Lost in Translation: The Curious Obscurity of António Lobo Antunes

May 4, 2012 | 12 8 min read

coverConsidered by many to be Portugal’s greatest living writer, António Lobo Antunes’ relative obscurity in the English-speaking world is something of an enigma. The author of 23 novels, and still, at the age of 69, turning them out with unerring industriousness, Lobo Antunes is quite a big deal in Portuguese-, Spanish- and French-speaking countries. He has his illustrious champions too: George Steiner calls him “a novelist of the very first rank…an heir to Conrad and Faulkner;” no less a canon-builder than Harold Bloom says Lobo Antunes is “one of the living writers who will matter most;” according to J.M. Coetzee, his shorter works, published in English as The Fat Man and Infinity, “are alive with the poetry of the everyday, and tinged with the gentlest of self-mockery.” Every October his name is among those bandied about for the Nobel Prize, yet mention him to most English speakers, even literary types, and you will be met with terribly blank looks.

coverThe irony is it was approval from the United States that made Lobo Antunes his name as a writer. Despite claiming that from the age of seven his sole ambition was to be a writer, he took his time getting started. Speaking in his apartment in central Lisbon — almost every square inch of wall-space lined with books in multiple languages — Lobo Antunes says he initially wrote without intending to get published. A friend finally prevailed on him to submit a manuscript for publication and Elephant Memory appeared in 1979. It was on the publication of his second novel, Os Cus de Judas (idiomatically, “the arse-end of nowhere”, published twice in English under more prim titles, most recently The Land at the End of the World) that things began to, unexpectedly, take off. “I received a letter from an American agent — a big name at the time; I wasn’t going to reply — I thought it was a joke. But I wrote back, thinking, why not, it’d be cool to have an agent in New York. So the first book came out and the reviews were very good. In the U.S., if you have The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, The Chicago Tribune, you have America, and if you have America, you have Europe. It all snowballed — all of a sudden, I had an agent, a publisher, translators, and readers. That was all very strange for me.”

covercoverThat agent was Thomas Colchie, who also broke Manuel Puig and Reinaldo Arenas in the U.S. Back home in Portugal, Lobo Antunes quickly became one of the giants of contemporary literature, locked for a long time in mutual hostility with the late José Saramago — not so much a feud as irritation on the part of each at constant comparison by the media. By the end of the 1980s he was able to give up his job as a psychiatrist in a Lisbon mental hospital and live off his writing. His work reads like a biopsy of Portuguese society over the past 50 years, dealing along the way with the dark days of Portuguese fascism (The Inquisitor’s Manual, published in 1996), the 1974 Revolution and its aftermath (Fado Alexandrino, 1990) and the messy reflux of decolonization (The Natural Order of Things, 1992, and The Return of the Caravels, 1988, in which Vasco da Gama arrives back in post-revolution Lisbon with other “retornados” from Portuguese Africa).

covercoverLobo Antunes’ style is dense and sometimes disorienting, with multiple narrative voices jostling for space on the one page — something which is more marked in recent novels where paragraphs often begin uncapitalized, such is the textual overspill. The novels are not easy to read but neither are they forbiddingly inaccessible. The effect is like studying a painting up close inch by inch, particular by those painters such as Rembrandt and Rothko whose works photographic reproductions don’t really do justice. The books are often a slow read but details remain embedded in the mind long after you have put them down. The British writer he most bears resemblance to in intensity is David Peace, though that doesn’t tell a quarter, never mind half, of the story. Lobo Antunes is much the greater stylist, with his luxuriant imagery beautifully rendered into English by his various translators, among them Gregory Rabassa and Richard Zenith. He has been at times compared to Faulkner, Céline, and Proust, though, when I put this to him, he laughs and says he is nothing like them. But sumptuous as his prose might be, it is bolstered by a masterly rigor and underneath the surface, rage burns. Few novelists ever have produced writing that is at once so gorgeous and so angry.

One of the earliest motors of that anger was his own participation in the bloody colonial wars that Portugal fought from 1961 to 1975 in a desperate attempt to hold onto its empire. Antunes spent 27 months in Angola as an army medic, returning in 1973, 13 months before the revolution that overthrew the fascist regime. One of his company’s officers, the leftist Ernesto de Melo Antunes (no relation) was a leader of the revolution, and Lobo Antunes speaks of him fondly as having been like an older brother. But the war itself was a terrible “extreme” experience with the future novelist witnessing and participating in what he calls “terrible things.” He has never returned to Angola, though says he would like to, being evasive as to why he hasn’t — “things are complicated over there.” Angola was for him a wonderful country, a land of pungent smells, rich colors, and beautiful sunsets, which, if it weren’t for the war, he would have thought of as paradise. He is also amazed as to how forgiving the Angolans he knows are of their former colonial masters — “it’s strange because, if I were Angolan, I would be full of hate, but with them there’s none, only gentle friendship for the Portuguese, they treat you like family.”

Lobo Antunes never talks about his war experiences — “out of respect for the dead” — and, with the exception of The Land at the End of the World, has treated the wars only obliquely in his novels. He is similarly unforthcoming about his books; he says it is “not my place to talk about them.” He is however expansive on other subjects, particularly the process of writing. Despite his prolific output he finds writing hard though, he adds, “it is for anybody who writes.” A few years ago he told an audience in Boston that “writing is not difficult — it is impossible — but sometimes it becomes easy when an invisible force guides your hand.” When he has a book going, his routine is regular and punishing, writing from nine in the morning till 11 at night with two one-hour breaks in between. He dismisses suggestions he toils more than anyone else, saying many a manual laborer works far harder and compared to Dickens, Balzac, or Stendhal, his effort is modest. Though he measures himself against the greats, Lobo Antunes is remarkably humble. He starts from nothing, without anything in mind, without even notes to guide him, and never writes to a plan. Everything is done in longhand — “I like seeing the letters form and smelling the paper” — and he owns neither a computer nor even a mobile phone. Considering how vivid the topography of Portugal is in his novels, this is surprising; the critic Peter Conrad has said that in Lobo Antunes’ novels, the “world [inside the narrators’ head] is the size of a country.” His work is almost like psycho-geography in reverse, Portugal conjured up from nothing in the study at the back of his apartment. Lobo Antunes is so self-effacing as to sometimes disbelieve words he can’t remember writing, wondering “if it would be really honest to put my name on the cover of this book.”

Like most writers, he is beset by doubt. He always wonders if his next book will be his last. After finishing a novel, he is incapable of writing for months, he says, as was the case after the publication in Portuguese last September of his latest novel The Commission of Tears (about the 1977 attempted coup d’état in Angola). He has since started writing again but still does not know what course it is going to take. He has never reread any of his books — not in itself that exceptional among writers but neither does he do public readings. He doesn’t hold onto manuscripts or discarded drafts (though, smilingly, he says he did so for a while “because American universities pay a lot for that sort of thing,” but then started throwing them out again). He doesn’t read reviews anymore either, not for fear they might be bad, but for fear the good ones “might be wrong.” You get the sense his reticence about his books is as much to avoid spoiling them with discussion and you also feel Lobo Antunes is taking the long view on literary fame — at one point, he says, “after your death, your books are all that remain.” If, as Harold Bloom suggests, Lobo Antunes is one of those living writers “who will matter”, the author himself looks to be making careful preparations for his posthumous reputation.

As a reader, Lobo Antunes holds the bar high. He speaks warmly of contemporary writers he admires though those are few. For him the 19th century is the high-tide mark of literary excellence — “at any one time across the world, in America, in the U.S., in Russia and so on, there were 30 or so geniuses all working; today, you’re lucky if you can find five in the whole world.” He also holds the Moderns in high esteem. As for today’s writers, entering the Lobo Antunes canon is as onerous as trying to get into heaven is for the rich man in St. Matthew’s Gospel. While we are talking, he opens a parcel of new books his publishers have sent him; he picks through them, grumbling that they are “shit” (including, amusingly, one by a prominent American writer with quite a reputation for self-importance). Only a Portuguese biography of the late Angolan UNITA leader Jonas Savimbi arouses his interest. Biography is what he mostly reads while writing — with fiction he finds he picks holes and ends up rewriting in his head — the biography he is currently looking forward to most is one of the 20th-century American crime writer and friend of P.G. Wodehouse, Rex Stout. Those writers Lobo Antunes does like include Cormac MacCarthy, whose “monosyllabic brilliance” he praises, and the late W.G. Sebald, who was a friend. On prompting, he also concedes Saul Bellow had some good stuff. But for the most part there is little in contemporary fiction that interests him.

It is certainly not the product of a narrow worldview — Lobo Antunes reads and speaks Spanish, Catalan, English, and French as well as his native language and he tells me he has taught himself enough Russian to be able to compare translations of his beloved Gogol and Chekhov. He speaks particularly highly of English-language translators, placing them above those in the other languages he reads. He also, quite rightly, thinks highly of his own translators in English, more so than his French ones — he says his novels in French have been poorly translated, though he is happy with his latest collaborator, Dominique Nédellac, but one presumes he is not basing that opinion on a full reading of the books.

coverThe last few years have been dramatic — in 2007 he successfully underwent surgery for intestinal cancer — his novel from that year, My Name is Legion, is dedicated to the doctor that “saved my life.” That same year he won the Camões Prize, the Portuguese language’s top literary award and two years ago, he married for the fourth time. His output has not let up, with a new book almost every year. Some of his back catalogue has also seen the light of day in English, with two books apiece issued by W.W. Norton and Dalkey Archive in the past four years. English-language publishers have a lot of catching up to do however; though some of the older books are getting translated only one from the last decade has appeared in English — What Can I Do When Everything’s On Fire? which was first published in Portuguese as far back as 2001. Many of the eight he has written since have appeared in French, German, and Spanish, but not in English. In the U.K. bar two editions, now out of print, that Secker issued in the early 90s, Lobo Antunes has barely been published, with his readers there relying on U.S. imports and his work making only flitting appearances in U.K. bookshops.

So why is he not better known in the English-speaking world? One can understand how the casual reader might find forbidding the work of a man who flatly denies he is a storyteller and who says that “plot, whenever there is one, and usually there isn’t, is just a hook to say the things that interest me.” His near absence from the literary pages, despite the good reviews, is more puzzling though. Lobo Antunes himself is not too fazed. “George Steiner told me he tried to get people in Cambridge interested in my work; he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t known. Someone told me the English just prefer English writers,” he says with a shrug. Stateside, he is far from a household name, but he does at least have the firm grounding for a major reputation. It is true that literature in translation is a notoriously hard sell with the Anglophone publishing world seemingly only capable of handling one big writer at a time — think of, in recent years Sándor Márai, Roberto Bolaño, and Hans Fallada. In all three cases their success in English was, significantly, posthumous. Regrettably, many readers may not come to know António Lobo Antunes’ considerable body of work until all that remains of him is his books.

Image courtesy of the author.

is an Irish writer, translator, and journalist based in Paris. His work has appeared in, among other publications, The Guardian and Irish Left Review, and on France 24, for which he writes a culture blog. He is also on Twitter: @fearraigh75.


  1. (Is he using a hearing aid already? He used to be deaf as a door and refused to do anything about it.)

    No matter how much he says he doesn’t want to discuss the colonial war, he is clearly an intellectual PTSD sufferer. There is no book of his where that sadness of past horrors testified doesn’t show. And as a medic he must have had a horrifying experience. Becoming a psychiatrist after the war is more than a hint.

    One of the best stand up comedy shows I have attended in Portugal was about literature. The comedian picked up Lobo Antunes’s book of interviews with María Luisa Blanco, grabbed the first 10 or 20 pages between his fingers and said “This is where they talk about his books” and doing the same with the rest of the pages “This is where he explains why he should have won the Nobel instead of Saramago”.

  2. I don’t think it’s surprising that Lobo Antunes should be relatively obscure in the English-speaking world; though the writer of this piece alludes to the difficulty of his work, I think he also understates it. And trotting out those discredited serial blurbers Harold Bloom and George Steiner isn’t going to do much to further the cause, either.

    In addition, if you read Portuguese or another language a lot of his books have been translated into, his work becomes a kind of intimidating, undifferentiated mass you don’t know where to start with. How can you know if a book of his you don’t like (as happened once to me) is representative of his talents or not? On this score, this piece provides no guidance (to be fair, if it’s meant for an English-language audience alone I guess it doesn’t need to).

    Claudia’s anecdote made me laugh.

  3. I found the most recent translation of his work, “The Splendor of Portugal,” fantastic. Definitely worth checking out if you’ve read and enjoyed Antunes before.

  4. If António Lobo Antunes is obscure (?!), then what about Urbano Tavares Rodrigues? Its “A Vaga de Calor” is fantastic, but virtually unknown.

  5. I love Antunes’ work. I can understand the reluctance to read him by the masses, but not anyone interested in literature. His novels are dense and black but two pages into any of his books and you know you’re in the hands of a master. I consider Antunes in the same realm as Celine and Bernhard (with a touch of Faulkner thrown in) as far as possessing an absolutely doomed view of mankind. I happen to love this attitude as I think it’s a needed counterbalance to the majority of other writers. Some of his novels have been difficult , however the three or four I have read (An Explanation of the Birds, Act of the Damned, The Natural Order of Things) top my list as far as reading experiences go: pages upon pages of poetic vitriol unparalleled in most modern writing. The shifts of time and voice are also incredible.

    I guess my point is that I hate the fact he is obscure in the United States, but I can well understand why.

    On the topic of the Nobel Prize: I’d love to see Antunes, Javier Marias or Philip Roth (finally!) win it.

  6. Segismundo, a very good place to start with Antunes would be The Fat Man and Infinity. It’s a collection of his crônicas (literary columns that appear in newspapers and magazines–it’s a particularly Lusophone literary tradition), with subject matter that mainly focuses on memories of his childhood, or brief fictional portraits of ordinary people in Lisbon. They were so popular when they appeared in book form in Portugal that you could buy copies in the post office!

    Anyway, this book is a good diving board to limber up before plunging into the deeper, darker work of the novels.

    And if you like the form of the crônicas, try those by Clarice Lispector, the Brazilian novelist and short story writer.

  7. “(including, amusingly, one by a prominent American writer with quite a reputation for self-importance)”


  8. Thanks for this interview. Perhaps it will do something to cure Lobo Antunes’ undeserved obscurity outside the Ibero-French region. He is a great original who deserves to be as widely known and read as any writer alive. And the fact that 10 of his novels are currently available in English translation and used copies can be purchased relatively cheaply at Amazon means that American readers have only themselves to blame if they haven’t heard of him. Yes, his books are difficult, but anyone who has navigated the formal complexities of Ulysses or Gravity’s Rainbow or To The Lighthouse (or ideally, all three) shouldn’t have too much trouble reading them. And Lobo Antunes’ work contain this extraordinary compensation for the difficulty: they are staggeringly beautiful; especially in his earlier novels, ALA writes like a man possessed by a metaphorizing demon. Ignore the gossip about the man and read the books. You won’t be disappointed (If you enjoy a challenge, start with Fado Alexandrino, a long, complex, difficult and astonishingly beautiful novel.)

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