Addressed to an imaginary aunt, these letters from the 1700s, written by a member of Prince Ferenc Rákóczi's retinue in Turkish exile, are the first example of art prose in Hungarian. – Excerpts from a new English edition forthcoming from Corvina Press, Budapest.
A selection of essays by Béla Hamvas, entitled Trees, has been published recently by Editio M, a Hungarian publishing house dedicated to promoting the works of the legendary Hungarian philosopher and writer, both in Hungarian and in foreign languages.
From Iván Sándor’s novel we can learn much about the real world and about the history of Eastern Europe (namely the events of 1956 and 1968, as well as the Budapest of recent times). We learn even more about the metatheses of the creatures in this world – their elective affinities about love and friendship, faith and unfaithfulness, honour and dishonour.
K. dosszié (The K File), a new autobiographical novel written by Imre Kertész, has been published lately by Magveto Publishing. The book is, Kertész says, “uniquely personal”, written with the pronounced purpose of clearing up the misunderstandings that have been surrounding him since he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 2002.
"Three writers invited another thirty, and created a common work of art, in which 33 original voices speak, separately and together. 33 authors speak about desire, passion, intimacy, corporeality, love and violence in 56 pieces of writing." - An interview with the editors.
"Bukovina is everything and nothing. A place of many colors, many nationalities. Barren and fleeing, emptied of content. When you look at it, you see something, but there’s nothing there. Zero, point of origin. The center of the periphery. Central Europe’s unknown center. On the most remote point of the world stands a city."
There are few things as annoying as barely making the train, only to realize that it is the wrong train going in the wrong direction. For Mihály, the hero of Antal Szerb’s Journey by Moonlight, however, such nuisances are inevitable and even necessary as he progresses through his ordeal-like journey in Italy.
"At the time of my second childbirth I had prepared myself: I took in a notebook and a pen, I lay down on the high birth bed, and put the pen and pad next to me, saying I shall write down, I must write down what I feel. But in the event the experience itself was so stormy that, of course, I did not manage to write down anything: but the pen and paper were there. I had done my bit."
"I started to get annoyed by the fact that the melody hijacked me, I could not get free of my own hearing. It is almost as if you had to scratch the original text from underneath this covering layer. You get an attractive thing like a palimpsest, and it hides the thing which could really work for you. "
When I was twenty-one I was baptised, along with C, by full immersion in a West London Baptist Church. It was an act of romantic commitment. My mother was in the congregation. Later, she was to write to a friend in Hungary that C and I emerged out of the water like drowned rats.
The ethics, and indeed very nature, of blogging was of some interest to me. What kind of communication was it? Personal? Public? Semi-public? And if so, what were the most useful analogies or precedents that could determine its manners, its poetic? I began to think of the News section of my website as something like a private newspaper column with limited circulation.