Kukorelly, Endre

“As to what is the novel, of course one cannot define it like this, at most you can say what it isn’t, and that will either work or not. As a reader it’s pretty easy to say. If you’re a proper (normal, naïve) reader, you read novels. You get immersed in it, there’s conflict in it, a catch or two, the end will always turn out to be something, either good or bad, someone will die, others will never die, someone will always leave/marry someone, there’ll be a murderer, the Turks will really be routed from Eger. They will be, I can tell you that.” (Kukorelly Endre)

An F

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A fact, my father wore a hat.
It’s true, a stern brown one at that,
indeed, it’s so, and when

he tossed it on, a tad askew,
brushed back a strand of hair or two,
he’d give a half smile and then

-- don’t think that it was meant for me though --
off he went to work, not quite
as if he wanted to, not like
he really didn’t want to either.

All nice and properly.
A gentlemanly smile. He’d don
it, get across with it. Or on
him -- So was it, after all, for me?

Translated from the Hungarian by Thomas Cooper