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Chinese Letter
Ordered by two mysterious men to write a statement of about 100 pages, the narrator of Chinese Letter--who's not sure of his name, but calls himself Fritz--faithfully records the bizarre occurrences of his daily life: his absurd conversations with his mother who is abducted by slave traders, his visits to his friend who works in the hospital's autopsy room, and his sister's tumultuous marriage to the butcher's son, to name a few. Widely respected in Serbia, the term "Basarian" has been coined to refer to his unique writing style, reminiscent of the best of Samuel Beckett for its directness, existential pondering, and odd sense of humor.
132 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1985
2 people are currently reading
135 people want to read
About the author
Svetislav Basara
66 books143 followersSvetislav Basara (Serbian cyrillic: Светислав Басара) is a Serbian writer and columnist.
He is the author of more than forty literary works, including novels, story collections, and essays. For his novel Fuss about Cyclists (Fama o biciklistima) David Albahari said: "After the appearance of The Fuss about Cyclists, one can safely say, the Serbian prose has never been the same, just like Basara has never been the same author, just like I have never been the same reader again."
Basara received the NIN Prize, a prestigious Serbian literary award for the best novel, twice. In 2006 for 'Uspon i pad Parkinsonove bolesti' (The Rise and the Fall of Parkinson's Disease). and in 2020 for the novel Kontraendorfin (Counter-endorphin).
He was the ambassador of FR Yugoslavia (Serbia and Montenegro) in Cyprus from 2001 to 2005.
He is the author of more than forty literary works, including novels, story collections, and essays. For his novel Fuss about Cyclists (Fama o biciklistima) David Albahari said: "After the appearance of The Fuss about Cyclists, one can safely say, the Serbian prose has never been the same, just like Basara has never been the same author, just like I have never been the same reader again."
Basara received the NIN Prize, a prestigious Serbian literary award for the best novel, twice. In 2006 for 'Uspon i pad Parkinsonove bolesti' (The Rise and the Fall of Parkinson's Disease). and in 2020 for the novel Kontraendorfin (Counter-endorphin).
He was the ambassador of FR Yugoslavia (Serbia and Montenegro) in Cyprus from 2001 to 2005.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
January 9, 2020
Hear me out.
I realize Dalkey publishes challenging, subversive, and often experimental titles. I collect them. But I will be donating this one. I am sure many others will get more out of it than I. I've listed some observations for your deeper consideration:
Basara's existential experiment may appeal to some. The amount of assumptions a reader could draw from the text might take up more pages than the text itself. Unearthing authorial intent is not the only way enjoyment is gained from reading though. In summation, Beckett and Gombrowicz engaged in more engaging experiments, wrote with far more lucidity on similar subjects, and constructed more artful expressions of their solitudinous mental wanderings.
A few pluses and minuses for your consideration:
The author, narrator, character or whoever says: "I could write about my trousers for hours." The existence of this book proves that fact. At least once he says "I don't know what I'm writing." There are many versions of: "I don't know what to write. I have to write, I am writing [this], [that], and [the other]." Repetition, static tone, absurd humor, signs of automatic writing, directionless wandering, etc. all visit and linger upon the page, staking claims, but ultimately, floundering amid drivel and quick, cryptic pseudo-scenes.
In a sense, Fritz's writing is a pathetic attempt to ward off death. A ghost hovers over him. It plagues him. The self-referential text is purposely structured and detailed in a sloppy, unaesthetic way. He writes like a man stumbling through the darkness of his own mind. The central conceit institutes a challenge to the narrator, to utilize 100 pages to free associate. The motivating factors are so random that one can only apply dream-logic to justify their propulsive force.
Though occasionally amusing results are yielded, it appears to me to be a fairly purposeless experiment, an incantation against emptiness.
The absence of narrative, plot, realistic characters, common sense, the subtraction of purpose, outline, moral. That's what it comes down to. The writer is writing to validate his own existence. The consciousness is in a state of constant existential crisis. The suicidal thoughts are not comical in my opinion, though there are many attempts at quirky humor. Much of which elicited a distasteful frown from me.
His life reflects the randomness of his thoughts, and absurdist paranoia. Also notice an obnoxious tendency to disregard what he has just written, to dismiss it at every turn, shirking responsibility for writing it, claiming he was forced to produce it.
At one point he is paranoid that he is only dreaming he is writing, and not in actuality fulfilling his commitment to fill 100 pages. There is no real explanation for his behavior except for a panicky writing compulsion, which most serious writers should probably feel at some point.
While endlessly fretting about what he should write he invents his own false backstory, progressing in reverse chronological order till he reaches the stage of a spermatozoa and encounters a previous reincarnation. Nice touch, but too little, too late.
Many other things happen, or threaten to occur at various stages of this metaphysical struggle. I am at a loss to explain most of them, except from a Dadaist perspective. If you are a fan of David Markson or Beckett's drier stuff, I'm sure your rating will differ from mine.
I realize Dalkey publishes challenging, subversive, and often experimental titles. I collect them. But I will be donating this one. I am sure many others will get more out of it than I. I've listed some observations for your deeper consideration:
Basara's existential experiment may appeal to some. The amount of assumptions a reader could draw from the text might take up more pages than the text itself. Unearthing authorial intent is not the only way enjoyment is gained from reading though. In summation, Beckett and Gombrowicz engaged in more engaging experiments, wrote with far more lucidity on similar subjects, and constructed more artful expressions of their solitudinous mental wanderings.
A few pluses and minuses for your consideration:
The author, narrator, character or whoever says: "I could write about my trousers for hours." The existence of this book proves that fact. At least once he says "I don't know what I'm writing." There are many versions of: "I don't know what to write. I have to write, I am writing [this], [that], and [the other]." Repetition, static tone, absurd humor, signs of automatic writing, directionless wandering, etc. all visit and linger upon the page, staking claims, but ultimately, floundering amid drivel and quick, cryptic pseudo-scenes.
In a sense, Fritz's writing is a pathetic attempt to ward off death. A ghost hovers over him. It plagues him. The self-referential text is purposely structured and detailed in a sloppy, unaesthetic way. He writes like a man stumbling through the darkness of his own mind. The central conceit institutes a challenge to the narrator, to utilize 100 pages to free associate. The motivating factors are so random that one can only apply dream-logic to justify their propulsive force.
Though occasionally amusing results are yielded, it appears to me to be a fairly purposeless experiment, an incantation against emptiness.
The absence of narrative, plot, realistic characters, common sense, the subtraction of purpose, outline, moral. That's what it comes down to. The writer is writing to validate his own existence. The consciousness is in a state of constant existential crisis. The suicidal thoughts are not comical in my opinion, though there are many attempts at quirky humor. Much of which elicited a distasteful frown from me.
His life reflects the randomness of his thoughts, and absurdist paranoia. Also notice an obnoxious tendency to disregard what he has just written, to dismiss it at every turn, shirking responsibility for writing it, claiming he was forced to produce it.
At one point he is paranoid that he is only dreaming he is writing, and not in actuality fulfilling his commitment to fill 100 pages. There is no real explanation for his behavior except for a panicky writing compulsion, which most serious writers should probably feel at some point.
While endlessly fretting about what he should write he invents his own false backstory, progressing in reverse chronological order till he reaches the stage of a spermatozoa and encounters a previous reincarnation. Nice touch, but too little, too late.
Many other things happen, or threaten to occur at various stages of this metaphysical struggle. I am at a loss to explain most of them, except from a Dadaist perspective. If you are a fan of David Markson or Beckett's drier stuff, I'm sure your rating will differ from mine.
December 21, 2022
"I have one problem: I exist."
“This coffee is conspiring against me! I have a box of coffee on which it says FRANCK KAKA. Quite an ordinary box. But this is a perfidious anagram: FRANCK KAFA. It means—‘The Trial.’ Why quotes? It’s enough to say the trial. I hope it’s clear to me what I wanted to say.”
"I woke up in the city dump. This was to be expected."
“I lay down on the bed, without taking my coat off, and decided to read. I read backwards the whole of Don Quixote because this seemed a more human way of reading this book. First Don Quixote dies, and then Sancho Panza’s adventures follow, and then people in the book read the chapters that are coming… and only at the very end he is reading the dusty books that inspired him to perform heroic deeds for which he died a long time ago.”
“This coffee is conspiring against me! I have a box of coffee on which it says FRANCK KAKA. Quite an ordinary box. But this is a perfidious anagram: FRANCK KAFA. It means—‘The Trial.’ Why quotes? It’s enough to say the trial. I hope it’s clear to me what I wanted to say.”
"I woke up in the city dump. This was to be expected."
“I lay down on the bed, without taking my coat off, and decided to read. I read backwards the whole of Don Quixote because this seemed a more human way of reading this book. First Don Quixote dies, and then Sancho Panza’s adventures follow, and then people in the book read the chapters that are coming… and only at the very end he is reading the dusty books that inspired him to perform heroic deeds for which he died a long time ago.”
March 6, 2017
A brief novel probing the inexorable anxiety which forestalls the creative act of writing and gives way to an anxiety, a slippage, of the self.
To the numerous points of reference mentioned by other reviewers—most notably Beckett, Kafka, and Gombrowicz—I would like to add Thomas Bernhard's "Concrete", to which Basara's darkly-humorous digressions are clearly indebted, and Raymond Federman's "Double or Nothing", the self-pondering narration and ideogrammatic "concrete prose" of which are echoed throughout.
To the numerous points of reference mentioned by other reviewers—most notably Beckett, Kafka, and Gombrowicz—I would like to add Thomas Bernhard's "Concrete", to which Basara's darkly-humorous digressions are clearly indebted, and Raymond Federman's "Double or Nothing", the self-pondering narration and ideogrammatic "concrete prose" of which are echoed throughout.
February 27, 2009
It's definitely derivative of Beckett, Gombrowicz, Witkacy, Dostoevsky's Underground Man, and generally that whole experimental fiction crowd, which might tempt you to dismiss it, but it's still an enjoyable little book.
March 15, 2021
Što bi moja bivša profa rekla, četiri sa zadrškom. :))
August 6, 2007
This was interesting...a man is forced to write a 100-page letter or something bad will happen. His review of the mundane while under threat is novel.
April 20, 2023
If you’ve read nutso rambling literature a la Notes from the Underground, Lu Hsun’s Diary of a Madman, etc., this gives you an idea of what to expect, but some more of the actual allusions from the novel flesh the image more: Finnegans Wake, Raymond Queneau, Ionesco, Kafka.
There’s some great gags and humor in this supremely brief little experiment + some thoughtful, interesting ideas. Only thing holding it back is a stronger, concrete thread or presence of plot, as aimless surreal rambling can only carry so far and isn’t liable to get you into anyone’s deepest space of their heart at the end of the day.
There’s some great gags and humor in this supremely brief little experiment + some thoughtful, interesting ideas. Only thing holding it back is a stronger, concrete thread or presence of plot, as aimless surreal rambling can only carry so far and isn’t liable to get you into anyone’s deepest space of their heart at the end of the day.
March 26, 2018
It probably merits more than one reading.
Calling it "hilarious" is too strong. It is quite weird.
I'm not really sure what the hell it is to be honest, but maybe a meditation on autocrats. But that has to be way, way, way too simple.
The language is its own thing.
I have no idea what happened in it.
But, anyway... if you're curious? It's very short.
Calling it "hilarious" is too strong. It is quite weird.
I'm not really sure what the hell it is to be honest, but maybe a meditation on autocrats. But that has to be way, way, way too simple.
The language is its own thing.
I have no idea what happened in it.
But, anyway... if you're curious? It's very short.
May 26, 2022
3.5/5
December 17, 2012
Chinese Letter made me think of a lighter form of Kafka (esp. The Trial), perhaps? I saw a reference that compared this author's work to Samuel Beckett's works, but I've never read Beckett so I can't compare. (Guess I need to add Beckett to my to-read list.) Chinese Letter is a mix of thought-provoking, banal, slightly surreal, contemporary, somewhat philosophical, & sometimes oddly funny musings in an unclear setting/sphere of action. Different, fairly interesting, & quick to read.
April 12, 2015
Highest praise and greatest condemnation: it's like a lost Beckett/Kafka novel. Protagonist is a cross between Molloy, Gregor Samsa/K., and Mersault. Thoroughly enjoyed this book, but not sure Basara established Basara (nor that establishing one's own voice is important/possible any more).
November 26, 2008
A bizarre tale told from a paranoid schizophrenic. There are some sharp one-liners and beautiful metaphors that get stuck in your head. Reminded me a lot of Beckett.
November 6, 2015
Absurdly brilliant.
August 18, 2008
...huh.
Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews