Wrapping-up a Chapter

Unprovoked Asides on Reading War as Offered by Three Novels of David Albahari,

which could be given a moment profitably – or less so – having read the works:

I was once told every written word calls for another one. While that creates issues of its own of course, how true – especially if something is contested, and just what topic war is.

This is my experience of reading David Albahari, a contemporary Serbian author; more specifically of the following novels: the Bait, the Snow Man and the Globetrotter.

Mr Albahari chooses a perspective of writing on the war in ex-Yugoslavia that is very close to anyone reading more highbrow stuff: his characters are disoriented writers who enter into metaphysical doubts.

They always emigrate, which is one of the two solutions as offered forever by Hemingway, but in line with Shakespeare's discretion is the better part of valour. Greeks defending their polis would surely disagree.

As seen from the short introduction, interpreting Albahari – as indeed any work – can proceed in numerous directions, save the psychotic ones.

This is due to methodological peculiarities. Each encounter between the writer and the reader can be seen as an encounter of two humans, one engaging in a monologue, the other trying to make sense of it, of course.

However, this can also be seen as clashing two separate systems. Me and the author, for instance, differ in country, age and most formidably – living and cultural experience. This therefore presents endless possibilities, the fact of which makes exams at literature chairs indeed funny sometimes.

This is what I usually refer to as the theory of you scratch where it itches.

I prefer a story of an intellectual in a wartime situation. Frankly, I do not wish to hear another word on the gross minutia: the killings, rapes, mortar shell blasts.

The only thing I would like to emphasize is that intellectuals have always wondered on how to live on and what to make of things. I therefore see these titles exacerbate the human condition extremely through war and perhaps make an ostensibly new issue out of old ones. His question is where have all these people come from? My reply goes as follows: where have you been looking?

Then, Albahari's characters choose the side of humanity when forced to do so. Alas, as anyone who has ever been embroiled in something as intricate as governing can tell you – this is merely an illusion. Choosing humanity works for everyone – and therefore none. It later turns out we are real pricks when the mask falls off outside of literature – as in case of an infamous Bosnian warlord – or when we engage in downright propaganda our indeed apt author does in the Globetrotter.

In the late Yugoslavia, there is a specific word for all those who remember what they think of as better times and are completely unable to let go. The word is jugonostalgičar and I believe it requires no translation. Albahari is one of them, to the point it could even be argued he made his name writing on the war.

It is as useless to argue whether Yugoslavia could have been a proud nation as it is useless to think of world history if only Germany hadn't gone Nazi. But it may be useful to point to the fact that Albahari was about 40 in 1991, while I was 18. Is it you can't teach an old dog new tricks or the youth drink from the fountain of oblivion?

We are richer for the works of David Albahari. This is undoubtably good literature which presents the traumatic experience of perhaps the noblest players – those who had the luxury to refuse to play. They offer us psychological drama which, it must be said, offers no clue on what to do next. Except to reach for another installment of the ever same obsession. But it has the great merit that it opens discussion for those who discuss.

Indeed, Albahari is lost and defeated. His nightmare explicitly revolves round maps that go back to the collapse of the Roman Empire. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell is the title of one of visions by Blake that combines contradictions. But perhaps we are warned by Albahari's example it is never pitch dark until it again gets completely so.