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240 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
Jantar is an independent publisher of European Literary Fiction and Poetry based in London and has been praised widely for its choice of texts, artwork, editorial rigour and use of very rare and sometimes unique fonts in all its books.
Founded in 2011 by Michael Tate and a group of his friends, Jantar’s guiding principle was to select, publish and make accessible previously inaccessible works of Central European Literary Fiction through translations into English� texts ‘trapped in amber�. In 2017, Jantar widened its mission to publish fiction and poetry exploring notions of ‘difference� and the borders of European language and culture. Since then, Jantar has become better-known for being a fierce advocate of wider contemporary European Literary Fiction and is very proud to be the first to champion female authors as Daniela Hodrová, Petra Hůlová, A. M. Bakalar and Agnieszka Dale.
Šťávičku jsem nikdy neměla ráda, na dně skleničky se usazovaly malé pecičky: vyráběla ji matka strýce Franciho, která bydlela v ponurém kutlochu páchnoucím po kočkách v suterénu domu na nábřeží Hornádu. Když jsme jeli do Košic, vždycky jsme k ní museli, aby měla radost: to potom vyrovnala na talířek pár zatuchlých zákusků a při loučení mě k sobě přivinula a svými dychtivými kloubnatými prsty mě hladila po hlavě: Zostaň tu so mnou. Kúpim ti piano.(s. 51)
The touchstone of things that came from the West was the barcode: those little black lines imparted a magical allure even to stuff that was otherwise quite ordinary, transforming them into messages from a world beyond our reach, a world of objects in shiny boxes and wrapping paper and people swathed in voluptuous fabrics.
No one has ever been able to explain to me the purpose of those little lines and the row of tiny numbers below them. The classmate I regarded as being most in the know, since her parents regularly did their shopping in the special outlets for diplomats out of bounds to ordinary mortals, could say only that the codes were read by a machine at the checkout and told the cashier everything they needed to know. Oddly enough, what that reminded me of was the numbers tattooed on certain inmates' wrists, which made it possible always to identify them by name, age and sex, the only difference being that a barcode betokened not the hell that one heard whispered about within the family, but rather a heaven on earth that was, equally, only whispered about: the world on the other side, where everything was available, where everyone was happy and good-looking and even, to cap it all, unaccountably young
One way or another, even if it sometimes comes apart at the seams, the world is a web of often opaque laws, or of interconnections glistening like gossamer in the pale light of dawn, with the ends of each strand tied to a different corner of time.