Hailing from the world's only remaining Grand Duchy, Jean Bürlesk carries the long and storied legacy of … very few people. As a rare Lucilinburhu… As a Lützelbur… As a Lëtzebuer… Being from Luxembourg, it is his task to … It falls upon him to … erm …

He writes stuff. Stories. Ballads. Plays. Mostly plays. One day he will write a novel. Maybe. Probably. Stranger things have happened. He writes in English, in French, in German, in Lëtzeb… in whatever it is people from Luxembourg actually speak. Sometimes he writes in other languages as well. Sometimes he writes in several languages at once. But never more than seven of them. At least not so far.

Apart from writing, he also works as a tour guide in the city of Lucili… you know the one. Occasionally, he does a bit of acting. And he teaches. Storytelling, of course.

He's won a few awards. The Prix d'Encouragement de la Fondation Servais for the manuscript of The Pleasure of Drowning. A Chrysalis Award at the Eurocon in Rijeka in 2020. Some other ones in Luxem… thing. So far, he's never won or even been nominated for a Hugo Award. Which seems particularly unfair, considering Luxem-thing is Hugo Gernsback's country of birth.

The Pleasure of Drowning by Jean Bürlesk

Fairy tales are the stories we tell and re-tell from one generation to the next. Many of them have been around for centuries, some even for millennia. While many other stories have been forgotten, these are the ones that have endured, have been told and retold up to the present day. And with every retelling, these stories have changed, evolved to better meet a new audience's needs and expectations. They have become mirrors of our societies, revealing the things we have changed, consciously and unconsciously, and the things we have not, the things that always lurk right under the surface, hidden in the darkest corners of our souls. Some of the things that wait for us in these stories are truly terrifying, while others are incredibly bizarre. All are a part of who we are.

Many of the stories in this collection start with a simple question, a loose strand that doesn't quite seem to fit. What if Rapunzel's hair never stops growing? What if the Beast likes being the Beast? And how come of all the women in all the realm only Cinderella has feet fine enough to fit into her forgotten shoe? Does she really have the smallest feet in all the land? Is she a child? Is her prince a paedophile? … These are the kind of questions that this collection tries – and generally fails – to answer. You might find these attempts illuminating. Or not. Wildly entertaining. Or not. Mildly to profoundly disturbing. Or not. Should all else fail, they have the virtue of forming a mercifully short collection.

Cover Art: Carolina Cancanilla.

CURATOR'S NOTE

I had the pleasure of meeting the ever-energetic Jean in Luxembourg a while back, which is how I came to learn of this brilliant collection of his stories! I wanted to share it with more readers – and here's my chance! – Lavie Tidhar

 

REVIEWS

  • "The Pleasure of Drowning revisits half-familiar childhood stories that take on grotesque proportions, their logic pushed to macabre conclusions."

    – Rose Edwards, Luxembourg Times

  • "What a weird, delightful little collection of stories. Jean Bürlesk is one to watch out for."

    – Suri on Goodreads

  • "I would recommend you buy this book; read it once. Then keep it nearby for those dark and depressing days when you need cheering up as this book, with its focus on fun (not comedy) where even the grim parts-that aren't actually that grim- can't fail to put a smile on your face. Reading it also kind of makes me want to visit Luxembourg."

    – DW on Amazon

  • "Alas, my lawyers have informed me that I have no grounds for a lawsuit against The Pleasure of Drowning for trespassing awfully close to the title of my own novel The Art of Starving."

    – Sam J. Miller, Nebula- Award-winning author of Blackfish City and Destroy All Monsters
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

'Hair'

My hair is an act of faith.

So Mother told me.

I didn't have much hair, as a child. What little hair I did have was thin and brown and brittle. And soon enough, that was gone as well. Mother is a woman of wisdom and power, but even she couldn't find a remedy to my early calvity. As time passed and my skull stayed bare, Mother grew ever more desperate. She grew so desperate in fact, that, having long since exhausted her list of potions and poultices, and despite her singular lack of dogmatic inclination, she finally turned to a more unlikely source of help: she took to praying.

She prayed to every god and every spirit she could find and, when none of it yielded the desired result, she started praying to the Lord himself. She made a vow to him, a vow so secret and so terrible, she never revealed its content to anyone, not even me. If only I could grow hair, she promised …

Whatever it was she had promised, it must have been deemed an acceptable sacrifice. The fact being that, when Mother performed her daily inspection of my skull the next morn, she thought she felt a light stubble under her fingers, not quite enough to be certain, not yet, but enough to send her heart fluttering in a frenzy.

By the second day, there was no longer room for any doubt: my hair was growing, and it was growing strong and dense and fair. Mother threw a feast that Sunday, and invited anyone who would come. A dozen villages were represented at this my hair-day, and I was given apples and nuts and honey and pies and – best of all – ribbons for my new-grown hair.

That was ten years ago, and my hair hasn't stopped growing since. I have the longest and most beautiful hair in all the land and my suitors are so numerous that Mother had me locked up in a tower. I do not mind much, for the hair takes up all my time anyway, as I need several hours to brush it every day – too much time for me to wish to go out and let the wind destroy all my hard work. Nor do I like to move around too much, for the hair weighs me down and makes my every movement slow. The tower is as good a place as any and far more spacious than Mother's house, spacious enough to accommodate the growth of my hair for months to come.

I do worry, though.

I worry my hair might grow so heavy my neck will snap under the strain. I worry my hair might grow so dense I shall no longer be able to part it and look at the sun. I worry my hair might grow so wild it will strangle me in my sleep. I tried cutting it, but it grew back. I tried tearing it out, but the roots burrowed deep into my skull. The Lord only knows what my hair is going to do next. But I'm scared.