A poet has no private life to speak of. He uses his feelings, which then, like acids, release meanings from his own and from others’ bodies, filtering out the essential materials from which he creates his poems, volatile non-existent objects. And then from all of that, something that reminds one of life.
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.