Whatever these constructions call themselves, reading Gospodinov’s fiction is like moving through a single domed dwelling: the mind of the maker. Take, for instance, two brief, lovely passages from the new book. (Gospodinov has been fortunate to have the same sensitive English translator, Angela Rodel, for his past three novels.) “My father was a sort of Atlas, holding the past on his shoulders,” the unnamed narrator says. “Now that he is gone, I can sense that whole past cracking, quietly collapsing in on me, burying me in all its afternoons. The quietly collapsing afternoons of childhood. And there is no one I can call to for help.” As he writes these words, “a heavy, constricting sorrow washes over me once again. It’s three in the afternoon. Afternoons will no longer be the same.”