Klinika

About a book

PAVOL

RANKOV

The Clinic

Original title: Klinika

Genre: novel

Slovak edition: KK Bagala

CONTENT

The novel The Clinic (Klinika) is an authentic personal testimony that can be described as a cry for help. Over the course of seven days, its main character attempts to solve his health issue by a visit to a renowned specialist in a hospital. His quest resembles an endless odyssey or a desperate Kafkaesque wandering. While waiting for the professor, the narrator confesses his feelings of depression and self-hatred. He has had a painful personal crisis and troubled relationships with members of his own family. Things that until recently have been taboo for him, he is suddenly willing to discuss with complete strangers. Armed with black humor, the narrator depicts protests of medical workers and the conspiratorial encounters of patients and doctors in the style of absurd drama.

REVIEWS

“The self-deprecating lightness of the story can cover the most important thing - exposing and revealing the traumas of a middle-aged man, a husband, and a parent. The central problem hidden behind the symptoms of depression is mainly a deep feeling of alienation, loneliness, misunderstanding and the absence of a soul mate. The fact that he is willing to open his most intimate feelings "waiting" to literally everyone, speaks not only of the absence of quality medical help, but especially of a desperate desire for understanding. The visual design concept, in which the last pages are torn out of the book, could also be understood as a formal fulfillment of the "misunderstanding" metaphor. Few readers will likely decipher this as a reference to Kafka's unfinished Castle and be more convinced that they have been sold a faulty copy. Who knows how many complaints the booksellers had about the Castle, which Franz Kafka did not have time to finish... They also received questions from customers such as: "Why should I pay for an unfinished book?"Pavol Rankov did not write his chapters on purpose and his story fortunately remained open.

The Clinic is a strong male statement not only in the context of the author's work, but also of contemporary Slovak prose as such, which has been dominated by the female narrative perspective for several years.”

Dado Nagy, Knižná revue, Slovak Republic

“Don't wait outside the wrong door. Pavol Rankov has the gift of exciting storytelling with a dose of absurdity and an open ending. Here, the nurse is throwing a pen at the patient. One patient bang on the door of an empty ambulance and another lets him into the Clinic through the window. The professor sends him questions recorded on a dictaphone and his insecure assistant records the answers...However, the reasons that bring the Patient to the Clinic are much more important. The world can be one absurd Clinic with a panopticon of silly figures, if something happens to us that should not happen to anyone, and we look in vain for our Professor to cure us.

Certain visits to the doctor, the state of our healthcare and the smell of hospital corridors could certainly have inspired the author to write the novella Clinic. However, they play a secondary role in this story, although they are portrayed very faithfully. The most important thing is to realize that if the planet has eight billion people and we meet even one person with whom we understand each other, it is a success.”

Zora Handzová, Pravda, Slovak Republic

“Of course, it wouldn't be Rankov and his penchant for playing with the reader if he didn't leave the real reason for the psychological state of the protagonist and his strained relationship with his wife and two daughters for self-reflection at the end. "I'm just watching my lifelong effort to fit in fail day by day," the protagonist states, beginning to question whether his efforts to get examined by the professor make any sense at all.”

Róbert Kotian, SME, Slovak Republic

EXTRACT

There are eight billion people living on the planet, but the professor can understand only one of them - himself. Out of those eight billion, no one can understand me, not even myself. Not because I'm special. I am the most normal, ordinary, and boring person in the world. Even I consider myself boring, at least I am capable of this self-reflection. I never wanted to stand out, but I always felt like I couldn't fit into my own skin, and something was sticking out of me. That something has a dimension incompatible with the world. I never understood what it is and what it is. I'm just watching my lifelong effort to fit in fail day by day. I didn't manage to do what others managed to do - that is, to integrate, to integrate into humanity. Only when I resigned and stopped hoping to be among the eight billion did I finally know how to define my difference: I am extremely ordinary, exceptional in my mediocrity, boring in a completely different way than others. I stand in front of the professor's office feeling ashamed that I am exaggerating my own problem. After all, I am not an exception, because no one understands anyone. Unless they - the normal people I've longed to belong to all my life - don't worry, maybe they don't realize it or they got used to mutual misunderstanding. I suddenly know why my wife reacted so cynically to my cry for help - she couldn't understand me. I can see why my daughters think I'm a fool - they have no idea who I am. They can't get into my head like I can never get into theirs. I don't think anyone can appreciate what a master I am at holding back tears. I can suppress them for several hours. I created my own methodology for crying. The trickiest thing is to cry while showering, the tears can flow right away and when I come out of the shower with red eyes, it could be from the soap. I regret that I even started a conversation with the cook, the receptionist, the patient, the nurse, or the assistant. I was ridiculous to naively assume that they were the only ones who could understand me. I became a trusting storyteller in an untrusting world. It would be just as crazy to expect that in this hospital maze and panopticon of silly figures the professor - and me - would understand. But a counterargument immediately arises in my mind to this skeptical feeling. After all, it was different with my son, we understood each other from his early childhood. We didn't have to explain anything to each other, it wasn't even necessary to speak, a look, a gesture or a grimace was enough. I got along with one in eight billion people, and that's not a bad balance. In the crematorium, they also have the function of arranger. He is a worker who adjusts the faces, bodies, and clothing of the deceased for their final farewell. Just before the ceremony he puts the person on display in a small room and the survivors can look at him for a minute or two through the glass wall. Of course, when the deceased is a child, the most likely cause of death is an accident, especially a car accident. It is a difficult job for an arranger, because the face is often scratched and battered, but a dead person, especially at a tender age, has to look his best. Based on her experience, the arranger also assumes that every child died in an accident, and therefore expects that she will have a lot of work to arrange. One that died of disease is rare here, it's not a problem for the crematorium worker, it's easy to arrange. As she invited us into that glass-walled room, she said, “The boy is very handsome.” For a moment, for a hundredth of a second, I felt parental pride. My son is handsome. How could any professor understand this? I know that there is no one in the doctor's office, but I still force myself to go to the door and knock. And although it is clear to me that there is no one to answer from inside, a soothing deep voice is heard from there: “Come on.” I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob because I still have hope, but I can turn quickly to the staircase and go. On the ground floor, I could still shout to the receptionist that I will be right back. I would walk faster and faster through the park until I finally started running. I would rush to meet my traumas, anxieties, regrets, sins, and sorrows. If the professor changed me completely or at least partially, I wouldn't be who I am.