Article Cinema mimicry - II

Nikolai Lambrinov’s Cinema mimicry is in fact a novel to be continued due to the consolidative presence of one and the same main character – straightforward to the state of pornography, obscene, overexcited, reticent, having much more than two faces. I would call this novel “unnatural” namely because of the character who roams inside, destroys, demolishes, wipes out and creates worlds and ideas of his own, tears up other people’s masks or breathes heavily behind his own one. There is nothing to conceal, Nikolai’s character is a part of himself – the exalted fellow that we all know well, who, behind his provoking and unnatural behavior, in between the drama or the swagger, the loud wails and sorrowful proclamations, sneaks a rather unique sense of humor. It does not hurt, but it stings. I do not know whether this exactly is the hero of our time, but our time is wearily funny indeed. In our time there is a smile-bomb behind each drama and a crystal clear tear stands before each smile. Probably that is why the hero cannot find his place on the pages all the time –he farts, he pukes, he gluts, he rebels, and when his back is against the wall he theatrically tears his straightjacket in order to show his groins like an exhibitionist. And indeed, some writers fight their demons and others even feed them… Afterwards this character and writer searches for our weak points, where he feels like a master, especially when it comes to his desire to put some poison of his own into our wounds. But he so surprisingly revives our immune system, he “vaccinates” us with such a well measured dose, that we become thoughtful of whether there is a better way of preventing dangerous mass diseases.
I have always wondered, when reading about yet another first book contest, why there are no last book contests. A last book in which, just like in the last word of a convict, you put in everything that you would like to say, with all of the passion and talent that you are capable of having. Afterwards you smoke your last cigarette of a dead man, and then you enjoy your unnaturally increased libido, which, they say, manifests itself amongst those who are doomed to die with a noose on their necks. And finally you put on airs and suppress your last wish, having so willingly made a confession of your whole life. There are few writers who write as if writing for the last time and the energy put into such kind of writing has no way of being an ordinary one. Even if their verdict is justified, and this is far too vague, only time is to tell.
Penka Monova
Newspaper “Culture”