Anne Bourrel: “translators and publishers ignore east African texts”

Anna Bourrel is a singular voice in contemporary French literature, known for her visceral prose, noir style, and a persistent undercurrent of sensuality and suspense that runs through much of her work. Born in 1970 in the historic city of Carcassonne, in the south of France, she studied literature in Montpellier and Twickenham before working variously as a language teacher and in human resources. Eventually, she turned fully to writing, and today she lives and writes in Montpellier, a city whose layered history and Mediterranean light echo subtly through her fiction.

Bourrel’s oeuvre spans multiple genres: she is a novelist, playwright, and poet, and her writing is often marked by a cinematic quality—evocative, moody, and psychologically intense. She is best known for novels such as Gran Madam’s (2015), L’invention de la neige (2016), Le Dernier Invité, and most recently Le Roi du jour et de la nuit (2023), which was longlisted for the Prix Femina and confirmed her reputation as a bold and distinctive storyteller. Her books have earned her multiple literary prizes, including the Cabri d’or and an award for best play at the Festival de Cognac. Bourrel is also an engaging performer of her works, often reading her texts live with musical accompaniment—an extension of her commitment to language not only as written form but as sound, presence, and rhythm. Whether she is writing crime fiction, poetry, or drama, her work explores the dark edges of desire, memory, and human vulnerability, with a rare intensity that stays with the reader long after the final page.

In this conversation with Geeska, Anne Bourrel speaks with a quiet but pointed intensity about literature, translation, and the shifts in creative imagination. Bourrel also raises urgent questions about the politics of translation and representation. She critiques how major French publishers often rely on English translations when publishing African literature, rather than translating directly from the original languages—a process which, according to Bourrel, “weakens their sonic structure and literary depth,” adding that there is a reluctance to invest in translators who work from Somali, Tigrinya, Oromo, or Amharic. This observation is both a lament and a call to action. For Bourrel, translation is not mere conversion—it is a poetic act of fidelity. “We need not only more translators, but also greater trust from publishers in the literary value of these languages,” she says. Throughout the interview, Bourrel resists easy binaries—between tradition and modernity, machine and human, centre and margin—and instead urges a deeper engagement with complexity, vulnerability, and language as living matter.

Mu’tasim Al-Sha’er: France is a destination for African migrants—some even risk their lives to reach it. Among them are writers, intellectuals, and artists. Perhaps what draws them is the same allure that has long attracted creators from all over the world. I’m reminded now of the film Midnight in Paris (2011) by Woody Allen. I lived vicariously through the protagonist, Gil Pender—a screenwriter who magically travels to 1920s Paris and meets major figures such as Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dalí, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. For lovers of Paris, what is the city today missing in comparison to the one Hemingway described in A Moveable Feast, or the version portrayed by Woody Allen in his film?

Anne Bourrel: I loved that film because it touches on a shared human dream: to go back in time, to travel through history, to meet the authors we read and speak with them as if time hadn’t cut the thread of connection between us. Who among us hasn’t dreamt of asking a question to a writer who has passed, or of sitting with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or Gertrude Stein and hearing directly from them? The film plays with that desire: to find a secret door that leads us into an era we’ve only known through books and inherited memories. If I had that chance, I would have wished to meet the Countess of Ségur, who shaped part of my childhood, or to enter into dialogue with Émile Zola, Emily Dickinson, Léopold Sédar Senghor, Aimé Césaire, or even sit with Gabriel García Márquez or Milan Kundera, or have a lively conversation with Marguerite Duras. And of course, Colette, who was a long-standing model for me. Imagining these impossible conversations is also a way to feel connected to the chain of great writers who changed how we see the world.

But today’s Paris is far removed from the dream portrayed in the film. It’s not just that time has changed, but the city itself—its rhythm, its spirit. Everything is fast, expensive, and sharp. Bodies cross paths without really meeting, in the midst of noise, density, and the endless race against time. The sky is often grey, and the light is harsher than warm. Personally, I don’t find it my natural environment. Every time I have to go, I try to spend as little time there as possible, eager to return to the Mediterranean basin, where spaces are more open, the air purer, and the light brighter. The Paris depicted in Midnight in Paris is a beautified version of reality—a city more imagined than real. And that’s the essence of nostalgia: recreating the past, removing its shadows, and beautifying what serves the story. The Paris of the 1920s still exists—but in books, art, and in the memories we’ve made of it.

MA: It’s not easy for an African writer to become well known in the West, unless they’re as fortunate as Abdulrazak Gurnah, Tayeb Salih, Nuruddin Farah, Abdourahman Waberi, or Maaza Mengiste. Yet globalisation and the communication revolution have expanded writers’ ambitions to reach wider audiences—including us young writers. I’d like to ask about the challenges faced by writers from the Horn of Africa in reaching French readers. Can you compare their situation to that of writers from other parts of Africa, who may be more or less fortunate?

AB: Literature from the Horn of Africa—and East Africa more broadly—is still far from centre stage in the French literary scene. The writers who resonate with French readers are mostly those who write in languages imposed by colonialism—like English, Italian, or French—which today can be seen as African languages too, just as Portuguese is Brazil’s language, Spanish Argentina’s, and French Quebec’s. Writers who are well published and widely distributed in France, such as Abdourahman Waberi (Djibouti) and Maaza Mengiste (Ethiopia), mostly live in Europe or the United States.

In contrast, literary works written in languages like Oromo, Tigrinya, Somali, and Amharic are completely absent from French publishing houses. This situation isn’t limited to the Horn of Africa—it extends to other African regions. Even in West Africa, which I know more intimately, texts written in local languages are rarely translated into French. For instance, Doomi Golo by Boubacar Boris Diop, written in Wolof, is almost the only work that has been translated into French—by the author himself—under the title The Hidden Notebooks in 2009, published by Philippe Rey. The problem, then, is not local but global: French publishers have not yet paid enough attention to these voices. Yet who knows? Perhaps right now, at this very moment, an exceptional novel or a brilliant text is being written in a language no one has thought to translate—whether in Jju, Anfillo, Afar, or Somali!

MA: Are there particular themes or narrative styles that attract French readers when it comes to literature from the Horn of Africa, or is diversity its most notable feature?

AB: I can’t objectively answer that, because I don’t approach texts that way. For me, the subject of the work doesn’t matter as much as the voice, rhythm, and language of the writer—how they breathe through the narrative. I rarely ask myself whether the topic interests me. I look for presence, and that presence can emerge from any corner of the world—so long as the language is vibrant, unique, and deeply embodied.

MA: Since translation plays a key role in spreading African literature globally, how do you assess the impact of French translation on the soul of texts from the Horn of Africa? And do you think there’s a need for more specialised translators in this region?

AB: Translation is a decisive act. But often, when texts from the Horn of Africa are translated, they’re translated from English, which weakens their sonic structure and literary depth.

The national languages of the region—Oromo, Tigrinya, Somali, and Amharic—are rarely translated directly into French. The problem isn’t just a lack of translators; it’s that the entire publishing chain ignores these voices. Yet translation isn’t merely a linguistic transfer—it’s a revival of the text in a new language. As Aimé Césaire wrote in Notebook of a Return to the Native Land: “You shall be my mouth, the mouth of those who have no mouth…”, but that mouth must be faithful, conveying the breath without suffocating or distorting it.

We need not only more translators, but also greater trust from publishers in the literary value of these languages.

MA: Do you believe the African novel can bring about a revolution in the French literary landscape, as other literatures have at various times?

AB: Yes, I do believe that. But perhaps we must first stop referring to “African literature” as if it were a homogeneous entity.

It’s impossible to summarise the African novel with a single definition, just as we cannot do so with European or American fiction. The label is vague, expansive, and sometimes misleading.

What I hope for from any writer, regardless of origin, is that they free their imagination and create their own world.

The entire world is a novel in the making, but the reader must accept that this novel speaks all the languages of the Earth.

MA: Writers often complain about declining reading rates due to the distractions of technology. What is the reading situation like in the West? And as a writer, are you worried that technology or artificial intelligence might threaten the future of literature?

AB: It’s true that reading no longer holds the place it once did. Screens have taken over our attention, and our focus is constantly fragmented. It’s become difficult to sit down, open a book, and immerse oneself in its narrative without being interrupted by phone notifications or digital temptations.

Still, I don’t believe the book will disappear. It has endured through centuries, survived the rise of cinema, television, and the internet, and will continue to exist—albeit in new forms. Reading is still alive, but it takes different shapes.

Printed books now compete with digital reading, and modes of text consumption are changing. Some people read intermittently or listen to audiobooks while walking. That’s not necessarily negative; what matters is that literature continues to spread and enrich imagination, even if it adapts to the fast pace of modern life.

MA: And what about artificial intelligence?

AB: As for AI, I don’t see it as an immediate threat. Can it produce texts? Yes. But can it replace the writer’s unique vision of the world, their relationship with language, their inner tensions? No.

Writing is not just the logical arrangement of words—it’s pulse, rhythm, and silences filled with meaning. It’s an existential experience, a journey of doubt and exploration—something no machine can truly replicate.

MA: So you’re not worried about it?

AB: I’m not as worried about AI as I am about the declining desire to read in a world flooded with instant and fast content. Reading requires slowing down, immersing oneself in a different time.

If we lose that ability, and if we fail to pass on that passion to future generations, only then will literature truly be at risk.

But as long as there are readers searching for that depth, literature will remain alive.

MA: Do you believe we are in need of a new vision to engage with reality? I don’t know—maybe it will be born in Paris again. The city once exported literary “trends” to the world: the Nouveau Roman with Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarraute, Claude Simon, Michel Butor; or the New Wave in cinema with François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Éric Rohmer, Alain Resnais. Are we now in an age of individuality, where it’s hard for a collective movement to propose a new vision for life and creativity?

AB: It’s clear we no longer live in the era of grand literary movements like those that marked the 20th century.

Creativity today is more fragmented, more diverse. This isn’t because new ideas are absent, or because influential writers no longer exist, but because the collective dynamism that once defined movements like the Nouveau Roman or the Nouvelle Vague no longer carries the same momentum. There are many reasons for this. First, the world has changed: artists today are more dispersed, less anchored to any particular place. Social media reinforces individual trajectories rather than nurturing collective ones. Each writer builds their own world, their unique style, without feeling the need to belong to a specific literary school. Second, there is a certain scepticism towards “literary manifestos,” which can sometimes be as constraining as they are liberating.

Today, artistic experimentation occurs in quieter, more scattered ways. There are still bold formal explorations in contemporary literature, but they no longer present themselves as “-isms” or defined schools. That said, writers still write together and create shared spaces. On the contrary, there’s a growing desire for collaboration and the blending of voices, as evidenced by the increasing number of collective projects. For instance, the publishing house I’m part of released a collective volume last year titled STOP, bringing together 68 writers to reflect on eco-capitalism and its impact on the world. This year, we’re releasing another volume, From One Library to Another, gathering multiple authors around the idea of the places and books that shaped them. These collective works affirm that literature remains a space for dialogue, even if it no longer translates into unified movements. Perhaps we’re in an interstitial moment—something new is taking shape, though it has not yet fully emerged. The future may well surprise us, and we might find ourselves swept up in a new collective literary current we never anticipated.

MA: May I be permitted to say, with all due respect, that the West has corrupted the beauty of literature by subjecting it to economic standards? Today, most readers engage only with books that appear on bestseller lists, those adapted into successful films, or those that win prestigious literary prizes with generous financial rewards. An author’s popularity is now measured by their follower count on Instagram, Facebook, and X. This has led to the rise of a new generation of cultural influencers who are less intellectually profound than those who came before—so much so that it is now difficult to imagine the emergence of influential figures like Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, Pierre Bourdieu, Jacques Lacan or Claude Lévi-Strauss. Does this economic system enrich literature, or does it harm it?

AB: That’s a profound and necessary question, and I fully understand the concern it expresses. Literature has always navigated the tension between creative ambition and commercial pressure. But it’s true that marketing and profitability now dominate the publishing industry to an unprecedented degree. There is a brutal filtration process, a rigid standardisation, and media visibility often depends on criteria completely unrelated to the quality of a text. Yet I would not go so far as to say that “the West has ruined literature.” Books are still being written and published outside the dominant economic system, and they find readers through alternative means: word of mouth, independent bookshops, literary festivals, and shared readings. There is powerful resistance, and literature continues to thrive beyond market dictates—even if it exists on the margins.

That said, one must acknowledge that writers, like any professionals, need to earn a living. Writing is a vocation, and it is not natural for writers to have to take on other jobs merely to survive. The reality is that only a small fraction of writers can live off their book royalties. Most rely on supplementary income—through writing residencies, teaching, lectures, or commissioned projects. The notion that creativity is a luxury or a hobby pursued in one’s spare time is reductive.

In a just society, a writer should be able to live from their craft, just as a doctor or a plumber does. Literature is not a mere cultural indulgence—it is an intellectual endeavour that shapes collective imagination, reshapes our understanding of the world, and challenges power and reality. So why should literature be relegated to the peripheries, practised only in the gaps between “real” jobs? Writers generate value—not necessarily in purely economic terms, but by producing meaning, influencing collective thought, and enriching the cultural fabric. Still, they should not be hostages to the market, nor forced to brand themselves constantly. The issue isn’t with selling books, but with reducing them to mere consumer products subject to the same rules as any commodity. What’s needed is a new model—one that balances creative freedom with sustainable livelihoods for writers.

As for social media, it has undeniably transformed the way we talk about literature—for better and for worse. It has created new spaces for engagement, where enthusiastic readers can spotlight books that would otherwise be ignored by traditional media. But it has also turned writers, willingly or not, into “products”—public figures who must promote themselves as much as they do their work. In the past, books had time to find their audience. Today, if they do not succeed immediately, they disappear from the shelves. And yet, literature is not dead, nor is it dying. There are still writers who write with deep seriousness, publishers who take risks, and readers who yearn for something beyond fast-selling fiction. Literature may have become more discreet, but it endures—quietly, but tenaciously—away from the clamour of the marketplace.

MA: What currently occupies your thoughts? Do you have a new project in the works?

AB: I’m always juggling several projects, but my primary focus right now is a novel with the working title Natasha Ember. Natasha is the child who appeared in my first novel, The Last Guest, published in Arabic by Willow House. She has now grown into an eccentric and psychologically troubled mother. The story unfolds on a Mediterranean island where the sea has receded, leaving behind marshlands and perpetual darkness. It’s a tale suspended between reality and fantasy, where the characters are enigmatic and the atmosphere tinged with strangeness. I’m drawn to this grey zone, where ambiguity veils truths that are often more brutal. In parallel, I’m working on another project titled The Heap—a short story collection. Each story is inspired by one of seventeen books I gathered during a brief stay in Belgium. I draw from a sentence, a silence, a character, or a narrative technique to construct a new story, so that each book yields its own independent tale.

I’ve also begun writing another novel that will be a tribute to the sea. I haven’t settled on a title yet, but the characters are already taking shape, and I’ve written about fifty pages so far. I plan to return to it once Natasha Ember is complete.