Lela B. Njatin, born in 1963 in Ljubljana, Slovenia. She studied comparative literature and philosophy at the Ljubljana University. Works as a public relations consultant to the director of Scientific Research Center of the Slovenian Academy for Science and Arts and CEO of Center for Slovenian Literature. Before she worked mainly as a freelance writer and journalist.

Her prose has different faces, but is always unique, claiming individual voice and declaring freedom of personality and literature. With certain texts she is close to the retroavantguarde Neue Slowenische Kunst movement which includes the music group Laibach and art group Irwin.

For her first book, the novel Nestrpnost (Intolerance) she was awarded with Zlata ptica '88 (the award for the most unique achievements in Slovenian art). With Velikanovo srce (The Giant's Heart) she was nominated, as one of the best fairy-tales in Slovenia in the decade, for the Večernica Award.

Books:
Nestrpnost (Intolerance). Novel. - Ljubljana, Aleph. - 1987, reprinted in 1991.
Sakrarij (Sacrarium). Collection of short stories. - Ljubljana, Vodnikova domačija. - 1996.
Velikanovo srce (The Giant's Heart). Fairy-tale. - Ljubljana, Aleph. - 1997.
Divovo srce. - Zagreb, Meandar. - 1997. (Translation of The Giant's Heart.)
Netrpeljivost. - Zagreb, Naklada MD. - 1998. (Translation of Intolerance.)
Obrovo srdce. - Brno, Nakladatelstvy František Raček. - Autumn 1999. (Translation of The Giant's Heart.)
Published in books in English:
The day Tito died. Contemporary Slovenian Short Stories. - London, Forest Books.- 1993.
The veiled landscape. Slovenian women writing. - Ljubljana, Urad za žensko politiko pri Vladi Republike Slovenije. - 1995.
Antony Gormley. Monography. - London, Phaidon Press.- 1995.
A day in Europe. Anthology of Central European Literature. - Bratislava, Slovakian PEN Centre. - 1995.

A Night in Ljubljana

As I turn the key in the lock I can't feel the springs give way. In the bunch of keys hooked onto the same ring I press in my palm this one is the lightest, aluminium. There seems to be no resistance in the lock when I turn it. The door is locked, but it can be unlocked as if one were drilling with look into thought, neither one nor the other has any real weight, and when they meet, the distinction between them is hardly noticeable as they have no shape, no colour, no density, one can only feel they exist, and that the look is piercing through the thought. And more often than not it is the thought that gives way, and the look remains somewhat suspended in the air.
When I press down the handle, the door opens. For a few moments the aluminium key sticks out of the bunch in my fist like a feather-light miniature shark which, with a single toothed jaw, is waiting to snatch its prey; when I close the door behind me after I enter, I appease it, I put it back into the lock and leave it there, hanging off the spring hook along with the others. While it is firmly clasped in the lock, the others, like worthless corpses, dangle for some time, just like the chain I fix in the slot above the lock a moment later.
Without turning on the light I let the bag fall on the floor by the door, bend over and take off my shoes. The hall is filled with heat which immediately laurels my forehead with beads of sweat. The paint smells of burning. I walk to the windows, open them, leaving the blinds lowered, I only turn the metal bars and they make a squeaking noise after having been motionless for months, left to the mercy of the sun and the rain.
It's just as hot outside. The heat rushes through the blinds into the flat, I feel it on the sweaty forehead like a whiff of gentle breeze, but a moment later the air is still again, humidity spreads into the rooms, sticking to walls like suffocating slime. It penetrates my shirt, my trousers, permeates the upholstered seat of the chair which I sit on, saturates the table cloth on the table which I rest my elbows on and, with the dust caught into its texture, forms a gauze-like web sticking to my fingers.
Through the grid of the blinds I look at the town, the building across blocks the view, it's dark, the open windows gape at me like burns, they're darker than the facade, behind it there's another rampart of buildings, with fiery hollows staring out; some of the tiny eyes are illuminated, and I gaze over there in search of human figures. The night is thick, it intensifies the heat with its substance, and the people inside are motionless, burnt by the hotness of the day, inert like running sores splitting up with every move, exuding pus in the summer of stifled acts, sediments of desiccated desires and deposits of stale aspirations.
The night out there doesn't emit any sounds, I can hear it pulsate like the swelling pouches of frogs dug in the mud from the period of chaotic time, not articulated to the measure of man, but impregnated by human thirst. The adventures people have prescribed for them in this season are being swallowed up by the heat. The dark sky is tailored to fit the endless farewells made to shattered plans. I'm calmed by the impotence of my fellow-burghers - when the temperature of their bodies is defeated by the temperature of the environment - to capture the fleeing time and draw it into the mills of their vanity. Whenever I return in such weather I feel fine. Only then do I feel that I'm not here because I was ordered to be.
I sit still until all the patches of my skin showing from under the clothing are covered in drops of sweat as if sprinkled with the finest shower. I shake them off, walking through the flat: the fridge, switched off, with the door ajar, the armchairs covered in sheets, the bed made, the carpet rolled, the phone with the answering machine switched off, the fuses unscrewed, a pair of tongs in the sink by the valve ... I first plug in the radio, so that the lights on the panel light up and I can hear music from afar, but I immediately give it up. The silence of the night is more pleasant.
I look through the window once more, this time across the neighbouring buildings. Behind them is a wooded hill, behind it more houses. In a house, far away, in another town at the other end of the globe, where it is day now, is Boštjan. A traveller like me, he must never cross the border separating night from day, the change of time must be experienced on a single spot, when you die without expiring. Boštjan, Tomaž, another Tomaž before him, Ivo and I - dashing like comets leaving behind a trail of expectations, rushing towards knowledge, trying to overtake the moment of our death, sick of evasive answers we find refuge where there are no more questions. While the people in the towns of our lives speak of us: "they're gone", we, in the places we inhabit, appear in the windows of houses. They see us, but never ask who we are, where we are from, what we do, where we are going; we are images framed by the windows of neighbouring buildings which, even more often than we appear in them, remain empty. We stage up stories in fragments, too unpretentious to tell a story.
Which window should I stand in: kitchen? bedroom? I stay where I am, in the kitchen. I pull the string of the blinds, it's all greasy from the air, for most of the year the only occupant of the place, motionless, thick, giving in to pressure, smooth, waxy. When I pull the string, the blinds squeak, the sound rebounds from the opposite wall to me, and back again. The charred hollows in it gape, and nothing disturbs the evenness of the light penetrating here and there. I lean on the window-sill and poke my head out: the night remains still. As if the people were resting with their backs against the world.
Now I switch the lights on. In the kitchen the table stands just below the window, the people living opposite can't see it. The other time Boštjan and I shouted at each other, fighting for the table to attract the glances of the people, to imprint ourselves in their consciousness as something that exists, and thus get an excuse for them to keep us in their midst. When I'm alone, it's harder.
A stream of sweat pours down the nape of my neck, I feel moisture between my breasts. I lean above the table and smoothen a crease running down the middle of the cloth like a trace of resistance to the iron. The surface of the table is smooth, the cloth feels slippery under my fingers. I cling to the edge and mount the table, knees first, in a co-ordinated movement I remain there squatting, take hold of the post. I lean out, my shirt sticking to the torso with the liquid squeezed from me by the heat, and remain dangling. The building across echoes as if it were dead. I turn my head, and steer my gaze along the pool of houses; it stumbles on no eye.
Then I let go.
Propelled towards the asphalt of the bottom of city indifference, with the corner of my eye, through the drop of sweat on the lash, in the numb night I catch a glimpse of a tiny red dot - the burning end of a cigarette in the window across.

Translated by Lili Potpara

The Giant
(a fragment from The Giant's Heart)

The Giant stepped from his bedroom on to the balcony and stretched. He leaned against the railing and gazed into the distance. He nodded seriously: "Mhm."
The Giant was thinking about the great size of his estate. He was pleased that it was large enough to contain everything he needed and it was never necessary for him to leave its boundaries. He was even more pleased that it was arranged in such a way that it contained only those things which were absolutely necessary.
The Giant ate only the fruit from the tree of eternal life. And on the Giant's estate there were countless trees of eternal life. He liked to listen to the singing of birds of paradise. And on the top of each and every tree of eternal life there lived a bird of paradise. The Giant's only activity was to take long walks on his estate. And he had such a large estate that he was always able to choose a new path.
The Giant yawned, slit open his eyes and let his glance slide upon the horizon. Suddenly, his gaze stopped and he decided: "Today, I shall go there." He returned to his chamber and sat down to breakfast precisely at that moment when the kitchen doors swung open and the Caretaker placed upon the table fruits from the tree of eternal life. "Mhm," said the Giant, nodding seriously, for he greatly valued punctuality.
The Giant lay down in his bed each evening at exactly sunset and got up every morning at precisely the instant when the day's first light fell upon the farthest tree on his estate. So his sleep was also very great as indeed were all his activities.
His dreams were always the same. He would walk along the path which he had chosen during the day. He knew that he couldn't dream of anything else because what he did was exactly right for him. Nothing else would be exactly right for him except walking each day through the forest of trees of eternal life.
Although he ate with his hands, the Giant did so with great dignity. Not for an instant did his eyes stray from the task. He stared unswervingly at the fruits of the tree of eternal life as he, with one blow against the table, split each of the fruits in half. He so quickly popped the pieces of the fruit into his mouth that not a single drop of juice remained on the table cloth.
The Giant sat very straight and as he ate, he laboured with his whole body and he always looked exactly where he wanted to look and he always knew exactly where that was. Right after breakfast, he suddenly stood up and set off on his walk. "Mhm," he said, not to the Caretaker, but only to himself.

Translated by Erica Johnson Debeljak

The Heart
(a fragment from The Giant's Heart)

The Wind shivered: "Oh, Little Deer, Little Deer, I'm sorry!". The Wind slid down Little Deer's back and ruffled her fur. The Little Deer, shivering like the Wind, was lying in exactly the same spot where the Wind had left her. "I didn't want to flee, I didn't want to but I was so afraid!" the Wind bitterly confessed.
The Little Deer understood. The Giant, though she'd only seen him from far away and only for an instant, had twisted the Little Deer with fear as if she were on a rope which pinned her to the spot, as if she were somehow tied to the Giant. "And last night I didn't dare to come back to get you. Since, as you saw, there is no moon and no stars and without their light I would have never found you," the Wind whimpered. "Poor Little Deer," and the Wind caressed her back.
"It wasn't so bad," the Little Deer decided after all. "Toward morning, one star began to shine in the sky."
"Poor Little Deer," the Wind exclaimed, convinced that the Little Deer was so frightened by the dark night that she had imagined the star. "I'll take you back to your home forest," the Wind suggested but the Little Deer asked, "Has a month yet passed there and will I already be a grown-up deer?" "No, a month has not yet passed," answered the Wind, surprised by the question. But it was even more surprised by the Little Deer's answer. "Well, then, I won't go. I will stay and meet the Giant."
"Oh, Little Deer, you would never ever want to meet him," the Wind bitterly lamented, certain that it hadn't been right to help the Little Deer in her desire to grow up by bringing her to this estate which was much too huge for her. The Wind's bad conscious burned inside of it when it looked at the Little Deer. The Wind felt sure that the Little Deer is paralysed by it showed her on this estate. So the Wind decided to explain everything to the Little Deer.
The Wind leaned in toward Little Deer and twisted around her. It tenderly caressed her little hooves and blew the words by her ears. It told Little Deer that:

LONG LONG AGO, THE GIANT LIVED IN A COMPLETELY ORDINARY FOREST AND EVEN THEN HE WAS LOATHE TO LEAVE IT. THEN ONE DAY HE MET A VERY BEAUTIFUL GIRL. A FIRE BURNED IN HER EYES AND EVERYTHING SHE TOUCHED BURST INTO BLOOM. THE GIANT FELL IN LOVE WITH HER AND GAVE HER HIS HEART. BUT THE GIRL LOVED LIFE ABOVE ALL ELSE. SHE WENT AROUND THE WORLD TO DISCOVER EVERYTHING NEW ON THIS EARTH EVEN THOUGH THE GIANT'S HEART WAS ONLY AN IMPEDIMENT TO HER. SHE WOULD ALWAYS FORGET IT HERE AND THERE. BUT THE GIANT DIDN'T CARE. HE WOULD ALWAYS FIND IT AND PRESS IT INTO HER HAND ONCE MORE. THE GIRL BEGAN TO PLAY WITH THE GIANT'S HEART. SHE OFFERED IT TO A FISHERMAN IN EXCHANGE FOR A BASKET FULL OF FRESHLY CAUGHT FISH. THE FISHERMAN DECLINED SINCE HE DIDN'T WANT TO TRAFFIC IN A MAN'S HEART. SHE OFFERED IT TO A COACHMAN FOR HIS OLD HORSE WHICH COULD NO LONGER PULL THE COACH. THE COACHMAN DECLINED SINCE HE DIDN'T WANT TO ABUSE A MAN'S HEART. SHE OFFERED IT TO A SORCERER FOR HIS MAGICAL POTION. THE SORCERER ALSO DECLINED SINCE HE DIDN'T WANT TO EXPERIMENT WITH A MAN'S HEART.
THE GIANT DIDN'T CARE. HE HAD GIVEN HIS HEART TO THE GIRL AND SHE COULD DO WITH IT WHAT SHE LIKED. ONE DAY, THE GIRL MET A YOUNG MAN WHO PROMISED TO SHOW HER THE WORLD IN A WAY SHE'D NEVER SEEN BEFORE. THE GIRL SET OUT WITH HIM ON TRAVELS WHICH LASTED SO LONG THAT THE GIANT BEGAN TO DESPAIR THAT SHE'D EVER RETURN. THE MORE THIS DESPAIR GREW WITHIN HIM, THE LESS WAS THE GIANT'S WILL TO LIVE. THE GIRL DID NOT RETURN BUT THE YOUNG MAN CAME AND TOLD THE GIANT THAT THE GIRL HAD FALLEN INTO A GREAT ABYSS AND THE GIANT'S HEART HAD FALLEN DOWN WITH HER. IN DESPAIR, THE GIANT CLASPED THE YOUNG MAN TO HIM AND IN THE GIANT'S EMBRACE THE YOUNG MAN FOUND DEATH. AT THE SAME TIME, THE LAST DROP FLOWED FROM GIANT. WITH THE HELP OF DEATH, THE GIANT WAS ABLE TO BANISH TIME. TIME, AS IT PASSES, PAVES THE WAY TO LIFE'S DIVERSITY AND THE GIANT THUS CAME TO OPPOSE LIFE'S DIVERSITY. HIS LOVING GIRL HAD BEEN TAKEN FROM HIM AND WITH HER WENT HIS HEART. DEATH HAD GRANTED THE GIANT HIS GREAT ESTATE UPON WHICH TIME HAD STOPPED. FOR THIS REASON, TREES OF ETERNAL LIFE GREW ON THE ESTATE AND IN THE TREETOPS SANG BIRDS OF PARADISE. DEATH, ETERNITY AND INDIFFERENCE ARE SISTERS. IN THEM, THE GIANT HAD FOUND SOLACE FOR HIS UNREQUITED LOVE.

"You shall never want to meet the Giant, Little Deer, because the Giant lives on the other side of life," the Wind ended its narrative.
"What is so great about the Giant that death, eternity and indifference offered him shelter?" the Little Deer asked, not moving a muscle as she waited for the answer.
The Wind stroked her on her head, "Oh, Little Deer, you are as wise as a grown-up deer! His disappointment, his disappointment was so great that life bowed before it and death, eternity and indifference tried their best to quell it." Little Deer whispered, "Such a disappointment could take one's heart away."
"Yes, Little Deer," the Wind sighed, "and it's too soon for you to know such disappointment. So let's go, I'll take you home to our forest."

Translated by Erica Johnson Debeljak