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This is the first entry in the Why This Book Should Win series, which will highlight each of the 35 ���Ĵ�ý�longlisted���Ĵ�ý�: titles for this year���Ĵ�ý�s Best Translated Book Awards. Tom Roberge of wrote this piece.

by Georgi Gospodinov, translated from the Bulgarian by Angela Rodel (Bulgaria, Open Letter)

The nature of these ���Ĵ�ý�Why This Book Should Win���Ĵ�ý� pieces is that they, by virtue of the various writers���Ĵ�ý� particular fondness for whatever book they���Ĵ�ý�re arguing on behalf of, are, in their conception and execution, capable of taking almost any form. They are not reviews; that���Ĵ�ý�s been done. They aren���Ĵ�ý�t critical examinations; that���Ĵ�ý�s for another time and place. And they aren���Ĵ�ý�t the sort of recommendations people like me (booksellers, publicists) make on a daily basis because those tend towards the succinct, which is not a problem, per se, but which means that a lot of the gritty beauty of a book is summarized in ways that, in the service of making one���Ĵ�ý�s case before the target loses interest in a tangle of plot.

Which is all a way of saying that I���Ĵ�ý�m going to try to make my case for Georgi Gospodinov���Ĵ�ý�s novel translated from the Bulgarian by Angel Rodel and published by this site���Ĵ�ý�s beneficent overlord (I kid, I kid) Open Letter, in my own damn way. By which I mean I���Ĵ�ý�m going to try to sway you by using a few related passages of the text itself to demonstrate just how insanely beautiful and captivating this book is.

First, a bit of summarization, since it is, I���Ĵ�ý�d argue inseparable from the overall scope and style of the book, which functions on several levels at all times, and which jumps around in time and space in a way that intentionally disorients and then immediately reorients the reader (something that I���Ĵ�ý�d further argue is itself a grand metaphor and commentary on the plot and subject matter, but I don���Ĵ�ý�t have time or, quite frankly, the intellectual dexterity to tackle that notion). The story sprawls across a century of wars and miseries and inter-war miseries that dominated Eastern Europe until recently and, of course, that have left their indelible marks in myriad ways. The narrator, we might as well explain at the outset, possessed, as a child, a certain ability to leap into the buried memories of other people (and creatures, as you���Ĵ�ý�ll see below . . . ). Though given a scientific explanation and name (empathetic-somatic syndrome), it seems to be an invention of the writer, albeit one that yields an abundance of material as the narrator pieces together his family���Ĵ�ý�s history, which passes through two real wars, the cold war, and finally the end of Soviet rule, a period itself full constantly shifting attitudes and socio/economic realities. But this is not in any way a novel that wallows in historical gravitas. The historical aspects of the book are present in the way historical incidents are present in DeLillo���Ĵ�ý�s best novels: as un-ignorable facts of life, monoliths casting massive shadows.

Now, in addition to these time-out-of-joint retellings of his family���Ĵ�ý�s history (think Slaughterhouse Five), the narrator dives into the enduring depths of Greek mythology in order to draw lessons, to find solace amid the chaos, and to lend the history itself a new context. More specifically, the myth of the Minotaur is examined and revisited throughout, the story expanding and developing greater nuance with each visit. So what does this mean in practice? Consider this passage, which I���Ĵ�ý�ve chosen from an early mention of the myth that I believe helps establish the book���Ĵ�ý�s unique mise en scène:

I never forgave Ariadne for betraying her brother. How could you give a ball of string to the one who would kill your unfortunate, abandoned brother, driven beastly by the darkness? Some heart- throb from Athens shows up, turns her head���Ĵ�ý�how hard could that be, some provincial, big-city girl, that���Ĵ�ý�s exactly what she is, a hay- seed and a city girl at the same time, she���Ĵ�ý�s never left the rooms of her father���Ĵ�ý�s palace, which is simply a more luxurious labyrinth.

Dana returns to the mill all alone in the darkness and rescues her brother, while Ariadne makes sure that her own brother���Ĵ�ý�s murderer doesn���Ĵ�ý�t lose his way. I hate you, Ariadne.

In the children���Ĵ�ý�s edition of Ancient Greek Myths, I drew two bull���Ĵ�ý�s horns on Ariadne���Ĵ�ý�s head in pen.

To clarify, Ariadne is the Minotaur���Ĵ�ý�s sister, and Dana is the narrator���Ĵ�ý�s grandfather���Ĵ�ý�s sister, who had to retrieve her younger brother after he���Ĵ�ý�d been simply forgotten when the family had visited the mill to sell a load of flour. The mother, for what it���Ĵ�ý�s worth, very nearly left him there; such was the desperation of the time.

Then, not a handful of pages later, we get this, without introduction:

The slugs slowly drag themselves across the newspaper, without letting go of it. Several are timidly clinging together, body to body. My grandfather grabs one with two fingers, closes his eyes, opens his mouth and slowly places the slug inside, close to his throat. He swallows. My stomach turns. I���Ĵ�ý�m afraid for Grandpa. And I want to be able to do as he does. My grandfather has an ulcer. The slugs are his living medicine. They go in, make their way through the esophagus and stop in the soft cave of the stomach, leaving their slimy trail there, which forms something like a protective film on top, a thin medicinal layer that seals off the wound���Ĵ�ý�

This is then followed, after a section break, with a version of the action as told from the slug���Ĵ�ý�s point of view, which, of course, the narrator can access:

A huge hand lifts me up and sets me at the opening of a red, warm and moist cave. It is not unpleasant, even if a bit frightening. The red thing I have been placed on constantly twitches, slightly bucking and rising, which forces me to crawl farther in toward the only available corridor. At the entrance there is a soft barrier, it isn���Ĵ�ý�t difficult to overcome. It���Ĵ�ý�s as if it opens on its own, in any case it reacts when I touch it. Now there���Ĵ�ý�s the tunnel, dark and soft, which I sink into, horns forward, like a slow bull. I leave a trail behind me to mark the way back. I feel safer with it���Ĵ�ý�

The juxtaposition of the slug���Ĵ�ý�s trail in the grandfather���Ĵ�ý�s stomach and the string left for Theseus by Ariadne is, in my opinion, breathtakingly brilliant and beautiful and something that I cannot possibly expound upon any further; it speaks for itself. And this is but one example of the sort of genius on display in The Physics of Sorrow, which is why I think this book should win.