Portrait of Inga Zolude
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Mierinājums Ādama kokam

Inga Zolude est née en 1984 et a passé sa maîtrise d’anglais à l’université de Lettonie. Elle a étudié la littérature anglaise à la Southern Illinois University avec le Fulbright Program ou elle a travaillé en tant que coordinateur de projet et gestionnaire dans les domaines de la culture et de l’éducation. En ce moment elle prépare sa thèse de  Doctorat à l’Université de Lettonie. Elle est membre de l’Union des écrivains lettons depuis 2010.

Les textes d’Inga Zolude ont été publiés  dans différents journaux, son premier roman Silta zeme (Warm Earth) ayant été publié en 2008. Elle écrit des critiques d’auteurs Lettons et étrangers. Elle a traduit la poésie de Philip Larkin et de Robert Crawford, entre autres.

En 2007 elle a reçu le prix spécial du magazine littéraire Rigas Laiks. Elle a participé a plusieurs projets culturels et littéraires et a reçu plusieurs bourses, y compris la bourse balte Sleipnir du conseil nordique.

Avec son nouveau livre, Red Children ((Sarkanie bērni), Inga Zolude a gagné le prix annuel de l'Union Lettone des écrivains et le prix du concours 2011 Raymonds Gerkens des philanthropes et entrepreneurs. Red Children est paru aux éditions Dienas Gramata en mars 2012.

Depuis peu Inga Zolude écrit également des pièces de théâtre. Ses histoires et des extraits du roman Warm Earth ont été traduites et publiés dans des anthologies en anglais, allemand, français, suédois, polonais, lithuanien, hongrois, tchèque et d'autres langues.

La collection d'histoires courtes A solance to the Adam's Tree a été traduite en hongrois, tchèque et bulgare.

Inga Zolude est critique litéraire plein temps et finalise son doctorat en études litéraires.

EUPL Country

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Dienas Grāmata
+371 67063129

Publishing House

Translation Deals

Translation Deals
  • Bulgaria: Publishing House Balkani-93 Ltd
  • Czech Republic: Dauphin
  • Greece: Vakxikon Publications
  • Hungary: Noran Libro
  • Italy: Del Vecchio Editore 
  • North Macedonia: Goten
  • Poland: Draft Publishing REGON



Translated by Suzanne McQuade

I’ve become frightened. It’s gone dark now in the park, suddenly there aren’t as many young mums or other mere passers-by, these strange looking people have appeared in their place—red-headed, freckled, looking like elves and speaking in an unintelligible language. I try to reassure myself that they’re just a creation of my fear, and I look for the exit from the park, but I can’t find it. Here at the center there’s a strange church with lights burning inside of it, while the outside is dark, dark, black, and all the doors are shut, locked, covered by grates. I walk around the church, pulling on all the doors, but nothing, some of them are practically cemented shut, until I’m startled, no joke, by the sight of two children in the sandbox at the door of the church. They’re playing in the dark, speaking in unintelligible syllables; I decide it must be one of those strange languages children have, but on listening further, I understand that it’s an actual language, and they look just like all those strangers—their hair in the air, as if blown by the wind, bright red like fire, and faces dotted everywhere with freckles. I hightailed it, racing away from this strange church, running past the crypt, sensing the smell of food cooking and suddenly I remember that I’m hungry, I’ve no idea how many hours I’ve been lost here, the night already grown dark, but my next thought is far more gruesome—they must be bums there in the crypt, bums who cook the very same innocent girls who wander into the park. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, trees racing towards me, I can’t avoid them, I run into one with my shoulder, tripped up by roots, I run stooped over, so no one will see me, until the direct hit… 
A golden pot. A pot of gold. God’s honest word! I wake from a blackout, roots pressed into my side, head aching from the blow of running into a tree. I’m hoping that it was all a bad dream, and now I’ll get up, leave the park, and head home. Even the dark is no longer so impenetrably black, little fires burn here and there. At first I think they’re lanterns, but then I notice how the little fires glimmer rather than shine calmly, they literally flicker, then fade completely, as if the electricity had been cut off. Then the little light ignites somewhere else, begins to flicker and fades again. But I’m noticing it get closer to me each time, until it’s so close that I can see how it starts like a sparkle, and from that sparkle a flame breaks out, and a tiny little green person too, holding some sort of stone pot emitting these beams of light, then it begins to glimmer, and then it disappears: the flame, the tiny person, even the pot and its beams. And I’m left alone again in the dark, gathering up my Irish papers, rising to my feet and heading towards the road.

Supporting Document
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