From the Publisher
“Not just an extraordinary storyteller but an extraordinary writer: one who seems not simply gifted but necessary.”–The New York Times Book Review
“By turns terrifying, gently comic and brutally satiric, these are stunning stories that compel the reader to view a world rendered ... abruptly alien and unfamiliar.”–San Francisco Chronicle
“The man is a maestro.... As vivid a prose as you will find anywhere this year, and as heartbreaking.”–Esquire
Hemon left his native Bosnia just before the outbreak of the civil war, settled in Chicago, and soon after began rigorously studying English. Unsurprisingly, his debut has been compared to the fiction of Conrad and Nabokov icons who proved that the risky business of writing in an adopted language can produce admirable results. But Conrad s crowded, premeditated sentences and Nabokov s rhythmical and metaphorical prose are quite different from Hemon s clearheaded fiction, which centers on the unique political tensions of Tito s Yugoslavia. Hemon s writing is sensible, with a hint of satire, and is heavily based on wistful description rather than farfetched dialog. Although dissimilar in format, the seven stories here echo the same nostalgic voice and the theme of dealing with the sudden eruption of childhood memories and the shifting identities of a weary immigrant. This kind of fiction doesn t betray itself, but the author s bold experimentation with form easily outsmarts the reader. The Life and Work of Alphonse Kauders is actually highly suggestive of Donald Barthelme s clever symbolism, while A Coin reveals that Hemon can tell a war story in the tradition of Tim O Brien, combining magical realism with raw truth. This is the work of a rare talent who deserves our attention. Mirela Roncevic, Library Journal Mystery & suspense By Rex Klett Mitchell Community Coll., LRC,Statesville, NC Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
The sound is ailing, so you wiggle knobs, jiggle wires, finally just smack the top of the speaker and—voilà—the air is suddenly full with the sound you wanted. I feel that way reading Alekaksander Hemon's new collection The Question of Bruno...The man is a maestro, and conjurer, a channeler of universes...As vivid prose as you will find anywhere this year, and as heartbreaking.
A powerful collection of stories linked by their setting: the author's native Sarajevo.
The Question of Bruno's seven short stories and a novella provide the reader with a curious mixture of fact and fiction, which blends into a successful and mostly original whole...This is an impressive book, which manipulates language in a way that both chills and satisfies.,br>&3151;Times Literary Supplement
Several of the shorter pieces are so good
as to make the reader feel certain of
having discovered not just an
extraordinary story but an extraordinary
writer: one who seems not simply gifted
but necessary. In retrospect, you begin
to worry about what could so easily have
been lost. What if Hemon had stayed in Sarajevo and suffered a
momentary cramp -- nonwriter's -- crossing Sniper's Alley?
The New York Times Book Review
The New Yorker
Like Conrad's, Hemon's prose often makes the most of emphatically discordant notes: an initially incongruous word comes to seem a perfect choice.
Uneven but not uninteresting stories from first-timer Hemon, a Conradian figure, an exile from Sarajevo who has lived in Chicago for eight years, remaking himself into an American writer. The collection is comprised of seven stories and a novella, `Blind Joszef Pronek & Dead Souls`and as the title of that longer work suggestssome of the author's often cynical humor can be traced back to other East European writers like Gogol and Kafka. But there are also traces of influences as various as Borges and Calvino in the puzzle-joke story `The Life and Work of Alphonse Kauders.` Hemon seems fascinated with trying to reproduce the creepy tactility of decay and, as might be expected from a refugee from the former Yugoslavia, extremes of senseless violence. At its worst, the result is a piece like `A Coin,` which recounts the suffering of the besieged civilians of Sarajevo in somewhat shopworn, overfamiliar terms unintentionally echoing the voyeurism that it accuses Western journalists of perpetrating. On the other hand, particularly in the novella, a recounting of the wanderings of a Sarajevan transplanted to Chicago at the outset of the civil war, and in `The Sorge Spy Ring,` a longish, clever mix of autobiographical reminiscence and historical fact with a totally unexpected dark ending, Hemon displays a considerable command of sudden shifts in tone, shuttling swiftly but surely between black comedy and bleak reality. The volume is shot through with a dry, deadpan humor that is clearly a defensive carapace grown in response to decades of Stalinist/Titoist falsifications and repression, as well as an understandable fascination with the grim detritus of Balkan history. Hemon'sprosesuffers occasionally from the overstudious diction of the non-native speaker, but he is clearly a writer of some promise.
Read an Excerpt
We got up at dawn, ignored the yolky sun, loaded our navy-blue Austin with suitcases and then drove straight to the coast, stopping only on the verge of Sarajevo, so I could pee. I sang communist songs the entire journey: songs about mournful mothers looking through graves for their dead sons; songs about the revolution, steaming and steely, like a locomotive; songs about striking miners burying their dead comrades. By the time we got to the coast, I had almost lost my voice.
We waited for the ship on a long stone pier, which burnt the soles of my feet, as soon as I took off my sandals. The air was sweltering, saturated with sea-ozone, exhaustion, and the smell of coconut sunscreen, coming from the German tourists, already red and shellacked, lined up for a photo at the end of the pier. We saw the thin stocking of smoke on the horizon-thread, then the ship itself, getting bigger, slightly slanted sideways, like a child's drawing. I had on a round straw hat with all the seven dwarves painted on it. It threw a short, dappled shadow over my face. I had to raise my head to look at the grown-ups. Otherwise, I would look at their gnarled knees, the spreading sweat stains on their shirts and sagging wrinkles of fat on their thighs. One of the Germans, an old, bony man, got down on his knees and puked over the pier edge. The vomit hit the surface and then dispersed in different directions, like children running away to hide from the seeker. Under the wave-throbbing, ochre and maroon, island of vomit, a school of aluminum fish gathered and nibbled it peevishly.
The ship was decrepit, with pealing steel stairs and thin leaves of rust that could cut your fingers on the handrails. The staircase wound upward like a twisted towel. "Welcome," said an unshaven man in a T-shirt picturing a boat with a smoke-snake, wobbling on the waves, and, above it, the sun with a U-smile and an umlaut of eyes. We sat on the upper deck and the ship leapt over humble waves, panting and belching. We passed a line of little islands, resembling car wrecks by the road, and I would ask my parents: "Is this Mljet?" and they would say: "No." From behind one of the petrified islands, shaven by a wildfire, a gust of waylaying wind attacked us, snatched the straw hat off my head and tossed it into the sea. I watched the hat teetering away, my hair pressed against my skull, like a helmet, and I understood that I would never, ever see it again. I wished to go back in time and hold on to my hat before the surreptitious whirlwind hit me in the face. The ship sped away from the hat and the hat was transformed into a beige stain on the snot-green sea. I began crying and sobbed myself to sleep. When I woke up the ship was docked and the island was Mljet.
Uncle Julius impressed a stern, moist kiss on my cheekthe corner of his mouth touched the corner of my mouth, leaving a dot of spit above my lip. But his lips were soft, like slugs, as if there was nothing behind to support them. As we walked away from the pier, he told us that he forgot his teeth at home, and then, so as to prove that he was telling us the truth, he grinned at me, showing me his pink gums with cinnabar scars. He reeked of pine cologne, but a whiff redolent of rot and decay escaped his insides and penetrated the fragrant cloud. I hid my face in my mother's skirt. I heard his snorting chuckle. "Can we please go back home!" I cried.
We walked up a dilapidated, sinuous road exuding heat. Uncle Julius's sandals clattered in a tranquilizing rhythm and I felt sleepy. There was a dense verdureless thicket alongside the road. Uncle Julius told us that there used to be so many poisonous snakes on Mljet that people used to walk in tall rubber boots all the time, even at home, and snakebites were as common as mosquito bites. Everybody used to know how to slice off the bitten piece of flesh in a split second, before the venom could spread. Snakes killed chickens and dogs. Once, he said, a snake was attracted by the scent of milk, so it curled up on a sleeping baby. And then someone heard of the mongoose, how it kills snakes with joy, and they sent a man to Africa and he brought a brood of mongooses and they let them loose on the island. There were so many snakes that it was like a paradise for them. You could walk for miles and hear nothing but the hissing of snakes and the shrieks of mongooses and the bustle and rustle in the thicket. But then the mongooses killed all the snakes and bred so much that the island became too small for them. Chickens started disappearing, cats also. There were rumors of rabid mongooses and some even talked about monster mongooses that were the result of paradisiacal inbreeding. Now they were trying to figure out how to get rid of mongooses. So that's how it is, he said, it's all one pest after another, like revolutions. Life is nothing if not a succession of evils, he said, and then stopped and took a pebble out of his left sandal. He showed the puny, gray pebble to us, as if holding irrefutable evidence that he was right.
He opened the gate and we walked through a small, orderly garden with stout tomato stalks like sentries alongside the path. His wife (he pointed her out to us) stood in the courtyard, her face like a loaf of bread with a small tubby potato in the middle, arms akimbo, her calves full of bruises and blood vessels on the verge of bursting, ankles swollen. She was barefoot, her big toes were crooked, taking a sudden turn, as if backing away in disgust from each other. She enveloped my head with her palms, twisted my head upward and then put her mouth over my mouth, leaving a thick layer of warm saliva, which I hastily wiped off with my shoulder. Aunt Lyudmila was her name.