What I hate about literatures of endangered languages is that they really overdo the folksy thing. After a millionth novel set in a bucolic countryside where everybody dances barefoot over a freshly picked crop of the eminently local whatevers and exchanges hoary tales of hamlet wisdom, one begins to wonder if nobody who speaks the language has ever gotten off the pumpkin cart and discovered the wonders of electricity and these newfangled devices called shoes. 

Saizarbitoria doesnt follow this unfortunate trend. He writes in Basque with such easy, unapologetic freedom that you’d think the world hegemony of this language is an incontrovertible fact. And I love it.


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