Bralni projekt Povezujemo svetove predstavlja enaintrideset odličnih literarnih del z različnih koncev Evrope, večinoma prevode iz manj uporabljanih jezikov. Izbrana dela bodo izšla na slovenskem, poljskem, latvijskem, severnomakedonskem, avstrijskem/nemškem in italijanskem trgu ter bodo nagovorila širok krog bralcev, saj segajo od slikanic za najmlajše do mladinskih knjig in romanov za odrasle. Projekt izpostavlja kultne evropske avtorje in njihova nagrajena dela – majhne literarne bisere, ki sicer ne bi zlahka dosegli omenjenih trgov. Projekt združuje osem založnikov iz različnih držav, ki želijo povečati prepoznavnost avtorjev iz štirinajstih evropskih držav.
Za večjo prepoznavnost avtorjev, ki pišejo v manj uporabljanih jezikih, bomo organizirali založniška srečanja in rezidence za neevropske založnike, in sicer s poudarkom na prodaji knjižnih pravic in obiskih mednarodnih knjižnih sejmov. Za večjo prepoznavnost prevajalcev bo Društvo slovenskih književnih prevajalcev organiziralo šest dogodkov s prevajalci in enotedenski seminar za tuje prevajalce, ki prevajajo iz slovenščine v tuje jezike. Projekt vključuje tudi strategijo za doseganje večjega števila bralcev in ozaveščanje bralcev o raznolikosti naše skupne evropske kulture. Z aktivnostjo Bralni vlak želimo pritegniti več spletnih bralcev in naročnikov knjižnih škatel ter s tem povečati naše občinstvo. Pomembno vlogo na dogodkih bodo imeli avtorji (15 avtorskih gostovanj) in prevajalci (6 posebnih večerov), ki bodo svoja dela predstavili širši javnosti.
V 36 mesecih bo 9 založniških ekip, eno prevajalsko društvo, 27 avtorjev, 20 ilustratorjev, 19 prevajalcev, 11 urednikov, 9 oblikovalcev, 23 članov projektnih skupin, 10 distributerjev, 19 tujih urednikov, ki bodo sodelovali v mreženju, prispevalo k uspešni izvedbi projekta – skupaj torej kar 138 strokovnjakov.
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Seznam knjig:
1. Aino Havukainen, Sami Toivonen: Tatu ja Patu kesäleirillä, iz finščine v slovenščino prevedla Julija Potrč Šavli
2. Alberto Lot: Ho catturato uno gnomo, iz italijanščine v slovenščino prevedel Vasja Bratina
3. Jan De Kinder: Mijn oma, iz nizozemščine v slovenščino prevedla Stana Anželj
4. Juhani Püttsepp: On kuu kui kuldne laev, iz estonščine v slovenščino prevedla Julija Potrč Šavli
5. Vane Kosturanov: Devojčeto i gradot, iz makedonščine v slovenščino prevedel Aleš Mustar
6. Tomasz Małkowski: O Kamilu, który patrzy rękami, iz poljščine v slovenščino prevedel Klemen Pisk
7. Sinikka in Tiina Nopola: Heinähattu, Vilttitossu ja Kalju-Koponen, iz finščine v slovenščino prevedla Julija Potrč Šavli
8. Audra Baranauskaitė: Nukas, iz litovščine v slovenščino prevedel Klemen Pisk
9. Peter Svetina: Modri Portugalec, iz slovenščine v italijanščino prevedla Martina Clerici
10. Majda Koren: Inšpektor Jože, iz slovenščine v poljščino prevedla Marta Cmiel – Bażant
11. Majda Koren: Inšpektor Jože, iz slovenščine v italijanščino prevedla Martina Clerici
12. Petr Stančík: H2O a pastýřové snů, iz češčine v slovenščino prevedel Peter Svetina
13. Luigi Ballerini: Fuori freddo, iz italijanščine v slovenščino prevedla Dušanka Zabukovec
14. Jana Bauer: Kako objeti ježa, iz slovenščine v italijanščino prevedla Martina Clerici
15. Darko Tuševljaković: Uzvišenost, iz srbščine v slovenščino prevedel Vasja Bratina
16. Evald Flisar: Alica v nori deželi, iz slovenščine v nemščino prevedla Ann Catrin Bolton
17. Jana Bauer: Ding dong zgodbe, iz slovenščine v ukrajinščino prevedla Maryana Klymets
18. Ida Mlakar Črnič: Tu blizu živi deklica, iz slovenščine v italijanščino prevedla Martina Clerici
19. Majda Koren: Skuhaj mi pravljico, iz slovenščine v makedonščino prevedla Dragana Evtimova
20. Evald Flisar: Poglej skozi okno, iz slovenščine v italijanščino prevedla Lucia Gaja Scuteri
21. Stefan Boonen: Dat met Leo, iz nizozemščine v slovenščino prevedla Stana Anželj
22. Daniel Wisser: Königin der Berge, iz nemščine v slovenščino prevedla Tanja Petrič
23. Timo Parvela: Keinulauta, iz finščine v slovenščino prevedla Julija Potrč Šavli
24. Federico Appel: La mossa del coccodrillo, iz italijanščine v slovenščino prevedla Dušanka Zabukovec
25. Susanna Mattiangeli: Altre idee, sorprese, storie vere e scherzi d’estate di Matita HB, iz italijanščine v slovenščino prevedla Dušanka Zabukovec
26. Eva Baltasar: Boulder, iz katalonščine v slovenščino prevedla Veronika Rot
27. Pieter Gaudesaboos: Een zee van liefde, iz nizozemščine v slovenščino prevedla Stana Anželj
28. Evald Flisar: Na zlati obali, iz slovenščine v latvijščino prevedla Māra Gredzena
29. Marek Šindelka: Chyba, iz češčine v slovenščino prevedla Diana Pungeršič
30. Eva Frantz: Hallonbacken, iz švedščine v slovenščino prevedla Alexandra Natalie Zaleznik
31. Peter Høeg: Elefantpassernes børn, iz danščine v slovenščino prevedel Darko Čuden
Sample translations
Prozart Media
Marko and Marika
The day was filled with sunshine and the scent of flowers to the very top, like a favorite cup filled with herbal tea. A light spring breeze was blowing, and down the hill from the Upper Gate, with full sails, two bicycles were racing. The bicycles rang out on the uneven stones of the ancient cobblestones: “Oh-h-rid”, “Ohri-i-i-d”. They were driven by twins Marko and Marika, or rather Marika and Marko, because Marika was born two minutes earlier and was considered the older one.
These children are a real nuisance to the local residents, but they are also a salvation for all the cats, dogs, sparrows and other representatives of the animal world. They are swimming champions in their age category, and sometimes in the wider area, but in karate training they only receive remarks and reprimands from the coach. Because how can you train with your twin and not get slapped at the first opportunity?
They can’t sit still for a moment. Even when they’re busy, they can’t sit still. When they’re not at school or riding their bikes through the streets, they’re “helping” their neighbors at the little shop or in the yard, but their favorite activity is annoying the local vet, Tony. They brought him various injured animals so many times and so many times they didn’t have the money to pay for their rescue, that the veterinarian declared them both his voluntary assistants.
It’s May now, and the nine-year-old twins couldn’t wait for the holidays to finally start, because, as always, they have a bunch of school related worries. Just try to get everything done when they give so much homework every day!
The bicycles shook on the stones of the old cobblestones, the bells jingled, and after their sound came Marko’s agitated shout:
– There he is, Marika! Turn right! Faster!
There was a crash as one of the bicycles fell. The second one immediately followed, but it fell a little more softly, into the grass.
Marika ran into the alley.
Marko caught up with her. Marika fell to the ground next to someone’s fence and began to shout triumphantly:
– Hurray, I caught him!
She grabbed a large gray cat by its hind legs. Its front legs and muzzle on the other side of the fence expressed extreme displeasure.
Marko ran back to his bike and took the sports bag from the trunk. Together, the two of them put the cat in it, attached the bag to the trunk, and headed down to the lake with the captured animal.
The children ran along the quay, turned left and continued up the street along the sidewalk, waving to the policeman on duty in front of the police station entrance and greeting the firefighters, finally stopping in front of the veterinary clinic.
– Good morning, Uncle Tony!
– Good morning, good morning! Bring your idler here.
Marko fumbled a little with the bag and after a short struggle he pulled the cat out of it. He and Marika put it on the table and tried to hold it while the vet prepared the medicine in the syringe. The cat screamed, using all the cat curses he knew and tried to free himself.
But the injection had already been given, and the beast, apparently realizing that the procedure was complete, gave in a little and stopped fighting. Marika took some food out of her pocket, put it in the bag, and skillfully zipped it up before the cat could jump out of it and run away.
– There you go. One more injection tomorrow and he’ll be done, – Tony laughed.
– Thank you, Uncle Tony.
– No problem, I’ll wait for you around four o’clock to clean the floor. And the grass in the lawn still needs to be mowed. But that’s when you have time.
– We’ll be there around four, thank you!
– Oh, let’s just find Jack, and then the swan.
– Yes, that’s right, I almost forgot…
Bicycles are already ringing somewhere in the center. The gray cat-idler has started back home, probably not even realizing that these tanned devils saved him from certain death a few days ago. Well, what can you do, those cats are like that…
Hrapeshko arrived unshaven.
From afar, he resembles a bandit.
Close up, like a young lad.
Closer still, his head appeared disproportionately small above his shoulders
and huge chest that heaved broad and square like a knight’ breastplate. His legs were
short and his arms extended only to his waist. His midriff was tightly squeezed by a
wide leather belt with sheaths from which protruded various tools for gardening and
pruning vineyards: cutters, pruning knives, pairs of shears.
He stopped in front of Monsieur Georges and the interpreter, without uttering
a word, inquiring only with his gaze as to why he had been sent for and, above all,
who these people were who had sent for him.
Each looked one other up and down for several moments.
Georges and his interpreter appeared to be members of the clerical class.
Dressed a la franca, they were both somewhat dishevelled from their travels, neither
bearded nor shaven but something in between.
“Respected citizens of suburbia!” announced the interpreter, “This gentleman
before you is the great Georges de Bourgogne in person, a renowned and acclaimed
explorer of the obscurest regions of darkest Europe, a scholar of comparative
civilization and culture and a lover of adventure and good wine. The personal cultural
attaché, indeed, of his Highness the French Prince Aberville de Grenoble. The
documents in his possession will testify to his position. And what is more, they grant
him unrestricted right of travel through these parts.”
Upon hearing which words, beads of sweat began to form, although it was yet
the dead of winter, on the foreheads of the people in the crowd, including Hrapeshko
himself.
“As for myself, I am merely an interpreter and my role in all this is so footling
and insignificant that it is not worth even mentioning my name. For this reason, I shall
refrain from introducing myself.”
And now.
“Are you the one?” asked the interpreter in the name of Monsieur Georges,
who all the while stood quietly muttering to himself something half in French and half
in German, so quietly as not to obstruct the interpreter, “Are you the one about whom
these people gathered here spin such myths and legends?”
Hrapeshko spat upon the ground and stepped forward, neither bowing his head
nor lifting his gaze from Monsieur Georges, who likewise did not avert his gaze from
Hrapeshko. The latter slowly approached until he stood just nine inches from the
other. Until both could smell the other’s breath, both equally malodorous.
“What a man!” the interpreter exclaimed in the name of Monsieur Georges,
which gentleman in the meantime had retrieved from his pocket a piece of rope that
he was now using to measure the man before him. “It is true that I have never before
seen such a chest as yours. From this fact alone, however, I cannot assess the skill for
which these people have vouched for you in your absence. But here! I’ll give you one
lira if, here and now in front of all these people, you confirm their tales and legends.”
Hrapeshko took the coin, took a bite at it, and shoved it in his jacket.
He dropped his arms down by his sides. His hands hung by his waist, his waist
drawn tight with a broad leather belt sporting loops and sheathes from which various
types of pruning shears poked out: wide ones with thin blades, long ones with short
blades and shortish ones with thickish blades. The crowd gathered around the three
men now held their breath in solemn anticipation. Only the distant rustling of the
aspens could be heard, mingled with the faint babble of the River Vardar from yet
further off. No one dared draw breath, let alone utter a sound. What might have been
the giggles of a few children at the back of the crowd alone hinted at what might be
about to happen.
LOST IN TRANSLATION
At this moment
Somewhere in the world
There are two people
Laying together
As buttons of a shirt
That cannot touch each other
No matter how close they are
CLOSER
It was the day
When the mill wheel was turned by one drop
The wind blew all the rust from the forgotten sickle
And the wings of two birds of the flock fluttered
In flight.
Those were the days when bees drank blood
The honeycomb has painted red
And the lines on our palms matched
One on the another one
Perfectly.
But, time does not transgress:
The winds we get used to
We forget them faster.
This is the picture from our encounters:
We are the place
And a nuance
Between red and blue
From the same flame.
AMERICAN HONEY
The letters of your breath
Like frozen steam they fall
And I line them up
Like a stone that stops water.
Your shadow does not bend over obstacles
So around her
A house I cannot draw.
The grass we lie on
It straightens up
Only in my place.
The color of your eyes
It moves to the corners of my lips.
It bends them like a hook, like an anchor,
Like a halved crescent moon
With a shadow in between.
I always see things where they are not:
When you push me away, I get closer to you.
I think it’s strange you never knew.
FLEABAG
The waters
From two fingers
That quench a candle
Touched themselves through the flame.
Like two different books
With same number of pages
Which finally
Found themselves on the same shelf.
And in which
Ambiguous are the words
With a positive connotation.
For example: it will pass.
As if they shape new grammatical tenses
Giving birth to the Present impossible
And the Future painful
From the Past imperfect.
IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE
They have the same definition of the red color
And they know the air
Previously touched by one of them.
The meeting at the right time passes them by
Like a tear traveling at the same speed
But in different rooms.
Like land and water they are.
Always touched
However, unattached.
IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE 2
You both search for a place with round doors
Where one can enter from everywhere.
In which there is teas for dreams, hugs and soul mates.
And where the candles light according to the desire, the need and reasonableness.
When you find it, as drop of water you are, that kissed the cloud, before his cry.
Then, the real questions starts to cut through answers like the sickle through haystack.
Afterwards, almost without exception, the clouds stops crying
Faced with the inability to return to the site
Where one can exit from everywhere.
SPRING, SUMMER, FALL, WINTER… AND SPRING
It is springtime.
On water I sleep
Learning the language of fish
In a house of silence.
Almost like twins they are
The leaves that heal
And the ones that kill.
Butterflies are always faster than we are
So we tie a stone to what
From the height we see.
It is spring.
The stone remembers the weight
And the scars are a school desk
On which with water
A prayer we write.
TIGER AND THE SNOW
If she’s gone (if she dies)
The presence will become just a verb
And all the verbs – pronouns.
If the sun ceases to reflect from her eyes
It will come down to a flashlight.
The evening and the wind
If not join in her hair
They will stop being a cure.
The first drop that touches the thirsty dust
Will be left without a job
Its scent will be taken away
Like as the abandoned bakery
From our childhood.
I exist in her
Because I exist in myself
And vice versa.
Any other scenario
Is like a badly synchronized TV series.
The meaning was not born before us
So to tell stories of hope afterwards.
If she’s gone (if she dies)
The presence will become just a verb
And all the verbs – pronouns.
TALK TO HER
There is nothing further from where you are.
The air embraced by your wings:
I am still breathing it.
Tears are a knife to the cheeks
And they do not drown in the rivers.
So every sigh is like cut love
Between leaf and carbon dioxide.
Sometimes the sounds resembles the past:
No closed door has a story like the open one
And the stones in front of them are always warmer
From waiting.
There is nothing further from where you are.
The air embraced by your wings:
I am still breathing it.
CINEMA PARADISO
To Fernando Pessoa
He lived with the illusion that she was waiting for him
I
I watched her like a soldier
99 days and nights,
Like a black and white movie
Slowly discolored by the paint.
II
The unattainable is a painted reality.
Escape is the most convenient way
Of ignoring life.
You have to run away
To be.
To live
Means to forget.
STALKER
On the screen is a woman who has never seen a swing.
She carries her wasted youth in her cigarette
Like sometimes the only companion
Whom she is looking for, from time to time,
Kissing it till the end.
For her, tears have long been just drops of water
Which will merge with the clouds
In a repeat kiss
Which can only be postponed
And not to be avoided
In that endless cycle of grief
Interspersed with hope
In rare moments
When the cup moves on its own on the table
As if drawn by a strong soul
A soul with grayness perforated
With a grayness, that gives birth.
STALKER 2
Faith and hope.
Even when
The only sounds
Are the creak od the door
Caressed by an unknown wind
And drops from an old faucet
Like rain
That is raining from the inside
From within the house.
AMARCORD
I
It is easy for the people,
They build on the ground.
What about the stars
That float without support.
Millions, millions of stars!
II
Different stories
Scattered in the sea
Waiting for the future
To save them from something
Whose name they do not know.
THIS MUST BE THE PLACE
The look after the lost soul
Will become like a fridge magnet
From a distant city
With an expiration date.
Leftovers are always around:
Cover for love
Time through your eyes
White sadness.
Can it be measured
With a unit of measure
How many
And what kind of tears are needed
For the soul to dry up?
LOST HIGHWAY
Kiss
Like the one
Between the highway and car tires.
It seems
It will bleed
Of closeness.
The palm of my hand on your face
Like lights
On the dark road
To your crossroads
Tiled with 1000 signs
None with my name on it.
Angels do not know what recourse is.
The rain did not teach them.
The unknown in front of us
In the dark
Travels at speed
Of the piano keys.
AMERICAN BEAUTY
Sometimes
The true cry finds its name very late
Only after all the waters have been changed
And that same look from both of them
Has impoverished
And fell apart
Like a plastic bag
That played in the wind.
HER
Today we gave grief a name.
We have banned the fake letters from existing.
In front of us are the pictures that we deleted
Because they reflected reality (because it can only be seen
one of us).
The favorite tone of our voices is on.
We are lying on the moon
Knowing that never again
We won’t feel anything that strong
As in the times
When we lay on the moon.
Everything will be with less excitement.
As a kind of repetition.
And it will last
Until we start stroking each other’s shadows
A million touches away.
Because, finally, we admit to ourselves:
– there is nothing new for us.
Only repetitions, with a lower intensity.
And, yes, we admit that it is not a big of a problem
As long as we’re together.
Then again
Like gods
We will be the saddest and happiest people on
the world
For a while yet.
BEFORE SUNSET
In your apartment
Some things
Cannot be wiped like shoes on the doorstep.
At your home
The lines of the paintings are borrowed
From your temperament.
At your place
Books know what a touch is
And music is a conversation with you.
From your terrace
The flowers grow towards the room
Instead towards to the sun.
They all live outside your presence too,
But get alive
Because of your presence.
In your apartment
The shadows are just a place
Protected from the sun’s rays.
BEFORE MIDNIGHT
I want to be your lantern handle
To not close myself off entirely
To leave some air for you
So that you can say I’m suffocating you
You
My breath for kindling,
My spark from the fire.
I want you to be my lantern handle
To not close yourself off entirely
To leave some air for me
So that I can say you are suffocating me
Oh You
My breath for kindling,
My spark from the fire.
GEGEN DIE WAND
I see what is in front of me
After others see it.
I am neither a lightning
Neither a thunderstorm.
Just a space
Which fills the time in between.
GEGEN DIE WAND 2
I am a chair that nobody seats on
And a folded beer cork
Without a leg from an unstable table.
I am an edge of an unironed sheet
And a heel worn out
From the right side.
I am time
In which the embered cigarette butts
Do not burn your fingers.
DER HIMMEL ÜBER BERLIN
Now I know:
With you
I can be by my self
And not to be alone.
It has never been like this before.
Finally, I understand.
I know.
It’s true:
Only two full moons
Can hide
Into each other.
THE MILLION DOLLAR HOTEL
The keys have fallen into the interspace of
the elevator
Whose buttons remember
On which floor they want to go
And on which floor they have to.
Hotel windows are like a well without a bucket
The light bulbs are changed once in a lifetime
And somewhere, maybe not even then.
As if we are crazy, we are afraid of the black spots on
the banana
While the black and white keys of the piano
Make love.
I am telling you about the conversations with the traffic lights
While we blink with our eyes and lips
In their rhythm.
Than you show me
That the same water in the glass is white
And in the sea – blue.
The sound of the trumpet spreads round and round
And I fly up
Than go down.
I will fall into the glass of water
And finally
A mural I will become.
PARIS, TEXAS
I
I knew these people
With their love held in different pockets
Lovers without spring and autumn
A fingerprint on a steamy mirror.
II
No one remembers
The first drop after the rain ends
Nor whose touch is the first to break:
The clock shows distance instead of time?
The doorknob creaks differently with each entry?
The favorite parts of the bedroom become
visible?
III
Together they looked as though they’d invented
the kiss.
As if they were the first people in history to have
kissed.
It’s as if they’ve loved each other forever
Even from primeval times
When the clouds first merged
And gave birth to water.
I knew these people.
Even an ordinary trip to the grocery store
Was an adventure for them.
IV
I knew these people.
All the opposites that brought them together,
that complemented them
Now they resembled quarreled windows, that forgot:
Hot air comes out from the inside,
As one enters in a person.
V
I knew these people
The red lights of the tall buildings
Don’t flicker for them.
VI
A leaf may drown even after it drifts out of a whirlpool.
And plants are also born in a crack on the motorway.
PARIS, TEXAS (JANE TALKS TO TRAVIS)
I knew her
When that happened:
The embrace of their feet in the morning
Became cold.
They turned away from each other
Like in unplanned encounter.
I knew her
When she was there
Just like a silent minute of a wall clock
Suppressed by the sound of seconds.
I knew her
When she didn’t know that
The time between accepting reality
And the battle with the remnants of love
Are part of a deal
No one wants to sign.
I knew her even after that
When, unintentionally, she draped herself
In the shroud of the familiar voice.
Until it faded away.
It happens so often:
Some clock hands
Arrive at the same place
But at a different time.
PINA (CAFÉ MÜLLER)
I
On a thin rope you walk
Therefore, I blow the dust from it.
I move the buildings
As if they are chairs,
Just to make a path for you.
The wall you lean on
I bent it
Pillow to be for you.
II
Maybe we are lovers.
Moved by wires.
We fall into each other
Like mannequins
At a time when hugs hurt.
The kiss afterwards
Is like the one after years.
THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES
The colors are clock.
They measure the time
In blue and red.
The sun wants to drink water:
Feet are sliding through the carpets
Books are drying.
The shells are milk
From which we drink.
As minors and as adults.
Sometimes
The wings fly
Even without a head.
YUMURTA (EGG)
I
The sugar cubes are dancing in the water
Kissing eatchother
Until they melt together.
The spoon stirs tea
Joyfully
It’s like it’s her first time.
The knife is caressed with the butter
Making music
When touching the plate.
The water is boiling in the teapot
As if testifying
That we are home.
II
Thunder heralds a drop
who separated from her lover
So she traveled
Through oceans of time she traveled,
Until it finally evaporated
Reuniting with the cloud
In the scream of the lightning
That has meant to be born at that time.
YOUTH (SIMPLE SONG)
I remember everything
I’m losing control
I’m ready
I know everything
I caress you with words
I’m pulling your hair out
Slowly but surely
I feel you
Like a miracle
Like than
I’m getting lost
We are not them
We were
Just a whisper is enough
Just a whisper was enough.
YOUTH 2
If I am born again
I would choose the same
Weeping over impermanence
Above your total devotion to me
Which cannot be eternal
And which doesn’t mean anything to me now.
YOUTH 3
To Blaze Koneski
When the beloved body and mind
Will change
Where does our love go?
When us too
We will go along the years,
Where does that miracle go?
And what is that thing, that still hurts?
Roni and Bona are two small, temperamental kittens.
They live in Bestie’s home and every evening they listen
to her stories, which are the most beautiful in the
whole world. And she tells stories so beautifully that
the kittens listen like kids in class and learn many new
things. That is why they call her Teacher.
In addition to the kittens, the Teacher also has a loyal friend, Buddy. One
evening, while Bestie and Buddy were playing the board game “Don’t be
angry, dude,” one of the kittens, Ronnie, said:
– Bestie, what story are you going to tell us tonight, where are we going
to travel?
Teacher: – And which one would you like?
Bona: – Any one you choose, they’re all beautiful. But if we have to
choose one, let it be the one about the unusual planets.
Buddy usually doesn’t like to talk much, so he said to himself:
“That’s the most beautiful story, I always look forward to it.”
Ronnie is a funny little kitten and just asks for something from the
Teacher, so he asked her:
– But you’ll take us too, right?
Teacher: – Ah, Ronnie, of course, nowhere without my friends.
Ronnie: – Supeeer, we’re going to fly, we’re going to fly!
Bona: – Hey, Buddy, do you want to fly with us too?
Buddy smiled shyly and nodded in the affirmative.
Teacher: – Great idea, we’ll make a great team.
Ronnie: – And what are we traveling with, a car, a train, a rocket???
Teacher: – Ah, Ronnie, Ronnie, we’re traveling like we travel every night,
in the fantasymobile, and Buddy will drive. Can I can continue now, hahaha.
They got into the fantasymobile, the kittens lay
down on her lap, and everyone looked up at the sky.
– Friends, we are going on our unusual adventure
– said Buddy with his smiling eyes.
Teacher: – There are many, many, too many
planets in space, we can never count them. There are
a few that are the most beautiful and that I always
travel to.
Ronnie: – Can we go to the planet Joy first?
Pleeeeease.
– Ha ha, Ronnie, you’re always asking something,
you’re so funny – Buddy said cheerfully to himself.
The teacher: – Yes! And we already arrived. On this planet everyone is
happy, playful, merry.
There we were met by two bees that flew around us as if they were
doing the Cinderella dance and singing the words “DADASU, DADASU”1.
Balia the Bee: – Hello, friends, where are you going?
Bona: – We are traveling to beautiful planets.
The teacher: – Yes! And we already arrived. On this planet everyone is
happy, playful, merry.
There we were met by two bees that flew around us as if they were
doing the Cinderella dance and singing the words “DADASU, DADASU”1.
Balia the Bee: – Hello, friends, where are you going?
Bona: ‒ We are traveling to beautiful planets.
Buddy stretched out his hand and Balia landed on his palm. He
stroked it, and Balia smiled.
Woody the Bee: – How nice, can we come too? And we want to
get to know Buddy more! We heard that he was one of the greatest
friends in the whole world.
Buddy, all joyful, then said to himself:
– Hey, on this planet they know me too. Come on, the more, the
merrier.
Together they headed for the other planet.
Bona: – I see a smiling tree that is like a conductor and elephants
singing. I know! We are on the planet Music.
Teacher: – Yes, that’s right. On this planet, everyone sings all day
long. Both small and big, they sing, everyone sings.
Hello!
My name is… actually, you can call me Buddy. Bit of a strange
name, isn’t it? But after you read what I have to tell you, then you
will see why that is my nickname, and I believe that you will also
want to be called Buddy.
I am 10 years old, and I have autism. I would like to explain to
you, if you don’t know, why it’s harder to communicate for me, why
I don’t want and can’t be where there’s traffic and noise, why all this
bothers me and makes me feel uncomfortable. But autism does
not mean that everything is reduced to I DON’T WANT and I CAN’T.
Although I do not speak, believe me that I speak a lot within myself.
That doesn’t mean I’m not listening carefully. And if I’m not looking
at you while you’re talking to me, it doesn’t mean that I’m absent –
I’m present. I want to be with you, I want to play, to socialize. I can
do many things. For example, I can draw very well.
I usually sit at the window and look at the playground full of
children, I want to be there, but it is hard for me. I know kids are not
that loud on purpose, but it bothers me, so I avoid all such places.
With my mom or dad, we have our nice rule, every day at 5 pm we
go out for a walk. We usually go to the river quay, then in front of
my favorite bookstore, I like to collect crayons, I have a very large
collection.
Every day we pass by the park where children play cheerfully. I
look at them, by the glimpse of the eye so that they can’t notice me,
sometimes I pull mom’s hand, meaning I would like to go and kick
the ball at least once.
We keep walking, I am very happy being with
the children and in a position to kick the ball, and then I run around
mom, I laugh as loud as I can, I sing. Some of the children stare
strangely at me, some of their mothers come and pull their children
away, others will tell mom to pick me up. I don’t understand why
they run away, why should she pick me up, just because I’m happy?
Well, I think that’s not bad, isn’t it nice to be joyful and happy?
Strange! My mom takes my hand, and we leave, and that makes
me very sad, I don’t understand why I can’t play too. I want to, but
they don’t accept me in the game.
And so, I sit again by the window, watching the children.
With eyes full of tears, with the phone in my hands, I play songs.
Sometimes I also draw for myself, dad buys me pads every day and
tells me, son, just draw, if I have to, for you, I will go to the end of
the world to buy you a pad for drawing.
And at school, the teacher would come to my desk, and with
a smile she would tell me “Buddy, you draw beautifully, you have
talent, keep drawing. One day someone will recognize all that and
you will be a world-famous painter or something else related to your
talent.”
Yes, one can say that it’s nice to draw and listen to music, and I
agree with that, music is everything to me, but I would feel better if
I have somebody’s company. That’s why I am asking others, loudly,
but only inside me, to understand that it is difficult for me to
approach first, to address someone and ask – can I play with you? it
would be much simpler for me if you call me.
But one day everything changed. I remember well that it was
Tuesday. Just like every day, at 17:00 we passed by the children, I
looked at them, saw that beautiful colorful soccer ball again, and
as if I had the impression that it was waiting for me to kick it. This
time just as always, my wish will not be fulfilled. While I was looking
towards the playground, suddenly, a girl ran towards me. I got a little
scared and hid behind mom. The girl stopped, smiled, apologized for
scaring me. She stroked my hair and left. At that moment I wanted to
run to the other children at once, but my previous experience taught
me that it would be in vain.
We wanted to leave. Surprise!!!! The girl came and handed me
some chalk. I didn’t take it immediately, but I wanted to, I really
wanted to. She was trying to put it in my hand, smiling all the time.
– Take it, let’s draw something on the pavement!
At that moment, I wanted to hug her. I didn’t answer, I wanted to
tell her something, because these words of hers sounded in my head
like the most beautiful song I have played on my phone.
“I want, I really want to go and draw.” I squeezed mom’s hand
tightly and she already knew what that meant.
– Buddy, let’s go to the summer house where we go every day, it’s
calmer there.
“But mom, there are children here, there is someone who wants
to be with me, and I am alone there.” I knew why she wanted us to go
there.
A woman came to us and said to my mom:
– Madam, I am Donna’s mother, sorry if I scared you .
She watches you every day, watches your son and when she comes
home she tells me… mom, there is an unusual child, but there is
something interesting in him. When I look at him, it is as if I look at
Sarah, do you remember the girl from our previous neighborhood
where we used to live? They are the same, shy, but I know he likes to
make friends, which child does not? Tomorrow I will go to him and
invite him to hang out.
I listen, and I see my mom with teary eyes and a smile on her face.
– Don’t worry about the others. Come together and we will tell
them everything they don’t know, what interest them, what scares
them. We will explain to all of them that there is no need to be
afraid of this sweet boy.
“Mom, mom, let’s go, I’m not scary right?”
Mom just nodded, and Donna took my hand with a smile, and
we came to the others. Some left again, some mothers left with
their children also. But some of them remained. I sat down on the
pavement and started to draw. I love nature and animals, so I drew
a butterfly, swan, elephant, sun, stars. Space. While I was drawing, I
didn’t notice that about fifteen children gathered around me, and I
heard voices like… hey, come to see, but I didn’t think it was about
my drawings. They were peering over me, shouting: well done, well
done, you are drawing so good, you are gifted.
KUD Sodobnost International
Leni walked down the street. The treetops rustled, and the branches drooped so low that she could touch them with her hand. Fallen leaves swirled above her head in a whirlwind.
The girl raised her hands to catch them. Leaves whooshed just above her, like a fiery red dragon with golden wings, then flew away. Disappointed, she ran to the neighbouring garden.
“Donna,” she called out loudly and pushed open the garden gate. “I’m here.”
The old woman straightened up for a moment and smiled at her. She nodded gently and dragged her rake across the lawn. On the garden beneath the grand maple tree there was a huge pile of autumn leaves.
Leni stopped under the tree, puzzled. Something was different. Donna hadn’t invited her for tea as she usually did. She just kept raking. Slowly and quietly.
“Are you going to rake up all the leaves?” Leni asked in astonishment.
“All of them,” Donna repeated after her, like an echo.
“How?” the girl wondered. “Are these leaves yours?”
Donna paused for a moment and leaned on her rake.
“They’re mine,” she said at last.
“But only yours?” Leni pressed on, as if she didn’t quite believe her.
“Well, actually, they belong to the tree growing in my garden. So, in a way, they are mine,” Donna explained.
Leni was taken aback. “You have so many leaves with golden speckles, you know.”
Donna nodded with content and straightened up again. She inhaled and exhaled. Her eyes swept over the garden. It was bathing in warm autumn sunlight. The sun was already low in the sky.
“You’ve gathered a very big pile of leaves,” Leni said in awe, staring at the heap.
“Mhm,” Donna agreed. “Just a little more, and I’ll have raked up every last one.”
“So, you’re as rich as a queen?” Leni guessed, furrowing her brow as she paced behind Donna, back and forth, in sync with the rake.
“I am. “I rule the leaves with a royal rake, just like a queen for autumn’s sake,” Donna laughed, lost in thought over Leni’s question.
This is the town of Housiehousie.
It has streets and houses and playgrounds and a school.
A river called Whereareyouflowing runs through the town.
Behind the skyscraper stands the restaurant Eat’n drink.
The head chef at the restaurant is Aunt Cookie.
On the street behind the store lives the researcher, Doctor Oneandone Thechickenisdone.
Like any decent town, Housiehousie also has a store, a library, a post office, a school, and a hospital.
On Tuesday, the Chicken family entered the restaurant. Father Chicken, Mother Chicken, and Frances and Sebastian Chicken. “Four pancakes with apricot jam, please! And a glass of raspberry juice for each of us!” ordered Father Chicken.
Aunt Cookie immediately got to work: she mixed eggs, milk, and flour in a bowl and added a pinch of salt.
SIZZLE! went the batter as she poured it into the hot pan.
“I’ll just grab some jam from the pantry!” she hummed with delight.
But in the pantry: “WHAAT! What is this?”
All the jam jars were open, and each was missing some jam.
“What in the world! What kind of terrible beast sneaks into the pantry at night and
steals jam? I must investigate this at once!” Aunt Cookie muttered.
The pancakes arrived cold at the table.
The Chicken family ate them grumblingly and left home angry.
The sun set behind the hills. The sky was painted with red tinted clouds.
Aunt Cookie turned off the stove, washed the dishes, and swept the floor.
Before locking the door, she spread extra special muahaha super glue on the pantry floor,
which she had bought this week at the supermarket.
She knew that the trouble maker who licked the jam at night would unsuspectingly stick to the pantry floor, and in the morning, she would show them what it means to steal jam from unsuspecting cooks.
But Aunt Cookie was too curious to wait until morning. She put on her black midnight outfit with seven pockets.
In the first pocket, she placed a fishing hook,
in case the thief was a fish.
She thought:
“What if the thief is a dangerous beast?” And she stuffed a lion-catching net into the second pocket.
In the third pocket went a clothespin,
just in case the thief smelled bad.
In the fourth pocket, she placed
sunglasses, because who knows, maybe the thief shines brightly!
“I’ll take a flashlight too, just in case the creature doesn’t shine or if the electricity goes out!” thought Aunt Cookie and tucked the flashlight into the fifth pocket.
Into the sixth pocket, she sprinkled flea powder, in case the thief had fleas.
Into the seventh pocket, she stuffed six sandwiches with cream, snails, and hazelnuts,
in case she got hungry.
She rode her bike to the restaurant, unlocked the door, and suddenly she heard from the pantry:
“Jam-meow, jam-meow!
I’m stuck!
Jam-meow!”
Introduction to the Eighth Book of Fairy Tales
Let me tell how everything came about. Not long ago, I was supposed to go to Turin, with Barbara and Guy to Turin. But I was so tired, so incredibly tired, that I stayed at home. And as I, somewhat absent-mindedly, sat in the chair in my study, I glanced at the staircase that leads nowhere and serves as my bookshelf. And what did I see? A cover with the title The Eighth Book of Fairy Tales. I found this cover long ago, somewhere around the corner of an antiquarian bookshop, back when it was still on Appalling or Freeway Street (I can’t quite remember), where I used to walk from high school to the city bus: number eight stretched across the entire cover, they ride and travel endlessly upon it, characters and things that are not between the covers. And they aren’t there because the cover is everything that remained from the book! Someone had torn out the pages, or the book had been flicked trough and read so many times that it had fallen apart, leaving only its cover. Well, and the table of contents, that clung to what little remained of the book with its last strength. In the table of contents there were – well, actually there is –seventeen fairy tales listed. This is a prime number. A prime number is a number that, because of old age, becomes overgrown with moss and lichen. (For a more precise explanation check a lexicon or ask your older siblings, uncles, aunts, or parents. You could also ask your teacher). But what kind of fairy tale book is this, if it has no fairy tales? I said to myself. But because I was still so exhausted that I could barely move my head, I fell asleep in my chair. I slept soundly. Then I went for a proper walk with my dog, Sintra. Then my daughter, Clara and I cooked a proper lunch. Then I took another proper short rest. And then I sat at my desk and started properly writing fairy tales, one after another, just as they were listed in the table of contents of that pageless book. “Didn’t you get any rest at all?” Barbara asked me when she and Guy returned from Turin. “Well, in a way, I did,” I replied. “Because Writing is hard work, but it’s also a kind of rest.” But what matters is this: The fairy tales are here. Here they are, again in The Eighth Book of Fairy Tales.
The Scientific Contribution of Mr. Lettered on Unicorns
Mr. Lettered was a scientist. That means he gathered knowledge. He didn’t gather it the way a grandmother gathers lamb’s lettuce or a grandfather picks daisies for grandmother. He gathered it by reading a lot, observing a lot, taking a lot of notes and finally writing about everything.
Mr. Lettered studied squirrels. How they live. How they groom themselves, how they eat, what they eat, when they eat, where they eat how they play with their young, how they scold them, how they put them to bed, how they spend their free time, what colours they are, which trees they prefer to climb, what kind of poop they leave behind, what kind of sounds they make, how they communicate. All that and much more.
On that day, he was climbing a tree to inspect their little dens, because the squirrels were away. He peered into the hollows, carefully wrote his observations, took photographs, made sketches, and then worked his way down from branches and trunk.
“Ouch!”
Something pricked him in the buttocks before he managed to get down from the last branch to the forest path.
“Pardon me, excuse me,” a voice said behind him.
When Mr. Lettered turned around he saw a unicorn.
“You’re from a fairy tale,” Mr. Lettered said, and opened his notebook to record this new discovery.
“Do you think so?” replied the unicorn. “Because if I am, then so are you.”
“Hmm… wait a minute… oh, great heavens! You’re right!” Mr. Lettered exclaimed, lowering his notebook. “Your cognition is astonishing!”
“Cognition, observation, and a touch of caramelization, if you please,” the unicorn replied.
“Please explain,” said Mr. Lettered, sitting down on a tree stump. “Tell me everything.”
The unicorn leaned against a fir tree and explained.
The forest where Mr. Lettered was conducting his research was an ordinary forest, rarely visited by people. On one side, it was bordered by a meadow and a highway; on the other, a swamp, which people avoided. A path ran through the forest, but the landowner constantly threw branches and brambles onto it to discourage visitors.
“So,” said Mr. Lettered, he was writing in his notebook. “Do you live here alone with the squirrels?”
No, not at all, if you please, the forest was teeming with life. Squirrels, titmice, blackbirds, a grumpy old badger, some fairies, some gnomes, a merman with his family, and three families of unicorns. The unicorn he was speaking with was one of the three fathers, Franz.
From then on, Mr. Lettered visited the forest at least three times a week. Before noon and in the evenings. It was always lively at those hours. Games, such as throwing patches of marsh peat into the distance and getting the kids to sleep and a glass of beer passing by mouth, behind the neck and such fun things.
After some time, Mr. Lettered compiled his notes and wrote an article about squirrels and their habitat. Of course, he included everything he had observed in the forest: the unicorns, the merman’s family, the titmouses, the gnomes, the fairies, the games, and the grumpy badger, everything.
“Professor Lettered! Professor Lettered! What is this!?”
Mr. Lettered’s department head stood at his office door, waving a stack of papers, his findings about the squirrels.
I am Otto. Otto Locust. You won’t learn anything more about me. Except that I drink cocoa with Lucy Light Bulb on Saturday mornings.
We were just drinking cocoa and eating raspberry cake when George Fly from the eighth floor burst through the door.
“Terrifying,” he exclaimed, “and absolutely crazy!”
He was already running toward the elevator, I grabbed my brown bag, Lucy and I hurried after him.
“Lily told me,” George gasped in the elevator, “to knock a star from the sky for her.”
“Lily?!” I exclaimed. “Not Lily Starling?!”
George nodded shyly.
In our apartment building, there are certain rules for boys. If you pass Lily Starling, you stare at the wall. If you meet her on the street, you look at the ground. If she steps into the elevator, you take the stairs.
“Early this morning, when it was still dark, I got up,” said George. “I grabbed a beanpole from the nearby garden and went onto the terrace. I wanted to knock down a star, but the beanpole was too short.”
Lucy laughed.
“I tried throwing stones. It didn’t work!” George panted. “Then I got a brilliant idea. I took my dad’s fishing rod and went fly fishing. I cast my line into the sky, and suddenly, the hook caught on something. I looked, stared, and couldn’t believe it. It was a star! I pulled, it squeaked, and fell down onto the terrace.”
“You’re joking,” giggled Lucy, who knew everything about stars. But when we stepped onto the terrace, she gasped, “This can’t be real! You caught a star with a hook?!”
Star was quietly shimmering on the ground. The golden dust was trickling out from the tiny hole made by the hook.
I took a needle and thread from my bag and stitched up the hole in the star.
“Let it rest for a while, then it goes back to the sky.”
“Back to the sky?” George moaned.
should have sensed trouble back then. Lucy ran home for a pillow, while I dashed to the basement for a crate.
When we returned, the star was gone. George stammered, visibly confused.
“Lily Starling… she took it.”
“And you just let her?!” Lucy fumed. “Lily, of all people!”
“S-s-she asked me s-s-so nicely.”
I stopped Lucy—poor George Fly was love struck as an elephant.
“To Lily’s!” I shouted. “We’re not wasting any time!”
I knocked on the Starling’s family door on the first floor.
“Give us back the star,” George squeaked quietly.
“I will not return what was given to me,” Lily snapped.
“Lily,” I tried, “we’ll trade it for our most valuable possesions.”
Five minutes later, George brought his dinosaur excavation set, Lucy her gold medal from the astronomy olympiad, and I a treasure map I bought at the antique market.
Lily peeked through the door to see what we had brought.
“Not a chance!” she shouted.
“What if we show the star to the whole world?” I suggested.
“No!” Lily screamed.
“Think about it! TV, newspapers!”
“The king and queen would invite you to the palace,” Lucy added.
“The president would want a picture with you.”
“You would have the honor,” said Lucy, “to release the star back into the sky.”
“Ha! Ha!” Lily scoffed. “This will never happen!”
The last option was to call Mr. and Mrs. Starling. Would Lily even listen to them?
Lucy quickly tracked down their phone numbers.
“What did she do now?!” Lily’s mother fumed. “Did she steal from the store again? I’ll scold her, punish her!”
“Excuse me,” I quickly said, “this must be a mistake.”
Lucy and I looked at each other.
Otto took a deep breath and called Lily’s father.
“I don’t have time right now,” he said impatiently. “I’m at work testing a new dog food. Do you have a dog?”
“No,” said Otto
“No problem, the new dog food Yum-yum is so amazing, you can buy it for your mom, dad, or neighbor.” Then he hung up.
I was out of ideas. I looked at Lucy, who was grinning.
“Ah, that tiny weak star,” she said loudly. “I have millions of stars in my room, and they are much more beautiful.”
She walked up the stairs and gave us a hint to follow. At the third-floor, I looked back and saw Lily sneaking behind us. She was holding a large jar with the star inside.
George and I entered Lucy’s room and gasped. The ceiling really looked like a magnificent starry sky.
I heard a sigh. Lily Starling had crept in behind us and was staring at Lucy’s ceiling with her mouth open.
“I want a starry sky,” Lily demanded. “I must have it.”
“Let the star go,” Lucy smirked, “and it’s yours.”
“No!” George cried. “She’ll stash them like pickles! We’ll never see stars again!”
“Deal,” Lily grinned and released the star from the jar.
Lucy helped the star float back into the sky through the open window. Then she turned off the lamp, and the starry sky vanished.
“I’m giving you the starry sky,” she said and handed Lily the lamp.
Lily stared at it in disbelief.
“Masterful,” I winked at Lucy.
“Brilliant,” George gasped.
That evening, the three of us gathered on the terrace. The sky was clear, the stars were shining, and our star was among them.
I noticed the door quietly creak open. Lily Starling stepped onto the terrace, sat in a corner, and gazed at the stars.
I’m setting off on a journey again. Not to one of the countries I haven’t yet seen (so far, I’ve visited ninety-nine; this year, I’ll round the number to a hundred), but to London. Not by plane, nor by train, but by car. I invite you to join me. As we drive along the highways from Ljubljana to our destination, we can talk about many things.
But why London, and why by car, you might ask. Covering fifteen hundred kilometers in a single day will be exhausting.
The answer to this question may surprise you, but if you stay with me until the end, you’ll find much of value for yourself as well.
I’ve discovered that there is a light within me that shines too dimly and longs to illuminate all (or at least some) of what the mind cannot grasp, yet which the heart (despite advancing years or perhaps because of them) yearns for. I know that many are perfectly content with the reach of their light, however flickering it may be. Many don’t even realize that their experience of the world is not even at its best what it could be. Many live like wound-up clocks, ticking from day to day, undisturbed by it. They surrender to emotions (shallow or deep) and thoughts (wise or foolish) without questioning where they come from, how they arise, or where they lead. Many have succumbed to the tyranny of mediocrity and are content with it.
But there are people who are not. Among the masses drifting from one hardship to another, from dullness to yawns and back to dullness, there are individuals who refuse to spend their lives in the corner of unexamined and half-spoken truths. Instead, they strive to break through to greater light, to replace the oil lamp with the sun.
Because we are flooded on all sides by a sea of mediocrity, it seems that such people are few. They appear to be lonely seekers, spiritual Don Quixotes, too eccentric to be taken seriously. But that’s not true. More and more people long to rise from stupor to wakefulness, from passivity to action. In almost every person not bound to darkness and ruin, there resides a desire to shatter the confining walls of the everyday and settle in a broader space—to shed the burdens of delusions and breathe freely. I’m not speaking of neurotics or psychotics, of nervous or depressive individuals, but of people who are, by most measures, “normal,” socially responsible, educated (to some degree), and (more or less) mentally balanced—yet still unhappy.
Thirty-eight years ago, I published a book titled The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It met with surprisingly broad and deep reactions. Some it awakened from slumber, blowing away their illusions; others claimed it had changed their lives. I’m no longer young enough to attribute this phenomenon to myself. The power of the book lies not in the fact that I wrote it (who am I?) or that I wrote it well, but in the practical wisdom that found its way between the lines of the narrative. This wisdom is not something I invented (or could have invented); it springs from millennia-old insights, from the experiences of thousands of extraordinary people.
Now, however, I feel that the book has left me with a special debt. I raised too many questions and found too few answers. That’s why I’m setting off on this journey. It feels right to continue in the direction I’ve been carried—not just out of a sense of responsibility toward those whom The Apprentice has led to deep realizations and shifts in consciousness, but also out of a desire to stay on the path. Because now, it’s too late to leave it without jeopardizing my health and peace.
During the drive from Ljubljana to London, I’ll mostly be thinking (something that’s nearly unavoidable while driving on the highway). Thinking and searching for answers to questions about the conditions for a successful journey from birth to death. About the rules for living in one’s center, not on its periphery; for ensuring every response is proportionate to the challenge; for aligning oneself with the flow of events. Of course, there are more questions—many more—posed by others, by myself, and by time.
The answers lie somewhere beyond the mountains known as psychology, philosophy, science, and religion, beyond the cliffs (illuminated by the floodlights of rationalism) that block our access to the unknown plateaus behind them. Yet it is precisely there, on those plateaus, that we might find answers to the questions tormenting us. There are many questions and even more questioners, so the goal of this journey is to break through—by cunning if necessary—to distant lands beyond the mountains of obvious truths. Perhaps a treasure awaits us there that we’ve long sought (or at least, in the form of nameless spiritual anguish, sensed that it exists).
Since I don’t know what we’ll find beyond the cliffs of accessible truths, I can only assume one role for this expedition that will hold credibility: that of the expedition leader—especially since I already know some paths across the mountain range of obvious truths (a few, not many) and because I’ve glimpsed (if only briefly) those secret plateaus at least twice in my life. Anyone who trusts me enough, is curious enough (or is in such dire straits that they’d go anywhere with anyone) is welcome to join me on this drive to London.
Naturally, we’ll face all sorts of reproaches. The uninformed will say that our conversations on German and French highways deal with mysticism, magic, religion. Some will say there’s nothing to seek because everything is already clear. Others will say nothing but smirk condescendingly—as if to say, We know what you’re up to. The most pitiable minds will dismiss our search without delving into it, for that requires effort, and pitiable minds consider themselves too illustrious to need exertion.
It’s entirely possible we won’t reach the plateaus beyond the mountains of obvious truths. The sheer mass of established knowledge is daunting, and as we hack through the thickets of opinions, theories, and proofs about everything under the sun, we’ll often be tempted to stop, to settle in the lap of a pleasant dogma or a comfortable hypothesis. We’ll run out of will, courage, direction. But because we’re aware of these dangers, we’ll use them to our advantage. We won’t give up until we ascend to heights where breath grows short, where shadows are sharp as cutouts, and where our eyes are opened to the astonishingly simple truth about all we are and all we do.
At the start of the journey, we must gather ourselves, orient ourselves, determine what’s possible and what isn’t. We must clear away the cobwebs obscuring our vision, rake through the leaves of withered opinions and once decorative but now worn out half-truths with which we’ve furnished our spiritual spaces. The first question we’ll tackle on the highway to London may not excite experts in Indian philosophy, but for most of my fellow travelers it will pose a serious obstacle. One of them phrased it like this:
“I, too, am interested in non-European worldviews and the nature of things, but I can’t reconcile myself with the central tenet of Indian religion or philosophy—that everything is maya, or illusion. Does this mean the world doesn’t exist, that we’re merely imagining it? That there is no matter and everything is just a dream?”
Stay with me, dear fellow travelers. We’ll do our best to find an answer to this question as well.
Since you’ll likely take many photos during the drive through Alpine valleys, I’d like to share with you, dear fellow travelers, what Roland Barthes wrote about photography in his book Camera Lucida. In his view, photography is a violent thing. Not because it depicts violence, but because it violently fills the gaze each time and because nothing in it can be refused or reworked. The photograph says: This is how it is. It does not say: This is how it was—in fact, it even blocks memory in a peculiar way.
“One day,” Barthes writes, “I was talking with friends about childhood memories. They had more than enough of them, but I, who had just been looking at old photographs, had none.”
Do you agree with this? I don’t share Barthes’ perspective. To me, every photograph says This is how it was, especially those capturing moments from my past—including the ones I took myself. (This is how I saw things, this is how I captured them, this is how it was.)
And yet: although one of the photos I keep vividly reminds me of a school trip long ago, it refuses to tell me what interests me most. The photo informs me of what happened fifty years ago but lacks an explanation of why it happened. It lacks the story. It says: This is how it was, not: This is how it was because…
The photo doesn’t tell me why my classmate Joe (let’s say his name was Joe) and I disliked each other or why our initial conflict (over what?) escalated into a prolonged period of petty cruelty that nearly ended tragically at least once (when Jože pushed me into a lime pit in the schoolyard). Most of the time, it made life so bitter for both of us that we wanted nothing more than reconciliation—though each of us was convinced until the end that the other should apologize first.
Why did we project our anger at the world onto each other? A world that refused to stay within our grasp? Why was the other always “at fault,” doomed to suffer because one of us failed to prove clearly enough that he was better? The photo doesn’t hold the answer. Neither does memory. Perhaps this isn’t a flaw of memory or photography. Perhaps there is no answer.
The photo reminds me of a school trip where Joe played one of his nastiest tricks. The teacher entrusted me with the role of “official photographer.” A few other kids were snapping away with their Russian cameras, too—including Joe. The class huddled together, smiling before monuments, churches, and waterfalls. I took my task extremely seriously. I selected compositions so meticulously that I often made the teacher and some classmates laugh. I was most honored when classmates asked me to photograph them in friendly pairs or groups. To emphasize how challenging photography was, I put so much effort into framing each shot that the subjects grew impatient and yelled, “Just press the button!”
I realized that posing was almost as hard as photographing (and it’s impossible to say which is more creative), but I only registered this as a minor irritation. The irritation paled, however, beside the rage I felt at Joe’s attempts to sabotage my efforts. If he wasn’t making silly faces or covering someone’s eyes during group shots, he’d “accidentally” step in front of the camera just as the subjects yelled, “Press it!” Twice, I complained to the teacher, who scolded Joe. But he didn’t care.
Despite that, I was happy in the awareness that this was my first “official assignment.” That I wasn’t just playing around but doing something real. Of course, I did it with the stiff self-importance of someone unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight, unable to hide his blooming pride. That’s why I was even more shocked when, after returning home, I reached into my bag to take the exposed films to be developed—only to discover they had already been “developed.” Some unknown villain had pulled all eight rolls out of their protective casings and exposed them to light!
Ibis Grafika
Leni walked down the street. The treetops rustled, and the branches drooped so low that she could touch them with her hand. Fallen leaves swirled above her head in a whirlwind.
The girl raised her hands to catch them. Leaves whooshed just above her, like a fiery red dragon with golden wings, then flew away. Disappointed, she ran to the neighbouring garden.
“Donna,” she called out loudly and pushed open the garden gate. “I’m here.”
The old woman straightened up for a moment and smiled at her. She nodded gently and dragged her rake across the lawn. On the garden beneath the grand maple tree there was a huge pile of autumn leaves.
Leni stopped under the tree, puzzled. Something was different. Donna hadn’t invited her for tea as she usually did. She just kept raking. Slowly and quietly.
“Are you going to rake up all the leaves?” Leni asked in astonishment.
“All of them,” Donna repeated after her, like an echo.
“How?” the girl wondered. “Are these leaves yours?”
Donna paused for a moment and leaned on her rake.
“They’re mine,” she said at last.
“But only yours?” Leni pressed on, as if she didn’t quite believe her.
“Well, actually, they belong to the tree growing in my garden. So, in a way, they are mine,” Donna explained.
Leni was taken aback. “You have so many leaves with golden speckles, you know.”
Donna nodded with content and straightened up again. She inhaled and exhaled. Her eyes swept over the garden. It was bathing in warm autumn sunlight. The sun was already low in the sky.
“You’ve gathered a very big pile of leaves,” Leni said in awe, staring at the heap.
“Mhm,” Donna agreed. “Just a little more, and I’ll have raked up every last one.”
“So, you’re as rich as a queen?” Leni guessed, furrowing her brow as she paced behind Donna, back and forth, in sync with the rake.
“I am. “I rule the leaves with a royal rake, just like a queen for autumn’s sake,” Donna laughed, lost in thought over Leni’s question.
Spread 1
Since early morning, I felt NERVOUS.
My skin was itchy, my hair was messy, my voice was creaky, and rage oozed out of my pores.
Spread 2
“I need to get away from myself,” I whispered with a smirk.
Today, I will run away from myself.
Spread 3
A few weeks ago, I was reading an unpublished book of wisdoms great and small.
“No matter how far you run, you can never escape yourself,” it said, somewhere around the fifth chapter.
Spread 4
“That can’t be right.
You should be able to take a break from yourself.”
Spread 5
The morning started with an argument about getting out of bed.
When I put on skinny jeans, I convinced myself that the wide leg looked better.
Spread 6
At breakfast, which I barely settled on, I kept reminding myself I needed to study more.
NO
I
DON’T!
That’s the end of it.
Chapter One
I felt like a car running out of fuel.
That’s the first thing I thought when I woke up. I woke up under the sky. Slept under the sky.
Outside! In the rain. Under a tree. In the tree. In a hole. In a hedgehog’s house —or who knows whose house.
My last thoughts before falling asleep were how silly I was, what a fool I was, and what my parents would say, what my classmates would say, what everyone would say. Would they look for me? Would they find me? Would I find my way back? How would it all end? Would they even notice I was missing?
And again, that terribly strong thought: how stupid I was, and how they would all laugh at me.
It was as if I heard laughter in the distance—or the rustling of the leaves sounded similar— or maybe the leaves themselves were laughing at me? As soon as I peeked out from the hollow, I became a target for raindrops that had settled on the branches for a while and then, maybe seeing my messy head, decided to end their droplet lives, concluding that the ugliness here on Earth was too much compared to the sky’s blue beauty.
— Plop, plip, splat, splash! —
The last drops, already half-evaporated, fell on me in disgust, but unable to return upwards,
and after the final plop, the rain stopped. For a moment, I thought, “Fall more, keep falling,”
just so I wouldn’t feel alone, even if the drops didn’t exactly choose me— since I’m not a squirrel or hedgehog, nor an owl or bear or fox. Just an intruder. Maybe I took over someone’s home last night.
I remember thinking it would be best to go somewhere—anywhere—and not come back,
from shame. Then, soaking wet, I fell asleep like a log, curled up like a little ball. The storm calmed down, the rain thinned into a shy drizzle, and somehow I fell asleep again, though I’m not exactly sure how.
When I fully opened my eyes, I felt like a car that…
Well, I already said that, even though I’ve never actually been a car to know what that feels like. And yes, I felt hunger—a really bad kind of hunger. I’ve never been that hungry before.
All other feelings vanished. Sleep had probably cured my exhaustion, but hunger…
I thought of those survival shows where people eat grass and weird plants. I imagined myself on a lazy Sunday, sitting on the couch watching one of those people start a fire like a caveman, skewer a freshly caught fish on a stick, and roast it—While I, full from lunch,
was chewing on a third slice of Grandma’s apple pie. I kept shifting on the couch, and if laziness were measured, someone would probably conclude I was even lazier than Sunday itself. Those memories made my hunger worse. It felt like I hadn’t eaten in a hundred years.
My eyes landed on the tree bark of the tree that sheltered me last night. Not exactly polite to eat your host, especially one so hospitable—but the bark didn’t look tasty anyway.
I clenched my teeth.
[News at 17]
Meteorologist:
The storm that happened today is probably the strongest in the last hundred years in this region. Not even the oldest residents remember such winds and such destruction. Just look at what the storm did to century-old trees in the city park…
(headline on the right photo) The consequences of the raging storm in Zagreb
(headline on bottom photo) Zagreb: The wind tore off roofs and toppled trees. Zagreb looks unrecognizable after yesterday’s storm.
Long-time Resident:
I don’t remember anything like this. Neither does my wife Marica—and definitely not my mother-in-law. Look at this pine tree—My father planted it when I started school. And now it’s gone.
I was staring at a troll on top of the wardrobe that my mom stuck up there next to some moss. Yeah—she even put moss up there because a room, she says, “needs a bit of greenery.” But so this doesn’t become a story about my mom—who, honestly, cares more about that moss than about me—let me tell you what happened to me and why I keep replaying the same film in my head. One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll make that film—
because my biggest dream is to make a film like that. For myself. And for all the others who’ll recognize themselves in it. I love documentaries, but this film will be a fiction based on a true story. And I hope it feels just like the best documentaries, as it should since I will make myself the lead actor, director and writer. I just know there isn’t anyone who could portray my stupidity better than me, and I wouldn’t even have to act.
Chapter 1
How Not to Be Fake
I will begin this story, my dear reader, in a way quite unusual for this modern age. I will start it in a completely old-fashioned manner, entirely in the spirit of times long-gone and in the style of writers who often, at the very beginning of their novels, would directly address their reading audience just like this.
I thought long and hard about how to start the story I want to tell you. I wrestled with the idea of whether I should begin writing it in the present tense and first person, in the past tense and third person, in the present tense and third person, or in the past tense and first person. Complicated? Yes, it seemed that way to me too.
If I were to choose the first option, the first sentence of the novel would be: “I’m sitting in my best friend Luka’s room.” If I were to go with past tense and third person, that sentence would be a bit different: “Lovro was sitting in his best friend Luka’s room.” The third option would go like this: “Lovro is sitting in his best friend Luka’s room.” And the fourth one like this: “I was sitting in my best friend Luka’s room.”
Each of these four possibilities I was intensely considering has its own advantages, but also its downsides. If I started writing in the first person and present tense, you, my dear reader, would probably get the impression that the events are happening right now, in this very moment, before your eyes, as if you were watching a film. There would be a certain immediacy to it, and perhaps you’d even get the sense of a sincere confession.
However, that would really only perhaps be the case, because behind the sincere confession of fourteen-year-old Lovro, it would actually be me hiding; a middle-aged and somewhat old-fashioned author who likes to think she understands the problems of young people, guided by the experience of motherhood over two children who already went through the rollercoaster of teenage years quite some time ago. And there’s a trap hidden there—one I wouldn’t like to fall into.
“Lovro was sitting in his best friend Luka’s room.” That version of the first sentence would point to an omniscient narrator. So, the narrative voice would not only know the events but also the internal states of the main character. That style of narration, on the one hand, allows for various digressions from the main storyline, but on the other hand, it can lack immediacy, as the narrator remains at a certain distance.
It’s similar with the third option. The narrator knows everything about Lovro; this narrative voice, although present somewhere nearby, right next to him, right at this moment, still maintains a certain distance.
In the final option I considered, the main character would be recounting something that happened to him in the past, in a confessional tone. Behind that protagonist and his sincere confession, again, it would be middle-aged me.
In any case, whichever narrative mode I choose, I must stand behind my protagonist. I must give him the lines he will speak, I must delve into his thoughts and emotions, I must consider the motivations behind his actions, I must think like him, I must move into his mind. I must be him.
How can I do that without being fake?
Given that I’ve already written a few novels, you might quite logically, dear reader, wonder how I handled this problem before. And I’ll tell you quite honestly that there were doubts then as well—although smaller ones. Namely, in all three novels I’ve published so far, the main protagonists were girls. It was, after all, easier for me to move into their heads and into their lives, and I liked to believe that my writing didn’t come across as too fake.
You might quite logically think again, my dear reader, why don’t I just write another novel about girls, if I already believe it’s easier for me and I come across as less fake that way? And once more, I’ll be completely honest with you — the reason lies in a boy. You’re probably already guessing! Yes, I won’t draw it out — that boy’s name is Lovro. I’ll tell you how we met.
The spring morning sun was shining through the large window. The sunrays touched the long rows of wooden shelves. The spines of books in various colours, lit by the sunlight, drew attention like actors under spotlights. The letters were too small, and the prescription of my glasses wasn’t quite strong enough for me to make them out. My gaze wandered.
Seated on blue upholstered chairs arranged in a semicircle, in front of me were the children. I stood at the centre of that semicircle. Sixty pairs of teenage eyes, pupils from year seven and eight, were fixed on my face, eagerly awaiting an answer. The flow of words that had, until then, been pouring continuously from my mouth — and had flowed freely, just as it always did whenever I had the chance to present my novels and speak about my protagonists at literary events — was suddenly interrupted by a question.
To my great surprise, it was asked by a boy.
I had noticed him at the very start of the event. He sat in the third row on my left-hand side, a little apart from the others. He had placed his backpack beside his chair, and his gaze often rested on it. As if he were guarding something very precious inside. Or perhaps he was simply using it to avoid eye contact.
While the others laughed at my jokes, reacted to the excerpt I read aloud, and responded to my questions — as I once again tried to keep the session interactive — this boy, whose black curls fell across his forehead and part of his cheek, and whose eyes were framed by large glasses, was the only one who didn’t react. He appeared disinterested, as though he was just waiting for it all to be over.
During my talk, I kept glancing his way. I tried to make eye contact, but our gazes never met. His head was bowed, his eyes firmly fixed on his refuge. The only thing I could see were his thick black curls gleaming in the sunlight.
And then, quite unexpectedly, from the left side of the semicircle, behind large dark-rimmed glasses, emerged a gaze from a pair of big blue eyes—and immediately after, from the same direction, came the question:
“Why are girls always the protagonists in your novels?”
I was taken aback. For several reasons. The first was that, most often, at my literary events, questions were asked by girls. The second was that not only had the question been asked by a boy, but it was the very same boy who, until a moment ago, had completely ignored me. The third, and perhaps the biggest reason for my sudden confusion, lay in how the question was phrased. It sounded like it had come from an older person, someone familiar with the kind of terminology often used in reviews or literary criticism. Also, I shouldn’t forget the fourth reason that contributed to my utter bewilderment, which was so intense it actually made me momentarily speechless.
To tell you the truth, it also stemmed from my own uncertainty about the motive behind the question. Because of all this, I wasn’t quite sure if I should answer honestly and admit, in front of the entire audience, something I had been asking myself for a while now—something that had been quietly gnawing at me from the inside.
All eyes were on me, staring intently. There was complete silence in the library. It seemed to me like it had lasted too long, so I said:
“I understand girls better.”
After that sentence, the silence deepened. Everyone was expecting me to continue.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong… I’m a woman, so it’s easier for me to get into a girl’s head…”
I paused again. He waited a bit and then asked a question that sounded a little stern:
“So, you write about girls because it’s easier for you?”
“Well, you could say that… although, there are a lot of male characters in my books too…”
“But they’re secondary.”
“Well, not necessarily… all of my heroines’ best friends are boys…”
“But you don’t write from their perspective.”
“True. Actually, I’ve thought about how I’d like to write a book where a boy is the main character…only, I was afraid it might come off too fake…”
“What does ‘fake’ mean?”
“False. Don’t you guys say ‘fake’ for anything that sounds or looks false?”
“We do, of course. But what I meant was: what’s fake in literature, and what’s true?”
(…)
Pg 25
I’m not sure how many days had passed since that conversation Lovro had so abruptly ended, when suddenly, from somewhere at the bottom of my big black bag, my phone started ringing.
(…)
On the other end—it was Lovro.
“Good afternoon. It’s Lovro.”
“Yes, I saw. Good afternoon, Lovro.”
“Sorry, am I bothering you?”
“No, no, you’re not.”
“I hear some noise, so I wasn’t sure…”
“Oh, that’s just the traffic. I’m on the street, just coming back from the store.”
“Should I call back later then?”
“No, it’s fine. Go ahead, Lovro.”
“Well, I’m calling about that manuscript of mine.”
“Yes. Go on…”
“I was thinking… I don’t know if it would be okay with you, but I wanted to suggest something.”
“I’m listening.”
“You said you’d like to write a novel where the main character is a boy.”
“Yes, for a change of pace.”
“But that it’s a bit hard for you because you’re a woman.”
“Yes. And on top of that—a woman of a certain age, ha ha…”
“Right, well, um… what if you used my manuscript as a blueprint?”
“You mean take your story and turn it into a novel?”
“Exactly.”
“But that’s your story. Your novel.”
“The story is mine, but I could never publish the novel.”
“Why not? It would be a good one.”
“Even if it really turned out to be good—I wouldn’t want the publicity.”
“You could publish it under a pseudonym.”
“No, honestly, I just couldn’t.”
“I don’t know, Lovro… I’d have to think about it.”
“You said it was good.”
“Yes, it is. It really is. But I’d have to fully identify with you. I don’t know…”
“Well, think it over then—and let me know.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know.”
“Alright. Goodbye.”
“Lovro…”
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to say one more thing… your novel isn’t fake.”
“Okay.”
He ended the call before I had a chance to say goodbye. That evening, I picked up his manuscript again. And after reading it through a second time, I closed the yellow folder and sat in the armchair for a long while. It was morning by the time I turned off the tall standing lamp. I reached for my phone and typed out a message:
I’ve decided. I accept your proposal.
I sent it to Lovro, hoping he would see it when he woke up a few hours later.
But my phone quickly pinged back with a reply:
ok
And then I wrote to him again:
I’ve also decided I won’t worry about whether it turns out fake.
His reply came just as quickly:
ok
P2-3
Sky got a blue bear for his fifth birthday from his Aunt Đurđa.
The blue bear was gorgeous. It had a blue satin bow tie around its sky-blue neck. Its body was as soft and tender as a dandelion, and its little nose was so precious you just had to fall in love with it at first sight.
P4-5
Sky’s mother, Tuga, laughed because aunt Đurđa got the same bear for herself. She could not resist it, she said she just couldn’t help herself. Sky’s father said aunt Đurđa actted like a child, because who else as old as her would sleep with a stuffed animal. She admitted that the blue bear kept her safe at night and that’s why she kept it on her pillow.
The blue bear was wrapped in transparent cellophane. Sky put his little arms around it, and as he was going to unwrap it, his mother jumped up saying, ‘Stop, don’t! You should leave it as it is, don’t you see how delicate it is? It will be covered in dust before you know it.’
P6-7
Sky was sad, but he listened to his mother. He played with the wrapped bear like nothing happened. The only problem was, the cellophane made a lot of noise every time Sky touched it or hugged it. Shhh, Shhh…
Sky thought that maybe his father would be more successful in convincing Sky’s mother to let him unwrap the bear. However, neither Sky’s father nor aunt Đurđa said anything that could change his mother’s mind. Later came the celebration, and Sky’s mother brought out a cake from the kitchen. Sky blew out all of his five candles and before he went to sleep, he put the blue bear on a shelf above his bed.
P8-9
‘It’s better this way,’ Sky kept telling himself in his best effort of consolation. ‘My blue bear is from outer space and he has to wear a space suit because he can’t breathe the same air as us.’ Sky sighed sadly as he fell asleep.
Every morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, Sky poked his bear, but that awful cellophane would always met this with a loud shushhh shush shush. Beneath it, the bear stood distant, just like an alien.
P10-11
The closest that Sky ever came to unwrapping the bear was the time when he had the flu. Burning up and sniffly, he sneaked into the kitchen and got a toothpick. He wanted to at least pierce a hole in the clear cellophane.
‘Maybe the bear needs the air, maybe he is not an alien after all?’ Sky thought while he was sneaking back to his room, toothpick in hand. Just as he was going for the horrible barrier that stood between him and the softness of his bear, his mother entered the room with his medicine and a cup of warm tea.
In his attempt to pierce the cellophane, which was so abruptly interrupted by his mother, the blue bear leaned toward the edge of the shelf. ‘Look out, Sky, it will fall on your head’ mom said, and set the tea down with the medicine right beside it. She then straightened out the bear and left the room. Sky looked at the bear as he gripped his little hand tighter around the toothpick under his duvet.
P12-13
That night, Sky dreamt he was running in a field together with his blue bear. There was a moment when he could no longer tell the bear apart from the sky. He was hugging the bear and they were flying together. He was sure of that because a bird joined them, andit didn’t seem to consider it odd that a boy and his bear are flying with it. Actually, they flew together happily for a long time.
Sky could still feel the wind in his hair when he woke up. He glanced at his blue bear wrapped in cellophane. It didn’t look like it just flew with him. It looked exactly as it always did – like it never moved an inch.
P14-15
When Sky turned six, the whole family gathered in the living room for his party. All of Sky’s favourite toys were there too, stashed away in the drawer under the TV set. All except the blue bear. He decided to ask his Mother if he could finally unwrap the blue bear, thinking she would cave in because it was his birthday. Sky’s Mother then remembered that she, too, had a doll that she kept on a shelf and her mom and dad never let her play with it so that she wouldn’t break it.
Hmm… Sky wondered, how could the blue bear break? It could get dusty, just like mom said, but that’s all. Anyway, his Mother washes some of his toys in the washing machine and they come out as good as new. He always opened his toys, and he always played with them. Only the blue bear was different…
16-17
It was a Sunday, just as the family was getting ready to sit at the dinner table, when Sky’s uncle and aunt, together with their daughter Modrana, came to visit. It was a long time since they last visited. Modrana had just turned five and she was one of those girls who were interested in everything. Five minutes into the visit, before they even started slurping their soup, Modrana had already stuck her nose into every drawer in the living room. Aunt Lola had to try very hard to sit her at the table and keep her there until the end of the meal.
After the meal, the parents decided to have a coffee and they sent Sky and Modrana into Sky’s room to play. Modrana kept hopping around and knocked down the coat hanger on her way. Five coats, two jackets and three hats ended up on the floor. Lola was angry and threatened her, waving her pointer finger and saying she wouldn’t get a single piece of cake if she didn’t start to act politely.