Hello Gentle Reader
Imre Kertész is a resilient person. Before he won the Nobel Prize in Literature, in two-thousand and two, this author of remarkable humanity has proved his willingness to live, after surviving not one but two concentration camps during World War II, Auschwitz and Buchenwald; Kertész became a hot potato that was transferred from one universe of death, and inhumanity to another – and in a remarkable sense of justice and altruism, has maintained a sense of who he was previously and who is now. A man who has looked the laughing devil in the eye, and whose spirit did not break. In a universe of death and mass slaughter on a level of efficiency of that of a large factory whose only products are death and misery, Kertész was one of the few to survive. In an expansive cosmos of a slaughterhouse, Kertész was given the subject matter that would haunt his literary output of his entire career. This theme or subject matter is however difficult to name and place into a definitive area; yes his work deals with the holocaust, and is based off his own experiences; but they are subjective but not in an autobiographical way. Furthermore Kertész work is not really documentation. They are fictional narratives on their own. One of the surprising actions of Kertész work is that it really does not speak in terms of good and evil. The world – be it the grand worldwide, or the galaxies of mass produced death of a concentration camp; were all perpetrated by individuals – individuals who were just following orders, and were lead to believe that they were following the plan. In those respects, the masks or the concepts of these monsters, and wolves and hounds of these camps are simply non-existent in his work as Kertész points out in one way or another, through flesh, blood and bone; it was always a human being that committed the crime. That individual was just the cog in a large efficient factory of death. Dehumanized and desensitized to human suffering; especially a human, without any trace of being referred to or even recognized as a human being – these individuals were lead to commit acts of horror, simply out of duty – out of production. Kertész is not like Peace Prize Laureate Elie Wiesel who documents camp and regards human suffering with black and white lenses. Kertész on the other hand, looks through the Kafkaesque point of view; of seeing a world without order, without meaning, and absurdity. It is in these that Kertész finds humour, but also a great understanding of his literary influences.
This may explain why Kertész was not a roaring success before his Nobel Prize in Literature. Even in his homeland of Hungary Kertész was practically unknown. A theory is perhaps, Kertész was not well known, because of his lack of judgement being passed. He maintained a sense of neutrality, between prisoner and guard. Recognizing that surviving the camp was at times a fate worst then dying in it. He does not feign or make any announcement that he knows why it happened, or what causes people to act in such a manner. All that the author can do is simply recognize that it had happened, and bear witness to it. In his own words Kertész has written “fiction founded on reality.” “Fiasco,” is the final volume of Kertész trilogy, that some have called a qausi-autobiographical depiction of twentieth century Europe. From Holocaust to the discovery that one’s homeland has been consumed and turned into another totalitarian state. Though it has been called a trilogy, there is no real reference to the other books – at least not with “Fiasco.”
Kertész’s Nobel win, was not without controversy in his native Hungary. Many – especially from the far right; felt that the award should not have been bestowed upon the author, who so openly discusses his own alienation and the holocaust and Jewish repression. Many Hungarian nationalists felt that Kertész wasn’t a true Hungarian writer, or Hungarian enough to truly be awarded the prize – once again though as a society or as a world, one forgets the award is awarded on the merits of the author themselves, and their work. Kertész though is reported to now live in Berlin Germany; and has lived there for the past ten (plus) years. In November of two-thousand twelve, it was rumoured that Kertész had announced his retirement, though with an impish sense of humour, Kertész has slightly denied these speculative rumours.
The Swedish academy has praised Kertész “for writing that upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history,” as well as exploring the possibility of individual consciousness in the world of social forces, and the subjection that human beings are placed under. From Nazism of Nazi Germany to the totalitarian governments of the Soviet Satellite states. Kertész has upheld the individuals constant strive for freedom and tolerance in a world that is not adherently free or tolerant of others freedoms. Yet Kertész shows that on the back drop of the horrible drab grey lands of Eastern (Communist) Europe, and twentieth century history, individuals have proven, that they exist and are alien to the happenings of history modern or otherwise, and exist solely because it is their divine human right.
This is a deeply pessimistic novel. Yet much like Thomas Bernhard’s novels, there are moments, where there is solace in humour. Though as previously pointed in other books, countless times before, don’t look towards this humour, as something that is go in got make you roll around on the floor. It’s there to lighten the mood, and it’s a sense of humour brought on simply by the absurdity of the nature of the situation. Just like the below quote:
“You’re the one who has come home from abroad. We know about you,” and at that, while the expression of curiosity on her face was extinguished just as incomprehensibly as it had lit up, she let Köves know that she would first have to come to an agreement with the editor in chief by phone, than the editor in chief would set a time point for an appointment, which he would inform her of, and about which she in turn would notify Köves – by telephone, if he had a telephone, if he didn’t, by mail.”
As a reader, we are first introduced to this book, with a harrowing detailed cycling narrative. It moves at a sluggish pace, and can be downright frustrating, and boring. It’s a discussing of the “Old Boy,” who, is anxious about writing a new book. This “Old Boy,” who is having himself, a think with casual interruptions. It’s reminiscent of the prose of Samuel Beckett. In the beginning, there was a thought of – “oh dear three hundred and sixty pages of this.” Yet about half way through, on page one-hundred and nineteen, the entire book takes off in an entirely different direction.
The entire second part of this narrative encompasses the confusing and bewildering life of Köves who has returned, to his home country (Hungary) from being abroad. Though not explicitly stated; based on the life of Kertész, it is not at all difficult to speculate that our narrator Köves has returned home from abroad; but not necessarily for some business trip or leisure. It very well could be stated that he is returning from a concentration camp. Though on the back of the book does present a clouded hint of this as well.
The world in which Köves enters freely – and under the guise that it is home; is a world that is like a Kafka story or a Becket play. It is a world of confusion and despair. A place where, happenings may not have an actual concise and concrete ending – let alone a purposeful beginning. This, causes great pessimism throughout the novel, also carries a lot of the sense of humour. But where Kafka and Kertész deviate from each other’s paths, is that Kafka’s work is abstract at times. The language and words that Kafka used where often hollow which allowed them to be used in a language of alienation; but the world in which they were presented became insubstantial. Kertész on the other hand, creates a world all too real, where the absurdities of shifting laws and unintelligible and often absurd happenings are quite common and apparent. Much like the above quote, in regards to Köves dismissal from his job, as a newspaper writer; a post that he did not hold before his departure; is just an instance where two different realities do not match up.
The landscape that Kertész presents in this novel is what one would typically think of when dealing with Eastern Europe under the Communist Regime. Grey upon grey. Misery upon misery. Unbearable abnormalities of life. The description of the “Rumpus Room,” is a great depiction of the world at the time:
“In the “Rumpus Room,” the name given to a low-ceilinged windowless parlour, illuminated only by the nightmarish glow of neon tubes, in a wing right at the back of the restaurant, card games were going on amid a cacophony of sounds clattering back and off the walls, with slim, grey – templed uncle André, the chloroformist, a bored, man-of-the-world stopping every now and then, behind a seat, to take inwardly whether he should leave and come back later when Alice, as she rushed by, took his fate in her hands. [. . . ]”
That does make this novel, interesting though; in regards other than its writing style, and also its subject matter – it shows how quick and easy one can be assimilated into irrational situations; just as Köves does. It is an interesting study into how as people, one comes to understand their circumstances, and where they fit into them. Much like Köves, who accepts his dismissal from the newspaper, than to becoming a factory worker – only to have made it as a working writer for the ministry of production! As the saying goes: “There is no rhyme or reason,” – and that is especially true with this novel, what happens – happens with no real concern for the past or the present or the future; it just happens. This will at times leave the reader a bit confused and disoriented. But the ride along is quite the journey. It is both bleakly pessimistic, yet compassionate and a bit light hearted in other moments.
“One morning, perhaps more mid-morning, Köves stepped out of the front door and set off with a whistle, though there was no reason for that, the weather being overcast, with a cool wind blowing, and over the streets rose a cloud of dust (constant yet at first glance it came merely from construction sites, with their proliferation of ruins, scaffolding, and obstacles of every kind) mingled with pungent smells, as though possibly (it was not out of the question) heralding the approach of autumn, conjuring up in Köves remote images of a by gone (purpose never were) real autumns of reds and yellows and crackling hearths, and awakening a whimsical longing for a light, soft, yet warm overcoat into the upturned collar of which, in one of those familiar acts, he might hang his chin – but anyway he set off with a whistle to his workplace, the ministry of production.”
The Swedish Academy in their Press Release sums up Kertész’s literary style and themes, as follows – but they also share in an elegant way, what any reader will be in store for when they read a book by the author:
“The refusal to compromise in Kertész's stance can be perceived clearly in his style, which is reminiscent of a thickset hawthorn hedge, dense and thorny for unsuspecting visitors. But he relieves his readers of the burden of compulsory emotions and inspires a singular freedom of thought.”
(http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2002/press.html)
And they are right. Kertész's work is a thicket of thorns, and dense foliage. It pricks and prods. It’s claustrophobic and a constrained writing style, that is tight, and strangles the reader close. Yet throughout it all there is compassion, hope, and dignity out of human suffering.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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And As Always
Stay Well Read
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M. Mary
