Book Review – ‘My Heart’ by Semezdin Mehmedinović (translated by Celia Hawkesworth)

I wanted to read Semezdin Mehmedinović’s ‘My Heart‘ for a while now. I loved Mehmedinović’s book, ‘Sarajevo Blues‘ which I read recently, and so I was very excited to read this one.

‘My Heart’ is Semezdin Mehmedinović’s most recent book. The cover says that it is a novel, while reviewers have called it autofiction. To me, it read like a memoir, and so I looked at it as a memoir.

‘My Heart’ has three parts. In the first part, Semezdin feels uncomfortable and his wife calls an ambulance, and the paramedics take him to the hospital and the doctor says that he has had a heart attack. What happens after that is described in that first part. In the second part, in which the events happen a few years later, Semezdin and his son go on a long road trip to spend some time together on father-son bonding. They visit some old places in which they’d lived, and see how it has changed. Semezdin’s son is a photographer and so he gets to watch how his son works, in desolate places where no one is present. In the third part, Semezdin’s wife has a stroke, and now it is his time to take care of her. What happens after that is described in that part.

The title ‘My Heart’, in my opinion, seems to refer to Semezdin’s physical heart. But it also seems to refer to the longing of his heart for his home country of Bosnia and its capital Sarajevo, his love for the Bosnian language in which he continues to write, and the way he feels as an outsider in his adopted country and in his new language, though he has been there for more than twenty years. It also seems to refer to the love he and his wife Sanja have for each other and how they’d survived the tough times they’d been through together, across the years and across continents, and how their hearts still beat for each other after all these years. I think ‘My Heart’ refers to all these things and it is a beautiful title.

I loved ‘My Heart’. Semezdin Mehmedinović’s writing is beautiful and it is an absolute pleasure to read. There are so many beautiful passages in the book that I couldn’t stop highlighting. Celia Hawkesworth brings out the beauty of Semezdin Mehmedinović’s writing in her wonderful translation. There is also a beautiful introduction by Aleksandar Hemon at the beginning of the book, which is a pleasure to read. I loved ‘My Heart’ even more than ‘Sarajevo Blues’, and it is one of my favourite reads of the year.

I’m sharing below some of my favourite passages from the book. Sorry I’ve gone overboard with the quotes 😊🙈

“All my life I have borne the burden of my meaningless name. But I came to terms with that early on, convinced it was after all just a name, that it didn’t matter what a boat was called, just that it could sail, and that we fill the being bearing our name with the glow of our being. It was a consoling thought. It’s only today, in my fifty-sixth year, that I have completely accepted and identified with my name. This is why. The doctor asks her: “What year is this? Which month? Where are we now?” She looks at him and there’s no reply, she has forgotten the year and the month and the place. Then the doctor points at me, sitting beside her bed, “And who is this man?” For a moment she settled her gaze, she appeared to be looking right through me, and I felt a chill run through my whole body. And I thought: She’s forgotten me. But then her face experienced a total transformation, she looked at me as though she had saved me from nonexistence, or as though she had just given birth to me, and with an expression of the purest love she said: “Semezdin, my Semezdin.” And that was the moment when my name filled with meaning. I was her Semezdin. That is my love story, and my whole life.”

“Was I now supposed to act like someone ill? I didn’t want to. No. In Chekhov’s diaries there is a short note, a sketch for a story, about a man who went to the doctor, who examined him and discovered a weakness in his heart. After that the man changed the way he lived, took medicines, and talked obsessively about his weakness; the whole town knew about his heart, and all the town’s doctors (whom he consulted regularly) talked about his illness. He didn’t marry, he stopped drinking, he always walked slowly and breathed with difficulty.
Eleven years later, he traveled to Moscow and went to see a cardiologist. That was how it emerged that his heart was, in fact, in excellent shape. To begin with, he was overjoyed at his health. But it quickly turned out that he was unable to return to a normal way of life, as he was completely adapted to his rhythm of going to bed early, walking slowly, and breathing with difficulty. What’s more, the world became quite tedious for him, now that he could no longer talk about his illness.”

“Someone had just come into the room and greeted Lukas with “How you doin’?” To which he replied: “Dobro.” It was a reflex response in Slovak, a language that at this time was evidently closer to him. The person to whom the old man directed his dobro didn’t understand the word. The old man had been separated from his Slovak language for some seventy years. And now the word came out of him, as it were, unconsciously. But this linguistic muddle had an emotional effect on me. As though now, close to death, the old man was preparing to face death in his own language. When he pronounced his dobro it confirmed for me that I was in a foreign, distant land. That was a most unusual experience of language. Sanja was sitting by my bed, and when she heard the old man say dobro, as though in our shared language, her eyes automatically filled with tears.”

“And I remembered a short film called The Room. There was a long scene of bathing in it. A body with water pouring over it. This is the story : A young man walks down the street as the light is fading, and through the open window of a room, above him, he hears the sound of a piano. And he stops. Then he sees the silhouette of the girl who was playing the piano. But the reason he stops is not only the music he heard or only the girl whose silhouette he saw. He doesn’t know where the attraction comes from, he doesn’t know the reason for his stopping, but he is aware of a strong magnetic pull from that room, sensed through the open window. And years pass. He leaves that town and lives all over the world, then as an old man he returns. He buys an apartment and lives out his last years in it. After bathing, he leaves his room and hears the siren of an ambulance stopping in front of his building. It is night. And then he becomes conscious of everything. The room where he now finds himself is the room he had once seen, as a young man, while the sound of a piano reached him through the open window. And why had he felt such a strong attraction? The young man could not have known what the old man knew now: what he had seen then was his room, the one in which, when the time came, he would die.”

“Last Thursday I went for a routine six-month checkup at the doctor’s. I would like to free myself from the medication I have been taking for nearly five years now, which makes me tired and slows me down. I want to speed up, to run, because I want to get back into my life. The doctor, a young Sikh with a pale mauve turban, said: “No, no. The medication is to prevent a heart attack.” I know, I say, but I would like to free myself of its side effects, and I’ll worry about a heart attack in a different way. He assures me that the side effects of this medication are innocuous in comparison to its positive effects on my organism. I ask: “And, in fact, what are its real side effects?” He says there are several, but none of them kill you. “For instance?” “Well, say, memory loss.” “Does that mean I could forget everything?” “Yes, but forgetting doesn’t kill you,” says the cardiologist. I ask: “If I forget everything, my whole life, if I can’t recognize my child’s face, if I forget my own name, isn’t that the same as dying?”

“We like to ask ourselves metaphysical questions about the world, life, and man. But we ought to ask ourselves again and constantly: Why fill our lives with such effort and torment, when we know that we will be here only once and when we have such a brief and unrepeatable time in this indescribably beautiful world?”

“Escape is possible only as an individual act. Only an individual can escape. To escape as a group, even if into a desert, ends with one form or other of the problematic structuring of life in a human community. Manson himself asserted that even the smallest community tends toward a totalitarian structure and eventually ends in massacre. Zabriskie Point shows that escape is impossible, or that you can escape only alone, and only on the condition that you are not attached to other people, or possessions.”

“My wishes weren’t big, but still none of them came to anything. I longed for a small window from which one could see blue water. I imagined that in my fifties I would live a peaceful life, with time freed up just for writing. I wanted a small shady café where I would meet with friends on a Saturday or Sunday morning to gossip about our past. But I ended up as a prisoner on a vast continent, alone, without people to talk to. A foreigner. And I have grown accustomed to this solitude, I have accepted it as payback for the sins I have committed in my life. And in exchange for my unfulfilled wishes.”

“My world is in my language, and I’ve never begun to write in the language of the country where I’m now living. To be truly accepted, to transform myself from a foreigner into a local, a precondition is restructuring into the new language. And that’s fine. I have chosen to remain a foreigner. Once, some ten years ago, after the translation of my second book came out, an American poet explained to me, in a restaurant in Iowa, that all my problems would be solved as soon as I started writing in English. She said, very seriously, that I should just make a rough translation of my poems, she’d sort out the language, and then I could publish them as originals. She literally suggested that. I said that I didn’t have any problems that needed solving. I thanked her and explained that this one language in which I wrote was enough for me, and I wouldn’t want to change it. But, following my explanation, her eyes filled with tears. To be honest, her offer had offended me, but the fact that she ended up crying completely disconcerted me. I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t understand the real reason for her tears. Perhaps she hadn’t expected my reaction, and now her offer had been shown to be discourteous, but perhaps she was really sad to see in me a stranger who couldn’t be helped? She looked at me as though she had just found out that I had a disease from which I would soon die.”

“About ten years ago, when he was in college, Harun went to the Slavic department to take a foreign-language exam. The foreign language in this case was his mother tongue, but from an American perspective there was no room for doubt, the local language was English and every other language was foreign. The examiner, Michael Heim, met him in his book-filled office. Harun introduced himself and asked about the possibility of taking an exam. The professor suggested that he take the exam immediately, if he felt ready. And then he went to a shelf and took down a book from which Harun was to read, to confirm his knowledge of his own language. Professor Heim put the book down on the table in front of the student and suggested that he read from the page to which he’d opened at random. And so it was. Harun began to read the text, trying to hide his smile. The professor noticed his student’s unusual behavior, interrupted his reading, and asked: “The character in the story has the same name as you?” And Harun said: “Yes, but that’s because this story is about me, I am the character in the story.” His response astonished Professor Heim, he took the book from his hand, looked at the open page, then back at the student: “All these years, I have read a lot of books in this room, but this is the first time that I have spoken in real life to a character from a story.” The book was Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergović.”

Have you read Semezdin Mehmedinović’s ‘My Heart’? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – Sarajevo Blues by Semezdin Mehmedinović (Translated by Ammiel Alcalay)

I’ve wanted to read Semezdin Mehmedinović’s ‘Sarajevo Blues‘ for a long time now. I finally read it today.

‘Sarajevo Blues‘ is a collection of short prose pieces and poems set in Bosnia in the ’90s during the war. It was one of the first books from Bosnia to come out in English at that time. It was highly acclaimed when it first came out, and its fame has grown steadily ever since. The prose pieces and poems in the book are insightful and moving and haunting and heartbreaking. Reading anything about Bosnia from that period makes me sad and this made me sad too. There is a wonderful introduction by the translator Ammiel Alcalay at the beginning of the book which is very informative and insightful. I loved Alcalay’s introduction to Miljenko Jergović’s ‘Sarajevo Marlboro‘ and I loved his introduction here too. He writes beautiful essays which are such a pleasure to read. I discovered that there is a whole volume of his essays which has been published. I want to read that! There is also a beautiful interview at the end of the book with the author in which he discusses different things including Bosnian literature and the events of that time.

I’m sharing below some of my favourite passages from the book.

“After he finished taking pictures of the Library, Kemal Hadžić was wounded by a piece of shrapnel on his way home. It’s hard to avoid a tendency towards mysticism during war: the first thing I thought of is that his wound was a warning…At the same time, plunging into the world is its own art form: what else did this photographer do as he circled the burning library, looking for a perfect angle or enough light, catching the water of the Miljacka with a wide angle lens? What else if not to fulfill that passionate artistic desire of distilling wild beauty from the spectacle of death, of approaching it from the other side? The artist’s need to venture into the unknown is risky, but it is precisely upon this impulse that the power of art is based. Maybe the shrapnel was a punishment for that heretical impulse.”

“Everyone in Sarajevo, accustomed to death, lives through so many transcendental experiences that they have already become initiates of some deviant form of Buddhism. If the agression lasts another month or so, many of them will believe that a chestnut falling on Wilson’s Promenade carries more weight than a grenade.”

“I’m running across an intersection to avoid the bullet of a sniper from the hill when I walk straight into some photographers: they’re doing their job, in deep cover. If a bullet hit me they’d get a shot worth so much more than my life that I’m not even sure whom to hate: the Chetnik sniper or these monkeys with Nikons. For the Chetniks I’m just a simple target but these others only confirm my utter helplessness and even want to take advantage of it. In Sarajevo, death is a job for all of them. Life has been narrowed down completely, reduced to gestures. It’s almost touching to see the comic motion of a man covering his head with a newspaper as he runs across this same street, scared of a sniper’s bullet.”

Have you read ‘Sarajevo Blues‘? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – Death in the Museum of Modern Art by Alma Lazarevska

Alma Lazarevska’s ‘Death in the Museum of Modern Art‘ is a collection of short stories. It has six stories. They are all set during the siege of Sarajevo, though the stories don’t mention the city by name. Most of the stories are narrated in the first person, and the narrator seems to be a literary version of the author.

I loved most of the stories in the collection. In most of the stories the narrator describes everyday scenes in her life and how they change suddenly after the siege starts and the first shells start falling in the city, and things like sugar, matches, bread and even water become hard to get. Alma Lazarevska’s prose is soft and gentle and reading the narrator telling her story is like listening to our favourite aunt sharing her experiences while sipping a cup of hot tea, while we are sitting in front of the fire in winter listening to her. I loved listening to Alma Lazarevska’s voice through the voice of the narrator. At some point, I stopped thinking about the story (the stories were beautiful, poetic, and haunting) but just continued reading for the narrator’s gentle and wise voice. Someone said this about Alma Lazarevska’s books – “There are books about which one talks and there are books with which one talks—Alma Lazarevska’s book is of the latter kind.” I felt exactly that, when I read this book.

I loved Alma Lazarevska’s ‘Death in the Museum of Modern Art‘. Her work is hard to come by in English translation. There are one or two stories by her in online literary journals. None of her other works have been translated. She has a slim backlist – just one more short story collection, a novel and a collection of essays. Hope they get translated into English. I wish she had written more. There is an interview with her online in which she talks about how she started writing, her literary influences, her favourite writers, her city of Sarajevo, about Bosnian literature and other things. When we read the interview, we feel that we are in the presence of a gentle soul. There was one particular thing she said in the interview, which went like this –

“In my tongue Ivo Andrić is the undisputed master of language. The precision and the beauty of Andrić’s language are fascinating. In a biographical note for my English-language publisher I pointed out that I was born on the 9th of March, the same day as Bobby Fischer. To use chess terminology, I would like to be at least a pawn in a language in which Andrić is the king.”

This is the kind of thing that a contemporary writer will rarely say. Alma Lazarevska’s humility is inspiring and her love for Ivo Andrić’s prose is infectious.

I’ll leave you with two of my favourite passages from the book.

From ‘The Secret of Kasper Hauser‘

“But, life was still order that had not yet begun to disintegrate. It lay in drawers with folded white bed linen and little bags of dried lavender. It was still all-of-a-piece, even if it was sometimes disrupted in the morning by the disagreeable sound of the alarm-clock. On one such morning the north-facing room acquired a new secret. I woke up before dawn in order to take an antibiotic. Replacing the bottle from which I had tipped a red and yellow tablet onto my hand, I caught sight of a bright, swaying blot that I had never seen in this room before. It was trembling on the spine of the large book I had been reading the previous evening. That is how I discovered that in the early morning a little ray of sunlight manages to penetrate into the room that faces north…We wake up too late or else that rare ray of sunlight penetrates into our room too early…The green book with silver letters was lying over there, and on its spine was that trembling blot of light I had seen once before. If I was quick and quiet, perhaps I’d catch it. I know that light is not sensitive to touch or sound. But still, I edged towards it as though it were a live butterfly. I lowered my hand onto the spine of the green book and now the blot was trembling on the back of my hand, like a transparent, asymmetric butterfly.”

From ‘How We Killed the Sailor‘

“The room had lost its box-shape. The light of the thin candle didn’t reach its corners. It created a dim, uneven oval that shifted lazily if an unexpected current of air happened to touch its tiny wick. There was a transparent, trembling film over us. The few objects that were bathed in dim light, and the two of us, made up the inside of a giant amoeba. We were its organs, pulsating in the same rhythm, but not touching.”

I loved Alma Lazarevska’s short story collection. Hope more of her work gets translated into English. I’d love to read them.

You can find Marina Sofia’s review of the book here.

Have you read ‘Death in the Museum of Modern Art‘? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – This Could Have Been a Simple Story By Ajla Terzić

I loved John Cox’s translation of Biljana Jovanović’s book, especially his introductory essay on Yugoslavian / Serbian literature and on Jovanović’s work. So I did some research on which other books he has translated and that is how I discovered Ajla Terzić’s ‘This Could Have Been a Simple Story’. Ajla Terzić is a Bosnian writer and this book was originally published in Bosnian.

Esma works in an organization which helps people. She is single. She doesn’t have any near family – her dad moved away when she was young, and her mom has passed. She has an aunt and uncle and cousins and they invite her home during festival times. Once her office sends her to Vienna for a seminar. She meets a woman in the train compartment and sparks fly. But later the woman disappears. After a couple of days, this woman, called Roza, calls up Esma and they meet again. The sparks become a fire. And that is the end of life, as Esma knows it. What happens after that forms the rest of the story.

‘This Could Have Been a Simple Story‘ is a beautiful lesbian love story. The first meeting, the attraction, the love, and the relationship between Esma and Roza is beautifully depicted. The kind of resistance that these two have to put up, and the battles they have to fight, especially when facing opposition from their friends, family members and loved ones, has been portrayed in the story in a nuanced way. In the last chapter of the book, Esma is at the edge of the precipice (a metaphorical precipice, of course), and we can feel the author Ajla Terzić literally pause her pen over paper, and contemplate on what to do next, and we readers realize that the fate of our heroine Esma, and our own happiness lies in the author’s hands, and we wait with bated breath to find out what happens next. Does Esma take the risk and jump off the precipice and take the plunge? Or does she step back to the safety of her previous life before all this happened? You have to read the story to find out.

It was nice to discover a new Bosnian author in Ajla Terzić. There is a beautiful introduction at the beginning of the story, in which the translator John Cox introduces us to Bosnian literature and Ajla Terzić’s work. It is vintage John Cox. John Cox is odd among translators, because he is a Balkan historian. So his knowledge of Balkan and Bosnian history, culture, literature and language is deep and that is clearly visible in the introductory essay and in the footnotes throughout the book.

John Cox says this in his introduction – “She (Ajla Terzić) herself sees no need to stress this, but you are about to read the first novel by a Bosnian woman that has appeared in English translation.” If this is true, then this book breaks new ground and this translation is pioneering. And the fact that the first book by a Bosnian woman to be translated into English is a lesbian love story – that makes it even better.

One of the central things in the book is the way music is embedded throughout the story. This would be easily perceptible to a Bosnian reader, but to an outsider like myself, it would be impossible to see. For this reason, the introduction is invaluable. The main character Esma’s name, the title of the book, and the titles of all the chapters are taken from the songs of the famous Yugoslav band Bijelo Dugme, and John Cox explains the connection between the band and the author and the book. One of my favourite musical discoveries from the book was a Bosnian music form called Sevdalinka, which expresses unrequited longing through music. I went and listened to a recording of it. It was beautiful, haunting, heartbreaking. (Do search for ‘U Stambolu na Bosforu’ by Daphne Kritharas, in YouTube, if you’d like to listen.)

I enjoyed reading ‘This Could Have Been a Simple Story‘. I can’t wait to read more books by Ajla Terzić.

Have you read ‘This Could Have Been a Simple Story’? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergović

I discovered ‘Sarajevo Marlboro‘ by Miljenko Jergović recently. I have never heard of Miljenko Jergović before and so I was excited to read this.

‘Sarajevo Marlboro‘ is a collection of 29 stories. Nearly all the stories are set in the ’90s during the war in Bosnia. Some of the stories are about how the war impacts the life of normal people. Other stories are just about normal people and their beautiful, charming, imperfect lives, with the war playing only a minor role in the story.

Some of my favourite stories from the book were these –

Theft – a story about two neighbours which involves apples. The last passage in the story was heartbreaking and made me cry.

Beetle – it is about a man’s love for his Volkswagen Beetle car.

The Gravedigger – a beautiful story about a gravedigger, which is also related to the title of the book.

The Condor – hilarious dark comedy.

The Gardener – it is about a gardener, but it really isn’t, because it is about a lot of other things and it is so hard to describe.

The Letter – a letter is the main character in the story.

The Library – a heartbreaking story about the Sarajevo library

This is just a random list. I loved all the stories in the book. Nearly every story had beautiful passages in it. As I continued reading the stories, I realized that Miljenko Jergović was no ordinary writer. His prose was beautiful, his observations were perceptive, his insights were amazing, the humour was cool. He is probably one of the greatest literary talents to have come out of Bosnia in recent decades. His stories were such a pleasure to read. I was happy to discover that he has got a nice backlist. I can’t wait to read more of his work.

The book has a beautiful introduction called ‘Everyday History‘ by Ammiel Alcalay. The first passage of this introduction was brilliant. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I am sharing it below.

“The circuitous routes traveled by literary texts across various borders, checkpoints, blockades and holding pens should finally, once and for all, lay to rest the romantic notion that such texts announce themselves and arrive simply by virtue of their inherent qualities as literature. Nothing could be farther from the truth: like any commodity, literary texts gain access through channels and furrows that are prepared by other means. Fashion, chance encounters, fortuitous circumstances, surrogate functions, political alliances and cataclysmic events such as war or genocide are much more certain and constant catalysts than judgment based on actual literary history or cultural importance. The texts that manage to sneak through the policing of our monolingual borders still only provide a mere taste – fragmented, out of context – of what such works might represent in their own cultures, languages, as well as historical and political contexts. One novel or book of poems by a single writer, removed from the cluster of other writers and artists from which it has emerged, unbuttressed by correspondence, biographies or critical studies – such a work of translation…too often functions as a means of reinforcing the assumptions behind our uniquely military/industrial/new critical approach to the work of art as an object of contemplation rather than a call to arms, a cry for justice, an act of solidarity or a witness to history. The writer remains an individual, chosen by authorities as representative of a period or style, rather than one of many emerging from a densely textured and pluralistic scene.”

I loved ‘Sarajevo Marlboro‘. It is one of my favourite books of the year. I can’t wait to explore more of Miljenko Jergović’s work.

I’ll leave you with two of my favourite passages from the book.

From ‘The Letter‘

“Everything I had was left behind, and represents, at least in my imagination, the price of fear. And my home, my books, fridge, video, furniture, the feeling that I have to save up for the future . . . These days I spend money more freely than ever, because I don’t have enough of a stake in this new city to buy anything of value. Just a microwave. Since I’ve got money I eat in expensive restaurants. I leave the change. I don’t even bother to count the smaller notes. I feel like a monk, without any possessions, but with a wealth of choices. I could be somewhere very different in just a moment. Or I could be nowhere, in a world of pure dreams, faith or fatalism. It really doesn’t matter.”

From ‘The Condor‘

“Izet was what they call an eglen-effendi, or brilliant talker. He could talk non-stop from dusk to dawn. One story flowed into another, one event turned into the next. Often he’d use the day’s events to begin a story that would range across whole centuries and finally return to the price of meat or some gossip about a fellow called Hido…There was no end to Izet’s stories, just as there’s no end to time, the past or the future. But they were never dull and they usually had a message or a moral and were seldom erratic : a tiny thread of narrative kept you holding on to the story, and forced you to listen, even if it meant that you had to go hungry or without drink, or that your life as a whole became a tense silence in which things only mattered if they could be described by a storyteller.”

Have you read ‘Sarajevo Marlboro‘? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – The Moment by Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar

I discovered ‘The Moment‘ by Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar serendipitously while looking for something else.

Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar is a Bosnian writer who has written novels, short stories, poems and plays. ‘The Moment‘ is a collection of her short stories.

There are ten stories in ‘The Moment‘. The first story ‘Memento Mori‘ is nearly one-fourth the length of the book. It is set in the ’90s during the war in Bosnia. It is a sad, heartbreaking story with a surprising ending written in what can only be described as serene and tranquil prose. The surprises continue in the rest of the book. Nearly all the stories have surprise endings, and most of the time they are unexpected. ‘Dzevad of Sokolica‘ is a story about the beautiful friendship between a fifty year old man and a ten year old girl. It has a sad ending, which seems to be Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar’s favourite kind of ending, but the ending was so unexpectedly surprising that I didn’t see that coming. It also put the rest of the story in context and made me think. ‘Pigeon‘ has the feel of an Edgar Allan Poe story. ‘The Vase‘ is about a mother and her son. ‘Mother‘ is about a man who accidentally discovers a dark secret about his family which changes him as a person. I enjoyed reading all the stories in the book and I loved the surprise endings. My favourites were ‘Memento Mori‘ (because it was atmospheric, dark and heartbreaking) and ‘Dzevad of Sokolica‘ (because of its depiction of a beautiful friendship and the surprising ending). I want to read more of Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar’s stories. Hope they get translated into English.

I read this for ‘Women in Translation Month‘ which celebrates translated literature by women writers during the whole of August.

Have you read Nura Bazdulj-Hubijar’s book? What do you think about it?

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Book Review – Mars : Stories by Asja Bakić (translated by Jennifer Zoble)

I discovered Asja Bakić’s ‘Mars‘ recently. This is my first ever Croatian book and so I was very excited. (Asja Bakić is Bosnian (I think) and she lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.)

‘Mars‘ is a collection of ten short stories. They are hard to describe. For want of a better word, we can call them speculative fiction. There is science fiction there, speculative fiction and a story on gender identity. There is even a thriller / murder mystery and a story of immigration, but which is not what it seems. Many of the stories have surprising endings.

I loved all the stories in the book, but even in a book filled with wonderful stories, we have one or two which we love more than the others, don’t we? My favourite was ‘Abby‘. In this story, the narrator is a young woman, who seems to have lost her memory. The man who is with her says that he is her husband. But the woman starts having suspicions, because their supposed names look like English names (he says that her name is Abby), but they are not speaking in the English language. Also the man keeps all drawers at home locked, and mostly stays by her side and almost never lets her out of her sight. Occasionally, he goes out for grocery shopping, but always gets back in ten minutes. Once he catches her trying to telephone someone, and he disconnects the telephone. The woman starts feeling that she is a prisoner in that home. And she decides to do something about it. What happens after that forms the rest of the story. As we read the story, we feel that we have got into Abby’s mind, and we can feel the dread creep into our soul, when Abby discovers that she might be a prisoner. The ending of the story was totally unexpected and amazing and something that I didn’t see coming. You have to read the story to find out what happened 😊

One of the stories that I laughed out loud while reading was ‘Buried Treasure‘. The beginning of the story was hilarious and was filled with dark humour. For example, read this passage –

“The adults mourned, each in their own way, but the children had no time for grief. At that moment they were just beginning to discover sex, which, had the parents known, would’ve devastated them more than the grandfather’s death.”

I couldn’t stop laughing when I read that 😊

Asja Bakić is very different from other contemporary women authors from the region, as Ellen Elias-Bursac explains in the afterword to the book. While other great women writers from the region wrote realistic fiction and nonfiction, Asja Bakić wrote speculative fiction which was a blend of science fiction, feminism, eroticism, horror, and the macabre. Or in other words, Asja Bakić was unique and she kicked ass.

I loved ‘Mars’. I love Asja Bakić. There is a new collection of her short stories that has come out in Croatian. I hope it gets translated into English soon. I can’t wait to read it.

I read this for ‘Women in Translation Month’, which celebrates women writers in translation, every August.

Have you read Asja Bakić’s ‘Mars’? What do you think about it?

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