I chose to talk about Lalićeva memoir literature, specifically the book EPISTOLAE SENILIS - SENIAL LETTERS, which has not been given the attention it deserves, and was found in the author's backlog. There are two editions of this book, the first was published by SKZ (1995), and was given to me by Jevrem Brković 2016 and a new edition (PARTHENON from Belgrade), entitled SIEĆANJE MI JE - manuscript unpublished during his lifetime (2025). Lalić's son participated in the preparation Rajko, himself a writer of several novels, who sent me a copy of the book.
I opted for the SKZ edition, prepared by Branko Popović, an admirer of Lalić's work, who wrote about it expertly, deeply felt and understood it. This is a critical edition, to which Popović wrote a more extensive afterword and EDITOR'S NOTES, a particularly valuable text.
In the NOTES, Popović describes the appearance of the manuscript, and at the beginning he says: “Epistolae senilis is not finished, nor has it been refined by redactions. It is interrupted on page 116, so to speak, in the middle of a sentence. Therefore, one might think that there was (and was misplaced) at least one more page of the manuscript. The text is written in graphite pencil, in the writer’s hand, on a half-cut sheet of A-4 format (20/14,5) on only one side of the sheet, and as always in Cyrillic script,” writes the editor and adds: “The author wrote part of the manuscript (the first page and all pages after 88) on the back of the official “materials” of two political organizations of which he was a member at the time of writing the text, namely the Central Committee of the Yugoslav Communist Party and the Federal Conference of the Socialist Alliance,” Popović states.
I personally witnessed this during one of my visits, when I entered Lalić's study and saw the same thing. Now, a detail that may be interesting, Lalić wrote in an upright position on a specially made table that resembled a painter's easel. I guess he had a reason for that, and that position made his work easier. Then I saw and heard from him that he first wrote everything with a graphite pencil, then copied it with a fountain pen, and then the typist transferred it to the typewriter.
According to the results of scientific research, Branko Popović claims that Epistles written in the mid-1980s, perhaps in 1986, five or six years before his death or perhaps even earlier, in 1984. Popović found in the folder sketches of thematic plans for the continuation of the autobiographical writings. The first three sketches are titled: Student days, War days, Committee days and prison, while the fourth sketch has no title, but could be tentatively called Post-war daysThe book makes extensive use of material relating to his student days. His childhood days and days at the Berane gymnasium are particularly described, as are the living conditions, people and the time in which he was a student at that school. The bitter years of growing up and the formation of the future great writer.
It can be concluded that Lalić planned to continue writing memoirs, let's call this subsequently found manuscript, although it was not treated as such by the author.
The question naturally and logically arises: why did Lalić stop writing the Epistles of the Elderly? There were several years left until his death, which means that he had time or was he busy with something else? It is difficult to give a precise answer. The Epistles were, as I said, first published in 1995. That he planned to continue his notes and memories of the past years is evidenced by the fact that in the folder on which it was written Letters of the elderly - found sketches for future writing, adds Popović.
The book begins with a moment that stands out in Lalić's memory - an encounter with his mother who suddenly appeared while he was playing with the children, he was perhaps three or three and a half years old: her face was worried, but when she saw him playing with the children, she smiled and that smile, as he wrote, would follow him throughout his life, although it quickly faded and disappeared. The second moment, which left a particularly deep and painful impression on me, and which I will quote here in its entirety, also refers to his mother and one spring day, after which he would later not see her again. She died of Spanish fever, at a time when the living did not arrive to bury the dead, a time of lamentations and laments. Here is the entry:
CONVERSATION WITH MOTHER
"I remember only one conversation with a mjak, and even that one was burdened by a discussion about words."
It was spring, but I didn't know that that sunlit space had that name. There was a war, but to me that terrible time seemed quite normal - since I was born into it. I was three years old, and a little more, but I didn't take pride in that property that would constantly increase until it reached a certain final point. My father was a prisoner and two uncles were in the camp, but at that time I didn't know what the words meant father, uncles, captivity.
I only remember my mother digging in the garden. Later experience whispers to me that she did it with the intention of planting onions, peppers or some similar plants there. Tall early plum trees stood around like some curious and silent observers. Where the mother hit and cut off the clod of soil with her hoe, a smooth cut was created, as if polished. From somewhere I got the idea that this notch is what adults call a "foot". I still wanted to check, so I asked my mother:
"Is that a rate?"
"No, the rate is something else."
"How can it be otherwise, when this is it?"
I wanted to say, and perhaps I expressed it in some way, that the arrangement of the sounds of "foot" best corresponds to the image of the cut that remains behind the hoe. My mother explained to me all the meanings of the word foot, but I stood my ground and it seems to me that I hoped that my interpretation would later be generally accepted.
Later, between spring and autumn, there were conversations between us, probably more significant than this one, which would have been remembered had they not been burned in the heat of the Spanish flu epidemic. When I finally awoke from my unconsciousness with nightmares, I saw that my mother had completely disappeared from the world.
Sometimes even now I wonder how I came to terms with that loss, and I see that neither age, nor experience, nor many books read, have reconciled me to it. Three years ago, gray-haired, tired, when I remembered that short conversation again, it seemed to me that in the garden, where my mother was digging, there was a trace, a footprint or a depression that could help me determine the exact place where we stood, that to renew the memory, to expand and deepen it, and to find out what we discussed next, to continue the conversation from there.
I knew it was impossible, but I traveled anyway and arrived. I found a neglected garden, with early plum trees thinned out, neglected, wild and already barren. They looked at me like silent observers. They could say nothing more - neither those trees, nor the earth, nor the grass. I had traveled in vain.”
That's the end of the story.
Two memories of his mother are two indelible scars on Lalić's soul, two living open wounds that nothing could heal. Neither subsequent recollections, nor departure... There was no trace except in memory! A trace that cannot be erased!
Many details from childhood are interesting, written by the great writer. You have the impression that by reading a book with specific names, surnames and events, you are reading a great literary work. Reality raised to the level of literature. Only great writers can do that! I will mention another one of the many that causes sadness, in which he talks about what preceded his later writing - oral storytelling, he says. Namely, his second Vlado Jočić, her mother died and was buried with Lalić on the same day.
He was sad, downcast, sadness radiated from his face, and to tear him away from that situation, Lalić told him made-up stories. In one section, he also writes about the books that marked him in his early life, among them especially Defoov novel Robinson Crusoe, which he bought from a friend for his father's razor. It is also my best trade, says the writer, showing what the novel meant to him and how influential it was.
There are many memorable situations. Like the one about building a house, when the sick father rushes, knowing that he will die, to finish the house before his death, so as not to leave two makans under the open sky, uncared for, as he said, while with his last efforts on two weak oxen he pulled out of the forest the timber for the future house, which the boy dreamed of as much as his father. But the best thing is to read the book. What is found in the remains of a great writer is always especially intriguing!
Lalić's mother dies first. stana, by birth Bojic, three years later father Todor. Lalić stays with his stepmother Jaglike it spoils them Milutina, who will take care of him and help him with his upbringing and education. He had a half-brother Dušan. Destitution and poverty and a small inheritance. That didn't stop him from growing into a great writer and creating a grandiose literary work. And maybe it helped!
I wondered: what happened to Jaglik, Dušan and Milutin? I was interested in their life destinies. This is not written about in this or, as far as I know, in any other book. Uncle Milutin used to separate a decent amount of money from the modest salary of the municipal clerk and send it to Mihailo in Belgrade every month, sparing his children. That's what the Montenegrin brothers were like! They should be remembered, they should be mentioned!
Bonus video:
