walk along a road, in a city, you ride in a subway, you sit in the hall of a
hotel waiting, or you visit an exhibition…. Thoughts come rushing like stormy weather
…no way to stop them…and one thought leads to another, deeper into the past,
multiplying, becoming a net, endless, becoming a story. A piece of music hangs
in the air… it reminds you of an event long ago. You meet people and something
is familiar, making you smile or hurting, leading you away from reality, deep
into the many layers of your own life, dreamlike. There is no reality, only
Nadjarian’s new book with short stories, poetic and intense, they enter your
skin, penetrate, take you through a vortex of emotions.
Chairs hang from the ceiling. They move themselves, not all the time, not all
at the same time. So, it’s a bizarre effect when a chair, a wardrobe, a bed,
seemingly decides to express itself. They hang by invisible wires from the
beams and have pencils attached. ……Each one seems to have something to say: the
longer you look at it, the more meaningful, the more insistent, the more
enigmatic. The one that spoke to me was the piano stool, the round, wooden,
swirling one…… and a flash of memory comes up then making
connection between two layers of time.
the years we have often met, Nora and I, have exchanged thoughts and
experiences. I have written about her books, her precious small books …The Voice
at the Top of the Stairs…Cleft in Twain….25 Ways to Kiss a Man…..Ledra Street…..Girl,
Wolf, Bones…. Now, the new one …Selfie.
a link to one of our encounters…
read Nora Nadjarian’s books leaves a delicate taste on your literary tongue.