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In his semiautobiographical novel, Cyclops, Croatian writer Ranko Marinković recounts the adventures of young theater critic Melkior Tresić, an archetypal antihero who decides to starve himself to avoid fighting in the front lines of World War II. As he wanders the streets of Zagreb in a near-hallucinatory state of paranoia and malnourishment, Melkior encounters a colorful circus of characters—fortune-tellers, shamans, actors, prostitutes, bohemians, and café intellectuals—all living in a fragile dream of a society about to be changed forever.
A seminal work of postwar Eastern European literature, Cyclops reveals a little-known perspective on World War II from within the former Yugoslavia, one that has never before been available to an English-speaking audience. Vlada Stojiljković’s able translation, improved by Ellen Elias-Bursać’s insightful editing, preserves the striking brilliance of this riotously funny and densely allusive text. Along Melkior’s journey Cyclops satirizes both the delusions of the righteous military officials who feed the national bloodlust as well as the wayward intellectuals who believe themselves to be above the unpleasant realities of international conflict. Through Stojiljković’s clear-eyed translation, Melkior’s peregrinations reveal how history happens and how the individual consciousness is swept up in the tide of political events, and this is accomplished in a mode that will resonate with readers of Charles Simic, Aleksandr Hemon, and Kundera.
479 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1965
Reflected in the pale glass window, among the shoes on display, was Melkior's thin, unprepossessing silhouette, a poorly built city dweller. The slanting image reflected in the shop window triggered a crafty sneer inside Melkior, and the word mobilization suddenly found itself in autumn mud churned by a squelching olive drab monotony of dejected strangers on some endless trek; there was the bluster of angry sergeants, the tired voice of sodden boots, and the mysterious word "aide-de-camp." Here was born a fear of the new events around him: the driver bound for Apatin to drive a tank...across our mountainous country...Oh for a mountain and a forest in which to go quiet and still like an insect curled deep inside the bark of an indestructible tree: I'm not here...and to live, to live...How to conceal ones existence, steal from the world one's traitorous body, take it off to some endless isolation, conceal it in a cocoon of fear, insinuate oneself into a temporary death?
Long live the idiot! That is the safest kind of mimicry life can offer a being of its creation. From his vantage point the idiot watches history run its course without the danger of getting caught up in the action, just as we cry as we watch a film playing in the cinema. We mourn fictitious travails, while it's only an idiot who laughs at genuine deaths. He jeers at life from his safe vantage point, taking his revenge for being rejected, smug at being spared. Life has chosen Intelligence for its games, it does not use idiots to make history. It has chosen geniuses for grand words on the cross, at the guillotine, at the gallows, facing the barrels of guns, in front of nations cheering the Brutuses and Caesars alike. An idiot ceded the cup of poison to Socrates. An idiot ceded to Danton the glory of being decapitated by history. (And then made it up to him by producing a marble bust of his head and raising it on a square as an example for future generations.) Whereas the idiot wears his head with a strange grimace of disgust, as if he had long understood everything, sneered derisively, and stopped time in the rigid folds of his mindless face. Love live the idiot!