Igor Marojević

[PTY]

Ne tako davno, jedan drag momak mi poklonio zbirku priča Mediterani.
Igor Marojević - do tad mi nepoznat po prozi, samo po esejima i prevodima napabirčenim po internetu – zapravo je moje najveće "domaće" otkriće u 2006-toj. Ne samo zato što je ponuda te godine bila izuzetno mršava (iskreno, verujem da bi se Marojević probio u sam vrh i u mnogo žešćoj konkurenciji), nego zato što poseduje i zrelost ideje i snagu izraza na kakve retko nailazim u domaćoj prozi.  

Okej, naravno, znam da je u pitanju čist subjektivizam i naklonost ali verujem da bi retko ko uspeo da izbegne takvu reakciju na prozu koja je istovremeno i primarno iskrena, neposredna, šarmantna, duhovita, autobiografska i potpuno neobavezna. Kolaž proizvoljnih epizodica koje povezuje gotovo ništa sem mediteranskog primorja i gotovo nezametljivo oprečnih specifičnosti Boke Kotorske i Italije, Albanije i Španije, Egipta i Francuske. Male svakodnevne istine i zbivanja – uz suptilno baratanje autobiografskog "ja"- malja - tako su gotivno intimne i neposredne da čitanjem neosetno upadneš u tu udobnu voajerštinu čija te prisnost dovede do kraja tako neosetno, da ti je po pravilu krivo što si tako rano ošamaren zadnjom interpunkcijom. Tu nema nikakvih zamki bildapa, nikakvog očiglednog zamajca radnje, nikakvih ingenioznih silovanja obrta niti veštačkog disanja izmigoljene poente – samo iskrena proza švrljanja po različitostima, kao kad nepretenciozno dete virka i imaginacijom dodaje treću dimenziju stranicama atlasa.  

I pošto je sasvim moguće da ona dva neusvojena primerka i dalje skupljaju prašinu u Platou, obavezno ih kupite.

[PTY]

a ovo ide pride:



Igor Marojevic
1847


Generally speaking, one can talk about three types of intellectuals involved in the examination of social context. Taken all together, these types make a pattern that enables one to notice different "social functions" of a writer. The first type (rarely present in the Serbian/Montenegrin public discourse) presupposes a soft subjectivity that speaks only for itself. Thus, it does not lead a debate instead or in favor of endangered or threatened individuals or groups, but recedes and leaves to these groups or individuals a certain space, so they could act for themselves. The second type (especially popular in the former SFRJ) is a Sartrian type of intellectual. This type thinks about the problems of humankind in general, refers to it, and, finally, delivers to humankind its well-formulated attitudes. The third type is actually an ethnic sub-species of the second type. The representatives of this type serve both to the people, while being, at the same time, able to draw the material and the source of inspiration from well-established popular folklore phrases. In other words, the writers that belong to this category represent "the voice of the people".

Petar II Petrovic Njegos and Matija Beckovic both belong to the third type of the intellectual. Compared to Beckovic, Njegos employed a certain subversiveness and manipulated folk anecdotes. As a result, he neither needed to represent "the voice of the people" to a great extent, nor to form the popular basis of the ideology of his own writings. Njegos stuck to the poetic subject that tends to have a general perspective of things, a view that was later criticized by Ezra Pound (who insisted on the techne). Of course, in a domain ruled by the market economy logic, a poet "from the top of the hill" and a Hegelian owl are both engaged with the same task, and they can only comfort each other as losers. Wherever irony results in a deconstruction of any authority, there is no painless way to attack a monolithic, overarching, giant mind, particularly not by being pathetic. According to Schiller, a sensation is pathetic if the defense that an audience can give is greater than the force of the offense that a work of art performs. Of course, "we" have it the other way: although Njegos is - just like Bora Stankovic and a better part of the normative writers - pathetic, the critics from the Serbian/Montenegrin linguistic sphere have never tried to defend or relativize his work in this sense. On the other hand, prominent representatives of the dominant discourse from the eastern part of this sphere did question (through apologies) his writings. This is the writer who has been praised as someone "who teaches us our history", in which case a good deal of his writings should be seen as a historical narrative - not just literature. Some people have, after reading Njegos, concluded that they are Serbs and not Montenegrins, and some have drawn exactly the opposite conclusion. Thus, The Mountain Wreath forms a kind of an ethno-genetic handbook, and the ones insisting that a detailed knowledge of Njegos is the most important in our (Montenegrin) public discourse, are actually reducing it to a social-operational bestseller, a collection of great common sense sayings (using the formula 2+2=4), or a creative and patriarchal version of handbooks for everyday living like M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Travelled.

Unlike numerous Serbian and Montenegrin writers whose main reaction towards Njegos was either imitation or apology, Matija Beckovic did manage, in his earlier writings, to express linguistic ludisms, absurd, as well as the semantic turbulence, with irony as the leading strategy. One could almost say: a postmodern writer playing with the epic discourse. In order to see his poetic and "metapoetic" tendencies in a different way, it was necessary to wait until he published something with the more concrete general framework, within a concrete social circumstances.

Finally, after the bloody war in BiH and other parts of the former Yugoslavia, a book We shall keep chasing each other (Ceracemo se jos) came out. According to some sources, a thousand copies of the book were sold in only a few days of the Belgrade Book Fair in 1996. The lowering of diction and the pathos that Beckovic used in this book apparently paid off very well. At first glance, using irony and an epic poetry pastiche, the book combines epic seriousness with cynicism and sarcasm. The cycles of poems are organized in such a way as to leave the impression that several different narrators are involved; this is a context that justifies the narrator's role as someone who can just "collect" the folk wisdom that is just "there". The poem "Ceracemo se jos" is structured as a collection of typical folk stereotypes related to chasing. Every section starts with the same words ("ceracemo se jos"), and the whole book includes almost all the possible words derived from the root -cer.

Beckovic tried to unite the endless variations in a nihilistic way ("All is nothing/ including chasing"), and this would be OK within an epic registry. However, Beckovic does not postulate a consistent boundary between "us" and "them" in order to make his text look grotesque. For example, he seems to be losing the distance from the fictional narrator in the following verses: "...But the cross is one/But it's all in vain/ When at least two/Apparently equal/ Are the True believers' one and the Untrue believers' one/ And the Untrue believers' crosses are crosses as well..."

Something similar occurs when Beckovic, stressing his origin "from within the people", mentions toponyms that supposedly speak of the destiny of people": after mentioning the Ceranica hill, the Ceranica field, the Ceranica bridge, etc., somehow the family Cerimagic creeps in. This is a Muslim family name, since the writer mentions that they are originally from Ceristan. This makes the beginning of the book, in which it is said that we shall "Well chase each other/ Really chase each other/ Chase each other indeed" - postulating the apparent three-way linguistic variation (Serbian, Muslim, and Croatian), and a generalizing of the problem of "chasing" - look like a distinctive ideological subversion. The absurd, cynicism and nihilism are lost, and what creeps in is the notion that Beckovic could not resist the challenge of the moment, "what is generally known", and "real life". In other words, Beckovic responds to the tension of the Balkan political events, and his work primary has aggressive political overtones. This demonstrates a victory of the local, tribal connotations over the universal ones, a victory of the spoken over the written word, which can all be detected in the auto-poetic statements that Beckovic uttered in the last few years at the presentations of his books and the "literary awards" that he received.

In other times, war and politics were the subjects of the writings of, among others, Louis Ferdinand Celine, Curzio Malaparte, Günther Grass, Thomas Pynchon, and Donald Bartholomew. They used, each in his own way, the fact that the war represents a radical context, and hence suffers radical poetic consequences. Through the use of irony, heterotopy, and various kinds of ludism, resulted in great novels like "A Journey to the Ends of the Earth", "Skin", "Tin Drum", "Gravity's Rainbow", and "The King". Of course, the problem is formally different with different literary genres involved. The aforementioned novels and "We shall keep chasing each other" both have a common general framework, as well as follow the rule that the system of a work should never lose initiative to the "message". The initiative is not lost in the novels - quite on the contrary. On the other hand, it seems that the main problem is that not only our readers, but the better part of our critics as well, enjoy receiving and emitting messages, particularly the ones convenient for the military-political context. The attitude towards the addressee is embedded within the relationship between the system and the message. On the one hand, Matija Beckovic, like every Sartrian intellectual, writes for the "ideal reader". In this case, the "ideal reader" must be from "our country", and, as we have seen, familiar with "our people", its national being and its history. In that sense, the message not only takes the privileged place compared to that of a work's system, but it also becomes the system itself. One of the aforementioned writers, Celine, when asked "who do you write for?", replies that he does not write for anyone. There is nothing worse than lowering oneself to that point, the French author adds, "One writes for the thing itself"...

The famous anthology One Hundred Greatest Works of World Literature (Zagreb: Stvarnost, 1964) includes, among others, five American, five Spanish, seven ancient Greek and Roman, and seven German authors. There are six Yugoslav authors. Following the federal "key", there is a Montenegrin author as well - Petar II Petrovic Njegos with his Mountain Wreath. The number of Yugoslav authors and their texts included led the editor, Antun Soljan, to write the following: "It is possible that some readers will object that we overestimate ourselves and that there is too much local patriotism in our crtiteria... However, as this book is primarily intended for our readers, the editor believed his choice to demonstrate how our literature fits the European and world general patterns, and that that certain basic literary traits occurred in our literature not only simultaneously with the European ones, but also (as in the case of Marin Drzic) preceded them. This will make the anthology quite like the other similar publications in other countries". This selection did certainly prove that the Yugoslav literature fits the European and world patterns. Thus, apart from Njegos - and unlike Celine, Malaparte, and Grass (Bartholomew and Pynchon published their works since this anthology came out) - the anthology also includes Edgar Alan Poe, who was born four years before the Montenegrin author, and died two years before him. Therefore, they are contemporaries. According to Soljan and many Serb/Montenegrin intellectuals involved in the public discourse, they are both classics of world literature. The American classic influenced the forming of the genres of crime story, as well as the horror story. Poe also influenced Latin American literature, American experimental ludism, Russian formalists and German expressionism. On the other hand, Njegos, the Yugoslav/Montenegrin classic, influenced... Matija Beckovic.

[PTY]

i ovo:


Igor MarojevicArchives contents
STRENGTH IN GIVING UP

Main pageIgor MarojevicAn increase in the number of Societies: so what. How the intensity of my forebodings grew at the beginning of spring. Although it was I that, ha, foresaw the effect of our Balkanese plot to promote coffee not tea, I did not even dream that the Western alliance will retaliate with an aerial campaign – that bombardment, presumably, that Tomas was expecting with some dim joy during our drive from the seaside to Beograd. He, and others from the firm, exposed themselves every day to possible missile attacks by walking to the city center, where in the main pedestrian-only square were held protest concerts which to me looked mostly like a ritual of glorification of war and destruction of the nicest buildings, rituals at which instead of cattle people contribute themselves for sacrifice.
   I had a similar impression about the gatherings at Brankov Most, the Sava bridge most directly in continuation of the city center. A bombardment of Brankov Most was also planned by Western alliance. That is where my colleagues pinned paper targets to their lapels and, perhaps to make it utterly clear to the attackers from the English-speaking countries just what is expected from them, they added the largely printed word TARGET on those same pieces of paper. What's more, even those of my colleagues who lived in the immediate vicinity of the military targets did not go down into the atomic shelters. Osvald and Maks reported themselves for volunteer military service and awaited a land invasion, when they will participate with slave-like obedience in chest to chest combat which will give them an easy opportunity to get killed and thus shrug all obligations off themselves.
   What amazed me most, in those days, was that not only the known suicidal types, but also quite ordinary people, exposed themselves to danger; and faces such as the pop and folk musicians and singers; yes, and even those really influential. (I kept in my mind that text about the President: in my seaside days I was too filled with remorse to take it seriously.) And to crown everything, they all went serenely: holding plastic cups with instant coffee and sipping it leisurely - which was their only privilege in those days - for those Yugoslav television companies that were not yet bombed out, also for foreign media, politicians made statements hugely provoking the powerful ones from the air and those who give orders for attacks. What does that mean? Perhaps all of them too are slyly contriving to demonstrate false courage and false faith. Besides...
   There is no problem if the other side, the guys who blast the military and non-military targets – and hit more than thousand civilians too, with or without a "target" leaflet on the forehead – do not know that their aerial action helps some people to do what they really believe in doing: to make unpunishable attempts at heroic suicide, as only one of the forms of civilian suffering (the bombarded population went through some other forms also, such as hunger, and had some other chances to act heroically). If that is the case, then there is only one side which is right and justified, in this conflict (and that is how things are supposed to be).
But I noticed some indications that things might stand differently. The pilots were also offering themselves for sacrifice, no doubt, because, to my boundless amazement, they were prepared to neglect their personal problems in order to mollify the disturbances between nations so remote to them as Serbs and Albanians. And if they saw themselves, after real serious thinking, as doctors for the Serbian and Schiptari soul, that would be proof enough that they are also blinded by The Cross.
   Not to mention that pilots did get killed too; the population on the bridges diligently celebrated the shooting down of quite a number of helicopters and planes, including the until-then unshootable F-117 A. The crowds probably thought that this would be enough to win the war. But if both sides are right in a war like this, then there are no rules any more. Yes? If they are all suicidal types, then I feel much more isolated today then when I was a perfectly serious candidate for suicide. Practically half of globe is against me!
   Although I never turned on the radio and TV any more, I could not tune myself out of these things even at home. For instance, I noticed that civil-defense men on duty loved to make similar the two sounds of air-raid sirens – the sound for the beginning and the sound for the end of air peril. The first was supposed to announce, by its wavy, snaking up-and-down tones, that a period begins in which the peace-time rules will be violated; this means chaos, hell; but the other sound, in a flatter, monotonous tone, but of precisely the same "color" of sound failed to return peace to our souls, which was its proclaimed intent. So, the siren, even when it says that the airplanes have gone away, still blares to the people warningly of chaos, and they are, naturally, supposed to find some way out of chaos. But how? By attaching targets on our chest. Oh really? All of this made me uneasy, and I easily could have gone really insane.
   Fortunately, I was otherwise preoccupied. Like crisscrossing my windows with adhesive-tape X-es, each X twice, double layer, so that the glass would not fly at me during detonation; stockpiling tea, green apples, and oranges such that their meat makes a burning sensation on the lips. As the inter-city telephone lines were overloaded, it took me some twenty minutes to establish connection with my mother and to obtain the information that no bombs had yet fallen on the little town in which she remained. That was not all I did: I transferred the text from my notes-booklet into the computer, but in a disorderly manner. The airy blue rectangle of the monitor screen, gleaming as if wet, did not seem to be infinite; rather, it seemed to be crammed full, right down to its fictive bottom, with all the deceptions I was noticing. So I stuffed the cubical space in front of me, until the laptop, maltreated by frequent power-failures (blackouts) in our electrical grid, finally died. What have I been typing in? – Aphorisms that had an ambition to grow into some serious prose, but without a clear context; heaps of cataractous-eyed sentences not encircled by a clear conclusion. Such as:
   "Always have I vacillated between wishes and possibilities, female principle and male principle, the material and the spiritual, the urban and the rural, the accumulated sexual and the empty post-coital. If, in addition to that, I measure up the pleasure I feel before getting into bed with a girl, against the panicky efforts to maintain an erection during the sex itself, I will see to what extent the kitsch-contrasts have always clashed in me."
   Or:
   "As one of the crucial criteria we should respect the irrationality, the quality which people often attack because they mix it up with non-pragmatism, which they cannot tolerate. Radio-esthesia is man's ability to receive from his environment the information which is not available to his regular senses, but which can be measured by the motions of the radio-esthetic equipment. There is some cognition in that too. I do not believe in accidents. What I want to believe in, apparently is not able to help me. What the people around me believe, is full of various redundancies. Fear of god as somebody's only Christian trait is a recidive of paganism" - there, I wrote that too. And this:
   "From vast oceanic surfaces water keeps evaporating under the influence of solar heat. Steam so created is then carried by winds over the landmasses, where it is dumped on the ground. A part of it evaporates again, but another part flows in brooks and rivers over the surface or accumulates temporarily in lakes; and yet another part sinks into the earth, all the way to the water-impermeable strata, and there amasses as subterranean water or creates subterranean waterflows which may break out onto the surface again as freshwater springs. To make this circulation even more senseless, all water eventually returns to the sea."
I should have written something opposite to theory, I was expected to sail into the practicing of prose. And all that I wrote was known to me already, anyway.



           9

   I stopped going to work, or into the now overcrowded air-raid shelter; as I lived in one of the more passive parts of town, I concluded that my building is in a relatively safe place.
   When the sound of distant explosions bounced off my always-shut windows, it resembled, to my mind, thumps on some titanic bass drum with an echo like a tide, which rolls in close and then suddenly stops. What upset me (almost) more than these big, were the little sounds, which passed through the thin walls of the garsonyera: I mean the howling of the vacuum cleaners, crackling of floors, and tinkling of other people's phones, which seemed to emanate from my kitchen.
   Around midnight, almost every night, somebody phoned me. But only a hissing and rustling sound was heard from the other side, waterfall-like, as if it were an international call or the sound of a long final trajectory of the needle at the end of an LP record. I thought that it was some nonsense. For one thing, nobody uses vinyl LPs any more: CD won the battle, a long time ago. But when I pressed in proper order several of the plastic buttons on the phone, the busy signal always revealed that someone in my firm is talking exactly then. A little later I would call my firm again, the phone would ring and ring there but he or she, whoever it was, did not pick up the receiver. This done, I would go to sleep.
   I did not wish to feel a wavelet of air, so I bent the blanket tightly under my knees, neck and feet. So tucked in, I placed one soft pillow on the back of my head and suffered from that direction the blunt, feathery pulsing in the rhythm of a heart. At dawn I would find myself in a true Calvary of sounds. Except for the muffled, varied, interesting events in my again-irritated lungs, I also heard the whooshing of aircraft overhead, rapid bup-bup-buppings of the anti-aircraft defenses, and faint detonations from afar; and some vague water-gurglings, and a strengthening thump of shoes on the staircase.
   I stopped answering the phone. And opening the door too. But one day, when Robert, escorted by half-asleep Adam, lay down on my doorbell and remained so, I knew that it would be pointless to continue simulating my own absence. They walked in, and I asked them why they did that.
   - Tomorrow evening – said Robert, taking up the volume of space in one corner of my two-seater piece of furniture – Tomas is making a celebration. He converted the cellar of his house into a super shelter from bombardment. You were absent a long time, so he thought that the opening of the shelter is a good occasion for you to show up...
   - I'll see – was my tense promise, and he, practically the next moment, showered me with provocative glorifications of his association of spiritual gutter-cases.
   - Easy-to-drink metaphysics: the metaphysics that will be dissipated by a single cup of coffee. Well yes: you love coffee – that was my nasty, sweaty reply.
   He responded with a sour little laughter, while Adam laughed heartily. Robert waved a hand sideways, maybe to indicate that he did not want any coffee. So the better. Silence followed. I could hardly wait to be left alone, and Bert probably wanted to stay for some ten minutes more, and only then leave, just so that it wouldn't seem that he is leaving because he is angry with me.
   - What's with Manya? – said I, tearing a gash in the silence.
   - Tormented by the last look.
   - What last look? – said I.
   - Ahh, some nonsense – said he, gesticulating. – I wonder why she did not talk to you about it, considering the fact that you two are intimate.
   - So intimate that she did not yet tell me how Tomas manages to turn any money these days.
   - Same way as before: by his doings with the government. Everyone must, who wants to make any serious money, in this country.     Why else would I, a philosopher, work in a merchant firm? No need for a secretary to tell me; everybody knows it, except political idiots – answered Robert, and joyfully poked Adam - who was now slumped - in the ribs.
   - Philosopher? Well yes: as far as I can judge, you are all mal-using theoretical knowledge – said I calmly, and felt the air become tense.
   Robert snorted, and suppressed his impulse to get up and go. He quickly said:
   - Manya is being chased by Osvald, or at least she thinks so. Last time I saw her, she complained that he was at her the whole day, miffed that she had slept with everyone in the firm except with him. Well, with almost everyone – he added, sighed, and then, controlling himself fully, he continued: - After that, she phoned me and said that, as soon as she had left your place, she quickly went home, so as not to spoil the so-called "last look". That 's what I'm telling you about, that is the name of some ritual foolishness. Manya will look at some person, now, concretely, at you, and ascribe sacral values to her looking. When she has seen you for the last time in one day, she will be careful not to look, until midnight, at anything that might spoil, in her head, your image as obtained by that last look. But as she was going home after being with you, one tall man – that's what she told me on the phone – one tall man followed her all the time.
   - Osvald? – I ventured.
   - Her thought too. She did not dare to turn and see if it was really Osvald, because in doing so she would have dirtied the last look. But at some crossroads another man walked towards her, one who resembled Osvald even more than the guy behind her. Fearing the two fictive Osvalds, who were getting closer to each other, Manya stepped off the pavement, walked right through the Beograd-Podgoritza freeway traffic, and, paying no attention, crossed to the other side – he concluded, obviously hoping that his narration about Manya was lengthy enough for him to walk out of my apartment painlessly now.
   Indeed he left, but Adam did not budge. I knew he is momentarily silent because he has in fact spent himself in outpourings of intelligence or in some other outpourings. I did not like to spend time with someone who is excessively succeptible to inspiration, but right now this guy, moldy from the twilight of my room (his eyes red with a network of swollen little blood-vessels), was sitting on my little three-legged chair and floating in the air. His eyes suddenly bulging out, he established for a fact that I would be really interested in knowing the details of his forty eight hours of non-stop smoking marihuana and listening to music.
   - What sort of music you listen, Adam? – I wanted to know.
   - Sixties.
   - Futile business. Try listening to post-punk or Les Negresses Vertes, but, if you insist on the bad sixties, try hearing the numbers "In a Gadda Da Vida" and "In Fear of Fear" of The Iron Butterfly – I proposed.
   - Why? Good music? – he asked me, took out a little box of medicines from his black shirt, and wrote these musical remedies down on it.
   - Kills. Guaranteed.



       10

   Although I distanced myself, I did not, even in the war conditions, forget Fani; nor did I forget Manya, who had an understanding attitude to my capriciousness, perhaps because she herself did not have too much time. On the other hand, Fani's frequent visits to me (and her swinging and flopping which went on and on until air in the room boiled) told me that she wants a more permanent relationship. The two of us even celebrated the New Year together, and, on her initiative, the Serbian Orthodox Christmas, on 13th January. She ornamented the saint badnyak oak blanches and leaves by little pieces of paper in which she wrote her rather ordinary wishes.
   When my home gowns lost all smell, and when the body began to feel her and Manya's absence, circumstances conspired to make it impossible for me to be with them: Manya had an abdominal problem, because of which she was (from some time before the war) going to bed alone, ashamed of herself; and Fani, a catastrophe took Fani. Without any illusions that my girls wish to become intimate with me again, I decided to devote some attention to them, hoping that it will be returned in some small way at least – by both, or by one of them. The thing to do was to go see Fani and then go to the party in Tomas's hideout.
   Loosely dressed, forgetting that it would be decent to appear at least shaven-faced in the hospital, in fact on the party too, I carefully packed my laptop into the wide inner pocket of my leather jacket, and pushed my both gowns into a plastic rubbish bag. Dumped them in the nearest rubbish container in the street, and as for the computer, took it to repairs in the next building. A technician installed the new chip and, for that service, took practically the last shards of my savings. Yet I felt relieved. Facing a springtime afternoon, which was haughtily spreading the smell of a freshly baked pogatchitza, I decided to take a bus to hospital.
   Because of the war conditions, the number of vehicles was reduced: at the station in front of an all-purpose shop a bus would come, but only one in each forty minutes, and full. Waiting in line for this transportation was made more difficult by the presence of another line, a thick one, for cigarettes, cutting across the mass of waiting potential passengers. In war, people make a bigger effort for a brief luxury than in peace for lasting gains that could make their existence easier. This I was not able to comprehend, nor did I try to.
   In the busses, young people seemed to enjoy the compression, they watched laughingly as the skin of their arms pressed and deformed against the glass. By pure luck I got into one private bus. On the slippery step just inside the bus door, a middle-aged woman stood holding a child and looking from time to time at the one free square foot of the metal floor; I hopped in behind her, next to a metal rod, the driver engaged the gears, and the woman, happy that she is no longer the last passenger, moved a little and grasped more firmly the butt and the thighs of the pale, merry child.
   The child – a little girl – then laid her cheek on the mother's shoulder, and started to sing, in a very low little voice, lines from a hit song about fast cars. This produced a glad smile on the mother's face. I was pressed with my back against the unyielding door, which was partly glass, and I felt the moisture spreading there, hardening the cloth, as if a wet blackboard was fastened to my shoulders. The closer we got to the hospital, the more strongly was the woman's sizable butt pressing into my stomach, and the little girl just smiled, showing her spaced-apart teeth; her large, hazel-color eyes looked at me self-confidently, those were the eyes of a keeper of some secret; the secret, I suppose, of my suffering. The two of them got off the bus together with most of the other humble passengers, at the station near the City Hospital on the large Zvezdara hill.
   The soles of my shoes parted squeakingly from the green rubber floor of the staircase, and then corridor, in the hospital. Each sole would complain audibly while uniting with the floor and then equally audibly while separating from it. Me, I gazed at the nicely formed knees of the hurried fem nurses. They were practically running, because in the corridors there were the new wounded, and from moment to moment some of them were wheeled into the operation rooms.
   One of the screams, though, was distinct; I heard a certain erotic patina in it. I went into the room wherefrom it emerged. A heavy smell of a sick person resided in there; a smell difficult to remove by airing.
   It took me some effort to recognize Fani; her skin looked as if it had been painted black, thoroughly, and then washed off by rain. Forehead scraped and skinned badly, penetrated by some white lichen, and both sides of the nose broadened by ghastly black outgrowths or splotches – from several meters away, it was not easy to see which. Only after my second attempt to talk to her, she noticed that I was there, gave me a brief look-over, and murmured something that might have been a hello.
   A catastrophe, I say, happened to Fani. As I discerned from the conversations of her parents and a doctor, the fatal element was probably her love for a darkish complexion. After a summer extravaganza of sunbathing in Perast, she attended the solariums in Beograd. Now her black hair hang loose, and her worry was a skin cancer, something she never thought of while enjoying, at the seaside, the Sun – at the time when she wrote (with her own skin, then attractive) homages to that star.
She was turning over in her hands the corners of a beige jute gown, similar to the one I recently threw away. Then she crumpled parts of it, and dropped it on the floor. Then she flung a nail-cutter at her parents; and a green apple, one of the several fruits they had brought her as present. She was trying to hit them with it.
   - I don'' wanna diiiie! – shouted Fani like a spoiled child. She was covered from feet to throat with a stained hospital bedsheet. She was one of the few Beograd inhabitants not at all interested in aerial bombardment.
   - Maybe you won't –her father consoled her partly.
   - You almost surely will not – consoled her the smiling, baldish doctor. – We are going to remove this from the face of our Fanika by a surgical excision.
   - So at best I will look like a horror case – she said snivelingly, but with an (auto)ironic smile. This was supposed to be her reproach to her parents for not having warned her in good time about the dangers of overexposing herself to light. But, if they had tried, this unfortunate devotee of the solar cult would have shouted them down, almost certainly; she would have chased them off the beach; she was a girl impossible to please.

   The doctor took the parents aside and quietly told them:

         o If this is only because of the sun and the solariums, she will be cured to some extent.

           Then he spoke several phrases in Latin.

   – Something else has me worried – he continued. – Fanika said recently that she is tired and has headache, as was the case in Perast. Tell me, how long before the moving to Beograd did she sleep in one and the same place in the flat?
   - When she slept at home, she always slept in the same place, for the last five, six years – answered Fani's father. The doctor turned his head left-right.
   - If it is what I think, then................................. - he murmured.
   I can record that part of their conversation because at that time they were not aware of my presence. I already totally regretted Fani's susceptibility, as well as the futility of my compassion.
   I walked out of the room without saying goodbye to any of them. I descended to the inter-city road Beograd-Podgoritza (and vice versa). I waved my palm and a dark Opel Vectra taxi appeared and stopped. The taxi driver passed through a pedestrians-only zone; the far headlights spilled over the beginning of a nearby park. He checked his tires, then he headed for the Glassmakers' quarter, where the shelter was. I was already fed up with ordinary taxi drivers who keep slyly quiet when they ought to explain why they are shortchanging me; equally fed up with those who like to burden you with their own problems when they should be silent. Such drivers seem to charge for the ride and for the lecture.
   This driver was my kind. The ride would have passed, in all probability, without any sound, if the radio had not been turned on, but it was, and it spewed commercials for pendulums, the rashlye, L antennas and biotensors. I looked more closely at that driver: darkish skin complexion, prominent jaw, jinxy look – it was probably the same one who drove me, from Perast to the motel.
I asked him something, and he replied in poor Serbian. For consolation I said to myself that maybe, maybe it is not the same man, and I remembered a text from some State-controlled newspaper which said that all Albanians are alike (something like: unfortunately, it is difficult to differentiate those Albanians who are loyal to Serbia from those who are mal-using the Western support and the unjustified Albanian numerical predominance in Kosovo for the purpose of seceding from Serbia). A racist remark which, so I hoped, referred only to physical similarity. When we got near the firm where I worked, and a little farther, to Tomas's house, the driver got out of his car and walked inside with me; my skin crawled. Together we descended into the cellar.
   Into the roomy concrete-lined air-raid shelter, fitted with modern equipment. It even had a wooden bar inside. Near the bar were installed a TV, a music "tower" (line) and the loudspeaker boxes that practically hopped up and down in their places, so loud was their music.
   I allowed the taxi driver to walk off in the direction of the television set. He passed through a group of rather young participants who danced in harmony with each other. Especially noticeable among them was the editor of Seaside Weekly/Daily, who smiled politely at me. He was the first man in that shelter who noticed me. Other dancers did not; maybe they were concentrating too strongly on their attempts to promote some of their own strong points. Adam swung his head decorated by a big bush of hairdo; Robert raised his arms to draw attention to his flaky black gloves whose finger ends he had cut off by scissors; two fem journalists of the Seaside Weekly, wearing shirts tied in knots under the chest, were "mixing", turning and swaying with their naked bellies. Finally, the editor himself gesticulated with his forearms, not often, but sharply, up, down, because he hoped that somebody might notice his ropy muscles there.
   I regretted not having completed the text.
   I noticed Maks next to Tomas and with a slight unease thought that this crowd seemed to be gathered at the stratum of their presence in my meditations. I looked around at the shelter, trying, unsuccessfully, to estimate how safe it really is. I felt even heavier around the heart when I realized that everyone inside is acting joyously as though we were not in a war.
The only gloomy figure was Osvald, dressed in black; he swam through the sweaty crowd and materialized next to me. I felt a little easier when it became clear that he intends to stay with me.
   - This taxi driver, is he Albanian? – said I.
   - I think he is. His name is Agron. Maks hired him – he told me, hopping a little.
   - And he is not afraid to work in Serbia, today, and for a boss who is a Serbian military volunteer?
   - Well you heard, I suppose, that Schiptari are used to living in the hardest conditions – said he. – But: what say you about this shelter? Really in, ha? Perfect topic for newspapers!
   - Not a good thought – said I, reaching for a krempita, and thinking some things over.
   - People who do not have enough love, eat sweets – remarked Osvald.
   Determined to understand, but outside of the interpretation forced on me, what is really happening, I felt my unease suddenly turn inside out.

               - Where's Manya? – I said through clenched teeth.

   In fear, I reached inside my leather jacket, felt the swollen pocket; yes, the laptop was in place. I surrendered myself to a fit of coughing, and stomped one sole of my shoe, once, on the floor.
   - Quartzing herself – he answered calmly, pouring a dose of water from a little beaker into his glass with whisky. Perhaps his hand caught on somebody else, the six-sided glass fell on its side and a tea-colored liquid splashed over the wooden surface of the bar.
Manya finally entered the restaurant. She elbowed her way through the sweaty mass, passed me by, took a juice-vodka and stood at Robert's side.
   In the instantly changed atmosphere people stopped having fun.
   Manya and Robert vanished into the crowd and about fifteen minutes later they returned from the WC in which, on the toilet seat, rested my acquaintance from the Spiritual Paupers' Society.
   At a table sat Tomas, answered calls from a mobile phone, wrote out new financial constructions and sipped new coffees.
During a string of Iron Butterfly songs Adam approached the slightly jumping sound-box, under which stood Osvald, Maks held a continuing oration for the greater glory of war, and Agron watched him with unconcealed approval, around them crowded members of Ptolemy the First and Spiritual Paupers' Society; the air-raid danger-alert siren began and, to the sound of this, on the TV screen a piece of red ribbon sprouted, meaning air danger also; with an unhurried house-owner's steady hand Tomas opened a window and began to call up to the pilots, requesting a series of bombs to be hurled into this shelter, and then continued to blab into his mobile phone, while some young men stuck paper targets onto their foreheads. Robert separated from Manya, leaned his elbows onto the bar and frowningly gazed at Oskar Zvitzer, Manya interposed herself between them and started pinching the young body-builder's belly, the two of them started a conversation, such that Robert's big blue veins in the neck swelled even bigger; Maks started to foam at the mouth; Tomas rolled his bulged-out eyes round and round; Adam cried; Manya shivered, and Osvald hopped in place, impatient.
   Music stopped. Screen blacked out. The murmur died down and became silence, water stopped flowing behind the bar. Glasses were tinklingly put down on the tables. Hands stilled. And only then happened that which I've been expecting from the very beginning of this story:
about a hundred eyes, calm and cold, looked at me.

[Tripp]

Nekad sam poznavao ovoga tipa, Baranina, makar prije nego sto je pobjegao iz CG. Mnogo je volio da prica o sebi i svojem pisanju. Mislim da je politicki zatucan i da je seronja u srzi. Kao i mnogi prominentni pisci iz CG politika je oslonac njegovog bica a moguce je i pisanja; sa svakom promjenom lokacije na planeti, u glavi se radja nova politicka ideja, ili tako nesto, valjda po uzoru na Paunda i ostale manje poznate knjizevne odmetnike/velikane po cijim utabanim stazama vecina njih otvoreno & nedvosmisleno koraca.  

Citao sam mu prvi roman (novelu), Obmana boga, publikovan u Stubovima Kulture, i nisam bio impresioniran; u stvari u pitanju je prica razvucena u fontu da naizgled lici na roman (novelu). Ako volis njegovo praznjikavo pisanje [radi se o onoj jadnoj logici cijedjenja u pretezno iznemoglom autoru: jedna strana = 40-ak dana], onda ces voljeti i ostale popularne CG pisce; slicna je to skola, iako je Marojevic po godinama stariji od svih [makar od ovih 'mladjih']. Pamtim da je slusao [tada] zbilja opskurnu pop i rok muziku, i to je jedino sto mi se dopadalo kod njega. Dabome, moguce je i da se varam, i da je u medjuvremenu i te kako sazreo. Ako ne za Nobela i NIN-ovu nagradu, onda makar za Gonkurta i PEN-a. Svakako mi je drago sto jos uvijek pise.

[PTY]

Boga ti, stvarno si težak čovek, čak i za jednog crnogorca.

Ti bre ovde imaš prednost ličnog poznavanja čoveka; kako to može da se meri sa mojim utiskom iz gore nabrojanog materijala?
Čitao si i druge njegove stvari; kako to može da se meri sa gorepomenutom zbirkom priča (koju verovatno nisi čitao il' je ne nalaziš vrednom pomena) i njegovim političkim stavovima (o kojima ja stvarno ne znam mnogo a i ne zanimaju me, iz razloga o kojem bi trebali nov topik)?  
A i neobavezno treće; u pitanju je personalna averzija, Trippe, to sigurno; da li prema njemu ili prema meni? Ili oboje?

A ako ćemo po ispraznosti pisanija; ajde mi reci da ti je upravo Marojević pri vrhu takve liste pa da se poduhvatim eliminacije svakog literarnog do-srži-seronje, tek da vidim ko bi mi preostao.

[Tripp]

Mislio sam da nije tako, Libeat, ali ti si konstantno na flip mode-u. Jednostavno iskuliraj. I dozvoli mi da ti se izvinim sto sam ocigledno namjerno pokusao da ti pokvarim jednu savrsenu sliku. Naravno da je sve ovo sto sam napisao subjektivno i naravno da samo moramo biti subjektivni u svojim postovima i naravno da nisam citao tu zbirku, ali po ovome sto si ovdje postovala...

    U najmanju ruku, doslo mi je da te pozdravim u ime starih dobrih vremena kad si bila osjetno zovijalnija i kada smo se super druzili preko neta i tome sl...

[PTY]

okej.
okej.
tako mi i treba.
al' stvarno.
babe, if u happy, i'm fukcin' happy 2.
and flippin'.
just 4 u.

[crippled_avenger]

Meni je Marojević u književnosti kao Dejan Cukić u muzici. Godinama se zgražavaš ali onda u jednom trenutku počneš da ga poštuješ što se tako uporno bavi nečim za šta apsolutno nema talenta.

[crippled_avenger]

Tripp je odlično primetio tu fetišizaciju PISANJA, koja me užasno nervira.

Jedino gore od toga je fetišizacija ČITANJA i PISANJA kod Oltvanjija.

Kao, on sad PIŠE. Wow! Oto sad ČITA. Wow!

Ja ne znam da li ti ljudi slušaju sebe. To je kao kad bi moja majka rekla, "Ja sam danas KUVALA RUČAK!" I onda uzela da objašnjava, "Ja to radim, zato što mi moramo nešto da jedemo. Važno je da ljudi, pa tako i članovi moje porodice nešto jedu. Hrana je važna. Ne moraju ljudi da kuvaju da bi ručali, naravno da ne. Društvo je takvo da ne mogu svi da se hrane u restoranu. I sama priroda restorana je takva da nije uvek dobro hraniti se tamo. Zato ja kuvam ručak. Već godinama. Kuvanje ručka je moja sudbina. Često sam upitana nad ručkom. U vreme bombardovanja sam se nekoliko puta upitala, dok nije bilo struje, kako ću dalje kuvati ručak? Kako ja da kuvam paprikaš sa noklama dok neko gine. Kako faširati posle Srebrenice. Ali, ljudi oko mene, ljudi koji jedu moj ručak su mi dali snage. Dok god ima neko da jede moj ručak, mislim da to ima smisla, i ja ću kuvati."

[---]

ne diraj mi Cukića Deju...

kod njega je u stvari najvažniji tip Dragan Mitrić, a onda dolazi Marija Mihajlović. skoro sam slušao "Trenutni lek" Bulevara, i prs'o sam kako je to uslimljeno, aranžirano, uopšte, kako je smišljeno. a onda taj jeben prateći vokal u "Ja bih da pevam", i to je za respekt.

Dejo ima "Kao letnje kiše", "Dolazi tiho", "Julija", "Ruža ispod pepela"... šta bi više, jebi ga?

a inače, kuvanje i pisanje su slične rabote, i ova fetišizacija nije ič novo, ali ipak verujem da tvoja majka bolje kuva nego što oltvanji piše.  

[angel011]

jedna strana = 40-ak dana

Da li ovo znači da se jedna strana piše 40 dana, ili je toliko smaranje da je potrebno 40 dana da se pročita?

[DušMan]

Dejo ima "Kao letnje kiše", "Dolazi tiho", "Julija", "Ruža ispod pepela"... šta bi više, jebi ga?

Cukiceva najbolja pesma/spot je za "Mika upade u shamotnu pec", a to je cak pevao na plejbek Zaklane Celjadi.

[PTY]

Jedna od interesantnijih stvari kod hejta jeste da svako može sa hejtom da se složi. Onako, baš svako i baš iskreno - razmisliš trenutak-dva i kažeš sebi: baš je tako. Al' problem nastaje kad sa hejta čovek pređe na pohvale i onda shvatiš da nema troje ljudi valjda na celom svetu da se ikad slože u pozitivnom mišljenju.  
Oto verovatno ima taj problem fetišizacije pisanja ali to je valjda svima ovde poznato zato što Ota svuda ima, on o sebi svuda priča a i takav ima karakter da maltene standardizuje finoću.  Svako ovde misli o čitanju kao i Oto, ali jedino Oto uspeva da tome da prizvuk fetišizacije tim svojim receptualnim "dva sata čitanja – jedan sat pisanja" pristupom. E sad, interesantno je da za sve ove godine još nisam naišla na Otov hejt o bilo čemu. Što je vrlo pametno sa njegove strane, pošto nikad nije došao u situaciju da nakon pljuvačine po tamo nekoj Jagodi u supermarketu padne u ekstazu nad Šejtanovim ratnikom ili Srpskim psihom. Pa nikad nisam trebala da lomim glavu po kojekakvoj slepačkoj aporiji tipa - šta bre ovaj čovek ima za standarde.  
Kao recimo što se sad pitam.
Jer koliko god preko nečijeg hejta provalim nad čime se taj neko zgražava, toliko se šlogiram kad mi isti taj neko kaže reč-dve o nečemu što kuju u zvezde ili, nedo bog, iskuju ručno. (howzit  Kriple... )
tako da... je, možda Marojević stvarno nema talenta, možda to sve i jeste plitko, površno i bezvezno, verovato ste u pravu, ali... malkice me ipak više kopka kakav bi vi NINov žiri bili...  
A možda bi glasali samo za mrtve ruske klasike.    

[ginger toxiqo 2 gafotas]

... po mom sudu, Marojevic je minoran pisac (govorim na uzorku procitanih romancica OBMANA BOGA i 24 ZIDA, a gledao sam i grozomornu postavku tog delceta u BDP-u), kao urednik (u Laguni) poguban (na dusu mu stavljam SRPSKI PSIHO, PLISANI SOLITER Ane Vuckovic i uber-hajpovanje Zvonka Karanovica), u nastupu je opako samodopadljiv ali osecam potrebu da ga pohvalim jer je skrenuo paznju i tacno-tecno preveo Roberta Bolanja na srpski (ISPRAVE ZA PLES, UDALJENA ZVEZDA, CHILE NOCU)...

[Alexdelarge]

Tabloidom protiv istorije
Igor Marojević: Šnit

Negiranje velike naracije, fragmentarnost smisla, raslojavanje i decentralizacija priče, ukidanje vremenske linearnosti, projekcija budućnosti u sadašnjost i prošlost, interpolacija neliterarnih tekstova u umetničko delo, beg od patetike i katarze – odlike su stilskog pravca koji je bio domintan u književnosti poslednje četvrtine prošlog veka, ali čine i osnovne stilsko-poetičke odrednice novog proznog ostvarenja Igora Marojevića, dokazujući da još uvek postoji veliki broj predstavnika srpske literature koji veruju da mogućnosti postmodernističkog obrasca pisanja još uvek nisu iscrpljene. Bliže određujući Šnit kao ,,roman-tabloid" i dosledno poštujući načela istoriografske metafikcije, Igor Marojević pokušava da se na ,,originalan" način poigra sa prošlošću, ideologijama, ljudskim sudbinama, pa čak i sa paradigmom multikulturalnosti, zahvaljujući kojoj je i dobio donacije da radi na stvaranju petoknjižja (do sada su, pored ove, objavljene i knjige Žega i Mediterani), projekta koji bi, akcentujući međunacionalne odnose u ratnim okolnostima, trebalo da predstavlja skroman doprinos sprovođenju koncepta političke korektnosti u zaostalim društvima kakva, navodno, čine Balkan. Rezultat ovoga eksperimenta – a to biva vidljivo onog trenutka kada se sa Šnita skine ljuštura sastavljena od naizgled maestralnih književnih postupaka – jeste tek rapsodija besmisla, otkucana prstima autora koji pokušava da savlada, a potom čak i nadogradi, bezuspešno, osnovne principe na kojima počiva postmodernistički tekst.

Oponašanje publicističkog stila
Novo delo Igora Marojevića, zasnovano na parodijskoj strukturi, oblikovano kao paraistorijski roman, varira nekoliko velikih i značajnih tema, koje čine i neke od ključnih delova nacionalnih istorija naroda koji žive na prostorima Balkana. Naime, roman Šnit, čija se radnja odigrava uglavnom u Zemunu (mada se sudbine junaka prate od Zagreba do Ravne Gore), tematizuje Drugi svetski rat, nemačku okupaciju Jugoslavije, stvaranje NDH na teritoriji današnjeg Srema i sukob različitih id eologija na ratom zahvaćenom području. Imajući u vidu osnovne tematsko-motivske odrednice Marojevićevog ostvarenja, naziv romana (nemačka reč ,,šnit" znači parče, komadić, deo veće celine, ali i kroj) mogao bi da se tumači i kao uspešna metafora prekrajanja granica, kidanja (ljudskog) mesa, ali i kao metafora ljudskog tela, svedenog na kroj, uniformu; otuda se, na prvi pogled, i dodeljivanje jedne od glavnih uloga Hugu Bosu, tvorcu i ovlašćenom proizvođaču nacističkih uniformi, između ostalog i crnih SS ,,algemajnovki", čini smislenim. Međutim, iako se u Šnitu naslućuje da u vrtlogu rata svako, bio Nemac, Hrvat ili Srbin, mora bar ponešto da izgubi (identitet, ljudskost, život), stradanje junaka, nagovešteno već naslovnom metaforom, nije uslovljeno ni nacionalnom pripadnošću likova, niti njihovim ideološkim stavovima, čak nije ni proizvod zverstava koja se čine u svakom ratu, već je posledica niza apsurdnih situacija i nemotivisanih događaja, čija su značenja, čini se, večno zagubljena u lavirintima nekog od mnogobrojnih rukavaca ovog, kompozicijski izuzetno složenog romana. Tako, na primer, Nebojša, brat glavnog junaka Novaka Maričića, ne bi bio pogubljen da nije sasvim slučajno, dok se prepirao sa bratom, ubio svoju majku, a roditelji novinarke Karen Frost, ne bi bili upucani da se Novaku nije smrklo pred očima usled naglog ustajanja sa stolice. Dakle, vihori rata nemaju nikakve veze sa smrću junaka u Šnitu, a metafora koja se krije u naslovu Marojevićevog dela izneverava horizont očekivanja čitalaca. Ta činjenica mogla bi čak da obezbedi Šnitu onaj neophodan višak značenja, neuhvatljiv na prvo čitanje, zahvaljujući kojem se umetničko delo i razlikuje od ostalih tekstova; osim toga, parodija i ironija kojom je natopljen površinski sloj Marojevićevog dela, mogle bi da ranije opisane nelogičnosti i nemotivisanosti učine podnošljivijim, te da omoguće da se na falsifikovanje istorije i relativizaciju vrednosti pojedinih ideologija, gleda, ako ne blagonaklono, onda bar uz suzdržano negodovanje, makar zbog poštovanja u metničke slobode. Ali umetnička sloboda ne može da bude dovoljan razlog za izrečene nesuvislosti, ne može da predstavlja opravdanje za neodgovaran odnos prema temi (istoriji i ideologiji), junacima, stilu, konačno, prema, čitaocima; za takav odnos potreban je zaista snažan estetski argument.
Njega autor očigledno želi da potraži u formi romana tabloida. Naime, kakva-takva vrednost Šnita u velikoj meri se sastoji u ideji da najveći broj imenovanih i neimenovanih junaka strada pre svega zahvaljujući stanju u medijima koji, zapravo, predstavljaju produženu ruku ideologije i društvene represije. Ta ideja, i pored toga što korespondira sa podnaslovom romana Igora Marojevića, i pored toga što mu obezbeđuje epitet ,,paraistorijskog" (jer dijalog prošlosti i sadašnjosti najuočljiviji je upravo u paralelama između političkog i kulturnog obrasca štampanih medija nekad i sad), samo se pominje, i na stranicama knjige iscrpljena je u konstataciji, izrečenoj na više mesta, poznatoj od kako je sveta i veka, da objektivno informisanje ne postoji, i da mediji imaju cilj da manipulišu ljudima, te da su odgovorni za mnoga zla koja je ljudski rod počinio. Iako je ispunjen mnoštvom novinskih isečaka, vesti i reportaža, istina apsurdnih i grotesknih, Šnit ne sadrži ni delić feljtonističkog, izuzimajući, eventualno, pitak i razumljiv jezik, jednostavnu rečeničnu konstrukciju i leksiku oslobođenu bilo kakve metaforičnosti i poetičnosti. Naravno, ovakav jezik posledica je pokušaja da se oponaša publicistički stil, a određene nepravilnosti na jezičko-stilskom planu, čak i kada se sukobljavaju sa pravopisno-gramatičkim pravilima srpskog jezika, pravdaju se činjenicom da je čitav Šnit zapravo fingirani roman tabloid, u kojem su, valjda po pravilima tog žanra, manjkavosti nužnost.

Monstruozni žanrovski hibrid
Roman-tabloid poslužio je Marojeviću kao izgovor za iskrivljavanje istorijskih činjenica, i kao opravdanje za specifičan odnos prema prošlosti i nekada vladajućim ideologijama, ali je on, takođe, i pogodna forma za razl ičita žanrovska poigravanja, pa tako i za ničim izazvano pojavljivanje ljubavnih novela, silom interpoliranih u strukturu Šnita, u kojima, defiluju junaci (Srbin, Nemica i Hrvatica koji učestvuju u ljubavnom trouglu) oslobođeni bilo kakvih emocija, rukovođeni samo principom Tanatosa, bez prisusutva njegovog vernog pratioca Erosa. Te ljubavne novele veoma brzo, kako verovatno nalažu pravila novog književnog žanra, romana tabloida, prelaze, usled mnogobrojnih, ponovo ničim izazvanih ubistava, u triler priče, čime autor Šnit pretvara u jedan monstruozni žanrovski hibrid u kojem, gušeći se međusobno, koegzistiraju i istorijski roman, i ljubavna melodrama, i avanturistički putopis, i detektivska priča, i politički triler.
Ipak, u jednom takvom romanu tabloidu, ispunjenom, baš kao u žutoj štampi, mnogim provokativnim temama, između ostalog i političkim pamfletima, ne može se iščitavati ni idejna potka, ni autorski stav, jer Igor Marojević već u uvodnoj napomeni želi da napravi otklon od svega onoga što je izrekao u romanu, ističući kako ,,autor ne zastupa nijedan ideološki stav zastupljen u ovoj knjizi". Naprotiv, njegova namera je da se razračuna sa Istorijom i Ideologijom, da pokuša da primora čitaoca da se suoči sa mračnom prošlošću i natera ga da prihvati koncept ,,političke korektnosti". Nažalost, u sukobu autora sa mračnom prošlošću stradala je najpre priča, čiji su delovi ostali večno zarobljeni u neuspešnom oponašanju publicističkih žanrova, a zatim i junaci, koji bauljaju kroz stranice romana potpuno nesvesni svojih delovanja i smisla postojanja, karakterološki neoblikovani, tipizirani, tek skicirani, i to u crno-beloj tehnici, čineći socijalno i psihološki nemotivisane postupke; potpuno neupečatljivi i bledi, oni na kraju romana gube i svoja imena i dobijaju šifre u vidu slova, poređenih po abecednom redu.
Šnit je, dakle, kako je manji deo hrabrije književne kritike još ranije zaključio, ,,loše skrojeno parče", verovatno nalik onoj knjizi koju je napisao junak romana Novak Maričić, knjizi ,,koju neće shva titi ni tradicionalisti ni avangardisti". S tom razlikom što je Novak svoje delo morao da objavi o ličnom trošku i da ga, takođe o ličnom trošku, plasira u nekoliko papirnica, dok Marojevićeve pripovedačke opuse finansiraju mnoge institucije i organizacije, a po službenoj dužnosti ih čitaju ,,književni kritičari". Možda i zato ovo delo nije napisano u stvaralačkom žaru, možda mu zato i manjka stvaralačkog oduševljenja. Međutim, ,,problem nije u manjku oduševljenja, nego u manjku obrazloženja manjka oduševljenja." Ovim rečima potpisnik Šnita ismeva neuspešne pokušaje pisanja junakinje njegovog romana Monike Vranić, ali one u isto vreme mogu da predstavljaju i vrednosni sud o Marojevićevom delu. Roman Šnit ostaće zaboravljen, pre svega zato što je loše napisano delo, što predstavlja jedan neuspešan pokušaj stvaranja nove estetske i kulturne paradigme koja bi trebalo da bude produžena ruka jedne nove ideologije.
Aleksandar Dunđerin

[Ghoul]

GENIJALNO! 

Tripp je odlično primetio tu fetišizaciju PISANJA, koja me užasno nervira.

Jedino gore od toga je fetišizacija ČITANJA i PISANJA kod Oltvanjija.

Kao, on sad PIŠE. Wow! Oto sad ČITA. Wow!

Ja ne znam da li ti ljudi slušaju sebe. To je kao kad bi moja majka rekla, "Ja sam danas KUVALA RUČAK!" I onda uzela da objašnjava, "Ja to radim, zato što mi moramo nešto da jedemo. Važno je da ljudi, pa tako i članovi moje porodice nešto jedu. Hrana je važna. Ne moraju ljudi da kuvaju da bi ručali, naravno da ne. Društvo je takvo da ne mogu svi da se hrane u restoranu. I sama priroda restorana je takva da nije uvek dobro hraniti se tamo. Zato ja kuvam ručak. Već godinama. Kuvanje ručka je moja sudbina. Često sam upitana nad ručkom. U vreme bombardovanja sam se nekoliko puta upitala, dok nije bilo struje, kako ću dalje kuvati ručak? Kako ja da kuvam paprikaš sa noklama dok neko gine. Kako faširati posle Srebrenice. Ali, ljudi oko mene, ljudi koji jedu moj ručak su mi dali snage. Dok god ima neko da jede moj ručak, mislim da to ima smisla, i ja ću kuvati."