After I returned home from Noémi’s on that ill-fated morning when I desperately tried to evade the grotesque creature that I later adorned with the nickname ‘the Birdman’, I was greeted by a deadly silence, and Juliska’s portrait seemed to stare at me like an apparition from behind the glass door of the cabinet.
In order to talk about my childhood, the only contents of the knapsack I carry everywhere with me, I would have to skip over the first twelve years, years I spent in hotels in Slavenski Brod, Derventa, Užica, Pula, Vrnjačka Banja, and countless other towns both inside and outside Yugoslavia.
A story of lustful anticipation told in one breathless sentence that won the European Prize for Literature for Serbia: " . . . does he too want to kill you by flicking his tongue between your legs, does he want to do that, because I certainly do and one day I will, because that’s what we do, we fairground magicians, that’s our fairground speciality, does he too want to fuck you to death, or does he just want you to take his arm and walk with him to yet another family lunch . . ."