By Aleksandar Hemon
Traditionally, English-language readers were nice lovers of ecu literature, and names like Franz Kafka, Gustave Flaubert, and Thomas Mann are so usual we hardly ever contemplate them as international in any respect. What these writers dropped at English-language literature used to be a wide selection of recent principles, kinds, and methods of seeing the area. but occasions have replaced, and what sort of can we even learn about the richly diverse literature being written in Europe at the present time? top eu Fiction 2010 is the inaugural installment of an annual anthology of reports from throughout Europe edited through Bosnian novelist and MacArthur "Genius-Award" winner Aleksandar Hemon with dozens of editorial, media, and programming companions within the united states, U.K., and Europe. Read more...
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On the mantel above the fireplace, Ferdinand saw a loose collection of figurines from the Far East. He imagined that long before the establishment of the Commonwealth some tourist must have bought them from some kid in front of a temple. Via the usual unfathomable routes, the objects had landed in this house. Unfathomable since the neighbor never went out and never had visitors. Ferdinand speculated that the fact that no one had ever wanted to hang out with the artist was probably the only reason he hadn’t been killed sooner.
His words disturbed a balance. Now Ferdinand remembered that he’d only just entered the house, and specifically to kill his neighbor. He stood motionless in his leather shoes, caught, captive. The front door, his means of escape, was less than three meters away. It was unreachable. He couldn’t move, not until the echo of his words died away. Again he saw the image of the girl. Her face was frozen in panic. I don’t know her, he said to himself. I’ve never seen her before. The axe began to weigh down his arm.
Standing on a stool, he removed the picture of his wife that had always hung on the wall. He looked her in the eye for a moment. Then he removed the photo from its frame, folded it, and stuck it in his pocket. The street was about a hundred meters long. All sorts of people occupied the houses on both sides. They’d painted the trim around their windows, marking the small rosettes impressed into the plaster with bright colors. They heard me yell and saw the neighbor come out, he thought. How long before someone calls the police?