For those who'd rather skip my verbose musings, here's the TL;DR: a phenomenal book, an absolute must-read! I wish Tea all possible awards; the book is criminally underrated. This is exceptional and vital social prose. And it's incredibly stylish. The atmosphere radiates progress and light.
The writer is talented; I'm eagerly anticipating more novels from her.
This book would hold its own on a shelf of psychological socialist prose. It wouldn't be overshadowed even next to Blaga Dimitrova. In my literary ranking, if a book matches the depth of socialist prose - that's the highest praise possible.
The book is contemporary, relevant, and psychologically timeless. Meaning it won't age. Centuries will pass, and "Tangerines" will still help people understand themselves and find their place in the world.
And this book possesses that rare, essential quality - the pulse of life.

Now, the same thoughts, but in detail.
This book is yet another piece of evidence that the existence of different languages in the world is a repugnant manifestation of fascism that divides people. The book exists only in Bulgarian - and it's criminal that most of the world can't read it.
I was intrigued by the title and a line in one of those reviews that Bulgarians love to stuff into books instead of proper annotations (an utterly ridiculous habit, as readers couldn't care less about praise from your editor friends. In fact, I've passed on several books simply because I couldn't decipher what they were about from these vague platitudes).
From the title, it's clear the book is about Munich, and since I'm personally know Munich, I'm curious how others perceive my friend. I would've bought this book anyway. Yes, because of Munich. Because I have my own book about Munich, and I'm interested in the comparison. But that blurb line added another weight to the scale - a celebrity (I don't know her, but if she writes blurbs, she is known not only among her dog and granny, huh?) wrote that the author poses the question: when and why did we decide we needed to be successful people rather than good ones?

This thought fascinates me; I thought perhaps it would resonate.
I bought the book at a meeting with the writer. It was a somewhat dull affair, a gathering of her acquaintances, the writer herself sweet and very young (for me). But the meeting revealed nothing about either the book or the personality. Pleasant, social. The host spoke in generic praise I've heard a million times at other meetings about other books.

The writer told us she spent nine years writing this book.
I've heard this many times from various award-winning writers, that they spent many years writing their book, and inevitably it turns out - good lord, they shouldn't have wasted so many years on such writing.
But writers keep saying this to lend gravitas to their work.

I picked up the book intending to read and compare it with mine. And to compare them in the review, what a perfect opportunity. Both about Munich. But I won't))) it's unnecessary. Though they share a style, and I've written about this before - I love this style and wish there was more literature like it. Actually, I thought there was plenty like this, but apparently, it only exists in my head and Tea's)))! Evidently, it's simply a certain type of thinking - luminously progressive.

As you can see, I was completely biased (not the first time I've formed preconceptions at first approach. And bias has never prevented me from later appreciating work on its merits, if there's merit to appreciate) when I started the book. And my interest wasn't that of a reader but rather pragmatic. But bias is no obstacle for a good book!

And so I began reading. The book is about a girl from Varna who moved to Munich to study and how she settled in there.
The first few scenes revealed the language and style. Beautiful. Pure contemporary "urban" Bulgarian - exactly what interests me now. But meaning-wise, I couldn't understand the experiences. Something about privilege. Her education was paid for, she was prepared, she wasn't planning to starve or live under a bridge. She has a well-off family in Bulgaria. Basically, a privileged white girl whining about nothing. No real tragedy. She just misses the familiar. You think, good lord, girl, if only everyone had your problems.
And here we are, being beautifully told what's happening. Exquisite and rich details, good intelligent language. You think - good lord, another Gospodinov - wonderful language and empty content.

And then…
And then came the first bravo. Brava, to be precise - in Italian, bravo is for men and brava for women (for all others and everything else - the "masculine" bravo, because Spanish and Italian single out the feminine (a reference to their ancient-ancient paganism about the Mother Goddess, rejoice radical feminists), while men were left with what remained, along with the inanimate).
It became clear this was retrospective. This wasn't written by a young girl, but by a mature writer about a young girl. Because the perspective is broader and deeper.
Then came the second brava, during a serious psychological scene about how a lonely person feels at parties. I applauded at this point.
Then I noticed how elegantly the napkin notes were integrated into the plot. How they create atmosphere.

Yes. Atmosphere. Style. I've already written in my first impressions about this book's stylishness. This book is written in one of my favorite styles. It's progressive.
This is that light and swift, humane and progress-oriented rather than prohibition-oriented Europe of Angela Merkel that we foreigners have in our heads. Not the old Europe. Not the Misunderstood Civilization. But the one that's for everyone who wants human relationships to be the main concern, not bans on gay marriage, theaters, abortions, and scooters. Not war and geopolitics, not closed borders, but whether to paint or be a pharmacist. This is what should concern people. Now, in the 21st century. Not whose Crimea or Macedonia (if Texas is USA - to be clear for my American friends) is.
This is the kind of vital intellectual reading that's about life, not death. About friendship, not enmity. About how to belong, not how to divide into us and them. About how any place can become home. About how to be human. About how being human means being a citizen of the world, not a Bulgarian, Russian, German, or Ukrainian. About how the world doesn't devour your identity. That there's room for everyone. Everywhere! There's room for everyone everywhere.
This voice (this book) - it's the most important thing the world needs right now. It's the narrative that shapes a better world.

I don't relate to the protagonist; I miss another way. But how I admired her backbone! Or rather, how the author wrote her. I understand why she spent nine years writing it. Yes, this book looks exactly like work that was contemplated and written for nine years.
There are no superfluous scenes, I have no quibbles with the book. Everything is said. All themes are developed. The title is excellent. It plays in the plot. It's meaningful and stylish. Very coolly integrated into the plot. There are wonderful layers of reflection. Reading "Tangerines" - you feel connected to the entire world. Like WordPress's Latest (what we haven't in those pathetic Insta, Fb, Tg, Twitter and Threads). As if the world finally has no borders. It's a rare and pleasant sensation. I love it!

There's even (I applauded here too) something that made me look at a phenomenon with new eyes. I only encounter such things lately in Amnuel's books. And here, imagine, something new in a book! Such a rarity!
So, the protagonist paints. And she goes out with her paintings to the square. And she describes the feeling that when people just pass by, without stopping and looking at the paintings, it feels like they're shooting at her. And we pass by because we don't want to disturb if we're not planning to buy. We feel awkward. We would look, but we're afraid we'll have to buy something unnecessary. But maybe those who paint don't care so much about selling, maybe they really just want grateful recognition? And now I constantly watch artists in squares (there are many in Varna), they always look dissatisfied. And I think it's better not to disturb them. But maybe they're not dissatisfied, but upset that everyone rushes past? Is it really so hard for me to stop for a minute, smile and praise. Well, lament that I have absolutely nowhere to put paintings (that's true! They keep accumulating at our place! We really have nowhere to put them! We don't have enough walls!), but praise, lift spirits. I'm astounded by this thought and I keep thinking about it. And probably thanks to this book, I'll lift some artists' spirits. And they'll carry that mood forward.
And what more can a book do than lift the world's spirits?

...It's terrifying to think if Moneva's protagonist had gone to study in, say, Paris, Barcelona, or Frankfurt. And the book would be called "Tangerines at the Eiffel Tower," "Tangerines over Catalonia Square," "Tangerines over Römerberg." I wouldn't have bought it and would have missed a talented book.
Tea, thank you for going to study in Munich!)))
Glad to make your literary acquaintance, wishing you great creative fulfilled plans!

Wildly, passionately recommend the book and author! Wildly, passionately recommend not judging a book and writer by meetings with them.

The credo of all my statements: a society is as good as its narrative.
My call: let's write a better world.
Tea Moneva wrote it.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...