Bulgarian Self-Image

I’m starting yet another short essay with a familiar mix of feelings: some pleasure, and – inevitably – some tension. The pleasure comes from the discussions that sometimes arise here. However incomplete or misshapen they may be, they remain one of the few genuine rewards for all the effort behind…

I have a vague but persistent sense that this topic is far more complex and far-reaching than I can fully comprehend. So I’ll keep it brief — at the risk of sounding reductive or superficial. If I weren’t so wary of posturing, I might attempt a longer text. But I am wary — that’s a fact. So I’ll…

When I met her at the café in the Red House, my friend’s face was tight with tension. She greeted me a bit nervously, then continued discussing with my other close friend the details of hosting the seminar, which, as it turned out, had been relocated from the university to here. But why, I don’t…

“There are places,” says Camus, “where reason dies so that the truth of its negation may be born.” Let me pause for a moment, dear reader, to let you notice that this thought was not written by a Bulgarian. And then I’ll take one more brief pause to add: what was said could, indeed should, strike…