01 - Bulgaria – a country with thousands of years of history, mother of the Cyrillic alphabet, the computer and the yoghurt; the country of the roses, vast mountains, clean beaches, beautiful women and cheap liquor. If you, as well, live with this idyllic picture in mind, it is better to watch Bulgaria only in pictures and the commercials, and, under no circumstances, go there. Otherwise, you will find out that Bulgaria is actually the country of the bumpy roads, corrupted authorities, deluded young people, rough neo-capitalism, petty problems, cynicism reaching up to aggression, bad services and the feeling of pride of all that. “01. Improper Novel” brings to the light everything that the Bulgarian is afraid to be seen by the foreigners so as not to prevent the next bargain with an overpriced, collapsing house built on an illegal property. The book has no pity on all the typical complexes and moral problems of the contemporary Bulgarian society. It is rudely rummaging in the running wound of the degradation having resulted form the socialism and, later, the Perestroyka.
Eagerly expected by the group of faithful fans which was attracted during the years by the unusual writing style of the author, 01 caused a stir even before it was issued and after its release it became one of the best selling books keeping its place in the top three of the biggest book stores in Bulgaria. Together with that, it acquires the status of the most scandalous and discussed book stirring up everyone as well as the opinions of different societal layers throughout the country, some of them not happy at all with the description attributed to them in it. 01 can boast with enthusiastic reviews and exceedingly high evaluation in the social networks for literature such as Goodreads.
Ivaylo Borisov is a strange cross breed – writer-designer-entrepreneur-inventor-businessman. At the age of 33, he doggedly refuses to take the world around seriously and the only answer he can give to the psychological question “Where will you be in 5 years?” is “Getting better”. He travels the world looking for an appropriate place to migrate to, because he doesn`t accept many of the forms of societal control and governance at the places he`s been to and most of all – in his motherland. He is moved by inexplicable things such as cartoon characters and the mentioning of “space” and “universe” makes him pricking. He loves meditating but sometimes this is not enough to subdue the rising fury for everything that is wrong. Though, he would never wear Superman`s costume and save the world because he is too much egocentric. His first steps in the serious writing dates back to him being 8 years old when he began two screenplays simultaneously. During the years his pen became sharper and sharper and his public writing appearances got numerous and had different shapes. Apart from the dozens of creative briefs for clients, he writes for a number of lifestyle magazines during the years and if someone arranges all the internet publications symbols one after another, a series will appear that can go beyond the Moon. The idea for writing a book comes to his mind 7 years ago while he was writing two screenplays but as everything that has touched his chaotic self, three separate plots are formed and they serve for a basis of three separate novels. The first completed is "01".
01, a novel by Ivaylo Borisov
My name is Benedict Tomov and I've recently turned 30. I earned my first million shortly before that. What's more, I did that in Bulgaria - the country I've always considered to be a shame for the growth of people like me. At the same time there are some riff-raffs claiming that you cannot possibly make a million in an honest way, let alone here in this country. Should you haven't noticed it before, the rotten community gives rise to great bullshit.
I've tried to start it out in a decent way, thinking that what I am going to write down would be kind of a story about my life, but it seems this didn't quite turned out to be the case. As you have noticed straight away, I am nuts about philosophizing. You'll also notice something else - it's my tendency to stress upon particular topics that strongly stir me up. Sometimes when topics are quite important and emotional I'd love to express myself in a physical manner as well so that I sound crystal clear, if you are getting my point.
Anyway the first thing to make myself conspicuous is my name. I won't even ask whether I guessed or not - it's clear to me. As with everything else in my life there is a story behind it. The idea to put me such an outrageous name is of my grandfather Kamen - my mom's father who was obsessed with historical factology and the Benedictine Order's novels at the time. He had the nerve and authoritativeness to force the name Benedict to the first and only infant of his first and only daughter.
I wonder why my father hadn't opposed to that, expressing a contrary opinion, why hadn't he rapped on the table, courageously deciding to give me a name such as Ivan, Georgi or Petar, but I assume that the brand new Moskvich that was a wedding gift by Kambata has something to do with this. But it's possible that this had something to do with the fact that my grandfather Kamen wasn't one of those people who could stand an opposite opinion and he quite often used to impose his own will to all disbelievers applying coercive measures. Should we decide to depict my grandfather using just one word, that would be "a Turk". Figuratively speaking of course. Otherwise I am a pure Bulgarian. An Aryan Bulgarian. That was a joke.
Something else is preying constantly on my mind. I wonder whether if my grandfather had bothered more with the Carmelites instead of the Benedicts, I'd now have been called Caramel...
To be honest, thanks God he died before I turned the age when one starts collecting conscious memories, so that he wouldn't have had the need to meet his grandson in a very dramatic domestic dispute, infuriated with his own idiotic name.
Please don't get me wrong, I am pleased with my name. Anyways, there was an option to be directly given the name Kamen or to be named after the letter of a grandmother or grandfather which is still a widely adopted custom in Bulgaria today. Thanks God that they hadn't sunk that much!
I was born in an average socialist family in a big district city outside of the capital in 1978. My childhood used to be comparatively happy, excluding my incredible unsteadiness. Years on end I was getting ill each two months on the dot. Maybe for that reason my mother got a phobia. More exactly, it was a hypochondria. That phenomenon - the hypochondria, left a dark imprint on my life and on the way I developed my outlook on life during my first seven years. If I should be fair with you, it really fucked them up. The same way it fucked up all the years to my 18th anniversary.
It's obvious I wasn't like the rest of the children. I couldn't play outside late, because the air was getting humid and it started getting cooler; when I sweated my parents took me home to change my shirt or if I was somewhat less sweaty they put handkerchiefs underneath so that they soak up the sweat; when I was driving a bicycle, they put newspapers under my clothing in order not to allow for the wind to pierce me; I ate ice-cream in secret, because it was forbidden, and as for fizzy drinks - I couldn't drink those because of my throat. Today I am still not sure what could have happened to my throat. They didn't sign me in at the kindergarten most probably for the same reasons. What's more, I was allergic. Should anyone had injected me with gamma globulin or penicillin, most probably I'd have immediately passed away. Or at least this is what my mom claims. The series of oddities could go much longer, but I think the idea is pretty much clear and there is no need to depress you excessively.
Of course, the moment when all the children started telling me I was featherbed definitely came. It wasn't pleasant at all to be honest with you. But it's true, people don't like those that are not like them. It's just that one needs years on end of reflection in order to realize this fact. And by the time the moment of realization would come, all of a sudden the grave legacy would have already ruined you irreversibly.
So to sum up, the role of the parent is somewhat more complicated. It's not just upbringing and bla-bla. The parent determines the future of his child. Starting with the name to be chosen and ending up with things such as hypochondria. To be a parent is not a child game at all and when you are a parent your sole trouble shouldn't be just to make sure your child would survive! But look how often we see people who are negligent of the matter. Who cares they will provide for you until adulthood, shaping a mentally dead body that nobody needs! And then one would ask why so many people start taking drugs, commit suicide or become introverts. The answer is because their parents had fucked them up, that is why! And please notice that all that irresponsible and shameful behavior has been explained by the eternal excuse "it's for your own good". Ok, but you are all aware of the fact that the road to hell was made up by good intentions. I was not at all feeling comfortable having to go on that way, honestly.
Nevertheless, I keep exceptionally rich and constructive memories of my childhood years.
For example, I remember the "Raduga" TV set with touch keys and green digital channel indicator. It was the peak of the Soviet technological genius, which I came across in the first few years of my life. The "Raduga" was the culmination of the socialist schedule doctrine. The ejaculation of the Soviet engineer on the face of their American enemy, so to say.
The trunk, which the Raduga represented, weighed 70 kilos and a number of people were required for its placing on the veneer cupboard, specially bought for it, but once placed there, it started to pour its soft vibrating light in the living-room, and the faces of the entire family illuminated by the miracle of color television program. Now and then they were also lit up by the miracle of the comrade Kashpirovski. Then all sorts of neighbors were dropping home, because, due to some unknown reason, our Raduga, unique оn the neighboring 3 floors, was broadcasting Russian television signal.
The most entertaining thing in these Kashpirovski gatherings were the cups of water, arranged in front of the television set. The comrade was charging the water in the cups with energy through the television set. Then, ceremonially, everyone was taking a sip of this water and was visibly becoming healthier, stronger and smarter. When my parents were sometimes losing me of their sight, however, I, fast as a lightning, was pouring the water in the Ficus plant. I can't fuckin' bother myself with old wive's tales! I was surprised to find out, however, that the Ficus plant marked unseen in the world practice growth. Maybe if I regularly drank my charged water, instead of pouring it in it, I would be now a healthier, stronger and smarter Ficus plant.
With the years passing, the Raduga started to show various defects – circuit boards, capacitors and anything else, which such a television set contained was burning. Then finally, someone was constantly required to lay their fists on it, in order to prevent the image from jumping - a comic picture which continued for years. Because noone was able to eliminate its problem. For that reason, there was a period when a special armchair was placed next to the television set, where my father was performing his watching of television, so that he could, with minimum delay, jump on his feet and to throw a number of fists on the wooden box. So that we don't miss anything of the abundant cultural and informational program, not for another reason.
Why was that needed, you would ask. Why didn't we just buy a new television set?! This question will indicate, that you haven't lived in the socialist period.
We couldn't just replace the Raduga for something else. Neither there was a place where we could buy something better. Nor ithad lived its time. Because for Bulgarians, the television set was and continues to be a purchase for at least 20 years ahead.
What a bullshit, you would ask again. It is hard to explain. Especially for people who haven't lived in this world of impossibility to go to the store and just buy whatever you want, whenever you want it. This world imposed the building of special habits in the socialist citizen. Habits such as thriftiness, prudence, economy and thievishness, which have their reflection on people's nature even in the present day. And while the other ex-socialist nations had the chance to capitalize and civilize themselves faster, the shit stain would remain on the Bulgarians and determine their days for long years to come.
01, a novel by Ivaylo Borisov
My name is Benedict Tomov and I've recently turned 30. I earned my first million shortly before that. What's more, I did that in Bulgaria - the country I've always considered to be a shame for the growth of people like me. At the same time there are some riff-raffs claiming that you cannot possibly make a million in an honest way, let alone here in this country. Should you haven't noticed it before, the rotten community gives rise to great bullshit.
I've tried to start it out in a decent way, thinking that what I am going to write down would be kind of a story about my life, but it seems this didn't quite turned out to be the case. As you have noticed straight away, I am nuts about philosophizing. You'll also notice something else - it's my tendency to stress upon particular topics that strongly stir me up. Sometimes when topics are quite important and emotional I'd love to express myself in a physical manner as well so that I sound crystal clear, if you are getting my point.
Anyway the first thing to make myself conspicuous is my name. I won't even ask whether I guessed or not - it's clear to me. As with everything else in my life there is a story behind it. The idea to put me such an outrageous name is of my grandfather Kamen - my mom's father who was obsessed with historical factology and the Benedictine Order's novels at the time. He had the nerve and authoritativeness to force the name Benedict to the first and only infant of his first and only daughter.
I wonder why my father hadn't opposed to that, expressing a contrary opinion, why hadn't he rapped on the table, courageously deciding to give me a name such as Ivan, Georgi or Petar, but I assume that the brand new Moskvich that was a wedding gift by Kambata has something to do with this. But it's possible that this had something to do with the fact that my grandfather Kamen wasn't one of those people who could stand an opposite opinion and he quite often used to impose his own will to all disbelievers applying coercive measures. Should we decide to depict my grandfather using just one word, that would be "a Turk". Figuratively speaking of course. Otherwise I am a pure Bulgarian. An Aryan Bulgarian. That was a joke.
Something else is preying constantly on my mind. I wonder whether if my grandfather had bothered more with the Carmelites instead of the Benedicts, I'd now have been called Caramel...
To be honest, thanks God he died before I turned the age when one starts collecting conscious memories, so that he wouldn't have had the need to meet his grandson in a very dramatic domestic dispute, infuriated with his own idiotic name.
Please don't get me wrong, I am pleased with my name. Anyways, there was an option to be directly given the name Kamen or to be named after the letter of a grandmother or grandfather which is still a widely adopted custom in Bulgaria today. Thanks God that they hadn't sunk that much!
I was born in an average socialist family in a big district city outside of the capital in 1978. My childhood used to be comparatively happy, excluding my incredible unsteadiness. Years on end I was getting ill each two months on the dot. Maybe for that reason my mother got a phobia. More exactly, it was a hypochondria. That phenomenon - the hypochondria, left a dark imprint on my life and on the way I developed my outlook on life during my first seven years. If I should be fair with you, it really fucked them up. The same way it fucked up all the years to my 18th anniversary.
It's obvious I wasn't like the rest of the children. I couldn't play outside late, because the air was getting humid and it started getting cooler; when I sweated my parents took me home to change my shirt or if I was somewhat less sweaty they put handkerchiefs underneath so that they soak up the sweat; when I was driving a bicycle, they put newspapers under my clothing in order not to allow for the wind to pierce me; I ate ice-cream in secret, because it was forbidden, and as for fizzy drinks - I couldn't drink those because of my throat. Today I am still not sure what could have happened to my throat. They didn't sign me in at the kindergarten most probably for the same reasons. What's more, I was allergic. Should anyone had injected me with gamma globulin or penicillin, most probably I'd have immediately passed away. Or at least this is what my mom claims. The series of oddities could go much longer, but I think the idea is pretty much clear and there is no need to depress you excessively.
Of course, the moment when all the children started telling me I was featherbed definitely came. It wasn't pleasant at all to be honest with you. But it's true, people don't like those that are not like them. It's just that one needs years on end of reflection in order to realize this fact. And by the time the moment of realization would come, all of a sudden the grave legacy would have already ruined you irreversibly.
So to sum up, the role of the parent is somewhat more complicated. It's not just upbringing and bla-bla. The parent determines the future of his child. Starting with the name to be chosen and ending up with things such as hypochondria. To be a parent is not a child game at all and when you are a parent your sole trouble shouldn't be just to make sure your child would survive! But look how often we see people who are negligent of the matter. Who cares they will provide for you until adulthood, shaping a mentally dead body that nobody needs! And then one would ask why so many people start taking drugs, commit suicide or become introverts. The answer is because their parents had fucked them up, that is why! And please notice that all that irresponsible and shameful behavior has been explained by the eternal excuse "it's for your own good". Ok, but you are all aware of the fact that the road to hell was made up by good intentions. I was not at all feeling comfortable having to go on that way, honestly.
Nevertheless, I keep exceptionally rich and constructive memories of my childhood years.
For example, I remember the "Raduga" TV set with touch keys and green digital channel indicator. It was the peak of the Soviet technological genius, which I came across in the first few years of my life. The "Raduga" was the culmination of the socialist schedule doctrine. The ejaculation of the Soviet engineer on the face of their American enemy, so to say.
The trunk, which the Raduga represented, weighed 70 kilos and a number of people were required for its placing on the veneer cupboard, specially bought for it, but once placed there, it started to pour its soft vibrating light in the living-room, and the faces of the entire family illuminated by the miracle of color television program. Now and then they were also lit up by the miracle of the comrade Kashpirovski. Then all sorts of neighbors were dropping home, because, due to some unknown reason, our Raduga, unique оn the neighboring 3 floors, was broadcasting Russian television signal.
The most entertaining thing in these Kashpirovski gatherings were the cups of water, arranged in front of the television set. The comrade was charging the water in the cups with energy through the television set. Then, ceremonially, everyone was taking a sip of this water and was visibly becoming healthier, stronger and smarter. When my parents were sometimes losing me of their sight, however, I, fast as a lightning, was pouring the water in the Ficus plant. I can't fuckin' bother myself with old wive's tales! I was surprised to find out, however, that the Ficus plant marked unseen in the world practice growth. Maybe if I regularly drank my charged water, instead of pouring it in it, I would be now a healthier, stronger and smarter Ficus plant.
With the years passing, the Raduga started to show various defects – circuit boards, capacitors and anything else, which such a television set contained was burning. Then finally, someone was constantly required to lay their fists on it, in order to prevent the image from jumping - a comic picture which continued for years. Because noone was able to eliminate its problem. For that reason, there was a period when a special armchair was placed next to the television set, where my father was performing his watching of television, so that he could, with minimum delay, jump on his feet and to throw a number of fists on the wooden box. So that we don't miss anything of the abundant cultural and informational program, not for another reason.
Why was that needed, you would ask. Why didn't we just buy a new television set?! This question will indicate, that you haven't lived in the socialist period.
We couldn't just replace the Raduga for something else. Neither there was a place where we could buy something better. Nor ithad lived its time. Because for Bulgarians, the television set was and continues to be a purchase for at least 20 years ahead.
What a bullshit, you would ask again. It is hard to explain. Especially for people who haven't lived in this world of impossibility to go to the store and just buy whatever you want, whenever you want it. This world imposed the building of special habits in the socialist citizen. Habits such as thriftiness, prudence, economy and thievishness, which have their reflection on people's nature even in the present day. And while the other ex-socialist nations had the chance to capitalize and civilize themselves faster, the shit stain would remain on the Bulgarians and determine their days for long years to come.
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