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Articles tagged "Slovenian Literature"

Evald Flisar’s “My Father’s Dreams”

Evald Flisar is Slovenia’s best-selling and versatile author of literary fiction, plays, travelogues, and children’s books. He has been awarded the most prestigious Slovenian literary awards, including the Prešeren Foundation Prize, the highest state award for prose and drama, and the Župančič Award for Lifetime Achievement. His novel On the Gold Coast, translated from the Slovene by Timothy Pagacar, was shortlisted for the Kresnik Award, the Slovenian...

The Ghosts are Schrödinger Cats

It was one of those evenings when the world was coming off its hinges, and once again, who knows why, someone decided to be unwise enough to care for it so that it wouldn’t. I stood in the armory next to small, deeply embedded Gothic windows and, looking through the lead, mullioned glass (which looked like it was made from the bottoms of bottles), tried to see what was happening outside the castle doors. As a waterfall thundered down over the gables, bringing with it pieces of slate...

Largo di Vitoria

Out of milk, out of strong skin jumps the big brother. When the river flows, the berth sleeps. There’s the block behind me.   The biggest mango tree in Bahia is a hundred meters away. Spike Lee said this.   Where do you rove beneath drying hood? Young greenhorns move by themselves. The tribe sleeps on the bench.   Black leg between two seagulls is dressed in blue slipper. No one smells itself better then little hills.   The lady with crutches...

Movements

1 You went to heaven, Sir, forgetting your legs. Should we bury them?   My legs are rose-pink and they’re no good for a wafer.     2 Wanderer, the moon has its own saying.    I would pour over your face with a bucket so the water would flow onto your clothes.     3 Biscuits stick together differently than peanuts. He started to nibble my girlfriend.     4 I remember the clear day and the glimmering of frozen gutters....

From the Figure 6 Into Ships

You destroyed all letters. You burned the heavenly garden.  Lot's wife, Ahmed, tiny little mouth.   Das ist Mercedes Benz. Jetzt ist zu spät.  Did Glinka shake from his sleeve                                Glinka, limping?   Furore is a feeble little brother, says Ashka.   A carnal king...

From “You Do Understand?”

A Day I Loved You I lay there with my eyes closed, waiting for my husband to vacate his half of the bed. To go to work, of course. He’ll get a sandwich on the corner. He’ll have a coffee during his first meeting. Then he’ll call home. To make sure that I’m still here, and haven’t run away. I’m not going to. I’m going to open that box of old snapshots again. There were no hard drives back in those days. I’ll go through it all photo by...

“Walking”

All along our Wooden Cross garden the peonies were dying. . . The sun was dying on them, too, filling the orchard and the village road with the scent of warm apricots and squashed petal leaves way down to the cellar. I didn't stop walking, no thought would pin me down, nothing I saw would make me turn around and look again, my head was full of rabbits. I passed by my grandmother, arranging the flowers of the Cross before evening, I skipped the tufts of wild chamomile and...

Under the Surface

"Are you sure you aren't coming swimming with me?" he asked me while he was entering the cold water on the lakeside gravel. "You know I'm not . . . I don't like swimming," I replied, just as I do every time he asks me; as if he had forgotten, or else he does it because he doesn't want to remember. You will never know the real reason. I will never tell you. For us to spend the third summer, our summer together, by ourselves, without anyone interrupting us, there had to be a...

Cons: Cat

A cat jumped through the window. Jumped right on to the piano. And played on it, amazed: Whenever I jump, the piano sings. I was in the next room and I thought a spirit played. But then it was struck and the cat jumped through the window. When a new poet comes, the piano everywhere responds. But no one bothers him as they did the cat. All the world is enthralled: This man is mad. Or he is a poet. And everyone listens to his steps, that sing as if above a piano.

from “The Fourth Take”

As he was hastily and wearily glancing through the window at Gare du Nord, Michel felt as if he recalled Christophe's face at least twice a minute. Christophe's face was big and long, slow and thoughtful; but above all it was pale, pale as if Brussels had suddenly leaned inside through the window and spread all the fog from its bosom along his features. They were sitting in Christophe's flat somewhere in the vicinity of the Southern railway station. Christophe's mouth was...

from “A Boy and Death”

Father was lying on the table dressed in his usual dark blue suit. He was uncovered, lying on a sheet, and standing at his feet was a vessel of holy water with an olive twig stuck in it. In his clasped hands he held the silvery black crucifix Anna had lent us, which from a distance flashed like a small, dangerous sign. Who had turned him out like a dead man? I pulled off my cold gloves, put away my scarf, and sat down in his chair, which had been pushed out of place. He lay there even...

The Promise

I don't look over my shoulder, no idea where I'm going and not an ounce of fear, falling like fluff from an eiderdown quilt and piercing the afternoon air, real as an hour of solitude or the fragrance of a certain herb: my wounds are healed over and all five senses in sync, harmonized to the birds and the sky, the grimy wall of an underpass with graffiti scratched in a child's hand, announcing I was here. But not only here, my lord, as you know, I go where you want...

Unanswered Plea

I learn things by myself, which is why it takes so long. I'm asking you to be patient. That's not asking much. I learn by myself, learn to cross the village, it's not every day I recognize you in the timberwork of the roof, the builders' sweat alight in the air even now. The river is sluggish here, the lake is asleep, one's step less heavy, but I'm no longer convinced I've read it right: instructions for painting a woodpecker's wings in red and...
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