For Eastern Europe is, despite all its misery and hopelessness, a radiant, 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.
It would be superb if in the process of writing, going from one word to the next, from one sentence to the next, there was some way that, like the beam of a flashlight, we could light up our way for and thus catch in the act precisely what is becoming what it does become from being caught in the act.
The natural need of childhood is freedom. And today’s children are virtually forced into a cage. The natural need of adulthood is life. And today’s adults are either hardly alive, or live to the detriment of themselves or others, on hidden paths. The natural need of old age is tranquillity. And today’s elderly want freedom and life even on the brink of the grave, for their earlier needs were left unsatisfied.
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.