VLadislav Bajac is an author whose work stands at the crossroads of history, philosophy and literary imagination, creating spaces where East and West meet, and past and present are constantly negotiating. His prose, at once introspective and extraordinarily informed, is the fruit of decades of research, personal curiosity and passionate dedication to literature. This year, he is the recipient of the prestigious “Stefan Mitrov Ljubiša” award presented by the “Grad Teatar” festival, an award that, as he himself says, he experiences as a somewhat uncomfortable but honored membership in the pantheon of literary greats of the region and beyond.
Bajac is also the recipient of the Special Book Award of China. He was the vice-president of Serbian PEN. One of the founders of the Balkan Academy of Arts (Academia Balkanica Europeana). Founder, director and editor-in-chief of the publishing house Geopoetika. He is the recipient of the Literary Translation Initiative Award of the London Book Fair and the United Kingdom Publishers Association for the Serbian Prose in Translation (SPiT) edition. He is a holder of the Royal Norwegian Order of Merit-Commander.
In an interview for "Vijesti", the writer, publisher, translator and former journalist speaks with unpretentious lucidity about the symbolism of this recognition, his own literary journey and the balance between meditative silence and dramatic historical developments. He also reflects on his long-standing friendship with the Turkish Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, unforgettable moments spent with Leonard Cohen, as well as the challenges of independent publishing and the role of literature in increasingly fast-paced and superficial times. With a refined sense of nuance, Bajac offers a synthesis of personal experience and literary philosophy, confirming once again why his work is an indispensable point on the contemporary literary map of the Balkans.
What does the “Stefan Mitrov Ljubiša” award mean to you, how did you experience it?
I followed this award somehow “from the sidelines”, for several reasons. It seemed far away to me, because for all these 30 years I was aware of which authors had won it. Truly the greatest names in Serbian and regional literature of different generations. However, I saw its greatest significance in the linguistic connection of the space that we still share. Sometimes “jumping out” with names Ronald Harwood, Đerđe Konrad and from a slightly wider geographical and linguistic space only increased its importance.
I saw the award as recognition of the modest contribution of my books to the pyramid of undoubtedly great writers of different poetics, styles and breadth. At first, I felt a slight unease: I have never seen myself as great. The award “forced” me to be, in the eyes of others, among the best. For me, it is a bit of a heavy burden.
The award is named after a great Montenegrin writer, publicist and politician. Is it significant and symbolic for you that the award bears his name?
Of course not. I will be less modest here: aside from Ljubiša's storytelling skills that have established him in a deserved place in Montenegrin literature, I was impressed that both the jury and the award itself, by definition, saw certain parallels between us. I would say, first of all, the engagement as a whole. I have expressed my views openly all my life, fighting for cultural issues, dispassionately, but reasonably and with conviction. I see a parallel even in my work in publishing, which is a separate civilizational mission. Not to mention journalism; I spent at least a quarter of a century in all media as a journalist, editor, and often as editor-in-chief. I even founded and ran a journalism school. From that profession, writing the occasional essay, I spilled journalism over into journalism. However, I perhaps see the greatest praise (to myself) in the similar energy, perseverance, and wisdom that are driving forces, but also quite a guarantee in the realization of often utopian ideas. I was the only one who did not engage in explicit politics: my father did it in the name of our family. As a young witness of drastic political situations reflected in my personal life, I vowed long ago that that world would not be mine either. And it didn't.
How do you see your contribution to contemporary literature in light of this and other recognitions you have received throughout your career?
It is least up to me to answer such a question. That is what others say, as it should be. Of course, I am aware of some of the specifics of what interested and determined me in literature, and how I showed it through writing. Awards actually force you to define some of what you do because they act as rest stops for the composition that you have been dragging along for many kilometers. Now, after so many kilometers, I can say that I am satisfied with the so-called range of topics, the structure of the books, and even the styles that I used. Curiosity has always led me towards the new, towards what was unknown to me, and this mastery of original conceptual spaces is perhaps the essence of the breadth to which I aspired. Hence this combination of West and East, with the Balkans in the middle. Hence the science in my fiction, hence the playing with the form and composition of books. I calculated: although serious, I have to have fun while writing. If you are not boring to yourself, I guess you will not be boring to your readers either. Sometimes a boring book is more dangerous than a bad one.
I've won many awards, but I haven't won any important ones. Nor will I. That doesn't mean I regret it. After all, they're not written about.
Your literary work balances between fiction, history and philosophy. How do these dimensions intertwine in your writing?
Some of the books contain all three of these elements you mention. And some only some of them. However, I am happiest when I am on the verge of a so-called total book. In recent years, I have been increasingly attracted to mixtures of genres, not just these broad areas. Fiction is the core of prose. I have always been inclined towards philosophy: in addition to my personal education, I have added my own discoveries, comparing the extremes and beauties of the diversity of worlds on all meridians. History, the intimate one, has long held me spellbound because I thought that the future is best learned from it. This walk from the general, global memory of the world to the personal one offers countless possibilities for play. I am used to this trinity and it already appears to me in my writing unplanned, as a natural part of me. Sometimes it leads to absurd situations, but also to innovative solutions.
Your “The Bamboo Book” combines delicate Zen Buddhist introspection with the brutality of the warlike, imperial East, creating a work that critics have described as a “lyrical saga,” a “Zen Buddhist action film,” and a “physically experienced novel.” How did you find the balance between these two realities: meditative silence and violent drama, and how much of your personal spiritual experience is woven into the narrative and transformation of your characters?
I admit that it was not (was not) easy. But, “The Bamboo Book” is somehow a natural result of my many years of authentic interest in the Far East. I wrote it studiously and loved it. But, I was aware that, along with the fairy-tale quality it carried, it should reflect the extremes of the history of Japan and China, which was reflected in imperial and bloody pretensions, but also deeply lonely monastic introspections. The balance of noise and silence was, in fact, the only solution for me to want to write such a work. It is also a reflection of the satisfaction of discovering the world as a whole. Written 35 years ago, it is the only novel of mine that has not received any formal award (a Zen Buddhist one! – you see!) except that it was included in the 25 best books of the decade by readers. But, that is why it received the highest possible coveted award: it is still printed and read in Serbian and in many languages of the world to this day. So, if there is anything in literature that is proof of value, then it is a book that lasts and whose unassailable judge is time. And even more so if its author living Witness that success, what more could you want!
Books like “Hamam Balkanija” leave the impression of a deeply thought-out structure. How do you approach the construction of a novel - intuitively or rationally?
I use both approaches. In order, the rational one comes first. Namely, since I belong to the type of writer called investigative, I spend a lot of time digging through archives, libraries, but most of all, if the opportunity arises, traveling to places where events take place. I am thorough and persistent in this. This is the longest period, and it allows me a lot of reflection on the future book. So it happens to me that when I think I have collected everything I need (and there is always a megalomaniacally excessive amount of it, of which I use very little material), I sit down to write. It turns out that I have already written most of the book in my head. That is why I am a writer of the so-called one-handed manuscript. I do not have a second, a third... In this phase of writing, intuition rules the roost. Although, the peak of my intimate success is when reason and fantasy begin to intertwine. The results can be magical. Of course, failures are legitimate too.
Just as “Hamam Balkanija” reflects Istanbul and Belgrade, past and present, identities that are never completely separated, your novel seems to propose that the story be the place where all these layers are reconciled. Can literature, as you suggest, truly reconcile the internal divisions that history leaves in man?
Writing is a kind of belief. In principle, one does not sit down at the table if the author does not believe in what he wants to say. This, of course, does not mean that one should write books with predetermined theses. After all, literature, despite all its discipline, is an art and quite an improvisation. “Hamam Balkanija” and “Druid of Sindidun” are examples of this reconciliation of everything, including identity. I have an idealistic streak in me that takes on the risk of trying to turn a vision into a possible reality - in a book. I tried that in “Escape from Biography”, and even in the aforementioned “Bambus”. Everywhere there is a duality, sometimes brought to schizoidity, and sometimes as a completely natural unity. This is not a hypocritical duplicity but an authentic rarity and value. When this union is achieved in characters and events, then one has actually succeeded in the union or reconciliation of the splits that you mention. Both in the individual and in collective history.
A similar theme is addressed in the novel “The White Fortress” by your friend, Orhan Pamuk, whose publisher you are. Can you share any special memories or impressions from those meetings? Pamuk as an interlocutor, a writer, and Pamuk as a writer whose publisher you are?
You are right. That book attracted me first. And the similarity with one of my own. Pamuk is a classic, starting from the first works he wrote. He is a master in that solid, straightforward story that he leads in all his books. “My Name is Red” is for me one of the most beautiful books of the second half of the last century. Our friendship has now been measured in decades. Of the countless easy and difficult experiences with him, a very complicated man, I can mention one anecdote from the end of the autumn before last. Namely, a little earlier I was in Istanbul for the presentation of the Turkish edition of my “Book of Bamboo” and then we missed the meeting. He then left for New York, where he teaches one semester every year at Columbia University. His small working apartment is located on one of the steep hills of the city, in its old part. One evening, while walking along the “bottom” - the abyss, far in the distance and height, I saw his building. It seemed to me that from that impossible and never-before-seen position I recognized his apartment exactly. And I took a picture of him and immediately sent him a photo in the USA with a rhetorical question, did I really "capture" his home? He replied that it was so strange that I managed to recognize him and that he had never seen his house from that angle. That kind of intuition and matching is perhaps part of our not-so-easy friendship.
Pamuk is often like a big child. He can be capricious, grumpy, but he is warm at heart like few others. He somewhat guards his privacy with severity. However, his most beautiful trait is his selfless love for literature. I regret that in his frequent visits to Belgrade, apart from me and some of my friends, he did not manage to start conversations about literature with our famous writers, which was their fault. And he wanted that so much.
How do these encounters and personal acquaintances with world-class artists - not just Pamuk and Cohen - influence you as a writer and a person?
They enrich me. I have been lucky enough to have had, at least once, encounters with some great authors and people throughout my life, from a very young age (such as AS Bajat or Amin Malouf) or was just friends with many. There really are a lot of them. As we all know, there is usually this demystifying rule that the more significant the author, the more accessible he is. And that's where it all starts: when you can talk with an open heart, you gain additional experience. What I liked the most was the rule that almost everyone accepted me as an equal, when you are not in the humiliating position of an admirer and one-way "love". Personally, I not only liked such a relationship, but it would give me confirmation of universal values. But I also knew many musicians; rock and roll is an important and large part of my life. Although it is a show business, the rules and experiences are similar in it.
How do you view the position of literature in the region and society's attitude towards the written word today?
A big question that is difficult to answer briefly. Comparing the countries of the region, the care of the Croatian and Macedonian states towards books is visible. I think it is correct in Montenegro as well. Bosnia and Herzegovina is now a stranger to me. Institutions in Serbia, from the Ministry of Culture to the city councils, are at a low ebb; they are doing nothing to improve the situation. On the contrary, they are behaving populist: preserving the Cyrillic alphabet (we don't know from whom), an insultingly low percentage in the budget for books, bureaucratized procedures, completely failed plans, incompetent commissions and abuse of both power and money. Absolute chaos.
What are you currently working on?
I'm just at the beginning of a new book, when I don't dare to talk about it. I've been collecting materials, as usual, for several years, traveling to remote places where there are no tourist routes, and seeing a lot of things that might make a romance novel. I haven't dared to write about this subject for decades.
As the founder and editor of Geopoetics, how much does the role of publisher help or hinder you in your role as a writer?
A double-edged sword. On the one hand, it complements my knowledge, experience and emotions, and on the other, it prevents me from writing as much as I would like. And yet, servicing other authors is a wonderful job, not at all humiliating (even if you think well of yourself as a writer), and at the same time discouraging when you see what great manuscripts there are… Maybe the originality of this “conflict” is actually an advantage. What is certain is that, along with the fatigue, this combination makes you richer and better. I don’t know if it also makes you younger and more beautiful.
What are the biggest challenges facing independent publishing today?
In Serbia, everything is set on the wrong footing. In the eyes of the state, private publishers are houses that are solely driven by profit. A classic substitution of theses: the state does not know what publishing problems are nor is it fundamentally interested in them. Publishers in both associations have been brought to a state of solitude. Fortunately, they are experienced and resilient, and by God they also have enthusiasm and love for the profession. Readers sustain them with their loyalty.
In the era of social media and instant information, do you believe that literature can still change people?
At the cost of sounding conservative, I still believe in all the good aspects of literature. Although the influence of literature in this fast and superficial life has been significantly reduced, it is still a field for reflecting on life, and a bright spot in civilization. The written word is a tool of creativity and one of the foundations of individual and collective progress. Those who do not see this are in serious trouble, both with themselves and with their environment.
Leonard Cohen, a man grateful to be loved
What was Leonard Cohen - whose poetry you began translating forty-five years ago - like outside the spotlight, as a person, a conversationalist, an artist? What did you learn from that friendship?
Cohen is probably the man I have had the deepest and most consistent emotions towards. A man grateful to have loved him. In my opinion, an almost ideal combination of perfection in creativity and character. Although he (was) older than me, from the first moment we recognized each other as if we had known each other our whole lives. However, over time, I stopped talking about him publicly. I remember that I even refused to write whatever I wanted about him and our friendship for a now famous anthology of memories of him that was published in Canada. Fortunately, the author understood my refusal as a kind of intimacy that I did not want to share. It is not about standard secrets (which there always are), but about the feeling that some memories and knowledge must remain locked away in a person. However, in my latest book, “Blank Shot,” I unlock some shared memories from 40 years ago in New York, when I filmed a TV show about him and with him and broke some rules… And then I blasphemously thought: is this the non-existent situation when a person becomes better than their work? That is something I have never wished for in any writer. And especially not in Cohen, who may have finally broken that prejudice (without spoiling the beauty of his work).
In the world, retro means modernity, in Serbia it is a longer word - retrogradno
Are and to what extent writers working in Serbia influenced by student protests and all the events and inevitable changes they entail?
Mostly yes. Most writers are progressive and have a problem with the current government, which seems not to see the numbers (and likes to deal with them) and the opposing beliefs of the now serious majority of the population. Many are active in supporting students, both individually and through professional associations. Of course, the traditionally conservative stream of authors was joined (much earlier) by the majority of the so-called Trans-Drina Serbs, who did not want to undermine the positions they had acquired in their homeland, which otherwise endangered the urbanity and progressiveness of cities, especially Belgrade. All of this reminds me a little of the situation in the early 80s, when we "locals" had to fight for our (individual) voice in our own environment, and among the ruling majority fascinated by realistic prose and native postulates. In the world, retro means modernity, and in Serbia it is a longer word - retrograde, and it means regression. I never dreamed that I, who have been defined as a cosmopolitan for most of my life, would sound a bit locally patriotic in the old days. It must be that I am not serious.
Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to revisit ideas from the late 70s when, say, we David Albahari and I jokingly suggested that Belgraders should also establish a local Belgrade literary club, modeled after many others. That way, we might be able to combine the progressive with the backward. And who knows what good and useful things could come out of that. Funny, of course.
Bonus video:
