Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic, Ellen Elias-Bursac, Vlada Stojiljkovic

By Ranko Marinkovic, Ellen Elias-Bursac, Vlada Stojiljkovic

In his semiautobiographical novel, Cyclops, Croatian author Ranko Marinkovic recounts the adventures of younger theater critic Melkior Tresic, an archetypal antihero who comes to a decision to starve himself to prevent struggling with within the entrance strains of global conflict II. As he wanders the streets of Zagreb in a near-hallucinatory kingdom of paranoia and malnourishment, Melkior encounters a colourful circus of characters—fortune-tellers, shamans, actors, prostitutes, bohemians, and café intellectuals—all dwelling in a delicate dream of a society approximately to be replaced forever.

A seminal paintings of postwar jap ecu literature, Cyclops reveals a little-known standpoint on global battle II from in the former Yugoslavia, one who hasn't ever ahead of been on hand to an English-speaking viewers. Vlada Stojiljkovic's capable translation, greater via Ellen Elias-Bursac's insightful modifying, preserves the outstanding brilliance of this riotously humorous and densely allusive textual content. alongside Melkior’s trip Cyclops satirizes either the delusions of the righteous army officers who feed the nationwide bloodlust in addition to the wayward intellectuals who think themselves to be above the disagreeable realities of overseas clash. via Stojiljkovic's clear-eyed translation, Melkior’s peregrinations display how historical past occurs and the way the person attention is swept up within the tide of political occasions, and this is often comprehensive in a method that would resonate with readers of Charles Simic, Aleksandr Hemon, and Kundera

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Additional resources for Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

Example text

There will be somebody to press the scale for you, too, when your soul is weighed before God! And off he goes, all angry and unhappy. He was unhappy just now, too, over weighing the same as he did this morning. He’d had the feed of his lifetime, he said … he even showed me his belly. There he is now, over at the other fellow’s, he may yet be back here again. I feel sorry for him, you might say. The man’s wasting away like a leaf in autumn, and all I can do is look on. ” Melkior joked to hide his feeling of shock.

Because of the shame and the humiliation. Because of the fatal misunderstanding. He had not meant to mock the tears in Dom Kuzma’s eyes, which may have been there, after all, only in his imagination. … But how was he to explain that now? How was he to say, having been slapped in the face, “I was feeling sorry for Samson myself, Father. I only wanted that cow Delilah to be punished, too. ” But something strange happened to Dom Kuzma shortly thereafter and he mysteriously disappeared. Gossip had it that he had been dispatched to Rome for a rigorous confession, since only a cardinal (indeed, according to others, the Holy Father himself) could absolve him from certain abominable sins.

After it finishes tracing its mighty name across the screen using a mysterious light, MAAR’s letters go into a silly dance routine, singing a song in unison in praise of their master. ” Next there appears a house, miserable and dirty, its roof askew, its door frame battered loose, wrinkled and stained shirts, spectral torsos with no heads or legs, jumping out of its windows in panic. To danse macabre music, the ailing victims of grime proceed to drag themselves toward a boiling cauldron bubbling with impatient thick white foam.

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