Zsigmond Móricz's Gold in the Mud is a novel that does things with words; it is a novel which deploys an inexorable naturalism and a typifying exaggeration of its characters to express a clear message – serfdom is paralyzing for the aspirational and all-devouring for the ordinary.
Eminent translator of Hungarian literature Peter Zollman died on Tuesday. Zollman did much to introduce Hungarian poetry to a wider readership through his renditions into English of many hundreds of poems by classic and contemporary Hungarian poets, with a high fidelity to form and to content.
In this fast-flowing tale, we are whisked back in time to the magical beginnings of the village, back to Adam and Eve’s very age of innocence. Slowly we realise that time may sprint ahead, but the human heart and soul can’t keep pace.
Oh, those late harvests! There were three starts to the school year: the first time at the beginning of September but a few days later the whole school would be working on the vintage, then it would be lessons again, but then at the end of October we would pick the late-ripened Aszú grapes, and afterwards, sadly, it would be school again.
Diving deep into the traumatic past of the largest multiethnic city in the province of Vojvodina (today part of Serbia), the book gives a remarkable account of how the fragile hopes for peaceful coexistence are shattered by the violent waves of history.
A new translation of the novel that won Hungary's Big Read survey was launched last week at the Istanbul Book Fair. A story of patriotic heroism and romance, Géza Gárdonyi's novel recounts the improbable victory of the defenders of the fortress of Eger.
There are only instants, got it? Instants, instants counted by telephone companies. You can’t let a single instant pass without saying yes. If you start thinking the whole thing’s damned. Nothing matters but that it should cost money. If you cost money, you exist.
Péter Hajnóczy's recently discovered book follows the stories of ordinary people who got caught up in the net of the corrupt mental institutions of socialist Hungary where there was no one to protect the patients and from where there was no escape.
Nowadays things have got to a point where authors who cannot perform something special are not even invited to events anymore. Should writers be performing artists as well, or is it enough if they write good books, poet-novelist Orsolya Karafiáth asks.