Novo Goražde // Print is Dead

© John Bills

Presumably, I will one day stop writing about walking in a straight line. Unfortunately for you, intrepid reader, that day is not today. I left the hotel in Goražde and headed east, my route made simple by the existence of a promenade along the Drina. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and let the river do the rest.

So that is what I did. Left, right, left, right. You know how to walk. You don’t need me to describe in detail the most basic of human skeletal achievements.

But left, right, left, right, for four kilometres, give or take a metre. The path was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional fisherman, although the grizzled men waiting patiently on the banks of the Drina seemed more interested in the silence than the catch. Isn’t that how fishing is? It isn’t about what you pull out of the river. It is about what you pull out of yourself.

Jesus wept, John, get over yourself. You were walking along a path from a town to a village and passed some old dudes fishing. There’s no need to try and dress it up as anything other than that. Don’t put lipstick on a pig.

© John Bills

The walk was nowhere near as aimless as this introduction. I was heading towards a small village (is there any other kind?) called Sopotnica, located in the neighbouring municipality of Novo Goražde, although a small snippet remains in Goražde. What to say about Sopotnica? Fewer than 500 people live there. That is all I’ve got.

There is a church in the village that is of particular interest. I do this matryoshka thing often, you must be used to it now. I ostensibly use it as a device to accentuate word counts. If that offends you, I apologise. Anyway, church, the Church of St George, to be exact. A Serbian Orthodox Church, dating back to the 15th century. Simple in design, although I’d argue that anything more extravagant than simplicity is an affront to the very idea of faith. Faith is intimate, personal, largely private. Ostentatious, it is not.

I didn’t enter the church (I don’t, more often than not), but did allow myself a small wander around the grounds. A cemetery sat behind, an eternal resting place for souls that hummed quietly with contentment. Sure, that low hum was often distorted by the bellowing of cars heading down the road, but life isn’t perfect, even when it is over.

But we open the church doll and find the real reason for this four-kilometre walk. After considering the graves of people I would never know, I exchanged pleasantries with what I can only describe as a member of the church’s staff. I don’t have the linguistic catalogue to properly describe men who work in religious structures. He was a man, he was friendly, he asked if I wanted a coffee or water (I went for water), we had a pleasant conversation. That conversation was about the first printing house on the territory of what is today Bosnia and Herzegovina.

© John Bills

The printing press in question was established in 1519, 65 years after the church was built. It was the brainchild of one Božidar Goraždanin, a merchant from these parts (hence the name, although he was also known as Božidar Ljubavić). Božidar was away on business, as merchants tend to be, and one particular business trip to Venice in 1495 opened his eyes to the magic of print. He eagerly picked up as much information as he could, ostensibly some of it in the form of printed brochures, I’m sure, before returning home with plans and enthusiasm in equal measure. Sure, he probably had to deal with some naysayers telling him that print is dead and digital media is the future, but what do those idiots know? You can’t smell an eBook, dork. You can’t line your shelves with eBooks. How will people know how intelligent you are when they come for dinner or when you are interviewed on television?

Go deep enough into any matryoshka, and only bitterness will be found.

But yes, Božidar. In 1518, he sent his sons (Đurađ and Teodor, for the record) to Venice with clear instructions; learn all you can about printing, and get something set up. They did just that, not wanting to disappoint father and whatnot, setting up what eventually became known as the Goražde Printing House in 1519. It wasn’t called that initially, obviously, but the press was soon moved back to Goražde and thus became known as such. Đurađ died in Venice, which is a shame for him, but such is life.

© John Bills

The Goražde Printing House wasn’t exactly prolific, but this was the early 16th century, so maybe keep your modern-day “wake up at 4am, have a cold shower and meditate” social media nonsense to yourself. First up was a Hieratikon, essentially a priest’s service book, printed in July 1519. This was followed by a psalter (a book of psalms) in 1521 and a small euchologion (another service book, although don’t shout if I’m wrong) in 1523. The psalter was the biggest, but this isn’t a pissing contest. This is printing in the 16th century.

The beginning of printing on the territory of modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina, no less. Another printing house didn’t show up on these parts until 1866 (Sopron’s Printing House in Sarajevo). Yes, that means Božidar Goraždanin was 347 years ahead of his time. Print isn’t dead, people.

Alas, the original press no longer resides at the church in Sopotnica. It ended up in Wallachia, of all places. A replica sits inside the function building by the church, ready and waiting to be photographed by Welshmen. What point is there in photographing a replica? Well, silly man, what point is there in photographing things full stop?

I left the church and returned to the promenade, walking the 4km back to Goražde. Left, right, left, right. The fishermen hadn’t moved.