Svyatoslav Albireo's Blog: From Firokami
November 26, 2024
I am as a TED speaker
I talk about narrative importance
https://youtu.be/Yh8l5h1QYaE?feature=...
https://youtu.be/Yh8l5h1QYaE?feature=...
November 24, 2024
Review for The Life as a Missed Spoon, by Ivan Dimitrov
Животът като липсваща лъжица
Dimitrov being Dimitrov)))
This is the first novel I've read by him, having previously only encountered his short prose.
I'm admittedly a literary purist—I have a predilection for substantial metrics in literature, meaning longer prose forms. Short stories aren't particularly my métier, neither to write nor to read. In my view, short stories serve primarily as promotional vehicles, offering glimpses into an author's style, narrative voice, and civic engagement.
I've cherished Dimitrov since encountering his first stories. I've frequently asserted that he's a formidable social commentator.
I've cherished Dimitrov since encountering his earliest short works. I've frequently articulated this: he's a formidable social commentator. Within Bulgaria, he stands as the most socially conscious and incisive chronicler of contemporary issues — perhaps even beyond Bulgarian borders. In this particular sphere, I might reference Sweden's Anders Roslund as a comparable figure. I would have included Andrew Vachss of America, but his recent passage into Eternity places him now among the historical voices of Freedom.
Among the living, I find myself curiously unable to identify other socially acute authors who genuinely excavate societal issues with comparable depth and precision.
Naturally, his progressive stance resonates with my own sensibilities, hence my appreciation. Indeed, I maintain that one cannot genuinely appreciate an author with whom one fundamentally disagrees on essential matters. And yes, the author's personal ethos carries significant weight in my evaluation. Consider, for instance, how a writer harboring homophobic, racist, nationalist, or xenophobic views, or one who acts as a jackal of feudal-capitalism, can only teach their readership the art of animosity. A writer who perpetuates hatred forfeits the right to be called a writer at all. Such an individual is, by definition, intellectually limited, and a limited writer doesn't merit a reader's investment of time. They cannot contribute to the construction of a better world, nor can they assist readers in enriching and brightening their own existences. What purpose, then, does such a writer serve? Thus, the extent of an author's limitations and intellectual constraints becomes crucially relevant.
This, fundamentally, explains my appreciation for Dimitrov—his intellectual sophistication. His literary intelligence. He operates without constraints — neither in literary devices and constructions nor in thematic exploration — thereby enabling him to examine subjects in their full vertical and horizontal dimensions, reaching both their heights and depths.
So, I began reading "The Spoon" (we all understand, don't we, that while authors craft eloquent titles, when they exceed two words (and sometimes even with two), we inevitably devise a "working" single-word title. It's the same with our own books—there's the reader's title and the domestic one, much like how in public it's Vasily Poluektovich, but at home, it's simply Vaska), and by the end of the first page, I found myself smiling, thinking "brilliant." And so it continued. Brilliant.
I found myself recounting passages to my family, marveling at how it managed to be simultaneously humorous, absurdist, and terrifying!
There's this dramatically intense prologue, and then it just takes off!
The literary craftsmanship is astonishingly elegant! The masterful attention control, the exquisite pacing, the labor that's rendered invisible by its apparent effortlessness. Apt metaphors, merciless wit.
You know, it's this peculiar sensation... um... well, I approach people following Asadov's principle. Meaning, I mentally edit them to their optimal version. I always extend people credit. Naturally, they often squander it at some turn, but those who don't make it worthwhile—one person who proves to be exactly as you imagined is worth thousands of disappointing mediocrities.
And so I have this experience: you read a short story and think—oh, if only one could consume such honey with a hippopotamus's mouth! Meaning a novel! And then you begin reading the novel, and it's precisely as you'd envisioned it! In terms of its emotional resonance.
And that's exactly what happened here. You read some story or poem by Dimitrov and think, well, the novel must be extraordinary. And indeed it is.
This is a novel of genuine innovation. Mm, literarily innovative. There isn't a single worn device, not one cliché. It's a work that raises questions and promptly addresses them. Everything is skillfully executed. Everything rings true. Certain plot turns provoke such exasperation you want to perform a facepalm, but the author interjects, just wait, this isn't even the half of it. And what I particularly admire—this is such a rarity (I've typically only encountered this in socialist literature)—is the author's narrative ruthlessness. There's no "benevolent authorial hand" placing convenient plot devices to advance the story.
There's this conflict. And you read, indignantly thinking—why didn't the protagonist simply do this?! And then, two paragraphs later, he declares: But I did! And here's what transpired!
Do you grasp it? The most egregious fault in literature occurs when an author deliberately dampens a character's intelligence, when everything could have been resolved through a single conversation or action. And you find yourself thinking, well, someone here is obtuse—the protagonist, the author, or you for reading this! But not in "The Spoon"! In "The Spoon," everything occurs because it must occur; the author dissects the theme, contemplating extensively how the conflict might be resolved. He seeks a solution, seemingly prepared to conclude the narrative the moment he discovers it, just waiting to test this solution's resilience. The solution fails its examination, and the narrative proceeds inexorably. It's authentic and somehow... inevitable.
Thus, the plot progression is reinforced with iron-clad causality.
"Just tell them!" you exclaim, bewildered by the unfolding absurdity. "But I did tell them!" the protagonist cries back in desperation. "Yes, he told them," the author confirms, "and observe what ensued." The protagonist shakes his head in helplessness. And so do you. And you believe it. Because it's devastatingly real. Terrifying and real. And funny! Lord, if it were merely tragic, simply an idiotic situation that makes you want to bash your head against the keyboard. But no! The protagonist isn't pitiable; he's neither a whiner nor a failure. Or rather, you become emotionally destabilized because no, how can you not feel sympathy, of course you feel for someone caught in such a catastrophic carnival, you sympathize, but the protagonist himself isn't pathetic. And he, naturally, is himself staggered by this idiotic maelstrom, but even becomes intrigued, essentially asking, well, fine, this is my situation, but how do you manage to live with this?
And essentially, this provides our escape from the Kafkaesque delirium. One need not conclude like "The Trial."
Then Dimitrov demonstrates that playing games with fools is only feasible when you're solitary and have nothing to forfeit. Because you cannot simultaneously succeed in the Real and the Fabricated. And you must choose. We, of course, will exclaim—well, what choice is there, naturally, we'll all choose the Real!
No. Dimitrov shakes his head. No.
If you're not accustomed to choosing the Real, you'll habitually opt for the whatever.
And observe what follows.
And then what? What will you do then?
Indeed, yes, this is how the book concludes. With this question.
No, this isn't an open ending. The author has meticulously dissected the situation, explored it to all extremities, provided all answers. Choosing your own—that's the reader's responsibility.
The astounding multilayered complexity. You gasp at each plot turn. And you're uncertain whether to feel anger, despair, schadenfreude, indignation, or philosophical contemplation. Generally, when reading "The Spoon," you experience intellectual emotionality. The emotions are intensely powerful but filtered through intellect. And no, this isn't your trendy, specially manufactured emotional intelligence (previously (according to M.K. Smith's definition (some erudite gentleman) "the sum of human skills and abilities to recognize emotions, understand intentions, motivation, and desires of others and oneself, as well as the ability to manage one's emotions and others' emotions for solving practical tasks," this was simply a normal characteristic of non-psychopaths).
This is an entirely different phenomenon. But exquisitely beautiful and gratifying.
The title too is multilayered. The famous Matrix reference—there is no spoon (and the entire plot is constructed around that which isn't there) and the narrative concept about how one can descend so low as to construct one's life around a perpetually absent spoon.
It's integrated into the plot twice!
In essence, it's a powerful, intelligent, and profound work. Socially conscious, intellectual.
Do I recommend it? That's an inadequate word. It's not that I recommend it; I'm astonished you haven't read it. I'm astounded it hasn't been translated into other languages. I'm stunned—I've mentioned this before—that I discovered him in my seventh year of living in Bulgaria. This is egregiously criminal! Ivan Dimitrov is Bulgaria's literary treasure (no, I'm not exaggerating). And you don't value him. And that's repugnant. Therefore, when I observe you singing paeans to someone else, I don't believe you. The literary opinions of people who don't appreciate Dimitrov are of negligible worth.
Dimitrov being Dimitrov)))
This is the first novel I've read by him, having previously only encountered his short prose.
I'm admittedly a literary purist—I have a predilection for substantial metrics in literature, meaning longer prose forms. Short stories aren't particularly my métier, neither to write nor to read. In my view, short stories serve primarily as promotional vehicles, offering glimpses into an author's style, narrative voice, and civic engagement.
I've cherished Dimitrov since encountering his first stories. I've frequently asserted that he's a formidable social commentator.
I've cherished Dimitrov since encountering his earliest short works. I've frequently articulated this: he's a formidable social commentator. Within Bulgaria, he stands as the most socially conscious and incisive chronicler of contemporary issues — perhaps even beyond Bulgarian borders. In this particular sphere, I might reference Sweden's Anders Roslund as a comparable figure. I would have included Andrew Vachss of America, but his recent passage into Eternity places him now among the historical voices of Freedom.
Among the living, I find myself curiously unable to identify other socially acute authors who genuinely excavate societal issues with comparable depth and precision.
Naturally, his progressive stance resonates with my own sensibilities, hence my appreciation. Indeed, I maintain that one cannot genuinely appreciate an author with whom one fundamentally disagrees on essential matters. And yes, the author's personal ethos carries significant weight in my evaluation. Consider, for instance, how a writer harboring homophobic, racist, nationalist, or xenophobic views, or one who acts as a jackal of feudal-capitalism, can only teach their readership the art of animosity. A writer who perpetuates hatred forfeits the right to be called a writer at all. Such an individual is, by definition, intellectually limited, and a limited writer doesn't merit a reader's investment of time. They cannot contribute to the construction of a better world, nor can they assist readers in enriching and brightening their own existences. What purpose, then, does such a writer serve? Thus, the extent of an author's limitations and intellectual constraints becomes crucially relevant.
This, fundamentally, explains my appreciation for Dimitrov—his intellectual sophistication. His literary intelligence. He operates without constraints — neither in literary devices and constructions nor in thematic exploration — thereby enabling him to examine subjects in their full vertical and horizontal dimensions, reaching both their heights and depths.
So, I began reading "The Spoon" (we all understand, don't we, that while authors craft eloquent titles, when they exceed two words (and sometimes even with two), we inevitably devise a "working" single-word title. It's the same with our own books—there's the reader's title and the domestic one, much like how in public it's Vasily Poluektovich, but at home, it's simply Vaska), and by the end of the first page, I found myself smiling, thinking "brilliant." And so it continued. Brilliant.
I found myself recounting passages to my family, marveling at how it managed to be simultaneously humorous, absurdist, and terrifying!
There's this dramatically intense prologue, and then it just takes off!
The literary craftsmanship is astonishingly elegant! The masterful attention control, the exquisite pacing, the labor that's rendered invisible by its apparent effortlessness. Apt metaphors, merciless wit.
You know, it's this peculiar sensation... um... well, I approach people following Asadov's principle. Meaning, I mentally edit them to their optimal version. I always extend people credit. Naturally, they often squander it at some turn, but those who don't make it worthwhile—one person who proves to be exactly as you imagined is worth thousands of disappointing mediocrities.
And so I have this experience: you read a short story and think—oh, if only one could consume such honey with a hippopotamus's mouth! Meaning a novel! And then you begin reading the novel, and it's precisely as you'd envisioned it! In terms of its emotional resonance.
And that's exactly what happened here. You read some story or poem by Dimitrov and think, well, the novel must be extraordinary. And indeed it is.
This is a novel of genuine innovation. Mm, literarily innovative. There isn't a single worn device, not one cliché. It's a work that raises questions and promptly addresses them. Everything is skillfully executed. Everything rings true. Certain plot turns provoke such exasperation you want to perform a facepalm, but the author interjects, just wait, this isn't even the half of it. And what I particularly admire—this is such a rarity (I've typically only encountered this in socialist literature)—is the author's narrative ruthlessness. There's no "benevolent authorial hand" placing convenient plot devices to advance the story.
There's this conflict. And you read, indignantly thinking—why didn't the protagonist simply do this?! And then, two paragraphs later, he declares: But I did! And here's what transpired!
Do you grasp it? The most egregious fault in literature occurs when an author deliberately dampens a character's intelligence, when everything could have been resolved through a single conversation or action. And you find yourself thinking, well, someone here is obtuse—the protagonist, the author, or you for reading this! But not in "The Spoon"! In "The Spoon," everything occurs because it must occur; the author dissects the theme, contemplating extensively how the conflict might be resolved. He seeks a solution, seemingly prepared to conclude the narrative the moment he discovers it, just waiting to test this solution's resilience. The solution fails its examination, and the narrative proceeds inexorably. It's authentic and somehow... inevitable.
Thus, the plot progression is reinforced with iron-clad causality.
"Just tell them!" you exclaim, bewildered by the unfolding absurdity. "But I did tell them!" the protagonist cries back in desperation. "Yes, he told them," the author confirms, "and observe what ensued." The protagonist shakes his head in helplessness. And so do you. And you believe it. Because it's devastatingly real. Terrifying and real. And funny! Lord, if it were merely tragic, simply an idiotic situation that makes you want to bash your head against the keyboard. But no! The protagonist isn't pitiable; he's neither a whiner nor a failure. Or rather, you become emotionally destabilized because no, how can you not feel sympathy, of course you feel for someone caught in such a catastrophic carnival, you sympathize, but the protagonist himself isn't pathetic. And he, naturally, is himself staggered by this idiotic maelstrom, but even becomes intrigued, essentially asking, well, fine, this is my situation, but how do you manage to live with this?
And essentially, this provides our escape from the Kafkaesque delirium. One need not conclude like "The Trial."
Then Dimitrov demonstrates that playing games with fools is only feasible when you're solitary and have nothing to forfeit. Because you cannot simultaneously succeed in the Real and the Fabricated. And you must choose. We, of course, will exclaim—well, what choice is there, naturally, we'll all choose the Real!
No. Dimitrov shakes his head. No.
If you're not accustomed to choosing the Real, you'll habitually opt for the whatever.
And observe what follows.
And then what? What will you do then?
Indeed, yes, this is how the book concludes. With this question.
No, this isn't an open ending. The author has meticulously dissected the situation, explored it to all extremities, provided all answers. Choosing your own—that's the reader's responsibility.
The astounding multilayered complexity. You gasp at each plot turn. And you're uncertain whether to feel anger, despair, schadenfreude, indignation, or philosophical contemplation. Generally, when reading "The Spoon," you experience intellectual emotionality. The emotions are intensely powerful but filtered through intellect. And no, this isn't your trendy, specially manufactured emotional intelligence (previously (according to M.K. Smith's definition (some erudite gentleman) "the sum of human skills and abilities to recognize emotions, understand intentions, motivation, and desires of others and oneself, as well as the ability to manage one's emotions and others' emotions for solving practical tasks," this was simply a normal characteristic of non-psychopaths).
This is an entirely different phenomenon. But exquisitely beautiful and gratifying.
The title too is multilayered. The famous Matrix reference—there is no spoon (and the entire plot is constructed around that which isn't there) and the narrative concept about how one can descend so low as to construct one's life around a perpetually absent spoon.
It's integrated into the plot twice!
In essence, it's a powerful, intelligent, and profound work. Socially conscious, intellectual.
Do I recommend it? That's an inadequate word. It's not that I recommend it; I'm astonished you haven't read it. I'm astounded it hasn't been translated into other languages. I'm stunned—I've mentioned this before—that I discovered him in my seventh year of living in Bulgaria. This is egregiously criminal! Ivan Dimitrov is Bulgaria's literary treasure (no, I'm not exaggerating). And you don't value him. And that's repugnant. Therefore, when I observe you singing paeans to someone else, I don't believe you. The literary opinions of people who don't appreciate Dimitrov are of negligible worth.
One must address Nabokov.
True, countless analyses have preceded this endeavor, yet my forthcoming posts and literary observations necessitate establishing a clear point of reference - my personal interpretation of what I term "Nabokovianity"
The intellectual community, naturally, recognizes that with Nabokov, language precedes content. His works aren't so much narrative canvases as they are linguistic experiments and literary games elevated to the realm of art. We collectively acknowledge his stature in the literary pantheon. But what precisely constitutes this greatness?
There exist those who either fail to comprehend him (puzzled why this seemingly meandering, plot-thin prose qualifies as High Literature) or actively dislike him (precisely because they represent his target audience—quite literally, they were in his crosshairs). Yet questioning his literary genius remains somewhat déclassé. So wherein lies this genius?
The secret resides in his language and style - a particular alchemy of prose. But what comprises this secret?
Nabokov describes details and objects by revealing their equivalences, integrating them into the sensual sphere. His descriptions are object-metaphors. Thus, he achieves a fusion of spiritual and material realms into a singular whole-ness.
This is precisely why his literature enriches the reader - not through plot constructions or narrative arcs, but through these meaningful minutiae that become vessels of profound existential significance. Through sustained reading of his work, we master one of life's essential skills: the art of correlation. A glass on a table transcends its mere vessel status to become an emblem of existential solitude. An incongruous boulder in a park transforms into a metaphor for the intrusive, pseudo-jovial unneeded woman at another's wedding. The irritating drone of a fly metamorphoses into the embodiment of procrastination-induced guilt.
Each of his metaphors serves as a tutor in the art of self-knowledge - teaching us to recognize, articulate, and differentiate our emotional states. To identify and define our innermost desires beyond their superficial manifestations.
Even his seemingly obsessive sexuality carries a deeply enriching function, allowing for the desacralization of taboo subjects, the release of repressed impulses, the loosening of the knot of sexual toxicosis. He guides us through the self-loathing, and if we remain faithful companions until the end of this cathartic journey, we emerge purified. Hypocrisy yields to authentic humanity.
Indeed, he wasn't a solitary explorer of this territory—Sartre and Proust (et cetera, as the academic parlance goes) investigated similar domains with comparable tools. Yet Nabokov's approach possesses an almost scientific systematicity and methodological consistency. While Sartre and Proust aimed to convey specific philosophical concepts and ideas, Nabokov concentrated on these enriching imagistic details as self-sufficient aesthetic, consisting, and literary objectives.
Hence derives the fundamental impossibility of reading Nabokov rapidly. More precisely, such an attempt would result in a total failure to genuinely apprehend the text. Yes, the eye might mechanically trace the letterforms, but no authentic reading would occur. With Nabokov, superficial "familiarization" is ontologically impossible.
Consequently, the only legitimate approach is to dedicate specific time to him, to abandon all other literary pursuits, and to immerse oneself in the text with the same precision and contemplative depth with which it was created. In its essence, reading Nabokov demands a particular type of literary monasticism - a temporary withdrawal from the cacophony of contemporary literary consumption into a space of intense textual meditation.
Otherwise, when asked whether one has read Nabokov, the only honest response would be negative.
Any attempt to deceive the inquirer (assuming they themselves have truly read him) is destined for failure. For the genuine reader of Nabokov would respond as in my favorite literary anecdote about him:
"Have you read Nabokov?"
The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, against the teeth:
"No."
The intellectual community, naturally, recognizes that with Nabokov, language precedes content. His works aren't so much narrative canvases as they are linguistic experiments and literary games elevated to the realm of art. We collectively acknowledge his stature in the literary pantheon. But what precisely constitutes this greatness?
There exist those who either fail to comprehend him (puzzled why this seemingly meandering, plot-thin prose qualifies as High Literature) or actively dislike him (precisely because they represent his target audience—quite literally, they were in his crosshairs). Yet questioning his literary genius remains somewhat déclassé. So wherein lies this genius?
The secret resides in his language and style - a particular alchemy of prose. But what comprises this secret?
Nabokov describes details and objects by revealing their equivalences, integrating them into the sensual sphere. His descriptions are object-metaphors. Thus, he achieves a fusion of spiritual and material realms into a singular whole-ness.
This is precisely why his literature enriches the reader - not through plot constructions or narrative arcs, but through these meaningful minutiae that become vessels of profound existential significance. Through sustained reading of his work, we master one of life's essential skills: the art of correlation. A glass on a table transcends its mere vessel status to become an emblem of existential solitude. An incongruous boulder in a park transforms into a metaphor for the intrusive, pseudo-jovial unneeded woman at another's wedding. The irritating drone of a fly metamorphoses into the embodiment of procrastination-induced guilt.
Each of his metaphors serves as a tutor in the art of self-knowledge - teaching us to recognize, articulate, and differentiate our emotional states. To identify and define our innermost desires beyond their superficial manifestations.
Even his seemingly obsessive sexuality carries a deeply enriching function, allowing for the desacralization of taboo subjects, the release of repressed impulses, the loosening of the knot of sexual toxicosis. He guides us through the self-loathing, and if we remain faithful companions until the end of this cathartic journey, we emerge purified. Hypocrisy yields to authentic humanity.
Indeed, he wasn't a solitary explorer of this territory—Sartre and Proust (et cetera, as the academic parlance goes) investigated similar domains with comparable tools. Yet Nabokov's approach possesses an almost scientific systematicity and methodological consistency. While Sartre and Proust aimed to convey specific philosophical concepts and ideas, Nabokov concentrated on these enriching imagistic details as self-sufficient aesthetic, consisting, and literary objectives.
Hence derives the fundamental impossibility of reading Nabokov rapidly. More precisely, such an attempt would result in a total failure to genuinely apprehend the text. Yes, the eye might mechanically trace the letterforms, but no authentic reading would occur. With Nabokov, superficial "familiarization" is ontologically impossible.
Consequently, the only legitimate approach is to dedicate specific time to him, to abandon all other literary pursuits, and to immerse oneself in the text with the same precision and contemplative depth with which it was created. In its essence, reading Nabokov demands a particular type of literary monasticism - a temporary withdrawal from the cacophony of contemporary literary consumption into a space of intense textual meditation.
Otherwise, when asked whether one has read Nabokov, the only honest response would be negative.
Any attempt to deceive the inquirer (assuming they themselves have truly read him) is destined for failure. For the genuine reader of Nabokov would respond as in my favorite literary anecdote about him:
"Have you read Nabokov?"
The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, against the teeth:
"No."
November 18, 2024
A Review of Tea Moneva's "Tangerines at Marienplatz"
For those who'd rather skip my verbose musings, here's the TL;DR: a phenomenal book, an absolute must-read! I wish Tea all possible awards; the book is criminally underrated. This is exceptional and vital social prose. And it's incredibly stylish. The atmosphere radiates progress and light.
The writer is talented; I'm eagerly anticipating more novels from her.
This book would hold its own on a shelf of psychological socialist prose. It wouldn't be overshadowed even next to Blaga Dimitrova. In my literary ranking, if a book matches the depth of socialist prose - that's the highest praise possible.
The book is contemporary, relevant, and psychologically timeless. Meaning it won't age. Centuries will pass, and "Tangerines" will still help people understand themselves and find their place in the world.
And this book possesses that rare, essential quality - the pulse of life.
Now, the same thoughts, but in detail.
This book is yet another piece of evidence that the existence of different languages in the world is a repugnant manifestation of fascism that divides people. The book exists only in Bulgarian - and it's criminal that most of the world can't read it.
I was intrigued by the title and a line in one of those reviews that Bulgarians love to stuff into books instead of proper annotations (an utterly ridiculous habit, as readers couldn't care less about praise from your editor friends. In fact, I've passed on several books simply because I couldn't decipher what they were about from these vague platitudes).
From the title, it's clear the book is about Munich, and since I'm personally know Munich, I'm curious how others perceive my friend. I would've bought this book anyway. Yes, because of Munich. Because I have my own book about Munich, and I'm interested in the comparison. But that blurb line added another weight to the scale - a celebrity (I don't know her, but if she writes blurbs, she is known not only among her dog and granny, huh?) wrote that the author poses the question: when and why did we decide we needed to be successful people rather than good ones?
This thought fascinates me; I thought perhaps it would resonate.
I bought the book at a meeting with the writer. It was a somewhat dull affair, a gathering of her acquaintances, the writer herself sweet and very young (for me). But the meeting revealed nothing about either the book or the personality. Pleasant, social. The host spoke in generic praise I've heard a million times at other meetings about other books.
The writer told us she spent nine years writing this book.
I've heard this many times from various award-winning writers, that they spent many years writing their book, and inevitably it turns out - good lord, they shouldn't have wasted so many years on such writing.
But writers keep saying this to lend gravitas to their work.
I picked up the book intending to read and compare it with mine. And to compare them in the review, what a perfect opportunity. Both about Munich. But I won't))) it's unnecessary. Though they share a style, and I've written about this before - I love this style and wish there was more literature like it. Actually, I thought there was plenty like this, but apparently, it only exists in my head and Tea's)))! Evidently, it's simply a certain type of thinking - luminously progressive.
As you can see, I was completely biased (not the first time I've formed preconceptions at first approach. And bias has never prevented me from later appreciating work on its merits, if there's merit to appreciate) when I started the book. And my interest wasn't that of a reader but rather pragmatic. But bias is no obstacle for a good book!
And so I began reading. The book is about a girl from Varna who moved to Munich to study and how she settled in there.
The first few scenes revealed the language and style. Beautiful. Pure contemporary "urban" Bulgarian - exactly what interests me now. But meaning-wise, I couldn't understand the experiences. Something about privilege. Her education was paid for, she was prepared, she wasn't planning to starve or live under a bridge. She has a well-off family in Bulgaria. Basically, a privileged white girl whining about nothing. No real tragedy. She just misses the familiar. You think, good lord, girl, if only everyone had your problems.
And here we are, being beautifully told what's happening. Exquisite and rich details, good intelligent language. You think - good lord, another Gospodinov - wonderful language and empty content.
And then…
And then came the first bravo. Brava, to be precise - in Italian, bravo is for men and brava for women (for all others and everything else - the "masculine" bravo, because Spanish and Italian single out the feminine (a reference to their ancient-ancient paganism about the Mother Goddess, rejoice radical feminists), while men were left with what remained, along with the inanimate).
It became clear this was retrospective. This wasn't written by a young girl, but by a mature writer about a young girl. Because the perspective is broader and deeper.
Then came the second brava, during a serious psychological scene about how a lonely person feels at parties. I applauded at this point.
Then I noticed how elegantly the napkin notes were integrated into the plot. How they create atmosphere.
Yes. Atmosphere. Style. I've already written in my first impressions about this book's stylishness. This book is written in one of my favorite styles. It's progressive.
This is that light and swift, humane and progress-oriented rather than prohibition-oriented Europe of Angela Merkel that we foreigners have in our heads. Not the old Europe. Not the Misunderstood Civilization. But the one that's for everyone who wants human relationships to be the main concern, not bans on gay marriage, theaters, abortions, and scooters. Not war and geopolitics, not closed borders, but whether to paint or be a pharmacist. This is what should concern people. Now, in the 21st century. Not whose Crimea or Macedonia (if Texas is USA - to be clear for my American friends) is.
This is the kind of vital intellectual reading that's about life, not death. About friendship, not enmity. About how to belong, not how to divide into us and them. About how any place can become home. About how to be human. About how being human means being a citizen of the world, not a Bulgarian, Russian, German, or Ukrainian. About how the world doesn't devour your identity. That there's room for everyone. Everywhere! There's room for everyone everywhere.
This voice (this book) - it's the most important thing the world needs right now. It's the narrative that shapes a better world.
I don't relate to the protagonist; I miss another way. But how I admired her backbone! Or rather, how the author wrote her. I understand why she spent nine years writing it. Yes, this book looks exactly like work that was contemplated and written for nine years.
There are no superfluous scenes, I have no quibbles with the book. Everything is said. All themes are developed. The title is excellent. It plays in the plot. It's meaningful and stylish. Very coolly integrated into the plot. There are wonderful layers of reflection. Reading "Tangerines" - you feel connected to the entire world. Like WordPress's Latest (what we haven't in those pathetic Insta, Fb, Tg, Twitter and Threads). As if the world finally has no borders. It's a rare and pleasant sensation. I love it!
There's even (I applauded here too) something that made me look at a phenomenon with new eyes. I only encounter such things lately in Amnuel's books. And here, imagine, something new in a book! Such a rarity!
So, the protagonist paints. And she goes out with her paintings to the square. And she describes the feeling that when people just pass by, without stopping and looking at the paintings, it feels like they're shooting at her. And we pass by because we don't want to disturb if we're not planning to buy. We feel awkward. We would look, but we're afraid we'll have to buy something unnecessary. But maybe those who paint don't care so much about selling, maybe they really just want grateful recognition? And now I constantly watch artists in squares (there are many in Varna), they always look dissatisfied. And I think it's better not to disturb them. But maybe they're not dissatisfied, but upset that everyone rushes past? Is it really so hard for me to stop for a minute, smile and praise. Well, lament that I have absolutely nowhere to put paintings (that's true! They keep accumulating at our place! We really have nowhere to put them! We don't have enough walls!), but praise, lift spirits. I'm astounded by this thought and I keep thinking about it. And probably thanks to this book, I'll lift some artists' spirits. And they'll carry that mood forward.
And what more can a book do than lift the world's spirits?
...It's terrifying to think if Moneva's protagonist had gone to study in, say, Paris, Barcelona, or Frankfurt. And the book would be called "Tangerines at the Eiffel Tower," "Tangerines over Catalonia Square," "Tangerines over Römerberg." I wouldn't have bought it and would have missed a talented book.
Tea, thank you for going to study in Munich!)))
Glad to make your literary acquaintance, wishing you great creative fulfilled plans!
Wildly, passionately recommend the book and author! Wildly, passionately recommend not judging a book and writer by meetings with them.
The credo of all my statements: a society is as good as its narrative.
My call: let's write a better world.
Tea Moneva wrote it.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
The writer is talented; I'm eagerly anticipating more novels from her.
This book would hold its own on a shelf of psychological socialist prose. It wouldn't be overshadowed even next to Blaga Dimitrova. In my literary ranking, if a book matches the depth of socialist prose - that's the highest praise possible.
The book is contemporary, relevant, and psychologically timeless. Meaning it won't age. Centuries will pass, and "Tangerines" will still help people understand themselves and find their place in the world.
And this book possesses that rare, essential quality - the pulse of life.
Now, the same thoughts, but in detail.
This book is yet another piece of evidence that the existence of different languages in the world is a repugnant manifestation of fascism that divides people. The book exists only in Bulgarian - and it's criminal that most of the world can't read it.
I was intrigued by the title and a line in one of those reviews that Bulgarians love to stuff into books instead of proper annotations (an utterly ridiculous habit, as readers couldn't care less about praise from your editor friends. In fact, I've passed on several books simply because I couldn't decipher what they were about from these vague platitudes).
From the title, it's clear the book is about Munich, and since I'm personally know Munich, I'm curious how others perceive my friend. I would've bought this book anyway. Yes, because of Munich. Because I have my own book about Munich, and I'm interested in the comparison. But that blurb line added another weight to the scale - a celebrity (I don't know her, but if she writes blurbs, she is known not only among her dog and granny, huh?) wrote that the author poses the question: when and why did we decide we needed to be successful people rather than good ones?
This thought fascinates me; I thought perhaps it would resonate.
I bought the book at a meeting with the writer. It was a somewhat dull affair, a gathering of her acquaintances, the writer herself sweet and very young (for me). But the meeting revealed nothing about either the book or the personality. Pleasant, social. The host spoke in generic praise I've heard a million times at other meetings about other books.
The writer told us she spent nine years writing this book.
I've heard this many times from various award-winning writers, that they spent many years writing their book, and inevitably it turns out - good lord, they shouldn't have wasted so many years on such writing.
But writers keep saying this to lend gravitas to their work.
I picked up the book intending to read and compare it with mine. And to compare them in the review, what a perfect opportunity. Both about Munich. But I won't))) it's unnecessary. Though they share a style, and I've written about this before - I love this style and wish there was more literature like it. Actually, I thought there was plenty like this, but apparently, it only exists in my head and Tea's)))! Evidently, it's simply a certain type of thinking - luminously progressive.
As you can see, I was completely biased (not the first time I've formed preconceptions at first approach. And bias has never prevented me from later appreciating work on its merits, if there's merit to appreciate) when I started the book. And my interest wasn't that of a reader but rather pragmatic. But bias is no obstacle for a good book!
And so I began reading. The book is about a girl from Varna who moved to Munich to study and how she settled in there.
The first few scenes revealed the language and style. Beautiful. Pure contemporary "urban" Bulgarian - exactly what interests me now. But meaning-wise, I couldn't understand the experiences. Something about privilege. Her education was paid for, she was prepared, she wasn't planning to starve or live under a bridge. She has a well-off family in Bulgaria. Basically, a privileged white girl whining about nothing. No real tragedy. She just misses the familiar. You think, good lord, girl, if only everyone had your problems.
And here we are, being beautifully told what's happening. Exquisite and rich details, good intelligent language. You think - good lord, another Gospodinov - wonderful language and empty content.
And then…
And then came the first bravo. Brava, to be precise - in Italian, bravo is for men and brava for women (for all others and everything else - the "masculine" bravo, because Spanish and Italian single out the feminine (a reference to their ancient-ancient paganism about the Mother Goddess, rejoice radical feminists), while men were left with what remained, along with the inanimate).
It became clear this was retrospective. This wasn't written by a young girl, but by a mature writer about a young girl. Because the perspective is broader and deeper.
Then came the second brava, during a serious psychological scene about how a lonely person feels at parties. I applauded at this point.
Then I noticed how elegantly the napkin notes were integrated into the plot. How they create atmosphere.
Yes. Atmosphere. Style. I've already written in my first impressions about this book's stylishness. This book is written in one of my favorite styles. It's progressive.
This is that light and swift, humane and progress-oriented rather than prohibition-oriented Europe of Angela Merkel that we foreigners have in our heads. Not the old Europe. Not the Misunderstood Civilization. But the one that's for everyone who wants human relationships to be the main concern, not bans on gay marriage, theaters, abortions, and scooters. Not war and geopolitics, not closed borders, but whether to paint or be a pharmacist. This is what should concern people. Now, in the 21st century. Not whose Crimea or Macedonia (if Texas is USA - to be clear for my American friends) is.
This is the kind of vital intellectual reading that's about life, not death. About friendship, not enmity. About how to belong, not how to divide into us and them. About how any place can become home. About how to be human. About how being human means being a citizen of the world, not a Bulgarian, Russian, German, or Ukrainian. About how the world doesn't devour your identity. That there's room for everyone. Everywhere! There's room for everyone everywhere.
This voice (this book) - it's the most important thing the world needs right now. It's the narrative that shapes a better world.
I don't relate to the protagonist; I miss another way. But how I admired her backbone! Or rather, how the author wrote her. I understand why she spent nine years writing it. Yes, this book looks exactly like work that was contemplated and written for nine years.
There are no superfluous scenes, I have no quibbles with the book. Everything is said. All themes are developed. The title is excellent. It plays in the plot. It's meaningful and stylish. Very coolly integrated into the plot. There are wonderful layers of reflection. Reading "Tangerines" - you feel connected to the entire world. Like WordPress's Latest (what we haven't in those pathetic Insta, Fb, Tg, Twitter and Threads). As if the world finally has no borders. It's a rare and pleasant sensation. I love it!
There's even (I applauded here too) something that made me look at a phenomenon with new eyes. I only encounter such things lately in Amnuel's books. And here, imagine, something new in a book! Such a rarity!
So, the protagonist paints. And she goes out with her paintings to the square. And she describes the feeling that when people just pass by, without stopping and looking at the paintings, it feels like they're shooting at her. And we pass by because we don't want to disturb if we're not planning to buy. We feel awkward. We would look, but we're afraid we'll have to buy something unnecessary. But maybe those who paint don't care so much about selling, maybe they really just want grateful recognition? And now I constantly watch artists in squares (there are many in Varna), they always look dissatisfied. And I think it's better not to disturb them. But maybe they're not dissatisfied, but upset that everyone rushes past? Is it really so hard for me to stop for a minute, smile and praise. Well, lament that I have absolutely nowhere to put paintings (that's true! They keep accumulating at our place! We really have nowhere to put them! We don't have enough walls!), but praise, lift spirits. I'm astounded by this thought and I keep thinking about it. And probably thanks to this book, I'll lift some artists' spirits. And they'll carry that mood forward.
And what more can a book do than lift the world's spirits?
...It's terrifying to think if Moneva's protagonist had gone to study in, say, Paris, Barcelona, or Frankfurt. And the book would be called "Tangerines at the Eiffel Tower," "Tangerines over Catalonia Square," "Tangerines over Römerberg." I wouldn't have bought it and would have missed a talented book.
Tea, thank you for going to study in Munich!)))
Glad to make your literary acquaintance, wishing you great creative fulfilled plans!
Wildly, passionately recommend the book and author! Wildly, passionately recommend not judging a book and writer by meetings with them.
The credo of all my statements: a society is as good as its narrative.
My call: let's write a better world.
Tea Moneva wrote it.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
November 17, 2024
Can I ask something?
We had a small flash mob for #halloween, with players choosing creepy images from the #art_project #Hi_from_reality, based on Ol Albireo's arts.
They told me I had to pick a picture from the chosen ones and write a scary story about it... on the day of the finale)))))
The piece came to me whole. As you can see, elements from other pictures found their place here. But it wasn't intentional. It just happened that way. Here's the picture again. Feel free to write your own stories about it.
Can I ask something?
She rubbed her eyes, but the corridor remained the same. Rough-textured. That's what she called it. An endless corridor. No, it only became endless if you tried to escape it; otherwise, it wasn't. It just ended in darkness. Terma looked out the window. If you looked from the inside, there were always green trees outside. Always. Terma had counted the days once. Up to four hundred. Just to be sure. And for all four hundred days, through the window, she saw a green courtyard. But that was only if you looked from the inside.
If you found yourself outside—sometimes it was possible if you were running an errand for a nurse or doctor—that green courtyard looked different. Charred. And the hospital looked charred too. The trees that were green from the inside were black on the outside.
But at least she found her teddy bear. There, by the wall, next to a pile of charred debris.
Terma figured it out immediately. The hospital had burned down, long ago. And they were ghosts, bound to this place. Once she realized this, she stopped being afraid at night. What could frighten a ghost? It became clear that the darkness at the end of the corridor was the void. That's where the nurses took the ghosts, covered with white sheets. Terma didn't know how or why ghosts died. She'd read that some could live for centuries. When she realized everyone in the hospital was dead, she talked about it with the doctor.
"Can I ask something?" said Terma. "About the rules. Since I know now, maybe I can know the rules."
The doctor, a tall man with beautiful dark blue eyes, smiled. Terma could tell by the crinkles around his eyes, because the rest of his face was hidden behind a mask. The mask was always smiling. All hospital staff wore such masks—with painted warm, friendly smiles. This used to frighten Terma because she thought there were evil grins under the masks. But now, knowing they were ghosts like her, she thought maybe they just had charred faces they were hiding.
"The rules remain the same, Terma. Obey the nurses and doctors. No going outside without permission. No running in the corridors."
"Why? We're all dead, aren't we? Why can't we?"
Doctor Kahir, or Sabir Rakhmetovich, stood and walked to the window. He looked out, naturally seeing the summer courtyard and green trees. Artificial. Because trees can't stay green for 400 days. But charred ones can.
"We're not dead, Terma. We're stuck, but not dead."
And she felt afraid again...
Sabir Rakhmetovich explained to her—since she already knew—that the hospital hadn't just suffered from a fire. It was a terrorist attack, a common thing in the modern world. Some people, to make other people share money, kill third parties who have nothing to do with the conflict.
The radium in the pool first poisoned whoever it could, then caused an explosion.
That too wasn't such a rare thing—well, an explosion, well, radiation, sad of course, but similar things happen constantly in the world.
Everyone followed safety protocols, the hospital staff tried to evacuate patients, even after the explosion, even during the fire. But when hell dissipated, it turned out all that chaos had been in vain.
Some staff died instantly in the explosion. Didn't even notice it. And those who died a bit earlier, from radiation, didn't even feel the explosion and don't remember the evacuation.
More precisely, they didn't die—somehow the explosion transferred them... somewhere. Because in the outside world, they didn't find a single body in the hospital.
But sometimes, suddenly, the darkness at the end of the corridor starts demanding a sacrifice.
And they would give it one. The weakest or the most rebellious. Now you understand why obedience is necessary?
But they don't know how the Darkness—that's what they call it—distributes those it takes.
"Distributes?" Terma asked then.
"You see," here Sabir Rakhmetovich rubbed his eyes, "we have a connection to our familiar world. And sometimes, suddenly, in the hospital—they built a new one after the explosion—someone appears. The one we gave to the Darkness. But not all appear. Understand? The Darkness is an exit, but we don't know where to. We're studying it. We're trying to establish contact. We're trying to punish those who did this. Those are the rules. Since you know now."
Terma wasn't sure then whether to be afraid or not afraid again...
She turned toward the Darkness at the corridor's end.
More than a month had passed since that conversation, Terma counted. All this time, she'd been studying too. Walking through the hospital, following nurses' and doctors' orders, trying to help Sabir Rakhmetovich, and talking to the Darkness whenever she passed through the corridor.
The Darkness never answered. Either it couldn't hear or it despised Terma.
The girl, each time she found herself in the corridor, moved closer to the Darkness.
Now too she stepped toward it and was just about to speak when a stern voice cut her short.
"Drakovskaya! What are you doing there?!"
Sister Lisaveta. Flexible, long, thin, as if made entirely of slender twigs. Hair long, dark, obedient. And her eyes were long and dark too. The mask smiled warmly, but the eyes didn't. And her voice didn't match that warm painted smile at all.
"I... I'm going to see Sabir Rakhmetovich! He called for me," she quickly added before the nurse could say anything.
"Let me accompany you," she said, a bit softer.
"No, you go ahead, you have work to do, I won't get lost," Terma smiled as carefreely as possible.
"Well, alright," the nurse looked somewhere behind Terma's back and disappeared into the adjacent corridor.
Terma carefully exhaled, waited a bit, and took a step toward the Darkness.
In the blackness, light suddenly flashed, seeming to stretch the darkness and appearing veiled. It was unclear whether the light was swirling or the darkness was. Behind the dark lace, Terma seemed to see silhouettes, as if life was pulsating there, trying to tear through the thin dark fabric and flood into the corridor.
The rhythm of the pulsation was hypnotic. Terma thought she could hear the Darkness's heart beating. Other sounds appeared too—quiet crackling, something metallic and ringing, something soft and hollow. Terma wanted to touch this light, maybe help it break through the veil, so this pulsating light could spread throughout the corridor, the hospital, this place where they were stuck.
She reached out toward the beckoning breath. Of Life. Of course, life!
"Whoop," a man stepped from the darkness into the corridor, catching Terma and turning her away from the Darkness.
"No! No!" the girl screamed desperately, trying to break free.
Immediately nurses appeared in the corridor, as if from nowhere.
"Let me go! Please, let me go! You don't understand!" Terma screamed.
A syringe appeared in Sister Lisaveta's hand, and while the stranger held the girl, the nurse inserted the needle into her shoulder. Terma went limp immediately.
"Where should we take her?" asked the man.
He wore the same smiling mask.
The nurse nodded her head and walked down the corridor, leading the way. The man followed, carrying Terma.
"How is it there?" asked Lisaveta.
"Worse than here," the man said, as if shrugging.
Lisaveta sighed.
"We need to install gates. So this wonderful bestiary doesn't break through to us."
"Alright," the man didn't even turn around, but now iron latticed double doors separated the darkness from the corridor. "Access for staff only. If you haven't got any newcomers."
"Brilliant joke," Lisaveta responded sarcastically.
XXXX
Terma woke up in her ward, in her bed. The window still showed greenery, as if summer was shining outside. She looked around, remembering what had happened, and saw Sabir Rakhmetovich sitting on the bed.
"Awake? How are you?" he asked warmly.
"I..." Terma sat up in bed, pulling her thin legs to her chest. "Sabir Rakhmetovich, the Darkness, it leads out of here, I know for sure, it was calling me, everything there was so... so..."
"Desirable," the doctor said somehow hollowly and thoughtfully.
"Yes," Terma said, embarrassed.
"It does lead out of here, that's true. But the places it leads to aren't always good, understand?"
"And that man?"
"What man?" the doctor didn't understand.
"Well, the one who... who came out of there?"
"Ah, that's Dayan. The facility manager. Now the facility manager. That day he came either to visit someone or deliver something. And when everything happened, he stayed to help us. He could have left, he would have made it. But he stayed. You know what? Let's make a deal—if you want to be trusted, you must not do anything you haven't been told to do."
"Who decides what to do? You?"
"Everyone. All of us. Every morning we gather and discuss what we'll do. If you want to help, come too. But if you do something else on your own, out of curiosity, or if something seems like a brilliant idea and you don't share it with anyone, decide to implement it yourself, we'll have to send you to Block 20."
Terma shuddered. Even walking past Block 20 was terrifying. Constant screams or some kind of barking came from there.
"What's in there?"
"Those who don't understand the first time. We need somewhere to put them, right? So they don't interfere with others. Do you understand?"
Terma nodded.
"Well, good then," Sabir Rakhmetovich touched her foot under the blanket, got up and left.
XXXX
"Put on the mask," said Sister Rita, the head nurse, and placed a mask with a painted smile on the table.
"Why?" Terma asked.
"Sabir Rakhmetovich says you're part of the staff now. You'll be helping."
"Yes, but I don't need a mask," Terma shook her head.
"Of course you do. Put it on now. Lunch is soon. You'll be dining with us now."
"I don't understand..."
Rita sighed.
"You'll see everything yourself. Terma! Some things are hard to explain with words. We're in such a situation where sometimes you need to obey first and ask questions later, clear?"
"No, not really. I don't understand why it can't be explained with words..."
"Such a pretty little face," Rita sighed, "because you'll get scared and start screaming. And the mask will protect you."
"From what? What will I be scared of?"
"The others."
"Why?"
A beautiful green-eyed nurse peeked into the room. Karina. Terma remembered her.
"Are you coming? Everyone's gathered already."
"I can't deal with every newcomer and explain everything! I'm not a kindergarten teacher!" Rita complained.
"What's wrong?" Karina responded honey-sweet.
"Won't put on the mask," Rita sighed.
"Why?" Karina asked, warmly surprised.
"Keeps asking questions."
"Ah, Terma, the mask needs to be worn because otherwise, patients will be terribly afraid of you."
"Why would they be afraid of me?"
"Because we change. Everyone who works here—changes. And it's unusual."
"What do you mean—change?"
"Yes, you're right, it's like an endless cycle," Karina responded cheerfully and warmly, and removed her mask.
The lower half of the nurse's face was like something from a monster, a long tongue like a tentacle hung to her chest and writhed, the stretched maw full of white and sharp teeth was in constant motion. On the dark leathery cheeks were more eyes—of different colors, all looking in different directions and blinking. And suddenly they all fixed on Terma.
And she screamed, tearing her voice, ripping her mouth, and losing consciousness.
Rita sighed, Karina smiled even wider, so that her maw extended beyond the boundaries of her face.
"Sometimes it's better to show once," said Karina, returning the mask to its place.
"Such trouble with these newcomers!" Rita put the mask on Terma, not wiping the blood from her face, and patted her cheek.
But Terma didn't come around. Rita waved her hand in front of her face and the smell of ammonia appeared in the room. Terma flinched and opened her eyes, looking startled at Rita. Pressed her palm to her face and felt the mask.
"Well, if you'd put on the mask earlier, you wouldn't have torn your mouth," said Rita, "but now it doesn't matter. It's not important anymore. Come on, we don't know what you'll turn into anyway."
"W-where?" Terma cautiously looked at Karina, "and are you all... all like that?"
"We're different. Come on. It's time for lunch."
"Yes, yes. Give me a minute. I'll... I'll get used to it. Just a moment." Terma sighed.
Well, fine. What of it? They're in a blown-up hospital, died from radiation and explosion. Dead in that world. But locked in this one. And now they're turning into monsters. But they're looking for a way out. Okay. Not bad. They're not evil. They'll find a way out and everything will be fixed. Still better than drearily dragging yourself through corridors, following nurses' prohibitions. Afraid you'll die and be taken to the dark corridor. They've accepted her, they won't hide what's happening from her.
Now, there'll be lunch. At least lunch is something normal.
But Terma was wrong this time too.
The "lunch" was screaming so loudly that Terma thought her head would split.
On the table lay a young man, tied to the table legs, while the hospital staff stood around without masks. Terma shuddered; she seemed to have fallen into hell. She wanted to "join in" with the "lunch," but the corners of her mouth ached painfully and unpleasantly.
"Alright," thought Terma, "alright. They just look like this. Nothing scary about that. Why did they tie him up? Who is he? Are these monsters going to eat him?"
Dayan was here too, also without a mask, but the man had an ordinary face, nothing monstrous—no tentacles or spikes or eyes. A pleasant face, light shoulder-length hair. A completely normal, handsome man.
But he didn't take his eyes off the screaming prisoner. And the others were moving their jaws concentratedly.
"Excuse me, excuse me, I need to ask someone!.." Terma whispered to the nurse standing next to her, "excuse me, it's my first time and I don't know..."
Lisaveta, it turned out to be her, turned to her, her mouth split into a horrifying five-petaled toothed opening seemingly living a separate life from her beautiful long eyes.
"Ah, Drakovskaya. Here," something dark fell from Lisaveta's mouth, like a piece of coal, and plopped onto the floor.
A pleasant smell reached Terma's nostrils and she felt how hungry she was. It smelled divine, like some happy memory. The girl smiled under her mask and complete happiness enveloped her. An old fear of drowning flashed through her head, for some reason, and disappeared.
The man on the table screamed louder, but somehow brokenly, as if choking. But Terma didn't notice this, absorbed in some delicious summer day.
Terma seemed to have entered some wonderful world—she was water skiing, then eating fish soup by the fire with the cheerful nurses and doctors. And they had normal faces. Sabir Rakhmetovich was singing funny songs on guitar, and the others were singing along. And Terma was singing along.
Then everyone went to sleep. Terma fell asleep holding Lisaveta's warm hand. And woke up.
"Everyone finished?" asked Dayan.
"Yes, thank you, yes!" the monsters responded discordantly.
Dayan touched the prisoner's forehead and he finally lost consciousness. To Terma, he seemed somehow exhausted and fragile. Dayan easily untied the prisoner, as he had Terma before, and lifted him in his arms.
"Where are you taking him?" asked Terma.
Some vague understanding was nagging at her mind.
"To Block Twenty, where else," Rita replied.
"Can... can I ask something?" Terma began carefully.
"Listen, why don't you go outside to help Dayan, he was planning to collect leaves, and ask him, okay?" Rita touched Terma's shoulder and ran off, putting on her mask. The others started dispersing too.
Sabir Rakhmetovich also touched her shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, already masked, and Terma regretted not finding him then, in the crowd. But never mind, she'd see him again, there would be the same dinner, right?
Terma understood that something horrible was happening, that they had done something to this person. But despite this, the cozy memory of the evening by the lake continued to envelope her. Block 20. Those who don't understand the first time. Surely he deserved it. He deserved it, right? Sabir Rakhmetovich wouldn't torture someone for no reason. And maybe he's not even human. Maybe he's a monster? And when he told her about Block Twenty then, it was to scare her! Now she'll go collect leaves in the yard and ask Dayan about everything. About the unreal green forest, and about the Darkness, and about Block 20, and about the masks...
Terma felt how for the first time in a very, very long time, she felt calm and good. Only the corners of her mouth ached. She touched her wounded mouth and felt something hard, something like a tooth.
pictures are here: https://albireomkgblogeng.wordpress.c...
They told me I had to pick a picture from the chosen ones and write a scary story about it... on the day of the finale)))))
The piece came to me whole. As you can see, elements from other pictures found their place here. But it wasn't intentional. It just happened that way. Here's the picture again. Feel free to write your own stories about it.
Can I ask something?
She rubbed her eyes, but the corridor remained the same. Rough-textured. That's what she called it. An endless corridor. No, it only became endless if you tried to escape it; otherwise, it wasn't. It just ended in darkness. Terma looked out the window. If you looked from the inside, there were always green trees outside. Always. Terma had counted the days once. Up to four hundred. Just to be sure. And for all four hundred days, through the window, she saw a green courtyard. But that was only if you looked from the inside.
If you found yourself outside—sometimes it was possible if you were running an errand for a nurse or doctor—that green courtyard looked different. Charred. And the hospital looked charred too. The trees that were green from the inside were black on the outside.
But at least she found her teddy bear. There, by the wall, next to a pile of charred debris.
Terma figured it out immediately. The hospital had burned down, long ago. And they were ghosts, bound to this place. Once she realized this, she stopped being afraid at night. What could frighten a ghost? It became clear that the darkness at the end of the corridor was the void. That's where the nurses took the ghosts, covered with white sheets. Terma didn't know how or why ghosts died. She'd read that some could live for centuries. When she realized everyone in the hospital was dead, she talked about it with the doctor.
"Can I ask something?" said Terma. "About the rules. Since I know now, maybe I can know the rules."
The doctor, a tall man with beautiful dark blue eyes, smiled. Terma could tell by the crinkles around his eyes, because the rest of his face was hidden behind a mask. The mask was always smiling. All hospital staff wore such masks—with painted warm, friendly smiles. This used to frighten Terma because she thought there were evil grins under the masks. But now, knowing they were ghosts like her, she thought maybe they just had charred faces they were hiding.
"The rules remain the same, Terma. Obey the nurses and doctors. No going outside without permission. No running in the corridors."
"Why? We're all dead, aren't we? Why can't we?"
Doctor Kahir, or Sabir Rakhmetovich, stood and walked to the window. He looked out, naturally seeing the summer courtyard and green trees. Artificial. Because trees can't stay green for 400 days. But charred ones can.
"We're not dead, Terma. We're stuck, but not dead."
And she felt afraid again...
Sabir Rakhmetovich explained to her—since she already knew—that the hospital hadn't just suffered from a fire. It was a terrorist attack, a common thing in the modern world. Some people, to make other people share money, kill third parties who have nothing to do with the conflict.
The radium in the pool first poisoned whoever it could, then caused an explosion.
That too wasn't such a rare thing—well, an explosion, well, radiation, sad of course, but similar things happen constantly in the world.
Everyone followed safety protocols, the hospital staff tried to evacuate patients, even after the explosion, even during the fire. But when hell dissipated, it turned out all that chaos had been in vain.
Some staff died instantly in the explosion. Didn't even notice it. And those who died a bit earlier, from radiation, didn't even feel the explosion and don't remember the evacuation.
More precisely, they didn't die—somehow the explosion transferred them... somewhere. Because in the outside world, they didn't find a single body in the hospital.
But sometimes, suddenly, the darkness at the end of the corridor starts demanding a sacrifice.
And they would give it one. The weakest or the most rebellious. Now you understand why obedience is necessary?
But they don't know how the Darkness—that's what they call it—distributes those it takes.
"Distributes?" Terma asked then.
"You see," here Sabir Rakhmetovich rubbed his eyes, "we have a connection to our familiar world. And sometimes, suddenly, in the hospital—they built a new one after the explosion—someone appears. The one we gave to the Darkness. But not all appear. Understand? The Darkness is an exit, but we don't know where to. We're studying it. We're trying to establish contact. We're trying to punish those who did this. Those are the rules. Since you know now."
Terma wasn't sure then whether to be afraid or not afraid again...
She turned toward the Darkness at the corridor's end.
More than a month had passed since that conversation, Terma counted. All this time, she'd been studying too. Walking through the hospital, following nurses' and doctors' orders, trying to help Sabir Rakhmetovich, and talking to the Darkness whenever she passed through the corridor.
The Darkness never answered. Either it couldn't hear or it despised Terma.
The girl, each time she found herself in the corridor, moved closer to the Darkness.
Now too she stepped toward it and was just about to speak when a stern voice cut her short.
"Drakovskaya! What are you doing there?!"
Sister Lisaveta. Flexible, long, thin, as if made entirely of slender twigs. Hair long, dark, obedient. And her eyes were long and dark too. The mask smiled warmly, but the eyes didn't. And her voice didn't match that warm painted smile at all.
"I... I'm going to see Sabir Rakhmetovich! He called for me," she quickly added before the nurse could say anything.
"Let me accompany you," she said, a bit softer.
"No, you go ahead, you have work to do, I won't get lost," Terma smiled as carefreely as possible.
"Well, alright," the nurse looked somewhere behind Terma's back and disappeared into the adjacent corridor.
Terma carefully exhaled, waited a bit, and took a step toward the Darkness.
In the blackness, light suddenly flashed, seeming to stretch the darkness and appearing veiled. It was unclear whether the light was swirling or the darkness was. Behind the dark lace, Terma seemed to see silhouettes, as if life was pulsating there, trying to tear through the thin dark fabric and flood into the corridor.
The rhythm of the pulsation was hypnotic. Terma thought she could hear the Darkness's heart beating. Other sounds appeared too—quiet crackling, something metallic and ringing, something soft and hollow. Terma wanted to touch this light, maybe help it break through the veil, so this pulsating light could spread throughout the corridor, the hospital, this place where they were stuck.
She reached out toward the beckoning breath. Of Life. Of course, life!
"Whoop," a man stepped from the darkness into the corridor, catching Terma and turning her away from the Darkness.
"No! No!" the girl screamed desperately, trying to break free.
Immediately nurses appeared in the corridor, as if from nowhere.
"Let me go! Please, let me go! You don't understand!" Terma screamed.
A syringe appeared in Sister Lisaveta's hand, and while the stranger held the girl, the nurse inserted the needle into her shoulder. Terma went limp immediately.
"Where should we take her?" asked the man.
He wore the same smiling mask.
The nurse nodded her head and walked down the corridor, leading the way. The man followed, carrying Terma.
"How is it there?" asked Lisaveta.
"Worse than here," the man said, as if shrugging.
Lisaveta sighed.
"We need to install gates. So this wonderful bestiary doesn't break through to us."
"Alright," the man didn't even turn around, but now iron latticed double doors separated the darkness from the corridor. "Access for staff only. If you haven't got any newcomers."
"Brilliant joke," Lisaveta responded sarcastically.
XXXX
Terma woke up in her ward, in her bed. The window still showed greenery, as if summer was shining outside. She looked around, remembering what had happened, and saw Sabir Rakhmetovich sitting on the bed.
"Awake? How are you?" he asked warmly.
"I..." Terma sat up in bed, pulling her thin legs to her chest. "Sabir Rakhmetovich, the Darkness, it leads out of here, I know for sure, it was calling me, everything there was so... so..."
"Desirable," the doctor said somehow hollowly and thoughtfully.
"Yes," Terma said, embarrassed.
"It does lead out of here, that's true. But the places it leads to aren't always good, understand?"
"And that man?"
"What man?" the doctor didn't understand.
"Well, the one who... who came out of there?"
"Ah, that's Dayan. The facility manager. Now the facility manager. That day he came either to visit someone or deliver something. And when everything happened, he stayed to help us. He could have left, he would have made it. But he stayed. You know what? Let's make a deal—if you want to be trusted, you must not do anything you haven't been told to do."
"Who decides what to do? You?"
"Everyone. All of us. Every morning we gather and discuss what we'll do. If you want to help, come too. But if you do something else on your own, out of curiosity, or if something seems like a brilliant idea and you don't share it with anyone, decide to implement it yourself, we'll have to send you to Block 20."
Terma shuddered. Even walking past Block 20 was terrifying. Constant screams or some kind of barking came from there.
"What's in there?"
"Those who don't understand the first time. We need somewhere to put them, right? So they don't interfere with others. Do you understand?"
Terma nodded.
"Well, good then," Sabir Rakhmetovich touched her foot under the blanket, got up and left.
XXXX
"Put on the mask," said Sister Rita, the head nurse, and placed a mask with a painted smile on the table.
"Why?" Terma asked.
"Sabir Rakhmetovich says you're part of the staff now. You'll be helping."
"Yes, but I don't need a mask," Terma shook her head.
"Of course you do. Put it on now. Lunch is soon. You'll be dining with us now."
"I don't understand..."
Rita sighed.
"You'll see everything yourself. Terma! Some things are hard to explain with words. We're in such a situation where sometimes you need to obey first and ask questions later, clear?"
"No, not really. I don't understand why it can't be explained with words..."
"Such a pretty little face," Rita sighed, "because you'll get scared and start screaming. And the mask will protect you."
"From what? What will I be scared of?"
"The others."
"Why?"
A beautiful green-eyed nurse peeked into the room. Karina. Terma remembered her.
"Are you coming? Everyone's gathered already."
"I can't deal with every newcomer and explain everything! I'm not a kindergarten teacher!" Rita complained.
"What's wrong?" Karina responded honey-sweet.
"Won't put on the mask," Rita sighed.
"Why?" Karina asked, warmly surprised.
"Keeps asking questions."
"Ah, Terma, the mask needs to be worn because otherwise, patients will be terribly afraid of you."
"Why would they be afraid of me?"
"Because we change. Everyone who works here—changes. And it's unusual."
"What do you mean—change?"
"Yes, you're right, it's like an endless cycle," Karina responded cheerfully and warmly, and removed her mask.
The lower half of the nurse's face was like something from a monster, a long tongue like a tentacle hung to her chest and writhed, the stretched maw full of white and sharp teeth was in constant motion. On the dark leathery cheeks were more eyes—of different colors, all looking in different directions and blinking. And suddenly they all fixed on Terma.
And she screamed, tearing her voice, ripping her mouth, and losing consciousness.
Rita sighed, Karina smiled even wider, so that her maw extended beyond the boundaries of her face.
"Sometimes it's better to show once," said Karina, returning the mask to its place.
"Such trouble with these newcomers!" Rita put the mask on Terma, not wiping the blood from her face, and patted her cheek.
But Terma didn't come around. Rita waved her hand in front of her face and the smell of ammonia appeared in the room. Terma flinched and opened her eyes, looking startled at Rita. Pressed her palm to her face and felt the mask.
"Well, if you'd put on the mask earlier, you wouldn't have torn your mouth," said Rita, "but now it doesn't matter. It's not important anymore. Come on, we don't know what you'll turn into anyway."
"W-where?" Terma cautiously looked at Karina, "and are you all... all like that?"
"We're different. Come on. It's time for lunch."
"Yes, yes. Give me a minute. I'll... I'll get used to it. Just a moment." Terma sighed.
Well, fine. What of it? They're in a blown-up hospital, died from radiation and explosion. Dead in that world. But locked in this one. And now they're turning into monsters. But they're looking for a way out. Okay. Not bad. They're not evil. They'll find a way out and everything will be fixed. Still better than drearily dragging yourself through corridors, following nurses' prohibitions. Afraid you'll die and be taken to the dark corridor. They've accepted her, they won't hide what's happening from her.
Now, there'll be lunch. At least lunch is something normal.
But Terma was wrong this time too.
The "lunch" was screaming so loudly that Terma thought her head would split.
On the table lay a young man, tied to the table legs, while the hospital staff stood around without masks. Terma shuddered; she seemed to have fallen into hell. She wanted to "join in" with the "lunch," but the corners of her mouth ached painfully and unpleasantly.
"Alright," thought Terma, "alright. They just look like this. Nothing scary about that. Why did they tie him up? Who is he? Are these monsters going to eat him?"
Dayan was here too, also without a mask, but the man had an ordinary face, nothing monstrous—no tentacles or spikes or eyes. A pleasant face, light shoulder-length hair. A completely normal, handsome man.
But he didn't take his eyes off the screaming prisoner. And the others were moving their jaws concentratedly.
"Excuse me, excuse me, I need to ask someone!.." Terma whispered to the nurse standing next to her, "excuse me, it's my first time and I don't know..."
Lisaveta, it turned out to be her, turned to her, her mouth split into a horrifying five-petaled toothed opening seemingly living a separate life from her beautiful long eyes.
"Ah, Drakovskaya. Here," something dark fell from Lisaveta's mouth, like a piece of coal, and plopped onto the floor.
A pleasant smell reached Terma's nostrils and she felt how hungry she was. It smelled divine, like some happy memory. The girl smiled under her mask and complete happiness enveloped her. An old fear of drowning flashed through her head, for some reason, and disappeared.
The man on the table screamed louder, but somehow brokenly, as if choking. But Terma didn't notice this, absorbed in some delicious summer day.
Terma seemed to have entered some wonderful world—she was water skiing, then eating fish soup by the fire with the cheerful nurses and doctors. And they had normal faces. Sabir Rakhmetovich was singing funny songs on guitar, and the others were singing along. And Terma was singing along.
Then everyone went to sleep. Terma fell asleep holding Lisaveta's warm hand. And woke up.
"Everyone finished?" asked Dayan.
"Yes, thank you, yes!" the monsters responded discordantly.
Dayan touched the prisoner's forehead and he finally lost consciousness. To Terma, he seemed somehow exhausted and fragile. Dayan easily untied the prisoner, as he had Terma before, and lifted him in his arms.
"Where are you taking him?" asked Terma.
Some vague understanding was nagging at her mind.
"To Block Twenty, where else," Rita replied.
"Can... can I ask something?" Terma began carefully.
"Listen, why don't you go outside to help Dayan, he was planning to collect leaves, and ask him, okay?" Rita touched Terma's shoulder and ran off, putting on her mask. The others started dispersing too.
Sabir Rakhmetovich also touched her shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, already masked, and Terma regretted not finding him then, in the crowd. But never mind, she'd see him again, there would be the same dinner, right?
Terma understood that something horrible was happening, that they had done something to this person. But despite this, the cozy memory of the evening by the lake continued to envelope her. Block 20. Those who don't understand the first time. Surely he deserved it. He deserved it, right? Sabir Rakhmetovich wouldn't torture someone for no reason. And maybe he's not even human. Maybe he's a monster? And when he told her about Block Twenty then, it was to scare her! Now she'll go collect leaves in the yard and ask Dayan about everything. About the unreal green forest, and about the Darkness, and about Block 20, and about the masks...
Terma felt how for the first time in a very, very long time, she felt calm and good. Only the corners of her mouth ached. She touched her wounded mouth and felt something hard, something like a tooth.
pictures are here: https://albireomkgblogeng.wordpress.c...
September 17, 2024
Tales from the Pandemic, or How I Befriended a Mosquito, by Ivan Dimitrov
Tales from the Pandemic, or How I Befriended a Mosquito, by Ivan Dimitrov
"Unpack the shopping bag, everything needs washing. Rinse the jars and boxes too."
"Should I wash the sour cream as well?"
"Yes."
"Even inside?"
"Of course!"
One of our family conversations during the pandemic.
I couldn't grasp the psychological tragedy of the pandemic. You know, when people were climbing the walls, hating their partners they found themselves locked up with, and loathing their kids who stopped going to school. Folks, your problem isn't the pandemic; it's that you've been lying to yourselves up to your eyeballs about your life.
Loneliness? How have you been living that no one wanted to spend this pandemic with you? If a couple of hours a week was enough for you before, just Skype each other. The only ban that really bothered you was the one on peddling your mug. That's what you couldn't stand. What if happiness doesn't notice you? That's why you needed to wander endlessly.
For us, the pandemic passed as people's hysteria on the internet and the annoyance of having to wear masks in stores. We're the family for whom spending time together is a joy. It's another matter that we're immigrants, so we didn't need to go to work anyway. We all work online.
And I don't need to go anywhere when my loved ones are right beside me.
Of course, from the side, it was terrifying for the dying, scary for the doctors. I wanted to smash the hands of those writing that the virus was made up because nearby, entire houses of people were dying, and doctors had bloody wounds on their faces from masks and goggles.
I was infuriated by the worst of people who sat at home for weeks on end, but as soon as it became forbidden, they needed to go for walks every day. It's such a pathetic, such a miserable fight against the system and prohibitions, or rather, nurturing their erotic fantasies under the guise of fighting bans.
Why, when the system stones women, don't you want to unite and deceive it? Why, when the system bans entire layers of the population, don't you want to deceive it? Why, when the system forbids women to study, gays to marry, children to be themselves - you do nothing. Why your protest is always: "I'll never wear a mask, let everyone around die"? Why your protest is just to go around and infect others? Why all you can it's to harm?
On the other hand, the protection from governments was also hypocritical and deceitful. For instance, it's forbidden to go out on the street, but what about those who have nowhere to live but the street? I checked if governments did anything with people who took on the role of rats? No. So what kind of strict bans can we talk about? Street musicians were allowed to sing on European streets during the pandemic. I know this for sure. I have a friend who's a street musician.
"Stories about the pandemic", not a collection of stories, this is a creative collection of miniatures and lyrical essays. And he wrote so accurately about the madness of lonely, bored people. That's how it felt then. This collection is an excellent emotional cross-section of society at that time. Emotional, precisely.
On Goodreads, there's a boy who gave the book a two-star rating. I went to read his review. He says it's somehow superficial. The topic is important, he says, the design is wonderful, but it should be deeper somehow, and Dimitrov just reports how it was.
My dear boy, there's nothing to dig into. The terrifying scale of the book is precisely in this cross-section of the middle class, who made money by renting out their dogs for other such oddballs to walk, and these dogs just roamed the streets all day... for no reason.
I knew a girl, already in Bulgaria, who liked my friend (that same street musician). She would go out at lunch and walk with him for hours until she found where he was playing. And then she wouldn't leave until he left. This too was under the guise of - I'm walking the dog. Although the poor dog just lay there with its tongue out the whole time. Because it was tired from running around Burgas while the girl was looking for my friend.
The pandemic, where it was scary - where doctors were falling from exhaustion, where entire houses were dying in Italy, where people's loved ones were dying - no one wants to write or read about that. Well, maybe except those who faced it. We - the masses - remember the pandemic as a TV series post-apocalypse on a minimal scale. There was this layer of people whose close ones didn't die, just a friend of a friend. Something safe, but real. A game of hide-and-seek with the police, where losing only threatens a fine (but we're used to paying for games), where you can be indignant about bans and show displeasure and pull down the mask, if not the social one, then at least the cloth one, where you can bark, meow and walk through the park like a duck, venting your stress from the feudal-capitalist world without a future, and hiding behind the pandemic.
The pandemic became a way to let off a little steam, to look at your partner, to look at what kind of parent you really are, what you're spending your life on. A memento mori for those capable of thinking about life in the face of death. And those who aren't yet capable, well, let them... meow.
So the psychological problem of the situation itself was very superficial for real people. That's what's scary. How these momma's boys fighting the system tried to be "deeper" on empty ground. It's terrifying that they didn't care that someone might die because of their games. Real people understood the misfortune of the layer they were lucky not to fall into. Real people were glad that family was nearby. Real people really tried not to be carrier rats, not to go somewhere unnecessarily, not to drag the virus back and forth, so as not to become involuntary killers. And it was thanks to them that fake people could afford to go crazy and play, rather than coughing out their lungs.
I want to note the emotional impact of the book. Well, in general, this book is an anchor of time. It's relevant for those who lived through this time. They have something to recognize, something to laugh at or be indignant about. The absurdity of people's behavior, the absurdity of the authorities' behavior. In a hundred years, it will be incomprehensible what happened and even how it was. After all, we know nothing about the outbreak of pneumonic plague and the sixth cholera pandemic a hundred years ago.
But for me, having lived during the Covid Pandemic, during some miniature, there was an emotional immersion in that time. I even looked around and thought, is this pandemic not happening now, crazy panicking people on both sides, constantly changing prohibitions. And I remembered that no, the pandemic is over, now we have another madness. A scarier one.
Oh yes, throughout the book, I was curious whether the main character of the book really made friends with a mosquito or if it was a female mosquito? It turned out that it wasn't a friend at all. It was a female mosquito that wanted the main character's blood to lay eggs (blood is needed by female mosquitoes for reproduction, to provide enough protein). How this intriguing story of friendship ended, read in the book. Well, the instructive message might be - this is what happens if you pretend to be something you're not in a friendship.
I wanted to write a review in an artistic style because the book inspires such a mood. But I remembered in time that I write reviews for readers, not for writers. Even if I'm writing it on the writer's birthday. Because the birthday will end, but the review and the readers will remain. And that's good. Because Ivan Dimitrov deserves readers. And you, readers, deserve such a smart and insightful writer as Ivan Dimitrov. Read it, you won't regret it!
...I can't seem to finish...
After I closed the book and, while thinking about the review, opened another one, I had to close it and wait, because compared to this one, that one - quite good - somehow seriously faded. I'll go start his novel.
And you read, read, don't deprive yourself of good prose, there's not so much of it, despite the increasing abundance of information.
Разкази от пандемията, или как се сприятелих с един комар
"Unpack the shopping bag, everything needs washing. Rinse the jars and boxes too."
"Should I wash the sour cream as well?"
"Yes."
"Even inside?"
"Of course!"
One of our family conversations during the pandemic.
I couldn't grasp the psychological tragedy of the pandemic. You know, when people were climbing the walls, hating their partners they found themselves locked up with, and loathing their kids who stopped going to school. Folks, your problem isn't the pandemic; it's that you've been lying to yourselves up to your eyeballs about your life.
Loneliness? How have you been living that no one wanted to spend this pandemic with you? If a couple of hours a week was enough for you before, just Skype each other. The only ban that really bothered you was the one on peddling your mug. That's what you couldn't stand. What if happiness doesn't notice you? That's why you needed to wander endlessly.
For us, the pandemic passed as people's hysteria on the internet and the annoyance of having to wear masks in stores. We're the family for whom spending time together is a joy. It's another matter that we're immigrants, so we didn't need to go to work anyway. We all work online.
And I don't need to go anywhere when my loved ones are right beside me.
Of course, from the side, it was terrifying for the dying, scary for the doctors. I wanted to smash the hands of those writing that the virus was made up because nearby, entire houses of people were dying, and doctors had bloody wounds on their faces from masks and goggles.
I was infuriated by the worst of people who sat at home for weeks on end, but as soon as it became forbidden, they needed to go for walks every day. It's such a pathetic, such a miserable fight against the system and prohibitions, or rather, nurturing their erotic fantasies under the guise of fighting bans.
Why, when the system stones women, don't you want to unite and deceive it? Why, when the system bans entire layers of the population, don't you want to deceive it? Why, when the system forbids women to study, gays to marry, children to be themselves - you do nothing. Why your protest is always: "I'll never wear a mask, let everyone around die"? Why your protest is just to go around and infect others? Why all you can it's to harm?
On the other hand, the protection from governments was also hypocritical and deceitful. For instance, it's forbidden to go out on the street, but what about those who have nowhere to live but the street? I checked if governments did anything with people who took on the role of rats? No. So what kind of strict bans can we talk about? Street musicians were allowed to sing on European streets during the pandemic. I know this for sure. I have a friend who's a street musician.
"Stories about the pandemic", not a collection of stories, this is a creative collection of miniatures and lyrical essays. And he wrote so accurately about the madness of lonely, bored people. That's how it felt then. This collection is an excellent emotional cross-section of society at that time. Emotional, precisely.
On Goodreads, there's a boy who gave the book a two-star rating. I went to read his review. He says it's somehow superficial. The topic is important, he says, the design is wonderful, but it should be deeper somehow, and Dimitrov just reports how it was.
My dear boy, there's nothing to dig into. The terrifying scale of the book is precisely in this cross-section of the middle class, who made money by renting out their dogs for other such oddballs to walk, and these dogs just roamed the streets all day... for no reason.
I knew a girl, already in Bulgaria, who liked my friend (that same street musician). She would go out at lunch and walk with him for hours until she found where he was playing. And then she wouldn't leave until he left. This too was under the guise of - I'm walking the dog. Although the poor dog just lay there with its tongue out the whole time. Because it was tired from running around Burgas while the girl was looking for my friend.
The pandemic, where it was scary - where doctors were falling from exhaustion, where entire houses were dying in Italy, where people's loved ones were dying - no one wants to write or read about that. Well, maybe except those who faced it. We - the masses - remember the pandemic as a TV series post-apocalypse on a minimal scale. There was this layer of people whose close ones didn't die, just a friend of a friend. Something safe, but real. A game of hide-and-seek with the police, where losing only threatens a fine (but we're used to paying for games), where you can be indignant about bans and show displeasure and pull down the mask, if not the social one, then at least the cloth one, where you can bark, meow and walk through the park like a duck, venting your stress from the feudal-capitalist world without a future, and hiding behind the pandemic.
The pandemic became a way to let off a little steam, to look at your partner, to look at what kind of parent you really are, what you're spending your life on. A memento mori for those capable of thinking about life in the face of death. And those who aren't yet capable, well, let them... meow.
So the psychological problem of the situation itself was very superficial for real people. That's what's scary. How these momma's boys fighting the system tried to be "deeper" on empty ground. It's terrifying that they didn't care that someone might die because of their games. Real people understood the misfortune of the layer they were lucky not to fall into. Real people were glad that family was nearby. Real people really tried not to be carrier rats, not to go somewhere unnecessarily, not to drag the virus back and forth, so as not to become involuntary killers. And it was thanks to them that fake people could afford to go crazy and play, rather than coughing out their lungs.
I want to note the emotional impact of the book. Well, in general, this book is an anchor of time. It's relevant for those who lived through this time. They have something to recognize, something to laugh at or be indignant about. The absurdity of people's behavior, the absurdity of the authorities' behavior. In a hundred years, it will be incomprehensible what happened and even how it was. After all, we know nothing about the outbreak of pneumonic plague and the sixth cholera pandemic a hundred years ago.
But for me, having lived during the Covid Pandemic, during some miniature, there was an emotional immersion in that time. I even looked around and thought, is this pandemic not happening now, crazy panicking people on both sides, constantly changing prohibitions. And I remembered that no, the pandemic is over, now we have another madness. A scarier one.
Oh yes, throughout the book, I was curious whether the main character of the book really made friends with a mosquito or if it was a female mosquito? It turned out that it wasn't a friend at all. It was a female mosquito that wanted the main character's blood to lay eggs (blood is needed by female mosquitoes for reproduction, to provide enough protein). How this intriguing story of friendship ended, read in the book. Well, the instructive message might be - this is what happens if you pretend to be something you're not in a friendship.
I wanted to write a review in an artistic style because the book inspires such a mood. But I remembered in time that I write reviews for readers, not for writers. Even if I'm writing it on the writer's birthday. Because the birthday will end, but the review and the readers will remain. And that's good. Because Ivan Dimitrov deserves readers. And you, readers, deserve such a smart and insightful writer as Ivan Dimitrov. Read it, you won't regret it!
...I can't seem to finish...
After I closed the book and, while thinking about the review, opened another one, I had to close it and wait, because compared to this one, that one - quite good - somehow seriously faded. I'll go start his novel.
And you read, read, don't deprive yourself of good prose, there's not so much of it, despite the increasing abundance of information.
Разкази от пандемията, или как се сприятелих с един комар
August 5, 2024
Beyond the Black Abyss
#Hi_from_reality
Art&concept by Ol Albireo
Feel free to write your stories and give names to the artworks. Also, you're not limited to just writing stories; you can draw your own art, compose music, make toys, saw with a jigsaw, scratch with a nail, and translate into other languages for practice (and never simplify the text when translating!). And show us what you've created :)
Beyond the Black Abyss
"What's that?" asked Olaf.
"The dead part of the Dragon Land," replied Rakyar.
"The afterlife?"
"No, this is where dragons live who weren't accepted by the Magic of Nobility."
"What does that mean?"
Rakyar curled his lip in contempt and shrugged.
"It means some dragons chose power. Upon gaining might, they decided it belonged to them."
"Who does it belong to, then?"
"Everyone. They're merely its conduits."
"And that one who's burning... is that his punishment, why is he sitting by the fire and burning himself?"
"Ah, no, that's the Fire Keeper. It's Rakyar. Like me. A curator. He's here to guide those who've been saturated with the fire of knowledge back to the Dragon Land."
"Why is he scorched?"
"Those who choose to illuminate others usually burn themselves. In darkness, all light is needed."
Theorann and surroundings, AlbireoMKG
https://us-a.tapas.io/a/82/4adb4653-b...
Art&concept by Ol Albireo
Feel free to write your stories and give names to the artworks. Also, you're not limited to just writing stories; you can draw your own art, compose music, make toys, saw with a jigsaw, scratch with a nail, and translate into other languages for practice (and never simplify the text when translating!). And show us what you've created :)
Beyond the Black Abyss
"What's that?" asked Olaf.
"The dead part of the Dragon Land," replied Rakyar.
"The afterlife?"
"No, this is where dragons live who weren't accepted by the Magic of Nobility."
"What does that mean?"
Rakyar curled his lip in contempt and shrugged.
"It means some dragons chose power. Upon gaining might, they decided it belonged to them."
"Who does it belong to, then?"
"Everyone. They're merely its conduits."
"And that one who's burning... is that his punishment, why is he sitting by the fire and burning himself?"
"Ah, no, that's the Fire Keeper. It's Rakyar. Like me. A curator. He's here to guide those who've been saturated with the fire of knowledge back to the Dragon Land."
"Why is he scorched?"
"Those who choose to illuminate others usually burn themselves. In darkness, all light is needed."
Theorann and surroundings, AlbireoMKG
https://us-a.tapas.io/a/82/4adb4653-b...
August 4, 2024
496
The creative challenge of the day for the game #I_am_here_eternity. You have the freedom to join the game (and quit it) whenever you want. Follow your curiosity and do the tasks that spark your interest. And those that you don't like - ignore them. The reward of the game (with consistent and diligent effort (and practice) of tasks) - a richer and happier life.
496. Well, since I didn't manage to post the assignment for the weekend, let's give you a week for it. When you're among people, choose the one you find least likable and come up with 9 respectful reasons why they might be behaving that way.
#I_am_here_eternity
496. Well, since I didn't manage to post the assignment for the weekend, let's give you a week for it. When you're among people, choose the one you find least likable and come up with 9 respectful reasons why they might be behaving that way.
#I_am_here_eternity
July 29, 2024
In the Facets of Ice
#Hi_from_reality
Art&concept by Ol Albireo
Feel free to write your stories and give names to the artworks. Also, you're not limited to just writing stories; you can draw your own art, compose music, make toys, saw with a jigsaw, scratch with a nail, and translate into other languages for practice (and never simplify the text when translating!). And show us what you've created :)
In the Facets of Ice
https://us-a.tapas.io/a/07/3b757cf3-5...
Art&concept by Ol Albireo
Feel free to write your stories and give names to the artworks. Also, you're not limited to just writing stories; you can draw your own art, compose music, make toys, saw with a jigsaw, scratch with a nail, and translate into other languages for practice (and never simplify the text when translating!). And show us what you've created :)
In the Facets of Ice
https://us-a.tapas.io/a/07/3b757cf3-5...
July 27, 2024
495
The creative challenge of the day for the game #I_am_here_eternity. You have the freedom to join the game (and quit it) whenever you want. Follow your curiosity and do the tasks that spark your interest. And those that you don't like - ignore them. The reward of the game (with consistent and diligent effort (and practice) of tasks) - a richer and happier life.
495.Choose a theme - Joy, Summer, Beauty, Sadness, Blue (or come up with your own that you find relevant). Select 7 images (draw them, ask an AI to generate them, or find them online), and print a set of postcards for yourself (including a cover!). On the back of each postcard, write your own aphorisms related to the theme.
#I_am_here_eternity
495.Choose a theme - Joy, Summer, Beauty, Sadness, Blue (or come up with your own that you find relevant). Select 7 images (draw them, ask an AI to generate them, or find them online), and print a set of postcards for yourself (including a cover!). On the back of each postcard, write your own aphorisms related to the theme.
#I_am_here_eternity
From Firokami
Writer. Socialist. Psychologist. Translator. Cosmopolitan. Internationalist. Esperantist. Gay. Polyglot. Friendly. Ruiner of the communicative barriers. Xenophobia-hater. Religion - is evil. Family -
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- Svyatoslav Albireo's profile
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