Experiences of Exile in new Lithuanian Prose

DALIA KUIZINIENĖ is a docent at Vytautas Magnus University. She is head of the Department of Lithuanian Literature and Senior Researcher in the University’s Lithuanian Emigration Institute. She researches the history of the culture and literature of Lithuanian emigrants. She has most recently coauthored a monograph about the journal Akiračiai.

This paper was originally presented at the Santara-Šviesa conference in Chicago on September 10, 2011.

Abstract
This article presents Lithuanian prose texts written abroad over about the past ten years. It explains the latest tendencies of emigrant literature and the evolution of identity – ranging from nostalgic memoirs to attempts to deny one’s Lithuanian heritage and replace it with some sort of transformed identity. The latest books of Papievis, Jurašienė, Čepaitė, and Grušaitė are examined at some length.
The writings chosen are diverse in their topics, genre, and literary value. The authors belong to different generations and their places of residence differ (as does their time abroad). However, they are united in their desire to express themselves in their reflections on their national identity, the experience of exile, and their relationship with Lithuanian life.
The characters in the novels of Papievis and Pukelytė are imprisoned in the labyrinths of my space/their space by their refugee condition. Other authors are stimulated by the realities of life abroad into searching for the historical roots of their nation and stressing the importance of their native language. The younger Lithuanian prose writers abroad are clearly dismantling the traditional model of Lithuanian identity.

After the political, societal, and social upheavals of 1990, the world became accessible, not only through contact with our closest neighboring countries and societies, but also with those further away and less known to us. “Global influence not only reawakened forgotten tensions, it also brought up new ones: a feeling of emotional instability and the need to reassess and find new meaning in myths that had become stereotypes or to simply create new ones.”¹

The issues of identity and nationality versus identity and globalization are perhaps the concepts discussed most often in the recent writings of philosophers, historians, sociologists, and literary scholars in the countries of Central and Eastern Europe. Their writings constantly revisit issues of cultural differences between the East and West, and of the expression of national, cultural, and generational characteristics in artistic creations. An author’s position among several cultural traditions and languages takes on a multiplicity of treatments in literary texts; such creative people react very feelingly to the challenges of a globalized world, and they express these feelings in their creative output. The search for a new concept of “self” and of the means to express it are quite evident in the newest Lithuanian prose of recent years.

The forms and expressions of national identity have a particular style when they evolve under conditions of foreign domination; they are different when the nation regains statehood and independence; and they assume yet other forms when significant numbers of people from that society emigrate and try to maintain their individual or collective identity while living abroad. In literary texts, the forms of these identities are very clear, because they have received persuasive literary treatment. They often demolish the national stereotypes that have dominated Lithuanian literature, thereby encouraging us to rethink apparently entrenched phenomena and concepts. Over the twenty-one years of Lithuania’s reestablished independence, Lithuanian culture has come closer to European and world cultural standards. Over the past decade, many texts have been written by Lithuanian authors who have lived abroad for a longer or shorter length of time. Along with authors whose names are already well-known (Valdas Papievis, Birutė Jonuškaitė, Zita Čepaitė, Marius Ivaškevičius), quite a few nonprofessional authors have begun writing abroad (Ina Pukelytė, Artūras Imbrasas, Linas Jegelavičius, Andrius Križanauskas). Many texts were inspired by the experience of living elsewhere and the search for one’s identity. Living abroad makes many intellectuals think about their links with the past and makes them view themselves as individuals in the context of another culture; it also makes them express these conflicts in their creative work. What is it that stimulates so many intellectuals who have gone abroad to take up the pen and start writing novels? Is it the new experiences, a particularly clear feeling of one’s own identity and the need to discuss it in an artistic way? Do they bring something new to Lithuanian prose? This article examines Lithuanian prose texts written abroad over about the past ten years. The latest tendencies of emigrant literature will be explained, as will the evolution of identity – ranging from the usual nostalgic memoirs right up to attempts to deny one’s Lithuanian heritage and to replace it with some sort of transformed identity. The latest books of Papievis, Aušra Marija Jurašienė, Čepaitė, and Gabija Grušaitė will be examined in somewhat more depth.

The writings chosen are diverse in their topics, genre, and literary value. The authors belong to different generations and different places of residence (as does their time abroad: shorter or longer, with some having returned to Lithuania). However, they are united in reflecting on their national identity, the experiences of exile, and their relationship with Lithuanian life.

Increasingly, it is only possible to discuss a hybrid, not a purely national, identity. The situation of people living in a diaspora is perhaps best summed up by the identity model of the culturologist Homi K. Bhabha in his book Nation and Narration, which deals with people at the junction of two or more cultures, languages, or historical experiences. It is quite clear that Lithuanian prose at the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first reflects clear changes in identity and signals differences in the Weltanschauung of different generations, deconstructing the tradition of Lithuanian identity.

The utopian exile consciousness has weakened considerably, if not completely disappeared, simply because of the radically changed communications situation. “Place” has become a rather relative concept now that political borders have loosened and modern communications technology has come on the scene. Airplanes, the Internet and smart phones have made El Dorado a homeland that you can carry in your pocket.²

The creative writers themselves declare in their texts that the traditional condition of being an emigrant (loss of home and connection with the world) has changed. Of her 2010 collection of short stories, Ilgesio kojos (Feet of Longing), author Aušra Matulevičiūtė says in an interview: “Yes, seventy years ago there was a different emigrant status, a different rate of adjusting to the foreign surroundings, and a different kind of endurance...”³ The identity soul-searching of her book’s main character, the exile Inesa, gets entangled with the crisis experienced by her Lebanese husband concerning his ethnic deracination.

Fleeing from post-Soviet reality and the link with place are recounted most clearly in the novels of Valdas Papievis and Ina Pukelytė. Prose writer Papievis has lived in France since 1992. In his 2003 novel, Vienos vasaros emigrantai (One Summer’s Emigrants), the dominant theme is inner action, the interplay of present and past, and the ongoing contrast between two places: Vilnius and Paris.

The author has clearly stated his physical and psychological state, his identity as a person who divides his time between two places:

Paris operates on a different scale of time and place. To tell the truth, I never thought that I would be able to get so used to a foreign place. I go back and forth between Paris and Vilnius, between France and Lithuania. As soon as I get to Paris, I start missing Vilnius; and when I’m in Vilnius, I miss Paris.⁴

In Papievis’s Vienos vasaros emigrantai, the narrator of the novel wanders around Paris and also the labyrinths of his inner reality. The author creates an image of life as a series of searches, wanderings, even vagrancy. In the novel there are almost no events, and the apparently meaningless things that take place are needed by the author only inasmuch as they provide an opportunity for the character of the novel to reflect and live through the event to the extent that it provokes some sort of feeling or reaction in him. It is a multilayered novel, in which the character seeks to identify with Paris, a city that is both his own and alien to him; it is also an attempt to find one’s own relationship not only with a place, but also with the world and oneself, to make sense of oneself. Although the title of the novel implies a concrete reference (one summer’s emigrants), the author quickly shatters that illusion of concreteness (emigrants for one summer or for life). For the protagonist of the novel, the temporal dimension is variable; it keeps fluctuating between the past and the present, between the borderlines of reality and imagination. For this purpose, the author makes use of the leitmotiv of travel or pilgrimage, which is well established in Lithuanian modernist literature. He gives it a double meaning: the external, often meaningless wandering around the city implies a much more complex and conflictive journey in his inner psychological labyrinths.

The character narrating this novel feels, in his travels around Paris, that he has

...run away not only from the confusing mix of toil, complexes, and habits that have become superstitions in his native land, but that he has also run away from the world in general. [....] I was free like never before: no home, no language, none of my accustomed personal possessions that would have been handy to help create the illusion of having my own little corner.⁵

The narrator realizes he has started a new stage in his life only when he has severed all imaginable links with the past and accepts that this is a completely new undertaking. The world of Papievis’s narrator is considerably more complex and contradictory: he is perpetually at the interface, in a state between own/alien, present/past, identifying/not identifying with himself, with others, with things, and with the city, which in this novel becomes a separate live character, constantly changing form.

The narrator’s encounters with other characters are limited: the writing avoids going into specifics, concentrating instead on the meaning of inner links, commonality, and new experiences. The narrative focuses on certain lines of connection between the narrator (without hiding that his voice is the author’s voice), a French vagrant named Natalie, and a dancer called Mélanie, a Swiss woman, who experiences similar journeys and a similar search for identity.

Under a bridge over the Seine, the vagrant woman he meets calls the narrator l’Étranger (the foreigner) and identifies him as such, later “refining” the term to le Polonais (the Pole):

Then it occurred to me that for her polonais was not a nationality; for her, polonais was like a species, a race, a name by which to call all the newcomers from the East, regardless of what you are: a Rumanian or Czech, a Ukrainian or a Russian ...⁶

The interface of cultures and the critical estimation of foreigners are a constant in this novel, propelling the characters into an ongoing search for their own identity: “You are running from something and cannot get away from it. It’s as if you’re an alien from another world or as if you had neither home nor homeland.”⁷

The narrator of the novel experiences the same complexes and the same demolition of established myths as do the people he meets from other countries of Central and Eastern Europe. He interacts with these people, who, besides their individualism, have common experiences and complexes, sometimes alluded to by the narrator and at other times by the novel’s protagonists. There are frequent references to the self as a wanderer, a dropout, a prodigal son, a loner, a vagabond, and an emigrant for one summer or the rest of one’s life. The theme of aimless and meaningless wandering much loved by existentialists is clear in Papievis’s novel; but this aimless and meaningless wandering, a pilgrimage, distills the existential loneliness and temporality. The desire to identify, to blend in, to belong, and through that to construct a new concept of self and the surroundings: these are constant states affecting the narrator, even as the narrator’s voice changes in the novel – now narrating from the I position, now the you, now the he. In this novel, the motifs of journey, wandering, pilgrimage, and life as a road without a beginning or an end are constantly repeated.

Papievis’s 2010 novel, Eiti (To Go), is a continuation of the earlier novel; however, it has significantly fewer signs of the external world or a particular place. In this work, an entirely new direction is developed, keeping its distance from the external world: the narrator’s wanderings around Provence become the symbol of the inner journey of the newcomer (which is how the narrator Valdas refers to himself). The author continually develops the theme of the alienness of the place; he lives with a feeling of its impermanence. He goes “where no one is expecting him,”⁸ his spiritual journey becoming his lifestyle, without the need to be tied to a specific place.

Theater critic Ina Pukelytė’s 2000 book, Prancūziškas romanas (French Novel), was written during a stay in France. The character is matured by her year abroad and an unsuccessful love affair, and this helps to consolidate her own identity, which evolves from the tribulations of a young girl who has become entangled in the life of an older French couple. The novel centers on Giedrė’s departure from her hometown and her return to it after a year of painful experiences.

The protagonist of Pukelytė’s novel states her goals very clearly: her aim is to get to know the country and its people and to blend in with them. Her only links with her homeland are letters and occasional telephone calls. Her displacement from her accustomed life makes her change her view of her former life as she assesses it from a new perspective of time and space: “Life in Lithuania now took on another dimension. Giedrė now perceived in it a number of advantages that she had not noticed until then.”⁹

In her dealings with students of various nationalities, the protagonist clearly understands that all of them, including herself, “represent their nation willy-nilly, and they are the relayers of its codes.”¹⁰ In her life in the university village, she is in constant contact and dealing with people of other nationalities. She spends her leisure time with them, and in this there is a spontaneous reaffirmation or rejection of experience and concepts established long ago.

One of the most important guarantees of the maintenance of ethnic identity in exile is giving the nation’s history and national heritage traditions meaning through creative output. It is no coincidence that during various periods in exile there have been many memoirs and historical texts produced. This tendency is spreading in new Lithuanian prose writing. Perhaps the clearest example of this is Kristina Sabaliauskaitė’s historical novel Silva rerum. This novel does not reflect upon exile identity; it was, however, written while the author was living in London.

The 2005 novel, Klajūnas (The Wanderer), is the first novel of Artūras Imbrasas, an architect who has lived and worked in Israel for nine years. There is not much external action in the novel, since it is the account of a young person’s journey through space and time, his own feelings, and his efforts to regain his lost values. The character created by Imbrasas does not wander around foreign countries and cities; his journey is through inner space. The novel is written in the form of confessions to a diary. In this novel, a person’s identification with the historical roots of his ancestors is expressed in unexpected and ironic parallels, symbols, and metaphors. The goal of understanding oneself through one’s links to the past stimulates the novel’s principal protagonist to research deeper into history and to compare his values to those of previous generations:

Later I became interested in ancestors: my own and those of other people. Their desires and aspirations. I became a historian. I imagined that in history I would find a respite: I would be concerned only with those who have already passed from this life, so I wouldn’t feel much sentiment or indebtedness toward them. A cold-blooded researcher’s curiosity. But it turned out that they, the specters of the past, were much stronger than I. Their desires, whether written down or not, coincide with mine, and that bewildered me.¹¹

This book contains no accounts of life abroad. It is about the present and a journey into the past presented in an abstract space, without any specific outlines of a place; it is also the distant past of our ancestors as interpreted by the narrator. It is a book about a journey into the past, in which the search is not for historical facts or details; it is an examination of deep values from the position of a contemporary person wandering about the world, a person who throws overboard many long-established norms, desanctifying them, but who eventually discovers some permanent values. Self-identity is sought in the past, through comparison and the reconstruction of individual experience through memory.

Reflections on the past are also vivid in the 2008 book, Egziliantės užrašai (Memoirs of an Exile), by the writer and journalist Aušra Marija Jurašienė. The author has called her texts essays, portrait sketches, memoirs, impressions. Indeed, the book is very uneven, consisting of texts written in Lithuania and in exile, in which the author of the book assembles, as if for a mosaic, portraits of people she has met, sketching their character traits and presenting her own emotional characteristics. She describes her life between two countries and her difficult-to-describe sense of identity as her own particular “légèreté (flightiness), as if crossing a swaying monkey bridge stretched out over the Atlantic.”¹² This psychological to-and-fro between what is one’s own and what is alien, then between one’s own things that have become alien and one’s alienated own things, becomes an integral part of the author’s state of mind, which she refers to in the book in more than one passage:

I am partly the eternal wandering Jew, partly a snob, partly homeless, always looking for a new home after a few years, if not in another country or state, then at least on another street. Wherever I go, I want to come back to New York (...) But when I am in Vilnius, where I also feel like a newcomer, I miss New York. When I am in New York, I miss Vilnius.¹³

This book’s texts are marked by the theme of a relationship with a place and the search for one’s own place and home, which give us an insight into the personal feelings and search for self-identification of, not only the author and her husband, the stage director Jonas Jurašas, but also generally of people who live a global life. No doubt these feelings were shared in the past and continue to be shared by artists and intellectuals ripped up by the roots from their native space, failing to fully acclimatize elsewhere, not fitting in, and forever roaming. The Jurašas family did not get overly involved in American life, but also found the strictures of local emigrant society too narrow. It is no coincidence that when penning portraits of Elena Gaputytė and Marija Gimbutienė, the author reveals their independence of spirit and creativity and the Lithuanian roots of their oeuvre, but at the same time the universal dimension of their creative expression and its statement about existential meaning.

Lietumi prieš saulę (Rain Before the Sun), a book of essays and reflections by the philosopher and translator Dalia Staponkutė, who has lived for more than a decade in Cyprus, was most likely inspired by her experiences and her feelings of personal identity in the context of the interface of languages and cultures. Her individual style stimulates the author to write autobiographically and inventively:

The language becomes God when you feel that you can rely on it, be friends with it, and paint your thoughts with it. The gift of writing visits us latest of all; furthermore, it is only when we try to write in another language that we start to clearly understand, as never before, what exactly we are. We are not given more than we are: the Greek language and the impossibility of attaining perfection in it helped me to define my own Lithuanianness. In this way, a translator was born within me: not a translator who translates books, but one that translates herself into another culture and becomes part of it.¹⁴

The native language, its changes in a foreign environment, the weakening of the link between mother and child due to bilingualism – these topics receive painful analysis in the essays of Staponkutė.

One after another, the authors of books published in recent years have chosen nonfiction, travel, or the journal genre. A great deal has been written about Lithuanian life in exile. The books of journalist Andrius Užkalnis, who lived in the UK for fifteen years, include Anglija: apie tuos žmones ir jų šalį, (England: About Those People and Their Country), 2009, and Prisijaukintoji Anglija, (Getting Used to England), 2010, went through several printings. Čepaitė’s 2011 book, Emigrantės dienoraštis (The Diary of an Emigrant Woman), continues the theme of emigrant life and finding the meaning of “being” in England. These books have become a sort of guide for those preparing to emigrate.

In her 2009 novel, Baltų užtrauktukų tango (The Tango of the White Zippers), Jonuškaitė combines elements of nonfiction, fiction, and journalism. Fragments of genuine emigrant letters are incorporated into the exile experiences of the principal protagonist of the novel, Laima; artistic reality gets intertwined with the specific and familiar reality of Lithuanian exile life. For example, the novel describes her acquaintance with Liūnė Sutema and visits to her house:

The windows of the house are boarded over, the shrubs in the garden have gone wild; it’s a long time since the grass has been mown, and it has children’s toys kicking around in it. I pick up a faded grey baseball and put it in my pocket as a souvenir remnant of a past life. Maybe it was touched by Marius Katiliškis, who built this house.¹⁵

At the end of the book, there are interviews with people from the world of emigrant literature, culture, and the press. Baltų užtrauktukų tango is not a traditional novel; it is constructed on the principal of a collage, with the protagonists being a mixture of imaginary and real people.

The author was not interested in successful people, because they could have been successful anywhere. She wanted to dedicate the book to the majority of emigrants, who run off following a dream of finding paradise, but who are not always successful in this endeavor.¹⁶

In her Emigrantės dienoraštis, Čepaitė uses a journalistic technique to describe the experiences of thousands of Lithuanians living in Great Britain. She particularly presents a lot of detail about the realities of life in London; e.g., the author sarcastically describes the difference between UK electrical outlets and Lithuanian ones, and advises on where the cheapest shopping is. The book is dominated by specific information about the emigrants’ daily life and work as well as descriptions of their dealings with the British and other immigrants. At the end of the book, there is a little glossary that explains regular emigrant jargon such as: babajus (used as a generic term for people from India, Afghanistan, etc., from the Indian word baba, a familar form of address); čikininė (a fast-food chicken shop); karbutseilas (a car boot sale); sitingas (a sitting room). As the literary critic Elena Baliutytė wrote:

Čepaitė’s book, read in one hit, is like a detective novel, but somehow it is not easy to consider it literature in the traditional sense of this word. These texts contain no signal that the author might have literary intentions, that she might be concerned with matters of expression. She is just an intelligent woman writing in a literate way about her own history and the histories of other emigrants that are worth reading for various reasons. They are not challenging to comprehend; the text conveys topical information and satisfies human curiosity.¹⁷

In Lithuania, this book was presented at the 2012 Vilnius Book Fair, and its presentation was accompanied by several interviews with the author in the popular press; the book was reviewed several times and included in the Top Twelve list of the most creative books that is compiled annually by the Lithuanian Institute of Literature and Folklore. As well as describing the practical realities of everyday life abroad, the author writes about differences between the British and Lithuanian experience and particular aspects of dealing with each other; she also deromanticizes her compatriots’ patriotism. It is not by chance that in the first chapter of her book the author recounts a colleague’s dream:

The woman dreamt that she had returned to Lithuania with her family for the holidays and found that the government had decided to close all the borders and not to let anyone leave Lithuania.¹⁸

Describing the world of the emigrants and their links with the homeland, Čepaitė demolishes the stereotype perpetuated in Lithuanian literature of the emigrant suffering from nostalgia. She says that her countrymen:

…are not at all alienated from Lithuania, since they make use of permanently cheap airfares, illegal or quasi-legal highway passenger carriers, and the nonstop back and forth flow of merchandise. We don’t need to establish a new Lithuania here, since we have already transplanted various parts of Šiauliai, Panevėžys, and Plungė to the outskirts of London.¹⁹

The young generation of debuting writers presents a somewhat different exile experience. The emigrant life they portray in their writing is unattractive, and the characters are usually trying to break out of the “ghetto” of the Lithuanian community and, hidden behind a cosmopolitan mask, trying to forsake not only their traditions, but also their ethnic roots. In her 2008 novel, Katinas Temzėje (A Cat In the Thames), Aneta Anra depicts a young girl’s effort to get away: “I so badly wanted to go somewhere, so that everything would change.”²⁰ The protagonist places importance on understanding herself; the maturation of her sense of identity and her search take place in multicultural London. The young protagonist is prickly about her countrymen who eke out a living in London. She wants to get ahead in the intellectual sphere, with dreams of becoming the protégée of a wealthy British aristocrat. Alas, neither she nor her Polish friend succeed in achieving their creative ambitions. In the end, she returns home without having found herself. In Aleksandra Fomina’s 2011 novel, Mes vakar buvome saloje (Yesterday We Were on the Island), the bohemian protagonists go to London to find work. The author portrays the life of homeless people in squats and their daily struggles to survive in an alien environment. However, the younger generation’s view of the world is perhaps best expressed in Grušaitė’s 2010 novel, Neišsipildymas (Lack of Fulfillment). Jūratė Čerškutė calls this book the novel that was lacking and had to be written some day:

It has been written by a young person about the young people that you see and meet every day. It is about young people who were defined by the products they use, whose identity was forged in the blast furnace of mass production and consumerism.²¹

The action of the novel revolves around the love story of Ugnė and Rugilė. One of the threads of the book is a reflection on national identity and the rejection of one’s Lithuanianness. The author declares on the book’s cover: “My story and Ugnė’s too, were quite ‘un-national’, un-Lithuanian, unreal.”²² The action of the novel takes place in London, Paris, and Barcelona. Grušaitė’s characters reject the symbols of their Lithuanian identity while seeking self-realization and indulging in youthful rebelliousness. They attempt to establish a cosmopolitan identity:

I thought about it: maybe the languor that affects all three of us stems from our dark, rainy land, which has engendered so much endless grey. We were foreigners everywhere we went. We rarely talked about Lithuania, we did not buy Lithuanian-style bread, and we didn’t miss our mothers’ meat patties. We carried our background as a secret, because for us it wasn’t so much a question of national identity or geography, but rather some sort of stamp of sadness on the forehead, like an invisible totem. Sometimes it seemed to us that we belonged to some sort of secret society, the members of which all had a built-in self-destruct mechanism.²³

But not a single character succeeds in their constant attempts to hide their Lithuanianness, because no spiritual substitute is found: “We were foreigners both at home and abroad.”²⁴

For a creative artist living abroad, the question of national identity is important at any moment when one is called upon to specify one’s link with tradition and Western culture. In Lithuanian literature, the interface of foreign experiences, globalization, and current challenges is taking on clear forms of expression. In many literary texts they are becoming stereotypes comprehensible to all, simplified models of universal discourse.²⁵

Since 1990, many Lithuanians have emigrated and have lived abroad for longer or shorter periods of time. This experience is evident in Lithuanian prose. Over the last ten years, many prose texts have appeared that reflect the experience of exile. This literature is varied in theme and genre, and it expresses the most important concerns faced by Lithuanians in the wide world: I and the other, the contrast of familiar and foreign, the land of one’s dreams, marriage to a non-Lithuanian, children left behind in Lithuania, and other themes.

In the novels of Papievis and Pukelytė, the protagonists’ escape from the post-Soviet reality that “imprisons” them in the labyrinths of my space/foreign space. Other authors are stimulated by the realities of life abroad into searching for the historical roots of their nation and their broader family and into stressing the importance of their native language. The diaries, essays, and descriptions of the travels of Lithuanian authors have become quite popular; written by journalists and writers, they have become practical guides for emigrants, summarizing the experience of life abroad.
Lithuanian prose written abroad over the past decade is demolishing the model of Lithuanian identity that dominated earlier. This is seen most clearly in the prose of the youngest writers, who portray the less attractive side of emigration, reject nostalgia for their native land, and explore cosmopolitan identities of citizenship in the world.

Notes:
1 Samalavičius, “Svarstymai,” 25.
2 Satkauskytė, Egzilinė (ne)tapatybė, 121.
3 Matulevičiūtė, “Kūryba mesteli.”
4 Papievis, “Sapnai dar lietuviški,” 5.
5 Papievis, Vienos vasaros emigrantai, 28.
6 Ibid., 9.
7 Ibid., 32.
8 Papievis, Eiti, 56.
9 Pukelytė, Prancūziškas romanas, 89.
10 Ibid., 98.
11 Imbrasas, Klajūnas, 15.
12 Jurašienė, Egziliantės užrašai, 8.
13 Ibid., 36.
14 Staponkutė, Lietumi prieš saulę, 20.
15 Jonuškaitė, Baltų užtrauktukų tango, 185.
16 Tamošaitis, Išėjusios laimės ieškoti, 140.
17 Baliutytė, Rašytojai ateina, rašytojai išeina, 102.
18 Čepaitė, Emigrantės dienoraštis, 8.
19 Ibid., 41.
20 Anra, Katinas Temzėje, 7.
21 Čerškutė, “Perviršio kartos neišsipildymų kronika.”
22 Grušaitė, Neišsipildymas, fourth edition.
23 Ibid., 29.
24 Ibid., 111.
25 Baricco, Next, 35.

Baliutytė, Elena. “Rašytojai ateina, rašytojai išeina: kokia mūsų litera-tūros šiandiena?” Metai, 2012, No. 4.

Baricco, Alesandro. Next. Maža knygelė apie globalizaciją ir būsimą pasaulį. Translated by Ana Karpič. Vilnius: Alma littera, 2005.

Jonuškaitė, Birutė. Baltų užtrauktukų tango. Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 2009.

Jurašienė, Aušra Marija. Egziliantės užrašai. Vilnius: Kultūros barai, 2008.

Nation and Narration. Edited by Bhabha, Homi K. London, New York: Routledge, 1994.

_____. “Sapnai dar lietuviški.” Valdas Papievis interviewed by K. Pla-telis and L. Jakimavičius in Literatūra ir menas, January 16, 2004.

Samalavičius, Almantas. “Svarstymai apie stereotipus ir europietiš-kumą,” Kultūros barai. No. 11, 2004.

Satkauskytė, Dalia. “Egzilinė (ne)tapatybė naujausioje lietuvių emi-grantų literatūroje,” Oikos, No. 2(12), 2011.

Tamošaitis, Regimantas. “Išėjusios laimės ieškoti,” Metai, No. 12, 2009.

LITHUANIAN QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF ARTS AND SCIENCES	ISSN 0024-5089 Copyright © 2012 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc. www.lituanus.org
Volume 58, No.4 - Winter 2012 Editor of this issue: Viktorija Skrupskelytė