Uključio sam kompjuter.
Prethodno sam, naravno, spustio roletnu. Bio je to deo jutarnjeg rituala, koji je imao praktičnog smisla za vedrih dana, kakav je bio ovaj, ali ne i onda kada bi bilo oblačno. Svejedno, ja sam je i tada spuštao, sujeverno težeći jedinstvu ambijenta. Moja radna soba gleda na istok, a ja sedim za stolom naspram velikog prozora, tako da bi me, bez roletne, sunce zaslepljivalo sve tamo negde do podneva, nagoneći me da čkiljim u ekran. Ovako nisam čkiljio, ali sam zato, zarad ambijenta, naprezao oči u nepotrebnoj polutami za oblačnih dana.
Roletna, doduše, nije bila sasvim spuštena. Zaustavio bih je na petnaestak centimetara od donje ivice okvira, kako bi sunce ipak moglo da dopre tamo gde je svakako bilo dobrodošlo: do osmostranog staklenog suda, smeštenog u prozoru, joji je nekada bio mali akvarijum, a sada je služio kao saksija za skupinu minijaturnih kaktusa, sa belim i ružičastim cvetićima. Svetlost je, pored toga, dopirala i kroz tanke proreze ismeđu plastičnih rebara zategnute roletne, gradeći u polumraku sobe titrave arabeske. Čak i da sam sedeo leđima okrenut prozoru, mislim da bih samo radi ove nestalne igre svetlihi tamnih pruga po površinama stvari držao roletnu stalno spuštenu. Čudnovatom utisku nestvarnosti, koji je tu nastajao i koji je, ko zna zbog čega, veoma podsticajno delovao na mene, doprinosilo je i lelujanje zrnaca prašine u kosim zracima. Znam da ima pisaca kojima je sasvim svejedno u kakvom okružju stvaraju, ali ja zasigurno ne spadam među takve. Za mene je ambijent bezmalo sve. (pp. 5-6)
I switched on the computer.
First I pulled down the Venetian blind, of course. That was part of my morning ritual, and on sunny days like this one it had a practical function. Nevertheless, I also pull it down on cloudy days, superstitiously striving to maintain the ambiance. My study looks to the east, and my desk faces a large window, so that, without the blind, I would have to squint and scowl until noon to see anything on the screen. This way there's no need to squint, but on cloudy days, for the sake of maintaining the ambiance, I strain my eyes in unnecessary semidarkness.
Not that I pull it all the way down. I leave a gap of about fifteen centimeters above the windowsill, so that sunshine reaches the area where it is definitely welcome: an eight-sided glass vessel, set in the window. That vessel, formerly a small aquarium, has been converted to serve as a flowerpot for a group of miniature cactuses, the kind with very small pink and white flowers. Light also slants through the narrow slits between the horizontal plastic bars, creating shimmering arabesques in the dusky air of the room. Even if I sat with my back to the window, I think I would keep the blind down at such times of the day just to enjoy the transient play of bright and dark stripes on objects in the room. The peculiar impression of unreality thus created, one which (for reasons unknown to me) I find very stimulating, is enhanced by dust motes floating in the air, caught by diagonal beams of light. I know that some writers are not at all influenced by their immediate surroundings. For me, the ambient mood is almost everything. (pp. 3-4, translated by Alice Copple-Tošić)
The beginning to Zoran Živković's 1998 novella, Pisac (The Writer), is in many ways typical of his writing. There rarely are flashy, attention-grabbing moments in these introductory paragraphs. Rather, almost the inverse is true, as he frequently begins with the most mundane of events (here, the simple powering up of a computer) before some peculiar trait of the narrator sends the narrative careening off into something remarkable. Ambiance, as the anonymous narrator notes, is almost everything when it comes to Živković's stories and this is especially true for The Writer, the first of a triptych of stories that involves the writer-text-reader semantic triangle.
Plot may not seem to be a primary emphasis, yet The Writer depends heavily upon the intricate placing of narrative developments. As the writer tries to compose a tale, his dependency upon shades of light and darkness takes on several forms throughout the novella. His musings about his difficulties (a theme that Živković would revisit in several other stories, each time with a different permutation) are stacked upon each other, creating a catalog of issues that somehow, in their seemingly digressive fashion, manages to suck the reader into considering them at hand. This meticulous assembly of the conundrums the writer faces may not appear at first to be akin to a crime novelist's revelations of clues, yet there is a certain familial relationship in how each is presented to the reader. Živković's carefulness in parsing out of information related to the writer and his attempts to write pays dividends by story's end.
Characterization is also surprisingly well-done, considering the paucity of characters (two) and the amount of time devoted to exploring the narrator/writer's internal thoughts and actions. With precise wording (the English translation does a good job of capturing the essence of the Serbian original, although at several points the sentence structure had to be broken in order to preserve more of the narrative's "ambiance"), Živković creates quirky, obsessive characters whose occasional single-mindedness leads to some amusing scenes, such as the pseudo-Freudian interrogation of the writer's childhood by the writer's so-called friend (himself a writer of sorts, albeit a possibly deluded one). These oddball moments add a levity to the narrative that makes it as much a story about humanity as it is about the addictive art of literary composition.
As hinted at above, Živković's prose, in both the original and in translation, is nearly pitch-perfect. He is a writer who creates "atmospheric" settings that feel simultaneously plausible and utterly strange. He never rushes the development of setting, events, or characters, yet his narratives (and this is especially true here, as The Writer is around 30 pages in the omnibus The Writer/The Book/The Reader translation published by PS Publishing) are very compact, with almost no wasted space or energy. Yet there is a sense of grandness behind this intimate story that belies its brevity. The result is a story that is simple in its presentation and yet very nuanced in its details.
The Writer, as one of Živković's earlier works, can almost be seen as an ur-text of sorts for his later writings. The structure of the narrative, beginning and ending with simple, mundane actions, along with the character type of the narrator, is seen, at least in glimpses, multiple times in his latter works. Yet here (as well as in most of his other tales), these familiar elements do not equate to staid stories, as there is always some unique element (perhaps a different mental train of thoughts from a common point, or a more or less fantastical component) that makes each story different from each other. Certainly The Writer is a well-written story in its own right; it is merely a bonus to see certain connections between it and Živković's latter works that enrich both.