A word or two on Boris K, The Adventures of Boris K


The Adventures of Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.


It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.



Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.


“The Adventures of Boris K.” is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store

Kindle ebook of dystopian adventures of Boris K. “The Adventures of Boris K.” by Leila Samarrai is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store


This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.

An open call to ones, an open despise to others

as an author of the maxima: human hypocrisy should be respected because virtue is not worth the effort, I’m not surprised nor should I react differently than throaty laughter, but all those who, for some reason, secretly and not publicly address me with ah: ah, you’re so talented, I have never heard of these things to exist at all .. I have learned so much from you or — your brain is a precious instrument … etc (I can corroborate all this with letters ..) or those who persistently follow my blog when I turn to them for concrete help, they remain silent .. I do not count the famous archive -1-checkup early in the morning –  from Serbia, I know one hen that gets up earlier than a rooster ..I know who it is, it is a female mental patient under control…
I am waiting for the doomsday when the psychiatrist will allow her to call me… or whoever she chose to be her tutor nowadays. –  to welcome her.
I will not be able to continue my work that would be much better and I would write more and you would enjoy my work much more if you would only give me a little help, if not materially, then in the form of technical assistance (translations, someone
to help me with marketing and procedure)
Looks like you would love to do it, but living in the dreaded fear of what I could become if I had the crumb of luck to make money the way you made it …
I cannot prevent you from spying on my blog, reading, anyone with their intentions, I tell you openly, I despise you and if it depends on me, I would ban you on reading my works. and maybe I will.
this does not apply to people who do not know me. admittedly, neither do those who claim to know me, know me at all.
but unfortunately, I got to know them by their deeds.
unfortunately, talent and money rarely go together, and today, more than ever, money determines who will publish books and who does not.


Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman

Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman

Boris K. found some helpful suggestions but is still not satisfied.

“They expect no less from me than the Lairn dragons and the Minotaurs, well, that’s just unavoidable, isn’t it? ,” As he said: here is Boris in Poland, in Bamberg, Higher Franciscan, where he meets Hoffman in the theatre. His face was full of anger mixed with madness.

Hoffman muttered, frowning.

“Everything is spectre of spectres, saith the preacher; all is spectre. Life is a dungeon. Ah, Kopelius, alchemist, here you are,” he said, upon sighting Boris K.
Then Boris told him what the Russians said and Hoffman thought: “Phenomenon. It’s a scary phenomenon! Let’s say you deserved death, a hundred times over, a dark look in your eye. Touch and go between the lines. Smile as creepy resurrected with, you creepy little perv! hehe! This will lead readers into a state of ecstasy.” He pulled him from the ranks as he shook his whole body in excitement… This will ignite the atmosphere to such an extent that they will not pay attention to the story itself, but they will look at each other suspiciously of themselves just as I whisper Hoffman stood up and looked at something evil and devilish, right? as his face flushed with horror
“Back to the dead, Boris K. Back to the dead! – he grabbed his head like he were in terrible pain. – Go crawling back to your dead wife and your loser son, Ernst Teodor! Run! Run for your life! – as he said that he ran with all his might and rumour had it that Ernst Teodor leapt past the edge of Poland’s borders. Boris K. sighed. “I have no choice but to go to ancient Persia.”


BORIS K. Na Polónia

b03f1ca4334b9c3b29e183ae1842d6e6Boris K. Encontrou algumas sugestões úteis, mas ainda não está satisfeito.

“Eles não esperam menos de mim do que os dragões Lairn e os Minotauros, e eles não podem evitá-los”, e eles disseram, aqui está Boris na Polónia, em Bamberg, Franciscano Superior, onde encontra Hoffman no teatro. O seu rosto estava cheio de raiva misturada com loucura.

Hoffman murmurou, franzindo a testa.

“Tudo é assustador sobre assustador. A vida é uma masmorra. Ah, Kopelius, alquimista, aqui está você”, disse ele, observando Boris K.

Então Boris contou-lhe o que os russos disseram e Hoffman pensou:

“Fenómeno. É um fenómeno assustador! Digamos que você merecia a morte e contou uma história sombria … Isso levará os leitores a um estado de êxtase.” Puxou-o das fileiras enquanto sacodia todo o corpo emocionado. Sorria assustador. Isso inflamará a atmosfera a tal ponto que eles não prestarão atenção à história em si, mas eles olharão para si com desconfiança em si mesmos, assim como eu sussurro … – Hoffman levantou-se e olhou para algo mau e diabólico, certo? enquanto seu rosto ficou vermelho de horror – De volta aos mortos, Boris K. Ele volta morto! Pegue a cabeça de Ernst Teodor e escape tão depressa quanto suas pernas consigam.

Boris K. suspirou. “Não tenho escolha a não ser ir para a antiga Pérsia.”

Boris K. in Russia 3, Turgenev

.. Chekhov shook his head and kept writing while muttering, ” Devil take you! , can’t you see that I’m finishing my thesis? If I don’t give it up on time, I won’t earn my PhD degree!    Turn around and go back where you come from!  ! The Black Monk himself sent you to interfere with my career! I have to comb and put on my good old Valenki! ” The Russian was throwing a tantrum like a toddler.  , trying to get rid of the intrusive time traveller. ” If anyone knows how to dishonour the stories,  prancing about them while grinding their own ink…  it’s Sholokhov and Turgenev.  Now leave me alone.  “, Chekhov said,  making the sign of the cross, with his flame-throwing fountain pen, if the local lore and beliefs are to be trusted.

Boris K. met Turgenev, a Russian poet of landscapes, sitting on a bench in St. Petersburg, mourning Gogol’s death.

“Why are you crying?” Asked Boris K.

” “I’m forbidden half of art! My obituary of Nikolai was a masterpiece!  … But alas, I don’t wipe my tears, they are like a storm after which one gets calmer,” said the pretty revolutionary thought and groaned even louder.

Boris K. sat with him. They cried for two days, each with their own tears, after which Turgenev adopted a chivalrous attitude and turned contemptuously on Boris K. “You must be Nepočin! No Rest, from Field of No Rest Spirits!” What do you want from me?

“You mean the paparazzi?” Boris K. mused after what he told him about the lot.

“I’ve never written such a story, nor had an accident. Vaistina, you’re really in trouble. But there’s also a cure for that!” Turgenev blinked and patted on his shoulder. “You look like Gogi.”

(which was Gogol’s affectionate nickname)

“Get to the point, Ivan Sergeyevich!” Mourned Boris K., realizing that the Russian would not help him. (Maybe  I should put my bet on   New England? Or Poland? Straight towards E. T. Hofman’s? Boris K pondered…

“Boris K., From experience, I assert that the herb burns as the motive of history and the source of all inspiration. Turgenev said. – The story begins “in medias res”, but honestly … It’s so sincere that you almost end up in prison or at the stake. Go: “A man – a being who cannot love!  That way, the women will, women.. hmmm… both male and female….”

(Boris K. gasped in pain) …

…  –  will grab your hair. and tear your heart out as ripping phones out of the walls..   (your overcoat is still fixed, but I see a clown’s mask goes crazy running down your furrowed face. ) – Boris K. stood amazed by Turgenev’s knowledge.

Ivan,  his name’s  Turgenev, the name was passed down from his father and his father before him, continued:

“Draw their attention to the dark fall and the silent cry of love that smells like the cool breeze blowing through,  on a cold night’s shade. That will calm them down. Name all the herbs you can think of to make a love potion.”

Just quoting the herbs gives one and a half pages. While quoting herbs and singing to the celebrant, listeners will yawn and fall asleep. When they wake up, you will tell another story that has nothing to do with life and with living, and in the new story the woodpeckers sing and sing … – Ivan Sergeyevich was silent – That’s all I can think.



Boris K na Rússia 3 Turgenev


cropped-12499139_535870049903599_1094217109_o.jpg..ele apertou a mão de Chekhov e continuou escrevendo, enquanto resmungava: “Deus sabe onde ele te levou, não vê que estou a terminar a minha tese de licenciatura? Se eu não a entregar a tempo, não me vou tornar médico. Volte para onde veio! O próprio Monge Negro enviou-o para interferir na minha carreira! Tenho de me pentear e calçar! “, disse o russo, tentando livrar-se do viajante do tempo. Na história, eles são Sholokhov e Turgenev. E deixe-me em paz “

Boris K. encontrou Turgenev, poeta da paisagem russa, sentado num banco em São Petersburgo, lamentando a morte de Gogol.

“Por que está a chorar?”, Perguntou Boris K.

“Fui expulso do funeral … Al, não enxugo as minhas lágrimas, elas são como uma tempestade após a qual uma pessoa fica mais calma”, disse o pensador revolucionário e gemeu ainda mais alto.

Boris K. sentou-se com ele. Choraram durante dois dias, cada um com suas próprias lágrimas, após o que Turgenev adotou uma atitude cavalheiresca e virou-se com desprezo para Boris K. – Você deve estar exausto! O que quer de mim?

“Você quer dizer os paparazzi?”, Boris K. refletiu depois do que contou a ele sobre o acidente.

“Eu nunca escrevi uma história assim, nem sofri um acidente. Você está realmente com problemas. Mas também há uma cura para isso!”, Turgenev piscou os olhos e deu uma palmadinha no ombro dele. “Você se parece com Gogi.”
(que era a alcunha carinhosa de Gogol)

“Venha ao fenómeno !”, Lamentou Boris K., percebendo que o russo não o ajudaria. (Talvez esteja escrevendo na Nova Inglaterra? Ou na Polónia? O endereço de E. T. Hofman? Boris K pensou…

– Boris K. Por experiência, afirmo que a erva arde como motivo da história e fonte de toda a inspiração. Turgenev disse. – A história começa “in medias res”, mas honestamente … É tão sincero que você quase acaba na prisão ou na fogueira. Vá: “Um homem – um ser que não pode amar! Então mulheres, homens e mulheres

(Boris K. ofegou de dor) …

… vao arrancar-lhe o cabelo, despir-lhe o casaco (o seu cabelo ainda está fixo, mas vejo que a sua máscara fica louca pelo reflexo na pia) –

Boris K. ficou surpreendido com o conhecimento de Turgenev.

Ivan, chamado Turgenev:

“Então chame a sua atenção para o outono escuro e o silencioso grito de amor que cheira à brisa de uma tarde ensolarada. Isso os acalmara. Depois, cite todas as ervas em que você puder pensar para fazer uma poção do amor.

Apenas citar as ervas dá uma página e meia. Enquanto cita as ervas e canta para o celebrante, os ouvintes bocejam e adormecem. Quando eles acordarem, você contará outra história que não tem nada a ver com a vida, e na nova história os pica-paus cantam e cantam … – Turgenev ficou silencioso – É tudo o que consigo pensar.a8cec49721b19826945c4fd228ec3a31.png

Boris K na Rússia 2 Chekhov

Boris K na Rússia 2 Chekhov
„Nenhuma, então, eu irei visitar Chekhov. Se alguém me pode ajudar, ele pode! ”

Boris К. Conheci

Chekhov na propriedade de Sorin, sofrendo de um caso dificil de “Febre do Escriba”, seus olhos como se estivessem em chamas, escrevendo algo, fazendo gritos de pássaros como gaivotas.

“Entre, está partido, Polina Andryevna”

Boris K. entrou e sentou-se.

“Então, Polina Andreyevna conta-me os seus problemas?” Chekhov o encara. olhos vermelhos, uma palidez preocupante.
Olhos penetrantes!

Boris K. contou-lhe tudo sobre seus colapsos nervosos, tudo sobre o bem e o mal, acrescentando à história contínua como a Terra foi feita no Inferno. No final, contou tudo sobre o principal assunto.
“Você está a chantagear-me para eu ser o seu escritor fantasma?”, – Chekhov estava desconfiado.
“Porquê essa difamação?”
O maior escritor de ficção curta da história fez uma careta olhando para Boris.
“Eu tenho medo de pessoas super zelosas. Eu estava a imaginar uma comédia, que terminou em tragédia. Não importa, não importa. Então, de qualquer maneira, eu vi você remexendo
no guarda-roupa, vendo-me de vestido feminino na estreia de “Seagulls “. No final da sua carreira de atriz, a protagonista perdeu a voz … E eu pulei como um maldito batedor …, transformando sua estranha soprano num clima quente … – Chekhov gritou, apontando o dedo para Boris K. – Você tirou essa foto enquanto eu estava a experimentar os vestidos dela? ”

Boris K. suspirou, tirou a fotografia do bolso do macacão, ..
“Gostaria de ter as minhas fotos de volta!”
“É um dia triste, ter pensar em me despedir deste famoso vestido!”, Boris K. admitiu.
Chekhov pegou a sua foto das mãos de Boris e a enfiou no bolso. Ele estava apenas aliviado.

“De pé .. sentado como Honest John.” – Chekhov declarou a sua posição sem sorrir, com os braços cruzados.
“Você quer dizer começar de novo, desde o começo novamente?”
Boris K. contou tudo a Chekhov, do princípio ao fim.

“Faz você pensar, não é?
Bem, estou feliz que o meu conselho a um escritor iniciante – mestre – que escreve músicas não o ajudou, Boris K!”
“Eu conduzi u, táxi”
“Bem, não conduza um táxi!”

Conversa tola, gritaria tola. – Chekhov abanou a cabeça … PARA CONTINUAR