|
|
|
|
A Conversation with Georgi Gospodinov
By Ana Lucic Wednesday, February 20, 2008
ANA LUCIC: When did Natural Novel first appear in Bulgaria, and were you pleased by the reception it got? Do you think critics understood the novel? GEORGI GOSPODINOV: Natural Novel came out first at the end of 1999, after winning a national competition
for manuscripts of contemporary Bulgarian novels. It was my first
attempt at this genre and I was prepared for failure because the novel
was very different from anything in the Bulgarian literary tradition.
Yet, I can’t complain about the reception the book got. The tastes of
readers and critics came together fortuitously. The book sold out in a
short time, and a second edition followed. Critics pronounced it “the
first novel of the 90’s generation—by birth and by fame.” There were an
incredible number of reviews, academic interpretations, even BA and MA
theses not only in Bulgaria but also in Polish, Russian, and German
universities. Natural Novel was included in the programs of
several Slavic departments. So, believe it or not, the volume of texts
about the novel overwhelmed the novel itself. When the book came out in
France, the French press called it “a machine for stories,” and this is
my favorite definition. AL: Among other things, Natural Novel talks about the process of writing. The narrator in this book says that
the fly in his head needs to get out. Is this how you see the writing
process? GG: Yes, indeed, Natural Novel talks about the
process of writing. More precisely, about how reality and fiction, the
imaginary and the real, sometimes mix in a very dangerous way, and you
never know which of the two will prevail. According to this book,
writing is equally close to life and to death: there is something of
both conditions in it. When the author is writing, he or she is neither
fully alive nor dead, but in some strange, in-between condition: a word
that has sneaked among other words. The line you mention reads, “The
fly in my skull needs a hole.” This points directly to death. AL:
Could you talk about which authors you admire and have influenced your
writing? One of the writers I was reminded of while I was reading your
novel is Paul Auster. Is he an author you’ve read? If so, what is it in
Auster’s writing that particularly influenced you? GG: The
list is enormous. I think the writer shouldn’t confine himself only to
literary texts; he or she should be curious about many things. Anything
could be useful. In this sense I can mention many guides and handbooks
on beekeeping and gardening, textbooks in biology, even the cookbooks
that I have read with the same pleasure as good novels. But, going back
to your question, I like Melville’s Moby-Dick—it’s a whale-huge book, a book that must be taken in, swallowed whole. In terms of scale, Natural Novel is a fly beside Melville’s whale. (It’s no coincidence that the fly is
a central image.) All kinds of genres—scientific texts, natural
histories, the Bible—interest me and affect my writing. Among my
favorite authors, I will add also Salinger, in whose short stories
exist some upseting, unspoken secret. Of course, Paul Auster is on my
list, too. While I was writing my novel, I thought it would be great if
he could somehow read it one day. Now, with the publication of an
American edition, this seems less improbable. AL: You gave your book the title "Natural Novel." In what sense is it "natural"? GG:
It is “natural” in terms of Ancient Greek natural philosophy, which I
consider to be an essential element and pattern of everything in the
world. The protagonist in the novel is seeking for the same pattern in
the cosmos of his personal life and failures. “Natural” also evokes the
sense employed by Michel Foucault in his analysis of 17th century natural history. But it is also “natural” in the sense of everyday life—reality without pose and pretence. According
to some of the critics, the term “natural” is used ambivalently,
ironically in the book in order to show the impossible naturalness of
literature—the secondary character of this writing, its postmodern
strategies. Probably this is true. There is a paradox, a contradiction
in the phrase “natural novel,” it is almost an oxymoron. None of the
novel is natural or self-created. But, on the other hand, this same
impossible dream of naturalness exists in the book. Mixing the
beginnings of great classical novels (almost alchemically), the
protagonist wants to achieve a novel that can be created by itself,
written by itself without an author. AL: Do you feel as though
your writing represents some international movement? Do you associate
yourself with any other Bulgarian writers? GG: Probably. At
least when it comes to relativization, the mixture of fiction and fact,
the obfuscation of the boundary between reality and imagination. Also,
in the theme and technique of the fragmentation of both personal life
and narration. The hero of this novel faces the problem of finding some
meaning, some reasons and motivation to continue to live after a dark
apocalypse. And this, I think, is one of increasingly important themes
of life in a world of global loneliness. I said that the novel
was too different from the literary tradition in Bulgaria for a sense
of affiliation to exist. But this doesn’t bother me because, in my
opinion, the division between Bulgarian and non-Bulgarian literature is
eroding. Literature is becoming less national and more personal. |
|
