Great Britain
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
FRANCE
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Germany
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Italia
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Albania
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Poland
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Russia
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Slovakia
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Sweden
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
Slovenija
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević
North Macedonia
Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture
In the place where my books used to stand,
— my chosen deities, from different years,
with different signatures, titles,
different smells and experiences,
sometimes emotional and tactile,
and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –
in that place, hence,
neatly folded tablecloths are now.
The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced
what used to be my real home,
a reading sanctuary,
the place where I reliably hid from the world.
For years. Different years that went
into letters that mean nothing to anyone.
The place where I buried myself,
now is the centre of domestic ephemera.
The books that formed my taste in everything
are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.
The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,
so precious and dear, those preserved books.
And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow
from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.
Where the translated editions of books that
were precious to me used to stand,
now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,
porcelain coffee cups that rarely,
very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,
or sometimes in during her afternoon rest
my mother muses how
material things will outlive us unjustly.
And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.
So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.
Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,
in the place, where my books used to stand.
And a jar with a red Easter egg
that protects our home, the home I left.
Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,
sacred books of the days of my first readings,
sacred days of the first books that I owned,
from a time when it wasn’t easy
either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.
In the place where my books used to stand,
worthless figures are now,
regularly brought from the travels:
a white miniature figure of Mozart,
a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,
Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,
dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,
a souvenir from Lake Como,
where I wanted to go to die.
Or it seems to me that everything is like that.
Sometimes, brought from travels,
those tiny petrified remembrances remind me
of other countries, of another me.
That is how I am also petrified
while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.
Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević