Atanas Svilenov

I recently read in a reference book that Nikolay Yankov first published his literary work back in 1943. And when I recalled the many examples from our contemporary literary life, I found it somehow too strange, too unfamiliar to me the fact that only at the end of last year, that is, almost two decades after his debut, did his first book, the collection of literary-critical articles "Books. Authors and Time", appear. The reasons for this atypical delay can be explained in a variety of ways, but I have no intention of taking on such a task, since I do not see any particular importance in solving it. I would only like to note in general that it is not the result of any ideological-aesthetic break, of a sharp turn on a completely opposite path, nor of genre wanderings, of genre instability, of jumping from one perimeter of activity to another. Without being one of our most productive critics, Nikolay Yankov delayed the publication of his first book not because of the lack of his own works, but undoubtedly in this case considerations of a different nature were at work, and in the first place, it seems to me, the feeling of self-criticism. I am led to this thought primarily by the circumstance that, with the exception of only three works, the remaining articles were written in the last five or six years. It is obvious that N. Yankov does not feel a particular weakness for his works from a long time ago, it is clear that when compiling the book he did not want to include in it all his long-standing critical production, including his very first manifestations, but considered it most expedient to present himself only with his articles from recent years. But unfortunately this self-criticism is relative, it is not fully manifested. While treating his earlier critical works with extreme strictness, N. Yankov somehow unexpectedly shows himself to be too liberal towards her recent work, voting her full confidence and deciding to present her in "Books, Authors and Time" almost without any exceptions. He also allowed the inclusion of some small notes, some - as he himself called them - "sketches", the meaning of which is limited to marking a certain anniversary or cultural event, notes that in the columns of the newspaper had undoubted value, but which - at least in this form - can hardly find justification outside it. The book of criticism should not become a kind of diary that records every manifestation, it always implies selection (demandingness is always mandatory, it is necessary not only in the assessment of the earliest manifestations). The book is always an assessment - and above all self-assessed, it presents a certain creative period from its most important, most essential sides. Without concealing the noted inclinations towards an unnecessary comprehensiveness, without concealing the unfulfilled self-criticism, it must nevertheless be emphasized without further reservation that Nikolay Yankov's first book gives a general idea of ​​his creative physiognomy.

I trust these critics, who bring with them the atmosphere of art, its wonderful hypnosis. In recent years, they have become more and more numerous. There is no smell of office mold or annoying lecturer's edification from them. They displace from the consciousness of my generation the idea of ​​criticism as a prototype of Chekhov's man in a case, which had become entrenched in our country from the boring syllogisms of high school textbooks and christami from a dozen years ago... They do not talk to readers from a podium. Academic dignity is alien to them. With their infectious enthusiasm, with their strange, unceasing fervor, they resemble the artists from poor attic studios, where, amidst the scattered motley of paints, canvases, and cheap furniture, endless passionate arguments about art take place, wine is drunk and new poems are recited, dancing is madly done, and rebellious avant-garde manifestos are read under the attic vaults...