Lena Gorelik is a German writer. She was born in 1981 in St. Petersburg. In 1992 she came to Germany with her Russian-Jewish family as a “Kontingentfluchtling” (quota refugee). Lena Gorelik ist eine deutsche Schriftstellerin. Geboren wurde sie 1981 in Petersburg und kam 1992 mit ihrer russisch-jüdischen Familie als Kontingentflüchtling nach Deutschland. Participant of the European Literature Days 2015. Teilnehmerin der Europäischen Literaturtage 2015.
Lena Gorelik is a German writer. She was born in 1981 in St. Petersburg. In 1992 she came to Germany with her Russian-Jewish family as a “Kontingentfluchtling” (quota refugee).
Lena Gorelik ist eine deutsche Schriftstellerin. Geboren wurde sie 1981 in Petersburg und kam 1992 mit ihrer russisch-jüdischen Familie als Kontingentflüchtling nach Deutschland.
Participant of the European Literature Days 2015.
Teilnehmerin der Europäischen Literaturtage 2015.
I am in love. Firstly, I’m in love with Alia, then with Uncle Cemal and later with Anton; I’m in love with Istanbul anyway, and I’m in love with Sasha Marianna Salzmann’s language – with individual sentences, and I’m in love with everyone plus everything that, taken together, results in more than a story. I’m not somebody who falls in love quickly...
When you read enthralling books, there is always this moment when the novel is no longer just a novel. Take for example reading on a train: you look up in amazement to notice that you just missed the stop where you should have alighted. Not because...
Some children’s books are not children’s books, because they are not intended as books for children. They’re books for bookworms and those who love everything...
I was sitting on the sofa chatting to two friends about books – those I’ve read and forgotten, and those I have to read and forget; about phrases that would stand the test of time, and stories that had become my own; about pages that were torturously waded through like walking through deep snow in winter, and memories that were still a vague feeling. Book titles appeared, mingled with front cover pictures, and the letters of the writers’ names illicitly changed the order. One of us was holding her mobile phone in her hand; Amazon was helping out. I winced.
For the first novel that I wrote, they loved me – slightly for the novel and slightly for my story. I was twenty-three. I first arrived in Germany when I was eleven and I couldn’t speak a word of this language. Now I wrote a novel about an eleven-year-old girl who arrives in Germany without speaking a word of this language. They liked the story. And the novel was naturally not based on my own story.
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