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(Just wanted to let you know...I think there's a bird translating what you are saying to the rest of the birds and leaves and ants and all the trees here.)

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Did your relationship to your mother change after you wrote the book about your farhers death?

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Dear Mr. Gospodinov, In your writing, there are people within people, living beings within non living, dying and getting reborn. Do you think it is love or is it sorrow which connects these inanimate and animate things? As there can be sorrow without love. One CAN grieve people they did not love.

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Haben Sie Angst vor dem Tod?

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Was haben Sie als Vater anders gemacht als Ihr Vater? Was davon bewusst? Inwiefern haben Sie in Ihrem Vatersein Ihren eigenen Vater wiedererkannt?

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Wie sieht der Garten Ihres Vaters heute aus?

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Haben Sie Antworten gefunden auf die Fragen, die Sie am Ende Ihres Buches stellen?

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Herr Gospodinov, in Zeitzuflucht beschreiben Sie die Vergangenheit als Zuflucht – und zugleich als Gefahr. Europa scheint heute mehr denn je in nostalgischen Rückwärtsbewegungen gefangen. Gibt es für Sie eine Form der Erinnerung, die nicht in die Falle der Nostalgie führt, sondern produktiv in die Zukunft weist – und welche Rolle kann Literatur dabei spielen

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In Lucerne, on the Kappel Bridge, we see very old paintings of the Dance of Death: Father Death comes and invites people to dance—the last dance of those chosen. And today? Has anything changed? Have we the possibility and right to invite father death to dance—when tired of life and weary of suffering?

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Dear Mr. Gospodinov, when we lose someone we love after a long illness, death can sometimes also mean the end of their suffering, while for those who remain, the absence is still deeply painful. In such a moment, can gratitude for the time, love, and memories we were given with that person become a path toward accepting their absence? Or is there a danger that gratitude can arrive too early and silence the grief before it has fully spoken?

In Bulgarian:

Уважаеми г-н Господинов, когато загубим човек, когото обичаме, след дълго боледуване, смъртта понякога може да означава и край на неговото страдание, докато за онези, които остават, отсъствието продължава да бъде дълбоко болезнено. В такъв момент може ли благодарността за времето, любовта и спомените, които сме получили с този човек, да се превърне в път към приемането на неговото отсъствие? Или съществува опасност благодарността да дойде твърде рано и да заглуши скръбта, преди тя да е успяла да изговори себе си докрай?

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Sie beschreiben auf eine sehr einfühlsame Weise das Heimgehen ihres Vaters. Wie hat dieses Buch ihre Einstellung zum Tod verändert.

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Was ist Ihre Lieblingsblume?

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What can literature say about farewell and loss that everyday conversations often cannot?

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Mr. Gospodinov, The Gardener and Death is for me personally the most memorable reading experience in my life so far. As it turned out, I took the courage to open it and read it on the same day my mother passed away and your personal experience became my guidance for what I was about to endure, as this was my first face to face encounter with death. I would always be grateful for the perspective the book gave me at the perfect timing on how one should see death. Would you consider this book, apart from being a deeply personal expression of your love and loss of your father, to be also some kind of a tutorial or a guiding light to all those people who are about to face the same with their loved ones?

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Mr. Gospodinov, in The Gardener and Death, the garden seems to function not simply as a setting, but almost as an alternative model of time: cyclical, material, patient, and indifferent to human grief. At the same time, the book appears to transform a very personal loss into something more philosophical, even collective. How did you think about that movement while writing – from private mourning to literary form, from memory to metaphor? And did the garden allow you to write about death precisely because it is also a place of growth, repetition, and return?

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Hat das Schreiben über Vergänglichkeit Ihren Blick auf das Leben verändert?

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Ihr Roman verbindet Erinnerung und Reflexion: Wo endet Autobiografie, wo beginnt Fiktion?