Remembering Daša Drndić
There’s a passage in Daša Drndić’s 2004 novel Leica Format in which the narrator visits Mali Neboder, Rijeka’s cult second-hand bookshop, and sits down to read some of the antiquarian titles she’s just found on the shelves. ‘There are some beautiful places here [in Rijeka]’ she writes, ‘it’s just that they tend to be rather hidden.’ The Mali Neboder evoked by Drndić, a tightly-wound labyrinth crammed with books, documents, postcards and maps, is like an alternative archive of the city, a repository of its secrets. Each book you find on the shelves will lead you to another, related, tome, while the shop’s intuitive owners will guide you onwards to parallel topics that you hadn’t even thought of when you first entered the shop.
The world of Mali Neboder (a real existing shop which can be visited in person) is an appropriate metaphor for Daša Drndić’s own books, in which the big themes of the twentieth century are entwined with the lives of little people, rambling digressions, and a tangle of micro-histories that frequently shed light on our hunt for a bigger picture.
© Fraktura
Drndić’s death in June 2018 came at the time when her international reputation was just achieving critical mass. Her 2007 novel Sonnenschein, published in English as Trieste in 2014, garnered major-newspaper reviews and was nominated for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. A flurry of further English translations followed, beginning with her earlier novel Leica Format (first published in 2004)