Dezső Kosztolányi (1885–1936)

Nem vagyok Kosztolányi barátja. A versei talán csak nem az én ízlésemhez passzolók, a műfordításai viszont… írtam már máshol is, és tudom én, hogy akkor más volt a szokás, még az elvárás is, sokkal inkább a saját stílusukra formálhatták az eredetiket (azért hála az égnek, volt, aki ellen tudott állni ennek), amit könnyű elnézni egy Karinthy-féle Micimackónak, de megbocsáthatatlan, amikor K. Dezső Blake elementáris erejű, vad tigriséből szelíd, szépséges, pamutgombolyaggal játszó kiscicát csinál. Vagy Évike Aliz kalandjaiból kihagyja a poénokat.

Ezután sem leszek a barátja, de azért ez nem rossz, egyáltalán. Azt hiszem, ha gimis koromban olvasom, maradéktalanul tetszett volna. Így, a fentiek ismeretében passzív-agresszív nekem ajándékozva vannak fenntartásaim (ugyanitt: kedves mind, ne csináljunk ebből rendszert, még ha el is ismerem, hogy mindkét esetben érdemes volt legyőzni az ellenállásom :P).

Az elején rögtön kellemes meglepetést okozott a „vastag-zöld szójáték” kifejezés, ha picit talán sok is volt előtte a plusz két hasonló. Aztán majdnem belefulladtam a lombcukrozásba, és később is azért vártam vonatútja végét, nehogy még egyszer nekiálljon leírni az éjszakát. Ugyanakkor a későbbi, rövid fejezetekben kifejezetten szórakoztató, kerek, eredeti sztorikat olvashattam, csattanóstul, mindenestül (a bolgár kalauz, a pesti éjszakában ökörködő barátok, az elegáns szálloda, a különböző módokon terhére lévő barátok, megmentők és megmentettek). Bírtam a humorát, különösen, amikor beszólt a műfordítóra, illetve a lírai költőkre… khm, khm… De tényleg, vicces fiú volt, na. Az alvó elnökös poént mondjuk túlnyújtotta szerintem, azt marhára untam egy idő után, de a könyv végén elégedetten nyugtáztam, hogy ezt is letudtam a főváros tömegközlekedési kultúrája nem sokat fejlődött az elmúlt 85 évben, a záró fejezet abszolút aktuális maradt. Jó, hát az emberek nem változtak, és azért ezeket nagyon eltalálta. Ó, és nem is tudom, mikor láttam utoljára ilyen jó befejezést.… (mehr)

This compact, subtly playful novel by Hungarian critic and poet Dezső Kosztolányi (1885-1936) chronicles the uneventful lives of the Vajkay family, who reside in a parochial outpost called Sárszeg, somewhere within the borders of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. We meet Akos Vajkay and his wife (the narrator usually refers to them as Mother and Father) as the 19th Century is winding down. It’s September 1, and they are packing because their daughter, nicknamed Skylark (we never learn her real name), is leaving for a week to visit her aunt and uncle in Tarkö, on the Hungarian plain. Akos is retired and spends his days researching heraldry and lineages. His wife keeps house. But it seems the presiding force within the Vajkay home is Skylark, who, at thirty-five, unattached with no prospects, well versed in household chores, is both a hopeless burden and a constant focus of doting attention for her parents. Once Skylark has left them standing on the station platform, “waving their little handkerchiefs” as her train recedes from view, the parents are bereft. Skylark too, on board the train, unaccustomed to being on her own without distractions, succumbs to the loneliness and despair that constantly plagues her. But it turns out all is not lost. In their daughter’s absence, Akos and his wife are free to do as they please. They dine out at the best restaurant in town. They attend the theatre. Akos reconnects with a jolly crowd of revelers called the Panthers, with whom he used to socialize but withdrew from after marrying and becoming a father. His wife also enjoys the week emancipated from the daughter’s sobering presence, neglecting the housework, eating chocolate, and playing the piano, which we are told she hasn’t touched in many years. Akos had renounced alcohol and gambling but, encouraged by his friends to throw off the shackles of sobriety, he again takes up the bottle and the cards, and in the small hours of Friday morning returns home uproariously drunk with his winnings overflowing his pockets. It is then, while in the throes of inebriation, that Akos voices to his wife the grim truth of which they are painfully aware but have avoided facing: that their daughter is irredeemably ugly and will never find a husband. For Skylark too, after a good cry on the train, the week is pleasing. Every day is full. In a letter sent while on holiday she regales her parents with a litany of the activities she and her relatives have got up to. Then the week is over. Skylark returns home. Her parents are genuinely ecstatic and relieved to have her back where she belongs, safe in the nest. Life for the Vajkay family returns to normal. It is perhaps a cloistered, unremarkable life, buttoned-down and filled with familiar ritual, in some respects disappointing, but comfortable. The ironies here are subtle, the humour subdued. Kosztolányi never mocks his characters, who take their amusements where they can find them. He simply lets them be. In Skylark, Kosztolányi is sketching a way of life that is neither tragic nor triumphant and in so doing has written a moving and memorable novel.… (mehr)

Here's what I wrote in 2011 about this read: "Third by this author in two months; think I'm catching on now. Like, Kornel Esti stories reflects Hungary both pre and post WWI; but back to Anna . . . Hungarian bourgeoise trying to cope in a rapidly changing, post WWI state and culture drive a servant to murder. We don't really understand Anna too well (who saw that murder coming?!), but society was completely quick to convict her in the court of public opinion and then formally jail her. The doctor saw her as a fellow human and the crime of her employers to de-humanize her. And then there's the story of the worthless nehpew Janczi (of course did see his abuse of Anna coming from the long way off!)"… (mehr)