‘Literature’s timeless quality is as relevant today as it was yesterday.’ Meet Askold Melnyczuk: A literary bridge between cultures and continents

Born in Irvington, New Jersey, Askold Melnyczuk is an accomplished writer whose roots trace back to Ukraine, where his parents sought refuge after fleeing the turmoil of World War II. Their journey from a refugee camp in Germany to the United States and the cinematographically bright stories he grew up with shaped the power of his storytelling.

Melnyczuk’s novels, “What Is Told,” “Ambassador of the Dead,” “House of Widows,” and “The Man Who Would Not Bow,” weave intricate narratives that explore the human experience through a unique lens. Several were recognized as New York Times Notable Books and L.A. Times Best Books of the Year.

But Askold Melnyczuk’s impact extended far beyond his own writing. As a passionate advocate for cultural exchange, he played a pivotal role in introducing Ukrainian literature to English-speaking audiences. Through his translations of works by celebrated Ukrainian authors like Oksana Zabuzhko and Ivan Drach, he opened doors to new perspectives and enriched a literary landscape that has rapidly changed over the last few years.

We first met years ago at an initiative for Lviv—UNESCO City of Literature and, since then, each opportunity to meet created another warm memory, and added to the very strong feeling that “here is a reliable ally, no matter what.” The only challenge of meeting with Melnyczuk? It’s mission impossible to end conversations with him, especially because he never talks about himself, but about others.

Chytomo: We started this interview with you sharing your last published text “War Stays for Dinner,” which reminded me of reading “Amadoka” by Sophia Andrukhovych because of, in short, their similarly deep exploration of Jewish history and the personal touches throughout.

Could we start by discussing the idea that “history is a nightmare from which I’m trying to get a good night’s sleep”? How do you relate to this notion on a personal level?

Askold Melnyczuk: It’s an ongoing internal dialogue I have with myself. On the one hand, I know that personally, I had wanted to escape the history I inherited from my parents. This was in part because they were refugees who arrived in the United States in 1950. Refugees in those days were called “displaced persons,” an anodyne,  neutering term that really removes the edge from what the experience was actually like. It was the experience of refugees who longed to go back to their native land that they loved.

My sister and I were born here in the United States and were surrounded by a very different landscape, a very different sort of historical and cultural situation, which was, after all, relatively peaceful and amicable. Hearing the complexity of the stories they had lived through seemed both surreal and hard to fathom since it did not have any echoes in the world immediately around me. This is, of course, how it looked from a child’s perspective.

As I grew older, I began to understand that the past had once been as real as the present, and that there was this thing called history and that there was much to be gained from recognizing and acknowledging it. In fact, history was something that you had to face in order to understand who you really were, where you were, and why you were there. Historical knowledge offers us an essential point of reference. Some people seem to get by without it, but that line that you quoted, from the American writer Delmore Schwartz, “History is a nightmare during which I’m trying to get a good night’s sleep,” is itself a riff on a famous quote from James Joyce, “History is a nightmare from which I’m trying to awake.” Joyce’s quote underscores the burden of history. In fact, Joyce left Ireland hoping to escape history’s legacy. Instead, he spent much of the rest of his life recreating it in fictions that transformed the art. Joyce’s feeling about Ireland’s history reflected something of the way I felt about Ukrainian history.

If you surrender entirely to the burden of the past, then you really are, in fact, going to be trapped in parameters that were created by others under entirely different circumstances. To be free inside the context of history, I think it is both necessary to recognize and acknowledge the past, but also to understand that the past does not need to be repeated in the present.

I remember, many years ago, having a conversation with the American critic and writer Susan Sontag. We were sitting in her kitchen talking about a book of hers that had just been published called “Regarding the Pain of Others.” It’s a very moving, very fine, and thoughtful book that she wrote on the heels of her experiences in Sarajevo, and a life spent reflecting upon what it means to be affected by the suffering of others far away from you. There’s a moment in that book where she suggests that what the world really needs is a pill that will allow us to forget the past so that we can begin with a kind of clean slate.

A simplified explanation of her argument is the following: If my relationship with you is conditioned by what my father said to your father,  which itself was determined by what your grandfather said to my grandfather, which was shaped by what your great-grandfather said to my great-grandfather, and so on, how can we ever see each other as individuals? How can we ever change the nature of the relationship? So let’s erase all of it, let’s start with a clean slate. That, in essence, is how I understood her argument. 

That, I countered, is a kind of sweet pharmaceutical fantasy, but it’s never going to happen. And probably we wouldn’t want it to. So what we really need to do is to remember the past, acknowledge it, but also learn to forgive. Because without our capacity for forgiveness, for recognizing that what your father did to my father is, in fact, not something that you and I need to repeat; we’ll never succeed in changing the dynamic between us. It is up to us to recognize that we have some choice in the matter, we are free to make different decisions. We can learn from history. There are grudges that are passed on for generations, and we see those playing out in so many areas in the world right now.

Chytomo: However, it’s worth mentioning that the situation in Ukraine is quite different and acute. It’s not just about what our fathers did in the past, but very much about the present. Moreover, this is a complex issue because we’re not dealing with the “pain of others” but with our own. We must remember, but also reflect on how our memories shape who we become in life. This could be a good starting point to discuss your personal journey and Ukrainian heritage. Could you share your family’s journey from Ukraine to the United States, and how this history has shaped your identity?

Askold Melnyczuk: My parents met in Przemyśl, [Poland], where my mother grew up and my grandfather was a school teacher at the Ukrainian gymnasium. My grandfather had studied Byzantine art and art history at the University of Vienna. His brother was the Ukrainian representative to the Austro-Hungarian parliament, and later to the Polish Sejm, and he was very engaged in Ukrainian cultural activities. My father was from Chernivtsi. His parents brought him to Przemysl so he could attend one of the last high schools in the region still conducting classes in Ukrainian. My mother’s father was his teacher —and that’s how they met at the start of the war. 

It was a turbulent time for my mother’s family. My mother had to drop out of university in Lviv to return to Przemyśl to help care for her dying mother and for her younger sister, Christine, who was six at the time. This was in 1940–41. By 1942, Przemyśl had been invaded. The city was split by the river Sian. One side was occupied by the Soviets and the other by the Germans.

During the summer of 1943, my mother’s family lived on the German-occupied side of the city. The Germans had already created a ghetto and had begun deporting Jews to concentration camps. They’d also started murdering them outright and transporting the bodies at night to mass graves in the Jewish cemetery. One night, my mother answered a knock on the door. Standing there was my grandfather’s former student Isidore Shefler and his new wife. The Sheflers were family friends who had once been neighbors. The newlyweds had faked their deaths and had managed to escape from the cemetery. My grandfather took them in, of course. My uncle spent the night creating a false wall in their large pantry behind which the Sheflers lived for nearly a year.

Chytomo: There is another quote that stayed with me, the burning words of that young Jewish couple, “They said that we were married not long ago and hadn’t even started living yet, but it seems like it’s time for us to die …”. Horrendous and so real.

Askold Melnyczuk: That was a quote my mother often repeated when she spoke at synagogues. She even recorded her story for Steven Spielberg’s “Shoah” project. There [are] all sorts of stories which feel surreal, improbable,  and yet we know reality is often stranger than fiction. Like the story about “Captain Violin,” for instance. “Captain Violin” — my mother’s name for him — was a Gestapo officer who would drop by some evenings to play the violin while my mother accompanied him on the piano. Here’s where history comes in —  my grandfather and “Captain Violin” had served together in the Austro-Hungarian army during the First World War. The captain never knew his audience included the Sheflers.

Hearing these stories as children, my sister and I didn’t know what to make of them. Everything about them was strange , [from] the setting, the country, the war itself. What did these have to do with our quiet lives in suburban New Jersey? They seemed like something out of a movie. They were the historical nightmare from which we spent years trying to escape. And yet here I am, now, in 2024, still talking about them.

As kids, we think of our families as self-contained units. Only later do we begin to understand the larger picture, the complex context inside which we all actually live.

Our parents could never put the past behind them. The nightmare of history never quite ended for them. As a result, they weren’t able to fully engage with the new world in which they found themselves. Don’t get me wrong. My father worked hard at his job and both my parents took their duties and privileges as citizens seriously. They believed strongly in the importance of community engagement. For them, that meant working in the Ukrainian diasporic community. My mother taught Ukrainian Saturday school and was active in Ukrainian women’s organizations. My father volunteered at the Ukrainian credit union while working seven days a week as a laborer. They were active in the Ukrainian Catholic Church, which we attended every Sunday. And they took advantage of the cultural opportunities of New York City. We had season subscriptions to the theater and the symphony. But their strongest emotional attachment was to the country they had left behind, and that was something I wanted to shake free of.

My first language was Ukrainian. My mother was passionate about this. She would threaten to pierce our tongues with needles if we began to speak English at home. In a way, this backfired on her because, as a result, I fell in love with English. I recommend a softer approach.

Chytomo: I know what you mean, and it’s a huge fear of mine! This is why I am trying to play it in an adventurous way; in our diaspora family, Ukrainian is a language of joy, of your little “Ukrainian Plast (Ukrainian Scouts association) gang,” and reading days. We are all addicted readers and Ukrainian literature is totally worth it. 

Askold Melnyczuk: Literature was incredibly important in our home, especially to my mother, who was a devoted reader. Even in her mid 90s, despite suffering from what doctors called dementia (though we called it forgetfulness), she would spend eight hours a day reading — forgetting each word as she went but still maintaining that discipline.

As kids, she read us many Ukrainian stories and introduced us to English classics in Ukrainian. I first read “Robinson Crusoe” and “Don Quixote” in Ukrainian, and she often recited poems by Ivan Franko and Taras Shevchenko. Growing up in Cranford, New Jersey, we were part of a strong Ukrainian community, [that] held annual concerts where I was encouraged — sometimes compelled — to memorize and recite long passages from Shevchenko, including the poem “Poslannia” at age seven, without understanding a word of it! She also subscribed to numerous Ukrainian journals, [such as] “Suchasnist,” “Vsesvit” and “Svito-Vyd,” so there was always international literature in our home.

All of this seeped into my bloodstream, but as I grew older, I needed to distance myself from it. I transferred my mother’s enthusiasm for Ukrainian literature to English.

Chytomo: As a second-generation Ukrainian American, what inspired you to maintain such a strong connection to your Ukrainian heritage as you matured, particularly through literature? Did you take a break from it, or was there a moment that brought you back?

Askold Melnyczuk: I certainly tried to take breaks, but I never stayed away too long. Another key factor was my parents’ political awareness. They were engaged with the plight of dissidents in the  ’60s and ’70s, and we often attended protest marches in front of the [United Nations] or the Soviet embassy in New York. The romance of dissidence captivated my imagination, especially during my rebellious years when I admired American protesters against the Vietnam War. This admiration for political courage remained even when I wasn’t directly engaged with Ukrainian affairs or literature.

As I immersed myself in writing, editing, and publishing, starting with launching an underground newspaper in high school with friends (we called it Agni), I found myself returning to Ukrainian topics. I wrote about Ukrainian dissidents and the importance of supporting the Helsinki Group. Through this, I encountered poets like Mykola Rudenko, whose work I admired. My parents were also friends with Ukrainian poet Bohdan Boychuk, part of the New York Group, and we had many of the group’s books at home.

As I grew older, I realized that having another language gave me access to a whole other world. What once felt like a burden became an advantage. Seeing things from another perspective through the eyes of another language allowed me to understand the world in the U.S. more clearly. I came to appreciate the gift of my dual cultural background.

Chytomo: And how do you feel about current awareness of Ukraine, particularly in the U.S. today? I have a feeling that interest in Ukraine was minimal after the 2014 war, mainly linked to disasters like Chernobyl or corruption or a few celebrities like Andrii Shevchenko living in London. However, since the full-scale invasion, the perception has shifted dramatically. Ukraine is now seen not just as a place of past tragedies but also as a nation of bravery and resilience. This war, despite its horrors, has brought Ukraine into the global spotlight, transforming its narrative from one of disaster to one of courage and defiance.

Askold Melnyczuk: I was discussing this morning how the U.S. is, in many ways, like an island — geographically isolated and largely shielded from the direct impact of global conflicts. We haven’t had a war on our soil since the Civil War, aside from the tragedy of 9/11 and its disastrous aftermath, which led to the first major refugee crisis of the 21st century. Geography has kept the U.S. relatively insulated from many of the world’s horrors, including some it has played a role in creating.

Regarding Ukraine, it is inevitable that after two years of war, public awareness in the U.S. has waned. People move on to the next story, but this is not about live streaming — it is about survival. Attitudes toward Ukraine vary across the country. On the East Coast, where I live, there is strong support for Ukraine, with many eager to see it succeed. However, in other parts of the country, especially among Trump supporters, there is indifference or even opposition, influenced by pervasive propaganda.

Navigating this landscape is challenging, but Ukraine has done an admirable job of staying present and engaged. I admire the work that you and others in the cultural field have done — meeting people, answering questions, and sharing your experiences, even while dealing with the personal impact of the war. For instance, when I recently met with Halyna Kruk in Toronto, I was struck by her ability to engage in the world of literature while simultaneously texting her husband, who is on the front lines. This “double reality” is something many Ukrainians in the diaspora also experience, though perhaps with less intensity.

Even though I do not have family members on the front lines, I have friends who are, and that connection creates a shared sense of urgency and responsibility. As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” It is essential to maintain our ability to be outraged by injustice and to sustain that commitment throughout our lives, especially as we witness history’s often cruel and random nature.

It is easy to become desensitized and start accepting things as “just how they are,” which leads to a cynical and unfortunate outlook that must be consciously resisted. For example, recently we marked the anniversary of Victoria Amelina’s death, who was killed in a missile strike at a pizza parlor in Kramatorsk. I briefly met her when she lived in Boston, and we co-taught a course online for the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. What struck me about her was her profound outrage at injustice. Unlike others who might distance themselves from the harsh realities around them, she felt a deep responsibility to her fellow citizens under siege. Because she was free, she believed it was her duty to engage and ensure that history’s random cruelties were not forgotten. This work is noble, self-sacrificing, and often comes with a heavy price — one she paid with her life. Yet, her actions are deeply moving and inspiring to many, including Americans, who have written extensively about her since her passing.

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Now there are presses competing to publish Victoria Amelina’s posthumous work. Just two years ago, when I was trying to interest the press in her second novel,  “Dom’s Dream Kingdom,” there was little interest. This shift shows how cultural narratives can spark new interest. We’ve seen similar trends with other cultures in crisis, as, for example, with Vietnamese literature during the Vietnam War.

There’s a growing receptivity to Ukrainian literature now, with powerful works connecting with audiences. Halyna Kruk and Yulya Musakovska have made significant impacts. It’s fortunate that many Ukrainians are fluent in English, reducing the need for translation and bridging cultural gaps.

Chytomo: Victoria was undeniably a strong and bighearted person, and the warmest friend. It is painful to recall her words from her introduction to Volodya Vakulenko’s “I am transforming… A Diary of Occupation. Selected Poetry,” where she said she felt we were becoming part of the “Executed Renaissance.” It’s a difficult reality to accept, as more names are added to the list of those lost … And our literature reflects this tragedy more and more.

Askold Melnyczuk: First, it’s important to note that no one wants their literature to be seen solely as martyrology. However, much of the greatest literature has emerged from tragedy — think of Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides. Tragic circumstances often bring life and death into sharp focus, giving us a real perspective on what it means to be alive and the choices we make. It’s not the depressing side of tragedy that matters, but the clarity it brings — the way it makes you see life vividly, as Joseph Conrad said, that is the goal of literature.

One challenge with American literature is that, in many cases, it’s rooted in relatively comfortable lives where consumption is the most dramatic concern. This can lead to a certain shallowness, as most of the world is not as fortunate. Peace can lull you to sleep, missing out on deeper experiences.

Chytomo: This touches on something I disliked in school about Ukrainian literature — the focus on suffering and tragedy. Let’s talk about the challenges and strategies of bringing Ukrainian culture, particularly literature, into the American cultural landscape. What unique challenges have you faced in promoting Ukrainian literature in the U.S., and have you seen changes over the years?

Askold Melnyczuk: When it comes to making Ukrainian literature accessible to an American audience, the key is recognizing that much of what resonates in American literature also comes from extreme circumstances — Whitman during the Civil War, Hemingway from WWI, and so on. Great literature often emerges from such contexts, and that universal quality is what readers respond to.

The reception of Ukrainian literature in the U.S. has changed. When I was translating Ivan Drach or Vasyl Stus in the ’70s, almost no one was interested in publishing it, and there was skepticism about Ukraine’s existence as a distinct culture. Now, there is a new openness to Ukrainian literature, and it’s being appreciated for its literary worth and power.

It is a pivotal time to continue exploring Ukrainian culture. Just recently, someone who is not Ukrainian reached out to me about starting a translation project of Olha Kobylianska. It is heartening to see this growing interest in Ukrainian authors like Kobylianska, who was one of my mother’s favorites. In cities like Chernivtsi, you can see the rich tapestry of cultures — Jewish, Ukrainian, and Austro-Hungarian — each contributing to the literary landscape.

So, yes, the landscape has shifted, and there’s now a broader context and appreciation for Ukrainian literature in the U.S.

The US has evolved over the past 20–30 years. I recall Horace Engdahl, a Nobel Prize committee member, criticizing America’s indifference to literature and translation. The New Yorker even published a cartoon mocking this sentiment, showing Americans “enjoying foreign literature” while tied to trees, highlighting the challenge of engaging deeply with literature from other cultures.

Chytomo: In this environment of a relatively closed American literature ecosystem, you’ve managed to introduce some remarkable Ukrainian writers to American literature. Recently, you’ve translated and edited works by Oksana Zabuzhko, and you began translating Ivan Drach and others back in the 1970s. From your perspective, what is special about Ukrainian literature that can help sustain the current momentum of interest in Ukraine sparked by the war? How can we use this interest to build a lasting appreciation for Ukrainian literature itself?

Askold Melnyczuk: Right, well, I would caution against being overly optimistic. Building interest in Ukrainian literature is challenging, especially when it’s difficult to foster interest in American literature among my own students. We’re living in a time when the humanities are under siege, and our culture values technology and numbers over intuition, feelings, and history — the realms that literature often explores.

Writers, whether Ukrainian or American, should focus on creating the best work they can. We often think about the piece we are working on — the poem, the story, the novel — not about fitting into a broader category or making a specific cultural impact. The goal should always be to produce strong, compelling work.

I’ve long believed that to deepen connections between Ukrainian and American literature, it’s essential to foster direct engagement between writers. Although Ukrainian literature is gaining traction, its penetration is still limited compared to other literatures. Just as Gabriel García Márquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude” opened doors for Latin American literature, a few key Ukrainian works could pave the way for broader recognition.

Chytomo: From the perspective of an agent, editor, and founder of the esteemed literary AGNI Journal and the driving force behind Arrowsmith Press, established in 2006, have you used these platforms to promote Ukrainian culture? If so, how effective has that been?

Askold Melnyczuk: Well, it certainly has worked to some degree. A couple of things to mention: I started AGNI, as I mentioned, in high school because I had written an editorial for the regular school newspaper that was censored by the administration. I was the editorial page editor, and when they silenced me, I thought, “How can I avoid being silenced?” So, I started my own press. I bought a mimeograph machine for $35 and got some friends to join me.

This reminds me of a famous quote, though I always forget who originally said it, [which is,] “Freedom of the press belongs to those who own one.” It’s true and, in a way, this mirrors the situation in publishing. When I began in the ’70s, publishing was very elitist. It was dominated by people from elite schools and universities, and it was a closed world with its own aesthetics and literary politics. This world was quite hostile to the work I was doing with Ukrainian literature because Ukrainians were often perceived as either Nazi collaborators or non-existent. So, when you present strong work, like a powerful poem or story, you are challenging those misconceptions.

Chytomo: That’s a powerful story of independence. You present many of these themes in your own literary works, right?

Askold Melnyczuk: I try to, yes. I believe it’s crucial to delve into the complexities and often hidden realities of these issues. For me, it’s important to place Ukrainian literature within a broader cultural context. I never published only Ukrainian poetry; I included translations from various traditions alongside contemporary Ukrainian writers. When I co-edited “From Three Worlds,” an anthology of Ukrainian writers from the 1980s that came out in 1994, I worked with a friend who was an American publisher. He was deeply impressed by the enthusiastic response to a reading by Volodymyr Dibrova at the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute. This exposure helped him see a reality he hadn’t known about before.

Interestingly, this publisher had previously brought Anna Akhmatova’s collected works into English and had traveled extensively through the Soviet Union, but he hadn’t explored Ukraine deeply. His new understanding of Ukrainian literature sparked his interest further.

In the anthology, we took an innovative approach — we paired American writers with Ukrainian translators. These American writers refined the literal translations they received. Many of these young American writers later became some of the most prominent figures of their generation, including Pulitzer prize winner Jumpha Lahiri and New Yorker writer George Packer, as did the Ukrainian writers.

Similarly, I’m currently working with Anastasia Levkova on a project to bring contemporary Crimean literature before an anglophone audience. She has provided us with rough translations into English, which a group of young American writers has refined, adapting them into contemporary American idioms. These young writers, now in their twenties, will carry this experience with them throughout their careers, staying engaged with Ukrainian literature because of their direct involvement.

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Chytomo: You keep avoiding answering any questions about your own writing! 

Askold Melnyczuk: Publishing and writing are deeply personal endeavors. If a work catches fire and reaches a broad audience, that’s great, but the process often starts with a personal touch and human stories. My approach as a publisher has been influenced by cultural heroes like the German publisher Kurt Wolff. Wolff, known for publishing Kafka, used his family fortune to support literature. He famously told Kafka that rejecting his work would be the greatest favor he could do.

Wolff also published Swiss writer Robert Walser, who sent him a manuscript written in very tiny script while in a sanitarium. Wolff recognized that the work, despite its limited immediate readership, had lasting value. Walser’s work continues to be republished and remains influential.

There is a fundamental importance in the quality of the work itself, beyond the fashion of the moment and external factors like social forces or wars. Quality literature can endure over time, and this should be the primary focus for writers and editors.

Chytomo: I was about to ask for advice for emerging writers or translators promoting Ukrainian literature internationally, and you’ve touched on the importance of quality over trends. Currently, you share your wealth of knowledge as a faculty member at the University of Massachusetts Boston and in the Bennington College Writing Seminars, inspiring the next generation of writers to explore the rich intersections of culture and narrative. Now, looking ahead, what do you think is the contribution Ukrainian literature can make to global literature? Do you believe there are novels or poetry that, even if they reach only a few readers now, will endure and have lasting impact in the future?

Askold Melnyczuk: Oksana Zabushko has done groundbreaking work that challenges readers, rewarding those who engage with her complex prose. While this style might not appeal to everyone, it resonates deeply with those who persevere, akin to readers of Joyce or Bernhard.

Zabushko’s writing, and works like “Museum of Forgotten Secrets,” are powerful and offer a unique historical perspective, such as its critique of Western attitudes towards the Iraq War. Ukrainian literature has rich and original voices, with notable authors like Yuri Andrukhovych and Serhiy Zhadan, whose works have deeply impacted American readers.

Poetry also plays a significant role in Ukrainian literature, reflecting its rich tradition and cultural depth. Authors like Halyna Kruk, Yulia Musakovska, and Ostap Slyvynsky have been well-received, and the increasing fluency of Ukrainians in English is bridging gaps between cultures.

Looking ahead, the key for Ukrainian literature is to build lasting personal connections with global audiences. This involves establishing strong, ongoing relationships with international writers and readers. By maintaining a genuine engagement with world literature, Ukrainian works can achieve enduring recognition and impact. Ukrainian literature, with its blend of light and darkness, offers a powerful reflection of human experience, capturing both the struggles and the triumphs. 

Chytomo: I like what you are saying about lightness and darkness. And our darkness is acute, genuine and … weirdly beautiful. 

Askold Melnyczuk: Literature, as they say, is news that stays news; it’s as relevant today as it was yesterday and the day before. This timeless quality is partly due to the way literature captures different emotions and observations, which can be expressed uniquely in various languages. The true gift of translation lies in the ability to convey these feelings and perceptions, even if translators must sometimes stray from the original text to capture its essence. Or its darkness. 

Copy editing: Matthew Long