Dubravka UgreÅ¡ićÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Baba Yaga Laid an Egg is the latest, most inventive and most substantial volume in CanongateÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s series of revisioned myths. [. . .]

During the Soviet era, as UgreÅ¡ić has said, the use of traditional material gave writers freedom because it appeared to conform to the populist and nationalist policies of the state. (Lenin had claimed that folktales could be used as the basis for ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½˜beautiful studies about the hopes and longings of our peopleÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™.) An authentic proletarian background, supposed naivety and a child audience could also provide a cloak for subversive thoughts and political criticism; fabulist metaphors were hard to censor. PlatonovÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s fables, such as the story ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½˜Among Animals and PlantsÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ and the novella Soul, use the apparent innocence of the folktale form to indict the conditions of existence in Soviet Russia (though he didnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t escape censure). The same stratagems were used by Miroslav Holub in Czechoslovakia and Danilo Kis in Yugoslavia.

UgreÅ¡ić has been circling this territory for a while. In her new book, the tradition of upside-down, modernist myth-making or ironical fable has freed her tongue. Skittish at times, affectionately comic, and lavish with improbable and ingenious fairy-tale plotting, her handling of the genre is deft and light. In Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, UgreÅ¡ić is in much higher spirits than in her recent collection of essays, NobodyÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s Home (2007), or her withering attack on the book trade, Thank You for Not Reading (2003), or her ironic and prophetic fictions, The Museum of Unconditional Surrender (1998) and The Ministry of Pain (2005).

Baba Yaga is the true Witch of the North, the supreme scare figure of the Russian nursery, a monstrous old hag who haunts children and eats them. She doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t exactly appear in character here, but she hovers off stage, and directs the action. Old women are UgreÅ¡ićÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s heroines and old womanhood her theme. This new book is a hybrid work, a comic fable in three parts, combining autobiography, travel, memoir, fable, satire and essay. It begins with an elegy about her own motherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s decline into dementia; hoping to reawaken her motherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s memories, UgreÅ¡ić makes a pilgrimage to Sofia, her motherÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s hometown, seeing herself as a bedel (the double who rich men used to pay to go to Mecca or fight in the army in their stead). But when she returns with photographs and anecdotes, her mother doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t recognise present-day Sofia. This is UgreÅ¡ićÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s territory: the impossibility of belonging, the ineluctability of loss and the desirability, even so, of remaining apart.

Seeing any of our books on a “staff recommends” table gets me really excited, but this particular program gave me an idea . . . Since Three Percent is very much in favor of the continued survival of independent bookstores, each month we’re going to pick one and link to its online ordering system for all of the titles we feature/review on the site. And as the instigator of the idea, this month we’re going to focus on the Harvard Book Store.

And continuing with Open Letter titles for a second, we’ve gotten a lot of great coverage for our books recently, including a very positive reviews of by Ricardas Gavelis in both the and

From the Harvard Crimson:

This ambitious endeavor is admirably achieved. GavelisÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ writing is a paragon of surrealist creativity and an intensely interesting read, filled with effortlessly intelligent prose and a wryly macabre voice.

And from Literary License:

Vilnius Poker is dense with ideas, literary allusions, historic events, mythological references, symbolism, and linguistic and philosophical theories. It invites and rewards careful study. Elizabeth Novickas’s nimble translation delivers the stylistic diversity that must have been intended by Gavelis. Just as beautiful and brutal elements coexist in the narrative, the prose is alternately poetic and crude.

Also, one of the best reviews of Fonseca’s recently came out in the Daniel Soar’s review is incredibly thoughtful and complete, dealing with the violence in Fonseca’s stories in a very intelligent fashion. Here’s a short quote:

In Brazil, which since the 1970s has seen more urban violence than any other country in the world, no writer has dealt with the subject more plainly than Rubem Fonseca. In 1976 his bestselling short story collection Feliz Ano Novo (“Happy New Year”) was censored by a court acting for the military government. Five of the stories were banned, and the ban on the title story wasn’t revoked until 1989. [. . .]

The judges in the censorship case argued that the story might lead the average Brazilian astray. That would be a wholly ludicrous statement if applied to a piece of fiction written, say, in France, but “Feliz Ano novo” is precisely about what it claims is the average Brazilian; and it’s this claim that’s subversive, not the violence.

And just so it’s clear, all three of these books are currently in stock at the and can be ordered online . . .

BolañoÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s desperado image is a large part of his appeal. His revolutionary politics and the personal risk they entailed, the movement he founded, his poverty, exile and addiction, his death in his prime: the combination of these elements is foreign to the increasingly professionalised career of the contemporary writer. BolañoÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s dishevelled, wandering characters are, more profoundly than they are left-wing, anti-bourgeois, which is to say disdainful of comfort, security and success: an attitude more than a politics, but the attitude is deeply felt. Even to write ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½˜marvellously wellÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™, Bolaño declared, was not enough; ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½˜the quality of the writingÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ depended on the authorÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s understanding ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½˜that literature is basically a dangerous callingÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™.

And obviously, this means the new is out, with some of its contents available online.