For someone who addresses the notion that Bulgaria might be the saddest place on earth, Georgi Gospodinov exudes an unexpected cheerfulness. Much like many confident thinkers and writers, Gospodinov is content to gently mock what he terms the ‘Bulgarian sorrow’ (“we are the champions of sorry,” he quips) and has the skill to analyze social and political environments to illustrate their effects on people’s lives. Consider this: his 2011 novel, The Physics of Sorrow, revolves around the concept of weaponizing the past, where one of the protagonists develops a condition known as pathological empathy as he delves into other people’s memories.
His International Booker Prize-winning novel, Time Shelter, centers on a psychiatrist who establishes a clinic of the past to treat dementia patients, with each floor representing a different decade. Soon, referendums are held across Europe to determine which decade each country should be transported to. Written post-Brexit referendum in 2016, the novel offers a sharp critique of the perils of revisiting political history. The Bulgarian poet and writer, who recently attended the Sharjah International Book Fair, delved into the intricacies of modern societies and why politics often become personal. Edited excerpts from an interview:
Tell us about your formative years. What was growing up in Bulgaria in the 1970s like? All my books are actually linked to my childhood. I started writing due to the nightmares I experienced as a child. I lived with my grandparents then. I wanted to share these nightmares but was taught that discussing them could make them come true. So, I began writing them down. After jotting them on paper, the nightmares ceased. This was the first miracle of writing I encountered. You are saved from your fears.
I used to listen to my grandparents’ tales. It was a significant experience for me — the storytelling of elderly people in Bulgaria. It was my initial lesson in writing. I lived in a small town. We were somewhat like abandoned children. Our parents were young and worked tirelessly. We stayed alone in our rooms because there weren’t enough spaces in the kindergarten. I recall this as ‘loneliness in my childhood’, which was a conducive time for my thinking. I was always reading. Books were my solace. The 1970s were also a period of socialism in Bulgaria. The crisis wasn’t very severe then.
When did you turn to poetry? In the 1970s. I began writing poetry. My mother discovered my poems and showed them to the only poet in our town. He appreciated them and encouraged me to write. I wrote about growing cold, about death — topics deemed unusual for children. But children also contemplate death. I was always regarded as a poet who writes novels. And I continue to write poetry even now.
When you write prose as a poet, what influences do you bring to the latter? Language is crucial in both. People typically think in prose, using language to narrate subjects. I write my novels like poetry. For me, every sentence is significant. That’s why my books are not very easy to translate. The rhythm of my prose closely resembles the poetry I wrote before. I don’t see a vast difference between genres.
In 2010, The Economist published an article labeling Bulgaria the saddest place on earth. In response, you wrote a novel, The Physics of Sorry, featuring a protagonist who can enter others’ memories and develops “pathological empathy”. Did the book stem from anger? No. I wrote it years ago to elucidate Bulgarian sorrow. The Physics of Sorrow is a bildungsroman, drawing from Greek mythology and the Minotaur story. I have two parallel narratives — the history of a minotaur and the history of a boy spending the 1970s alone in a room waiting for his parents. These are parallel stories of abandoned children. Only after completing the novel did I read The Economist article. It was amusing because we’ve never been champions of anything, yet here we were dubbed world champions of sorrow. The book is a lengthy response to the question of Bulgarian sorrow.
Bulgarian sorrow is unique; it’s linked to things that never occurred. We dreamt of many things that didn’t happen. It’s also a silent sorrow. There’s a culture of silence in Bulgarian society. We couldn’t easily discuss our feelings. Perhaps it’s related to patriarchy or our socialist past. Bulgarian sorrow is akin to longing for places you’ve never been to but feel nostalgic about. Sorrow is also a human condition. You won’t find a dictator experiencing sorrow. Only ordinary humans do. There’s also a Bulgarian term for sorrow: Tuga — a short word. It’s challenging to translate because every language has its own concept of sorrow. We don’t just translate a word; we translate the concept. It’s vital to find similar concepts in other languages.
And the character has pathological empathy in the novel. I invented this condition. Once, I consulted a doctor to see if there was a medical reference for it. I believe it exists. This feeling is crucial. What we see today is a deficit of empathy. I think literature and storytelling can foster empathy. My character in The Physics of Sorry suffers from excessive empathy because when you’re deeply empathetic, you feel others’ sorrow. You share their sorrow. Hence, empathy is a form of suffering.
Time Shelter, your International Booker-winning novel, is about a psychiatrist who creates a clinic of the past to treat dementia patients. Each floor of this clinic allows a person to revisit a decade of their lives where they were happiest. How did this idea germinate? I’ve always been intrigued by the subject of memory. I found a newspaper article 15 years ago stating that if Alzheimer’s patients listen to music from their past, they feel better. I wondered what if we built clinics of the past? In the latter part of the novel, things get darker. The 2016 European Union referendum made me ponder what if there was a glitch in time and one could travel to the past. Populism also grew stronger worldwide during this period. The book is dystopian.
Time Shelter is a cautionary tale against romanticizing the past. What are the dangers of doing so? Because the past also has a dark side. We live in the present, and our children live in tomorrow. If we must move forward, we can’t keep living in the past. You can’t stay in the past for long. You can’t be ‘great again’. Personally, you can’t be young again. So, when leaders promise to return you to the past, they set a trap. Personal past is irreversible, but political past can be reversible. Politically, looking back can be perilous.
You were giving a talk in Berlin when someone remarked that Bulgarian, or Balkan, literature should focus on local themes rather than broader issues. How do these stereotypes about who can write what harm an author? Secondly, is your writing more political than personal? It’s a stereotype. When I won the Booker Prize, I emphasized that it’s important for me to show we can tell big stories in small languages. Don’t expect us to exoticize our countries, our origins. When I read my book in Berlin, I told them even in Bulgaria, people fall in love, get divorced, and die naturally instead of being stabbed in the chest. We have the right to tell stories about big things. I write personal stories that sometimes involve politics, ideologies involved in everyday life. I illustrate how personal lives are shattered when you’re told not to travel abroad. If you aim to tell the history of the world, start with the history of the person living in this world.
As a keen observer of life and politics, what do you think explains Europe’s obsession with its past? Probably because Europe has a rich past. The issue arises when the past is used for propaganda. As a writer, I side with the past; I enjoy telling stories about it. But the past that matters to me is the personal past, not something that happened five centuries ago. When someone uses the past as a weapon to enchant you, it’s dangerous.
What does winning the Booker change for the writer within? The hardest part is finding a place to hide and write your next book (laughs). I’ve learned to decline some invitations. The positive aspect is reaching readers you couldn’t before. My next book will be very personal and written in a very different style.
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