"None of the hysterics and blue funk whether my water’s gonna hold out, and with the groom whispering, even at the church door, you better say no, you bra buster bitch, if you value your life. None of that, love, no! They’re standing there like a pair of lovebirds, all blatant marzipan head to foot, and the three of them weighing in at a hundred pounds if one, cross my heart and hope to die."
In his study on 17th century Flemish painting, Zbigniew Herbert was surprised to find that while contemporary masters of a good reputation tried their luck abroad, the truly great, such as Vermeer, Hals or Rembrandt, never crossed the Alps. In fact, they never ventured as far as the nearest country.
László Krasznahorkai is not a fashionable writer. He is marching directly against what the age is about: that literature should become part of the entertainment industry. He is failing to adapt smoothly to what is going on. This art is powerfully pitched against the intention to skim through life laughing or just sticking it out as best you can without taking any particular risk.
Satan Tango is a novel about trust and its betrayal in many forms. The message is bleak: anyone who invests trust and hope in anything or anyone is almost bound to be disappointed and can only blame themselves for giving that trust and hope in the first place. There is certainly no redemption or transcendence to be had in this world.
"This was a pledge we had made together. We knew very well that we could not have children. If we did, we would expose ourselves to the regime. And this was a generation which did not want to get involved in a phoney game." – Magda Szabó (89) talks to writer János Háy.
Attila Balogh remarked in a recent interview that he lives in three Hells: disability, Gypsiness, and poetry. He went on to say that it is only the inferno of poetry he cannot bear. His work is certainly a journey beyond and under the edges of the known world where we never dare arrive at the center.
Everybody who knows something about football (and that’s about two billion people) knows that Hungarian football is dead. It didn’t die just now—its condition gradually deteriorated, and in the end it didn’t even recognize itself in the hospital—but on this day it has been pronounced clinically dead.
An anthology of well-written, witty and self-critical pieces, reviving National Stereotypes in tasteful, if not always PC humour, written by young Hungarian academics, and now translated by Hungarian-American translator Paul Olchváry.
...there is one form of art that cannot become worn, that goes beyond everyday novelty, innovation. And this – in its content, the experience, its formulation, its captivating betrayal – is death. (...) It says something new to everyone, something which he has not yet come across. And this is the multiple gigabyte novelty. Unrivalled avant-garde itself.
After a certain number of performances, a production takes on a life of its own, and the critic is unable to review it as an isolated night of entertainment. It has become a continuum, an institution, evolving over time as a living creature would. Such is the case with Zoltán Egressy's two plays.