My father was a gardener. Now he is a garden. A man sits by his father''s bedside and watches him die. Watches as his past begins to crack, leaving him buried in all its afternoons. The quietly collapsing afternoons of childhood. Because the end of our fathers is the end of a world. From the winner of the International Booker Prize, comes a novel about a father and a son, about the last month of a man''s life, and the stories that make up a life.

Autorentext

Georgi Gospodinov

Klappentext

'Exquisitely tender' Observer
'Vital and valuable' Financial Times
'Crystal clear prose' Olga Tokarczuk

Through long winter mornings in Bulgaria, a man sits by the bedside of his elderly father.

His father, who created and left­ behind a garden, blooming from a barren village yard: peonies and potatoes, roses and cherry trees. His father, without whom the man begins to quietly crack. Because the end of our fathers is the end of a world.

From the winner of the International Booker Prize comes a novel about a father, a son and an orphaned garden, interweaving the botany of sorrow, the consolations of storytelling and the arrival of the first tulips of spring.

Translated by Angela Rodel