The Book of My Lives

by Aleksandar Hemon

A Finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award

Aleksandar Hemon's lives begin in Sarajevo, where boyhood is consumed by street soccer and sibling rivalry, and a young man's life is about American music, bad poetry, and slightly better journalism. At the age of twenty-seven, Hemon journeyed to Chicago―a trip that would mark the beginning of another life, this time in the United States. There, he watched from afar as war broke out in Bosnia, his parents and sister fleeing, and Hemon himself unable to return.

Yet this, his first book of nonfiction, is much more than a memoir of these experiences. At once a love song to two cities and a paean to the bonds of family, The Book of My Lives is a singular work of passion, built on fierce intelligence, unspeakable tragedies, and sharp insight. Like the best narratives, it is a book that will leave you a different reader when you finish―and a different person, with a new way of looking at the world.

A Kirkus Reviews Best Nonfiction Book of 2013

Genres: Nonfiction, Essays, Memoir, Biography, Biography Memoir, War, Autobiography

256 pages, Paperback

First published March 19, 2013

About the author

Aleksandar Hemon is a Bosnian American writer known for his short stories and novels that explore issues of exile, identity, and home through characters drawn from Hemon’s own experience as an immigrant.

Hemon was raised in Sarajevo, where his father was an engineer and his mother was an accountant. After graduating from the University of Sarajevo with a degree in literature in 1990, he worked as a journalist with the Sarajevan youth press. In 1992 he participated in a journalist exchange program that took him to Chicago. Hemon intended to stay in the United States only briefly, for the duration of the program, but, when war broke out in his home country, he applied for and was granted status as a political refugee in the United States.

In Chicago Hemon worked a series of jobs, including as a bike messenger and a door-to-door canvasser, while improving his knowledge of English and pursuing a graduate degree at Northwestern University. Three years after arriving in the United States, he wrote his first short story in English, “The Sorge Spy Ring.” Together with several other short stories and the novella “Blind Jozef Pronek & Dead Souls,” it was published in the collection The Question of Bruno in 2000, the same year Hemon became an American citizen. Like much of Hemon’s published work, these stories were largely informed by Hemon’s own immigrant experience in Chicago. Hemon brought back Jozef Pronek, the protagonist from his earlier novella, with Nowhere Man: The Pronek Fantasies (2002), the story of a young man growing up in Sarajevo who later attempts to navigate a new life in Chicago while working minimum-wage jobs. The book, like the rest of Hemon’s work, was notable for the author’s inventive use of the English language. He was awarded a MacArthur Foundation “genius grant” in 2004.

The Lazarus Project (2008) intertwined two stories of eastern European immigrants to Chicago. Vladimir Brik, a Bosnian immigrant writer and the novel’s narrator, becomes obsessed with a murder case from nearly a century earlier in which Lazarus Averbuch, a young Russian Jew, was shot and killed by Chicago’s police chief. Hemon received much critical acclaim for the novel, which was a finalist for a National Book Award. He followed this with Love and Obstacles (2009), a collection of short stories narrated by a young man who leaves Sarajevo for the United States when war breaks out in his home country. The Making of Zombie Wars (2015) chronicles the quotidian difficulties of a workaday writer attempting to finish a screenplay about a zombie invasion.

Hemon also cowrote the screenplay for The Matrix Resurrections (2021), the fourth installment in the popular sci-fi Matrix series. His other works included the memoirs The Book of My Lives (2013) and My Parents: An Introduction/This Does Not Belong to You (2019). The latter book consists of two volumes.

Reviews

[Orsodimondo · Rating 5 out of 5]

NON SONO EBREO, NEMMENO MUSULMANO, SERBO O CROATO. SONO COMPLICATO.



Ad Aleksandar Hemon riesce in modo particolarmente azzeccato coniugare la violenza con il quotidiano, l’orrore con l’ordinario, la tenerezza con la crudeltà: sono solo centosettanta piccole pagine, si legge in poco tempo, ma mai prima ho letto qualcosa che raccontasse così bene, a fondo e con chiarezza, come si è arrivati, come è cominciato e cosa è successo nei vicinissimi paesi balcanici durante gli anni Novanta.
Questo librino delle sue vite è un’autobiografia tout court, sono le storie dei suoi prima 40/50 anni (ora ne ha 61).



Sarajevo, le partite a pallone coi ragazzi dell’isolato, quelle a scacchi col padre, la scuola, le ragazze, la famiglia (padre, madre, sorella, che da tempo vivono in Canada), il professore amato perché gli ha insegnato ad amare Shakespeare citandoglielo a memoria in inglese (per poi scoprirlo in televisione a fianco di Karadžić nelle file dei genocidari), i primi bagliori di violenza, l’inizio della guerra ancora geograficamente “lontano”, ma poi arriva, e Sarajevo finisce sotto assedio, coi cecchini che a volte sparano per avvertire, ma in generale sparano per ammazzare.
Il nostro ha l’occasione di lasciare la Bosnia con una borsa di studio negli Stati Uniti, approda a Chicago e non torna più a casa se non a guerra finita, per ritrovarla familiare e al contempo irreale, visto che la strada familiare è stata ribattezzata Viale dei Cecchini. E infatti, casa ormai è Chicago e quindi di ritorno da casa, tornavo a casa.
I primi tempi nella nuova città, la difficoltà della lingua e della mancanza di soldi, i primi lavori, gli sforzi per inserirsi e restare comunque sradicato, il bar di zona dove gioca a scacchi per weekend interi, le partite di calcio con giocatori di tutto il mondo, l’inizio della scrittura direttamente in lingua inglese (come Conrad, come Nabokov).
E, il gusto dell’esilio, bando alla nostalgia.


La Biblioteca di Sarajevo subito dopo l’incendio che la distrusse nella notte tra il 25 e il 26 agosto 1993.

L’immaginazione narrativa – e quindi la letteratura – è uno strumento evolutivo fondamentale per la sopravvivenza. Elaboriamo il mondo raccontando storie e produciamo conoscenza umana stringendo legami con dei noi immaginati.

E poi quel finale lungo tredici pagine intitolato “L’acquario” che fino all’ultimo ho sperato fosse finzione, fino all’ultimo ho sperato Hemon mi rivelasse che stava scherzando e giocando con me: ma così non è stato, e quello che racconta gela il sangue, blocca il cuore. Ma anche qui è sempre ironico e autoironico, anche qui sa come alleggerire, convinto (come me) che:
Una delle credenze religiose più meschine è che la sofferenza nobiliti, che sia una tappa lungo il cammino verso qualche forma di illuminazione o salvezza. La sofferenza… di Isabel non ha fatto niente per lei né per noi né per il mondo… Non abbiamo imparato nessuna lezione che valesse la pena imparare; non abbiamo acquisito nessuna esperienza che possa giovare a chicchessia.


Uno degli scatti più noti del fotografo americano Ron Haviv ritrae un soldato della Guardia volontaria serba mentre sferra un calcio al cadavere di un civile musulmano. Colpendo, il militare tiene con indifferenza una sigaretta tra le dita della mano – il polso piegato, la postura nel complesso indolente. E sferra il calcio al cadavere per sincerarsi che sia morto davvero. O solo per spregio.

[Kris · Rating 4 out of 5]

Below is my review of Hemon's first non-fiction collection, which was posted at California Literary Review -- http://calitreview.com/37340/book-rev...

In the Acknowledgements to The Book of My Lives, his first volume of non-fiction, Hemon writes, “I write fiction because I cannot not do it, but I have to be pressed into writing nonfiction.” There is a feeling of reticence hanging over this collection, which is composed of revised articles and essays published elsewhere. The title The Book of My Lives is apt: rather than presenting a seamless memoir, Hemon instead emphasizes discontinuity, a series of Aleksandar Hemons moving before us in different settings, sometimes without roots to ground them. His decision to provide his version of a table of contents at the end of the book, and to title it “Table of Discontents,” is a play on words that reveals a sense of sadness and dislocation. Given Hemon’s identity as a Bosnian who emigrated to the United States and watched much of the violence and destruction of his homeland from afar, this is not surprising. And indeed, Hemon’s trademark use of language, his somewhat distanced critical eye, and his appreciation for the absurdities of life come together to make this autobiographical collection greater than the sum of its parts.

Hemon opens with “The Lives of Others,” a seven-part chapter in which he explores identity in many forms. He begins in “Who is That?” with the startling changes brought into his life by the birth of his sister Kristina in 1969 when he was four years old, and his attempts to “exterminate” her by choking her:
“Suddenly, I recognized that I shouldn’t be doing what I was doing, I shouldn’t be killing her, because she was my little sister, because I loved her. But the body is always ahead of the thought and I kept up the pressure for another moment, until she started vomiting curdled breast milk. I was terrified with the possibility of losing her: her name was Kristina; I was her big brother; I wanted her to live so I could love her more. But, although I knew how I could end her life, I didn’t know how I could stop her from dying.”
Luckily, his mother came to the rescue, but this episode remained important for Hemon’s sense of identity:
“The recollection of that sororicide attempt is the earliest memory in which I can observe myself from outside: what I see is me and my sister. Never again would I be alone in the world, never again would I have it exclusively for myself. Never again would my selfhood be a sovereign territory devoid of the presence of others. Never again would I have all the chocolate for myself.”

Throughout the rest of the chapter, Hemon continues to explore different facets of his identity through his life: the importance of the raja, a generational hierarchy of children in Sarajevo organized by location; the immigrant experiences of his parents and sister when they moved to Ontario in 1993; the crucial importance of ethnic identity in Bosia, where it shadowed all other aspects of identity. Hemon concludes by considering how he would now answer the question, “Who are you?”:
“So I say I am complicated. I’d also like to add that I am nothing if not an entanglement of unanswerable questions, a cluster of others.
“I’d like to say it might be too early to tell.”

Many of the other chapters in The Book of My Lives are less obviously thematic, but continue to reveal Hemon’s discomfort with his identity. In “Family Dining,” he considers the ways that eating borscht transports him from Chicago, back in time and across space to Hemon family meals in Sarajevo. In “The Kauders Case,” he describes the surprising ways in which fiction became life when he aired some radio pieces based on a character he developed, Alphonse Kauders, as a means to criticize Tito. In several chapters, Hemon describes the mountain cabin at the Jahorina ski resort where he not only spent family vacations, but also weathered the violence from the Croatian war in 1991:
"My monastic mountain living was now about rudimentary thought protection, for once war got inside my mind, I feared, it would burn and pillage it. I read The Magic Mountain and Kafka’s letters; I wrote stuff full of madness, death, and whimsical wordplay; I listened to Miles Davis, who died that fall, while staring at the embers in our fireplace. On my hikes I conducted imaginary conversations with imaginary partners, not unlike the ones between Castorp and Settembrini in Mann’s novel. I chopped a lot of wood to ease my rising anxiety. Occasionally, I climbed a steep mountain face without any gear or protection. It was a kind of suicidal self-soothing challenge: if I made it all the way to the top without falling, I thought, I could survive the war. One of the daily rituals was watching the nightly news broadcast at 7:30, and the news was never good, always worse.”

Hemon’s sense of watching the Croatian war from a distance permeates his life in the US as well. In “The Lives of a Flaneur,” Hemon remembers his experiences volunteering at the International Human Rights Law Institute of DePaul University’s College of Law, where he contributed to a project investigating Bosnian war crimes by identifying the location of destroyed and damaged buildings in Sarajevo:
“Many of the buildings photographed were roofless, hole-ridden, or burned, their windows blown out. There were few people in those pictures, but what I was doing felt very much like identifying corpses. Now and then I could recall the street or even the exact address; sometimes the buildings were so familiar they seemed unreal. There was, for example, the building at the corner of Danijela Ozme and Kralja Tomislava, across from which I used to wait for Renata, my high school girlfriend, to come down from Džidžikovac. Back then, there was a supermarket on the ground floor of the building, where I’d buy candy or cigarettes when she was late, which was always. I’d known that building for years. It had stood in its place solid, indelible. I’d never devoted any thought to it until I saw its picture in Chicago. In the photograph, the building was hollow, disemboweled by a shell, which had evidently fallen through the roof and dropped down a few floors. The supermarket now existed only in the flooded storage space of my memory.
“There were also buildings that I recognized but could not exactly place. And then there were the ones that were wholly unknown to me—I couldn’t even figure out what part of town they might have been in. I have learned since then that you don’t need to know every part of a city to own the whole of it, but in that office in downtown Chicago it terrified me to think that there was some part of Sarajevo I didn’t know and probably never would, as it was now disintegrating, like a cardboard stage set, in the rain of shells. If my mind and my city were the same thing then I was losing my mind. Converting Chicago into my personal space became not just metaphysically essential but psychiatrically urgent as well.”

In addition to writing heartrending passages like the ones above, Hemon also gives full rein to his eye for detail and his love of the absurd, especially in the chapter “If God Existed, He’d Be A Solid Mid-Fielder,” in which he describes his experiences playing in weekend soccer games with other immigrants to Chicago. The chapter is filled with finely-observed details about the different men with whom he was playing, including some beautifully grounded descriptions of a game that was interrupted by a torrential downpour:
“Meanwhile, on the bike path, Lalas (nicknamed after the American soccer player) stands beside his wife, who is in a wheelchair. She has a horrific case of fast-advancing MS and cannot move fast enough to get out of the rain. They stand together, waiting for the calamity to end: Lalas in his Uptown United T-shirt, his wife under a piece of cardboard slowly and irreversibly dissolving in the rain. The Tibetan goalie and his Tibetan friends, whom I’d never seen before and never would after that day, are playing a game on the field, which is now completely covered with water, as if running in slow motion on the surface of a placid river. The ground is giving off vapor, the mist touching their ankles, and at moments it seems that they’re levitating above the flood. Lalas and his wife are perfectly calm watching them, as if nothing could ever harm them. (She has passed away since that day, somebody rest her soul.) They see one of the Tibetans scoring a goal, the rain-heavy ball sliding between the hands of the goalie, who lands in a puddle. He is untroubled, smiling, and from where I sit, he could well be the Dalai Lama himself.”

For Hemon, the sense of being “completely connected with everything and everyone around you” made moments like this a necessary part of his life in Chicago.

The most personal and moving chapter is Hemon’s final one, “The Aquarium,” a wrenching description of the illness and death of his younger daughter Isabel from an extremely rare atypical teratoid rhabdoid tumor. The chapter moves back and forth from the hospital where Isabel had surgeries and chemotherapy treatments (starting when she was 10 months old), to his home where he and his wife Teri tried to help their older daughter Ella live as normal life as possible under the circumstances. Ella started to talk about an imaginary brother, named Mingus, who was later represented by an inflatable blue space alien. This alien is depicted on the cover of The Books of My Lives. Mingus represents the power of imagination to cope with tragedies. It seems fitting that Hemon concludes this honest, open, terribly sad chapter with these words:
“Mingus is still good and well, going steadily about his alternative-existence business. Although he stays with us a lot, he lives around the corner yet again, with his parents and a variable number of siblings, most recently two brothers, Jackon and Cliff, and a sister, Piccadilly. He has had his own children—three sons, at one point, one of whom was called Andy. When we went skiing, Mingus preferred snowboarding. When we went to London for Christmas, Mingus went to Nebraska. He plays chess (“chest” in Ella’s parlance) pretty well, it seems. Sometimes he yells at Ella (“Shut up, Mingus!” she yells back); other times he loses his own voice, but then speaks in Isabel’s. He is also a good magician. With his magic wand, Ella says, he can make Isabel reappear.”

[Scott · Rating 4 out of 5]

Christ was I not prepared for this book's final essay. Originally titled The Aquarium, maybe you read it in the New Yorker in 2011, about Hemon's younger daughter? I hadn't, nor had I read any of these previously published pieces, edited slightly and assembled chronologically for a collection that amounts to Aleksandar Hemon's memoir. And for much of The Book of My Lives I was thinking the same sorts of things that I was thinking when I read his novel, The Lazarus Project. Which is, basically: this guy can really write, but I wish he was a little more emotional, a little less intellectual. He could try to lighten up a bit, too, maybe? Sometimes I feel like Hemon's telling a funny story, but for some reason I'm not laughing. Anyway, there are some terrific scenes/passages/chapters/essays here, most especially when he talks about his beloved, native Sarajevo, which he left, for Chicago, right before war ripped that country to pieces in the mid 1990s. Hemon clearly had as massive, and as active, a crush on Sarajevo as I do on New York City, which drives him to walk his city in the same way I walk mine, with energy and passion, always watching, finding something new even on the most familiar blocks, feeling at peace, and at one, with the urban organism as a whole. Which sounds corny and crazy, but it's true. I liked these chapters a lot. And he does a nice job of portraying the giddy sense of doom, that reckless, desperate need to really FEEL and LIVE, that fell over everyone and everything in the year or so before the fighting really hit home, figuratively and literally. And the story of his apartment in a horrifyingly filthy Chicago house, with the insane landlady and the three dogs? Here Hemon finally DID make me chuckle out loud, even as my skin was crawling. So I was enjoying myself with The Book of My Lives, engaged and admiring, even while wanting Hemon to open his heart just a little more... and then the last chapter came and WHAMMO!!! Only recommended if you want tears streaming down your face, softly crying, as you're riding the F train. Which, I must say, I don't mind doing at all, when the horror and sadness is so honestly earned, and genuinely deserved.

[Julie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Seven years ago, a patron returned this book to me at the Circulation desk saying that I would enjoy reading it. I was a little taken aback, while I enjoyed a natural rapport with her, I didn't really know her and couldn't think how she would know my taste in reading! Frankly, I was fascinated, however, the cover was a little off-putting and I assumed it was some sort of science fiction. I put it on my to-be-read list and left it there.

Then, a month ago, I decided to read or remove books that had been on my to-be-read pile the longest. I was truly taken by surprise to realize that this book is not at all what I imagined! Once I picked it up, I quickly became absorbed in Aleksandar Hemon's narrative of how he came to live in Chicago from Sarajevo. His story of his lives in both Sarajevo and Chicago is truly fascinating and beautifully and devastatingly written.

Standout passages that either took my breath away or caused me to pause for thought:

"The situation of immigration leads to a kind of self-othering as well. Displacement results in a tenuous relationship with the past, with the self that used to exist and operate in a different place, where the qualities that constituted us were in no need of negotiation."

I loved Hemon's reminisces of his family's borscht as "a utopian dish: ideally, it contains everything; it is produced and consumed collectively; and it can be refrigerated and reheated in perpetuity." And his final conclusion that it "needs to be prepared on the low but steady fire of love and consumed in a ritual of indelible togetherness." It's a family meal best enjoyed while gathered together around the dining table together. His same sense of warmth and togetherness cannot be recreated in a solitary bowl eaten all alone in his apartment in Chicago.

For me, this brings back memories of meals prepared by my grandmother that my family ate heartily and enjoyed thoroughly while feeling relaxed in the warmth of her love and care of us. It leaves me nostalgic for what was in my 'old' country. At first, trying to re-create these dishes in my 'new' country was fraught, the same ingredients were not available, substitutions had to be made. It's not the same. It doesn't taste the same.

Gradually, after a time of feeling dislocated and no longer belonging in either country, an adaptation occurred. Our lives had been reshaped into a new reality. The 'new' country had become 'home.' I have a sense that this happened for the Hemon family also.

Finally, my favorite passage of all:

"Narrative imagination - and therefore fiction - is a basic evolutionary tool of survival. We process the world by telling stories and produce human knowledge through our engagement with imagined selves."

[Marcello S · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ogni tanto mi metto a cercare autori di cui si parla bene ma che non ho mai sentito nominare. Aleksandar Hemon è uno di questi.
Tipo che Colum McCann scrive: "Diciamocelo, A.H. è il più grande scrittore della nostra generazione".
Non male come incoraggiamento a leggerlo.

Questo è un libro autobiografico (quelli che ne sanno lo chiamerebbero memoir) in cui ogni capitolo è un momento della sua vita.
C'è Sarajevo, la città dove è nato e che ha lasciato appena prima della guerra in Bosnia. E c'è Chicago, la città che non ha più lasciato proprio nel momento in cui a Sarajevo stava per iniziare "l'assedio più lungo dell'era moderna".

Infanzia, adolescenza, età adulta. Tra le altre cose si parla di radio, calcio, scacchi, matematica, cani, socialismo, identità, amore.

È un bel libro, a cui forse manca qualcosa per farmici davvero innamorare. La prima parte è forse la meno incisiva. Non nego, però, che ci sono dei momenti davvero magici (i periodi di isolamento in montagna, l'amore per Chicago).

Se siete sensibili, il finale è da lacrimoni, oltre che bellissimo. E da solo, potenzialmente, vale tutto. [74/100]

[Roxane · Rating 5 out of 5]

Extraordinary chronicle of one man's lives. Sweeping yet intimate. Both personal and political. Masterfully organized from the dedication through the very last word of the final essay. The intelligence and passion of these essays shall not soon be forgotten.

[merixien · Rating 5 out of 5]

Saraybosna’dan Amerika’ya, kayıplarla çizilmiş hayatını muazzam bir şekilde anlatıyor Hemon. İronik bir dil batta zaman zaman mizahla gölgelemeye çalışsa da anlattığı her bir anı canımı acıttı. Akvaryum ise kalbime kazındı.

[Renin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Çok beğendim! Savaş, göçmenlik, yeni hayatlar kurma ve eskilerinden kopamama, bazen de kopuverme, hepsini çok iyi anlattığını düşünüyorum.

Yugoslavya'nın dağılma sürecini biraz olsun takip etmiş olanların okuması gerekiyor. Bazı yorumlarda kitabı okuyanların o dönemi öğrenmek için okuduklarını ama çok da yani şeyedemediklerini okudum. Olmaz tabii. Isıdora'nın, beyaz kartalların ne olduğunu bilmeden, Karadzic'in Meclis'te yaptığı konuşmayı veya Prof. Koljevic'in tumturaklı ve üstten konuşmalarını izlemeden gerçekten de kitabın derinine inmek zor. Görüntülere aşina olmak gerekiyor ki hayret ve dehşet okları yerini bulsun.

BBC'nin bir belgeseli var, 6 bölümlük. Belki de dönemi bilmeyenler, kitabı okumadan önce onu izlese daha iyi olur. Buyrun:

https://youtu.be/vDADy9b2IBM

İzlemeyen herkes de izlese aslında olur, neden olmasın? Çünkü biliyorsunuz, de te fabula narratur. Biz de çok yakınen biliyoruz Zeki Müren nezaketinde görünen insanların haşırt diye azılı bir faşiste dönüşüvermesini veya acil savaş çıkarmak isteyenlerin nasıl gayretle milliyetçilik pompaladığını.

Unutmadan: Kitabın çevirisi de mis gibiydi bence. Seda Çıngay Mellor'un çevirilerini takip ediyorum zaten, etmeye devam edeceğim.

[Karina Padureanu · Rating 5 out of 5]

M-a cucerit Aleksandar Hemon, autor bosniac, cu radacini in Ucraina, emigrat in SUA la inceputul cumplitului razboi din fosta Iugoslavie.

Cartea este o colectie de articole aparute in diverse publicatii, dar ele se imbina armonios intr-un tot si nici nu cred ca se putea un titlu mai potrivit.

Mai intai copilaria nostalgica si nebunia frumoasa de adolescent, " intr-un Sarajevo intact, desi socialist, cu fotbal si "frumustea evanescenta a jocului" de sah, cu petreceri inedite si periculoase, cu lecturi intense pe un "munte vrajit".

Apoi urmeaza socul razboiului. Ceea ce pareau niste "exceptii oribile" la inceput se transforma in cosmarul a "sa fie ceea ce nu poate fi", asa cum spune un cunoscut poem epic , iar in vremuri moderne "reinterpretat" de criminalul de razboi Karadzic in ceva ca "o lectie de tipul Shakespeare pentru idioti", adica :
"A fost ceea ce a fost pentru ca ceea ce nu de putea intampla pana la urma s-a intamplat."

Este in mare parte despre drama pe care o traieste un emigrant, "dislocat dintr-un spatiu care imi apartinuse", ( indiferent cine eram inainte, acum suntem impartiti intre "noi-aici" si "noi-acolo"), pana intr-un final cand "interiorul de imigrant incepuse sa fuzioneze cu exteriorul american", iar intors dupa razboi in Sarajevo, simte ca "totul in jurul meu era deopotriva dureros de familiar si complet straniu si distant."

Nostalgie, tristete, durere, dar si umor, portrete de oameni frumosi, filme si muzica, mancaruri traditionale (povestea cu borsul ucrainean perfect m-a facut sa rad cu lacrimi).
"Sa fac bors doar pentru mine m-a ajutat sa inteleg metafizica meselor in familie : mancarea trebuie pregatita pe focul molcom, dar constant al iubirii si consumata intr-un ritual de nesters al vietii impreuna. Ingredientul crucial al borsului perfect este o familie numeroasa si infometata."

Cartea aceasta, in mare parte dureroasa, te poarta prin toate starile, este atat de natural si frumos scrisa si empatizezi cu tot ceea este in ea si s-a petrecut odata.

[emre · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ne desem bilemiyorum. Her şeyden önce, bu "başka bir ülkeye göçen ve ana dilinden başka bir dilde yazmaya başlayan" yazarların eserlerini okumayı çok seviyorum. Çok farklı bir lezzet veriyor. Joseph Conrad ve Eduardo Berti'de bu tadı almıştım, Hemon da aynı tadı bıraktı bende.

Göçmenlik, mültecilik, yerinden yurdundan olmuşluk; adına ne dersek diyelim, üzerinde en çok düşündüğüm insan hâllerinden biri. Kariyerimi bu noktada inşa etmeye karar verecek kadar önemsiyorum galiba bu mevzuyu. Hemon da, "yerinden yurdundan olmuş kavmi"ni o kadar içten ve dokunaklı bir biçimde anlatmış ki, defalarca okuyup, göç sosyolojisine dair, iç içe geçmiş bir sürü konuyu tek bir cümlede anlatabildiği için hayran kaldığım yerler oldu kitapta. Futbol ve Satranç ile ilgili bölümler, özellikle bu bağlamda muhteşemdi.

Balkan insanına özgü olduğunu düşündüğüm kara mizaha yakın bir yerde duran "melankolik mizah" yine buradaydı. Bir şehre ait olmak, şehrin öyküsünü dinlemek ve anlatmak, yer yer şehrengizlere, yer yer şehri bir insan gibi anlatmaya benzeyen yazılar yazmak da yine hemen tüm Balkan kökenli yazarlarda ortak olarak bulduğum temalardan biriydi ve kitapta da vardı. Hem Saraybosna hem de Chicago'yu öyle güzel anlatmıştı ki. Belki de şehirlerinin ellerinden yitip gittiğine sıkça şahit oldukları için çareyi onu anlatmakta, anlatarak yaşatmakta buluyorlardır, bilemiyorum.

Keşke daha evvel okusaymışım diye hayıflanmadım, aksine tam zamanında, zamanımda okuduğumu düşünüyorum. Aleksandar Hemon'u, bu melankolik flanörü çok sevdim. Bulabildiğim bütün kitaplarını okuyacağım.

[emily · Rating 4 out of 5]

'Tranquilized by the weeks of therapeutic reading (Kafka, Mann), I could not initially comprehend what Karadžić meant by “annihilation.” I groped for a milder, less terrifying interpretation—perhaps he meant “historical irrelevance”? I could settle for historical irrelevance, whatever it meant. What he was saying was well outside the scope of my humanist imagination, prone to reveries and fears; his words extended far beyond the habits of normalcy I desperately clung to as war loomed over what Sarajevans called “common life.”'

Slightly to my own surprise, I like this one more than I thought I would. It's not just what's written, but how it's written (stylistically, syntactically, tone, and etc.). Beautiful lines, pretty fab essays. Confessedly, this was brought to my attention through his other shorter collection, The Matters of Life, Death, and More: Writing on Soccer (which now thinking about it, thought I haven't catalogued/reviewed it on GR, it is a bit of a 5* book for me). The essay 'If God Existed, He'd Be a Solid Midfielder' is also in this collection. I 'enjoyed' it. But if you're a hardcore fan of David Becks, you're probably better off not reading Hemon's essays/collection on 'football' (for Hemon, Becks is a bit overrated is all I will offer/comment on it). Longer RTC later, perhaps.

[Banu Yıldıran Genç · Rating 4 out of 5]

bu ara balkanlar’dan gidiyorum. aleksandar hemon zaten sevdiğim bir yazar, hayatını anlattığı bu denemeleri bize bir yazarın tüm dünyasını içtenlikle açıyor.
90’larda avrupa’nın tam ortasında yaşanan bir savaştan amerika’ya kaçarak kurtulan yazarın özellikle ilk bölümlerde anlattıkları mülteciliğin, savaşın tüm korkunçluğunu, yok olmuş bir ülkeye uzaktan tanıklık etmenin acısını hissettiriyor.
amerika bölümleri ise önce göçmenlik acısıyla başlarken, sonra yaşanabilecek en büyük acıya, çocuğunun kaybına taşıyor okurları.
son derece içten, açık, trajediden uzak bir biçimde.
ve seda çıngay mellor’un çevirisi denemeleri sanki türkçe yazılmışçasına bir doğallık taşıyor.
kitap hakkında agos'a yazdım.
https://tembelveyazar.blogspot.com/20...

[Kansas · Rating 4 out of 5]

https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2024...

"Aterricé en O'Hare el 14 de marzo de 1992. Recuerdo que el día estaba despejado, con mucho sol. Al salir del aeropuerto, camino de la ciudad, vi por primera vez los altos edificios de Chicago, una ciudad enorme, lejana, geométrica, de un verde más oscuro que el esmeralda contra el cielo azul."


Igual este comentario podría ir en un tandem unido a la novela última que vengo de leer "Yo navegué con Magallanes", de Stuart Dybek porque llegué a estas memorias de Aleksandar Hemon mientras leía a Dybek, hijo de padres emigrantes polacos que sitúa sus historias en Chicago, e investigando me llamaron la atención las similitudes entre ambos autores, la amistad entre ellos cuando Hemon llegó a Chicago como desplazado tras el conflicto bélico, conexiones continuas. Ya había leído antes a Hemon, pero realmente lo que me interesaba de estas memorias era quizás esa búsqueda de identidad del desplazado, y en este caso concreto, Chicago es el nexo de unión entre ambos autores, una ciudad que funciona para ellos como baluarte donde agarrarse cuando la desubicación existencial te desborda. En "Yo navegué con Magallanes" queda muy patente esa eterna búsqueda de identidad o de reafirmación, como al mismo tiempo queda muy definido el lugar, en este caso, como emplazamiento de referencia en el que reafirmar esta identidad. Por motivos personales de experiencias de vida, es un tema que siempre me ha interesado mucho y en los autores balcánicos que leí el año pasado encontré que este tema del desplazamiento físico era un tema recurrente en la mayoría de ellos, así que no deja de ser una literatura a la que acabas asimilando como conexión personal. Leyendo estos quince relatos autobiográficos de Hemon al mismo tiempo que avanzaba con la novela de Dybek, que de alguna forma son también relatos interconectados por experiencias personales aunque con la carcasa de novela, no dejé de encontrar momentos recurrentes que se repetían: la infancia, la vida familiar, el descubrimiento de la cultura a medida que vas creciendo, las rebeliones, las personas referentes de tu vida… todo esto que es tan universal y que aunque sean experiencias propias en este caso de Hemon, o de Dybek, y que sin embargo, son perfectamente reconocibles para cualquiera de nosotros. Cuando el equilibrio se rompe por culpa de que tu lugar en el mundo ya no es el que era, lo primero que parece derrumbarse es la propia identidad.


"La inmigración también conduce a una especie de enajenación de uno mismo. El desplazamiento se traduce en una tenue relación con el pasado, con el yo que existía y que obraba en un lugar diferente, donde las cualidades que constituían nuestra individualidad no tenían necesidad de regateos.

"La inmigración es una crisis ontológica porque nos obliga a negociar las condiciones de nuestra individualidad en circunstancias existenciales que cambian continuamente. La persona desplazada lucha por mantener la estabilidad narrativa, ¡he aquí mi historia!, mediante la nostalgia sistemática.
[...]
Al mismo tiempo tenemos la ineludible realidad del yo transformado por la inmigración: al margen de qué personas hubiéramos sido, ahora estamos divididos entre nosotros-aqui (por ejemplo, en Canadá) y nosotros-allí (por ejemplo, en Bosnia)."


El libro de mis vidas da título a uno de los relatos de esta colección de historias autobiográficas en la que Hemon se centra sobre todo en esta búsqueda cambiante de identidad. El caso es que hay dos partes perfectamente marcadas: la primera mitad está centrada en sus experiencias en su tierra natal de Bosnia y la segunda parte, ya en Chicago, y casí que me gustaron más estos últimos relatos, aquellos en los que se siente un desplazado perdido en un mundo que no tiene nada que ver con el suyo. Es cierto que este desplazamiento no fue voluntario sino que Hemon se vio estancado en Estados Unidos en pleno estallido de la guerra de Bosnia, y que a partir de aquí se ve obligado a construir una vida y empezar de cero fuera de su país, pero a mi entender consigue transmitir muy bien esta dificultad de reafirmar una identidad en una tierra que no tiene nada que ver con uno mismo y que NO ha buscado voluntariamente en un principio, y termina de definir también muy bien lo importante que es el lugar para esta identidad. En la novela de Stuart Dybek, es un tema continuamente presente, y en esta colección de relatos de Hemon, he tenido la misma impresión. Objetos, frases, gente, momentos en una memoria que quedan ya perdidos para siempre y que sin embargo el recuerdo intenta mantenerlos vivos sea como sea. En Yo navegué con Magallanes me llegaron al alma sobre todo los padres del protagonista, que no terminan de encontrar esta identidad , y en esta obra de Hemon, me llegan al alma los padres de Hemon que una vez en Canadá, tampoco terminaron nunca de encontrar esta identidad perdida y que convierte la vida en una tragedia, en un sufrimiento crónico por culpa de la nostalgia. Ni siquiera en los reencuentros de Hemon con sus padres ya instalados en Canadá, ya nada parecía igual: algo se había perdido en el camino.


“Nos añorábamos incluso cuando estábamos juntos, porque lo que teníamos delante y no queríamos ver, la desaparición de nuestra vida anterior, ya no era absolutamente nada en comparación con lo que había sido. Todo lo que hacíamos juntos en Canadá nos recordaba lo que habíamos hecho juntos en Bosnia.”


Es un tema complejo este de la metafísica de inmigración, tal como se refiere a él Hemon, y realmente quien no se haya visto sumido en estas circunstancias, de la brusquedad de ese cambio y de lo que supone para la reafirmación de uno mismo, quizás no llegue a entenderlo nunca, pero creo que Aleksandar Hemon lo describe muy bien. No todos los relatos me han gustado en la misma medida, por ejemplo, el último, El Acuario, me parece un poco anticlimático con respecto al resto, pero así y todo la fuerza que tiene Hemon a la hora de describirnos esta desubicación en un momento dado de su vida, es lo que más me interesa en esta obra. No son unas memorias al uso, son retazos de momentos, de sensaciones, de silencios mientras intenta encontrar algo a lo que agarrarse en una tierra extraña (“Era mejor guardar silencio que decir lo que no tenía interés. Había que proteger de la agresión de las palabras inútiles el silencioso rincón que hay en el más profundo rincón de uno mismo”), de flashes fugaces y momentáneos que te hacen perderte en ti mismo para al momento siguiente continuar con tu vida. Quizás por esto funcionan estas memorias, un género por otra parte un tanto ambiguo en el sentido de que la misma memoria no es lineal y nos traiciona continuamente pero Hemon consigue plasmar sobre todo una vida interior en la que está siempre presente su nostalgia por aquello que fue y que ya es totalmente irrecuperable. Al igual que en la novela de Dybek, en ésta, Hemon reconoce a Chicago como su otro hogar, y no deja de ser otra carta de amor a la ciudad a la que se agarró como un hierro ardiendo. Toda una ciudad baluarte.


“Mientras que los paisajes urbanos de Sarajevo habían estado poblados por caras conocidas, por experiencias compartidas y susceptibles de compartirse, el Chicago que yo me esforzaba por comprender estaba oscurecido por el tema del anonimato voluntario.
[...]
Mi desplazamiento fue metafísico en la misma medida exacta en que lo fue físico. Pero yo no podía vivir en ninguna parte; quería de Chicago lo que había obtenido de Sarajevo: una geografía del alma."

♫♫♫ I dream of Chicago - Parlours ♫♫♫

[Gabriela Pistol · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5
Sunt bucăți foarte bune și cu siguranța sunt unele copleșitoare emoțional. Dar fragmentelor le lipsește rotunjirea, episoadele (în afară de razboiul din Bosnia și pierderea unui membru al familiei - nu vreau să dau spoilere) par alese aleatoriu pentru a ilustra o temă anume, nu par să fie intrinsec semnificative. Rămân cu o senzație de incomplet.

Nota lui Hemon din Mulțumiri că oamenii au tras de el să scrie non-ficțiune e cam ce simt și eu: că fragmentele acestea sunt forțate.
Mult mai mult mi-a plăcut în ficțiune, cu Proiectul Lazarus.

[Annalisa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Può capitare di incontrare un libro in cui drammi e tragedie vengono raccontate con un’impronta di ironia e di leggerezza, in questo caso però l’autore riesce a conferire alla sua voce anche grande intensità, sincerità e forza narrativa, mantenendo sobrietà e misura, cosa non scontata. Il risultato è un libro struggente, un’autobiografia fatta di scene distinte in cui si mescolano il piano individuale (la sua vita ma anche quella di conoscenti, amici e parenti) e il piano della Storia che si compenetrano in un mix ben riuscito, con immagini di grande efficacia simbolica. Un autore che voglio continuare a leggere.

[Glenn Sumi · Rating 4 out of 5]

Aleksandar Hemon’s first book of non-fiction is as complex and entertaining as his novels and short stories.

The Book Of My Lives is a series of personal essays that form a loose sort of memoir reflecting the various lives Hemon’s lived up until now: Bosnian child, bohemian layabout, socialist shit-disturber, American immigrant, husband, father, artist.

Born in Sarajevo, he was on a month-long trip to the U.S. when war broke out there, essentially stranding him in a new country where he could barely speak the language, although he knew lots about American culture.

The essays don’t follow a predictable path – they hop around in chronology, for instance – but the range of topics is intriguing. And Hemon has a poet’s eye for the unifying symbol.

Playing in a regular pickup soccer game in his adoptive city of Chicago lets him discuss the differences between immigrants and locals. And a description of his paltry meals during his mandatory service in the Yugoslav People’s Army leads to reflections on borscht and the pleasures and pains of family dining.

Because of the format, there’s some repetition. And it’s odd that there’s no account of Hemon’s learning to write and publish in English. (When he first started out in the U.S., he couldn’t write fiction in any language.) But each self-contained essay is readable – even the breezy love letter to Chicago that will accompany me the next time I visit the Windy City.

Two chapters are outstanding. In one, he reflects on a former beloved lit professor who went on to become the right-hand man of Serbian Democratic Party president Radovan Karadzic, the Butcher of Bosnia.

And the poignant final essay chronicles a family tragedy. Devoid of sentimentality but full of rich detail, Hemon manages here to capture a dark moment in his life while showing how storytelling lets us make sense of such things.

Apropos for one of the finest storytellers around.

https://www.nowtoronto.com/books/stor...

[Melanie · Rating 5 out of 5]

At the end of her review of this stupendous collection of essays for the Kirkus Review, Jenny Hendrix writes:

"Perhaps this is why, throughout, one gets the sense that Hemon is trying to draw himself, not just as a series of characters in various essays (“I have the sense of my life as several parallel acts,” he says), but as a character whose memories, pulled together and edited, have the same kind of intrinsic artifice as the narrative of a novel. In one passage, Hemon compares his life to an apparition of Mary that only those who expect it can see. This book seems like a way of learning to see that apparition, of cultivating the proper creative expectance. Life as a coherent entity being, like a memoir or a Virgin in the frozen peas, only really visible to the believer."

A way of learning to see that apparition, of cultivating the proper creative expectance.

That is simply the most beautiful way to illustrate what goes on in every single essay of this stark and unflinchingly honest collection. Hemon's sense of self (or rather "selves") is unadorned, fiercely intelligent, complex and in continuous awe of all the ambiguities that make us who we are: frail human beings in constant search of stories.

A brave and essential piece of work.

[Larnacouer de SH · Rating 4 out of 5]

Şehrin havası sönmüş, esriklik hali bitkin düşmüştü. Bir gece Olimpik Müze'nin kafesine gittim Eskiden orada çok takılırdık. Gözleri camlaşmış insanların birbirleriyle hemen hiç konuşmadan korkunç uzaklara dalıp gitmesini seyrettim; kimileri fena halde uyuşturucu çekmiş, kimileri doğal olarak felce uğramıştı; hepsi de artık inkar edilemez olanın karşısında dehşet içindeydi: Bitmişti.
Savaş gelmişti ve artık hepimiz kimin yaşayacağını, kimin öldüreceğini ve kimin öleceğini görmek için bekliyorduk.

//

Kitabı "dramatik" kelimesiyle özetlesem yanlış bir tanım olmaz bence; hazmetmesi bazen kolay bazen zor ve ironik bir şekilde çok kolay okunuyor.
Aynı temada öyle çok okuma yapıyorum ki, bazen rüyalarımda bile yıkımı görüyorum.

[Vanja Šušnjar Čanković · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ovo je moj prvi susret sa stvaralaštvom Aleksandra Hemona i drago mi je što se se desio. Čitala sam ga dugo jer je emotivno vrlo zahtjevan pogotovo kad se zna da je u pitanju autobiografija. Uživala sam sa svakom ličnom pričom, hronikom, esejem.

Ovo je, dakle, zbirka memoara uklopljenih u svojevrstan roman u kojem ima svega, vrlo pronicljivih i intelektualnih zapažanja o nesrećnom ratu u BiH, emigracijama, susretu s novim kulturama, preko zabavnih i duhovitih, podjednako kvalitetnih priča o životima velemajstora i specifičnom "mentalitetu" istinskih obožavaoca šaha, kao i priča o fudbalu kao metafori samog života koju potpuno razumijem i s čim se mogu poistovjetiti i čime me je sasvim kupio, preko nekih "tipično" američkih doživljaja i načina pripovijedanja kakva je priča o stanu kod gazdarice koja živi sa psima i mačkama,..

Podstakao me je Hemon da i sama preispitam mnoge svoje stavove naročito pričom o pokojnom profesoru Koljeviću koji mu je predavao i na neki način ga i podstakao da piše, a koji je, kao što znamo, potom bio i aktivan zagovornik tadašnje politike SDS-a.

Eh, ne bih ja bila ja da ne otkrijem sve, ali ovo moram napisati. Knjiga mi je došla u ruke u junu mjesecu, nepunih mjesec dana nakon što sam i sama napisala priču i poslala je na Mondov konkurs "Priče iz komšiluka 3" u čija dva prethodna sam, takođe, učestvovala. I, onda, baš u ovoj knjizi nailazim na tu scenu, istu tu scenu koju ja opisujem u svojoj priči, a koja je, prema priči jednog njegovog prijatelja, učesnika rata, istinita! E to me je tek raspametilo. Ne mogu još otkriti o čemu se radi, ali hoću čim budu rezultati konkursa, a očekuju se sljedeće sedmice kad ću moći objaviti i svoju priču.

I, konačno, taj kraj, posljednja priča koju nisam očekivala, a zbog koje mi je život nakratko stao, zbog koje je dio mene umro i opet oživio.

[F.J. Nanic · Rating 5 out of 5]

It is a real pleasure and honor, if those two go together at all, to read a memoir that attained such prominence and maturity. First of all, we were both born in Sarajevo, the same generation, and we both wrote about "raja (rayah)" that old expression from the Ottoman Empire originally standing for poor people paying taxes to the Sultan, gradually deriving into a well-known synonym that in English means "mates," but also a group of adults or children usually gathered around that magic ball so indispensable for a soccer or basketball match more important than life itself at times.
I use this opportunity to congratulate my fellow countrymen, because I am truly glad whenever Bosnians succeed scattered around this "big" world. Before the war there were only four million of us, enough for a solid city. I don't know how much their number has dropped off after the war. I always remember growing up in my hometown though; we had free medical and free education. I am grateful for the things i have learned there, and I'm proud I'm not responsible for killing, raping, or harming anyone in any way. Like Hemon, I happened to be abroad when the war broke out. He wrote in Chicago, i wrote in Paris. I also worked with the ex-prisoners of the death camps in Omarska and Manjaca, taking care of my refugee mother at the same time. Maybe the funny difference was that I wrote in English while being in France, like in another Mujo & Suljo joke that Hemon pictures so vividly, and that only we can truly understand because we're born into it. I continued being a rolling stone gathering no moss crossing two big ponds all the way to Australia and back. Even there I came across my scattered countrymen. Once you reach New Zealand, "the end of the world," and even there find a NOWHERE MAN from Bosnia hanging on a thread in godforsaken Onehunga, surrounded by bare junky walls, then you realize how small this world is and imbued with so many lives that will never have a book written about them. Lest we forget, they didn't die in war, but they died in peace, as if in their sleep they dug a tunnel and emerged at the other side of the world. I wish all remaining Bosnians would read this book and never forget who they are and where they come from...

[Giovanna · Rating 4 out of 5]

Esattamente come Ella, mi ero trovato con un surplus di parole, la cui ricchezza superava di gran lunga i ridicoli limiti della mia biografia. Avevo avuto bisogno di uno spazio narrativo in cui estendere me stesso.

Ecco perché, in questo libro struggente, Hemon parla non tanto della sua vita, quanto delle sue vite, comprese e filtrate grazie al linguaggio scritto. Con il linguaggio si crea una pluralità di mondi e, nei diversi capitoli, Hemon non vuole tanto raccontarci la sua storia, quanto sdoppiare il suo mondo tramite il linguaggio, per osservarlo da una certa distanza, con il filtro della narrazione, e capirlo meglio. In Storia delle mie vite, quindi, la componente della biografia è inscindibilmente annodata al tema puramente letterario. Le vicende narrate si tengono l'una con l'altra e si richiamano reciprocamente, formando così un mosaico armonioso in cui convivono episodi di pace ed episodi di guerra, testi sugli scacchi e testi sulle bombe, fino ad arrivare all'ultimo straziante capitolo. È un libro ricco di tensioni, non ultima quella di una vita divisa tra la Bosnia, paese d'origine di Hemon, e gli Stati Uniti, suo paese d'adozione, tensione comune a diversi scrittori dell'area balcanica, frantumatasi con la guerra negli anni Novanta. Questo continuo intrecciare i fili della propria vita e il tentativo di guardarla in faccia con coraggio tengono attaccati alle pagine e, riemergendo dalla lettura, sembra che questo libro abbia scavato dentro al lettore, sia andato in profondità, portando poi in superficie una consapevolezza più intensa della vita, anzi delle vite, di ciascuno.

[Ioana Dragomir · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ce fac eu vineri seara: dau peste un final neașteptat la o carte de non-ficțiune

Ce avem noi aici este un tip care știe să scrie, dar care m-a lăsat puțin rece prin modul în care vorbea despre lucrurile ce i se întâmplau. Like, idk, gimme something to work with here? Ori ai o carte care să aibă intrigă. Ori emoție. Ori o aventură dinaia de tipul Tolkien. Dar nu, Hemon e doar un tip ca oricare altul, dar care transmite mai puțin decât minimul dorit. Cred că cel mai mult încercam să îl înțeleg la partea când a avut petrecerea aia tematică, și sovieticii erau ceva gen: "what is this shiet, u are against us". Iar Hemon era pe modul, "ok, aia-e" de parca era acel tip care tot timpul pare calm dar de fapt are creierul prăjit.

Bine, evident că au fost niște texte/pasaje/povestioare din această carte care mi-au plăcut mult. Anumite texte cu esență în care am putut și eu să mă regăsesc datorită contextului comunismului. El cu perspicacitatea lui, voia să le cuprindă pe toate. Adică, câți copii sesezează când sunt copii probleme complexe ca și rasismul? Sau înțeleg că lumea e fucked și nu există speranță și mai bine se duce pe munte cu câinele să citească ca ultimul hermit al lumii moderne?

Un alt șoc a fost cum prezintă America aici - I mean, we know what the hell or what the hell not is happening in that country now. Oarecum, șțiam, anii 90s în America au fost de lux și mulți scăpați de comuniști oricum vedeau țara ca pe Marele Tărâm Promis. Hemon o descrie mai degrabă ... ca pe o gură de aer curat. Pe stilul lui. Îmi place. A fost momentul când mi-am dat seama că era o realitate asta, chiar dacă acum nu mai e validă. Lucrurile se schimbă, timpurile, oamenii. E totul valid. Și el era conștient de asta, avea Sarajevo tipărit ca un tatuaj pe corp dar nu se mai regăsea în locul de unde și-a rupt rădăcinile obligat forțat de circumstanțe.

Ii și colo aflăm chestii despre el (chiar dacă își păstrează tonul pasiv) cum îi place să se plimbe, cum ne zice și nu într-un mod direct cum a trebuit să scape de unele ideologii moștenite din cultură ca să fie fericit. Sau cum a învățat să mănânce singur preparatul familiei, chiar dacă nu avea același gust în lipsa celor 30 de rubedenii. A locuit pe cont propriu. Și-a găsit liniștea după o viață imaginată de fugar și după și-a descoperit inima. Și viața a continuat să meargă mai departe, cu tot cu pierderile și speranțele adunate din rămășițe.

Altă chestie care mi-a plăcut au fost personajele. Man, I wish he meets me and writes about me. La modul ăla. Crează un conturi palpabil, sunt niște oameni care există și îi vedem doar pentru că Hemon îi recrează din imaginație așa bine. Ce privilegiu este să rămâi în mintea cuiva și să fii văzut pentru ambițiile, fericirile, durerile, încăpațânătile, eșuările, succesele tale. Ce privilegiu să faci o astfel de legătură cu cineva cât să îți dedice o poveste prin redarea unor nuanțe de adevărat în onoarea ta.

Și ca să nu fie un final ca oricare altul.... it got right through me. Doamne, finalul ăsta! Nici nu știu ce să mai zic că m-a făcut să plâng și cred că m-am sensibilizat rău de tot că nu e nici prima, nici a doua și probabil nici a treia carte citită în ultimul an care mă fac să bocesc ca un copil bătut de copii de Crăciun. THE FEELS, EVERYONE, HE IS FINALLY BRINGING THE FEELS BACK. Și citești acolo ce citești și nu îți vine sa creezi că e același om/persoană care nu avea nici o treabă că securiștii yugoslavi îl interogau și îl sâcâiau legat de bani. So, basically, me chilling and then it came ... The Final Chapterdown!!!!! Vorbesc serios, am plâns și la cartea asta. Și nu v-o recomand dacă vreți să evitazi cărțile triste sau să bociți noaptea la 3 fără nimeni care să înțeleagă că ai nevoie de spațiu de fapt.

Mie mi-a plăcut să plâng aici, recomand atunci să o citiți totuși dar pe riscul vostru. :P

[Larisa · Rating 5 out of 5]

You think you know who you are. You have a degree or two. You have a job and a family. Perhaps you even have an expensive car, a house and a dog. Imagine one day finding yourself not having any of the above. You are thousands of miles away from what you thought was your home and you have nothing. Who are you? An alien.
The ingenious German social psychologist and philosopher Erich Fromm said: "If I am what I have and if I lose what I have who then am I?” The collection of essays written by Aleksandar Hemon, American writer of Bosnian descent “The Book of my Lives” is about who we are, how we become what we think we are and how we lose ourselves by losing what we had. This book caught me off-guard. It made me laugh, it made me cry, it made me suffer. I didn't read it - I lived through it.
Hemon writes about his childhood in socialist Jugoslavia, and I have a feeling that I played on the same playground. “… we were all Pioneers and we all loved socialism, our country, and it’s greatest son…”. He remembers his family's borscht and I can feel the taste of it in my mouth. “… the food needs to be prepared on the low but steady fire of love and consumed in a ritual of indelible togetherness.” He tells about his first months in America, “… my displacement was metaphysical to the precisely same extent to which it was physical.” - Still is for me.
What if you lose someone you truly love? Suddenly all you have is pain.
My favorite book of the year, “The Book of my Lives” written by Alexandar Hemon.

[Titi Coolda · Rating 5 out of 5]

Parte memorialistică, parte eseuri, o scriitură curată, lipsită de înflorituri, povestea unei vieți și a două țări, a alterității, a umanismului și a zilelor în care Dumnezeu a plecat , din nou, în concediu. Tot ceea ce a scris Hemon este scriitură de mare clasă. Îl recomand.

[Ana Castro · Rating 4 out of 5]

1 mês para ler este livro !
Mês de casa cheia e dificuldade de concentração.
Continuo a leitura de cada um dos autores entrevistados pela Eleanor Wachtel . Não me lembraria nunca de ler este escritor - Aleksandar Hemon , de origem Bósnia mas vivendo nos EU e que escreve em inglês .
“The Book of my lives” é uma compilação de vários escritos do autor em diversas circunstâncias da sua vida que resolveu juntar em livro fazendo assim uma espécie de autobiografia em homenagem à sua filha Isabel que morreu com um tumor cerebral com 9 meses .
A dor infinita da perda dum filho é-nos transmitida na última “história “ - Aquarium .
Foi interessante ler e relembrar a guerra da antiga Jugoslávia que esteve tão perto de nós e a que não demos assim tanta importância, contada por um exilado .
Como é possível que amigos de infância que achávamos inocentes se transformem em criminosos de guerra !
A alma humana é insondável .
Cordeiros transformam-se em lobos .
Gostei bastante de conhecer este escritor e talvez leia um dia um dos seus romances .

[Natalie · Rating 4 out of 5]

U početku me podsjetio na Zainovićevu-"Tajna džema od malina". Solidan pocetak, sredina mlaka a završetak "bomba". Autobiografski esej u 16 priča. Zadnji pod naslovom "Akvarij" otkriva životnu dramu i nikog neće ostaviti ravnodušnog.
Odličan i dugo će se pamtiti nakon pročitane knjige.

[Philip · Rating 5 out of 5]

Generally speaking, I choose my books carefully. I think this is why I have so many 3, 4, and 5 star books on my shelf. Maybe I'm just a generous guy...

The Book of My Lives resonated with me for several reasons. I was an exchange student to Croatia in 2000. The war had been over for several years, and they were in the process of rebuilding. Still, there was a lot of uncertainty and rumor in the United States about what the country that had so recently gone through such tragedy would hold. I went after I graduated high school in the United States for a number of reasons. I'm offering none up now, except to share with you what one of my best friends wrote in my high school yearbook upon graduation:

*My pictures are showing up upside down if viewed on mobile devices... I don't know why that is, if you know, help me out...*



Like I said, there was a lot of uncertainty. Most of my friends wouldn't have been able to place Croatia on a map, I mean... it had only been around for a couple years in its modern incarnation. (Come to think of it though, I wonder how many of my current friends would be able to place Croatia on a map... See the heartbreaking section on Luxembourg on pages 104/5 - explained in spoilers.) And indeed, Vitko was very, VERY wrong about what Croatia was like. It's AMAZING.

So maybe that's part of what drew me into this beautifully written book. He talks about the Pioneers, and I know what they are. I have the hat to prove it. ...Hold on...



Honestly though, I still don't understand the full implications of the hat. I don't understand Tito, or the dissolution of Yugoslavia. Or the history, or the motivations behind the bloodshed of the 90s. I was in Varaždin when Slobodan Milošević fell from power - just a hop, skip, and a jump away. But while I was there that all seemed very distant, as I didn't know the back-story. I was too tied up trying to learn the language and culture on a summary level before I could dig into anything deeper.

I get the impression Hemon often felt the same way - especially in his opening essay, "The Lives of Others." Take this, for instance: "Yes, we were all Yugoslavs and Pioneers and we all loved socialism, our country, and its greatest son, our marshall, Tito, but never would I have gone to war and taken blows for those. Our other identities- say, the ethnicity of any of us - were wholly irrelevant."

Granted, he was writing about his childhood, but later he seems to feel the same way - with the added sense of possible guilt? Guilt that he didn't feel guilt? -for not staying to fight.

Displaced people will always struggle to find an identity, and that was (and maybe is) Hemon's key problem. But that's what makes the book so great: we all are struggling to find an identity. ...And maybe this is more of an American problem, right? I love America and its beautiful and often troubling history. But the diversity and mutability of American culture force upon our nation a constant re-identification. We don't have a dynasty. We don't have a monarchy. We elect new leaders every year, and a new president every 4 years. And those leaders are often swayed by the public.

On the other hand, if you think the 200/300 years of American History you learned in high school was a lot, try learning history in India, or Syria, or England, or Bosnia. Right? Reconciling Bosnian (and Yugoslav) life, history and culture with American adds another layer to Hemon's search for identity in the book.

The book is rife with ironic insight, and melancholic beauty. (See the irony of the birthday party on page 54; the irony in his title choice on page 125 - both explained in spoilers.)

I have a question that can only be explained by Hemon himself: was the uniformity/circle of the book (explained in spoilers) intentional? For, the book was several previously published essays. But how could it be?

I know the book isn't for everyone. I read several sections to my wife, and she hated it. That's interesting, because we agree on so much. And I kept trying to push it on her, which I think turned her away... which is a shame, because it's really an amazing book. Seriously, you should read it.

Last pre-spoiler thought: was it me, or was all his chess-notation off? Was that some sort of inside joke to himself, and chess lovers everywhere? Or is my chess notation just that bad? When is a Ke2 to e4 move possible? (page 185).



Luxembourg (pg.104): "Many Americans I talked to had a hard time processing what for Bosnians was basic information. I had little patience for getting into all the human intricacies of the situation for the benefit of a routinely curious American. Often I could not bear explaining that in Bosnia there were people of complicated backgrounds or that there were Serbs and Montenegrins who were fully committed to their neighbors, loyal to the idea of a multiethnic Bosnia, which put them in a position of being seen as traitors by the Serbs and suspect by other Bosnians... Eventually when asked about my country of origin by a lazily inquisitive American, I'd say 'Luxembourg,' safe in the assumption that no one would ever ask, 'So what's going on in Luxembourg?' and safe in the fact that in that peaceful land I had no friends."

Irony: Birthday Party (pg. 54): I won't put the full quotes for this one, but it was hilarious. He threw a birthday party that was... in poor taste, and became somewhat of a national scandal. Later in life, he had to join the chorus of those chanting that whoever was behind it should be strung up.

Irony: Title Choice (pg. 125): I can't spoil it. I just can't. It's a short essay. Go read it. Pg. 125. Sneak into a library or bookstore and read it yourself. It's short. Seriously.

Full circle: The book begins with a story of a 4 year old Aleksandar trying to kill his baby sister out of jealousy. He didn't know what he had at the time. And, in my reading, he wasn't really trying to kill her. He was just a jealous older sibling.

Fast forward to the last story: (genuine spoiler here) he's in the doctor's office with his youngest child Isabel. Her head is measuring a little too large. She has a brain tumor. (This is very difficult for me to write, because I'm remembering the phone call from my wife that I received about my own daughter. I'm remembering acquaintances not knowing what to say, and offering up platitudes, and friends saying nothing at all, but being there. I'm ever grateful to my boss at the time, who, when I received the call at school yelled at me, "GO!" And I'm remembering the letters, like Hemon's ATRT, that no one else aside from my wife understood or even could understand and how the vision I had developed for my daughter had irrevocably and irreparably been changed. And above all I remember the uncertainty.)

So let me say there's a level of understanding there when I read the last section. An understanding I think we can all grasp at some level. And maybe it's arrogant of me to claim a deeper understanding than some others, but I can't change how I feel about it.

That's not to say that our situations are the same: cruelly, and incomprehensibly, they're not. I understand that my daughter lives - true, a different life than I had anticipated for her, but a life. And I have no platitude to offer Hemon, only thanks for writing so openly about such a difficult topic. And I understand what you wrote when you said, "One of the most despicable religious fallacies is that suffering is ennobling, that it is a step on the path to some kind of enlightenment or salvation. Isabel's suffering and death did nothing for her, or us, or the world. The only result of her suffering that matters is her death. We learned no lessons worth learning; we acquired no experience that could benefit anybody." And yet you wrote about it. Maybe when we share these things we're giving meaning to the meaningless. Maybe the meaning was already there and we've failed to see it. Obviously, I don't have answers. And our worldviews are different. Thanks for sharing, I know it must have been difficult.

I was moved by the portrayal of your older daughter, who also didn't quite understand what she was losing, who was trying to figure out who she was - like all of us. She made up imaginary friends and siblings to help her make sense of the world, and like Bill Waterson says, "sometimes I think all my friends are imaginary." I couldn't help but compare that to all the different lives you've lived: in Chicago, with your friendships - real or guilt-ridden - in Bosnia, playing soccer. And of course, I inserted myself into the story and all of these lives too.

[Ellen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hemon is a fine and fascinating writer--whether he is talking about soccer as so much more meaningful than just a sport, his life in Sarajevo before the war, his coming to Chicago (stranded there by the war) or the illness of his infant daughter. The essays are like polished gems. Like Nabokov, Hemon is writing in a language not that of his birth and upbringing and doing it brilliantly. I was interested, intrigued, and very deeply moved.

I look forward eagerly to reading Hemon's fiction.

[Mafi Zis Amețita Aka Cristina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Am râs cu lacrimi și-am plâns cu sughițuri cam așa aș descrie experiența asta, pe scurt perfectă.

[Enver Yunusoglu · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ne zaman Balkanlar hakkında kurmaca ya da kurmaca dışı bir metin okusam içlerinde hep babamı arıyorum. Hep de bir şeyler buluyorum. Bu deneme kitabında, keza Lea Ypi'nin Özgür'ünde, ya da Penkov'un Batının Doğusu'nda... İsmail Kadare'nin romanlarını da atlamayayım. Babamın bize yıllardır anlattığı şeylerle o kadar örtüşüyor ki... Hikayelerin geçtiği zamanların farklı olması hiç fark etmiyor, öyle bir tekerrür maalesef.
Bu arada babam dahil hepsinin ortak bir noktası var: Hikayelerini ajitasyondan uzak bir şekilde anlatıyorlar. Bir metanet şekli olarak mizahı kullanıyorlar. Çok çok samimiler.
Bu arada 2: Çeviri şahane. Yine. Kitabı Seda Çıngay Mellor Türkçe yazmış deseler inanırım.