On Recent Literary Recognition of Hungarian Misery
This morning, I was reading the newly Booker Prize-winning book by David Szalay, an author of Hungarian origin. It’s a big year for us; earlier this fall, László Krasznahorkai won the literary Nobel Prize. To me, it makes perfect sense that the dismal world of 2025 finally catches up to our grim Hungarian pessimism. Sure enough, the protagonist of this book, István, is a grim, nearly mute character who stumbles through a great deal of misery in the early 2000s Hungarian countryside. It’s a good book, and I still have some faint hope for a not totally nihilistic ending for the poor bastard.
However, I’d also like to note, for the record, that unlike this István, I had a pleasant, even somewhat joyful, upbringing in the Hungarian countryside at the tail end of communism and through our sudden transition to democracy. In my family, yes, there was alcoholism, divorce, falling out, and the usual existential struggle. But I do have distinctly joyful memories.
My mom used to take good care of us. As a Generation X kid with working parents, I was left alone a lot by today’s standards. I had to take trains and buses by myself from an early age, heat up food for myself and my brother, and even make fires with wood and coal on winter days. No wonder I can’t get enough of this wonderful climate I’ve been enjoying here in Asia for the last 13 years!
But I also remember how my mom used to make Nestlé hot cocoa every single morning, to give us a little nurturing before heading out to work. I’m not good at digesting milk, so I used to have stomach cramps every day, but I never thought of asking her to stop. Similarly, she put all her love into the thick sandwiches she made for us as packed breakfasts. She used to put a very thick layer of margarine in these sandwiches, which I really didn’t like, but that thick layer represented the depth of her love, so I tried my best to get through it.
Our father was a complicated person. There are many things I’m very careful about avoiding in my own life as a husband and parent. But I also have many fond memories of him. He had us over every second weekend, and I remember him standing in the kitchen, frying his famous potato lángos for us whenever we wanted them. He was a gentle man. I remember the very pleasant smell of his Barbon aftershave when he gave me a hug or rested his hand on my neck.
School life was fine. Practically zero bullying, and teachers tried hard to create an orderly but pleasant experience for us. I remember early spring days, skipping the bus ride and walking instead through the scent of spring trees in the best of moods. I remember walking with my friend Dani to an after-school activity in the beautiful town of Szentendre, discussing our newfound interest in hip-hop music, trading music tapes, and getting excited about this new, emerging art form.
I miss some representation of us, not-entirely-miserable Hungarians. For every scary Béla Lugosi, look – there’s our portly, poorly dressed Orbán clowning around in a stupid red MAGA hat. For every weaselly, pitiful Edward Teller in the Oppenheimer movie, there’s everybody’s favorite stock photo star, Hide the Pain Harold, probably the most recognizable Hungarian, smiling through it all!
#sírvavigadamagyar #sunshine #moonlight #goodtimes
