Léopold Sédar Senghor is 33 years old in June 1940, when the German army captures him near La-Charité-sur-Loire, in central France. Senghor is far from his hometown of Joal, in West Africa (now Senegal). He has by then blazed a brilliant trail as a student, a scholar, and above all, a writer, but that summer, he is also a recruit in the crumbling French army, and a black soldier. After avoiding being executed by his captors on account of his race, they send him to the
Really interesting piece. I wouldn't say that to choose to write in a second language is to reject your first. But I haven't been in that position or wrestled with the dilemma that Achebe and Kundera did.
The part I find most interesting is considering what language carries beyond meaning, as Elif Shafak pondered. For me, what's spoken or voiced contains extra traces of a person's character and being. Almost impossible to translate or rather transmit through copy.
Really interesting piece. I wouldn't say that to choose to write in a second language is to reject your first. But I haven't been in that position or wrestled with the dilemma that Achebe and Kundera did.
The part I find most interesting is considering what language carries beyond meaning, as Elif Shafak pondered. For me, what's spoken or voiced contains extra traces of a person's character and being. Almost impossible to translate or rather transmit through copy.