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.


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 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. Prologue and Boris K. in Russia, The Adventures of Boris K, Sequel

Boris K prologue 



Unravelling the fraud, citizens wanted to lynch Boris K. on the spot, but an old man from the crowd chuckled uncovering his golden tooth, a local Zarathustra, a village seer.


“Spare his life. He is great in telling. I must hear more!


“It’s true – shouted grandma across the street -” His stories are breathtaking. I’m kind of used to them already”


Citizens gathered around Boris, approaching to embrace him … The first, second, third, all the way to the thousand and one.


That’s when all said in unison:

„Boris K. we will spare your life on condition that you continue spinning a good yarn! And you will spend eternity telling us those beautiful stories of yours. And if anyone between us kicks the bucket, there will always be somebody else wiling to listen, young, pink cheeks and ready. But the moment you  stop telling tales, we will let you die two months later!“

“Now are you accepting the challenge or are you going yellow, Boris K, our fellow citizen?“

BKdix1.6 Since the very idea of such a torturous fate was detestable to Boris, his entire body went numb. He offered his arguments about the inspiration for most of his tales, in philosophical, psychological, and sociological terms, mainly based on events that happened in his life.

“And my life will be over soon”, quoting passages of famous people, like dr. Nietzsche – dearly departed, to support that conclusion.

„ Don’t be afraid, Boris. K. You’ve always been an inspiration to us in Waste Management. So shall we return the favour, fighting fire with fire, that mysterious, indefinable spark, that we are… Didn’t that sparkle your imaginations? To never let it go dry? Therefore, talk, talk, talk… no, no, no, don’t worry.” “, Citizens readily responded


Boris k complained about laryngitis.

It didn’t help.


Boris K. admitted that he’s not and never will be a story-teller.

“None of us was. It’s kind of a push and pull. You are becoming one. And once it happened to you, you are part of this phenomenon!“. They gave him a rough look, the lines under their eyes.


Boris K. got himself thinking about how he was supposed to run as fast as he can,  just like a little Chariots of Fire.

“Is this what you are looking for?” Bimbo and Jimbo, dumbest citizens in Phenomenopublic, strengthened in the gym, were sitting in Boris’ time machine, raving at the crowd “The time machine is ours. Firing up the barbecue!”


Then, all of a sudden, a single shot was heard.

“Calm those brutes!l speak with the voice of the Prophets! – Marinella Felazionini was the madam President of Blind Nuns Theocratic Party.

Bimbo and Jimbo put their heads down. The prophet expressed the awe he felt:

“What an exceptional creature, madam.”

“Though not in habit, sir” –  sudden silence fell over those gathered in front of the government building where wanna – be Boris’ memorial service was scheduled to be held.

Her reverence holstered her pistol at the scene.


“… and what happened with nana Hurricana? Did she make it out of the red hot chimney?„Will Philodendrona the Third, the great-granddaughter of the ancient queen Margaret the Second, will get married to Boris K?, – The frenzied chatter resonates across the Republic -They were an ancient guild, a shield-maiden Party,  three starlets per one drag queen.

BKdix2.0 B

Boris K. realized that there was no alternative but to tell tales till hell froze over.

“Time to go”, Boris K. hopped in the backseat of his time machine, heading over the world-famous novelists he admired, with the Saint Marinela ‘s blessing.

” But how can I achieve the same artistry in storytelling? Boris K. asked himself.


Boris K in Russia – Tolstoy


That was the moment when Boris K. first met, face to face the gentleman I am about to introduce to you.

In a peasant shirt and boots and a beard as long as the characters fromWar and Peace.

Tolstoy was in his estate in Yasnaya Polyana finishing the last chapter fromThe Death of Ivan Ilych.

“Ah, gerasim!”,  Tolstoy sighed.


Boris K snuck up behind him, moving like a cat, leaned over his shoulder, sneaking into the great writer’s manuscript, going down into lower and lower layers of the finale! – The last page, the last shot. -there’s something in there that caught his attention. A word for which Boris K. yearned was – UNINTERRUPTEDLY.


It has been accomplished – Tolstoy wrote down.

“Then, did he die, Ivan Ilych.?”

“He.. he’s out cold now” –Tolstoy replied, with an absent tone of voice.


Suddenly, a master of realistic fiction, a world-renown for his wisdom, sprang to his feet abruptly as a strolling cat that suddenly leaps away when it spots a dog, he threw himself on his knees, weeping, pale, in a mortal dread:

“Ivan Ilych., forgive me. Ivanushka,  What you saw, no one amongst the living soul has ever seen! What you have been, no one has ever.. been!

I’m going into a monastery to find Father Abbot! I’ll tell him: Show me the holy relics of my poor servant, in hoping to be exhumed and blessed, Ivan Ilych. You’ll be in the crypt. But it was an accident…!”


Suddenly, Tolstoy froze – “Wait, you are not my servant. You are… moustachioed.. MAN! Ivan won’t acknowledge his moustache,  May his soul rests in peace!”


My story can’ t end! It has to go on forever. It has to be forever.”

And to this Boris K  added:

„If that ever happened,  the Citizens would have me killed ” Boris K wailed,  telling Tolstoy what happened from the beginning, vigourously.

„The end – dixit Boris K– – that, Tolstoy, That can never happen!”


After ascertaining, for reasons best known to himself,  that it’s not about St. Petersburg middle-class citizens, Tolstoy suggested a little walking in the park, and in appreciation, he nodded and said:

“Then you should definitely point out that there is no time in space. Time does not exist in the unconscious. Along with our watches, because time does not exist in this room, in this city, in this story. There is no such thing as time”, Tolstoy scratched his head, he seemed confused and upset. – “In this way, our hero is capable of dying from some mysterious unknown plagues thousandth pages so far”. – Tolstoy stopped – “Boris K, that’s all I could think about.”

Boris K in Russia – Chekhov



„None, then, I’ll visit Chekhov.  If anybody can help me, he can!”

Boris К. met Chekhov in Sorin’s estate, suffering from a heavy case of ” Scribe’s Fever, his eyes as if of fire, he’s writing something down,  making birdcalls with seagulls.

„Come in, it’s broken, Polina Andryevna“


Boris K. just came in and sat like that.

„So, Polina Andreyevna tell me your troubles?“ Chekhov stares at him. bloodshot eyes, unsuitable pallor. Such piercing eyes!


Boris K. told him all about his nervous breakdowns, all about good and evil,  adding to the continuing story of how the Earth was made on Hell. In the end, he told him all about his great matter.

“Are you blackmailing me to be your ghostwriter?”, – Chekhov was suspicious.

“Why this libel?”


The greatest writer of short fiction in history grimaces at Boris’ face.

” I fear overzealous people. I was imagining a comedy, which finished in tragedy. Never mind, never mind. So, anyway, I’ ve seen you creeping about the wardrobe seeing me in female dress at “Seagulls” premiere. At the very end of her acting career, the leading lady lost her voice. .And I jumped in like a goddamn scout.. , turning her awkward soprano into full warm tenor… – Chekhov shrieked, pointing his finger to Boris K. – Did you take that picture while I was trying her dresses?”


Boris K. sighed, took the photograph out of his overall’s pocket,..

“I would like to have my photos back!”

“It’s a sorrowful day at the thought of parting with this famous dress!”, Boris K. admitted.


Chekhov grabbed his photo right out of Boris’ hands, stuffed it into his pocket. He was just relieved.

“Standing.. sitting there like Honest John.” – Chekhov stated his position unsmilingly, his arms folded.

“You mean start again, from the beginning again?”


 Boris K. told Chekhov everything, from beginning to end.

“Makes you think, doesn’t it? Well, I’m glad my advice to a fledgeling writer – conductor – that writes songs didn’t help you, Boris K!”

“I drive a taxi”

BKdix3.2 – 

“Well, don’t drive a taxi!”

“Foolish talking, foolish squawking. – Chekhov shook his head…



*BKdix  – Dixit Boris K. or Ipse dixit (Latin for “he said it himself”)

Court 21

In Court 21, the defendants entered one after the other, accompanied by prosecutors, witnesses, defence attorneys. While the judge, the scorer, and the jury followed them, the five defendants sat on chairs, and one of them was a timely and powerfully built woman. In all cases, of all the chairs they sit on the weakest and the slimiest. And as she sat down, so she fell, one second, second, third, fourth while the bearded prosecutor with fedora hat cross-examined her, but under no circumstances to finally fall, and so, the moment she was falling and falling, the prosecutor ran up hastened forward, picking her up, while she kicked him as falling down, her black large head with two distressing disturbed eyes, alternately reappeared and disappeared. Just a minute ago badmouthing her, the Prosecutor rolled up his sleeves, a lisping voice, worried, but helpless, he went round and round… and spinning and spinning… and dancing and flying. : “Ma’am, are you okay, help ma’am help!” And she didn’t hear it all because she kept falling and falling, a curvy line, like a piece of the divider, like the trash can got knocked over, and the stuff fell out of her.
When she finally fell, after five minutes, the Judge ordered the courtroom to be emptied, and he and the scorer looked at each other silently, and then the Judge sat back in his chair and laughed so long that the whole Courtroom echoed.
The judge was laughing like hell.in an empty courtroom when all of a sudden the rest of the chair broke and the judge and the scorer and the jury fell down, too, not long after the big lady departure.

Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.

…. Namely, in the first story in this collection of stories about Boris K.’s  trials, tribulations”, the story of “Vodka”, we find him defeated by debt bondage enslaved in a bottle of vodka, condemned by the Transition Court, the so-called the “invisible hands” of the market, which grinds and crashes into bottles of alcoholic hopelessness all those who cannot adjust a cruel capitalist game called “The Dictatorship of Money” in which people and their happiness are completely irrelevant because only money matters.

(That is exactly how it is portrayed in the story “Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, in a plastic way, which explicitly states:

“Here in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you. Follow me? Follow me…” Ovde ne igraju ljudi u pare, već pare u ljude.”  (srp.)

Leila Samarrai

Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, The Adventures Of Boris K.  an excerpt from the story

When Boris K. enters the Casino “Alexander” to try out his luck, he immediately notices there are no tables, no croupier, no chips, no slots, and no poker room. As he pauses, a seemingly invisible but powerful hand slams the door behind him with a BANG!

“Do you want to wager on red…or black?”, echoes a rough voice throughout the empty room. Since he was a Marxist by decree, Boris K.’s choice was red as expected.

Suddenly, the lights turn on and the room comes alive with gambling of every kind everywhere. The main lobby is full of blackjack tables and there are rows of slot machines. The croupier named Stendal grabs a flabbergasted Boris K. by his collar and leads him to the gaming table with an ominous whispering voice that carries within it a subtle hint of the apocalypse:

“Here, in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.  Follow me? Follow me…”

Quickly, the players from the noble banking houses are gathered together, so the betting process can begin. Mr.Dollar, a Canadian by origin, as well as his fellow American brother, a returnee from the Moon whom everyone fondly calls ‘Apollo,’ move toward each other, along with the ‘Euro-who-jumps’ and the inevitable ‘Serbian Dinar-to-drop,’ with the Avgan currency lagging behind auspiciously.

Seeing Boris K, the banknotes look to each other and then immediately reach toward him conspiratorially.

CATCH THAT MAN! They shout in unison.

They reach out their hands, grab Boris K., and spin him into the roulette wheel. He lies there prone and in shock.

“Lay a bet on Boris K…. put that little man on red, and make sure he doesn’t escape!” spoke a poker-faced George Washington, in a confident and authoritative voice. Being the hard cash, he was recognized as the calmest, coolest, and most collected of all the currencies.

“What are you saying, George? Move Boris K. back into the black! He is a Communist, for God’s sake, the state will always make sure he’s flush.”

“Let’s be reasonable, gentlemen”, replies Mr Dollar, carefully watching Boris K. as he spins within the roulette so fast, his head looks like it might pop off his body.

“Just wait until the Russians lay their hands on your bet!” With that comment, the eyes of the rounded Dinaric coin fill with tears that flow softly and quietly down her cheeks.

“Those Russians are originally Serbs from the Caucasus,” whispers the Serbian currency as she gazes wistfully into the distance, dreaming of Atlantis.

Boris K. was getting annoyed. To come out alive and a winner, he knew he needed to take this matter into his own hands. No more letting the chips fall where they may! He had to figure out a way to grab that roulette bead that was skillfully hopping around the rim of the roulette wheel, just out of his grasp.

A new player then arrives in the gambling hall with a confident sort of swagger acquired through years of marching through Moscow, as evidenced by her enviably muscled calves. The lovely, but deadly, Russian Ruble gets ready to sit down when she is stopped, mid-squat, by a singing Italian currency with a mythical lyre in her hand.

“Give me my seat back!, you pseudo-Christian globalist!” shouts the Ruble aggressively.

“No dice my dear. THIS chair is mine!”, roars the Italian Lira, indignantly.

Euro, who considers himself the most valuable currency in attendance, chooses not to help out Ruble because he can’t stand her acting live a diva all the time. Flushed and offended, Ruble imbibes a glass (or two) of vodka and then slaps Abraham across the face for watching innocently from the sidelines:

FUCK YOU, Abraham! She shrieks mid-slap.

At that, the strategizing Serbian Dinar jumps up with the help of the Hungarian Reserves to defuse the argument. Dinar then toots distractingly before initiating a four corners offence for Boris K. First, she takes the tranquillizers from the Albanian, AFN currency, who is distracted as she is turned toward Mecca, then Dinar wraps it inside of a paper airplane, and makes a ‘hail Mary’ pass toward Boris K, who catches it with one hand while finally grabbing the roulette ball in the other. He tranquilizes that damn ball and the game is over. With this victory, the banknotes take off running, so frenzied, many develop spontaneous wrinkles.

Taking advantage of the panicked mob mentality that no croupier, even Stendal the Swede, could calm with offerings of Francs and Ferraris, Boris K. escapes. He runs out of the gambling den and into the expansive parking lot where he sees a private jet with an open door. He runs, followed by a long line of currency and scurries onto the plane, just as the doors close. He sits down, looking at the roulette ball sleeping dreamily in his hands. He silently swears to never gamble again. “I will never lay another bet! No roulette wheel, not even Russian Roulette! “, Boris exclaims. That’s when he looks up, distracted by voices behind him. At this moment he realizes he’s boarded a plane owned by Al-Qaeda. Not only has he just been saved by a gassy Dinar, but now he’s surrounded by terrorists!…..


an excerpt from the story…