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From Arsenic to Prussic Acid Years after Emma Bovary poisoned herself with arsenic, Eleanor Marx – daughter of Karl Marx and one of the first people to translate Madame Bovary into English – took her own life by drinking prussic acid. Shortly after the novel’s translation, the motifs of Emma’s life started appearing in Marx’s: unfaithful men, accumulating debts, and adultery. Many contemporary discussions of Madame Bovary in translation still discuss Eleanor Marx’s version of 1886  and the similarities between her and Flaubert’s protagonist. Distancing myself from such comparisons, I compare Marx’s rendition with Lydia Davis’ 2010 translation in order to

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Review, Translations
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"Haven 5" by Nicole Sayegh Do jasmines live in Berlin?Do they bloom in Oslo, Boston, or London?On an evening stroll in Prenzlauer Berg,will I be intoxicatedby the hedonistic smell of a wild jasmine? What if I take my jasmine tree with mewhen I leave? Googling: How to smuggle trees across international borders?Googling: Prison time for cross-border jasmine smugglers. I want to savor the jasmine flowers bloomingfrom my balcony. I want to chew the tenderwhite buds and digest them. When we were children, the grownups warned usagainst eating watermelon seeds lest they grow into treesin our bellies. If I

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Poetry
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"Plasticity" by Sandra Ghosn if I wrote to you a family story you would want to know how we relate – you and I. are you white? does it interest you that I am a bit white? everyone finds familiarity familial but I – I disappoint everyone I know – expectation is a currency squandered on a crowd  everyone is a bit white. white blood cells are all we have to protect us clear and seminal and cyclical like God growing and growing until cancers appear a joke that google cannot erase though she would like to I am told white cells

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Poetry
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"Tabriz Cemetery 2" by Sajed Haqshenas اختارت روى روكز وسارة صفي الدين، من فريق التحرير في القسم العربي، أربع قصائد للشاعرة لويز غليك التي حازت على جائزة نوبل للآداب. تحوم تلك القصائد حول الغربة، غربة الآباء والأجداد وآثارها على الذاكرة، تحاكي الغياب كما يتجلّى في الموت والهجرة والعزلة، فيما تقف لويز بعيدةً، تراقب شخصيّاتها وتتماهى معها. ترجم القصائد الشاعر سامر أبو هواش في مجموعة شعرية صدرت تحت عنوان "عجلة مشتعلة تمر فوقنا" (منشورات الجمل/الكلمة، ٢٠٠٩).   أسطورة   جاء جدي إلى نيويورك من "دلوا": وتوالت العثرات. في هنغاريا كان أكاديمياً، صاحب امتياز. ثم جاء الفشل: صار مهاجراً يلفّ التبغ في مستودع

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ترجمة, شعر
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"Untitled" by Nour Mouslim i used to share a bed with the clattering city,insulated only by white sheets, window screens awoken daily by a small bird’s voice, listen:isn’t this noise? i’d like to be that bird. i click my tongueuntil it blisters. i’m told this is disruptive. i could be louder,if you like. i could be louder & choose onlyto make myself known. in my home we are surrounded bysilence and so you hear everything. back there, we were surrounded byeverything and so we heard the birds. i’ve said too much. i have onlybeen silent twice, once

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Poetry
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Photograph by the author Filtered through branches and clouds and greens, the afternoon sun creates a kaleidoscope of rays and shades and flickers and birds.  “It looks refreshing there,” the others say.  It’s those first few minutes of a call, when not everyone is there, when noting things in the background fills the glitching silence. For a moment, I feel that my here—their “there”—doesn’t have to be the here that it is.  I try to respond. But it’s hard to find easy words to describe a depthless picture hovering behind them.  I really want to say something witty—funny—about the image. It’s

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Non-Fiction
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#1 نداءان   حين عرفتُك، كانَ الله ولدًا صغيرًا يصطادُ ذئابًا ترعى الزّجاج عن ركبتيّ ويعلّمها العواءْ والكونُ مشطَ زجاجٍ كانْ منغرسَ الأسنانْ في جمجمةِ عجوزٍ خرساءْ كسّرهُ صوتُ غناء ذئابٍ ابتلعت حناجرَها الوديانْ فتشظّى، حين عرفتُك، فوق ركبتيّ قلتُ: تعالَ إليّ وكان الوقتُ قِرطَ زمرّدٍ في شحمة أذنٍ صمّاء يَقطُرُ فيها خيطُ بكاء والآن يتخثّر اسمُكَ في فمي قطرةَ دمٍ صفراء.

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arabic, Poetry
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"Callisto" by Omar Khouri, 2019, Gouache on 300 gsm rough Arches paper 111x77 cm You wonder, as you contemplate the world’s end,If you had done well, done right, by your unborn children.Your womb is no safe place for a child. You know this.Your womb cannot make life for this life.This you knew all along.You told yourself you can’t bear childrenThat the flesh would not stick for longWith each blood cycle, you told yourselfIs it because you knew, all alongThat you don’t want this life                 that you never didThat somehow you are here, because someone decidedThat the time

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Poetry
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Photograph by Sima Qunsol By Nadim Abdul-Hadi, translated from the Arabic by Madeline Edwards. 1 I remember, and I forget… I’m happy when I sit down again with my Amnesia. He is a dear friend. He is kind and tender. He prefers to listen, rather than speak. He comes to me when I’m feeling nostalgic. Sometimes he dresses up like some sort of court jester. Other times he wears a preacher’s cloak. We sit together in my living room, where he delights simply in stepping out of his silence for a while, and speaking. He has a kind of magic when he talks.    2   The

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Fiction, Translations
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Photography by Nour Annan The first time I broke a bone, I was twenty-five years old. I fractured my right hand while exercising. The base of my pinky was cracked open and required immobilization. Otherwise, as my doctor cold-heartedly put it, "I'd have to perform a surgery where I break it further to have it heal in the right position.” This injury reshaped my relationship with the hands of those around me and changed the way I perceive my own. It made me realize the strength my hands had built up over the years, despite all odds. I remember sitting anxiously in

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Non-Fiction
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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