That which has not been told, just like that which has not happened--because they're of the same order--possesses all possibilities, countless variations on how they could happen or be told.Georgi Gospodinov wrote The Physics of Sorrow in response to a 2010 Economist article which declared Bulgaria to be "the saddest place in the world." Physics is less a story than a catalogue--one of the conceits of the novel is that Gospodinov is collecting material for a time capsule that will be like Noah's Ark, holding an example of every form of Bulgarian life/experience--of the sorrows of Bulgaria. We read Gospodinov's memories, and the memories of his family, and the memories of people he meets by chance. The narrator at one point begins buying anecdotes from strangers, all to be included in the time capsule of the novel. The narrator becomes obsessed with quantum physics, attempting to reverse the flow of time, to bring the dead back to life, to undo all the sorrows endured during history. He gives up this experiment when he realizes that moments of horror, even when lived backwards, remain horrific and who could put someone through such pain a second time?
Alas, the story is linear and you have to get rid of the detours every time, wall up the side corridors. The classical narrative is an annulling of the possibilities that rain down on you from all sides. Before you fix its boundaries, the world is full of parallel versions and corridors. All possible outcomes potter about only in hesitation and indecisiveness. And quantum physics, filed with indeterminacy and uncertainty, has proved this.
I try to leave space for other versions to happen, cavities in the story, more corridors, voices and rooms, unclosed-off stories, as well as secrets that we will not pry into...
Our history and literature textbooks--we got a kick out of adding finishing touches to the painfully familiar photographs inside. A mustache and a pirate's skull cap on top of the general secretary of the communist party's head, which was as round and bald as an egg. And on the poet-revolutionary Hristo Botev's heroic face--may the gods of literature forgive me!--I drew round, John Lennon-style glasses. The glasses completely transformed the fearsome Botev into a slightly bewildered, bearded hippie of Bulgarian revolutions, which are as a rule unsuccessful.The threads, the long straight passages that at first look like the central movement of the novel (the story of Gospodinov's grandfather, the story of the Cretan Minotaur) get lost as the narrative moves into the labyrinth and the narrator follows side passages, stumbles in the darkness and finds heaps of hidden and abandoned sorrow. Once in a while he makes his way to the main passages again, but he leaves them after a few uncertain steps and takes us back into the depths of the labyrinth. We don't know where we are going, but after all there is nowhere to go but further into the infinite twisting paths. But at least the labyrinth contains everything: not just sadness, but love and humor and beauty are also buried in the darkness.
Brezhnev died the very next year.[...] I was twelve and had kissed a girl for the first time the day before, albeit in the dark during a game of spin-the-bottle at a birthday party. First kiss, first death.To return to the Noah's Ark image: in the midst of all this sorrow Gospodinov has given us a dove in the form of the protagonist's young daughter, who is a ray of light in the labyrinth, and possibly a guide out of the dark. The Ark matters because it is designed to outlast the present, to wash up on some future Ararat at the dawn of a new world. Will the dove return with an olive branch? It is too early to tell.
That marked the beginning of the end. Soviet general secretaries started dying off every year or two.[...] In fact, the whole period I was in puberty can be briefly described through the prism of the complex political context of the '80s.
First kiss (with a girl).
Second kiss (different girl).
Am I killing them?
First fumbling sex in the park.