I would capture poetry like a butterfly in a net—but that's not exactly how it works. Poetry needs to fly freely, and when it wants to, it will fly to me and stay long enough for me to write it down on paper.

Štěpánka Borská: The opportunity to express myself in code about things I don't know how to deal with myself. Whether it's my own feelings or the impact of world and domestic events. To a certain extent, it can be therapeutic, but it definitely has its limits. Poetry should not slip into subjectivity. I think a good text can also be recognized by the fact that readers can interpret it in different ways. At the same time, I enjoy looking for unusual word combinations. I enjoy escaping to a place where the laws of everyday life do not apply.

Sufian Massalema: That’s not an easy question. While thinking about it, I remembered a recent issue of the Czech literary magazine Tvar, which asked Czech writers the same thing. Their answers generally fell into two categories: either that it is impossible to define what poetry is or what it means, or that poetry “simply is,” often accompanied by a witty quote depending on one’s taste.

I would prefer not to fall into either of those categories. For me, poetry is a method — a tool for describing how I perceive contemporary reality and how I interpret it.

I like to imagine our world as one in which the supernatural is real, where reality is multilayered and full of mysteries that cannot be understood through reason alone. At that moment, poetry is the only way how to sufficiently talk and write about it.

Do you have a (literary) role model? What do you like to read?

Antonín Zhořec: I read texts that aren't afraid to break free from the chain, that are slightly chaotic, condensed, and spontaneous. Texts that strive to avoid mediocrity, that dig beneath the surface and subversively deal with "the world around us," whatever that may mean. I like it when writing sticks in your throat and almost suffocates you. I don't have a literary role model, but I will recommend a few books that have affected me in recent years (the ones that stuck in my throat and almost choked me—I write this with warmth and respect for them).  The most recent choking experience was caused by The Suicide Museum of a Trans Girl by Hannah Baer, a cruel, transparent, pathetically and unpathetically heartbreaking read. I also gladly let myself be suffocated by The Book of Blood by Kim De l'Horizon, which angers, caresses with language, shatters the world and reassembles it, cries sincerely and deeply, breaks down values and builds new ones, but above all embraces you if you let it. It helps you find a tiny little place in a world that offers no space of its own. Then there is The Theory of the Chinese Soul by Carlos A. Aguilera, about which I don't even know what to write; the book is an opiate trip, in the best sense of the word. And from Czech literature, Ladislav Klíma's The Suffering of Prince Sternenhoch still suffocates me to this day. It is best read aloud while snuggled up with your partner in bed (that's how I read practically the whole thing), if you have a sufficiently willing and madness-loving partner. Finally, lest I forget, I am breathing in Radka Denemarková's Kobold. It's a lively read, linguistically stirring. It reads like experiencing a snake bite.

Štěpánka Borská: I closely follow debuts and enjoy reading contemporary Czech poets. Namely, and at random, Vojtěch Štěpán, Anna Řezníčková, Jakub Racek, Thea Sedmidubská, Jaromíra Zálišová, Nela Bártová, Sufian Massalema, Tim Postovit, Zofia Bałdyga, and authors who have published their books in the poetry edition of the Odeon publishing house. I also went through a phase of fascination with established authors, such as Ivan Wernisch. I combine poetry with prose and I really enjoy literary reportage, especially those published by the Slovak publishing house Absynt.

Sufian Massalema: In fiction, I would name Orhan Pamuk as a major influence. I aspire to write about ordinary things and human stories with the same depth and sensitivity that he does. In poetry, I am inspired by Islamic Sufi poetry and by poetry from the Mughal era in India. I also deeply admire the work of František Halas and Vladimír Holan. Many of my friends from the literary world are also my role models. In each of them, I see qualities that I feel I lack, and I am constantly trying to grow and improve so that I can reach their level.

You are all living in Prague: What is your favorite spot there?

Antonín Zhořec: My favorite place in Prague is a willow tree that grows near where I live. I call it my willow tree, but of course it isn't mine, I don't own it. It is my willow tree in the same way that I am (or could be) its person. I often go to visit it and watch how people have combed its hair. It grows above the sidewalk, so every time it gets in the way of people walking comfortably, they cut it back. I admire its hairstyles. I reach out to touch it, and when it's freshly cut, I have to jump up to reach it. If you want to see it too, you can find it here. Please be gentle with it. Of the places you can enter, my favorite is Safe Space, a proudly feminist establishment that will be closing at the end of this year and would certainly welcome a little love from the people who come there. They have great vegan food, and you can also fill up on books there.

Štěpánka Borská: In Prague, I like the Žižkov district, which has its own unique character. The numerous pubs contribute to this. I also like the more unexplored parts of the city. For example, the Slatiny shantytown, where Jonáš Zbořil set his novel Flora.

Sufian Massalema: Although I’m not a hardcore train enthusiast, my favorite place in Prague is a spot above a railway tunnel between the Vinohrady and Nusle districts in the city center. In the evenings, I like to watch the night trains pass by and wonder where their passengers are coming from and where they are headed.

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Antonín Zhořec (*2000) is a community coordinator at Amnesty International and a queer activist. He studied Hispanic studies at Charles University and is currently studying gender studies at Charles University's Faculty of Humanities. He writes reviews for Revue Prostor and participates in author readings on a semi-regular basis. He has published poems in Psí víno, the cultural biweekly A2, the weekly Tvar, and the anthology Toto je môj coming out (Adolescent, 2022). In 2023, he was awarded second place in the Vladimír Vokolek Literary Prize and received an honorable mention in the Jiří Červenka Literary Competition. In the spring of 2024, his debut poetry collection Rejpnu si do solární bouře (I'll Dig Into the Solar Storm) was published by Adolescent.

Poem: I remove orange seeds from a burning pig

simple manual work suitable for heavy metal machinists

a whining head beats a drill covered in orange juice

protective equipment includes foot gloves with a back flap

orange trees with orange leaves grow nearby

signs warn against frequent changes in body position in the machine

the burning pig climbs on your hands

workers wearing helmets are at risk of being polished by pigs with heavy metals

you insert the little finger of your left foot into the drilled hole in the orange

orange trees increase the birth rate of burning pigs

orange leaves maintain room temperature

supervision is provided by burnt tufts of grass near the damp little finger

the burning pig stood up

we always place the broken drill under the hands of the orange trees

heavy metal machinists eat orange seeds

we drill through the little fingers of orange trees at room temperature

pigs with orange leaves grow nearby

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Štěpánka Borská (1997, Brno) has published in Tvar, Hostinec, Weles, and Psí víno magazines. She has successfully participated in the Vladimír Vokolek Prize, the Ortenova Kutná Hora festival, and twice in the František Halas Literary Competition. She studied Czech language and literature and journalism in Prague. She works in the media. She co-organizes regular author readings called Poezie & piano (Poetry & Piano) and runs a poetry profile on Instagram called poetickýmezichlebník (poetic breadbasket).

Poem:

I limit communication with my family to press releases

abandoned factory halls press down on old concrete

the air is stifling in the deciduous forest

understanding evaporates quickly

how much violence can we endure

before the edges bend

international law recoils

like an oversalted tree

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Sufian Massalema (*1999) was born in Jablonec nad Nisou. Alongside his studies, he focuses on slam poetry and writing poems. His texts have been awarded in the Vladimír Vokolek Literary Prize and the Václav Hrabě Literary Competition in Hořovice. His debut poetry collection Možnosti přehlíženého (Possibilities of the Overlooked) was nominated for the Jiří Orten Prize. On the one hand, his work depicts the inhospitable Sudeten landscape and his own sense of not belonging there; on the other, it presents images from a journey to the land of his ancestors. The language of his poems combines standard Czech with elements of colloquial speech and Arabic, expanding the semantic space of the text. He moves freely between epochs, geographies, and cultural traditions without giving in to romanticization.

Poem: Basra

a helicopter over Basra

like a ceiling fan

the rotor frequency

counts down the time until the start

of the afternoon news

we have contests to see

how many comics we can stuff

into one banana box

fishermen floating into the harbor

debate over wrecks of tankers

words leave room for interpretation

the trunk of the family Volvo has never been smaller

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The interview was conducted by Annika Grützner.

Antonín, what happens when you poke at a solar storm?

The sun will wane, and people will feel sunburns beneath their skin and embers beneath their feet. A blind man will cry out: “soleil, soleil.” The mangy sunbeams fall to the ground. That, I think, is how the poem in which the collection’s title verse appears would answer. A solar storm is a wild revelry, and nothing can be said with certainty; on every page of the collection, the revelry unfolds differently and not always pleasantly.

What does poetry mean to you?

Lately, for me, it mainly means the fear that I won’t be able to give it all the care I think it deserves and that I owe it. Fear stirs restlessness within me, and then I no longer have enough space inside myself to capture it; I’m caught in a vicious circle. But I believe I’ll find a way out of the circle, that I’ll discover a secret door or kick through a hatch in its floor. Then I’ll be able to capture and write it down anew. I wanted to write that I would catch poetry like a butterfly in a net—but it doesn’t work exactly like that; poetry needs to flutter freely, and when it wants to, it will fly to me and stay long enough for me to write it down on paper.

I think “surrealism” is an apt description of your poems. Is this a style you’ve found yourself in? Where do you draw your inspiration from?

The poems come to me on their own, so perhaps a more fitting question is what prompts them to come and why it’s precisely these poems that come. I often write down the most essential verses just before falling asleep or just before waking up; in that sense, the writing process is undoubtedly close to surrealism. The most crucial parts come from the fringes of dreams. If I were to stick to the idea of inspiration, my main inspiration is distancing myself from the waking state.

I feel that rather than inspiration, what is essential for me when writing is calm or restfulness. The poems draw their inspiration elsewhere; they settle within me almost fully formed. Perhaps they then grow further in their wording, taking on a more precise shape. Otherwise, however, I have the impression that they do not come directly from me and that I do not provide them with nourishment from the outside (inspiration). I am merely their scribe. When a poem passes by me and I am alert enough to notice it, I record it.

Do you have any literary role models? What do you like to read?

I read texts that aren’t afraid to break free, that are slightly chaotic, dense, and spontaneous. Texts that strive to avoid the mundane, dig beneath the surface, and take a subversive approach to “the world around us”—whatever that may mean. I like it when writing gets stuck in your throat and almost chokes you.

I don’t have a literary role model, but I’ll recommend a few books that have moved me in recent years (the ones that stuck in my throat and nearly choked me—I write this with warmth and respect for them). My most recent choking sensation was caused by The Suicide Museum of a Trans Girl by Hannah Baer, a cruel, crystalline, and both pathetically and unpathetically heart-wrenching read. I also gladly let myself be choked by The Book of Blood by Kim De l’Horizon, a work that provokes, caresses with language, shatters the world and reassembles it, wails honestly and deeply, breaks down values and builds new ones, but above all embraces you if you let it. It helps you find a tiny little spot in a world that offers no space of its own. Then there’s Carlos A. Aguilera’s Theory of the Chinese Soul, about which I don’t even know what to write—that book is an opium-induced trip, in the best sense of the word. And from Czech literature, Ladislav Klíma’s The Suffering of Prince Sternenhoch still haunts me to this day; it’s best read aloud while snuggled up with a partner in bed (that’s practically how I read the whole thing), provided you have a sufficiently willing and madness-loving partner. Finally, lest I forget, I’m savoring Radka Denemarková’s Kobold. A spirited read, linguistically exhilarating. It reads like experiencing a snake bite.

The theme of physicality appears in the collection. Is physicality an important aspect of the collection for you, or is it just one theme among many? And when you write about the body and physical experience, is there something liberating about it for you?

Physicality! That is absolutely essential to me in the collection, at least in hindsight. When I was writing it, I didn’t think about it, but if I were to imagine the same collection now, with physicality (and all its forms) removed, it seems to me that what would remain would be a short, terse leaflet with a few tiger hairs stuck to it.

Rather than liberating, I’d say it’s inevitable when it comes to writing about physicality. Or through physicality. Or because of physicality. Mainly, I suppose, through physicality—I experience writing very physically; I often feel it settle into my body; it happens that I can’t fall asleep because I feel a poem inside me. I have no choice; in such moments I must write and bring the text to a reasonably finished form so that it, now more on paper than in my body, allows me to rest. All my poems come from the outside and through the body onto the paper, so the body takes root in them (just as poems take root in the body). It finds its way into some more, into others less, but I think that in the end, it’s in every poem.

As I was browsing through your collection, I was struck by how often the tiger motif appears in it. I immediately thought of Tracy’s Tiger (by William Saroyan), in which the tiger serves more as a symbolic companion to the main character. What is your tiger like? What does it represent in your collection?

The tiger is a massive, teeming, multi-toed, long-clawed nightmare (but not only that!). The tiger represents a profound experience of various kinds. I can only say this with significant hindsight since writing the collection; for a long time, I was unable to answer questions about the tiger, even though they’re the first to come up when people ask me about the collection. For a while, I even asked interviewers not to ask me about the symbolism or meaning of the tiger, because I would likely cause an awkward silence or come up with a terse answer that doesn’t begin to capture everything the tiger represents. Now I can simply sum it up as a profound experience. The essence of the tiger is also the reason why it is so elusive and changeable; a profound experience is fleeting and multifaceted.

In your collection, you work with languages other than Czech; you studied Spanish at Charles University. Do you also write in other languages?

I don’t write exclusively in other languages; I feel most at home in my native tongue. In other languages, I trust translation more than my own ability. However, there are certain phrases, terms, or nuances that Czech cannot capture quite as well at first glance, or whose sound is insufficient for what I’m trying to name, and another language offers a smoother solution; in such cases, I don’t shy away from using a foreign word if it fits into the poem. But it must not have a comprehensive Czech equivalent. If it does (and I notice it), I prefer to use that one. In my first collection, I was open to all linguistic elements that could find their way into my writing; in the upcoming second collection, I have deliberately limited myself to basic Czech and supplementary Spanish. The poems in the second collection are, in a way, more tightly knit and therefore require a more tightly knit linguistic approach.

You are active in the LGBTQIA+ community. How does this experience influence your work? Can it serve as a tool in the search for your own identity?

I don’t feel a clear-cut identity within myself; I label my different aspects using identity categories only when it’s necessary for interpersonal understanding—that is, outside of myself. I don’t feel any distinct identities or identity-based experiences within myself; I often even label my different aspects however suits me at the moment, when I’m among people who can laugh it off and understand me. But I certainly write just as queerly as I am queer myself, in a non-identity-based sense. For example, I perceive the decay of bodies, the intertwining of bodies, and the transformation of bodies as a fluid element, just as I perceive the grasping of emotions through animality.

So when it comes to the search for my identity, writing is not that tool for me. As for other people, I can’t say, but I would wish that, if my poetry were to be such a tool at all, it would be more of a tool for the joyful experience of one’s own existence in its most subversive, most elemental forms.

You also contributed to the visual design of the collection. Which came first—the poems or the visuals? Or was it the other way around? Or did both develop simultaneously? What set the direction?

The poems came first, and they all already had their final, edited wording when I started working on the illustrations. I wanted the illustrations not just to accompany the collection, but rather to expand it, to give the tiger new forms and dimensions. I think I succeeded in doing that only when I created the coloring pages

The coloring book is included in the collection. Is this a way to make it more interactive? To break through the passivity of the readership? Or is the reason something entirely different?

I think the collection would be incomplete without the coloring book; the coloring book is part of it, just as the collection is part of the coloring book. I don’t see either part as an accessory to the other. The collection might hold its own without the coloring book, but it wouldn’t be complete. I can’t be the only one poking fun at the solar storm if the teasing is to serve any purpose.

You recently appeared at a literary event in Berlin. What was it like? What was the audience’s reaction, and what impressions did you take away? Was this your first literary event abroad?

The reading in Berlin was enjoyable! I read alongside three young poets I know, so we had a great time together not only on stage but also off it. I appreciate the audience’s feedback; it was thoroughly kind. I remember that the audience appreciated the word “otherworldly,” which I used to describe my poems. I needed to say something specific and couldn’t find a suitable expression in my everyday vocabulary; this word was my last resort to avoid filler sounds. Actually, I usually do that—I make up words. At first, I was embarrassed when I couldn’t (and this happens to me often) name things using appropriate existing words, especially from a poet’s perspective. But now I don’t hold back when a word I’ve made up wants to come out of me. I don’t always realize in time that it’s made up, so there’s no way to hold it back. That’s my strongest experience from Berlin: the feedback that people don’t mind this makeshift naming, that they can even appreciate it. I do this kind of linguistic quirkiness in my poems as well, so I apply that feedback to them too, even though it probably wasn’t intended to go that far. And yes, the Berlin reading was my first literary event abroad; I’m truly grateful for the opportunity.

Last week you spoke at a literary event that was part of the Czech Republic’s participation in the Leipzig Book Fair—that’s a big deal. What do you think made your text stand out?

I’d guess it might have caught people’s attention because of its unruliness. It spreads out in all directions and doesn’t stray from any of the paths it sets out on, even if that path leads, for example, to a vivid image of disgust, pathos, a hard-to-grasp jumble of half-formed words, or feverish passion. At the same time, it manages to hold itself together in its disorder, because it is firmly gripped in the clutches of a tiger, fire, and the color yellow.

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Photo: Sabine Felber, Literaturtest
The interview with author Antonín Zhořec was conducted by Karolína Tomečková and Annika Grützner.

What kinds of things can be expressed in Czech that are difficult or impossible to express in German?

As a linguist, I naturally say: In principle, I can express anything I want to in any language. It’s just that the means of expression differ from one language to another. Expressions that seem to have the same meaning actually have slightly different nuances. Or, for something I can express with a single word in one language, I might have to resort to a rather long-winded phrase in the other.

Does a character’s personality change when you translate them from Czech into German?

No. And if it does happen, then I’ve probably done something wrong. Or—which is no less bad—misunderstood something.

When you translate, do you tend to think in images, in meaning, or in words?

I translate texts. At first glance, they consist of “words,” but that focuses only on the surface. Words have—or acquire—meanings, and of course, the audience’s interpretation of the text also conjures up images. Ideally, I manage to convey all the nuances of meaning into the target language, but generally my goal is for the reader of the German text to form the same or at least very similar images, so that similar feelings are evoked. In short: I cannot translate one of these three aspects without the others.

What makes Czech humor particularly difficult to translate into German? Which Czech jokes don’t work at all in German?

Humor is generally difficult to translate. That’s because it often relies on allusions and misunderstandings. The reference point is frequently a regionally specific phenomenon—such as well-known figures from the past and present, historical events, pop culture, or everyday life—that is completely unknown in the context of the target language. This strips the joke of its foundation—and leaves me with a tough nut to crack.

Or the whole thing is based on a linguistic slip-up, which is then highly problematic. Because if I introduce a slip-up borrowed from the German language into a text set in a Czech context, it creates an imbalance. (I can’t rule out, however, that I’ve done it before.)

I don’t want to discuss content-related and/or stylistic aspects here, because that would immediately lead me into cliché-ridden territory. Clichés—especially those that the cultures of the source and target languages use about each other—are not irrelevant in translation (quite the contrary, one should be aware of them), but they are not suitable as categories.

What do you love about Czech that you miss in German?

The conciseness. A text translated from Czech (or Slovak) into German can be 25 to 30 percent longer. Slavic languages basically function like Latin—relationships between sentence components are made clear through endings. This also allows for much greater freedom in word order in Czech.

I also miss the ability in German to clearly indicate the correct pronunciation of a word.

How has translating changed your own German?

The German language is my tool. So I have to make sure to keep it well-maintained and ready for use. In other words: Aside from Czech and Slovak books, I read mainly literature written in German. But it’s just as important to read works translated into German. Both writers and translators are, after all, the authors of their German-language texts and thus an important source of inspiration for me.

What are your favorite words in German and Czech?

I have a soft spot for expressive terms. In German, I’m a big fan of the Saxon multifunctional groan “Ooohr näääj!”, which expresses a very high degree of disapproval. Unfortunately, you can’t fully capture its acoustic qualities on paper. (See also my comment on this above.) And of course, this exclamation is also accompanied by a corresponding pout.

In Czech, there are many terms with German roots that also tend to have an expressive quality. My favorite is “rambajs,” the term for deafening noise in the presence of people behaving chaotically (often in large groups). I picture a typical scene from Alemannic Carnival: discordantly played (brass) wind instruments plus percussion, combined with bizarre costumes and loud shouting.

What are you currently working on, and what will your next project be?

I’m currently editing Marek Toman’s novel České sklo, which will soon be published by Drava as Bohemian Glass.

At the same time, I’m working on the MYKO project, a kind of graphic novel that will be published by the Hamburg-based publisher Ankerwechsel. The premise is: “Mushrooms reporting for mushrooms about mushrooms,” in the form of the magazine MYKO, with one volume—ten brightly colored issues (illustrations by Daniela Olejníková), including two double issues—compiled into a single anthology. It features interesting facts about the world of mushrooms, historical and mycomythological content, as well as poems (the texts are by Jiří Dvořák). It’s a lot of fun, but also a dense collection of puzzles I have to solve.

And then I’ll also be getting involved in a Slovak project again: In his novel Sviňa (Sow), Arpád Soltész has taken up the case of the murder of investigative journalist Ján Kuciak and his partner Martina Kušnírová in February 2018, along with the political turmoil and mafia-like corruption in Slovakia (under the Robert Fico government), and turned the whole thing into a gritty, hard-boiled, hardcore text. The Berlin-based publisher Voland & Quist is releasing the book to shine a spotlight on these issues, which are unfortunately still relevant today.

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Photo: Pavel Němec
The interview was conducted by Annika Grützner.

Iryna, in your penultimate collection, “Jak se líčit v nemoci“—which was nominated for the Magnesia Litera Award and won the Literary Critics’ Award—you revisit, among other things, the traumas of war and the experience of serious illness. Now your new collection, “Propaganda“, is being published. What themes do you explore in it, and how does it differ from your previous book?

"Propaganda" is a word we use when talking about politics and social issues. That is exactly what this collection is about, and so it can be said that it follows on from the previous book, where one of the central ideas was that the personal is political. The poems in “Propaganda” were written between 2023 and 2025 and were mostly reactions to very specific events and situations, whether social or from personal life.

Do you see “Propaganda“ as an activist book?

It’s socially engaged poetry, and I consider it a form of activism through art. I stand by that and don’t shy away from it, even though I sometimes hear that the word “activist” isn’t appealing to Czech citizens. The word “propaganda” probably isn’t either, but I wanted to play with that concept. I want to show that I also have something to promote—for example, my values or reflections on uncomfortable topics.

But the book also has a second part that shifts “propaganda” to the realm of personal experiences, particularly erotic ones. And more precisely—queer eroticism. So I’m actually doing what traditionalists and right-wing radicals would call “promoting gender ideology,” “gay propaganda,” or “the depravity of the corrupt West.” Such rhetoric fascinates me, and fighting against it with a straight face is simply impossible.

“Jak se líčit v nemoci“ is set to be published in German. What stage is the translation currently in, and when is it expected to be released? How do you explain the book’s popularity abroad?

The book will be published at the end of summer, and work on the translation is currently underway. The visual design is already known, however—it will be essentially identical to the Czech edition. Together with the publisher, we are preparing promotional materials for the Leipzig Book Fair; these will be simple yet beautiful fold-out leaflets with information about the book.

I owe the interest abroad to the Literary Critics’ Award and the Czech Literary Center, which promote titles that have gained recognition in the Czech Republic. In two out of four cases, the credit for the translation goes to my translators, who saw the book’s potential after reading it. I am also aware of that potential. These are themes that can be relatively easily transferred to the context of another country. The form also helps, especially the presence of diary entries. Genres such as confessional poetry and autofiction in prose are now very popular on the Western literary scene, especially among readers.

I also realize that my background—having moved to another country and begun writing in a new language—may be of interest to the audience. Moreover, I am an author from Ukraine. I’m not judging whether this is good or bad, but it is true that nowadays an author’s background can add value to their work—and sometimes diminish it.

The body and physicality are very much present in your poetry, often in a very direct, even unflinching way. Do you ever feel vulnerable when you “put yourself out there” like that in front of strangers? Or can it actually be liberating?

I felt vulnerable both before the release of “Jak se líčit v nemoci“and “Propaganda“. I was worried whether I was doing the right thing for myself by writing about such personal and physical topics. With the first book, it was especially challenging because it dealt with illness and, at times, purely physical suffering. I was afraid of insensitive questions people might ask me after its release.

Some questions—especially in media interviews—actually surprised me with their insensitivity. I used to send them to a friend and ask if she thought they were insensitive too. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t adequately judge what was still okay and what wasn’t. Over time, however, I learned to answer anything in a way that didn’t make me feel hurt—so sometimes I answer a bit harshly and in a way that makes the interviewer uncomfortable. That’s precisely where the liberation lay, which I now feel in connection with “Propaganda” as well.

You studied theoretical physics. Are you still involved in science? Does the theme of science find its way into your literary work in any way? Have you ever been tempted to poeticize science?

No, just as I’ve never been tempted to “scientize” poetry. These two worlds intersect in the process of my literary work, but not in the texts themselves. I’m able to work systematically, reflect on my creative process, notice certain patterns, and plan. That in itself strikes me as quite a scientific approach.

I’m not currently involved in science, but I use my knowledge to explain various interesting physics concepts to my friends. People are really interested in things like Schrödinger’s cat, black holes, or the fact that the universe is constantly expanding. Sometimes, though, I’ve also explained how magnetic resonance imaging or a cell phone signal works. Science has always interested me and always will.

In “Jak se líčit v nemoci“, you address a number of very painful experiences. Did you write those pieces while you were going through them, or rather with the benefit of hindsight? And isn’t revisiting these topics sometimes retraumatizing for you?

It isn’t retraumatizing, perhaps because it wasn’t a single event, but rather an ongoing process that I was able to reflect on as it unfolded. Or perhaps because I still don’t feel like it’s all behind me. In a way, I’m still living through it: the war is still ongoing, and in 2022 I was diagnosed with depression, which was later reclassified as an anxiety-depressive disorder. However, this diagnosis is not solely the result of the war and the illness I’ve experienced. Added to this is significant minority stress—I am a migrant, I am queer, and I live in a world and on a continent where fascism is slowly blossoming once again. The painful experience continues.

And what does the title actually mean: are we supposed to “put on a face” when we’re sick? Can makeup hide what we’re going through—or is it more of a crutch that can help us get through a difficult situation? How did the title come about?

It’s a line from a poem in the collection. The working title, however, was “I Don’t Put on a Face“, because I wanted to tie in with my previous collection, “Putting on a Face”. And I think I succeeded in doing so anyway. Bizarre fact: the description at one online bookstore says that the book thoroughly explains how to properly apply makeup while sick. But I think the book actually shows the opposite. It’s true that you can use a crutch, but you can’t hide the crutch itself. Of course, I mean this metaphorically—a crutch can also be a smile or a manner of behavior that hides one’s true feelings.

What do you personally enjoy reading in contemporary Czech poetry, and what inspires you? Is it the young poets you accompanied to a recent event in Berlin?

I’m inspired by how dynamic the poetry scene is in the Czech Republic. I enjoy following emerging authors, though they don’t necessarily have to be queer. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the hall listening to them that I realized most of those who read in Berlin were queer. So it wasn’t intentional. The concept of that evening was to introduce the German audience to Czech poets who have so far published only their first collection.

What do you think shouldn’t get lost in today’s highly competitive environment—whether it’s authorship, specific books, or a particular style of writing?

A sense of belonging and community definitely shouldn’t get lost. The poetry scene isn’t as competitive as the prose scene. What is there to compete for, anyway? The few thousand the publisher gives you for copyright? A two-thousand-crown honorarium including travel expenses? Participation in a free one-hour interview? We’re more like allies in the unfortunate situation of an underfunded cultural landscape than competitors. Things have certainly changed a bit now thanks to the Czechia 2026 project and the upcoming Frankfurt Book Fair. As a community and a literary circle, we naturally expect the selection committee to make decisions that will benefit the Czech literary scene and showcase the diversity of its personalities and themes. But this isn’t about competition; rather, it’s about shared concerns and a bit of mistrust.

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Photo: Tereza Škoulová, Tomáš Vodňanský
The interview with Iryna Zahladko was conducted by Karolína Tomečková.

Marita, why do you think your book has garnered attention in Germany despite today’s fierce competition?

I think one reason might be that queer themes for children and young adults are underrepresented in literature, yet society is ready to gain a deeper understanding of trans experiences.

Germany may have a slight head start over the Czech Republic in terms of destigmatization and the more systematic exploration of social issues. At the same time, however, I don’t think the Czech Republic is “behind” in terms of the human dimension of the issue. Here, too, there are many people striving to create a safe and open space for children—whether they are teachers, booksellers, librarians, or artists. It is thanks to them that important topics find their way into schools, libraries, and families.

Based on my experience with extracurricular education, I can say that in Italy, for example, there are more books, resources, and institutions with a similar focus. However, the differences between countries are often not just a matter of the range of available titles, but rather a matter of systemic support. If there is room for improvement, I believe it lies primarily in long-term support for the people doing this work—so that they have sufficient resources, methodological materials, and social recognition.

In your opinion, is there anything that Czech books in particular can offer to young readers abroad?

I find novels and comics by Czech creators such as Štěpánka Jislová, Marek Torčík, and Jakub Stanjura appealing, as they draw on personal experiences set in the present day. In my opinion, they can easily resonate, at least in Europe.

In your portfolio, I was struck by the fact that you completed internships in Porto, Chicago, Paris, and Rome. What did these experiences give you, and how have they influenced your current style?

During all my internships, I naturally met people involved in literature and the arts, and I’d say they helped me think more broadly. In Porto, I spent time with young illustrators; in Paris, thanks to the artist Gérard Lo Monaco, I learned how to combine playfulness and professionalism; and in Rome, I discovered how to work with books and their themes.

In your book, you address the topic of the lives of non-binary and trans people. Do you think this topic is still underrepresented in Czech literature?

Absolutely. I’d love to be surrounded by local books, comics, and zines that tell diverse queer stories. There are plenty of those stories out there, but few have been brought to life.

You work with colorful illustrations, often in pastel shades. Have you experimented with other artistic approaches (such as more minimalist, black-and-white ones)? What do you enjoy about the playful, colorful illustrations that are typical of your work?

Those colors just come to me. I choose them based on my feelings, which tell me how the project should come across. Drawing is minimalism to me. I create a solid foundation with a dark or black line, and then I play with the rest.

I’ve created perhaps only one original book in black and white; I really enjoyed it, and I can imagine coming across a project again where I’ll be able to forgo color.

Your book offers children a space to explore identity without the pressure of unambiguous answers. How do you think children grapple with the question “who am I” when society often offers them only two boxes to fit into? And how can literature create a safe space where a child can allow themselves not to know?

Children grapple with the question “who am I” exactly as you described. They choose from specific options. I believe that not only they, but everyone deserves the opportunity to transform themselves at any age and try out different aspects of what life has to offer.

What kind of feedback have you received about the book—from younger readers as well as from parents?

Above all, I feel a sense of appreciation that a book like this about trans people exists. Younger readers find confirmation of their place in society through these stories, and parents and everyone else who educates children have a tool to help them introduce queer topics.

Have you ever received a reaction like, “This is exactly what I needed”?

Sometimes I get a nice message from teenagers on Instagram or from parents and siblings of queer children. For example, I was delighted when the book inspired someone to try using a new name or nickname, or helped give them the courage to confide their wishes to one of their parents.

And what about your future plans: what topics do you want to continue exploring in literature and illustration?

I’d say I’m still interested in what shapes a person’s character, and one of those things is relationships—with parents, friends, partners, or even a neighbor. That’s what I’d like to focus on, at least as an illustrator.

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Photo: Nikola Uhle
The interview with author Marita Kelbl was conducted by Karolína Tomečková.

Marek, your debut novel, which is largely set in Přerov, Moravia, is heading for the German market and the Leipzig Book Fair. How do you feel about that? Did it occur to you while writing that the novel might garner international attention?

I think that the specific features of the city, as well as some of its problems that appear in the novel, aren’t unique to it. The problem of housing affordability, abandoned and decaying industrial complexes, and places overgrown with new wilderness aren’t limited to Přerov or the Czech Republic. Personally, I enjoy reading texts set in specific places, moving through the pages in a space I can imagine, even if I haven’t visited it yet. I don’t know if I’ve managed to achieve something similar, but I’d like to think I have.

Your novel is currently one of the most translated in the Czech Republic. How do you explain this success? And what are the reactions across different countries? How does the experience of Moravian Přerov translate, for example, into Spanish?

That’s more of a question for the publisher, and more specifically for the translator. I tend to think it’s primarily the work of Pavlína Juráčková, my literary agent, who handles foreign rights for the Paseka publishing house. I believe literature is an entire ecosystem. An individual author can write the best book imaginable, but without the work and enthusiasm of others—whether editors, translators, agents, and so on—the book may never reach readers. This is all the more true when it comes to literature from smaller languages, which are at a huge disadvantage compared to English. Personally, I’m fascinated by how carefully translators read and what I can learn from them in the process.

Přerov doesn’t exactly have the best reputation in the Czech Republic. Still, do you enjoy going back there? Does the city have anything to offer?

Yes, I do. Přerov fascinates me; it’s an industrial city in the heart of Haná, surrounded by unique natural scenery. It even follows the curve of the Bečva River, and I’m naturally drawn to cities dominated by rivers. For me, it’s a city where I can pinpoint the pressure points of contemporary society. Whether it’s the growing separation of people from nature, loneliness, or the widening gap between the poorest and richest residents. It’s a city-laboratory or a city-showcase. I think the problems it faces are general, structural, and systemic: they’re related to the outflow of jobs and educated people from the regions, or perhaps to neglect from the center.

More novels with queer themes are being published today than ever before. How can a new text capture readers’ interest when certain motifs are repeated? And what does the rise of this literature say about our times?

But many non-queer novels are also being published, and we don’t ask what new they can offer readers; we don’t dwell on recurring themes, but consider them universal expressions of human experience. That’s what these “queer” novels are too—we just haven’t learned to read them through that lens yet. My novel is half the story of a single mother, but for some reason, the narrator’s queer experience overshadows everything. For me, as a queer person, this aspect of my novel wasn’t particularly crucial; my aim was to describe a class experience, to show that the feeling of otherness and exclusion doesn’t have to be limited to sexual identity, but can also stem from class. I think this increase is primarily a matter of demand: we are hungry for stories that reflect the full spectrum of human experience, not just one limited slice.

What has the public’s reaction to the book been? Has anyone told you that the book gave them the courage to open up about their identity and gender with those around them?

They vary, and that’s fine. I enjoy it. And yes, people have reached out. But what pleases and surprises me most is when people with completely different life experiences read the book and manage to take away what I was primarily aiming for—some reflection on their own memory and the impossibility of truly understanding the experiences of others.

When you were going through what "Rozložíš paměť" is about, what helped you realize what you were going through at the time? Where did you look for information, inspiration, or a “lifeline”? Did literature play a role in that—whether your own or others’?

"Rozložíš paměť" is not my autobiography. The novel works a little differently, and although I deal with a lot of things from my own life in it, I work with them quite freely. But what has helped me my whole life are other people’s books; I find solace in them—not in the sense of comfort and understanding, but rather in the relief of experiencing the world differently for a moment, through the eyes and language of strangers, and knowing that I’m not the only one here…

In the novel, you tackle several very difficult topics—such as bullying, domestic violence, or alcoholism. I can imagine that it can be challenging to talk about such things, especially in front of people you don’t know. What helps you talk about these topics publicly in a way that feels safe and manageable for you, rather than retraumatizing? And does it ever bring you positive emotions?

Yes, but everything is perceived through the prism of memory—and memory tends to return everything to us amplified by the rule of stronger memories. While writing, I kept returning to Chris Marker’s short film La Jetée; I was curious whether a single violent image could foreshadow an entire person’s life. That’s why the often gray, featureless days fade away; what remains are those distinct “notches.” They’ll be distorted, exaggerated, and inaccurate, yet at the same time, they’ll shape who we are. I didn’t want to write a safe book; I don’t believe in literature as a safe place, even though I think it is a medium of empathy. But the path to empathy leads precisely through shared pain, through the fact that we see others, even if perhaps not in a flattering light.

In reviews, you’ve been compared to the French writer Édouard Louis. Which other authors do you feel close to, whether in terms of subject matter, writing style, or anything else?

There are quite a few. I like it when books engage in a conversation with one another, even when they contradict each other. I feel close to the poetry of Anne Carson, and to the novels of Virginia Woolf, W. G. Sebald, Ann Quin, and Clarice Lispector. When writing, I generally return much more often to poetry and theory than to prose as such.

In addition to prose, you also write poetry and contribute commentaries on social and political topics to the media (such as Respekt or Druhá směna). Do you feel that you have found your calling in journalism? And in what way is it different for you than writing a novel, where you also address issues such as class inequalities, just in a different way and on a larger scale?

I write journalism because I live in the world. I’m not an extrovert; I’m afraid of crowds, but I feel the need to at least somehow fight against rising fascism, against growing inequalities, and against the increasingly frequent attacks on human rights and civil liberties. And so all that’s left for me is to write. But poetry and prose are slower media for me. They work on the basis of imagery and narrative; they are much more about the nature of language, about its power and when it loses it. They have completely different goals than journalism, even though they may occasionally overlap.

What are you working on now? What brings you joy (not only) in literary terms?

I’m finishing my second novel, tentatively titled Sudden Changes in the Weather. It’s about something I’ve been thinking about for a long time—namely, the growing sense of loneliness, isolation, and a kind of inability to step outside my own head. It’s a bit about microbiology, about cloud seeding, a lot about the weather, and also about the ends of the world. Both the private ones and the societal ones.

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Photo: Paseka
The interview with author Marek Torčík was conducted by Karolína Tomečková.