Nowhere Man

( 3 )

Overview

A native of Sarajevo, where he spends his adolescence trying to become Bosnia’s answer to John Lennon, Jozef Pronek comes to the United States in 1992—just in time to watch war break out in his country, but too early to be a genuine refugee. Indeed, Jozef’s typical answer to inquiries about his origins and ethnicity is, “I am complicated.”

And so he proves to be—not just to himself, but to the revolving series of shadowy but insightful narrators who chart his progress from ...

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Overview

A native of Sarajevo, where he spends his adolescence trying to become Bosnia’s answer to John Lennon, Jozef Pronek comes to the United States in 1992—just in time to watch war break out in his country, but too early to be a genuine refugee. Indeed, Jozef’s typical answer to inquiries about his origins and ethnicity is, “I am complicated.”

And so he proves to be—not just to himself, but to the revolving series of shadowy but insightful narrators who chart his progress from Sarajevo to Chicago; from a hilarious encounter with the first President Bush to a somewhat more grave one with a heavily armed Serb whom he has been hired to serve with court papers. Moving, disquieting, and exhilarating in its virtuosity, Nowhere Man is the kaleidoscopic portrait of a magnetic young man stranded in America by the war in Bosnia.

Nominated for the 2002 National Book Critics Circle Award, Fiction.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"One of literature's most engaging lost young men since Augie March. . . . Hemon can't write a boring sentence, and the English language . . . is the richer for it." —The New York Times Book Review

"A charmingly discombobulated take on life and language. . . . Hemon makes ordinary occurrences read like psychic disturbances." —The Village Voice

“A virtuoso linguist, stylist and social observer . . . Hemon delivers a searing, mordantly funny novel. . . . The angst-ridden, horny, adolescent Balkan he depicts is deeply human, totally irresistible and often hilarious, and by turns culturally specific and universal.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“Hemon’s fractured story will haunt you long after you want it to, as you slowly realize that just because the last sentence ended with a period, all that was said before continues.” –Chicago Sun-Times

Kevin Greenberg
Hemon's follow-up to his well-received debut, The Question of Bruno, follows Jozef Pronek, a young Sarajevan residing in the United States, and moves back and forth through time, memory, history and across continents. Perhaps the most pronounced and astonishing trait of the novel is the author's unflinching and impartial eye for detail. Early on, Hemon introduces the notion that to linger on the landmark moments of a person's life is to present only a small part of the greater narrative. Thus, seemingly inconsequential observations are vividly rendered, making the gritty world of Hemon's book that much more real, inescapable and hilarious. What emerges is a work of both fastidious depth and epic scope, spliced together from an assortment of perspectives. By turns warmly funny and incisively bitter, it showcases Hemon's cagey, defiant optimism in the face of a "woeful world."
Publishers Weekly
Jozef Pronek, the quirky Sarajevan who captured the imagination of readers in Hemon's acclaimed story collection (The Question of Bruno), gets full-length treatment in this acutely self-aware and tender first novel. Hemon plunges into the inner world of the observant Pronek, making ordinary events seem extraordinary through the sheer power of his detailed descriptions as his protagonist navigates the war-torn land that was once Marshal Tito's Yugoslavia and the wilds of Chicago in the 1990s. Death is a constant companion for Pronek, as is a mysterious man who shadows him wherever he goes, and their lockstep journey is at the heart of a book that wanders back and forth through time and space. Hemon is stingingly accurate in his portrayal of the small, pivotal moments of youth: Pronek resorting to sliced onions to make himself cry at his grandmother's funeral, his first bungling effort at sex, his noisy rock band and his humiliating stint as a soldier. When Pronek goes to Kiev to visit his grandfather, Hemon effectively spells out his need to make sense of his life and his frustrated nationalism, his love for a country that seems to no longer love itself. The weight of such reflections are counterbalanced by zany scenes like Pronek's encounter with President G.H.W. Bush at a ceremony on the site of the Babi Yar massacre. As a "nowhere man," Pronek travels to Chicago, where he is out of step with the alienated youth culture, a person with a dubious identity and past that is not fully explained until the final chapter. Pronek's constantly reconfiguring life makes the novel a wild, twisty read, and Hemon's inimitable voice and the wry urgency of his storytelling should cement his reputation as a talented young writer. (Sept.) Forecast: As a novel, and a novel featuring the already celebrated Jozef, Nowhere Man should build on the success of The Question of Bruno and easily surpass it in sales. Author tour. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
The Bosnian-born Hemon made a startling debut with The Question of Bruno, a collection of stories written just a few years after he came to this country. Here he expands on the central novella, "Blind Jozef Pronek and Dead Souls," taking hapless Jozef on a tour from Sarajevo to the Soviet Union to Chicago. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
An unusual structure, along with a striking pictorial and metaphoric imagination, offers distinctive literary pleasures in this genuinely original first novel by the Bosnian-American author (stories: The Question of Bruno, 2000). In the terrific opening chapter, the unidentified narrator recognizes the title character as Jozef Pronek (also the protagonist of a novella in Bruno), while the latter (a countryman) is interviewing for a job as an ESL teacher in Chicago. Thereafter, sequences presented from various points of view tell the story of Jozef's upbringing in Sarajevo: his infancy and "toddlerhood," gradually more successful sexual fantasies and fumblings, participation in a Beatles-inspired rock band, his "poetry-writing-period" and adult education. Hemon keeps deftly shifting the ground beneath the reader's feet. When Jozef goes to study "general literature" in Kiev (prior to and during the breakup of the Soviet Union), his scholarly Russian-American roommate gradually confesses to himself (and us) his love for the exuberantly extroverted Jozef. A letter from a former band- and soul-mate who remains in Sarajevo during the violent 1990s follows, as do more elaborate accounts of Jozef's work as a lab technician, then a canvasser for Greenpeace, and his marriage to a woman whose love for him (and his for her) cannot vanquish the loneliness and paranoia that will make Jozef forever (as the Beatles put it) "a nowhere man." This vivid tragicomedy of alienation and assimilation is further enlivened by the freshness of Hemon's figurative language-notably his habit of scribing human qualities to nonhuman or inanimate objects ("buses . . . sucking in passengers through the front doors"; a"camera clicking . . . like a hiccupping clock"). Think of the gifted Hemon as a kinder and gentler-and infinitely funnier-Jerzy Kosinski. A wry, touching chronicle of the misadventures of a stranger in several strange lands. Don't miss it.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780375727023
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 1/6/2004
  • Series: Vintage International Series
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 947,559
  • Product dimensions: 5.17 (w) x 7.98 (h) x 0.53 (d)

Meet the Author

Aleksandar Hemon
Aleksandar Hemon is the author of The Question of Bruno, which appeared on Best Books of 2000 lists nationwide, won several literary awards, and was published in eighteen countries. Born in Sarajevo, Hemon arrived in Chicago in 1992, began writing in English in 1995, and now his work appears regularly in The New Yorker, Esquire, Granta, Paris Review, and Best American Short Stories.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Read an Excerpt

1

Passover

CHICAGO, APRIL 18, 1994

Had I been dreaming, I would have dreamt of being someone else, with a little creature burrowed in my body, clawing at the walls inside my chest--a recurring nightmare. But I was awake, listening to the mizzle in my pillow, to the furniture furtively sagging, to the house creaking under the wind assaults. I straightened my legs, so the blanket ebbed and my right foot rose out of the sludge of darkness like a squat, extinguished lighthouse. The blinds gibbered for a moment, commenting on my performance, then settled in silence.

I closed the bathroom door and the hooked towels trembled. There was the pungent smell of the plastic shower curtain and disintegrating soap. The toilet bowl was agape, with a dissolving piece of toilet paper in it throbbing like a jellyfish. The faucet was sternly counting off droplets. I took off my underwear and let it lie in a pile, then stepped behind the curtain and let the water run. Wee rainbows locked in bubbles streamed into the inevitable, giddy whirl, as I fantasized about melting under the shower and disappearing into the drain.

I went down the stairs, carrying a mound of dirty laundry, careful not to trip over the inquisitive cat. I put the laundry on top of the washing machine, which shuddered as though delighted, and pulled the rope pending in the darkness--cobwebs sprung into the air around the bulb. I had to wait for the spin to throttle to a stop before I could put my laundry in the machine, so I followed the cat into the other room. There were boxes full of things that must have been left by the tenants--who might they have been?--who used to live in one of the apartments: wallpaper scrolls, a broken-boned umbrella, a soulless football, a bundle of shoes with crescent soles, a pictureless frame, skeins of anonymous dust. Back in the laundry room, I transferred the sodden clothes of the upstairs people to the dryer, then loaded the washing machine. In the other room, the cat was galloping around and producing noises of struggle, pursuing something I could not see.

Today was the interview day. I had called--years ago, it seemed now--and set up an interview for an ESL teaching job, strictly out of despair. I had been laid off from the Art Institute bookstore once the merry Christmas season, including the mad aftermath of the Big Sale, was over. My job there had been to unpack boxes of books, shelve the books, and then smash the boxes and throw them away. Smashing the boxes was my favorite part, the controlled, benign destruction.

Two white eggs roiled in the boiling water, like iris-less eyes. The floor was sticky, so I had to unpeel my bare soles from the floor with every step--I thought of the movies in which people walk on the ceiling, upside down. A cockroach was scuttling across the cutting board, trying to reach the safety behind the stove. I imagined the greasy warmth, the vales of dirt, the wires winding like roads. I imagined getting there, still clutching a crumb of skin, after almost being cut in half by something immense coming down on me.

I had tried other bookstores, but they didn't want me. I had tried getting a job as a waiter, elaborately lying about my previous waiting experience in the best Sarajevo restaurants, high European class all, and nonexistent on top of that. I had spent my measly savings and was in the furniture-selling phase. I sold, for the total of seventy-four dollars, a decaying futon with a rich cat-barf pattern; a hobbly table with four chairs, inexplicably scarred, as if they had walked through fields of barbed wire. I was late with my rent, and had already looked up the word eviction in the dictionary, hoping that the secondary, obsolete meaning ("The action of conquering a country or of obtaining something by conquest") would override my landlord's primary meaning and save my ass.

The frighteningly simple thing was that when I was inside nobody was on the porch: the green plastic chairs convened around nothing; the swing still quaked under invisible weight; the empty flowerpots faced out, like Easter Island heads. A fly buzzed against the windowpane, as though trying to cut through it with a minikin saw. In the house across the street, a bare-chested man, skinny like a camp inmate--his shoulder-bones protruding, his trunk striped with rib shadows--was coming in and out of his house feverishly, only to disappear into it in the end. I was about to lock the door when I saw the cat gnawing on a mouse's head, patiently exposing its crimson essence.

And it hadn't been just the money. When I couldn't smash the boxes, I had obsessively read the papers and watched TV (until I sold it) to see what was happening back home. What was happening was death. I had looked up that word too: "The act or fact of dying; the end of life; the final and irreversible cessation of the vital function of a plant or an animal."

The air was oily and warm, and I stood on the street inhaling. There had been a time when that scent marked the beginning of marble season: the ground would soon be soft and you didn't have to wear gloves; you could keep your hands in your pockets--waiting for your turn, revolving marbles with the tips of your fingers--until a red line appeared across your palm, marking the border between the part of your palm that was inside and the one that was outside. You would kneel and indent the soil with your knees, imprinting smudges on your trousers, progressing toward an inexorable punishment from your parents. I had a couple of marbles in my pockets, plus an El transfer card, creased and fragile.

A woman with spring freckles, towed by a giant Akita, smiled at me for no apparent reason, and I stepped off the pavement--confused by the smile, scared by the Akita--onto the ground. I let the woman pass, and then walked slowly, as if walking through deep water, because I didn't want her to think that I was following her. The Akita was sniffing everything, frantically collecting information. The woman turned around and looked at me again. The sun was behind my back, so she squinted, wrinkling the ridge of her nose. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but the Akita pulled her away, almost ripping her arm off. I was relieved. I preferred being a vague, pleasant memory to having to explain who I was or telling her that I had no job, and when I had one I was smashing boxes.

A teenager in a window-throbbing car drove by, pointing his finger at me, shooting. I crossed the street to look at a sheet of paper pinned to a tree in front of a building exuding dampness. The sign read in red letters:

lost dog

I lost masculine dog, this coctail spaniel and his name lucky boy. he has long, long ears and curve hair gold brown color with short tail also he is very friendly, little crazy. if anyone found my dog please please contract maria.

maria

Outside the El station, a man with a black bowler hat was rattling his tambourine, out of any recognizable rhythm, singing a song about the spirit in the sky in a flat, disenchanted voice. The man smiled at me, showing dark gaps between his teeth. When I was a boy, spitting between your teeth was considered a great skill, because you could achieve precision, like those snakes in Survival spurting poison at terrified field mice, but my teeth were too close together, and I could never do it--after every attempt there would be some spit dripping off my chin.

The station smelled of urine and petroleum. A dreadlocked woman in a yellow vest rummaged through a closet with metal doors under the stairs, then took out a shovel and looked at it with surprise--she semed to have expected something else. I ascended with the escalator onto the platform, and waited there to see the train lights. The wind was rolling an empty can toward the edge--the can would stop, trying to resist the push, then roll again, until it finally fell over the edge. A mouse scurried between the rails. I expected it to be electrocuted on the third rail: a few sparks, a shrill squeal, a stiff, dun mouse, still surprised by the suddenness of the end.

"All we ask for," said a young man, with his hands folded over his crotch, "is to give your life to Jesus Christ and follow him to the Kingdom of God." His companion, wide-shouldered, bearded, walked through the train car offering everyone a brown bag of peanuts and salvation. An old lady with a plastic wrap on her bloated gray hair grinned abruptly, as if a shot of pain went through her body at that very instant. A wizened old man, wearing a grimace of perplexed horror, and a sallow straw fedora, looked up at the peanut man. A young woman in front of me--a pointed tongue of hair touched her collar, and she smelled like cinnamon and milk--was reading the paper. defenses collapse in gorazde, a headline read. I had been in Gorayzde only once, only because I had vomited in the car, on our way somewhere, and my parents stopped in Gorayzde to clean the mess up. All I remembered was being thirsty and shivering on the front seat, as my father retched in the back seat, wiping it with a cloth; and then my father leaving my cloth- wrapped vomit by the road, and hungry, desperate little animals crawling out of the bushes to devour it. The woman gave a neatly creased dollar to the peanut man, took a bag from him and ripped it open, and then started crunching the nuts. I said: "No, thank you." Granville, Loyola, Morse. The woman flipped the page, a few nutshells pitter-pattered on it. sunny skies warm most of nation. We all disembarked from the train at Howard, leaving behind throngs of peanut shells, and a drunk in a Cubs hat, slumped in the dark corner.

There was something exhilarating and unsettling about going in the same direction with a mass of people. We gathered at the top of the escalator and then all descended; we went through sundry revolving bars, which patted us on the back, as if we had just come back from a dangerous mission. In the urine-scented shade of the station, buses were lined up in perfect perspective, sucking in passengers through the front doors. A weather-beaten sign on a Coke machine read no working; a torn poster on the wall behind it announced the yesteryear arrival of a circus with a half grin of a hysterical clown and an erect elephant trunk holding a star on its tip. I had never taught anything in my life, let alone English, but despair was my loyal ally.

I put my hands in the jacket pockets: a couple of marbles, a taper of lint, a coin, a transfer. I remember this trivial handful because I can recall looking at an old black lady: a peppered coat, a bell hat, her knuckles coiled around a cane handle, leaning slightly forward. To be able to put your hands in your pockets, I thought, was not such a bad thing, your pockets are your hands' home.

There was a bench nobody was sitting on, encrusted with blotches. I looked up, and on a steel beam high up above perched a jury of pigeons, cooing peevishly. They bloated and deflated, blinking down on us, effortlessly releasing feces. When I was a kid, I thought that snow came from God shitting on us. The Touhy bus arrived, and we lined up at the bus door. I experienced an intense sneeze of happiness, simply because I had managed not to lose my transfer.

The bus smelled of an unknown disinfecting potion, a trace of sausagey sweat, and nondescript dust dryness. The jury of pigeons fluttered up as the bus moved forward, pressing us against our seats, until we all dutifully jerked forward. I used to have a friend--he was killed by an accelerating piece of shrapnel--who liked to think that there was a quiet part of the universe where a body could have a steady velocity, going in the same field. This bus, for instance, would have moved with smooth, pleasant velocity, down Touhy, not stopping at the lights, on to Lincolnwood, Park Ridge, Elk Grove Village, Schaumburg, Hanover Park, and onward through Iowa and whatever there was beyond Iowa, all the way to California, and then over the Pacific, gliding across the endless water until we reached Shanghai--we would have all got to know one another on this ship, we would have gone all the way together.

The bus stopped abruptly at Western, the driver honking violently, then glancing at us in the rearview mirror. A man crossed the street in front of the bus, carrying a rolled-up carpet, which was breaking on his shoulder, its ends touching the ground. The man was sagging under the burden, his neck bent, his knees stooping, as if he were carrying a weighty cross.

We moved on, passed Inner Light Hair Sanctuary, AutoZone PartsWorld, Wultan Monuments, Land of Submarines; crossed California, gliding by Barnaby & Scribner Family Dining, Mt. Sinai Medical Center, Eastern Style Pizza--I got off the bus across the street from a Chinese restaurant. New World, it was called, and it was empty, only a sign in the window saying for lease.

I had a few more minutes before the interview, and I was not ready to go in and get a job (How could I teach anyone anything?), so I lingered in front of the photo shop next to New World. A sign in the window--thick black letters--read:

old photos copied any size color or black and white.

There was a photo of black-and-white miners, their eyes twinkling behind a mask of gray dust. They held their pickaxes solemnly, their helmets pressing down their faces. In another photo, three kids in knickers and jackets with sleeves that could not reach their wrists stood a step away from one another, with the same tenebrous eyes, shorn hair, and large ears spreading out like little wings.

There was a Before photo and an After photo: the Before photo showed a man with a long curly beard slowly swallowing his face and dark wrinkles above his murky eyes. He sat with his hands coiled in his lap. A younger man stood on his left, his right hand cautiously touching the old man's shoulder. The upper right-hand corner of the photo was missing, including half of the young man's yarmulke. Both men were cut by a jagged white line (the old man across his chest, the young man across his waist), with a trail of white blots spreading toward the old man's beard--a crease and its offspring, created in somebody's pocket. The After photo had no blots, had no crease, and the yarmulke was restored. Their faces were whiter, and the young man's hand firmly grasped the old man's shoulder--wherever they were now, they were in it together. If only I could afford to succumb to this depleting sorrow, to stop walking with my chin up, and just collapse, like a smashed box, things would be much simpler. There was a photo of the Lake-in-the-Hills Mall at night, all glaring neon blue, neon yellow, and neon pink.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 13, 2005

    Unique and worth checking out

    Aleksandar Hemon's 'Nowhere Man' is a thoroughly enjoyable read, with a quirky charm, distinctive characters, full of wit and genuinely funny moments. Hemon tells us the story of Jozef Pronek, an immigrant from Bosnia, who like the people who narrate his life story, feels lost and disillusioned from the life he is living. Jozef's inner frustration and personal journey makes the character very engaging and very relatable. Rather than tell a straight-forward story, Hemon jumps around in the telling of the story and goes from narrator to narrator, each of whom has a different perspective on who Jozef Pronek really is. Although 'Nowhere Man' may come across as too confusing or ambigious, it always keeps you interested. Hemon shows what an incredibly talented and creative author he is with this book. Recommended.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 19, 2003

    FELLOW IMMIGRANT

    It was very interesting to read a novel in English by a fellow Eastern European - and in English that is better, richer , and more imaginative in its mastery than that of today's many linguistically "indigenous" writers'. The main protagonist reminds me of another Eastern European character, namely The Brave Soldier Schweick, but without the latter's exuberant humour and redeeming, saving idiocy. Of course, Nowhere Man is an enjoyable reading. However, I will also mention what I didn't like in the book. Is it an hommage to the North American hypocritical all-inclusiveness when the author lets in homosexual themes? The two respective chapters sound contrived and, well, unnatural. By the way I am sure in his native land these digressive tours de fource won't be appreciated. There used to be a little obscure parvenu, Eduard Limonov, who would try to jump out of his skin to get noticed and who wrote a "shocking " novel with explicit scenes treating homosexuality and loneliness. Hemon caters to different stratum, more intellectual, and, well... you know what I want to say. Anything to boost sales? And then again, did anyone understand the last chapter? Some Eastern Europeans would use a proverbial saying - "this chapter is as necessary for this novel as a fifth leg for a dog..." The protagonist is not being transformed - he remains till the end of the novel as slightly gloomy a stranger to us as he was at the beginning. Sure, it is the author's right to generate whatever he/she wants, but the world has seen enough of the mind-bogglingly incomprehensible Balkan boys with guns on CNN. Why create another one (without a gun), equally leaving you with the same "I don't understand...", without deeper insights? I for that matter was truly rooting to know more of the goings-on in his head and (sorry, North Americans if it makes you grin) soul - much more than what is being scantily alloted in the chapters. All this said (to be more than one-dimentional in reviewing this laudable work), I would like to draw potential readers' attention to the command of language, again: Hemon creates his own version of English, with flavours not to be found anywhere else; his world of the five natural senses is palpable and unforgettable. And his vision of this New World's solitude and restlessness is so painfully similar to that of mine, recent émigré's - I see what surronds me differently from those born here, too. His quiet look at the woeful univers of humans is somehow, strangely enough, soothing. Long after the recent Balkan bloodsheds are quasi-forgotten and perceived as hard to believe in as the senseless imperialistic WWI, the Pronek man will go on living on the pages of the books (there are two out there so far), will be read all over the world, will make people frown and smile, will leave the readers with the sense of nostalgia for the entire epoch gone by, eaten by the cat/chronos. Just like that little Brave Soldier Sveik by Jaroslav Hasek does...

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 30, 2002

    Brilliance from many points of view.

    Hemon conveys a style not seen enough in today's works. His bold narrative strikes right to the heart of the story, telling more about the main Character then I thought possible. His tale of Jozef Pronek, from a hectic youth to a small part of the lost masses in Chicago, far from his native land, portrays a sort of isolationism that recalls Conrad's Heart of Darkness and the works of Salinger. He brings life to every portion of Jozef's story, his struggle to lose his virginity, his search for a job that won't bore him to death, his expectance of a life he has to take on as doors close behind him, and all through the eyes of others. The prose is brilliant, the scenes masterfully painted and the character truly unforgettable.

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