Arthur Philips on “The Rebels”, “Embers” and Gyula Krúdy

By The Editors

Arthur Phillips was born in Minneapolis in 1969 and educated at Harvard. He has been a child actor, a jazz musician, a speechwriter, a dismally failed entrepreneur, and a five-time Jeopardy! champion. His first novel, Prague, a national bestseller, was named a New York Times Notable Book, and received The Los Angeles Times/Art Seidenbaum Award for best first novel. His second novel, The Egyptologist, was a national and international bestseller, and was on more than a dozen &#34Best of 2004&#34 lists. Angelica, his third novel, is now available. You can find Angelica, as well as his earlier work online at Amazon.com. His work has been translated into twenty-five languages. He lives in New York with his wife and two sons. He and I have joked that the success of Prague has made him the &#34go-to&#34 source for discussions and opinions on MagLit (Magyar Literature), and I&#39m pleased to have him share his thoughts on The Rebels with us all.—Mark Sarvas

MS: Perhaps I&#39m reading too much into your New Yorker review, but the sense that I got was that you were at some pains to say nice things about a lesser work. I&#39ve mentioned that I think there&#39s a problem for modern readers in coming to Márai in a sort of reverse order. Do you think there&#39s a fundamental problem coming to Márai in this order, and that readers might be better served going straight for Embers? Or is there a strong case to be made for The Rebels on its own merits?

AP: I think Rebels does just fine on its own. It&#39s a younger man&#39s book with younger characters, written at a time when Márai hadn&#39t seen all hell break loose in his country yet. I wasn&#39t trying to prop up a lesser book. And, I really don&#39t know what else is out there; there are a lot of Márai books still only in Hungarian. So I don&#39t know the direction his style took. Embers is certainly more stylistically interesting to me than Rebels, but Rebels was funny, and the language more outlandish, more under the influence, I think, of Gyula Krúdy. Embers may not be his best or most characteristic novel, so I won&#39t say that the way to go is to start with Embers. There are some who will get more out of starting with the memoirs, I suppose. Even Casanova in Bolzano, maybe.

MS: You and I share a particular admiration for Embers but writing for the New York Review of Books, J.M. Coetzee dismisses it with terms like &#34overblown language&#34 and &#34caricatural layer of kitsch.&#34 Accepting that like minds may differ, to what would you attribute such an extreme difference of opinion and how might you address Coetzee&#39s criticisms?

AP: So I went and bought the Coetzee review for three dollars and now have precisely three dollars’ worth of opinions about it. Here they are, free of charge. I think that Coetzee limits the ways you can read Embers, and then doesn&#39t much like either of the ways he allows for. He says first, if it&#39s a satire of Austro-Hungarian values, then the clichés are there for satiric purpose. But if instead, it&#39s really about Márai&#39s values (specifically, the need to keep your inmost personality private), then it can be dismissed as &#34minor.&#34 I think this criticism falls short of acceptable. There&#39s at least one other way of reading the novel (if not several): Márai doesn&#39t agree with the values of the General, but he is also not parodying them, and he&#39s not endorsing Konrad&#39s bitter silent privacy either. Instead he&#39s trying to present both characters in their own contexts, their own justifications, using literary effects (the castle, the retainer, all that). This is how I read it—some of the General appealed to me, some didn&#39t, Konrad frustrated me, but I saw his motivations, I think. But I didn&#39t read or take the novel as a whole as either indictment or endorsement of anything, and I am a little surprised that Coetzee insists we have to. Of course, even if we do insist that the book is somehow moralizing, how about this interpretation instead: it was published in 1942, at a time when a desire to recapture lost Hungarianness, both spiritually and geographically, had led the country to an uneasy alliance with Nazi Germany. The book can be read as a warning letter: those old military days are dead, cling to them and you will end, like the General, with nothing at all. Now, I didn&#39t take the book like that—I read it in the 21st century, not as a historical document, but as a novel. And for me, I was not bothered by the aspects that so bothered Coetzee. My impression is, he didn&#39t like the book, and he really didn&#39t like the picture of Márai that he got from the memoirs, and so the ideas and ideals of Márai were perhaps looming too large in Coetzee as he read the fiction. Obviously I&#39m speculating far out of bounds here. But I read the fiction first. Finally, my honest literary theory is, you like what you like. It&#39s a personal, chemical reaction. Then, after that, you find the theory that fits your tastes. Coetzee didn&#39t dig the book, and so his review explains why it&#39s structurally and morally minor. I did like the book, so I can explain why it&#39s structurally, morally, and literarily lovable. I reserve the right to change my mind the next time I read it.

MS: It seems that the concepts that concern Márai—honor, boon companions—might seem curiously outdated to contemporary readers. How then to account for the success of his works with English-speaking audiences?

AP: I can&#39t account for the success of him, though I don&#39t know that it&#39s continued since Embers. I think that many readers, like me, were happy to learn there was another Central European master to discover. Those early 20th-century pessimists flung out from the wreckage of 1918 are a lot of fun, and once you&#39ve read Mann and Joseph Roth and Musil and Kafka, it&#39s exciting to hear, &#34Hey, wait! We just found another one!&#34 even though, as Coetzee points out, that &#34discovery&#34 was rather on the hype-y side of the truth.

MS: Since we&#39re talking about Hungarian novelists in translation, and this is an audience interested in literature in translation, might you take this opportunity to tell us a thing or two about Gyula Krúdy?

AP: Well, for all this, my taste personally runs slightly more to Krúdy than to Márai, and I&#39ve had a few Hungarian friends tell me something similar. Márai himself idolized Krúdy, and even wrote a fictionalized biography of Krúdy&#39s last day alive in the style of Krúdy himself. There are, as far as I can find, five volumes of Krúdy&#39s fiction in English, done by four translators. The best translator, by my standards, is John Batki, who has done Sunflower and Ladies Day. Krúdy is wonderful for almost opposite reasons that Márai is wonderful. Márai (especially in Embers) appeals to me by his arranged ideas, his tidy composition, his characterizations. Krúdy is a fever-dream instead. His language (as far as I can tell in English) is unlike any other writer's; he&#39s an oddity in literature. Unlike the norm of fiction, where language is put to use for a plot or a thematic investigation or a portrait, his books sort of exist for the language; the stories are not the point. The characters aren&#39t even the point. The ideas are not the point. The point is this stream, this woven tissue, this endless river of imagery. At the end of the book, what sticks with you are the comparisons, imagery, personifications that have been spun around a theme, so that you are left with, for example, a feeling about the world and death that another writer would have delivered in character and plot, but Krúdy has delivered in images. It feels a bit like the payoff of a tremendously moving poem, though he writes prose. I hope this rather inept description gives you the desire to try him, and also the warning to give him some time to work his magic on you. You have to read him slow, and you have to work for a while, and then suddenly, it&#39s as if you are in his dreams alongside him. The payoff of hard work with Proust, for example, is the feeling at the end that you have actually spent years in someone&#39s company. The payoff with Krúdy is the feeling that you have spent several nights together, drunk, and possibly unconscious.


Comments

1

We should hardly be surprised that Coetzee should find Márai’s concerns ‘minor.’ He’s coming from a totally different direction. How should the author of Disgrace (for him,in that novel, a means of salvation) find anything useful in one so concerned with old-fashioned ‘honour’? My feeling is that, dealing with this one novel only, Coetzee is simplifying the complex career of a very complex man.

Márai was no stiff-necked bourgeois, and certainly not naive; a social radical in his youth, he lived through a violent Soviet-style revolution followed by an even more violent right-wing backlash; plus foreign occupation and the dismemberment of his country—all this long before the arrival of the Nazis, and then the Russians and their stooges.

By the age of eighteen he was already established as a serious journalist, and was soon working for periodicals (in three languages) across Europe. He took a consistently anti-fascist stance, and when sent to the Middle East in 1927 showed an acumen that verged on the prophetic, challenging the right to a Western presence there, analysing the roots of the Jewish-Palestinian conflict, and even suggesting the day would come when an enraged Islam would strike back at the West “in our fancy houses” in a war, as he put it, “between Civilisation and Religion.” His report on Hitler’s Berlin rally, the night before he became chancellor, is equally prophetic and a classic indictment of the whole twisted psychology of fascism.

 

But he also knew that time was running out for his social class, the old liberal (ouch!) bourgeoisie of Central Europe, and reckoned his melancholy role henceforth would be to record its demise. Nul points for radical zeal, perhaps, but he may well have felt he’d done all that, and that now his duty lay elsewhere.

 

And on the subject of ‘undiscovered’ Hungarian authors of that time, self-interest compels me to mention Antal Szerb, a journalist colleague of Márai for many years, sharing the same anti-fascist position (and jokes) and writing sublimely witty and ironical novels:

 

The Pendragon Legend (1933; my trans., Pushkin Press, 2005)

 

Journey by Moonlight (1937, my trans., Pushkin Press, 2001) (this is his masterpiece)

 

Oliver VII (1942, my trans., Pushkin Press, 2007)

 

Product warning. Szerb’s manner is to seem as frivolous as possible, so don’t be misled by the playfulness of 1 and 3 above.
COMMENT: Len Rix adds

 

Hardly had this blog gone out, than Zsofi Zachar, editor of the Hungarian Quarterly in Budapest, emails me to query the description of Szerb as a ‘journalist’. She is quite right. He was very much more than that, a serious literary academic, and certainly a major Hungarian novelist of the period -many would say, a major European novelist, however little known in the West.

 

His relevance to the current argument is first, that he hugely admired the early Marai, singling out ‘A Zendulok’ (‘The Rebels’, in G Szirtes’ translation)for special praise; and secondly, that his own fiction, though it looks to be treating the same material, goes increasingly in the opposite direction. ‘Journey by Moonlight’ is a merciless psychological study of bourgeois life and the spiritual distortions it imposes. The book is full of rebels and deviants, all seeking escape from the stifling ‘morality’ of the money-driven economy. As in ‘The Rebels’, these oddballs begin their revolt in a kind of gang, a group of highly imaginative dropouts playing elaborate theatrical ‘games’ in an old house. Their favoured roles shape their later adult lives, and the novel widens into a meditation on the nature of self and identity - themes which dominate all three novels - but here are tied specifically to the crippling nature of bourgeois life. There is certainly nothing resembling nostalgia for it.

 

Szerb, for all his admiration, came to sense the increasingly conservative impulse in Marai, and indeed felt personally betrayed when Marai ‘defected’ in 1943 to the nationalist newspaper Pesti Hirlap, just as Szerb was beginning to feel the full implication of having been born to Jewish parents. But, it must be said, that would never had entered his purely literary judgement.

 

This Coetzee-Marai polarises a fundamental debate on the nature and purpose of the novel. For a South African it might seem axiomatic that the only fiction deserving any respect will be fiercely engaged; while for Marai, perhaps, and Szerb in a different way, the world of belles lettres became a place of refuge, of internal exile -  a means of sustaining the belief that somewhere out there, beyond the storm troopers and the death camps, a civilised Europe remained, a dream with which they had above all to keep faith. Szerb’s last novel, Oliver VII, could be read as an escapist literary squib written with apparent total unconcern for Hungary’s war situation and his own - in other words, sheer escapism; or, more usefully, as two defiant fingers held up to the men in jackboots hammering at the front door.
COMMENT: dalle mein milta hikya hai purane note aur sikke hi to milte hai log naya maal le jate hai
DATE: 10/29/2008 6:38:51 PM

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