Whether the term "migrant literature" is justified in its existence is a question that is, hm, existential. Sasa Stanisic may not think it is, but whatever the theoretical basis, DO READ this book, please! Even if you think you've read about all the semi-autobiographical coming-of-age tales sparkling with magic realism, pop-culture, wayward tragicomedy and lyrical interludes you can take, read it. In the author's adopted home country of Germany, it's a much publicized fact that he came as a refugee from Visegrad, Bosnia-Hercegovina (engraved in literature by 1961 Nobel Prize Winner Ivo Andric) at age 14 without speaking a word of German but started publishing to great success years ago and pulled off this poetic, inventive masterpiece when he was all of twice that age.
Anthea Bell's translation is certainly competent, though occasionally she doesn't quite hit the offbeat tone. But, in fairness, that's tough to do. Even in the original there are chapters where it takes pages to grasp what's going on, and I strongly hope that readers will apply some patience where necessary, because it will be rewarded. The most poignant example is the tour-de-force chapter (too long to quote) between pages 256 and 276 about a soccer game between warring factions turned bloody, which is based on a true event.
So why should American readers care about mental pole vaults on a part of the world with rituals, wars and sports they may not understand? Because the book makes a mark. Clever? For sure. Think Jonathan Safran Foer getting drunk with Gary Shteyngart, and I said this before I saw that the latter threw in his praise on the back flap. Biased reviewer? Maybe, though only to the extent that I hold writers whose vita bears any resemblance to mine to a higher standard. But find out for yourself.