Arnon Grunberg
Words Without Borders

The Festival of the European Short Story: Part Two

An author has to assume a certain responsibility for the country where he was born. Although everybody understands that the author didn’t choose his place of birth, and even though he might have moved away, as long as he writes in his native language, he cannot escape his passport.
This is no complaint.
The Festival of the European Short Story in Zagreb is over; it was the least political festival I ever went to--no questions about freedom, religion, war, cartoons, or the oil price were asked. Nevertheless, from time to time I had to elaborate on the myth that in Amsterdam everything goes. (For those who don’t know yet: it is no more so than in New York, Dublin, Berlin, the state of Vermont or Miami Beach.)
I do feel obliged at festivals to fight autistic tendencies, which lurk in every author. The Italian writer Vitialiano Trevisan declared flatly that talking to people was a waste of time. For this reason, he didn’t join the group in the bus but followed us on his motorbike. As soon as we reached our destination, he locked himself up in his hotel room until we could go home again.
I have great respect for people who have left the desire to be liked by others behind them. But if this leads to locking yourself up in hotel rooms, why not stay home and lock yourself up in your own living room? For one thing, it is much cheaper and it saves time.
Besides traveling to the coast and reading short stories in night clubs, this festival was mainly about eating Croatian food, which consists of lots and lots of grilled meat and sausages. I discourage vegetarian authors to travel to Croatia. If you must go, bring your own vegetables.
After a few days, I thought it was time to ask the lovely organizer Roman Simic about the war in Croatia, which took place only ten years ago.
The answer I got was that a couple of years ago during the festival, a group authors, after having eaten lots and lots of grilled meat, walked into a minefield.
As soon as Roman found out about this, he acted as a true shepherd. He directed the authors back to the restaurant where he urged them to eat some more sausages.
In the stories read by Croatian authors, I haven’t heard much about war, either. But I might have missed a metaphor or two. The author Milko Valent (Croatia) won many people in the audience over with his story “The Story of Her Anus.” I felt nostalgic. There are places on this world where mentioning certain body parts still has a liberating effect.


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