Book Review: The Book of my Lives

 Be ready for waves and waves of incessant despair, bitter residues of the peaceful past, and tragedies of life, embraced by the author. 

The Book of My Lives is a collection of essays written by Aleksandar Hemon in various journals, collections, and books, spanning from The New Yorker to the South-Eastern European Anthology, between 2000 and 2012. They are amended or revised, and then organized in chronological order for the purpose of publishing this book. The narrative is flawless. Super-delicious, well-written, with a very visceral narrative that makes Hemon an outstanding author. In the stories, Hemon is brutally honest, sometimes self-deprecatory, and sometimes (rightfully) the opposite. The emotions expounded are very relatable as they are developed from some humane conditions of life that many people at least partially experience or are familiar with. 

So, in brief, The Book of My Lives, is a catalogue of handpicked landmarks that somehow transforms the author's life from serene household to a war-torn Bosnia and from there catapulted to the US, and by some mysterious way, the wings of tragedy continuously hover over, following him up to the later stages of his journey that is pictured as a middle-class life in Chicago.

As a collection of melancholic, nostalgic, war-derived literature, this is a solid read, and I actually found each essay gripping. On the other hand, as a whole, a well-rounded read,  giving me insight or an overview of a life trajectory, it does not hit the high bar for me. I sought that string connecting the beads across these experiences. I sought that overarching narrative synthesized from the amalgamation of these periods. I couldn't find one. But what did I find? 

In this book, I found a misplaced person feeling for his homeland and following the tragic Balkan war unfolding by the second and disintegrating his hometown of Sarajevo. He somehow manages to cope and finds his second home in Chicago as her parents move to Ontario. The routes to these destinations are not clearly explained. But the author's initial impressions are pretty lackluster. The book gives a dreadful picture of the city. There is no notion that this "soup" provided a neighborhood that was at least nominally dedicated to his origins in Ukraine. Is this picture of poverty and conspicuous crime all that represents the city of Chicago? Or are there miraculous ways that asylum seekers, refugees, immigrants, and all sorts of honest, hard-working outliers may have a shot at a better life and social status? 

If you are looking for a wholesome life experience, you should find it elsewhere in Hemon's bibliography. Here, the lens is focused on misery. Life is probably there, hidden somewhere beneath all the drama. Those are not pertinent to the narrative of this book. Hence, the focus is on selected snapshots. For example, the experiences of living in terror and poverty under a socialist regime (1970s Yugoslavia) give an excellent baseline to dig in and further explore and compare with the wild dynamism of switching to a life in a liberal democracy. The enlightening effect of these observations is particularly felt by those who have trodden these dim immigration pathways. However, it is beyond the scope of this book. These are independent images of scattered POV. 

Instead, everything is lined up for a tour de force of nostalgia. The constraints of life under socialism are now packaged as a nostalgic past and an afflicted youth. The West is also not that welcoming environment to find peace and solace. It's all the machinery of life, an experiment in dullness and melancholy. Again, through the cracks of these essays, people fall in love, people travel back and forth freely across the globe, children are born, and family bonds are kept alive (despite a difficult exile). But again, the focus is on death, on bereavement, and on tragedy.

As a student of human psychology, the opacity of modern human feelings has always puzzled me. There may be one simple explanation, partly in charge, and that is the nature of happiness. The sense of happiness and contentment is a bottomless pursuit. These life experiences reminded me once again how much we are indebted to our past, if we still acknowledge our independent identity and have not tactlessly assimilated into a faceless so-called new home. 

It's very good to read autobiographies, comprehensive and complete ones. In my opinion, what makes the genre valuable is providing a thorough picture of life, from childhood privileges, the temporal luxury of living in safety and security at some periods, to tragic, brutal, unfair affairs imposed upon us. That is worthwhile to read. Otherwise, the author adapts a scattergun approach, which only captures snapshots of dramatic despair and opts for a melancholic narrative (which undoubtedly suits the public palate). 

In summary, if you want to read the well-rounded narrative of a refugee's life (with all the ebbs and flows) this book is obviously not for you. However, if you want to read a neat collection of masterfully-written collages of hardships and emotional strains inspected through a bitter mid-life retrospective spectacles, you will find this book amusing.

Pedram

10/30/2025