Adam Morris

American Translator

Portrait of Adam Morrisby Quinn Wharton

Adam Morris

ADAM MORRIS is a writer, editor, and literary translator who lives in California. He is a recipient of the Susan Sontag Foundation Prize in literary translation (2012), a PEN/Heim translation grant (2017), a Northern California Book Award in prose translation (2019), and a PhD in literature from Stanford University. He has been an artist or scholar in residence at the Instituto Hilda Hilst (2012), the University of Rochester Humanities Center (2016), Faber Institute (2017), and Banff Centre (2018).

cover image of the book Antonio


Benjamin, on the verge of becoming a father, discovers a tragic family secret involving patrimony and determines to get to the root of. Those most immediately involved are all dead, but their three closest confidantes are still alive—Isabel, his grandmother; Haroldo, his grandfather’s friend; and Raul, his father’s friend—and each will tell him a different version of the facts.

By collecting these shards of memories, which offer personal glimpses into issues of class and politics in Brazil, Benjamin will piece together the painful puzzle of his family history. Like a Faulkner novel, Beatriz Bracher’s brilliant _Antonio_shows the expansiveness of past events and the complexity of untangling long-buried secrets.

“No one but Beatriz Bracher,” the Jornal do Brasil observed, “would be able to write a book like Antonio in Brazil today, because only she manages to write so intimately and forcefully, so ironically and bitterly, about the bourgeois upper class.”

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cover image of the book I Didn't Talk

I Didn't Talk

A professor prepares to retire—Gustavo is set to move from São Paulo to the countryside, but it isn’t the urban violence he’s fleeing: what he fears most is the violence of his memory. But as he sorts out his papers, the ghosts arrive in full force. He was arrested in 1970 with his brother-in-law Armando: both were viciously tortured. He was eventually released; Armando was killed. No one is certain that he didn’t turn traitor: I didn’t talk, he tells himself, yet guilt is his lifelong harvest. I Didn’t Talk pits everyone against the protagonist—especially his own brother. The torture never ends, despite his bones having healed and his teeth having been replaced. And to make matters worse, certain details from his shattered memory don’t quite add up… Beatriz Bracher depicts a life where the temperature is lower, there is no music, and much is out of view. I Didn’t Talk’s pariah’s-eye-view of the forgotten “small” victims powerfully bears witness to their “internal exile.” I didn’t talk, Gustavo tells himself; and as Bracher honors his endless pain, what burns this tour de force so indelibly in the reader’s mind is her intensely controlled voice.

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