History, Hungary, & István Tamás

One of the lovely things about traveling in Europe (which for me has thus far been limited to one trip to Germany and three trips to Ireland) is the way that the past isn't even past. You drive down a road and you see something that has been there for a thousand years . . . maybe two thousand years. Maybe more. (I tried to find out how old the Templebryan Stone Circle--which I visited near Clonakilty, Ireland--was, but couldn't come up with anything. But I'm guessing that two thousand years is low-balling it.) And there's just not much of that going on around here in North America.

This morning I read this paragraph in The Students of Spalato:

"We climbed the hill to the Fortress of Clissa. This eagle's nest ruled over a region of steep cliffs, valleys and rock slides and was the haven where King Bela of Hungary and his two daughters had taken refuge when they fled from the Tartars in 1242. In the valley, where the warriors of Ghengis Khan had ridden wildly through on their ponies, a modern town with smoking chimneys now spread out."

And this was after a section where the narrator talked about seeing a Roman gravestone by the side of the road.

Can you imagine growing up in an environment like that? An environment wherein everything is not of the moment, disposable, rootless? How would that affect one's outlook on life? Wouldn't there be a closer bond with the place which would make it harder to be disrespectful to the environment, which would make it more difficult to feel isolated and alienated, which would make it easier to feel that you had a place in the world?

I can't help but think so. 

Maybe that's why I feel such a deep longing to return to Baltimore, Ireland. Or to visit Budapest. I'm thinking pretty seriously about doing both of those things in 2018. I don't know if I can afford it, but I also don't know if I can afford not to.

ANYway, I'm on page 138 of The Students of Spalato now, and I have decided that I definitely need more István Tamás in my life. There's nothing more in either of the university libraries here, but I've found his Sergeant Nikola: A Novel of the Chetnik Brigades on Amazon (and a couple of other sites as well) for a reasonable price,  and there's an old issue of Story magazine with one of his short stories, but it looks like that is it. Which makes me sad. The further I go into this Hungarian Writers cave, the more I see how ill tended it has been with respect to an English reading audience. If I'd known this when I was 20, I'd have learned Hungarian and gotten busy. Of course, I could do that now, couldn't I? Hmmm. About, my brain.

Hey, do you think anybody'd be down for a Go Fund Me type thing for translating forgotten Hungarian literature? Shit, I'd be there in a fucking heartbeat.

Hungarian Rhapsody

And I have been listening to some Bartók . . . . 

I also ate at the Budapest Cafe and Restaurant when I was in New York City with Jacqueline and Joe last week.

And I found out that László Krasznahorkai had been in the same area that I was in when he wrote The Manhattan Project. For all I know, he was still there when we were . . . but I didn't see him.

Alas. 

Another Hungarian Novel

"Just be careful not to do anyone an injustce," he said quietly but warmly. "We aren't going to foster hate. There is sufficient hate abroad in the world already."

The Students of Spalato 
by Istvan Tamas

Best Omelette Story EVer

I've been on a Dezső Kosztolányi kick for the past 5 weeks or so--ever since I happened upon Skylark in a bookstore in Burlington (Vermont) whilst looking to see if they had any László Krasznahorkai in stock. (Which was a strange thing for me to do, actually, since I've already read all of the László Krasznahorkai books that have been translated into English, but hope springs eternal in the book nerd's breast.) And I am currently reading the last novel available in English, Nero, the Bloody Poet. But whilst searching I found out that there was a book published by Oxford University Press in 1967, Hungarian Short Stories, which contained a piece by Mr. Kosztolányi, and, fortunately, the University of Louisville library had a copy of it which I picked up today.

The Kosztolányi story is "Omelette á Woburn," and I just finished reading it a moment ago. And I just have to say that (1) it was delightful to see that it was another Kornél Esti story * and (2) it was very odd (the plot: Dezső Kosztolányi eats breakfast) and (3) I am pretty sure that it was the best omelette story I've ever read.

Which gives me an idea. I would like to do an anthology with really odd "award" designations. Like Best Omelette Story. Or maybe even better, Best Egg for Breakfast Story, Omelette, which would leave things open for a Soft-Boiled Egg (etc.) designation. I am pretty sure that I could come up with a couple of dozen such categories. Best Haircut Story. (That would go to Yukio Mishima for a section of Confessions of a Mask, if memory serves.) Yeah. 

Man, I've got a lot of things to do before I die.


* Kornél Esti was the protagonist of the eponymous novel by Dezső Kosztolányi . . . which might could be my favorite of his works, but all of them have been so good that I'm not sure I can even make that call.

THE MANHATTAN PROJECT by László Krasznahorkai

I regularly put "László Krasznahorkai" into the search box on the Amazon website since I'm so anxious to keep up with Mr. Krasznahorkai's work . . . and so I had some pretty good advance notice that The Manhattan Project would be coming out. Which was, of course, very exciting . . . but with some reservations. For one thing, it was going to be an expensive book: list price $40, and only a 5% discount via Amazon. For another thing, it was listed as being only 96 pages long. For one more thing, it was to be published by Sylph Editions, and while they may well be fine people, I have not been happy with the previous books I have purchased from them: "The Bill" & "Animalinside," both of which were Krasznahorkai books, and both of which were very short (32 and 40 pages, respectively) and pretty expensive (around $14 each, as I recall), and they looked like they were just cheap little things . . . not fancy dancy at all.

So I didn't immediately put The Manhattan Project into my Amazon cart. I did start looking at the LFPL website regularly, though, hoping that they would order a copy and I could latch onto it before the queue formed. When the dice failed to appear month after month, I sent an interlibrary loan request in. They'd come through for me on some other pretty rare stuff, so I had high hopes. But then I got this email:

..


So! Apples! Them! Like!!!

And I picked that baby up the other day and read it imdamnmediately.

And it was lovely, of course. It's László, you know. And not only did I enjoy his ruminations on Herman Melville (etcetera), but it also made me want to go back and re-read all of his other books (unfortunately it's not a huge pile, but it looks like New Directions is slowly translating the rest of his stuff into English, so more is on the way).

But I have to say that I'm glad that I didn't buy it.

For one thing, that 96 page length? Like uh-uh. This book is packed with pictures. And there are several pages that have a single line of text. All told, you get about 21 pages of László Krasznahorkai's words. And as much as I love him, $40 is way too much to pay for that.

So thanks, LFPL. What would I do without you?