Thais Carrion

By Thais Carrion

This article was originally published in Washington Independent Review of Books here.

Sandra Worth’s most recent novel, Tomorrow We Will Know, is an epic situated during the fall of Imperial Constantinople and told through the romance between Emperor Constantine and Zoe, the daughter of his grand duke. Navigating this tumultuous period and the personal stories of three main characters, Worth weaves a riveting tapestry of the love that drove the actions at the heart of Constantinople’s fall. The familiar tale of the cowardice at the root of the city’s end is turned here into one of intense bravery and emotion that considers the humanity behind the events that took place. 

Tomorrow We Will Know unfolds in a rapidly changing Constantinople. What inspired you to turn your attention to this time and place?

I first became intrigued by Constantinople when I read mention of the mysterious light phenomena that had plagued the city in the last days of its existence — phenomena that still baffle modern scientists. All I knew then about the ancient city was that it had been the seat of the Roman Empire for 1,100 years and was all that remained of that great civilization when it fell. Years later, I came across another mention of Constantinople, and an image of fire, death, and crumbling walls flashed into my mind. I began to read about the period, and the more I read, the more engaged I became. 

The novel explores these events through the lens of a love triangle between Zoe, Constantine, and Justiniani. How did you develop their stories? And were there any characters that you found especially intriguing to write about?

All my novels are set in wartime and driven by the love story, because war is dark, and love is the only light. Sometimes, the love story is writ large in the historical record, but sometimes it’s buried, as it was with Constantinople. The picture that emerged — the love triangle — surprised even me. 

Emperor Constantine’s story is a matter of record. When he wept for his people, his ministers witnessed his tears. We know his character and his hopes and dreams. We know he was a man of great courage who refused to flee his country, though his ministers begged him to leave. Into this dangerous world hovering on the edge of extinction came brave, dashing, princely Justiniani for the noblest of reasons. He was closer to Zoe’s age than Emperor Constantine. It was a time of crisis. Did he fall in love with her? How did Zoe feel about him? 

I modeled Zoe’s character on what was known of her in Venice. She had a good heart, was generous, resourceful, and of high intellect, with a literary bent. I found nothing to indicate a relationship of any kind between her and Justiniani, but that is not surprising. Affairs of the heart were more likely to fuel gossip than record-keeping. 

You ask about an especially intriguing character, and that has to be Justiniani. Constantinople was expected to fall within days to the Ottomans, but Justiniani changed that. Thanks to his courage, charisma, and military brilliance, 5,000 men withstood 150,000 enemies for seven weeks and nearly won an unwinnable war. Yet Justiniani abandoned his post just as the sultan was about to call the final retreat and Constantinople was about to win the war.

How did you tackle narrowing down the scope of this story? 

As significant, momentous, and far-reaching as time has proved this historical event to be, the people in this extraordinary tale are what I focused on. History offers a stunning backdrop to the story, but it is the human heart and the resilience of the human spirit that I find awe-inspiring. Turkey won. They went on to win for a very long time. It took Europe 125 years after the fall of Constantinople to win its first victory against the Ottomans. It took Europe another 125 years to finally liberate itself from the threat of annihilation. Only Justiniani and a few brave Italians answered the emperor’s call for help. My book salutes their valor.

Your novel intertwines fiction with real events. How do you navigate the line between staying true to historical events and incorporating imaginative elements to engage readers?

Historical accuracy is always paramount for me because my readers expect it. Sometimes, there are conflicts in the historical accounts, and I’m obliged to choose which to follow. But when I have to fill empty spaces, I always strive to connect the dots between the events as plausibly as I can because I’m searching for the way it really happened. In the case of Constantinople, there weren’t any blank historical spaces to fill that I can recall. Except for Justiniani’s motivation at the end, we know from the diaries and writings of the many survivors precisely what happened. Only romance left wide blank spaces free for my imagination. 

More relevant to storytelling is the need to keep the reader engaged by creating drama. I didn’t find that difficult here. Those who came before us lived with an appalling amount of drama in their lives. How they dealt with it and kept going when we ourselves might have given up is what keeps me enthralled. It all comes down to the resilience of the human spirit. They may have won the battle and lost the war, but even across the ages, their deeds blaze with light and warm the heart. They deserve to be celebrated. Even 600 years later, they have something to teach us. We can learn from their fortitude when we face our own battles in our modern life.

By Thais Carrion

This article was originally published in the Washington Independent Review of Books here.

In his forthcoming collection, Inquilinos Mudos/Silent Tenants, Mexican poet, multimedia artist, and professor Alberto Roblest celebrates the power of being bilingual. Divided into two sections comprising 19 poems printed in English and Spanish, the work takes readers on an exploration of the richness of language, playing with form and word choice to create vivid scenes that evoke a range of emotions. Taken as a whole, the collection is a love letter to the trials and triumphs of expressing oneself through multiple tongues.

Themes of migration, colonialism, and history are central to this collection. How did writing in both English and Spanish help you explore them more deeply?

One of the central themes of the book is language and people who learn another language. In “Silent Tenants,” language is perhaps the main protagonist of the collection; of course, it touches on themes that have to do with migration, but also with love, music, friendship, and learning. When one can carry [on] a conversation with another person for, say, 15 minutes, it’s a very big achievement. You can feel it. I can tell you from personal experience. Speaking the official language makes one feel more secure, regardless of skin color, accent, manners, clothing, etc.

“Silent Tenants” is essentially about my neighbors in Columbia Heights, from their life experiences, from their difficulties to continue working two shifts in order to pay the rent, but also from their pleasure in learning another language, having other friends, non-Latinos, talking with co-workers, etc. In general, the success of being bilingual. Some poems are based on real people, like the one titled “Clara.” This poem is about a woman I met at a language school where I worked teaching Spanish. She was learning English and worked for a cleaning company specializing in movie theaters, arenas, and other entertainment venues.

What was it like to explore these themes in two languages? And what does literature in translation mean to you?

It’s always good to have your book translated since it addresses two audiences and more readers. Maritza Rivera, the English translator, did an excellent job. She took great care to find the right words that preserve the original meaning of the poems. When a translator manages that, it is of great benefit to the book. As for the writing, sometimes I think the poems in Spanish, and other times in English. I like to go to the National Gallery of Art to have coffee, surround myself with artistic pieces, and read. Washington is a privileged place in that sense, where the museums are free and so many places exist where you can read and be inspired.

When it comes to creative expression, how does working in video or digital media compare to writing?

I started writing at a young age — I would have been about 10 years old or so — inspired by a magnificent literature teacher. My mother wanted me to be a doctor or an architect, so I wrote all my life in secret. I did not share my poetry for fear of being branded corny, cheesy, and ridiculous. Many of my early poems have been lost to time. I didn’t publish anything until I was 19, when I was about to enter university. What I want to say is that I define myself as a poet. Video semantics [are] just an additional tool. I make use of video tools. With them, I “write” poetry. I do the same with the art installations I’ve created, and many of my digital prints are conceived or designed as poetry. That is to say, I consider them poems rather than collages, digital paintings, montages, or installations.

You experiment with form throughout this collection. When writing poems, does thinking in terms of form complicate or enhance the process?

I like experimentation. It’s like playing. Particularly, I think you must have fun while performing the creative act. I experiment not only with form, but also with content. I get bored doing the same thing all the time. I [lose] interest, and after a while, I don’t like it anymore. So, I vary my approach a bit. Obviously, making a video takes more time. Sometimes, there’s a long preparation process; sometimes, it involves a team, etc. The good thing about poetry is that it remains such an intimate act that it can be written anywhere, even on the subway, on the way from home to work. While many people are immersed in their phones, I am immersed in my poems. I put them on old-fashioned paper, with an old pencil, in a small notebook that I keep in my jacket pocket. I believe that poetry itself is an act of experimentation with the word and nothing more.

Are you thinking about the visual component of a poem — and how it might impact the reader — when experimenting with form?

I like visual poetry. I am not very given to esoteric, metaphysical, or symbolic poetry. I prefer the poetry that is written about the events that happen around me — the poetry that feeds on reality to become a sign or a metaphor. I do not think that the experimental form is inconvenient for reading; if the language and the meaning of the poem serve their purpose, it can be as experimental as a Dada poem.

By Thais Carrion

This article was first published in DC Trending here. 

Creatures of Passage pays tribute to an unseen southeast DC, a magical, dark, humid space where the dead walk amongst the living and intuition rules the land. Blending Egyptian mythology and the strong black history of Anacostia, author Morowa Yejidè, gives us a world where there are no states or counties, instead, kingdoms and fiefdoms spread out along the East Coast.  A cast of characters find themselves inevitably drawn to the mystical realm of Anacostia, a place where “Dreams come true even when you don’t want them to.”  In an endlessly dark story, the tragedies faced by each character interconnect and join in a heart-racing climax, where many must finally confront their ghosts in order to move forward with their lives.

We first learn about Nephthys Kinwell — a mysterious driver with a half-finger and a supernatural sense for lost souls — when she is summoned by the wandering hearts of Anacostia’s residents. She never fails to show up in her haunted 1967, blue Plymouth Belvedere, which never breaks down, runs out of gas or gets pulled over despite her inebriated state of driving. She is a somber character, always on the move, so as not to feel the pain after losing her twin brother, Osiris. 

Nephthys, her nephew Dash, and his mother Amber Kinwell (the death witch of Anacostia) are simultaneously reviled and rendered indispensable residents of Anacostia. For all the fear and mysticism generated around the family, the Kinwells guide the wandering hearts of Anacostia through their painful journeys and individual tragedies.

Helplessness is center to the story and Yejide masterfully cultivates dramatic irony across every new scene and character. Jumping through timelines, the narrator never fails to include the developments of the future that render our character’s present conflicts and worries futile. Much like the nature of death and rebirth, futility and the promise of change play big roles in the undercurrents of the story as characters are swept up in their respective paths and ultimately forgotten by the future and the gentrification of Anacostia’s black history.

Yejide’s intensive use of dramatic irony is a nod to our own privileged lives.  Writing about places of privilege within the structures that govern so much of our daily lives is a topic Yejide navigates subtly, but clearly drawing a line between the reader and the realities of her characters.

The magical kingdom descriptions of the east coast and its neighboring states work to further separate the Anacostia of the ‘70s and our own understandings of the United States and its history.  Anacostia’s black heritage feels like an otherworldly, anachronistic place, one fully separate from the development and gentrification that has taken over the area today.

Yejidè is careful in telling her story with its histories and complex inner worlds. Much like a ride through the river Styx, Creatures of Passage starts off with a clear purpose, loses its way in the tragedy of the lost souls along the path, but finds purpose anew as tragedies are weaved in and move closer towards closure and release.

Yejidè’s odyssey confronting relevant current societal issues has set her apart as one of 16 nominees for the Women’s Prize for Fiction long list. Championing the voices of women writers on the global stage, the Women’s Prize for Fiction goes beyond a simple award by working with libraries, and writers, organizing reading groups, and events, and prioritizing free resources to honor the work of historically marginalized writers.