Skylark
DEZSŐ KOSZTOLÁNYI
(1885–1936) was born in Subotica, a provincial Austro-Hungarian city (located in present-day Serbia) that would serve as the model for the fictional town in which he later set several novels, including
Skylark
. His father was the headmaster of the local gymnasium, which he attended until he was expelled for insubordination. Kosztolányi spent three years studying Hungarian and German at the University of Budapest, but quit in 1906 to go into journalism. In 1908 he was among the first contributors to the legendary literary journal
Nyugat
; in 1910, the publication of his second collection of poems,
The Complaints of a Poor Little Child
, caused a literary sensation. Kosztolányi turned from poetry to fiction in the 1920s, when he wrote the novels
Nero, the Bloody Poet
(to which Thomas Mann contributed a preface);
Skylark
; and
Anna Edès
. An influential critic and, in 1931, the first president of the Hungarian PEN Club, Kosztolányi was also celebrated as the translator of such varied writers as Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, Verlaine, Baudelaire, Goethe, and Rilke, as well as for his anthology of Chinese and Japanese poetry. He was married to the actress Ilona Harmos and had one son.
RICHARD ACZEL
teaches English literature at the University of Cologne, Germany. He is a playwright and founding director of the theater company Port in Air. His translations from the Hungarian include Ádám Bodor's
The Euphrates at Babylon
and Péter Esterházy's
The Glance of Countess Hahn-Hahn: Down the Danube
.
PÉTER ESTERHÁZY
was born in Budapest in 1950. He is one of Hungary's most prominent writers, and his short stories, novels, and essays have been published in more than twenty languages.
SKYLARK
DEZSŐ KOSZTOLÁNYI
Translated from the Hungarian by
RICHARD ACZEL
Introduction by
PÉTER ESTERHÁZY
New York Review Books
New York
Chapters:
I
,
II
,
III
,
IV
,
V
,
VI
,
VII
,
VIII
,
IX
,
X
,
XI
,
XII
,
XIII
Copyright and more information
Everyone
was born at that time: Joyce, Musil, Broch, Rilke, Thomas Mann, Kafka, Einstein, Picasso, Wittgenstein. They were all there in their respective cradles, everyone who counted,
le tout Paris
. The Hungarian modern classics were there too: Endre Ady, Mihály Babits, Gyula Krúdy, Zsigmond Móricz, Lajos Kassák, Béla Bartók, Zoltán Kodály.
Everything came together rather nicely at the turn of the century, before the world collapsed. A spiritual golden age, in which one of the most important and glittering actors was Dezső Kosztolányi.
He was born in Szabadka (Subotica)
1
in 1885, in that (to use his words) poor, grey, boring, dusty, bored, comical, provincial town. Even if we don't believe literature to be a mirror, in which reality catches a terror-stricken glimpse of itself, we can still admit that whoever reads
Skylark
(and also
The Golden Kite
) can recognise in Sárszeg the Szabadka of the
fin de siècle
. The years of the
fin de siècle
are years of progress, of industrialisation; it is then that Budapest is born and at once becomes a genuine big city–even a little bigger than it really is.
Szabadka is an in-between city, neither one thing nor the other, frightfully respectable, its development well balanced, not as impetuous as, say, the more southerly Újvidék (Novi Sad), but not motionless either, like the more northerly Danubian town Baja. A similar indeterminacy can be felt in its bourgeoisie too; that is, the so-called gentlemanly middle class whose ambiguities we can see close up in
Skylark
. For this bourgeoisie considers itself heir both to the anti-Habsburg revolution of 1848 and to the
Ausgleich
of 1867, the compromise with Habsburg Austria, the birth of Kakania.
2
Kosztolányi is a sparkling youth, as talented as the sun. He is thrown out of the school where his father is headmaster, perhaps in the spirit of the above-mentioned ambiguities, but more likely because of an argument about rhyme in the school literary debating society, where he refused to accept the authority of his teachers. His cousin is Géza Csáth, whose short prose pieces are in fact the first modern texts, the first writings that are really of this century.
3
Kosztolányi arrives at the University of Budapest where he gets to know, among others, the poets Mihály Babits and Gyula Juhász. The correspondence of the three young men is touchingly beautiful, slapdash, pompous, charming, sensitive, far-sighted and ambitious. Kosztolányi gets a taste of the city and immediately falls in love with it. He is one of the most steadfast, faithful lovers of Budapest. A good lover. For a short time he studies in Vienna, but gives it up, and at the age of twenty-three becomes a journalist for a Budapest daily, replacing the poet Endre Ady who is in Paris. He never breaks with journalism throughout his life. Generations have (or haven't) learned from him how to write a little two- or three-page feature.
He begins his literary career with poems and symbolic short stories. The first volume of poems to bring nationwide success is
The Complaints of a Poor Little Child
, which appears in 1910. After this he publishes a book nearly every year. Kosztolányi wants everything: life, literature, success.
In 1908 the journal
Nyugat
(West) had been founded, the alpha and omega of modern Hungarian literature. Even today the voices of our older literary colleagues still falter when they speak about an exceptional experience, like being booted out by the fearsome editor, Ernő Osvát. (No such great things awaited Hungarian writers of the next generation: we were booted out by absolute nonentities.)
Nyugat
was a real periodical; that is, not merely a rallying point for first-rate writers, but a point of crystallisation and a force of integration in what might be called the new, modern movement. If we wish to attach labels we can say that Kosztolányi was a member of the first
Nyugat
generation, a representative of
l'art pour l'art
, a writerly writer;
Homo aestheticus
, as he called himself, in opposition to the
Homo moralis
. Courageously and coquettishly he chooses the “babbling surface” as opposed to the “silent depths.” “Oh, sacred, clowning emptiness!” he cries out, in his “Song of Kornél Esti,” above all to his friend, the morally serious Babits, who grew more critical of Kosztolányi in later years.
Kosztolányi does not seek his own authentic face, but the authentic mask. He continually lives through roles and is close to classical decadence. The dandy is the last flowering of heroism in our age of decline, says the great dandyologist Baudelaire. Kosztolányi is a classical dandy, strict and severe.
He is multicoloured and ineffable, like a rainbow. There is nothing accidental about his shifting between genres. Critics at times heatedly debate whether he was primarily a poet or a prose writer, and whether his many-sidedness was an advantage or a disadvantage. I think it was neither the one nor the other, but simply a fact. In poetry he is the virtuoso, the child dizzied and shaken by all the wonders of the world. In prose he is precise, at times already an anxious anticipator of the
nouveau roman
, an adult facing up to the facts of the world.
He writes longer prose pieces from 1920. For him the twenties are the years of the novel:
Nero, the Bloody Poet, Skylark, The Golden Kite, Anna Édes
.
4
In 1924 he publishes a volume of verse entitled
The Complaints of the Sad Man
, rhyming with, answering and continuing the successful volume of 1910. This is a time of arrival. His reputation grows both at home and abroad. He becomes acquainted with Thomas Mann, who–as Hungarians never fail proudly to point out–writes a preface to the German edition of
Nero
.
Hungary has always had a great tradition in literary translation (the attentiveness of small nations–to themselves). Kosztolányi's achievement in this field is significant, his utterly exceptional sense of form almost predestines him for this. His translations include
A Winter's Tale
and
Alice in Wonderland
, to mention only two of the English references.
At the end of his life the virtuoso
Kornél Esti
stories appear, and the great late poems of the volume
Reckoning
. The “Meistersinger spun from the magic of poetic play and fate, imagination and tears” dies a difficult death from cancer of the larynx in 1936.
A parlament a falra ment
(Parliament hall has gone to the wall). First of all, of course, my poor translator goes to the wall, indeed, bangs his head against it, tearing out his hair. But such is life: hard. My life is hard, so was poor Kosztolányi's, why should the translator be the one to get off lightly? Yet even irrespective of the meaning of this sentence (that parliament hall has gone to the wall), one can appreciate its manifold beauty, rhyme and symmetry. This sentence formed the foundation of my children's political education. The Hungarian parliament, that unbelievable and–to Hungarian eyes–beautiful, if arguably intolerable, pseudo-Gothic building, at once announces the age of the young Kosztolányi, the incomprehensible self-confidence and ambition of the beginning of the century and the undeniable emptiness of its intentions. Driving past this building, all I had to do was point and the children would merrily whoop, “Parliament hall has gone to the wall.” In those days, anything more about the Hungarian parliament, or our so-called socialist democracy, simply wasn't worth knowing.
Kosztolányi was perhaps the world's greatest rhymer, or master of rhyme. The Hungarian language is particularly well suited to this circus stunt, indeed it is hardly even a matter of bravado. Hungarian, unlike other languages, to this day treats rhyme, that cheap and dubious element, as a generally accepted and usable possibility.
I would even venture to say that it was Kosztolányi who did most to make the Hungarian language what it is today. To change a language visibly, perceptibly, at the everyday level, is something very few writers ever achieve. Kosztolányi changed the Hungarian sentence. The Hungarian language anyway stands in a dramatic relationship to the sentence. Our language, as Babits wrote, “doesn't roll along on such well-worn wheels, doesn't think in place of the writer. It lacks those solid, ready-made phrases, those tiny components of style on which the English or French writer can draw without so much as thinking.” In Hungarian there are no clearly defined prohibitions; in a certain sense everything is possible and everything has to be invented over and over again. Every single sentence is an individual achievement. This individuality is both good and bad.