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.