"What do you want from me? Why are you following me?" He said, in a muffled voice, "I have no idea what you're talking about" "Like hell you don't. You're stalking me.
Dr. Kaluđerović is an otolaryngologist—or rather he was, now he’s just a tangle of bone and fiber on a filthy bed—who operated on Milena and made her hear again several months before her death.
“What is going on here,” Anton Antonovich would say, getting annoyed. “So, who am I then, according to you?” “We don’t know,” the acquaintances would say. “Only you’re not Anton Antonovich”.
WRITER: I am a writer! READER: Аnd I think you’re a piece of shit!
What no one mentioned was the moment when we disbanded – how we all broke our freeze at the same time – like we had come up for air at once or had woken from the same dream together.
They don’t realize that in this case everyone is in the same predicament, that the weight of the unknown presses equally on them all, and that all they want is to get out of this hell, off this barge, as quickly as possible, it doesn’t matter where...
This amazing business makes me feel almost feverish. It’s more amazing than the silver casket. It’s just as interesting and strange, this change of mine, this transformation, as the Dalai Lama’s reincarnation in my book about Tibet, although it’s got nothing to do with it at all.
Amsterdam’s red-light districts are relaxing and refresh the soul; there is a sense of geniality there that is unknown in the Latin countries, and these devilish exhibitors, these solid doorkeepers to hell, defuse malice with their good shiny faces and their good thick hands in fur gloves, looking like thoroughly honest major-domos under their gold-tasseled caps.
Once in the night I dressed my brothers, doctor, I was six, them three and two, I dressed them and we went out onto the street. I had to lead them off so they wouldn’t be swept away, too, by the breaker wave...