At the edge of heaven we must strip our pity and toss it in the bin beside the stage. Most of us take pride in pity. Things turn out to be their opposites, but how, you ask, could I have known? I have a few angles to bear. Have you ever, soft of brush, soaked up another’s tears and daubed the wall with a figure of yourself on Mount Compassion, a flag bearing your name? Or even an anthill version of this? I have too—we’re all suckers for slop-heroics—but the edge of heaven won’t come later if we don’t wake to it now, the rim of words, the steps of dark. When you fumbled (a different “you” now, or maybe not), I rescued neither your endings nor your mood, not because I dismissed your fluster but because its honor surged in me. If there’s no room to fail, a director said recently, it isn’t theatre. I took that to mean not: failure leads to success (what is success, anyway?), not even: art must take risks, but rather: failure of a kind is holy, the kind that breaks us all open blessed. I no longer need to live anything but that. My shadow sheds its garments and, like others of its ilk, lengthens across the green. The night leans long. Goodbye for now. The whole is taking place.
In his Poetics, Aristotle used the word “catharsis” to refer to a kind of purgation of pity and fear in the viewer of a tragedy. We attend tragedy, according to Aristotle, to feel pity and fear and to be purged of these emotions in a pleasurable way. We can define catharsis more broadly as the intense emotional and spiritual relief—and awe—we experience when a work of art (or anything) brings something up out of us that was buried or dimly known. This relief is not escape; it involves recognition and sometimes feels like a downpour.
In music, this catharsis is elemental and often wordless. In a song, the lyrics themselves are only part of a catharsis, which may also have to do with the progression and shape of the sounds, or the intensity of a particular performance. To be cathartic, a song does not have to be grandiose; there are Galaxisok songs (such as “Elaludtam az Ikeában“) that I would call cathartic in an understated way. Catharsis is only partly objective, and only insofar as many people may feel it at once. So there is something inherently faulty about naming cathartic songs—but then, there’s something inherently faulty about almost everything.
The first cathartic song I will name here is Platon Karataev’s “Napkötöző,” (approximately “Sun-binder”), released just this Thursday. It begins:
Nap, Kelethez kötött a tenger emlő-meleg csak te szelheted át még ma alattad erdő-nyereg
Approximately, with liberties:
Sun, tied to the East, the sea is warm like a cradle, only you can still cross it today astride a forest saddle.
That’s enough, I think, to start you into the song. I don’t want to translate the whole thing, because that might be something for elsewhere, not this blog. But with this, you can hear how the song builds; you can understand viscerally where it goes. There are three particular cathartic moments for me (around 2:08, 3:43, and 4:10) but every detail in the song contributes to them. You can’t say: this is cathartic and this is not. The song takes you through the stations of the sun and soul. There are swift moments where everything happens at once, all angles come together.
I love the video (by Ákos Székely), a compelling work in itself, but even more do I love listening to the song without the video, with my eyes closed, because then the scenes are internal and external at once. To me it’s like what Ivan Ilyich sees at the end of his life (in The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Tolstoy): something so luminous and vast and simple that you drop everything.
There are cathartic songs that I have brought up in other Song Series or Listen Up posts (such as Cz.K. Sebő’s “Hart” and Hannah Marcus’s “Face in the Moon“—so I’ll focus on a few that I haven’t brought up before.
Let us take Vic Chesnutt’s “Granny.” From the very start, this sparse, slow song hints from every angle that more is happening in it than you think and that something is going to happen. Follow it closely, follow it, hear what happens after the third verse, but also before that, in every turn of phrase and melody, every strum. It is one of the most moving and understated songs in the world. Here are the full lyrics, and below them, the song.
Granny, oh Granny, what ya doin’ by the kitchen sink? What ya doin’ by the kitchen sink? She said, “I’m just makin’ up some pimento cheese” She said, “I’m just makin’ up some pimento cheese” She said, “I’m just makin’ up some pimento cheese”
Granny, oh Granny, what ya doin’ with your false teeth? What ya doin’ with your false teeth? She said, “I’m just pickin’ out the blackberry seeds” She said, “I’m just pickin’ out the blackberry seeds” She said, “I’m just pickin’ out the blackberry seeds”
Granny, oh Granny Where did your husband, my granddaddy go? Where did your husband, my granddaddy go? She said, “He went off to heaven just before you were born” She said, “He went off to heaven just before you were born” She said, “He went off to heaven just before you were born”
She said, “You are the light of my life and the beat of my heart” She said, “You are the light of my life and the beat of my heart” She said, “You are the light of my life and the beat of my heart” She said, “You are the light of my life and the beat of my heart”
Catharsis can be so quiet that when it takes over you, you’re like a sneaker untied, all ragged. That’s what happens when I listen to the long-beloved song “Someone Else in the Room” by Carrie Bradley (on the Ed’s Redeeming Qualities album It’s All Good News), featuring Carrie on vocals and guitar, Neno Perrotta (RIP) on clarinet, and Dan Leone on banjo uke. The lyrics (two verses that draw a picture and tell a hidden story) alternate with the clarinet solo, things that can’t be said, the loss of a person.
My old sofa wouldn’t fit through my new door My new lamp has a 3-way switch and drops 3-way discs of light next to me on the floor My window’s open so I can smell the neighbors I can’t see They cook with spices across the alley Pull up a chair, six-fifteen
Here’s my new mystery, here’s my new work, here’s my new shirt I’ll have to forgive me—I’ve got so much to do and you’ll have to forgive me when I talk like there’s someone else in the room.
After these three, what can I choose for a fourth and fifth? They had better be good. For one of them, I am going to break my previously stated rule of not repeating songs that I have brought up in the Song Series or Listen Up series. Art of Flying will be playing at the Make-Out Room in San Francisco with Virgil Shaw and the Blue Knots; I bring up this song in honor of the show. I can’t make it; I can’t even go to Győr tomorrow, and San Francisco is much farther than Győr. But I am thinking of them all, and Art of Flying’s “tomorrow” has to be included here. It belongs in the ultimate songbook of all time. In an earlier post I quoted the first verse; now I’ll quote the last, which serves up catharsis in spades:
now all the world cries: “Let me Go you must remember what they say tomorrow brings the fields with snow” there must be something I can say yr lavender is in my hands & rosemary is far away tomorrow turns the stars to sand tomorrow takes us all away.
And now for just one more, here’s “Une sulased” by Duo Ruut, an Estonian duo I first heard on David Dichelle’s wonderful WFMU radio show Continental Subway. I don’t understand a word of the lyrics, but it seems to have something deeply in common with “Napkötöző,” so it brings this around full circle. The title apparently means “servants of sleep,” where “une” is the genitive of “uni,” sleep. I wondered whether “uni” had a common origin with the Hungarian root “un,” “to be bored with (something),” but according to an etymological dictionary, the latter’s origin is unknown. “Sulased,” however, the plural of “sulase” (and related to “sulane”), could share a common origin with the Hungarian “szolga” (“servant”), a Slavic loanword. Without further etymological ado, here is the song.
A few general thoughts on catharsis in song: As with catharsis anywhere, the purgation or release is both true and illusory. It really happens, you are changed on account of it, and yet so quickly you can swing back a bit (not entirely) to your former self. Imagine a swing on a swingset: imagine the resting point changing ever so slightly. There’s a responsibility that comes with all of this, a kind of “you must change your life” prompting that most of us probably slightly heed but mostly postpone, imagining that the song or performance has done it for us already. It has, but only if we do our part. What that means is not definable; it’s different for each person. Probably each of us knows what we need to let go of, or some of it.
But music is also about something different, something beyond doing. Music is made, it takes practice and attention and keenness, but it also contains a leisure, an intense kind of rest, a reality where tasks and achievements drop away.
This was for me a cathartic (though cursory) foray into catharsis in song. I hope you enjoyed it too.
Art credit: The picture at the top is a still from the “Napkötöző” video.
P.S. Sorry formistyping Neno’s name (caught the error and fixed it). I also corrected the Vic Chesnutt lyrics and made a few edits.
I had never been to Budaörs before yesterday. It’s just to the west of Budapest, a sweet, atmospheric town with dramatic hills rising up in the background and a couple of big shopping centers near the train station. I went there for one evening of the Budaörs Festival, which featured the beloved Galaxisok and Kollár-Klemencz Kamarazenekar, as well as Mordái, whom I may have heard in passing before but really liked this time. I decided to stay the night there—at a bed-and-breakfast called the Varga-ház—so as not to have to rush out of the Galaxisok concert. I got there around five, made my way to the Varga-ház, checked in and dropped off my backpack, headed over to the festival, and got there just shortly before the Kollár-Klemencz Kamarazenekar began. I sat in the front row, something I rarely do, and took no pictures during the show itself. It was so beautiful, so much fun. I was a bit surprised to see that the keyboardist wasn’t Márk Csernovszky, but a few minutes in, and I loved him, whoever he was. I think his name was Tamás Frank. He played with a gritty intensity and delight, his face sometimes lighting up. László Kollár-Klemencz is the songwriter, guitarist, and primary singer; Kató Mákó sings on quite a few of the songs, sometimes solo. Here is a gorgeous video (from a 2023 performance) of one of the songs she sings, the “Háziasszonyok dala” (“Housewives’ Song”).
It was already getting chilly at the festival, and I realized it would get even chillier by the time the night was through. But what to do? I had brought no long-sleeved shirt, no jacket; I was wearing my Galaxisok t-shirt. Then I remembered that there was a large Tesco in front of the train station, open 24 hours, so I walked down there, got a zippered hoodie, and was all set. I got back to the festival in time to hear a good part of Mordái’s set. They have a rich musical range; their music is approximately folk rock with a heavy sound, but something else can burst out of it unexpectedly. It isn’t quite “metal folk” of the sort I have heard here a number of times; they’re as playful as they are intense. Here’s their song “Cinegemadár.”
Then came Galaxisok! And a great show they played. Before they came on, I was feeling quite hungry, so I got a burger on the premises and was a little nervous that I wouldn’t have time to eat it before they started. But they took a few minutes to test out the sound, so the timing worked out just right. The joy of listening to them in full comfort, in a hoodie and with a burger in my belly! So many songs they played, old and new. Some of them joined my favorites. I did take a picture of them, and a couple of short videos, but because I’m in a little bit of a rush, heading out shortly to the Fiumei Road Graveyard to see H. Miklós Vecsei and Gergely Balla perform “Mondjad, Atikám!” So here’s the picture—a placeholder for a lot of thoughts, songs in my head. Here, also, are two songs that have joined my favorites from their opus: “Időtlen idők” (“Timeless Times”) from Minket ne szeress! and “Örökre elég volt ebből” (“[It’s been] enough of this forever”) from their new album, Ellenszélben. I might later add the video that I shot (of “Beatkorszak“); we’ll see.
The concert ended after 11 p.m., and I strolled back to the Varga-ház. It was so good not to have to try to get back to Szolnok at that hour. At 6:30 in the morning I headed back to the train station. Here are a couple of pictures of Budaörs (from the evening). The cello belongs to Béla Valkó of the Kollár-Klemencz Kamarazenekar; I took the picture before the concert began. The audience photo was taken by one of the official photographers of the festival, during that very concert. I was at least as happy as I look there.
Tonight’s performance is special; it’s a play-monologue, with musical accompaniment, that conveys Attila József’s life and person as Vecsei understands and imagines them. I first saw it in Torockó (Rimetea), Romania last summer; it was an astonishing occasion. I have seen it once more since then (at the Turbina in Budapest).
Speaking of astonishing things, yesterday Platon Karataev released the title song of their forthcoming album Napkötöző, with a video by Ákos Székely. “Napkötöző” could be translated as “Sun-Binder”; it refers to the Quechua word “Intihuatana,” often translated as “The Hitching Post of the Sun,” a ritual stone of the Inca. Here is the video. Yesterday I wrote: As I listen, my senses partly stop and something different and wondrous begins. I love to listen to it with my eyes closed, since the music fills everything–but the video is amazing too, with its shadows, light, heights, depths, symbols, dimensions, and movement.
Yes, and that leads to the subject of a quiet weekend, because I was going to go to Győr to hear Platon Karataev at the synagogue there, playing at the Five Churches Festival. I was looking forward to that so much. But when I thought about it more carefully, I realized it would be a ten-hour trip in all, with a return to Szolnok around 1:30 in the morning and then my first class starting at eight in the morning. I can handle that sort of thing, but I need to be alert on Monday and need some time at home over the weekend for writing and translating. So I’ll have to pass on Győr this time—but will be listening to “Napkötöző” and other songs. That will be a special occasion in itself.
It happens again and again: I go to a concert and struggle over whether to take a picture or two (or maybe a video). I usually take a few quickly, so as not to distract others or myself. If the venue prohibits it, this comes as a relief, because then I don’t worry about it at all. But when others have their fancier phones out and are taking extended videos, I think, what harm could a shot or two do? I am mixed about it.
On the one hand, trying to capture a concert goes against what it is for. It’s there to be lived, not preserved. Part of the whole meaning lies in the loss, the knowledge that you will never hear it again in that same way. That leads to a more intense presence. For the sake of that concentration (my own and everyone else’s), I would put the phone away. There’s honor in letting the concert be something you can’t keep.
On the other hand, I look back on some pictures and videos I have taken in the past and am glad to be able to return to them. They bring back even more than I thought they would. For that reason, I am not sorry to have taken a couple of pictures, and a video, of the Platon Karataev duo concert on Friday night. I had hurried there after a full day of graduation ceremonies. It stood out among all the Platon duo concerts I have attended; I think it will be one of my favorites.
In the moment I felt guilty about taking pictures, but this short video (one minute and twenty seconds long) shows so much: the audience gathered all around (the video shows about one-tenth of the crowd), the night, the lights, the buildings and trees, all of this surrounding the beautiful performance—the regrets melt away, leaving the concert itself.
The best, I think, would be to do both. Take no pictures at certain concerts; take a few at others, if it doesn’t distract others or yourself. Never block others’ vision with the phone; never use a bright screen.
How would I feel if I were performing and others were taking pictures and videos? I think I’d be honored unless it got out of hand. I wouldn’t like it if people were doing it perfunctorily or paying more attention to their phones than to the performance. I also wouldn’t like it if it got distracting. Other than that, I don’t think it would bother me. Taking a photo can be a gesture of attention, not inattention. Often I have been glad to have the pictures.
As for the larger phenomenon of picture-taking at events, part of it is exciting: we have troves of informal footage. When there’s a concert I want to attend but can’t, I often watch the short videos afterward. They’re usually Instagram-length, too short for comfort, but they give me a hint. I enjoy their sheer variety: some close up, others far away, some with effects, others without, some steady, others erratic, and each one choosing different intervals. Each one says something about the filmer as well as the performance.
But another part still seems futile. What if the clip comes out bad, as it often does? To shoot a good clip, you have to pay attention to it or just be lucky. If you pay attention to it, you risk missing something of the concert; but to be lucky, you usually have to increase your chances by taking more pictures. So much of this is waste. Sometimes I have taken pictures at concerts only to realize afterward that I didn’t have to do it at all. Vapor of vapors, says Koheleth; vapor of vapors, all is vapor.
So yes, the ideal would be a capacity for both, or all three or four: refraining from picture-taking, taking the picture, responding to internal and external cues, and dropping the worries.
Here’s the first verse (included in the video) of “Csak befelé,” followed by my rough translation, which takes some liberties to approximate the rhythm and rhyme.
szemem égboltot fürkésző kút csak befelé vezet kiút minden középpont és semmi sem az a gondolat tövis, a szó nem vigasz
my eyes are a well probing the vault only the inward road leads you out all is the center and nothing is that thought is a thorn, and words don’t protect
I’ve taken a picture like this one before, but this one, from yesterday’s event featuring special guest János Másik at the Cseh Tamás Exhibition at the Petőfi Literary Museum, came out even better. Here the character Vizi (from the Frontátvonulás performance and album) holds up a glass, which he will then release. (His figure is a shadow here.) In the story, the glass stays in the air. When Cseh performed this, he would release an actual glas glass. Even though it fell to the ground and shattered (it had been prepared to do just that), through the power of suggestion it seemed to float in the air, according to accounts.
It feels strange that yesterday was my sixtieth birthday; it’s a little like holding up a glass, releasing it, and seeing it float in the air. The implausible seems to be happening at any given moment. Things are clapping together like thunder. Projects, friendships, teaching, everyday life. Even eight years ago I had no idea that any of this was to occur, and the surprises keep coming. But I am also aware of not being thirty, forty, or even fifty any longer. Behind the floating glass, there’s also a glass that crashes, if only because I get tired more easily and more obviously.
I have been thinking back on these six and a half years in Hungary. There have been occasional twists and bumps, but they all led in the end to something better. Who would have known that I would end up at a school with two colleagues whose work I would end up translating? Or that my translations of a young Hungarian poet would end up published by five different literary journals? Or that through my forays into music, I would end up collaborating with two songwriters and a poet on an online Pilinszky event, and then invite them and others to take part in a seminar on “Setting Poetry to Music” at the 2022 ALSCW Conference at Yale, a dream that came about?* Or that, through taking interest in (falling in love with) the songs of Tamás Cseh and Géza Bereményi, I would start writing essays about them, two of which have now been published (and the third accepted for publication in July, and the fourth in progress)? Or that a Shakespeare festival would come about, through my collaboration with colleagues at Varga, the public library, and (this year) the local theatre, and that it would continue beyond three years? (Next year’s is looking to be majestic.) Or that I would reach a point where I could attend literary events and follow the entire discussion in Hungarian, not just bits and pieces, and then read in Hungarian without a dictionary on my way back home to Szolnok, on the train (or, if the event was in Szolnok, then back at home)? Or that translation project would find its way to me through my own response to the book? Or that a favorite songwriter would help me record a song? Or that I would stay at Varga longer than I have stayed at any workplace before, appreciating it more and more, despite the increased hecticness (because of the nationwide increase in required teaching hours)?
But the accomplishments are only part of it. We can delude ourselves with them, thinking that the more of them we have, the better our life has been (and the better we have been). Some of the most important stretches here have little to do with accomplishment. They happen when I am biking to school in the morning and have to stop to take a picture along the way. Or when I sit down to play board games (in Hungarian) with my colleagues on a Thursday afternoon. Or when I sink into a concert, then carry the sounds with me for a long time afterward. Or when a class goes well because of interesting subject matter and the students and me coming together over it, or simply because there’s humor and good spirit in the air. Or when I browse through Eső and find some favorite pieces that then lead me on to other readings. Or when I simply get a good night’s sleep, or taste the first meggy (sour cherries) of the season. Or go on a long, long bike ride and find an active water pump out in the middle of nowhere. Even all of this is just a fraction; what about the kindness I have received here, at school and beyond, from colleagues, students, friends, family, acquaintances, strangers, both here and overseas?
There’s still another level of living here, though, much harder to define, and with no links. It’s the thing that I carry, or that carries me, between the thoughts. Something hinting that there’s still more: not just ahead, but right here. We grasp only a fraction of what is happening at a given moment, but the rest reaches us too. In some way we are made of music.
*I have been told that people trying to access http://www.straightlabyrinth.info/ are receiving security warning messages. This is probably due to a certificate that hasn’t been updated properly. The site itself is safe; it hasn’t been phished or hacked. I will try to get the issue fixed as soon as possible.
One of the most enjoyable ways to read a literary journal is to browse it: to let your eye pause on one piece or another, read it, think about it, and then go on to another. It is not necessary to read them in order. We can browse literary journals even when we think we have no time for them: in breaks, on the train, late at night.
I have just started dipping into the most recent issues of Literary Matters and Asymptote (which published my first two essays on the songwriting collaboration of Tamás Cseh and Géza Bereményi), but what I have read so far is worth many returns. I will mention just a few; this is not a comprehensive rundown or review.
In Literary Matters, consider Josiah Cox’s poem “Heroin.” The feel is so raw and bare that I didn’t notice at first how strict the form was. It begins:
I caught a glimpse of it outbound and walking East Street’s edge of shard and brutal heat, all revel, and defeat:
in an outcropped, landslid face.
(Those last two lines are supposed to be indented.)
This unassuming beginning makes you pause: the enjambment of “East / Street’s” appropriate to both the walking and the “edge of shard / and brutal heat.” I hear hints of both Lou Reed and Allen Ginsberg. From here the poem builds and builds to its quietly shocking ending.
Ted Kooser’s “A Winter Dinner” takes up the possible darker aspects of listening. It describes someone who ritually starts opining after dinner and then goes on and on, while the others sit “quietly admiring / the wicks of the candles, such exemplars / of patience despite having to stand there / all evening in puddles of wax.” But are we, the patient ones, like the candles? Are we “exemplars / of patience”? The poem hints at something else.
It’s not as easy as you might suppose, To get a life. And once you’ve gotten one, You know so little of the life you chose,
The one that you said, “positively glows With possibilities, bright as the sun”— It’s not as easy as you might suppose
To realize that it had turned to prose In the moments after it had just begun, Draining all color from the life you chose.
The first two lines make me laugh; the expression “get a life” is a close to impossible command, for how do we know when we have it, especially if it starts to fade immediately upon the seizing? These first stanzas also indicate what sort of villanelle this will be: the first repeated line will repeat faithfully (except for a punctuation change at the end), while the second will vary.
Because the day ahead is full, with a trip to Budapest and a late return, I will turn now to Asymptote, but there is much, much more to read in Literary Matters!
So far, one of my big favorites in this issue is Steven Monte’s lively, beautifully crafted translation of two cantos from Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. I am in awe of the prowess, the profundity, and the sheer fun. Take this, for example:
Astolfo was astounded twofold here: how large, at close range, the moon seemed to be! (though seen from earth it was a tiny sphere), and how, conversely, if he wished to see the mountains of the earth, he had to peer down into darkness, squinting constantly— for since it isn’t lit up like a star, the earth can’t radiate its features far.
Another favorite piece in this issue is an excerpt from D. P. Snyder’s translation of the celebrated Mexican author Alberto Chimal’s Scary Story (from the second part, “An Ordinary Day”), followed by a conversation between the translator and author. From the introductory description:
Chimal coined the term “literature of the imagination” to describe his writing style: It is loosely parallel to “weird fiction” and distinguishes his literary output from science fiction and fantasy. Chimal often employs photography and images with his writing, in hybrid formats, on and off the internet.
The piece has to be read in full; quoting from it won’t do it justice.
I can’t finish here without mentioning the special focus of the April 2024 issue of Asymptote: literature from the Faroe Islands. I was drawn in by William Heinesen’s “A Cure for Evil Spirits,” translated from the Danish by D. E. Hurford. It’s a rapturous autobiographical story of the author’s childhood, filled with demons, ghouls, and other shady and fiery characters, and later, with hymns and psalms. Throughout most of the story, the parents just laugh at the little boy’s vivid and frightening nightmares, but then comes a nightmare that does not make them laugh; this change of reaction, Heinesen writes, “flattered me and felt like a triumph; I enjoyed being the object of my mother’s concern, even if this time the reason felt slightly irrational, and I did not hold back in my depiction of Hell’s cosiness and the Devil’s harmlessness and goodwill.”
Well, now, that was a fun foray into the two journals!
In the last few days before the Shakespeare festival, the near-panic, the tension over myriad final details, started to give way to a sense that it was all going to come together and that everyone would help make it a great day. I had all sorts of help: an assistant director for my students’ performance (Viktória Botka, one of the students, who played the narrator as well); my colleague Zsuzsanna Kovácsné Boross, who directs the Varga Drama Club; our principal, László Molnár; lots of students who helped out with various things, including keeping track of the props; our stage manager, Zsombor Górán (also a student), who arranged the lighting and many other details; the people at the library, who did most of the organizing work; and the Szigligeti Theatre, who let us use the Szigligeti Színház Színműlely, their beautiful little theatre house across the street from the majestic main theatre, and helped us out with lighting, sound, scenery, and logistics during the event itself. There were a few tiny glitches—for instance, group from Sárospatak, who had set out at 5 a.m., arrived a few minutes early and found the building locked, with no one in sight—but by the time we arrived there, an hour before the start of the festival, the place was humming with groups, plans, questions.
And then it took off. I said a few words and then introduced Mr. Molnár, who gave the opening remarks. The Varga Drama Club took the stage and gave a commanding performance of “Lady Macbeth,” their adaptation of Macbeth. The other performances—by groups from Szolnok, Tiszasüly, Tiszafüred, Sárospatak, and Debrecen—followed one by one after that, with only minor hitches and no delays; the variety was quite enjoyable, with some performances in Hungarian, some in English; some focusing on sonnets, others on scenes or monologues; some traditional, others playful and experimental in their approaches. You can see the full program here. (I took just a few photos and a couple of videos; there will be more later.)
My students performed “Othello Interrupted,” in which several scenes from Othello (all scenes involving repetition of particular words, “honest,” “handkerchief,” and “husband”) are interrupted by outside characters who try to stop or change the action: a fortune-teller, a pirate, and an angel and devil. Three different Othellos play in this, one for each scene. They can be known by their long cloak. The second Othello joined the cast close to the last minute and had very little rehearsal time; we are grateful to him for this brave and generous scramble.
At the end of the morning program, we had a special surprise: Botond Barabás, director of the Szigligeti Theatre, appeared to give us a formal greeting and to invite us to hold next year’s festival in the main theatre itself!
After a lunch and rest break, we came together at the library for an address by the library’s director, Katalin Czakóné Gacov and a fascinating lecture by Dr. Natália Pikli on what it means to be a Shakespeare researcher. We then split up for workshops; I led a workshop (in the Drama room at Varga) on Shakespeare/Renaissance songs and dance.
At the end we reassembled at the library for the jury’s comments and then the presentation of certificates, an award for the best performance (the Varga Drama Club won), and gifts. The jury emphasized (in front of a full audience) what could have been done differently or better; I think all of the critique was worth considering, but it came as a slight letdown at the end of a joyous and full day. I was left struggling with this for much of the evening. In the future we might handle this differently; maybe there could be briefer commentary at the end of the day, and then groups could receive more extensive written comments the following week.
Also, the jury and the organizers should agree in advance about what to look for and value; as the festival’s co-founder, I should take part in this discussion. For instance, one comment from the jury was that my students had too much Shakespeare to struggle with (i.e., the scene excerpts were too hefty) and that they should instead have worked with adapted, simplified text or with much shorter excerpts. I respectfully disagree: the scene excerpts were already quite short (much shorter than our Shakespeare performances in previous years), and this engagement with Shakespeare’s language, challenges and all, is one of the foundations of the festival, even if some groups use adaptations or Hungarian translations. Students in past festivals have spoken about how much it meant to them to read and perform these plays. Most of the jury’s critique was helpful, though, and I am grateful for it. I can certainly see ways to help students go farther into the text: with careful study of particular words and phrases, practice with intonation and pronunciation, and emphasis on making the words their own. We did all of this, but we can do much more.
As I headed out to Budapest for the Platon Karataev concert at the Müpa, I kept thinking about the role of criticism in what we do. Why is it so hard to receive sometimes? When is it legitimate to disagree with it, and when is the disagreement an expression of pride, stubbornness, or self-defense? In the moment of criticism, it’s common to feel misunderstood: “You have no idea how much thought, work, and love went into this” or “You don’t know what kinds of obstacles we faced.” To receive criticism properly, one must use good judgement and set pride aside; one must also accept criticism’s purpose, which is not to make the recipient feel loved, appreciated, and understood but rather to point out what could be better. If the criticism, or some of it, seems to miss the point, then find the useful parts.
As the concert began, I still had this on my mind. I realized that I was not alone—that behind the scenes, Platon Karataev routinely received detailed critique, from the members, from people close to them, from their sound engineer, manager, and others. On the surface, it seems that they receive nothing but glowing praise, but that is far from the whole picture. They are used to facing and working on their weaknesses; they do this incessantly. This time I was especially aware of their intensity of focus, their adjustment to each moment. The performance built and built. Soma Bradák, the drummer—whom I rarely can see well, since he’s hidden behind the others—was in full view on that expansive stage, and not only was his drumming astonishing, with subtle changes of texture, rhythm, sound, even within a song, but I knew that this had come out of years of work and study. The songs themselves have a trajectory (in the moment and over time); some of them had new details that I hadn’t heard before, others had subtle changes, and still others were unchanged but still transformed, because I was hearing them differently. The Müpa is a rather formal place, but the music filled and expanded the space; there were moments when I wanted to move to it, but the stillness itself began to dance, and the applause at the end was genuinely thunderous.
I let go of the thoughts of critique (and the day as a whole) and sank-soared into the concert. Fortunately it wasn’t permitted to take photos, and I had decided not to do so anyway. But I took some pictures of the Müpa before the concert started.
Now I can relax a little bit. Next week I have to confer with my colleagues about the festival and give thanks to all those who took part and helped. This spring we will start planning for next year, but otherwise, festival-wise, we can expect a bit of a lull until the fall, when we send out our initial announcement.
It is fair to call the Shakespeare festival a success. Success does not imply perfection. There’s much that we can do better. But it’s a feat in itself (with many levels of meaning) and a big step from the previous year. I think this festival will persevere and persist, getting better and better, for many years.
P.S. Lilla Laura Kocsis-Szabó gave us a lovely write-up in Szoljon.hu.
P.P.S. Here are some stunning professional photos of the Platon Karataev concert.
P.P.P.S. Speaking of stunning professional photos, here are some of the Shakespeare festival (courtesy of the library).
Since autumn we have been planning for this year’s Shakespeare festival. The planning has taken so many different forms, with so many details, that I often worried that something would fall apart. But these things tend to come together, and now we have a beautiful day ahead. I can’t wait to see it unfold. My students have done a remarkable job figuring out and preparing their “Othello Interrupted” performance (of which I’ll have much more to say later), and groups are coming from Szolnok, Debrecen, Tiszafüred, Sárospatak, and Tiszasüly. Our afternoon program is rich too, with a lecture, workshops, and a closing ceremony.
As it turns out, after the festival, I will have plenty of time to go to Budapest for Platon Karataev’s Napkötöző record release concert at the Müpa. I got the ticket long in advance (the concert is sold out), and I can even take the 5:28 train there and then take a cab to the venue. This will be a wonderful celebration.
Tomorrow I had wanted to go hear Idea and the Roving Chess Club, but I badly need a day at home for rest, reflection, thinking back on the festival, perusing Literary Matters and Asymptote (where my first two essays on Cseh and Bereményi appeared this week), and listening to Napkötöző as soon as it’s out. On Sunday I will be going in to Budapest for a series of literary and musical events at the Akvárium; on Monday evening I will return to Budapest for Pesach, then on Wednesday for a Cseh event at the Petőfi Literary Museum, with János Másik as special guest, then on Saturday for a special dance performance.
The song “Lee van Cleef“—in which a fictional Lee Van Cleef comes, goes, and resurfaces—was a staple in Cseh’s concert performances and appears on Cseh and Bereményi’s 1981 album Műcsarnok. It’s an extraordinary song—surreal, pictorial, full of bite, mysterious. I wrote an essay about translating it; Asymptote accepted it for publication in the April 2024 issue as the featured article in their Brave New World Literature series. It was published today.
Asymptote is an outstanding online journal devoted to literary translation from languages and cultures around the world. Each issue abounds with treasures (often accompanied with sound recordings). It is not easy to get published in Asymptote, as they receive many submissions and curate each issue around a theme. Only once before have they published my translations in one of their issues (two poems by Csenger Kertai), but their blog often has room for what does not make it into the journal. Thus several of my translations (of Zsolt Bajnai, Ahmed Amran, and Tomas Venclova) have found their way into the blog—and I thought it would be wonderful if my essay on “Lee van Cleef” did too. So I was thrilled and grateful when they accepted it for the actual journal. The song deserves to be heard and known around the world; I hope the essay and translation will help bring that about in a small way. If I had to choose one song from the Cseh/Bereményi opus to recommend to the world, this would be one of my top choices.
Many thanks to Lee Yew Leong, editor-in-chief of Asymptote, and all the editors and proofreaders who brought this about. Thanks to Géza Bereményi for giving me permission to publish the translated lyrics, to the Cseh Tamás Archívum in Budapest for their wonderful research assistance and resources, and to Gyula Jenei, who clarified one line in the song for me (I acknowledge him in the essay too).
I have heard a number of people play covers of “Lee van Cleef,” but several stand out for me: Sándor Sárkány’s version; the version performed by H. Miklós Vecsei, Balázs Szabó, and Huba Ratkóczi in Füst a szemében; and the version that I heard at the Alternatív Közgazdasági Gimnázium on Tamás Cseh’s birthday. Not just the covers, but their atmosphere have influenced how I hear the song; whenever this song is played, if it’s played well, you can feel a response in the air.
About the “van/Van” distinction: I explain this in a floating footnote in the essay, but after much deliberation, I decided to capitalize “Van” everywhere except when mentioning the song title explicitly. In the song title and song lyrics, it is in lowercase, but it is capitalized in the poem version (published in Bereményi’s 2020 collection) and in Lee Van Cleef’s actual name. Since my translation follows the poem version, I could have capitalized it throughout, but I wanted to preserve the spelling of the song title. (I could also have kept it in lowercase except when mentioning the actual actor, but that would have meant departing from the poem version and might even have looked like a mistake.) Through translating and writing about this song, I came to see what a difference even the capitalization of one letter can make.
I recommend the entire April 2024 issue and all of Asymptote! This weekend, after the Shakespeare festival, I will be burrowing in it and Literary Matters. For now, here is the link to my essay.
A long-anticipated moment has arrived (and I stayed up late thinking that it was on the brink of happening, which in fact it was): the long-anticipated Issue 16.2 of Literary Matters has just been released, and within it, an array of pieces that make my weary eyes perk up: essays by Andreea Bălan, David Havird, Lee Oser, and others; a rich array of poems by Ted Kooser, Grace Schulman, David Yezzi, and many others; translations by John Wall Barger and Rosanna Warren, lots that I haven’t mentioned; and my first essay (of three at this point, with a fourth one in progress) on the artistic collaboration of Tamás Cseh and Géza Bereményi.
“‘Tárá-ráálá-rálárám’: The First Two Albums of Tamás Cseh and Géza Bereményi” was warmly and thoughtfully accepted a few months ago by Mike Mattison and Ernie Suarez, the editors of Literary Matters’ Hot Rocks feature. I was honored by their response to this piece, which came out of hours of listening and research, much of it at the Cseh Tamás Archívum in Budapest, which I have now visited four times, each visit bringing more insights. The piece was also inspired by H. Miklós Vecsei’s song-play Füst a szemében, which I first saw in September 2023 (and then saw twice in one evening in January 2024).
Describing Cseh and Bereményi’s first two albums in a relatively short essay is no simple feat; an essay can easily be devoted to just one of their songs. Another essay, soon to be published in a different journal, does just that; I’ll announce it when it’s out! Still, I think this first essay does what I wanted it to do: introduce some of the early songs of Cseh and Bereményi and convey why they matter.
I must get some sleep—the week is intense, with the Shakespeare festival on Friday—but look forward to perusing this issue of Literary Matters and hope that people will enjoy the essay. Many thanks to Ryan Wilson, editor-in-chief of Literary Matters; Ernie Suarez and Mike Mattison; the Cseh Tamás Archívum; everyone else who is part of this; and the songs of Cseh and Bereményi.
Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary, where she, her school, and the Verseghy Library founded an annual Shakespeare festival.
On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.
When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.
Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.
Take Away the Takeaway 
