Szilárd Borbély, Berlin-Hamlet

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Szilárd BorbélyBerlin-Hamlet

Szilárd Borbély“His poetry is epoch-making.” Péter Nádas

English edition fra.cz

Poetry

fra

Szilárd BorbélyBerlin-Hamlet

Poetry

fra

Szilárd Borbély, born in 1964 in Fehérgyarmat in eastern Hun-gary, studied Hungarian philology and literature at the Uni-versity of Debrecen, where he is now an associate professor.A recognized authority on Hungarian literature of the lateBaroque period as well as an author, Borbély has already wonan impressive series of literary awards in Hungary, culminatingin the highly prestigious Palladium Prize in 2005. His first ma-jor critical success was his third volume, Hosszú nap el (LongDay Away, 1993), extensively praised by leading Hungarian lit-erary figures such as Péter Esterházy and Péter Nádas; his lat-est work, Halotti pompa (The Splendours of Death, 2004, re-vised version 2006), was hailed universally as one of the mostimportant Hungarian publications of the decade. Berlin-Ham-let is his first volume to be published in English.

Szilárd BorbélyBerlin-Hamlet

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Szilárd BorbélyBerlin-HamletTranslated by Ottilie Mulzet

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PoetrySzilárd BorbélyBerlin-HamletTranslated by Ottilie Mulzet from the Hungarian Berlin-Hamlet(Jelenkor Kiadó, Pécs 2003)Afterword by Ottilie MulzetCover photograph by Michal Rydval, 2008Author photo by Barna BurgerFirst published in 2008 by Agite/Fra, Šafaříkova 15, 12000 Prague 2,Czech Republic, EU, [email protected], www.fra.cz,Printed by Tiskárna VS, Prague

English edition © Agite/Fra, 2008Text © Szilárd Borbély, 2003Translation © Ottilie Mulzet, 2008Afterword © Ottilie Mulzet, 2008Cover photo © Michal Rydval, 2008Author photo © Barna Burger, 2008ISBN 978-80-86603-77-3

The publication of this book was made possible by the Trans-lation Fund of the Hungarian Book Foundation. The transla-tor would also like to acknowledge the kind support of theTranslators’ House in Balatonfüred, Hungary, where thetranslation was completed, and to thank Dr. Béla Bodó forhis editorial assistence.

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Table of Contents

Allegory I 12Letter I 13Epilogue I 14Fragment I 17Krumme Lake 18Letter II 20Mühlendamm 22Letter III 23Fragment II 24Allegory II 25Schöneweide 26Letter IV 29Naturhistorisches Museum 30Fragment III 32Hermann Strasse 33Letter V 34Heidelberger Platz 35Fragment IV 37Letter VI 38Allegory III 40Kurfürstendamm 42Fragment V 43Stephansdom 44Letter VII 46Tiergarten I 47Fragment VI 49Letter VIII 52Invaliden Strasse 53Allegory IV 56Letter IX 57Magdeburger Platz 58Wannsee 60Fragment VII 62Letter X 63

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Allegory V 64Alexanderplatz 66Allegory VI 69Letter XI 70Fragment VIII 71Tiergarten II 72Fragment IX 78Letter XII 80Allegory VII 81Flughafen Schönefeld 82Allegory VIII 85Fragment X 88Westend-Westkreuz 89Letter XIII 90Epilogue II 91Notes 93Translator’s afterword (Ottilie Mulzet) 95

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Nothing ever passes as irrevocably

as the morning.

9

10

[For Ilona – For Mihály]

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1. [Allegory I]

The pierced heart, in which loversbelieve, recalls me to my task. Always have I desired

to be led. My father’s spirit instructed mein ruthlessness. What he missed in life, he nowwished to supplant in death. I did not

find my upbringing to be a comfort. The spirit of our age is for me excessivelylibertine. My scorn is reserved for the weak.

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2. [Letter I]

At last I have a picture of you as I once saw you. Of course not as when I glimpsed youfor the first time, without your jacket, bareheaded,your face not framed by a hat. But whenyou disappeared before my eyes into the entrance of

the hotel,

as I walked beside you, and nothing as of yetconnected me to you. Although I longed onlyfor the strongest tie to bind me to you. Tell me,didn’t your relatives pursue you altogether too

much? You wouldn’thave had time for me, even if I had come

to Berlin. But what am I saying? Is this how I wantto bring my self-reproaches to an end? And finally,wasn’t I right not to have come to Berlin? Butwhen shall I see you? In the summer? But whyprecisely in the summer, if I shan’t see you at

Christmas?

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3. [Epilogue I]

[i]

I annihilate the similes before my timeis to come. The entrapments of speech, likenooses hanging before the watering-hole,where the feral come to drink. Andwrithe for days afterwards in the snares; their cries, like Christmas-tree ornamentsstored away between layers of cotton in the

mothball-scentedcupboard, will be enervated, rent through with fractures. They disintegrateat a single touch. Somewhere else, the wild pear, the

rose-hips fallen amongst the dead leaves, the cranberryand the rare Cornelian cherry.

[ii]

The recounting of the drawn-outscream exacts renunciation. After all, what of the upheaval of the correspondences? – you ask.The cry rolling through the forestwhich, as it reaches the valley, is butan obtuse murmuring. The echo of the news come from afar shall be its owntardy arrival. The prologuefollowed by suffering.

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[iii]

In the undergrowth of the freshly planted oakshere and there stand mushrooms on slender

deer-leg stems. And ifyou take them home, forgetting them on the

kitchen tablein the afternoon silence they swarm with worms.

And somewhere the deerthemselves emerge. From the farther shorethey watch, from behind the knoll. Between their

antlersthey still balance, soon to let it drop,the golden apple. At timessomething rings out, and they glanceuneasily, with nostrils flared, towardsthe garden of the Hesperides.

[iv]

Crashing through the undergrowth runsa creature, half man, half goator horse. Only its screams are heard.Blood trickles down the foliage.Cherry-red, brick-red, magenta-scarlet, like the mineral hueson an airy watercolour-painted sheaf. Between the dessicated edges of the colour-patches ismuch air.

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[v]

This jug behind the glass has the form of a simile. Dolphinsswim in the spherical blue,while the mouth of the man boundto the mast, like his upper torso convulsing,refers to the tautened struggle of his scream. Yet his criesare illusory, and the wellspring of deception,which like a breath held back has hardly since reachedthat ear for which it wasintended. For he says that in this likeness there shall noteven be one sound. Just as in purenon-existence, of which I cannot know.

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4. [Fragment I]

Yes, I could express it simply by sayingthat our conversation left in mea vacant space. Since then, everyday contains this space.

The necessity of formulation,to say what has happened to meevery day since then. Since we stoppedmeeting, recollection

has replaced our talks.Since then, there has hardly been a daywhich has not contained something, and the reverse is also true. Now I even

analyze my silences.And I feel there are dayswhich expand into breadth. Everymoment a growing depth, which

hides them in itself. Everythingis placed in something else,which then takes possession. One wordpossesses another. A word itself, however,

is an idea. What I called the voidis also a part of something. Perhaps ofour conversation, which somehow stillcontinues to takes place. I think.

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5. [Krumme Lake]

It happened in the last days of the Reich, sometimein the autumn.

The leaves were falling, and the air scraped across the windshield. Only the vent-window of the front

door wasopen, we both were smoking. We wore long woolen coats, loose trousers, and battered thin

rubber-soled shoes, as one must at such times. The fast was not

obligatory, becauseof the blockade there was hardly anything to eat.

Everyone was waiting,for someone, for something. Fear slowly grew

stronger,as did the instinct of self-preservation. With our

meeting we weretaking an unjustified risk. Our superiors certainlywould have denied us permission. There was,

however, no moresense in taking orders. From the moment of

liberation,tradition formed our only mandate. We did not speak of that, but it was perhaps why we met, here,

below Berlin,where the sight of two men strolling in conversation would not seem conspicuous. Their collars turned

up, hats pulled down below their eyes in protection against the gusts of

wind comingfrom the lake. From the corners of their mouths,

pressed hard together,a half-smoked cigarette. Because strangers regularly

came hereon the weekends, to row, to sail, to stroll around

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the lake’s edge. To the southof Berlin, below the city, this was the spot, Wünsdorf

or Teupitz.I no longer remember precisely. Years ago, before

the feastof the exodus, while we were thinking of the future,

we walked next to Krumme Lake in the western part of Berlin. Our

conversationwas more of a remembering, a revocation of all that had happened earlier. Like a film being played

back.We watched the ducks; they were mute. The swans

were threatening,like death. There was one boat in the water whichdid not move. With every word the mist escaped

from our mouths.For a few seconds, tiny capricious figures were

described in the air, then they dissolved. Perhaps we could have

deciphered these signs, if onlywe had known how. They were weightless, like sin.

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6. [Letter II]

My deeply honoured Fräulein, given the greatlikelihood

that you no longer remember whoI am, I will introduce myself once more:

my name in Hebrew is Amsel. I was that person who greeted you for the first time oneevening in Prague. And that same hand that

reached

across the table, that very hand now striking thekeys, held

your hand, which confirmed a promiseto journey to Palestine with him next year.

I have only one confession to make:I am a poor letter-writer. And if I hadn’t a

typewriter,it would be even worse, for if my soul

grows weary, my fingertips can still toilaway at the keyboard. If no letter arrives,I am never disappointed. All the same, as I wind a

new

piece of paper into the typewriter, I amfilled with panic, for I realise I have made myself

look far worsethan I actually am. If this is true, I deserve it,

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9 788086 603773

www.fra.cz

Perhaps tomorrow it will no longer be possible to write the poems no one had the courage to write yesterday. Szilárd Borbély’s poetry is epoch-making.

Péter Nádas

Photo © Barna Burger, 2008

Co

ver

© M

ich

al R

ydva

l, 2

008

9 788086 603773

www.fra.cz

Perhaps tomorrow it will no longer be possible to write the poems no one had the courage to write yesterday. Szilárd Borbély’s poetry is epoch-making.

Péter Nádas

Photo © Barna Burger, 2008

Co

ver

© M

ich

al R

ydva

l, 2

008

An English edition from Fra Publishing

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