LJ talks to an up-and-coming European writer He came to the LJ offices one Thursday morning in May for an interview with an editor who, as chance would have it, hailed from the same region and spoke the same language. I was that editor, and he was Saša Stanišic´ , a 30-year-old writer who left his native Bosnia in the early 1990s, settled in Germany, and years later wrote a novel that turned him into a literary superstar. First published overseas two years ago to unprecedented acclaim, How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone (see review, LJ 4/15/08) is, among many things, about a young man growing up in Bosnia in the years leading up to the civil war. Our conversation (in English) was congenial and much longer than a printed page could fit; here are the highlights. You were born in Bosnia, but you are most comfortable speaking German, and you live all over the place [currently in New York]. How do you identify yourself? I am a German-writing author, not a German author. German is the language I use to write my stories. I still say I'm Bosnian, and that's the passport I travel with. But I am in the process of becoming a German citizen. Sounds like you left young enough to be able to adapt to the new homeland but old enough to always remember the old one. After arriving in Germany, I got used to things quickly and formed new friendships easily. But vivid memories of my life in Višegrad never escaped me. How was the novel born? It started as a diary. I was 24 and trying to remember every single day of my life before I came to Germany. At the time it was nothing more than a search for answers about my own life. Then I noticed that there was a story in there bigger than me. I had to rely on my family to fill in some of the blanks, since memory can trick you. And because memory can trick you, this could have never worked as a memoir. Definitely not. And it would be arrogant of me to think that I've lived long enough to be able to write an autobiography. Having read several in-your-face war novels about the Balkans, I like that the use of magical realism is more vital to this story than the truth about the war. We have others to deal with that, like politicians and historians. Artists have to deal with reality a little differently. Magic and storytelling are just two ways to not play by the book and to win that strange game against the harshness of reality. For a moment, at least. The protagonist says that there was an Aleksandar who was begun in Bosnia but never finished. Do you struggle with this? I'm Saša. I'm not Aleksandar. I must warn you: about 70 percent of the story never happened. Saša is often short for Aleksandar, so I assumed he was either you or your alter-ego. You see, Aleksandar and I would never get along. As cheerful as he is as a kid, as a grown-up he is self-centered and eager to find the cure only for his own grief. All of that is very human. But I don't take myself very seriously, except when I write. If we were to ever meet, we would probably have a huge fight about how to use the past to tell stories. Given your experience, do you ever wish to belong to just one place? For me, home is where I am happy. Any place that makes me sad, lonely, and financially or politically disappointed, I leave fast. My pragmatic home is in Germany; that's where my work is, my "more comfortable" language, my friends, and my soccer team. And my emotional home is in Bosnia, where my childhood is, my grandmother's kitchen, and my river [which was immortalized in Nobel Prize winner Ivo Andric´'s 1945 novel The Bridge over Drina]. I'd love to hear you say something in Bosnian. Šta želiš da kažem? [What should I say?] That's perfect. By the way, if ever in need of burek [the country's signature dish], which is mentioned several times in the story, take the R train to Steinway Street. There is a great Sarajevan place there. Good to know [takes a pen and writes it down]. I felt that the story didn't end when it did. What about a sequel about Aleksandar's new life in Germany? It's possible. I leave it open. What's keeping you busy these days? I just finished writing my third play, and I am also in the process of writing my second novel, which has nothing to do with this one. It's actually a love story. His Bosnian may still sound flawless, I later thought, but he was clearly a worldly man, whose talent has taken him far from Bosnia and will probably keep him far. But the next day, after an unexpected phone call from him, I realized that Saša would make the most of wherever he happened to be. "I'm on Steinway Street," I heard him on the other line. "How do I get to that burek place?"

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Mirela Roncevic is Senior Editor, Arts & Humanities and Reference, LJ Book Review