... An absolutely WONDERFUL book. The images not only come out of the page and materialise, but you can smell the smells, taste the tastes, feel the heat of the sun on your skin, as you vividly dream together with the author. No movie, no visual depiction has quite the comparable ability to make you feel like you have been allowed for a moment to step into it's world of imagination anchored here in a small 1930's town in eastern Poland. It contains the light and wonder but also the darkness and pain of living. The line between the two is never clear, the perception of the world constantly slipping into the surreal.
... with this book as part of the curriculum, I can only regret that this author is so little known outside his country, as it would seem natural for him to be recognised as part of the world literary heritage.
...

(Please note that Drochobycz was at the time in Poland, not Ukraine as some mention, and Bruno Schultz was a Polish Jew writing in Polish.)

An absolutely WONDERFUL book. The images not only come out of the page and materialise, but you can smell the smells, taste the tastes, feel the heat of the sun on your skin, as you vividly dream together with the author. No movie, no visual depiction has quite the comparable ability to make you feel like you have been allowed for a moment to step into it's world of imagination anchored here in a small 1930's town in eastern Poland. It contains the light and wonder but also the darkness and pain of living. The line between the two is never clear, the perception of the world constantly slipping into the surreal.
Having been fortunate to grow up with this book as part of the curriculum, I can only regret that this author is so little known outside his country, as it would seem natural for him to be recognised as part of the world literary heritage.
But by the same token - my immesurable gratitude to Simon McBurney whose ability to recognise genius and his inspired interpretation with Theatre de Complicite brought this writing out to many people.

(Particularly commenting upon *Street of Crocodiles*): Bruno Schultz invites us into a fluid, dreamlike (and sometimes nightmare-like) world wherein street-urchins are given deity status, a retarded girl is a fertility goddess, and seamstresses' dolls are given unholy partial life. This is also (to lay on a concrete interpretation) a story about growing up with a mentally-ill father and sexually abusive uncle. In his dreamy, surrealistic style, Schultz is like acid without the flashbacks :).

On a more serious note, I think Schultz reflects well a particularly Eastern European identity crisis--the town of his upbringing is a place where the names of the streets change according to who is politically popular at the time; the streets in his town are as malleable as sand--each wave creates its own patterns. A truly engaging and enlightening reading.