Poetic

On the occasion of the Day of Poetry, I invite the dear listener on an adventure. Let’s imagine what Attila József’s birthday might be like in the tavern of the afterlife. Let’s let loose a philosopher and poet there, whose philosophy is spoiled poetry and whose poetry is spoiled philosophy, let him be an annoying character, perhaps he’ll provoke some answers. Let’s call our hero János Heidegger. Let’s give him a daimon to guide him, so he doesn’t fumble in that world of light, let the afterlife be made entirely of light, let “Three Ravens” blaze in letters of light on the light wall of one of the light houses in the light world, because Abbázia or Japan wouldn’t be fitting for the afterlife, even if AJ sat on those terraces, let’s keep the Three Ravens, this is where we enter after Ady.

In the middle of the light room stands a large cake, with a sea of candles on top. János Heidegger is surprised to see them randomly going out and lighting up. Every time a candle lights up, a Hungarian poet is born, explains the daimon, and for every one that goes out, someone lays down their lute, may they rest in peace. The Three Ravens is awash with light, on the sides, large torches illuminate the walls, it’s not always like this, the daimon winks, the torches get their strength when poems are read down in the shadow world, and for most of the year they just flicker, but there’s one day when this tavern shines so brightly that even God himself looks over here in great wonder.

János Heidegger just waves his hand, ‘What do these Hungarians know?’ he snorts, ‘Only the Ancient Greek and German languages are suitable for uncovering the unconcealed.’

In the room, words were choked, voices caught. Everyone glared at János Heidegger.

‘Now, listen here, my little friend,’ G.B. Shaw, who had begged his way into every Hungarian party, now sitting around a table with Asimov and Einstein, rose from a light armchair. ‘I can boldly declare that after studying the Hungarian language for years, I’ve become convinced that if Hungarian had been my mother tongue, my life’s work would have been much more valuable. Simply because in this strange language, swollen with ancient power, one can describe tiny differences, the secret vibrations of emotions, much more precisely. ‘Indeed,’ Kosztolányi nodded from his position by the counter, ‘The fact that my mother tongue is Hungarian, and I speak, think and write in Hungarian, is the greatest event of my life, to which nothing compares.’ Krúdy looked up from his plate: ‘The Hungarian language was born from the singing of pagan women. The miracle stag shook off the forest’s jewels, the red berries, with its antlers to turn them into beautiful Hungarian words,’ he said.

‘A nation lives in its language,’ the bartender chimed in, to which everyone looked at him with furrowed brows.

János Heidegger, however, clung to the bartender’s comment, ‘Yes, innkeeper, I wanted to say something similar: language is the house of being, in which man dwells rhetorically.’ ’What’s that?’ the bartender retorted. Heidegger now felt in his element, almost reciting ‘thinking builds the house of being, which, as the fixture of being, always sequentially fits the essence of man into dwelling in the truth of being.’ ‘I don’t understand that,’ the bartender shook his head. Kosztolányi turned back and placed his empty glass in front of the bartender: ‘Only in my mother tongue can I truly be myself,’ he said. ‘From its profound depths well up the unconscious screams, the poems. Here I forget that I’m speaking, writing. My mother tongue is deep within me, in the drops of my blood, in the swelling of my nerves, as a metaphysical mystery.’

‘It’s not a mystery,’ János Heidegger interjected. ‘Or it is, but not a metaphysical one. Being as destiny, which sends truth, remains hidden. But the fate of the world manifests in poetry, without yet becoming evident as the history of being. So, I just wanted to say,’ he added hastily, ‘that the thinking of philosophy is of the same order as poetry.’ ‘Ha!’ Ottlik spoke up from the corner, ‘There’s no philosophy without mathematics today; without philosophy, there’s no poetry or literature,’ he declared in a teacherly manner. ‘I didn’t say that,’ János Heidegger protested. ‘Well that’s fortunate,’ Ignotus thundered, ‘Mathematics and philosophy, ha! A writer can’t be a zoo lion yawning behind the barrier in the City Park, with horse meat brought to him at six in the evening. It’s not brought; if he wants to survive, he must live by his nails and teeth.’ ‘Well yes,’ Frigyes Karinthy jibed, ‘let the poet make crazy money with his poems about his own misery.’ Ignotus’ eyes flashed, he didn’t like frivolous talk, but he continued: ‘For his people, for a small nation, the writer is a jack-of-all-trades, who can’t pick and choose like Trézsi in the copper pot, which one fits her hand.’ At this, even Móricz twirled his moustache: ‘The world seems to be interested in poets when they blow the bugle: but once we’re awake, then it’s the daily affairs that excite us.’ ‘Because they’re just so,’ Márai flashed his eyes, ‘”writing” is very rarely anything other than vainglory, offering self-indulgence. Sometimes it’s more and different, but only very rarely.’

‘Literature is bottomless upheaval, an irreparable blow to the heart, some elemental courage and encouragement, and yet at the same time something like a fatal disease,’ Imre Kertész spoke in a soft voice, nodding his learned head, then adding: ‘I always wanted to die, and instead I wrote a book.’

János Heidegger didn’t hear this anymore, he’d yielded to the daimon’s urging, which had been tugging at his sleeve for about five minutes, ‘Let’s go, let’s go, because these Hungarians are like this, they’ll start fighting any minute.’ However, once outside, Heidegger turned back, ‘But who are they celebrating?’ he asked the daimon. ‘Me,’ Attila József stepped out of the shadows. ‘Why you?’ Heidegger asked. ‘Because, my friend,’ JA replied with a mischievous smile, ‘what you wrote thousands of pages about, I summarized in four lines: “My heart sits on the branch of nothing, / Its tiny body shivers silently, / Gently gather round it / And the stars, they watch, they watch.”’ As he recited, all the Hungarian writers gathered, looking down proudly and defiantly, and the café shone, shone ever brighter. Down there, it was April 11th. And this happens every blessed year.

Notes:

Context:

April 11th is the birthday of Attila József and is celebrated as the Day of Hungarian Poetry.

Literary figures mentioned:

Attila József: Major 20th-century Hungarian poet (1905-1937).

Endre Ady: Significant Hungarian poet of the early 20th century.

Dezső Kosztolányi, Gyula Krúdy, Frigyes Karinthy, Zsigmond Móricz, Sándor Márai, Imre Kertész, Géza Ottlik: Notable Hungarian writers and poets from various periods.

G.B. Shaw, Isaac Asimov, Albert Einstein: International figures used to emphasize the global appreciation of Hungarian language and literature.

Cultural references:

“Three Ravens” (Három Holló): A famous Budapest café frequented by writers and artists.

“Abbázia”, “Japan”: Other cafés in Budapest associated with literary circles.

Philosophical elements:

“János Heidegger”: A fictional character combining the name of a Hungarian (János) with the surname of German philosopher Martin Heidegger.

References to Heidegger’s philosophy, particularly his ideas about language and being.

Key quotations:

The final quote is from Attila József’s poem “Reménytelenül” (Without Hope), a famous and deeply philosophical piece.

Linguistic notes:

The text plays with the Hungarian language, creating words like “fényvilág” (light world) to describe the afterlife setting.