By Ivan Vladislavić

What sort of Detective am I? Eardrum or tympanum? Gullet or esophagus? Pussy or pudenda? A Detective wishes a language virtually up to a language wishes a Detective.

In this new selection of tales, award-winning writer Ivan Vladislavic invitations readers to do a little detective paintings in their personal. each one tale might be learn as simply that – a narrative – otherwise you can dig a bit deeper. Take a better glance, study the artefact from all angles, and think about the clues and styles hid within.

Whether skewering severe advertising suggestions or developing dystopian parallel universes; no matter if mourning a mother’s loss or tracing a translator’s on-stage breakdown, Vladislavic’s pitch-perfect inquisitions will make you query your individual language – the way it defines you, and the way it undoes you.

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My ears came to life, the silence became a shout. It was as if the soul itself were composed out of this song and were escaping from the body to listen. I stooped, filled my palm with seawater, moistened my brow and temples. I felt refreshed. In the depths of my being, cries were echoing, threateningly, confused, impatient - the tiger was within me and he was roaring. All at once I heard the voice clearly. It was the voice of Buddha. I started walking rapidly along the water's edge, as if I 69 wished to escape.

Look here, Holy Virgin," he shouts, "here's my wife, Krinio -you know her, don't you - you ought to, she brings you oil every Saturday, and she lights your lamps - here's my wife been having her pains for three days and nights and she's been calling you. Can't you hear her? You must be deaf if you can't! Of course if she were some Tzafer bitch, one of those Turkish sluts, you'd go and break your neck for her. But my wife, Krinio, she's only a Christian, so you've become deaf and can't hear her!

And I dance. And I feel better! Once, when my little Dimitraki died, in Chalcidice, I got up as I did a moment ago and I danced. The relations and friends who saw me dancing in front of the body rushed up to stop me. " But if at that moment I had not danced, I should really have gone mad - from grief. Because it was my first son and he was three years old and I could not bear to lose him. ' 'Another time ... I was in Russia then ... yes, I've been there, too, for the mines again, copper this time, near Novo Rossisk ...

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