i found this story in green youth. bobby kunju had posted it there.
noble truths of suffering
started reading thinking it is a real meeting, and thinking that it was a real author being discussed. aren't most male authors exactly like that? ;)
spellbound by the use of language. unusual, rich, funny, sad, disturbed.
and the theme captures so much of the present.
CNN. Iraq. human bodies. disillusioned Bosnian author recovering from a breakdown, entertaining a yucky American writer in his small, post-war home. and so many other things...
but i did not like the end.
i don't want to hear the story of Iraq from the side of the american soldier. even in the context of shocked and guilt-ravaged suicide. NO.
and i wonder, is Aleksandar Hemon trying to recover for us the dream of literature here? from the garbage bin of this world, reeking with the smell of contemporary shit and blood?
and should we accept it ?
and if not? how to write? when all you can do is that?