Taking up our questions, Gencho Stoev provided us with the following non-standard, synthesized, seething and uninterrupted answer:

Today, my lines and paragraphs will not follow the order of the questions. I will only share the things that well up in my mind, the problems of the writer will follow their genesis and the probability of their future development.
The Bulgarian book remains as deer to me as my homeland. But it is just a part of my literary homeland. I don’t know why, but even as a child I was looking forward to the time when I would be able to leave my home and town. I’ve only just realized that it was among the books in the old cultural center of the town that I was gathering the motivation, experience and strength I would need for that moment.
Books have always been my basic existential problem. They have compensated for the things I have been deprived of by a life restrained by circumstances. I guess I would have performed well in other walks of human activity but before I saw them all (so I could compare them and choose), the first one I stepped on absorbed me for life. The easiest, the most hospitable perhaps? Hardly so; but I cannot make a comparison now – I know nothing else.
Besides, it is thrilling to watch – from a shorter distance – the great shadows of Karavelov, Botev, Vazov, Yovkov, Elin Pelin, Karaliichev… In the same Olympus, though on another track, there walk Gogol, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov… As if farther, nonetheless visible, there drifts Homer (accompanied by the suite of ancient tragedians), together with Shakespeare himself, with Goethe and Balzac – at times they seem to become one with the ancients… Thither are Hemingway and Sholokhov (if this is the author of The Silent Don!) climbing, and many others, whose list I can hardly complete.
I gaze at all of them but when I tell them how much I worship them and how, at the same time, I offer my well-meaning envy as a sacrifice to them, they nod in silence, as if to say, “This is not enough for us, sacrifice yourself, try the power of your pen, your blood, your spirit, if you have them!” Then I recognize that not all of them have always been as happy, loved and elevated as they are now in the writers’ heaven. I recognize that there is also a writers’ hell, here, on the earth, among the living, and that we, today’s writers, are in the boiling cauldron…
The tar in this cauldron is not made just of insoluble moral substances – something that should actually go together with every diligent and penetrating author. No. I live and write in the apartment block of the Bulgarian writers: a nice tall building. But some of my colleagues passed away and their apartments were occupied by strange, unspiritual creatures. Other apartments (whose owners are still alive) were rented to well-to-do people, mainly large businessmen, including foreigners. The impoverished “artists” were evacuated to other, cheaper, apartments and now they live by the rent.
Naturally, all newcomers have higher requirements, especially for large drawing rooms. So the writers’ block is constantly resounding with the roar of drills, crews are demolishing or moving walls. As the spring set in, the attack was resumed, the offensive is in its heat, the air is vibrating with compression, and I am tapping away on my typewriter, my ears wadded with something I found in the drugstore. At first sight, the problems is purely one of life. But it is not. Here, without meaning to, I touch upon some of the neglected questions.
Similar and even more fateful repairs are made in the minds of those who have to take and pass on the torch of fine letters. And in the minds of their readers. Will fineness improve if it turns into files of the otherwise wonderful creation, Internet?
Of course, mankind will survive in the new letterless era but it will also have undergone a major repair. Mutation. As is evident, my optimism is boundless.
It even swells when I think I forgot to mention Ivo Andric in the beginning. He too was great and he has many heirs today. Out of love for him, they parceled out his skin and it is now drying in yards and attics.
My respects to those who are now arguing with me.