The weather has been simply wonderful today. This morning I decided to dedicate myself to this unexpected gift and to skip going to my office. Unadulterated sunshine is too precious in these parts to be wantonly wasted. Most of the day I have spent on our terrace overlooking the Reading Abbey ruins and a cozy park nestled among unobtrusive office buildings. A few hours ago I took my Residua to the terrace and started reading. Soon afterwards I realized that I was looking for pieces about my life in Yugoslavia. Then I noticed that many of the pieces would produce a strange reaction—joy and melancholy intertwined. Not much later came perplexed tears: having completed reading a piece I would be delighted by it to such an extent that tears would come to my eyes. The tears were almost flattering at first, but then it became clear that something else was at work. In the end I started crying, still unable to pinpoint the reason for my grief. For a while I could not stop myself from weeping and sobbing despondently. I closed my book shut and came indoors. Bewildered, I decided to record my experience. As I started writing, I was startled by a sudden feeling of rage, as well as by the words that welled up to my mouth and burst out without warning: “Fucking bastards!” My voice frightened me.

Addendum (December 23, 2014)

Was I mourning Yugoslavia, which was breaking up at a clip? Or was I mourning so many innocent victims of internecine slaughter? Well, Yugoslavia was farthest from my mind at the time. Its breakup was with me for at least a decade before the bloody event. But the slaughter certainly contributed to my grief so many years ago in unexpectedly sunny Reading. Although I foresaw the civil war, if this is the right term, I was still surprised by the horror of it. Anyhow, there was yet another reason for my mourning, which got mixed up with all the others: my disappearing youth. In some sense, my youth was breaking up in front of my eyes. Violently, too. The obvious connection was beyond me at the time, it goes without saying. It takes many a year to figure out that one has grown up at last.