When renowned film director Péter Gárdos wrote the story, he intended it as a film script, but eventually he made it into a novel. “Fever at Dawn,” the love story of two Holocaust survivors―the author’s parents―has ever since sold in more than 20 territories.
In prose, especially fiction, Arte Povera is a tough style to sell. Iván Mándy’s late work, quintessentialized by the novella Left Behind, shares qualities with not only Arte Povera but also with the beatup Baluch nomad prayer rug you hang on your wall after giving it a good wash and overcasting its edges with brown wool. Treasures found in the dust, dusted off, begin to shine in the thoughtful beholder’s eye.
I was always fascinated by the legends of Budapest – this city is my permanent muse. However traumatized and injured it is, however moody its inhabitants are these days, I love Budapest dearly, and I think it would be impossible for me to ever leave it.
"I know, Lord, that to think of you is cheek, / and still worse, to address you when I speak, / as if my voice were what you're yearning for. / There was a time, if you'd struck me with lightning, / I'd have accepted it, thought it the right thing. / Now I've made you my co-conspirator."
Everybody who knows something about football (and that’s about two billion people) knows that Hungarian football is dead. It didn’t die just now—its condition gradually deteriorated, and in the end it didn’t even recognize itself in the hospital—but on this day it has been pronounced clinically dead.