Having spent almost five days reading a book translated from German into Croatian as it has come to pass, I find myself repelled by the language. The vocabulary and grammar introduced by Franjo Tuđman and his linguistic advisors in the early Nineties is unappealing, to say the least. And this is my very first book written in this artificial language. Used to browsing Croatian newspapers, in which I read mostly titles and captions, I have gotten to a point where everything I read turns into a blur. The meaning of sentences and paragraphs is ever harder to grasp. I find myself struggling. God be praised, I have only a few more pages to go through. By now, I am searching for names rather than reading. I am searching for evidence of corruption and organized crime, that is. But I am already sure that this is most likely the very last book written in the language of nationalistic thieves and whores. And I feel relieved in advance. Nay, liberated. Never again, it pulsates through my mind as I am checking the dwindling number of pages left for me to check.