Ervin Lázár is the creator of a genre we may safely call
Central European folk surrealism, which takes on the quality of a
hallucinatory exploration into that part of the soul where beauty, hope,
and yearning live in close proximity with the harsh realities of life.
Esterházy’s talent goes way beyond postmodernist textual plays and is indeed capable of shedding light into the unknown nooks and corners of the human soul, the dwelling-place of trivial yet mysterious things like the relationship of mother and son, the metaphysics of rooting or the freedom of fiction against the tyranny of facts.
In Budapest no literate person can grow up without some sense of the Krúdy mystique that still hovers in the air, and harks back to the latter-day, "peacetime" splendors of the Monarchy that evaporated, along with so very much else, around 1918.
The so-called intellectual elements ended up in my books as
naturally as a folk song would, in the manner of flowers of the field that had no knowledge of “high culture” or “deep philosophy”, and did
not even seek it.
Written poetry is aristocratic by nature, yet it is customary (it behooves us) to call the world we live in democratic. On what authority do I call myself an Odysseus, a king, a priest, a leader, and—well, yes—a poet?