متن زیر را به فارسی تبدیل کن

You can do the same experiment with Nigerian fiction, with Chinua Achebe
and Ben Okri and Wole Soyinka and others, or with Naguib Mahfouz and
Egyptian fiction or with any place or people. I have for many years been a big
fan of Latin American fiction, of García Márquez and Carlos Fuentes and Mario
Vargas Llosa and Isabel Allende and Jorge Amado. I have even read Osman
Lins, and that takes some effort, even to find him. One of the many things I like,
of course, is how they can take me away from the world I know, from suburbs
and soybean fields. But I’m always struck more, ultimately, by the “American”
than by the “Latin,” by how familiar their quests are to someone who grew up
with Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, Natty Bumppo and Ishmael. Once I started
reading other literatures, I discovered that “American” didn’t even have to enter
into it. “It” was about the very human activity of inward voyaging and outward
looking, of invention and discovery through the grappling with one’s history and
culture, however new or old. I think you’ll find much the same thing going on,
the process of self-discovery and identity creation through fiction. The history
connection isn’t always as straightforward as The Scarlet Letter; sometimes it
looks more like The House of the Seven Gables. But it’s at work, this wrestling
with history. The experiment is interesting. Just don’t forget to notice how
different and wonderful these “similar” novels are.
Remember our two columns up above, and what separates them? Here’s the
second question about them: how are they alike? Honestly, I should have made a
career with the SAT. Famous? Sure. Capable? That, too. How about, shot
through with history? Joyce may have had Stephen Dedalus say, “History is a
nightmare from which I’m trying to awake,” but that doesn’t mean the author
himself ever awoke, or could. Or even wanted to. Don’t forget, Stephen is plenty
fatuous. And Joyce wasn’t. Among other things, he was among the early
generations of Irish Catholics to have the opportunity of attending university.
University College Dublin was founded by John Henry Cardinal Newman in
1854 and was necessary because they were, for the most part, excluded from
Protestant Trinity College. Joyce came from ardent nationalist stock, from
people who had looked to Thomas Stewart Parnell as the Moses who would lead
them out of the wilderness of being second-class citizens governed by an
imported minority. He lived through, if at a distance, the 1916 Easter Rising, the
civil war, and the creation of the Irish Free State. He found himself somewhat
closer to World War I and died in Zurich, having fled France after it fell to the
Nazis. Does that sound like someone divorced from history? His books are filled
with reminiscences and opinions, prejudices and beliefs about history,
particularly but not exclusively the Irish variety. The world would be a poorer
place without the terrible Christmas dinner row in Portrait or the Citizen’s
fractured history lesson in Ulysses.
His literary descendent Roddy Doyle gave us wonderful comic characters
and disastrous-hilarious situations in his Barrytown trilogy, starting with The
Commitments, the first of the three novels, that one ostensibly about soul music
but also so much more. The residents of his fictional Barrytown exist because of
a particular history that created down-on-their-luck working-class neighborhoods
that could give rise to a Jimmy Rabbitte, a young man with the right
combination of pluck, vision, and naïveté to found a soul band in Dublin years
after the original music died out. Jimmy is every bit as much the product of
history as Henry Smart, the young revolutionary tough of Doyle’s A Star Called
Henry and Oh, Play That Thing.