In reading The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, I found myself immersed in a world that can only be described as The Italy of Memory, though the narrator of that tale was an amnesiac who possessed only Paper Memory: the non-emotional aspects of long term memory. He’d suffered a stroke and could only remember things he’d read. He lamented (at one point) that he was able to speak only in clichés. He couldn’t remember himself. He couldn’t remember his wife and his children. He couldn’t remember his grandchildren. He listened to his wife’s suggestion to return to an old family house: one he’d been avoiding despite the fact that it was—for the most part—his. He took his wife’s advice and returned to the house. There, he explored his memories by going through old possessions in the attic. By the end of the story, his memories return…all but one. And then something else happens. Umberto Eco is recognized as one of the literary giants of the world, and Queen Loana helps to cement this well-earned reputation. In reading The Question of Bruno, I’ve traveled from The Italy of Memory to another place. Multiple places. Some of them are Bosnia. Some of them are Chicago. Neither of them are actual places, despite the fact that one may find Bosnia on a map. With the help of a particular lake, one may also find Chicago. Though I loved The Italy of Memory, I find myself entranced the strange nether-Bosnias and nether-Chicagos evoked by Aleksandar Hemon. I find it interesting that the two books share something in common. Memories live in their pages. Sentimentality does not. Bruno, having something in common with Queen Loana evokes a childhood unlike my own, and an adulthood I’ve glimpsed (at odd times) during my life in the Czech Republic. I spent time with a Bosnian poet, discussing sex and cockroaches and the human reluctance to truly embrace each of those things. We went in search of cockroaches, so that we might intoxicate them with our breath. We were intoxicated, after all. The Question of Bruno has triggered the recall of a poet whose name I cannot remember, simply because there is a kind of off-handed, beautiful cruelty in some of the things that some humans have witnessed. Before our quest for cockroaches in need of intoxication, the poet and I talked about life in general. “A friend once asked me if I have nightmares,” he said to me, after swallowing a gulp of beer. “I told her yes, but only when I am awake.” I remember him because he has nightmares when his eyes are open. That would seem to have nothing to do with this image, and yet The Italy of Memory, Bosnian nightmares (seen rather than dreamed), and colorful family histories have all found their way into the mood and the colors of this image. I think there’s a story in here: an exploration of current events and something else. In making this image, thinking of the things I’ve read and the things that I’m reading, I found myself thinking of a character. I don’t know his name, but he’s a member of the Zotov family That’s all I know, though ancient Egyptians might be involved. I don’t know if violence has anything to do with what he’s seen or what he experiences in the tale that will unfold, but I know that the roots of it lie in this image, and in the moods evoked by nether-Bosnia, and Remembered Italy...and funerary rites that haven’t been practiced in thousands of years. Oh dear! Until such a story allows itself to be written, here is an image and I hope you enjoy it.