My neighbors and I, we had a spat, after which they cut the power to my apartment. I wanted revenge!

It was a particularly hot day and so before I did anything rash I packed a book and my bikini and headed out. By the banks of the Sava River I read The Knife by Serbian author Vuk Draskovic (NB: Non-Serbs that is pronounced Voooook Draaaashkovitch). The first three quarters is a rant that covers Serbia’s history of the 20th century told through the personal travails of a couple of protagonists. Much of the time the experience of reading the book felt like somebody was screaming in my face.

The frequent mentions of my own family members was an element that held my attention.

Briefly, the story is about people who complain about people who complain. It is about the foolish clamor for justice because as Draskovic says revenge is assuredly an act of suicide.

The final quarter of the book the tone mellows, relatively, and I could feel the writing instead of the screaming. Still, I could not decide what I thought of Draskovic, is he perhaps more an orator than an author?

The day was broiling and I dove into the water and swam with ease across the river, cutting my path smooth as the sharpest knife. As I swam I thought about the content of that book. And at the end of the day when I finally got home, spent and calmed, I knew I would exact no vengeance on the neighbors, I’d let them slide.

Therefore, in my opinion, Draskovic is a good writer because his rhetoric affected my behavior.

Thank you Vuk!

PS: Vuk is not only a popular first name here it also means ‘wolf’ in Serbian, which just goes to show one can be brought up by wolves.

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