The Same Night Awaits Us All by Hristo Karastoyanov

Author:Hristo Karastoyanov
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940953748
Publisher: Open Letter
Published: 2017-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

10.

[May 5, 2013, Easter]

But all this would happen lat

He’d heard the poet was worshipped by the younger generation, that a considerable number of them knew all his poems by heart, and that just as many simply emulated him. Many even adopted his moniker, shortening their own Georgi to Geo, but the pinnacle of it all was witnessing no fewer than three young men with the same lock of hair over one eye at 145 Rakovski Street.

“Say now, Bai Milev,” said Sheytanov as that same young man flew between the tables at Battenberg Square, “these lads, these young poets, fear you more than wealthy men fear me! Are you beating them or slaughtering them or chasing them with a gun . . . what exactly are you doing to have that effect on them?”

“What can I say,” the poet sighed conceitedly. “I give them a beating here and there. But here’s the thing! When you’re young, you look at the geranium on the windowsill and you think it is the pinnacle of creation, and you can’t wait to piss on it and mark your territory. And there’s talent there, and lots of it—for the growing poet, I mean, not for the geranium. The young poet needs to aim for the poplars beyond the stone wall, not for his daddy’s backyard hedge. But until you give him a good slap on the back of the head, he won’t get it.”

“I get it now,” Sheytanov nodded.

“Sure you do,” the poet sighed. “Look, to be honest, today’s youth really trouble me. They’re full of rapturous Salieris and maybe a Mozart meandering here and there, like a thorn in your fucking side. See what I mean? These people are no longer writing in the name of literature. Not at all! They’re not even thinking about their readers when they’re writing. All they’re looking for is the three snobs aahing and wringing their hands in the reading salon . . .”

“So what are they thinking about, then?” Sheytanov interrupted him.

“The literary awards!” the other yelled and angrily slammed his fist on the table. “Because they know very well just what the awards juries like, and they’ve learned to mold it exactly to their taste. These juries don’t have an ounce of literary consciousness, so you can imagine how literary their awards are. ‘The awards were given precisely to the right people!’ says Dr. Galubov. He was apparently feeling just like Buridan’s ass—the donkey that died of thirst and hunger because it couldn’t figure out whether to go for the pail of water or the stack of hay placed at an equal distance before him—all of the books were so wonderful, he just didn’t know which one to pick. And accordingly, the writers take out their arsenal of stock phrases and check the boxes: here a rhyme, there a rhythm—a little rain here, snow, yellow leaves, fall, wilted roses, and crestfallen damsels, night, moon, the desolate flame of a candle inside an abandoned house, a forgotten love

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