The Shackles of the Tongue: A Quiet Tyranny Language is often described as a gift — the mother tongue, a homeland of thought. But for most writers on this planet, language has functioned as something else entirely: a velvet prison. It embraces you with its intimacy, but bars you…

I was nine years old when I first realised that what I was speaking wasn’t simply the Bulgarian language, but something stranger, labelled by the incomprehensible word dialect. I was visiting my cousins in the romantic little town of Kavarna (“romantic” means nothing more here…

Good evening, dear sir – would you permit me the modest pleasure of your company on this grey and rather unpleasant Berlin night? One rarely encounters countrymen here, and if one does, they usually hurry to turn into the nearest side street – most often out of embarrassment…

A Week in Paradise Shame rides on the edge of the familiar The sky above Berlin glows as if polished by careful German hands... Sounds flat, Vladko thinks. Pure kitsch. A sky is a sky—nowhere does it say Made in Germany. He gazes again at the tangle of steel scaffolding,…