I state the shortcomings in the article in the good faith that the public has the right to know what profile of creatives led the strategic department - tourism, as well as the cultural policy of the Montenegrin Government.
We all have the right to be untalented, but the novel "Mating of Swans" by MP and former minister Predrag Sekulić breaks through the limits of literary analysis with its stupidity and bad taste - it makes us wonder who are the people we have entrusted with important social functions.
Without quotations as a tool of interpretation, it would be difficult to capture the essence of Sekulić's narration, which occurs on several levels, through the metatextual game of perspectives, common in contemporary prose. It is true that the lack of life of the author's expression hurts, but that is not the worst in a novel that is structurally falling apart and permanently keeps the reader in a dilemma whether to scream. Literary Đeleber, however, has a certain cultural-entertainment character that those among you will already feel completely surrendered to the demon of masochism.
To cut it short - the hero about whom Sekulić's narrator writes is a big scamp. He's not even afraid of a tripper, and between ejaculations he disperses his angry spleen with the wisdom of the pub provenance: "Real fuckers never apologize", "A white shirt, patent shoes and a good dick never go out of fashion" and so on, within the limits of hetero pleasure.
Sekulić's literary character may be stupid, but he has an enviable circulation and readership: "He was satisfied with himself. It fit him hard and stiff. Thanks to the wine, he did not ejaculate for a long time. He even put his finger in her bum at one point. He read that somewhere, Henry Miller, probably".
Obviously the writer learned a lot from Henry Miller. As we can see, he is in a certain way quoting Miller while making love, within his own quote. Let's look at a typical Miller passage in which it is not known whether Wednesday is a fight or a love affair:
"Wanting to defend herself, he slapped her... She just looked at him and continued to swallow. He barely managed to push her away from him. He pounced on her while she was flailing her arms and legs."
Of course, the problem is not the writer's sexual fixation, the problem is when, without literary justification, he gets fat like a nerd who at the age of 50 is in the ass (to use Miller's words) and realized that he is allowed to name below the navel.
There is one special place in the book, when the lady pours wine on the hero's abdomen: "He felt a slight tingling sensation on his head when she poured the wine on him as well." He probably wants to wash it, he thought. That "probable washing" of the tip of the phallus happened on page 34. But the case did not end there. We can see that Sekulić's literary alter ego is obsessed with genital hygiene on page 53: "He started to get horny only when she put it in her mouth. He was embarrassed that he didn't wash it."
It is not our intention to draw the conclusion that the writer did not make the main character cry for the entire 19 pages! Should we then fall into the tempting trap of psychoanalysis, or just note these obvious cries of the narrator to stay clean?
Instead of an answer, let's surrender to the charms of the text. Let's say, page 119. Sekulić's macho is ogling a young chick. She doesn't understand his movie quotes. The generation gap. "You make me old... you make me cum so well before you even touch me..." Now the hero answers the unknown drool: "You mean like Romy Schneider tried to cum remotely with Marlon Brando?"
Porka madonna! It seems that Sekulić didn't watch the movie just like his Lolita! Otherwise, I guess he would have known that the other one played with Bertolucci - Marija Schneider. But it does not matter. It is important that the book "Mating of the Swans" has an editor. His name is Radomir Uljarević. "Oktoih" publishing house. They put an 18+ sign on the cover. Possibly because of the second part of the novel, in which the narrator's father is wounded in the Spanish civil war, his wounds are seen by a dwarf woman, who is suddenly and without hesitation put in her mouth by a military surgeon, but she still falls in love with him, as many later fall in love with her. (she had superb breasts) and so the dwarf woman ends up fighting around Paris, dragging the narrator's father, a Spanish fighter, whose legs and arms are broken...
Read the story. I have no more strength. But still - I have to ask - how much audacity do you need to gather over the years of existence to publish something like that. Sekulić and various other sekulićs benefit from the fact that there is no literary criticism in Montenegro, so that every ego of the peasant can pick up a pen and call a cabbage patch soaked in damp frustration a novel. The fact that there is no criticism allows the party moths to have a literary reference in their biographies, with the increasingly sad Lukšić at the helm, to have some beautiful literature in their CV in the footsteps of their colleague Churchill. And Montenegrin publishers will stamp that garbage, I guess because they know that the party machine guarantees a good market.
I would like to single out Sekulić here as a man who, unlike Lukšić, did not use his political position to promote and sell his talent. Sekulić even tried to offer some kind of porn content - I guess that's what he wanted with this book - which is really, to put it in his style, stupid, when it comes from a member of parliament.
In addition, when you open Sekulić's novel and hold it at a distance of one and a half meters, it looks like fine literature, because its sentences are short, like some of the great guys of Anglo-Saxon literature, there is a lot of dialogue, so from a distance it looks like a decently organized text. It is a commendable evolution if we remember the inkers of his caliber who were always drowning in some kind of pseudo-Andrić-esque pasukina.
In support of the economy of the text, Sekulić recently started tweeting. Yes, I followed his posts and I say he was the most avant-garde member of parliament in the northern hemisphere. Maybe he's working on a sequel to the novel, I thought, so he identified with the main character, or he discovered that pornography is not taboo, so he started trolling Twitter and following profiles of explicit content. I greeted that with both thumbs up as a sign of the consistency of the "fucker" writer who does not recognize the death of the author (R. Bart) and other postmodern frauds, on the contrary, he lives his literature to the fullest. But, alas!
You noticed the past tense. Apparently, Sekulić WAS a tweeter without a hair on his tongue (or rather, with a hair on his tongue, mmm). The other day I went to the profile under his name and saw that the tweets had been deleted. In that moment, the desire to write about his work was actually born.
What did I understand that epochal? The sad truth. A Sekulic writer can write five (!) novels and call himself a writer, without anyone from the literary profession closing his mouth and defending art, language and taste; Sekulić, a private person, to whom the Constitution guarantees freedom of speech, is apparently brutally silenced overnight, perhaps by an invitation from the party, from where I received confirmation that it was not some "fan page" on Twitter, but that the author was behind the order. Or at least he stood, until he was cut by the saber of (auto)censorship.
Now he's going to write books again, fuck him.
Bonus video:
