At last here is someone who, instead of musing over the wonders of Berlin, London and New York, takes the trouble to visit godforsaken parts of Eastern Europe such as Bukovina, Galicia or Backa – places in Romania, Ukraine or Serbia. The tattered jewel box rather than the glamorous one.
In his new novel Imre Oravecz tells the story of a Hungarian immigrant family in America at the end of the 19th century. We talked to the writer about the genesis of the novel, about how he left Hungary three times, and why he always came back.
In the end just a single figure was still paddling around in the
gleaming water. It was a handsome man, elegant as a Venetian amoroso: a
haughty profile, sternly gazing fiery eyes, a dark green silk cravat
round his neck—those were what were caressed by fading light. Around him
the fabulous landscape: sky, water, clouds, mundane visual delights...