or How the Actors Change, but the Rules of the Game Do Not Innocence as a National Technology Bulgarian history is rarely told as something we ourselves have done. It almost always arrives from outside—as invasion, betrayal, conspiracy, a foreign will imposed upon an otherwise…

My father, my most beloved Bulgarian, died a long time ago, on his feet. In this way he gave his sons a final – and perhaps most important – example, but that is not what I want to talk about. My old man, Mitko Enev, died trying to reach the top of the stairs, where an ambulance…

The sound of the footsteps – dragging and slow, like someone shuffling their heels across the floor – was driving him mad. Every time they came from above, he would change rooms: from the living room to the kitchen, then through the dreadfully creaky glazed door into the small…

Somewhere towards the end of town, in a small cottage surrounded by a spacious garden, lived the red-haired Anne with her mother. Her father, whom she visited from time to time in a distant town, had left the house long ago – so long ago that she could no longer remember it…