For Eastern Europe is, despite all its misery and hopelessness, a radient, inspiring, enspiriting landscape, together with Chernobil if you like – one whose magic is impossible to escape. Repellent as it is in its violent, raw and also absurd internal relations and its immorality, these very same qualities captivate us and make it impossible to leave. This is an ambivalent state, and resolution seems forthcoming only through fantasy, a world of hovering visions.
The most primal principle of life is theatrical: the jellyfish in the fairylike-fatal underworld of the sea, the coconut periwigs in the Gothic fan-towers of palms, the fetid head of an embryo at the end of the umbilical cord, jasmine, horseradish, sicknesses: these are all theatrical, colorful, simulating and subterfuges. Not lies, just masks, mimics. That is what history is too; that is the darkest instinct of life. That and art. The darkest and also the loneliest.
Name? Hungarian history. Nationality? Hungarian, he screamed, and it sounded as if hundreds of virgin cadets were swearing in. Could you say it a bit less loudly, I ask him. So he whispers like a dying person: Hungarian. Then I say, couldn’t you just say it naturally? Like, Hungarian. But that’s too difficult. To be natural. To pretend that it doesn’t hurt, that it doesn’t vex; that it isn’t annoying, isn’t too tight. Hungarian. That’s what there is. And that’s enough. Too much even. Too little.