My lizards were so beautiful that I loved them as if they were my children. In the afternoon of the same day, a strange man entered my room. He was tall, scraggly and frightened. I have never sold moles here. My wife will die. The man held a little bottle and the red drops gleamed in it like embers.
Then the man left and a little bundle of bank-notes rolled on the counter. On the following morning a great whispering mob of strangers waited for me in front of my door. Their hands clutched little glass bottles. Blood of a mole! Everyone had a sick person at home and a knife in his hand. Three of her novels are currently being developed into feature films. With her novels, Ludmila Filipova was nominated for the European literary contest Prix du Livre Europeen , short-listed for the Bulgarian literary contest Novel of the Year , and as the only foreign novel nominated for the American literary award Hidden River Ludmila was born on Easter Ludmila specialized in Creative writing fiction at Oxford University in She is a granddaughter of the last Socialist primer minister Grisha Filipov.
She is also a columnist for the most popular Bulgarian newspaper 24 Hours. The story is both previously unexplored and culturally significant, a moving chronicle of a people defending its written heritage in a time when every deviation from the accepted Latin, Greek or Hebrew scripts was punishable by death. The year is In a dark dungeon lives a malformed pagan, an educated exile who will tell this story. A story about the calling that a few lucky men are able to discover. About the choice between love and the fate to fulfill your duties. About a sacred secret that is kept in the heart of a great nation.
A story about the sacraments of the Cyrillic alphabet and its hidden strength. The story begins with the youngest son of the great Bulgarian Tsar Simeon — Bayan — who studies at the Magnaura School. The granddaughter of the Emperor Lakapin is secretly in love with the young Bulgarian. She knows that this is an impossible love — sooner or later her life will be exchanged for peace. She loves him despite everything. Until the day when the blade of the Emperor slashes an immense stone statue. In a split second their world falls apart. On the same day Tsar Simeon dies and his son Peter ascends the throne.
Weak willed, dedicated to books and thoughts about God, he has no will to prevent the ambitions of his mother, who offers to Roman Lakapin an agreement for peace, in which Maria is the stake. But nothing can stop Bayan from defending his love. And the fight for it will lead him to discover an astonishing secret, which can create wonders. The secret of the letters. A legend about the blood that flows through our veins. About the battle and the will of a nation that is ready to be itself, to be strong, to be the Bulgarian nation. I beg yours and His forgiveness that I have chosen to forgo that part.
If He truly existed, what monster must He be? For why else would He discard me in this pit since I was but an infant and leave me here to suffer in the loneliness of undeserved exile? One day they would call me Curhead. My mother — I never knew her. I spend my days in the dark maw, beneath the world inhabited by men.
I hide from them, for my father has often warned me — should others see me they will surely kill me. I have no face, nor a healthy body, nor eyes to gaze with. Time breathes through my soul, the cold grips and stiffens my skin as the underground moisture seeps through. The shifting currents of life above ground reach my ears. The smell of mold and parchment wafts to my nose while I write. Sightless, I grope with the rest of my senses. I guard the script of letters and collect stories.
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He told me that I was born at the very time when the holy man called Naum died after bringing the alphabet back to the lands of Bulgaria. It was the 25th of December, my father said, when the sun was reborn and all the gods too. It was the longest night of the year before the days would begin to grow again. For thousands of years people believed that God was born on that very date, a time called Christmas in our lands. But people often believe such things out of fear, unable to accept the fact that tomorrow might simply snuff out their lives like a flame in the wind.
I am blind, but sometimes I can see the flame. I have no fear. I was born already dead. I need no delusions, no eternity and no God. The future and all that it will bring to alter the course of history is the key. And so my story begins on the day when my father disappeared. Perhaps the same way that he sensed me.
The two of us shared little else besides the strings of letters we arranged into words. So when he was no longer with me all I could think to do was write. It was my way of searching for him, for myself. The only way I knew that we existed. He had left me plenty of dried parchment and ink for the task. These were times of important events. The earthen pit that was my home was hidden beneath the floor boards of a church.
Monks and statesmen strode above, discussing the fateful tides of the Bulgarian Empire. The formidable kingdom of the Bulgarians stretching far and wide between three seas was ruled by the powerful Tsar Simeon. His army, protected by unseen magic as some claimed, had never lost in battle. The harder he rode, his fatigue growing, the more relentlessly he whipped the exhausted animal.
Did she wait for him? Could he even hope? All he knew for certain was what he felt — an emotion beyond anything else he had ever experienced in life. He reached Constantinople at sunrise after two days of hard riding. He rushed up the hill straight toward the palace. During the two years Bayan had spent studying at the Magnaura most of the guardsmen had come to recognize him. None found his arrival suspicious until he headed toward the imperial wing, shoving the sentries out of his way. He tried to neutralize them without causing them serious injuries.
The last guard barred his way, so Bayan stabbed him in the thigh. The man dropped to the ground with a grunt of pain. He found the princess gazing despondently out of the window. At the sound of the intrusion she spun around, her body tense, but as soon as she saw the Bulgarian prince her eyes lit up and a smile blossomed on her face.
She had heard the screams and commotion outside, but he was the last person she had expected to find at her doorstep. Bayan froze at the threshold, taking in the beloved features. Her delicate fingers nervously brushed away a lock of hair that had come loose over her eyes. Bayan, covered in dirt from the road, his face scratched, his shirt torn and stained with blood, read the fear in her eyes. This might be the last time they were together, he realized.
Determined, he took a step toward her, then stopped abruptly as though hitting an invisible wall. He was the only one who called her that. Bayan raised a hand to touch her but felt his muscles tremble from fatigue and his ill-hidden excitement. There were so many things he wanted to say all at once, to hug her and kiss her. Instead, he clenched his jaw, furious at his own awkwardness. How long had he yearned for this very moment?
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Yet now when it had come to pass, he just stood there weak and shaking. The mad dash to Constantinople and the fight with the palace guards had drained the remainder of his strength. It was how they called him here, in Constantinople. Her gentle vulnerability made him want to embrace her even more. She is the director of two documentaries and her plays, Zen Porno and Krizis, have been staged in Bulgaria and Los Angeles. Milena lived and worked in the US for many years. White Niggah is her first book of essays on the immigrant experience in America, followed by a book of short stories, NoHannah Ciela, Night Project Altera, is a collection of poems and photographic self-portraits.
I, the Blogger Enthusiast, is a collection of the best writing from her widely popular blog. In November , her second novel, Sex and Communism Enthusiast , debuted and became an instant bestseller and one of the most talked about books of the year. It remained in the top list of most sold Bulgarian novels for three consecutive months. As of , Milena Fuchedjieva lives and works in Sofia, Bulgaria. As a teenager she spent three years in Paris, France, with her parents. Her body of work carries influences from French and American culture, combined with her experience while living in Communist Bulgaria.
Set in Sofia and Paris between and , the book tells the story of the impossible marriage between two people who come from the dominant, warring elites of Communist Bulgaria — the ruling red bourgeoisie and the despised capitalist elite, mostly exterminated by the Communist regime. Under the privileged life she enjoys in Sofia and Paris lies hidden an unattainable longing which seems to be for love, but is actually for freedom. The glamorous Maroussia and Stefan fall out of love under the invisible pressure of the Communist Secret Police.
Love, sex and rebellion mix in a dangerous and self-destructive way, which Lola uses as a means to escape from her oppressive reality. Fear of the Party subjugates society. True love is impossible in a totalitarian society. With her every step, her breasts shifted beneath her thin blouse, she liked going bra-less, she enjoyed sowing unrest amidst the morons on the street. She had the most beautiful breasts in all of Sofia, if not all of Bulgaria, if not all of Eastern Europe, if not the whole world, even.
Her hair was a wave that stopped at her ass — far too high to be covered over. Her grayishblue eyes gazed out coldly and injuriously, she walked with her back straight, never quite distracted enough so as not to know what was happening on the street around her. Talismans hung from her neck, sometimes she wore black clogs or platform sandals; in the winter, her boots reached at least to her knees, while the summer was about espadrilles.
She was fifteen when she realized her power over men, without needing any explanations whatsoever on their part. When striking up a conversation with her, no one ever looked her in the eye. Lola knew Playboy was banned as pornography, but she had no idea that the magazine had been founded in , only nine years before she was born in Communist Bulgaria, the same year that Winston Churchill had won the Nobel Prize for literature, Stalin had died, and tobacco workers in Bulgaria had declared a strike that was brutally crushed, killing nine.
Lola was born nine years later and had no idea that anything like that had ever happened in Bulgaria. Life in downtown Sofia seemed completely calm. She lived in an atmosphere spun of rumors and fear of rumors. Officially, nothing was ever said about sex anywhere, as if no one ever did it. Lola and her girlfriends at school spoke in insinuations, just as they spoke at home.
Sex was also something new, something unfamiliar and exciting. Legend had it that the Mongolian headof-state had an enormous collection of pornography. As far as Lola was concerned, you could tell that just by the way the young Tsedenbal looked at her. Yes, she was different, and no, she had no intention of becoming a Mongolian princess. Her selfesteem as something closer to the enemy than to a comrade, as well as the power her breasts held over men, was built on what she experienced daily on the street. Beneath them some drugar or drugarka rested in peace. Lola thought with satisfaction that she was a semi-feminist because of the bra business.
She had been warned not to be a piece of meat. Her mother was also not like the drugarki who on official holidays donned their polyester suits with the armpits hardened by sweat and on whose heads towered complex constructions of backcombed hair, petrified with hair spray that was strong enough to patch a blown tire. To Lola, these drugarki looked like a female red army that cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, washed the dishes and went to work.
In the evening, they set and cleared the table, while the drugari sat in front of the TV watching new reports about the latest five-year-plan completed, of course, ahead of schedule. After which he would turn to Lola and tell her that this holiday had been thought up by the comrades, having no clue that it was actually invented by the American Socialist Party.
And that she should remember two things: The night of March 8 was filled with people staggering and vomiting on the streets. C o n t e m p o r a r y B u l g a r i a n Wr i t e r s 83 G DEGRAD Degrad is a collection of thirteen jarring stories, which Vasil Georgiev has managed to tell in a way that is simultaneously surrealistic, funny, urban, social, romantic, nostalgic, even scandalous. The story collection Degrad was awarded one of the most prestigious Bulgarian literary awards, the Helikon Prize for contemporary Bulgarian literature.
It will be published in German in the fall of Vasil Georgiev was born on July 5, He has a Ph. He lives in Sofia. He is relatively new to the literary scene. He was first published in , but in just a few years he managed to establish himself as one of the most original and distinctive voices in Bulgarian literature. His books have been nominated for and awarded the most prestigious literary prizes in Bulgaria. His short story collection Buddhist Beach was nominated for the Helikon Prize.
Stories about the Sofia Streets was nominated for the Hristo G. Degrad, another collection of short stories, won the Helikon Prize in The main character, Kiryak, is writing from a fake Facebook profile with his mother, pretending that he is year-old suitor. In his research on the idols of Socialist living, he explains that Communism, besides subsuming the religious wedding and burial rituals with civil ones, invented a gastronomical pantheon for the purposes of undermining faith in Jesus and the saints in their turn, representing adaptations of the pantheons of various polytheistic belief systems.
Communism, according to Velikov, chose salami and sausage products as the material projection of the old cults. That was possible, because Communism, besides being a cruel one-partysystem-based society, was exclusively a hungry society. The main goal of the comrades rising from the rabble was to give bread to the people. Built on materialistic foundations, Communism pushed that idea a notch further. The old gods, or respectively, saints, had to make way for their replacements.
The new gods could be created under conditions of controlled deficit, begetting expectations within the populace that were to be matched with supreme desire and deification. The Socialist aspirational pyramid was topped with lukanka dry sausage and soujouk dry sausage, installed by the Communists as the two sublime deities of the Socialist gastronomical pantheon. These were the yin and yang of the ultimate culinary experience, the Jesus and the Mother of God of the gastronomical Socialist ideal. As the ultimate deities, Lukanka and Soujouk created and arranged the entire salami industry.
Zakuska, Servilat, Bourgas and Shpek varieties were the sons of these initial creatures, costing nine or ten leva and harboring the ultimate divine spark of pure lukanka and soujouk, only containing a little bit more bacon and less wisdom due to their shorter maturation period. Later, they made poached salami, hamburger salami, chicken salami and so on with less and less divine matter in them, till finally the world of delicacies bottomed out at the chthonic depths of chitterlings, souse and tripe — disgusting, yet much tastier than the First Ever Bread, for which the Communists fought and triumphed.
While I am searching for a somewhat meaningful continuation in support of my story that is becoming increasingly dumb towards its end, at 2: It is translated in Italian, German, French, English, etc. In , the book was finalist for four international prizes: The novel has been widely reviewed in Europe and the US. This is a novel about the empathy and its vanishing, about the hard price of the ability to multiply yourself, about the Minotaurs locked inside us, about the elementary particles of sorrow.
A novel in which the Minotaur meets Higgs boson. A novel with interweaving corridors, digressions and rooms mixing past and present, myth and document for the one who has to come — postapocalyptic reader, God or snail. In the beginning, a lonely EasternEuropean boy from the late communist regime times embeds himself in the stories of his grandfather who was a forgotten child in the Great War and soldier in World War II.
They send him far back into the scared, abandoned and locked-up child of antiquity, the Minotour. A new reading of the well-known myth with an unexpected inversion of viewpoints. He gives voice to all the lives and living things humans and animals he carries within himself. In this sense, the novel has an intrinsic ecological and even eco-emphatic drive. As he grows up, the one-time boy is faced with the inevitable loss of his powers of empathy, which he compensates for with ever-stranger collections, a personal time capsule, a survival kit for all sorts of apocalypses.
Yet, his personal utopia clashes with antiutopian versions of present and future. They waited a few days to see whether I would survive and then put me down in the record. Summer work was winding down, they still had to harvest this and that from the fields, the cow had calved, they were fussing over her. The Great War had started. I sweated through it right alongside all the other childhood illnesses, chicken pox, measles, and so on.
I was born two hours before dawn like a fruit fly. I was born on January 1, , as a human being of the male sex. I remember all of in detail from beginning to end. I have always been born. I still remember the beginning of the Ice Age and the end of the Cold War. The sight of the dying dinosaurs in both epochs is one of the most unbearable things I have seen. I am minus seven months old. I am as big as an olive, weighing a gram and a half. My tail is gradually retracting. The animal in me is taking leave, waving at me with its vanishing tail. I was born on September 6, , as a human being of the male sex.
A week later my father left for the front. I cried whole nights from hunger. They gave me bread dipped in wine as a pacifier. I remember being born as a rose bush, a partridge, as gingko biloba, a snail, a cloud in June that memory is brief , a purple autumnal crocus near Halensee, an early-blooming cherry frozen by a late April snow, as snow freezing a hoodwinked cherry tree… We am. He has fallen asleep on an empty flour sack, in the yard of the mill.
A heavy bee buzzes close above him, making off with his sleep.
The steady rumbling of the mill. The sound of people talking can be heard, calm, monotone, lulling. Several carts stand unyoked, half-filled with sacks, everything is sprinkled with that white dust. A donkey grazes nearby, his leg fettered with a chain. Sleep gradually recedes completely. That morning in the darkness they had come to the mill with his mother and three sisters.
Then he had fallen asleep. He gets up and looks around. They are nowhere to be seen. Now here come the first steps of fear, still imperceptible, quiet, merely a suspicion that is rejected immediately. That light-blue cart with a rooster painted on the back. And then the fear wells up, filling him, just like when they fill the little pitcher at the well, the water surges, pushing the air out and overflowing. The stream of fear is too strong for his three-year-old body and it fills up quickly, soon he will have no air left.
He cannot even burst into tears. Crying requires air, crying is a long, audible exhalation of fear.
But there is still hope. Nor any of his sisters. A hulking man stooped under a sack almost knocks him over. For the past fifteen years, she has worked actively as a press and radio journalist with some of the most distinguished media in her home country. Katerina Hapsali is currently working on her Ph. Greek Coffee is her first novel. The raw truth has surfaced. What follows is a daring plunge into the depths of ancestral history, from which she Katerina, the wife, the selfpurifying woman tries to wring out the strength to cope with the pain.
This is just the plot framework of the novel Greek Coffee. Interweaving the autobiographical and the fictional, the historical and the intimate, the storyline boldly dissolves the layers of time and explores buried primal forces, unresolved conflicts, ancient stereotypes. Greek Coffee is, in fact, a story about the Balkans, a peninsula criss-crossed with boundaries, which unite as ambiguously as they separate History challenges them mercilessly, throwing into absurd turmoil personal stories, national identities, archetypes, unwavering men and women torn by passion, proud gestures thrusting out of the scars of old wounds.
But, above all, it is a story about the boundaries within us, inside our conscience, the ones that continuously defend their territory. Greek Coffee is a brilliantly written novel. Its fragmented structure breaks up the chronology of tales large and small, virtuosically fusing a multitude of voices, which pass through time and space unhindered, invigorating the present. It is a parable, sung as if from the womb — the sacred confession of a mother to her son, who will continue not only the thread of life, but also that of the story.
Most importantly, however, Greek Coffee is a modern novel, in which vulnerability is fearlessly revealed, inciting reflection and urging discourse about the Balkan destiny of being connected.
She wept with despair and rage. She looked suddenly old and insurmountably alone. Despite the dozens of figures of people, immobilized in the heavy air, steeped with the sweet fragrance of incense. I will never forget this very specific fragrance. Why are you doing this to me? A few days earlier I had seen a young man off to work. Death, or possibly the encounter with it, had made him at least twenty years older. The village women would haul Demetra up and drag her back to sit on the small couch beside your aunt and your grandfather, who was stupefied with agony.
Just so she could get up a minute later and go back to kissing your father. Arranged next to each other along the cheap old couch as if on display. Destitute, flattened — by the grief, by the heat, the saturating Greek heat, by the looks of the people, whose sympathy alternated with a dark foretaste of festivity. The village of Neos Stavros had never seen such a funeral.
And they remembered a lot. A funeral with four bishops and hundreds of wreaths. With indecently expensive cars and busloads of construction workers. Your father, covered with flowers, his face blue, his hair — grey, did not get up. And never, ever again would his unparalleled chuckle resound.
Nonetheless, that very day, the one willed on me to be the worst day of my life, I had the stinging feeling that he would get up. Your dad liked surprises. We sat in a smoke-filled Indian restaurant full of drunken Brits, somewhere around Varna. After the seventeenth time, however, Polychronis Georgiou Salis grabbed my frail shoulder, emaciated by dieting, and said in his incomparable Bulgarian: This is the lastime I propoz.
I weel never ask you egein! A brief, cheerful kiss, with no excess drama or frenzied passion. The way they saw it in Neos Stavros. He had a strange, yet seductive charm. He could get out of any situation with his grin and temperament. That he would remove the piles of wilted flowers with his distinctive, clumsy gestures and dust off his six-and-a-half-foot, pound body and say with his Greekest, most devilish smile: Just a lital jok But I had eggs, and I had wild onions. I also had orregano. Ever since I married your father, I started putting orregano in everything.
When he still laughed. He, on the other hand, was becoming more and more Bulgarian in his ways, to my surprise and displeasure. His look was increasingly grim — out of habit, not for a specific reason. He tapped his foot nervously. Definitely not inside the glass of tsipouro your father had taught me to drink with my salad in the evening.
While he himself preferred Bulgarian rakia more and more regularly. We had met somewhere around there — at the crossroads of national identities, in the heart of the confused and touchy Balkans. Without sticking the other person in our own scheme of things — making them either a Bulgarian, or a Greek. But let me get back to the eggs with wild onions. In the cool morning of that day, the day that would mark our life forever, I decided to cook myself something.
You had recently turned a year old, and amid caring for you and changing diapers, I would often forget about myself. But it was right then that I decided to have breakfast. It was to be my last peaceful meal for a long time to come. You were sleeping serenely, with your hands upright, like the healthy, happy baby that you were.
I even finished my coffee and managed to sneek in a text message to my brother: Only mothers with young children would. And he would lie to me that he had grown tired of life and that he missed me. That for this reason he had taken off in the middle of the work week, leaving Sofia for the Rhodope mountains. And I would swallow it all I am naive sometimes, I must admit.
He has been a Fulbright visiting researcher at the University of California, Berkeley. He also authored two collections of short stories: Road Encounters , the winner of a national award for debut , and K. His second novel, The Meek, focused on the first months of the communist regime in Bulgaria, is to be published in Igov has worked as critic and journalist for various print and online media, the radio and the TV.
In this capacity, he took part in the juries of the Vick prize for novel of the year , the Ivan Nikolov prize for poetry book of the year and the Elias Canetti award Three of his translations were nominated for the Krustan Dyankov prize in , , and As a poetry translator, he took part in the first International Poetry Conference organized by Elizabeth Kostova Foundation in The novel opens with a middle-aged man on an aimless journey, driving three young hitchikers — two girls and a boy — in his car. The man is recognized by the youngsters as the former guitar player of a one-time popular rock band and, more importantly, the father of a girl with whom the three have seemingly had an uneasy relationship.
The latter is gradually revealed through the following chapters where readers receive insights into the different emotions the three young people harbour. Also, their suspicions that the man must be living through an emotional crisis prove right when the narrative focuses on the recent death of his emotionally estranged wife and his difficult communication with his problem-child daughter.
As the narrative progresses, the novel explores, through several key scenes, the feelings of shame, disgust, hubris, and fear that haunt all the four characters and, one way or another, focus on the absent yet dominating fifth. Several myths and symbolic events also acquire significance in this exploration; and it is in a semi-mythical atmosphere, amid expectations of crisis and tragedy, that the characters are finally able to start what could be a process of catharsis.
It had been four months now: He felt like tubes had been stuck into him, too, pouring first fear into his blood, then hope and finally a colorless, watery liquid, the very essence of futility. Irina could come out of the coma drained of her identity, without memories, without thoughts even, without taking in anything around her, a vegetating presence in a wheelchair. So why, Spartacus asked, abruptly jerking him into a completely other time, did Euphoria really break up? Good question, why had they broken up really, perhaps because the singer had started acting more and more like the head, C o n t e m p o r a r y B u l g a r i a n Wr i t e r s 99 heart and ass of the group, or because the keyboardist was against the more commercial sound of their final years, or maybe — and this seemed the likeliest answer to Krustev — because nobody felt like playing anymore.
When he stopped to think about it, they had only been around thirty — thirty-something, pretty early for exhaustion, but the rock-band life had sucked them dry unexpectedly quickly, they needed to be reborn as new people, they still had the strength and opportunity to do it, and yes, well yes, they did just that. Only here, on the deck where the four of them were standing together, upright, only here could Krustev get a clearer idea of what his fellow travelers looked like: He could feel the beer filling his bladder insultingly quickly, impudently squeezing his prostate, he excused himself and found the grimy toilet down below by the cars, poorly lit by a yellow bulb, his stream gushed with gurgling relief, he zipped his fly and slowly started back up the stairs, climbed up on deck and stood by himself for a while before going back to the trio.
The strangest part was that he had gradually gotten used to it all: He talked to her about Elena, about the dog, about the house, sometimes about business, a few times he tried to clear up how exactly, imperceptibly and secretly, like the rotting of a seemingly sound fruit, their relationship had gone cold. She really was a shell, the form of a living creature, emptied of her soft, slimy and slithering substance, at once alluring and repellent. And he would talk to that shell, sensing how everything around him withdrew and he was left alone with her in the white silence of the hospital room, as if time had stopped.
But before Christmas, Elena came back from the States again, pale, thin, with circles under her eyes, she burst into tears when she saw her mother and the thread was broken, the whole quiet harmony that Krustev had built up day after day fell apart. At that moment he felt hatred for his daughter, that intruder from out of nowhere, a part of both of them, who had cunningly leapt into the world and come between them. As if during that whole time she had been hesitating and had finally made a decision.
She has written seven books of poetry, a collection of eleven poems and eleven short stories, and a collection of short stories All Stories Are for You, She has won many national and international awards. Already established as one of the emblematic modern poets in Bulgaria and Europe and a laureate of multiple national and international poetry awards, Mirela Ivanova has surprised readers with unexpectedly vivid prose.
Having penned seven books of poetry, in she published an extravagant two-genre book, Slow, divided between eleven short stories and eleven poems. Bulgarische Prosa nach It was also time shelooked lovestraight in the eye. She wrote a draft during the first night and put it away in her handbag, read it twice, once during the coffee break after she had presented her paper, and then inside the withering emptiness of the last tram she took back to the hotel after a noisy dinner with her colleagues.
She was amazed at how she had preserved her large, beautiful handwriting. She believed that once handwritten, words acquire some spiritandemanate their own energy. I clung to the utopia of that parallel, more meaningful and deeper life, I liked to foresee, analyze and invent it, I felt free and different amidst words and allowed myselfsuch lavishness of mind and intuition, whileimagination often took me to the very impossible horizon of sharing. This is exactly what my dear old dad had wanted most: Dad would be happy,if he couldseeme from somewhere in the hereafter,with the many flowers in my room, he would also take pity on mefor the hard time I am having and my puffyeyes stuck together with exhaustion in the evening, and for falling asleep dog-tired even before the shivers of self-pity, doubt, various kinds of solitude and despair all start creeping over me.
The week before I left, I decided I ought to tell you during our next lunch flooded with wine and cheerful laughter that I was in love with you, that I have loved you throughout all of these seventeen years, if not more… I do not recall if we met after my getting married and divorced or before, but only in youdo I recognize my inspirationfor living.
Or else the daily meat grinder that whirls me awake at six a. A few mornings ago I was in a sour moodalreadyin the crammed shuttle, and thenI spilt my coffee which I had gotten from the machine in front of the medical center. It was as if I spilt over some tension onto the ten patients, clustered in the niche in front of my office. A friend was patiently waiting for me in front of my door, she was the only one who had not taken the liberty of disturbing me on this crazy day.
He has also written a good deal on the experiences of Irish emigrants, and the Irish experience in Britain. Your browser does not support the video tag. Damian Gerard Bland Damian is an independent artist working in Yorkshire. Having started in animation he now paints the beautiful landscapes in his local area. For more information and to purchase some of his paintings click here.
Feel free to email me with any questions or comments, or to just say hello! About Wiki Publications Contact. Travellers in the Text Irish Travellers: Representations and Realities Travellers and the Settled Community: They "told the tale" with great hyperbole and swagger.
These posters record for posterity a world that was disappearing and being renewed at the same time. These haunting images bring back the sadness, the joy and the laughter all over again. Susanne sa seomra folchta by Gabriel Rosenstock Book 1 edition published in in Irish and held by 4 WorldCat member libraries worldwide Rosenstock burst on the literary scene with this his first book of poems in Irish in The Blood Of Squirrels: The Irish couple are latter-day Druids.
Their daughter is an apprentice Druid. The two other couples are British. There is magic in the air, literally, and suspense intensifies as we try to figure out how benign or otherwise this magic actually is.