The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

I can go on and on about Aleksandar Hemon's delightful The Question of Bruno. It is funny and moving and deliciously written; the language is glorious, and even Bosnian food gets a look in:

Then the lunch was served, and everyone sat around the long table, with Grandfather floating on the Lethe at its head. The table was creaking under heaps of pork and chicken limbs. There were big-ear soup bowls, which were reverently passed around the table, as steam was enthusiastically gushing up, like smoke from a snoozy volcano. There were plates of green onions, stacked like timber, and tomato slices sunk in their own slobber. After the lunch, everyone became drowsy, descending from the mountains of meat to the lowlands of sleep. Snippets of conversation died off within seconds, for no one's blood was capable of reaching the brain.


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