Rewritten Article: Reflections on Memory, Literature, and Responsibility

Born in a landmark year and the echo of Europe’s wars

You are born into a moment many remember for its upheaval, a year like 1968. As a writer and as a citizen, what thoughts accompany a look back when another terrible conflict unfolds in Europe years later, namely the war in Ukraine?

Waging war in Europe after the devastation of World War II seems misguided. Yet there appears to be a memory gap, a tendency to forget. The fact is we began to forget quickly, including the scale of World War II. When memory fades, the danger of repeating past mistakes grows. Memory requires daily care; it must be exercised every day.

The reader may sense that literature and storytelling will play a crucial role in this moment. Behind the real war there is another struggle at work: the war of words and propaganda. It will be essential to learn how to fight that battle. The literature and shared humanity found in stories that illuminate empathy provide a natural counter to propaganda.

“The extinction of memory, our collective Alzheimer’s disease, invites nationalism and populism.”

How should one assess a career after winning the International Booker Prize, a prize that stands among the most significant in literature? Is there pride in this achievement? Is one finally where they hoped to be when starting to write?

The author did not pursue writing with the Booker in mind. If a writer weighs awards during creation, concentration falters. Writing demands immense devotion of heart and mind; it is demanding work, both physically and mentally. Survival becomes the focus while giving one’s best. The Booker’s significance becomes clear only in hindsight, when one recognizes the names of past nominees like Milan Kundera, Gabriel García Márquez, Margaret Atwood, Olga Tokarczuk, Julian Barnes, and others. Those are the minds from whom craft was learned. Being mentioned among them already feels like a reward. Receiving the prize opens doors for more readers to discover the work.

In Las Tempestálidas, a focal point is the relationship with the past and the large political stakes of the moment. Gaustín’s forecast of a “global madness” reads with unusual accuracy. A new phase of life is pursued with a sense of play, yet the question remains: should Europe’s rise of the far right and the surge of nationalism and populism elsewhere be avoided as missteps?

To call these developments mere mistakes underplays the issue. The novel reframes this renewed life as a testing ground: it reveals how memory loss, our collective Alzheimer’s, makes room for such forces. Europe must defend itself, and culture should act as immunity. Yet the disease of the past proves stubborn, and the region proves vulnerable to its contagion.

And what has society neglected in recent decades? Three things surface: culture, empathy, and education.

The author’s approach to narrative blends playfulness with seriousness, offering satire while remaining thoughtful. What importance do satire and humor hold as literary tools?

When nationalist kitsch begins to bloom, irony and satire act as essential shields. Coming from a place where history offered little gentleness, irony and self-irony helped countless generations survive and endure.

Beyond novels, poems, stories, and plays, there is a conviction that courage and strength live in readers alike, and a public stance that the writer openly defends. Is there a social responsibility attached to writing?

European literature often shows the oppressed and the humiliated stepping forward to stand with the underdog. Good writing requires a hypersensitivity, a readiness to be a walking wound in the world. The author was young when monumental changes hit, and indifference never felt acceptable then, nor does it now.

“A writer cannot truly be great without hypersensitivity, an open wound traveling the world.”

When considering the titles that resonate, The Physics of Sorrow stands out. Physics is about tangible, measurable things—the things we touch. Yet the sense arises that literature seeks to engage the exact sciences within us. We lack exact sciences for loneliness, joy, nostalgia, or love, yet we possess their literature. Is that the author’s purpose?

Gratitude is offered for the idea that The Physique of Sadness centers on a question: how can the most essential parts of humanity, like sadness, be understood? Each of the author’s three novels intersects with a field of science: Natural Novel explores natural history, Las tempestálidas delves into medicine and the science of memory and amnesia. Literature and science, it seems, walk hand in hand because both revolve around human nature.

“Explaining sadness is the key to making it manageable. When sadness remains untold and unweighted, its energy can turn explosive.”

The literature of the era dissects visible and invisible crises. Can writing and art alter reality?

Yes, perhaps naively, but the belief persists that words and stories shape the world. Just as old books and films have guided generations, there is faith that truth and good triumph in the end.

Is it possible to translate emotions such as sadness? The Economist once described Bulgaria as “the saddest place in the world.” The author believes that at least a writer can and should try to translate and convey sadness, for the act of expression is what helps govern its force. Untold sorrow accumulates until it erupts.

Regarding the supposed absence of events in recent Bulgarian history, and the claim that in 1989 television declared freedom before real change occurred, the response is that a great novel emerges from such questions. The author cherishes the land and country, even while acknowledging the right to critique when needed.

What horizon exists for Bulgaria and for Europe now? There is a broader horizon problem affecting Europe and the world, a future that feels urgent and without clear meaning beyond economic metrics like fossil fuels. The stereotypes about Eastern European temperament are viewed as clichés that deserve to be overturned through close examination and tough choices.

The natural novel traces the 1990s, while The Physique of Sorrow speaks to the 20th century. How should one describe the last decade and what lies ahead?

Time moves strangely, flinging common human time into upheaval. Writing Las tempestálidas began to take shape in 2016, capturing a decade in flux. The end is not yet visible; it feels like a swamp, a time-jump, and a retreat into past bomb shelters for hope.

How does one answer the question about the possibility of a novel in times that lack tragedy or sublime—only everyday life remains? The answer lies in questions themselves becoming novels.

What role does literature occupy in daily life, and what is its place in the author’s own life? Literature flows within, even as one must navigate a life that often feels lacking practical skills. Endurance comes from reconciling life with literature and turning the world into literature in a way that goes largely unnoticed.

Is literature as vital now as it once was? The honest reply is that it remains unclear—perhaps more needed today than ever, perhaps not yet understood enough to say.

In The Physique of Sorrow, Scheherazade and the Minotaur’s Labyrinth anchor the core ideas. Literature and stories provide meaning and offer readers another day, a future worth hoping for. Does a bright future for literature exist?

Literature possesses a remarkable simplicity and power. One key quality is its ability to generate both popularity and resistance, a critical tool in contesting the stigma and kitsch of nationalist populism. Contemporary readers gravitate toward autofiction and works that blend fact with fiction. What is the writer’s stance on this trend?

For the author, a character like Gaustín was crafted with a secret intention: to invent the author in return. It was all part of a playful, thoughtful game that blurred lines between life and literature.

And finally, what sustains a writer’s life in the 21st century? The guiding answer is simple: there is a responsibility to help preserve the world and safeguard the future for at least one more generation. Shelters must not become mere cavities of fear; they should be places of refuge, not retreat, and the effort to protect what matters continues.