“siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél….”

Platon Karataev’s song “Partért kiáltó” (“Crying for the Coast,” or “Shouting for Shore”), the title song from their forthcoming album, can be heard in so many ways that anything I say about it is just a temporary thought, different from what others hear in it, and different from what I might hear in it next time. I wrote recently about the silences in it, and that was just a fragment of a beginning.

One line, “siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél” was puzzling me in terms of grammar alone. I first thought it might be something like “fut ki merre lát” (“people are running every which way,” “people are running for their lives”). In that case, it would mean, approximately, “everyone is hurrying faster than the forest.” But instead, I think the “ki” is equivalent to “aki,” in which case this would mean, “he/she hurries, who is faster than the forest,” or “whoever is faster than the forest, hurries.” It has the ring of a saying or proverb. It could mean, “Slow down, there’s no rush” or “Time has a different scale here.”

de te maradj, ha idáig eljöttél
siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél

(but stay, if you came all the way here,
whoever is faster than the forest, hurries)

The song, as I hear it right now, has something to do with the hopelessness and hope of love: the human condition of pain and restlessness and infinity, but also the hope and change that can come from another’s presence. The final words could be coming from the water, from the other person, or from both, like a dialogue:

ezért a mondatért jöttem
ezért a mondatért
ezért a emberért jöttem
ezért a emberért

I came for this sentence
for this sentence
I came for this person
for this person

But even with that interpretation, it doesn’t stay still; different parts stand out at different times, taking on new tones, and I am not sure that it’s about a relationship at all, or about what we usually call relationship. The lyrics are quietly stunning; they carry the beauty of the Hungarian language with them. The music holds its own dimensions of meaning; just as with the lyrics, you can listen to it in many ways, over and over, to each instrument and to the whole. I think Platon Karataev has reached a new level with this song.

In a distant way, the song reminds me of Leonard Cohen’s “Avalanche,” which similarly has to do with an infinity of pain, an inability to love, but then a turn toward some kind of hope, if only the hope of longing. But Cohen’s lyrics are more bitter, at least until the last two verses. “Partért kiáltó” has all of the pain, or some memory or echo of pain, but none of the bitterness. But now I am not sure that “pain” is what’s going on in it. There’s something else.

Even as I write this, I start hearing the song in different ways. It could also be a call to the listener, a kind of “invitation au voyage,” except that here the voyage consists in staying still and listening, letting the song go down into you. But that understanding, too, will change, and others will hear the song in still different ways, so I will leave off here.

I made a few additions and changes to this piece after posting it, most recently on September 3, and a few cuts after that. I won’t keep on revising it, though, because there will always be more to the song than I can put down here, and this was meant just as a start.

P.S. When the full album Partért kiáltó comes out, the lyrics booklet will include English translations. But since translation is what I do (or a big part of it), and since I moved to Hungary in large part for the language, I like to ponder these things.

P.P.S. Thanks to David Dichelle, the DJ of WFMU’s Continental Subway, for including the song in his show on September 2.

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  1. The Pact of Music and Silence (and Some Brief Thoughts on Platon Karataev’s New Single) | Take Away the Takeaway
  2. Different Kinds of Depth | Take Away the Takeaway

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    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In February 2022, Deep Vellum will publish her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

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