One of the writers that i love more. Unfortunately i don´t know Hungarian to read all his work. Only translations in Portuguese, English, French and Spanish.
José
Benedek Fliegauf (born 15 August 1974, Budapest - Hungary), is a Hungarian film director. As founder of the 'Raptors collective', he is also involved in sound design and set design. Fliegauf is an autodidact, who never attended film school.
Movies:
Dealer 2004
Milky Way 2007
Womb 2010
Just the Wind 2012, Silver Bear in Berlin International Film Festival
Miklós Szentkuthy (1908–1988), born Miklós Pfisterer, was one of the most prolific Hungarian writers of the 20th century. He was born in Budapest on June 2, 1908 and died in the same city on July 18, 1988. Szentkuthy's works include numerous novels, essays, translations, and a voluminous diary spanning the years 1930–1988. As the author of masterpieces such as Prae, the epic 10-volume St. Orpheus’ Breviary, and Towards the One and Only Metaphor, he is recognized as one of the most significant Hungarian writers of the 20th century. To date, his works have been translated into English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Slovakian, and Turkish.
wikipedia
Lectio (Saintly Reading)
1. He is a descendant of actors. That is decisive and important before all else. When I was still such a child that I sought to pursue philosophy and physiology in German, the sort of book that I constantly had in my mind’s eye had the title: Innerste Theatralik aller Wesenheiten. [i] The most primal principle of life is theatrical: the jellyfish in the fairylike-fatal underworld of the sea, the coconut periwigs in the Gothic fan-towers of palms, the fetid head of an embryo at the end of the umbilical cord, jasmine, horseradish, sicknesses: these are all theatrical, colorful, simulating and subterfuges. Not lies, just masks, mimics. That is what history is too; that is the darkest instinct of life. That and art. The darkest and also the loneliest. If I were not myself descended from an actor ancestor, I would not believe in my existence. Reality and theatre: unambiguous. Which is why it is so much an absolute law-book and Domesday Book that Casanova’s memoirs open with that alpha and omega without which there is nothing: actor, actor, actor.
2. But the other ‘ontological prelude’ is also perfect — the fact that two things light our way: the name of Locke and Hexerei. If you wish to live, then you can only be an actor, a comedian, like the gods and the cosmos; once you have started to live, then you must forthwith bear a duality of life, of humanity, that can never be elucidated: the clarity of meaning and the eternal hocus-pocus of meaninglessness, Locke and the witches, wise women, exorcists and evil spirits of the Venetian suburbs of Murano and Burano. That is the 18th century par excellence, but the whole of human life is eternal. This duality underlines Casanova’s entire eroticism: the sobriety and commonsense grayness of the atheism of ‘Experimentalphysik,’ the spirit of the demons, Roman ‘Irrlichter,’ [ii] and ineradicable wizardry. But could man be intelligent any other way? Life can exist somehow without witches, but not ‘human understanding.’
8 The sine qua non for love is wandering, continual ‘connecting,’ from palazzo to palazzo, from bordello to bordello, from seminary to prison, from ship’s cabin to harem, from park to maid’s room, from pontiff into the Venetian night — irresponsible throwing into a milieu is the essence of love. Malipiero is seventy, Casanova fifteen. Both are in love with a young girl living in the house opposite. This is the dogma: love is a thing of the senile and children — an adult man’s love is nulla. The essence of love is: the boundlessness of sensuality and the boundlessness of dream-dreaming; only here does it exist absolutely: in the pre-spring snowdrop and the last post-autumnal yellow leaf. In immaturity and in ‘ripeness is all.’
Just as in art the finest works are those of extreme youth and extreme old age, March and November; summer be hanged. No one suggested this as categorically as Casanova did in the next scene. In one of the palace’s boudoir dining rooms, elderly Malipiero and child Casanova are taking supper under a candle which burns with a sputtering reminiscent of a large tidal swell in a lagoon — and they are talking about the actors’ offspring who lived across the way. They have a perfect understanding of one another: they are on a shared level of impossible sensuality and impossible dream. Love as sweet impossibility, not apocalyptic nonsense: that is something only the two of them understand. The melancholies of renunciation, self-denial, disappointment, doubt, paradox, infidelity and forgetting: to bestow charm, a flower, a scent, a smile, melody — those are things only Casanova understood. That in essence crude adventurer. Was it perhaps writing, after all, which made him tender?
But there is something here even more important, of prime importance, which swallows up even Casanova, love and everything in its colorful darkness: the appearance of Venice. Casanova’s first volume is a big self-hypothesizing of youth and Venice: youth as a Mozartian phantom of transitoriness and Venice as reality itself; a primum mobile, a mainspring, which renders gods and loves superfluous. Europe is a poor word and superfluous reality — there is just one word and one reality: Venice. Venice is no ‘beauty spot,’ it is not a paradoxical opal of history and aquatic vegetation; Venice is reality.
Everybody is infinitely close to each other, it is not possible to get closer, yet the contour map of social chasms is still huge. That too is ‘central’: between town and forest — only there can love be optimal. The house walls are terracotta colored: not vermilion nor brown — that too is already the height of love. The windows are longish, slim, almost curved in their Gothic lankiness: that is the reality (not just some version among a million others) and thus, of course, immediately love itself. The windows are in stone frames, the houses are decaying but they are from the Renaissance: for me they are not ‘travel reminiscences’ but the only thing in which I have faith. Casanova in the end solved everything with this Venetian beauty-ghastliness: no more was there a need for myth, no need for thought, no need for love, no need for art. After that Casanova really can become easy, can be a dancer here, where we have long been dead, because at the bottom of everything seethes and whispers in midnight lilac the discovered metaphysics: Venice. That is also the only aspect of tragedy in it, the all-excluding swampy eternality of Venice.
10 “Ging ich in Maske aus” — that is the logical culmination of civilization as an affirmation of self-contradictions. That culture: a mask culture, the reality of the eighteenth century, the reality of the mask. ‘Psychology’ here is a mistake arising from the mask, games of quid pro quo; sensuality only becomes truly great through the secret of the mask. Behind the mask lurks nihilism — a mask is almost as much a possibility of tragedy as Venice is simply by virtue of being Venice.
Neither Sophocles nor Shakespeare wrote a sentence as tragic as Casanova’s: “Ich ging in Maske aus.” A colored mask? A black one? With a long, corkscrew freak’s nose or just a simple covering for the forehead? Life is only tolerable in a mask — in this daring gesture civilization makes use of all game of games, a paradox from which it follows, but at the same time its nostalgia for non-civilization is quite tremendous.
A masked head is a death mask. In this disguise are preluded the two or three adventurous Venetian midnights which play a part in Casanova: when he has his revenge on an adversary; when a senator faints in a gondola; when marble tables are thrown together on resounding stone and he drunkenly tolls the bells with his musician companions.
11. Love is not a human death game or erotic game of patience, it is not a soul, not a body, not a marriage, not an adventure — love is: a ‘situation’; a constellation of objects, people, and times, one in which every object or time or even human component counts equally, irrespective of any ranking. Every Catholic child has been through that sweetly confusing age of twinges of conscience when budding sexual fantasies and equally budding religious notions chase each other around: we said our prayers with Greuze tears[vi] in our eyes and felt that God would excuse us for the female portrait, the one carried around in one’s pocketbook. Anyone who did not experience those partly uneasy, partly idyllic self-apologies knows little about love. Casanova’s sincere sermon and sincere adolescent boy’s eroticism fit alongside one another in his soul — that is what makes him childish. At this point moral insanity and Loyolan furor hover in balance — perhaps the finest sentimental and moral moment. One continually has the feeling that Casanova has a right to preach; something completely logical and completely free of hypocrisy is going on here. God wishes that the sermon should not be delivered by a bearded St. John in the wilderness but by a love-stricken Venetian young rascal in a periwig and without genuine faith: the whole religion is thereby cozier, more human, truer. After making his sermon, Casanova got a bagful of love-letters from female admirers; they straightaway smuggle into the sacristy.
Miklós Szentkuthy , Marginalia on Casanova, translated by Tim Wilkinson
Music:
1 Pavel Karmanov 11'09'' fragment in film Milky Way by Fliegouf Benedek
https://youtu.be/2OyMn8mvL_Y
2 P a v e l K a r m a n o v - "Different...rains" for Flute, Piano and Tape (1996), Maria Fedotova (Flute), Polina Osetinskaya (Piano)
Chamber hall of Moscow Philharmony live
https://youtu.be/5fvqHiPg9QY
José
Benedek Fliegauf (born 15 August 1974, Budapest - Hungary), is a Hungarian film director. As founder of the 'Raptors collective', he is also involved in sound design and set design. Fliegauf is an autodidact, who never attended film school.
Movies:
Dealer 2004
Milky Way 2007
Womb 2010
Just the Wind 2012, Silver Bear in Berlin International Film Festival
Miklós Szentkuthy (1908–1988), born Miklós Pfisterer, was one of the most prolific Hungarian writers of the 20th century. He was born in Budapest on June 2, 1908 and died in the same city on July 18, 1988. Szentkuthy's works include numerous novels, essays, translations, and a voluminous diary spanning the years 1930–1988. As the author of masterpieces such as Prae, the epic 10-volume St. Orpheus’ Breviary, and Towards the One and Only Metaphor, he is recognized as one of the most significant Hungarian writers of the 20th century. To date, his works have been translated into English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Slovakian, and Turkish.
wikipedia
Lectio (Saintly Reading)
1. He is a descendant of actors. That is decisive and important before all else. When I was still such a child that I sought to pursue philosophy and physiology in German, the sort of book that I constantly had in my mind’s eye had the title: Innerste Theatralik aller Wesenheiten. [i] The most primal principle of life is theatrical: the jellyfish in the fairylike-fatal underworld of the sea, the coconut periwigs in the Gothic fan-towers of palms, the fetid head of an embryo at the end of the umbilical cord, jasmine, horseradish, sicknesses: these are all theatrical, colorful, simulating and subterfuges. Not lies, just masks, mimics. That is what history is too; that is the darkest instinct of life. That and art. The darkest and also the loneliest. If I were not myself descended from an actor ancestor, I would not believe in my existence. Reality and theatre: unambiguous. Which is why it is so much an absolute law-book and Domesday Book that Casanova’s memoirs open with that alpha and omega without which there is nothing: actor, actor, actor.
2. But the other ‘ontological prelude’ is also perfect — the fact that two things light our way: the name of Locke and Hexerei. If you wish to live, then you can only be an actor, a comedian, like the gods and the cosmos; once you have started to live, then you must forthwith bear a duality of life, of humanity, that can never be elucidated: the clarity of meaning and the eternal hocus-pocus of meaninglessness, Locke and the witches, wise women, exorcists and evil spirits of the Venetian suburbs of Murano and Burano. That is the 18th century par excellence, but the whole of human life is eternal. This duality underlines Casanova’s entire eroticism: the sobriety and commonsense grayness of the atheism of ‘Experimentalphysik,’ the spirit of the demons, Roman ‘Irrlichter,’ [ii] and ineradicable wizardry. But could man be intelligent any other way? Life can exist somehow without witches, but not ‘human understanding.’
8 The sine qua non for love is wandering, continual ‘connecting,’ from palazzo to palazzo, from bordello to bordello, from seminary to prison, from ship’s cabin to harem, from park to maid’s room, from pontiff into the Venetian night — irresponsible throwing into a milieu is the essence of love. Malipiero is seventy, Casanova fifteen. Both are in love with a young girl living in the house opposite. This is the dogma: love is a thing of the senile and children — an adult man’s love is nulla. The essence of love is: the boundlessness of sensuality and the boundlessness of dream-dreaming; only here does it exist absolutely: in the pre-spring snowdrop and the last post-autumnal yellow leaf. In immaturity and in ‘ripeness is all.’
Just as in art the finest works are those of extreme youth and extreme old age, March and November; summer be hanged. No one suggested this as categorically as Casanova did in the next scene. In one of the palace’s boudoir dining rooms, elderly Malipiero and child Casanova are taking supper under a candle which burns with a sputtering reminiscent of a large tidal swell in a lagoon — and they are talking about the actors’ offspring who lived across the way. They have a perfect understanding of one another: they are on a shared level of impossible sensuality and impossible dream. Love as sweet impossibility, not apocalyptic nonsense: that is something only the two of them understand. The melancholies of renunciation, self-denial, disappointment, doubt, paradox, infidelity and forgetting: to bestow charm, a flower, a scent, a smile, melody — those are things only Casanova understood. That in essence crude adventurer. Was it perhaps writing, after all, which made him tender?
But there is something here even more important, of prime importance, which swallows up even Casanova, love and everything in its colorful darkness: the appearance of Venice. Casanova’s first volume is a big self-hypothesizing of youth and Venice: youth as a Mozartian phantom of transitoriness and Venice as reality itself; a primum mobile, a mainspring, which renders gods and loves superfluous. Europe is a poor word and superfluous reality — there is just one word and one reality: Venice. Venice is no ‘beauty spot,’ it is not a paradoxical opal of history and aquatic vegetation; Venice is reality.
Everybody is infinitely close to each other, it is not possible to get closer, yet the contour map of social chasms is still huge. That too is ‘central’: between town and forest — only there can love be optimal. The house walls are terracotta colored: not vermilion nor brown — that too is already the height of love. The windows are longish, slim, almost curved in their Gothic lankiness: that is the reality (not just some version among a million others) and thus, of course, immediately love itself. The windows are in stone frames, the houses are decaying but they are from the Renaissance: for me they are not ‘travel reminiscences’ but the only thing in which I have faith. Casanova in the end solved everything with this Venetian beauty-ghastliness: no more was there a need for myth, no need for thought, no need for love, no need for art. After that Casanova really can become easy, can be a dancer here, where we have long been dead, because at the bottom of everything seethes and whispers in midnight lilac the discovered metaphysics: Venice. That is also the only aspect of tragedy in it, the all-excluding swampy eternality of Venice.
10 “Ging ich in Maske aus” — that is the logical culmination of civilization as an affirmation of self-contradictions. That culture: a mask culture, the reality of the eighteenth century, the reality of the mask. ‘Psychology’ here is a mistake arising from the mask, games of quid pro quo; sensuality only becomes truly great through the secret of the mask. Behind the mask lurks nihilism — a mask is almost as much a possibility of tragedy as Venice is simply by virtue of being Venice.
Neither Sophocles nor Shakespeare wrote a sentence as tragic as Casanova’s: “Ich ging in Maske aus.” A colored mask? A black one? With a long, corkscrew freak’s nose or just a simple covering for the forehead? Life is only tolerable in a mask — in this daring gesture civilization makes use of all game of games, a paradox from which it follows, but at the same time its nostalgia for non-civilization is quite tremendous.
A masked head is a death mask. In this disguise are preluded the two or three adventurous Venetian midnights which play a part in Casanova: when he has his revenge on an adversary; when a senator faints in a gondola; when marble tables are thrown together on resounding stone and he drunkenly tolls the bells with his musician companions.
11. Love is not a human death game or erotic game of patience, it is not a soul, not a body, not a marriage, not an adventure — love is: a ‘situation’; a constellation of objects, people, and times, one in which every object or time or even human component counts equally, irrespective of any ranking. Every Catholic child has been through that sweetly confusing age of twinges of conscience when budding sexual fantasies and equally budding religious notions chase each other around: we said our prayers with Greuze tears[vi] in our eyes and felt that God would excuse us for the female portrait, the one carried around in one’s pocketbook. Anyone who did not experience those partly uneasy, partly idyllic self-apologies knows little about love. Casanova’s sincere sermon and sincere adolescent boy’s eroticism fit alongside one another in his soul — that is what makes him childish. At this point moral insanity and Loyolan furor hover in balance — perhaps the finest sentimental and moral moment. One continually has the feeling that Casanova has a right to preach; something completely logical and completely free of hypocrisy is going on here. God wishes that the sermon should not be delivered by a bearded St. John in the wilderness but by a love-stricken Venetian young rascal in a periwig and without genuine faith: the whole religion is thereby cozier, more human, truer. After making his sermon, Casanova got a bagful of love-letters from female admirers; they straightaway smuggle into the sacristy.
Miklós Szentkuthy , Marginalia on Casanova, translated by Tim Wilkinson
Music:
1 Pavel Karmanov 11'09'' fragment in film Milky Way by Fliegouf Benedek
https://youtu.be/2OyMn8mvL_Y
2 P a v e l K a r m a n o v - "Different...rains" for Flute, Piano and Tape (1996), Maria Fedotova (Flute), Polina Osetinskaya (Piano)
Chamber hall of Moscow Philharmony live
https://youtu.be/5fvqHiPg9QY
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2015-05-13
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