This story wandered in and out of focus for me. There were moments in which I was not sure what was going on, out of time and place, unsure who was narrating -- was it the main character, or one of the many people they talked to in their travels? I say they because I'm not really sure of anything regarding the main character -- perhaps I should assume he, but that doesn't feel sure. There were other moments in which something snapped into place and hit me hard: loss, identity, injustice, guilt. Those moments took my breath away. Emerging from the haze as they did only amplified their effects.

It's a bit of a travel log, but light on personal rumination. It's focused on the intriguing people the narrator runs across. He is from Yugoslavia and tends to run into people from there or nearish (a main character is an Albanian living in Ireland) that have been displaced. They've gone to Ireland or to Belgium and struggled with how much of themselves to leave behind. The basic questions they struggle with are universal, but have a particular tint of the refugee, the immigrant, those layering identities on top of one another.

There's no real plot to hold all of this together, other than "I went to these places and met these people, but that works here. A snapshot of struggle.

This is an atmospheric, densely written landscape of words. Rather than chapters or even sections, I would say this book is divided into portions, some large, some small, most narrating conversations of the author’s friends and acquaintances, together with some introspective remembrances by the author himself. The result is, indeed, a panorama on our (mankind’s) relationships - to our physical environment, country and culture, family and friends, out past and our present. Despite the first person narration and the narrator’s physical presence and participation in each scene, the author’s voice is surprisingly absent allowing us, as the reader, to take in the landscape, giving us the space to make our own connections and reflections.

Somewhat ironically I read this book over the course of a week of rainstorms in northern California which often perfectly matched the grey, blustery, dripping, yet luminous, country of Ireland where the first part of the story takes place thus giving me a wry appreciation of traveling in such wet environs. I had never considered that as an American, especially as an American of European descent, I always considered Ireland as a place to be from. It is the old country, one of the oldest countries, the place people lived before there was a North America. Yet the author and his acquaintances, being natives of the Balkan tribes, saw Ireland as a place their forbearers went to. It was the destination, the place where they settled, long before there was a north America or even a United States, long before famine would force them off Ireland’s shores for the new world. They were from the old country, Ireland was a new country and the United States and Canada were newer still. Were I to stand alongside the author as a tourist to Ireland’s many picturesque destinations, the landscape would invoke a subtly different reaction, my observations and relationship to the experience would be different than his even if our physical experiences of the tourist visit were identical.

The writings also returned frequently to the observation that the wars in the Balkans have fundamentally altered, perhaps even severed, the relationship natives of the region have to their countries, cultures and history as a place. As one professor of Slovenia literature put it, she can teach Slovenia works to students of many backgrounds and countries, but they will never fully understand it or comprehend it in a way that those from the Balkan regions will, and even her daughter who is now a young adult, cannot understand the country as it was before the war. The experiences are so centrally different that a full translation of the literature is not possible.

Šarotar’s prose is poetic, a treat to read. The style of this book is strongly reminiscent of W. G. Sebald, complete with supplementary photos, but Šarotar puts his own stamp on the approach to make it his own and not just an imitation. There were sections of the book where I wondered if the translation was up to the original, whether it was doing the original justice. These were sections where the writing sounded a bit broken or unnaturally dense. However, those places were few and once one understands the rhythm of Šarotar’s writing, the reading goes smoothly. I received a free copy of this book from the publisher via NetGalley and am so grateful for the gift. I’ve discovered a new author for myself and can only hope that many more works of his are translated into English.

Thank you Net Galley for the free ARC.

This book is written in beautiful language. It is like the writer is meditating about the landscape he is in. He describes the setting around Galway, Ireland, the rugged coast, the graveyards and the memorial about men gone down with the sea.
I wish the photos were more than just black and white snapshots, they are supporting the story, but they are plain photos, nothing special or artistic.