Love and Other Catastrophes, Interview with Petar Denchev by Silviya Choleva
Petar Denchev is like Venus, born from the sea – except that he was spawned by literary competitions
The titles Petar Denchev chooses for his works are inversely proportional to his age. The story that earned this 22-year-old Varna man his first literary prize – in the Altera competition – was called “Malakof, I Want To Grow Old”. The title of the novel which won him last year’s Razvitie, or Development, contest for the best new Bulgarian novel, is even longer: Just Like a Man Kisses a Woman He Loves.
However, Denchev, who studies theatre directing at the National Academy for Theatre and Film Arts, is growing up. His titles are getting shorter. A new novel, which appeared last year following Ciela’s Novel Prize competition, is simply called… A Simple Story.
You call yourself an “author born from competitions”.
Competitions were a strong impetus that gave me the self confidence and the positive thrill of seeing how I was developing and what was going on around me. They brought me into the public eye – which isn’t something degenerate. Lately I’ve heard arguments that contests favour only certain names, that they are pretentious, almost as if the problems facing Bulgarian literature can be blamed on the number of competitions. In my opinion, the only real problem is the lack of people with clear positions and interesting creative thinking. I was a total unknown when I won my first competition. I’m satisfied that various people gave me the opportunity to develop and move forward. I thank them for it.
At age 15 you dreamed about writing a novel. By 20, you’d written it, won prizes and had it published. Where to now?
Have you tried writing in a foreign language?
I’ve tried writing poetry in English and essays in French, but I’ve never tried prose. I would like to write in another language – that’s a feeling I don’t want to miss.
Is it true that prose requires life experience?
Of course. But experience is useless without imagination, which is what actually sparks the story.
Your first novel has what may be the longest title in Bulgarian literature.
I hadn’t thought about that. Still, it’s easy to remember.
What inspired you to write an intimate story about a love triangle?
The dissatisfaction that built up after meeting so many emotionally scattered people, people who are chaotic and erratic in their desires. This makes them not true to themselves and pointless for everyone else. So I decided to write a story about people whose relationships were in crisis from the very beginning. I think such a crisis exists between most romantic – and non-romantic – couples today. It’s hard to admit that the crisis is there, because that’s tantamount to admitting you’re weak.
Do your characters have prototypes? Do you use autobiographical elements?
No. I don’t know anyone that well. The novel is fiction.
Do you plan on writing a play?
I haven’t even tried. The idea’s been in the back of my mind, however. It’s a pretty difficult task, because it requires serious writing skills, certain professional abilities – tricks of the trade.
Can literature have an effect in this era of total media dominance?
Of course it can. Literature has its place in the media. If it weren’t for literature, the media wouldn’t exist. Gutenberg wouldn’t have invented the printing press if it hadn’t been for books.
At age 15 you dreamed about writing a novel. By 20, you’d written it, won prizes and had it published. Where to now?
I keep moving ahead. I haven’t stopped writing. I have an idea for a new novel. I try to be a good student of the theatre. These things require patience. I don’t want to force them.
Where’s the best party?
On the seashore. I really love the Mediterranean, Varna in the summer and the Greek islands. Paris is also very Mediterranean, despite being so far away. Maybe the Seine makes up for it. I think cities without water are boring, devoid of charm.
Read MoreOut of the Limelight, Interview with Elena Alexieva by Silviya Choleva
Vanity is an unnecessary luxury for a writer in Bulgaria, says award-winning novelist Elena Alexieva
In spite of winning the 2006 Helicon Award for modern prose, Elena Alexieva is honest enough to admit that her dog is her biggest fan. “It doesn’t need to read my books to love me,” she says. The award for her short story collection, Reading Group 31, briefly placed her in the limelight. But Elena quickly and gladly withdrew from it because, according to her, the Bulgarian spotlight is too small. “It shines like a table lamp and is not worth the effort,” she says. Instead, her job as a simultaneous interpreter continues to keep her busy, travelling throughout Bulgaria. She also teaches at the New Bulgarian University when she’s in Sofia.
Elena has a degree in international economic relations from the University of National and World Economy and a PhD in semiotics from the New Bulgarian University, considerable achievements for someone so young. She is always extremely busy but somehow still finds time to write, having already published a novel, two books of poetry and two collections of short stories. The last collection, Who?, deals with the Bible’s lesser known characters.
What should writers be like today?
More ordinary than ever before. After all, their job is to write, not to show off.
The Helicon Award brought you many new readers. How does publicity work for a writer?
Publicity works well for writers, it makes it possible for their work to reach a wider audience. But commercial success in Bulgaria is so small that it can be discounted. If your goals are any other than creating literature and writing for the reader, you’d better give up.
Your texts are “convertible”, not nationally distinctive. Is this the future of literature?
For me, “convertible” literature is good literature. National distinctiveness does not necessarily imply quality. The exotic can sometimes boost sales, but that’s all.
The malady of Bulgarian literature is…
…that it wants to receive more than it gives.
There is irony in your writing and it sometimes increases to coldblooded cruelty. Where is the borderline? Do you find it amusing?
I find it both amusing and sad. But it’s just another way to have fun. Cruelty is one of life’s inevitabilities. This makes it commonplace and inconspicuous. But to reach it, to cast fresh light on it, you have to go through the funny and the ironic. They are two sides of the same coin.
Critics usually say that discontent is at the heart of any writing or any kind of art. What do you think of this?
Happiness and contentment are the main enemy of art. I can’t think of a contented person who’s done anything significant.
In your latest book Who? you are dealing with biblical stories. But religion isn’t in fashion now, is it?
I am not an advocate of religion or the Bible. What I’ve done is much more trivial: I’ve asked questions about man and his relations with the world. They have been the same since time immemorial. My “biblical” stories are both biblical and modern.
Do you find teaching frustrating?
No. I get on well with the students; I give them lots of freedom. I try to make them think, though not always successfully.
How do you relax? Haven’t you been tempted to quit your job as a simultaneous interpreter and translate books at home?
When I’m stressed out I listen to Rammstein or take my dog for a walk and look at passers-by. I like simultaneous interpreting; I find it interesting. I’d like to translate books too, but for the time being it’s a luxury I can’t afford.
Read MoreProfessional Hazards, Interview with Georgi Gospodinov by Silvia Choleva
Writer Georgi Gospodinov keeps imaginary bees and is a cigarette-loving non-smoker
While playing football with his fellow writers on one of his frequent trips around Europe to poetry festivals, workshops and meetings, writer Georgi Gospodinov broke his leg. The cast didn’t slow him down, however. Gospodinov limped through Vienna, Graz and Klagenfurt on crutches and won a writing stipend in Berlin, previously held by Mario Vargas Llosa, Mircea Cartarescu and Susan Sontag.
His most popular book, Natural Novel, is in its fifth Bulgarian printing and has been translated into French, English, Czech, Danish, Italian and German. Gospodinov is the author of three collections of poetry, a book of short stories And Other Stories, the play D.J., a research study called “Poetry and Media”, the anthology Ballads and Break Ups, a book of Christmas stories entitled O, Henry, and the bestsellers I Lived Socialism: 171 Personal Stories and the Inventory Book of Socialism (with Yana Genova).
When not breaking bones in Europe, Gospodinov is an editor at Literaturen vestnik, or Literary Newspaper, writes a weekly column for the daily Dnevnik, takes care of his one-year-old daughter Raya and fantasises about smoking.
Does Bulgarian literature stand a chance of becoming famous outside Bulgaria?
The very idea that there is an “out there”, that the world is accessible, huge and varied is already comforting. When Natural Novel and And Other Stories came out in foreign languages, I felt like part of me already lived in Berlin, London, Chicago, Vienna, Paris and Rome. Afterwards, when I went to premieres and readings in those cities, I felt relaxed, as if I had already been there.
When you travel you take a lot of photos, but rarely of the things tourists normally shoot.
There are many moments in life that I want to capture immediately – sudden situations, details, little things that quickly disappear. Writing is too slow to catch them. So I take pictures of those things instead of castles or monuments, because you can get them on postcards.
But photography isn’t my only “salvation”. I’m also interested in beekeeping, even though I don’t keep any beehives myself. I know what should be done during each season and I buy specialist newspapers like Pchela i kosher, or Bee and Hive – I’m taking care of some imaginary bees.
Until recently you were rarely seen without a cigarette.
Up until a year or two ago I was a passionate smoker. I had all kinds of cigarettes at home – for example, the lowest caste Indian cigarettes, made out of a tobacco leaf rolled up and tied with red thread in a paper package, and my favourite Indonesian clove cigarettes with a sweet filter. They burn quickly and the cloves crackle.
I’ve smoked cigars, pipes and hookahs, and I’ve rolled my own cigarettes. I made my first pipe, Tom Sawyer style: a classmate of mine and I hollowed out a corn cob. We stole a couple of handfuls of tobacco from the tobacco factory in Yambol, where we had gone ostensibly to write a report for the local newspaper. In any case, the report never came out.
What do you cook at home?
Stewed meat with lots of spices. I like to use herbs, especially basil. I also love fish. Fish markets in northern countries are an amazing sight: everything is pink with salmon, like Red Square. In Finland, before I broke my leg I ate salmon. They say that it helps your bones, but it isn’t true. I had gorged myself on the stuff and still broke my leg anyway.
What happens when you get “restless”?
It’s always possible to just turn your back and leave, go somewhere else, at least for a little while. I would head south towards the Mediterranean or to my favourite Portugal, which reminds me of Bulgaria in its melancholy. I’ll definitely write something about that, about the different ways to be sad. Bulgarian melancholy is quite visceral, sticky and deep. I think Mediterranean cultures have more insight into melancholy, they shed more light.
Read MoreThe Black Box – Interview with Alek Popov by Sebastian Fasthuber
In his latest novel The Black Box, Alek Popov mixes dogs, memories, corporate life in Manhattan and his father’s ashes
A yuppie pukes up $500 worth of truffles and Bordeaux into a New York City gutter while his brother walks pinschers in Central Park. They are both Bulgarian and their father – or at least his remains – is packed away in a black box. Such a scene can only be straight out of an Alek Popov novel. Born in 1966, he is one of those rare Bulgarian writers who can describe the life of his compatriots abroad without tumbling from the lifeline of self-irony into the abyss of misguided patriotism. For that reason in 2001 his novel Misiya: London, or Mission: London, was a hit, selling out several editions and appearing in French, German, Hungarian, Serbian, Macedonian, Polish and Italian. His second novel Chernata kutiya, or The Black Box, is no exception. The story of two Bulgarian brothers who try to cope with memories of their late father and life in the United States won the Elias Canetti prize for literature and will soon debut in German. While not exactly a case of art imitating life, the novel is nevertheless rooted in Popov’s own past.
What inspired this story and these particular characters?
I lost my father suddenly when he was teaching maths at the University of Philadelphia. We got his ashes in a black plastic box… It is a very painful matter that I wanted to treat in a fictional way. There are many other elements of the story rooted in reality: for instance, my brother lives and works in New York as a consultant just like the protagonist, Ned, so he provided me with loads of tips and details concerning corporate life.
Did your personal experience of loss help or hinder the writing process?
The hardest thing was to emancipate myself from the true story. I had it in my mind for many years, but it took on a clearer form during my last stay in New York in 2002. I was walking around near Ground Zero, passing by the fences still covered with photos of missing people. A strange feeling overcame me. What would happen if I were to see a picture of my late father there? I started to speculate about how he could reinvent himself, concealing his disappearance, setting up a new career, getting married, having other kids. Later on, however, I decided not to use any references to 11 September.
You address very serious issues in a very funny book. How do you strike a balance between the comic and the serious?
In my opinion, fun always counts. If you want to make readers think, you should not leave them half asleep. There is one thing I am always looking for when I pick a theme out of the global stockpile of problems – an issue’s potential to produce paradoxes. Humour is a bit like poetry: you need intuition and inspiration, the craft hardly matters. You can’t say, “I’m going to sit down now and write something very funny”. It just happens. Irony is a very special talent.
It often seems as if the absent father is the true protagonist of the book.
The missing father creates a kind of magnetic field which the brothers are caught up in. They struggle both to find him and to free themselves from him. This is a story of internal growth – a process that always forces you to confront the paternal figure. It also reflects the situation in Bulgaria after the fall of paternalistic Communism. The ghost of the omnipresent state still influences many people.
You have been living in Detroit for some time. How did you end up there?
I stayed in Detroit at my brother’s place. It was the first time I had left Bulgaria for a longer period after the Democratic Changes. Actually I had been in the United States before with my parents, in the South, but it couldn’t match Detroit. Then I was in the United States again for several months – this time in New York.
Does Bulgarian literature get the buzz, readers and rewards it deserves?
I think there is no general rule in art that applies to the whole sphere. It is a tough business, in any case. Art by its nature is a highly competitive field. The rewards are scarce and very unequally distributed. But there has always been something far mightier than worldly vanity that urges you to work.
Where does Bulgaria fit into world literature?
Some authors writing in Bulgarian are doing quite well and this is admirable given the fact they have to overcome much greater barriers than their colleagues writing in some of the bigger languages. Sometimes obstacles can be immensely creative. Still, I am trying not to think about literature in terms of nationality. Today’s writing relies more on
shared cultural codes and images.
Well Read Poets Society, Interview with Nadya Radulova by Ani Ivanova
Don’t wait to be discovered by the outside world. Interact with it instead, says young Bulgarian author and poet Nadya Radulova
Nadya Radulova is a writer who refuses to indulge in the normal complaints of Bulgarian artists. She even inverts traditional grievances, claiming that hardship and a peripheral existence lead to better work.
VAGABOND spoke to Nadya as she was about to leave for London to attend the premiere of A Balkan Exchange, an anthology in which four British poets – Andy Croft, Mark Robinson, Linda France and W. N. Herbert – collaborated with and translated the works of four rising Bulgarian poets – Kristin Dimitrova, Georgi Gospodinov, Vasil Vidinski and Nadya herself. The cross-fertilisation proved fruitful, inspiring both groups to produce new material.
Nadya’s involvement in the aforementioned cross-cultural project resulted in another invitation. She and fellow Bulgarian author Georgi Gospodinov were asked by New Writing North, a creative development agency in the northeast of England, to contribute to So, What Kept You?: New Stories Inspired by Anton Chekhov and Raymond Carver. The two feature alongside 12 contemporary writers from the UK, the United States and Eastern Europe. VAGABOND publishes Nadya’s work – inspired by a quote from Carver, on the following pages.
Nadya has degrees in Bulgarian and English philology from Sofia University, a degree in Gender Studies from a joint programme of Budapest’s Central European University and London’s Open University, as well as a PhD in literary modernism. She received the Emerging Author National Literature Award in 2001, has published three books of poems and is a prominent contributor to literary magazines and newspapers. She works as a translator and editor with the altera monthly, travels extensively and yet still finds time for her own artistic endeavours. “I simply like working with language, regardless of its manifestation,” she says unhesitatingly.
You are active in quite a few fields. Which one do you use to describe yourself?
I tend to say I’m an editor and translator because this is what occupies most of my time. When my books of poetry and short stories are published next year, I’ll probably identify myself more with the writer’s role. As for my academic pursuits, I’ve now paused for a while.
You have worked extensively with British writers. Do the differences between you outweigh the similarities?
We may have a different background and language but we also have much that unites us. So we establish a rapport quickly – there’s no process of adaptation. There’s one great difference, probably due to an inner feeling of freedom that we lack, they are more specific, idiosyncratic and singular than Bulgarians. They also engage in a smaller number of activities in their everyday lives. Another very obvious distinction is that it’s easier for them to make a living from writing whereas we don’t.
Which contemporary British authors do you think should be translated into Bulgarian?
Many works have not been translated. Poets Philip Larkin, Carol Ann Duffy, Billy Collins, many of Ian McEwan’s good novels, or a book I read recently, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.
Is contemporary Bulgarian writing comprehensible to foreigners?
I think so, but there are few authors who could become successful exports right now. Your question implies that we expect people from the “outside” world to discover us, as if we live on an unknown planet. I believe we should interact with the outside world instead.
They say art and writing that hails from a small country is peripheral. How do you react to this?
Writing is getting more peripheral everywhere. I see nothing wrong with the periphery; it’s a productive place and has triggered many significant developments in the centre. Regardless of its origins, good literature produces this essential effect everywhere. Blaming cultural policies is a waste of time and energy. An underprivileged background is better for a writer. But to answer your question – there are small countries that produce outstanding literature.
Clichés about Bulgaria abound – roses, wine, Stoitchkov, babies for sale, sex tourism. Who’s to blame?
Those minds who find clichés comfortable and secure.
How would you describe modern Bulgaria?
Not an easy place. To quote a poem from one of my favourite musicians and songwriters Joni Mitchell – “choose her a name she’ll answer to… “. A changeling, a trickster. It plays pranks and it’s full of surprises!
You are an unabashed admirer of Britain. What is your British top three?
I liked the two cities I spent some time in very much, London and Newcastle, although they’re very different. It’s impossible not to like London; while Newcastle lets you imagine it. Most of all, I like the people – idiosyncratic, yet open and adventurous. To me Britain has a strong air of adventurousness and challenge. Also, I like the feeling I get whenever I visit: you may be onan island, but it takes you all over the world.
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