Filip David

  THE HOUSE OF REMEMBERING AND FORGETTING   (an excerpt)   The House of Remembering and Forgetting A novel by Filip...
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Aleksei Lukyanov

When I was getting to Trefilov’s place, I felt a new wave of fear come over me. Maybe, like deep inside I was already feeling how it would all turn out, but – to just cut the shit for a second – I wasn’t afraid of the consequences, but that Sergei Igorich really would turn out to be a homo...

Korana Serdarevic

He’s convinced that she secretly feeds on that sorrow, that she dips her fingers in it just like a child dips their fingers in a marmalade, after which she appears in front of him with her face twisted, disgusted with herself.

Spomenka Stimec

The army wanted my brother to report the next day at nine o’clock. The draft card covered up the ladies with their long skirts at the evening cabaret. France cabarets its nights away. I was born here, where a different program is in store.

James Hopkin

“Crushed by fear and foreboding on one hand, and, on the other, by an SSRI-induced compulsion to acquire, your alphabet has gone numb, your words have resigned, not a trace of rebellion remains about your phrases.”

Ales Steger

The chauffeur takes off his blindfold and leaves him in front of an unfamiliar villa by a lake. The door opens to a dim living room. Crackling embers in the fireplace. Some twenty masked people, cloaked in black habits.

Tea Tulic

When Dad bought us a VCR, my brother and I watched horror movies every afternoon. At night I used to cover my neck with the sheet. Kept the wardrobe shut. Took care of the monsters under the bed. Howled at the full moon. Drank water with garlic.

Ricarda Huch

As I watched him I thought how I should much rather make this head receptive to my thoughts, my opinions, than destroy it with a bullet. You must consider that I could avoid killing this man if I were to succeed in controlling, influencing him. But I will state right here and now that I regard this a very remote possibility.

Ilija Durovic

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.

Daniil Kharms

“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”.

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