The figure that stood out first European writers’ festivaltake place in british library on our own election weekend, it was Georgy Gospodinov from Bulgaria. Not because his colleagues in other European countries were lagging behind, but because two days later his novel The Refuge of Time (Ikaros, translated by Alexandra Ioannidou) was awarded the International Booker Prize, the most important literary prize in Britain.

When we met him in London, he was already a candidate at the last stage, and yet he retained his pleasant calm, approachability and humor, especially when our conversation turned to common points between Greece and Bulgaria regarding the cultural influence of the Orthodox Church in both countries. . society.

The first European Writers’ Festival, under the artistic direction of Rosie Goldsmith, was organized in London by EUNIC (European Union National Institutes of Culture). Her office in London is especially sensitive to the tightening of the UK’s relations with other European countries, especially after Brexit, a fact that is painfully experienced by British women and men who understand their country as part of European culture.

Six panels were organized (three on Saturday 20.5 and three more on Sunday 21.5), consisting of six authors each plus a moderator. The festival’s subtitle, “The Stories We Tell,” is generic, but captures the spirit of the event.

For example, the placement of writers from the former Eastern Bloc was of particular importance. “How different would we be if we were told different stories,” said Sofia Bahn from Hungary, adding that “under the communist regime in Hungary, we were all the same. And here we are again.”

Polish journalist Witold Zablowski, author of How to Feed a Dictator, in which he talks about the cooks of various dictators, including Putin’s father, who was Stalin’s cook, among other things, told how “when a fox roams your neighborhood, you are better understand who you are.”

Ukrainian Elena Styazhkina sharply expressed herself: “For us, words suddenly mean nothing. Only your body. your hands. On the other hand, we realize that in other places words still have meaning. Where parents don’t have to write their children’s birth dates on their backs in case they get killed. So we still have to find the words. Even if they are our last. All of us in Ukraine live as if these were our last words. And we want them to be the strongest. Like a soldier who dies and leaves his last wish: “If I still have legs, please put me in sports shoes, because these shoes killed me.”