Georgi Karaslavov

In the midst of the First World War, when I was twelve years old, I first tasted the terrible and insatiable magic of fiction. Everything that was left of my uncle, who had just graduated from high school and was mobilized to the reserve officer school, I found, read and reread. It wasn't much, but it was selected. And perhaps that is what saved me from getting carried away by various crime and vulgar books, such as those my classmates were reading. One day I needed something, I assumed that it was pushed somewhere on the high shelf of the room we lived in. I put a chair down, climbed up and peeked in. I didn't find what I was looking for on the shelf, but I did find two books, probably left by my uncle. For me, this "find" was more interesting and more precious than anything else. I took down the two books and carefully dusted them off. First I grabbed the thicker book - it had dark covers and the title was barely legible. It was some kind of dramatization of "Anna Karenina", translated into Bulgarian. For the first time in my life I came across a dramatic work. I had never seen a theater, I had never seen a theatrical performance. It was a bit strange to me that this book did not talk about people, as it did in the novels and stories that I had already read, and the characters themselves talked to each other. I read this dramatization of "Anna Karenina" with great tension, but I could neither understand it properly, nor was this form of expression captivating and satisfying.