Knopf, 383 pp., $30.00
In the middle of the Bosnian war, I went to see Milovan Djilas at his apartment in Palmoticeva in Belgrade. Years before, my parents had passed a copy of The New Class to some Yugoslav friends during a summer holiday in Dalmatia. Djilas's book gave me my first encounter with the public power of words: here was a book so dangerous that my parents and their Yugoslav friends could not even discuss it in private. So when I showed up at his door thirty years later, there must have been some awe still in my expression.[*] He opened the door himself, a compact old man with a distracted and melancholy air, wearing faded corduroys, the jet black hair he once had in his Partisan days now turned white, his once-erect bearing now stooped, his pace shuffling. His wife, Stefica, had died recently, and he was alone in the dark apartment with his books and his memories. He offered me vodka and when I declined, he recalled how he had turned down Stalin when offered vodka. 'What kind of people are you?' Stalin shouted. 'We were partisans,' said Djilas to me, with an ascetic smile.
Review, 3604 words
To read the full text of this piece, please choose one of the following options:
|
If you are already a subscriber to the Review's electronic edition, please sign in: |
To subscribe to the electronic edition, please press the button below. |
To purchase access to this article for $3, please press the button below. |