A man coughs and looks about with disgust and hatred. There's a man in a dress smoking, he thinks, I guess. I hate myself. I'm tired of hating myself. I'm furious for being tired of hating myself. One, two, three, four, five, eight, seventeen heartbeats. – An excerpt from Incognito by Tibor Noé Kiss.
In common with most British schoolchildren, I didn't receive much grounding in Hungarian literature. Even when, in my teenage years, I started exploring the literature of other (and in those days Hungary was particularly 'other') European cultures, Hungary was conspicuous by its absence.
In his review, Gergely Angyalosi claims that "[y]ou don't need to be exceptionally insightful to realize that those readers who are willing to immerse themselves in the world of Parti Nagy's most recent book should expect to experience a shift in their attitudes towards their mother tongue."
"I think you have to be good at forgetting - it is part of normal life. Writers, on the other hand, have a different job description, if any. A writer cannot really afford to forget in the way which is necessary for other people for a healthy life. This makes life slightly more difficult, but it is our own fault - nobody asked us to be writers. "