Folyosó came out on Monday—the third anniversary issue—but I delayed the announcement for a day, because I was trying to resolve an SSL certificate problem. First the host company said they had fixed it and I should give it 24-72 hours to resolve. After 24 hours, I contacted them again; apparently it hadn’t been fixed yet, because they fixed it immediately.
Then, after announcing it and all, I noticed a boldface error on the main page but couldn’t correct it all day, since I didn’t have the login information with me and couldn’t retrieve it remotely. I fixed it upon returning home, and all was well.
Yes, the journal has been in existence for three years! And while it takes a lot of work at many stages (recruiting, selecting, editing, formatting the pieces; finding the cover art; setting up each issue; planning and holding international contests; sending out annoucements; and more), I know it is worthwhile, not only for the students, but for the sake of literature itself. There are treasures in here—with imperfections, surprises, boldnesses. When editing the pieces, I try to fix errors but do not interfere much with the style, since I want this to remain the students’ work. Considering, also, that they are writing not in their native language, but in English, I welcome the idiosyncrasies, the expressions that a native speaker might not say but that flash with energy. “Heeeeey! Can you hear me, you toy-freak pianist?” is one of my favorite exclamations in this issue (from Lilla Kassai’s story “The Missing Piece“). When has anyone ever called anyone a “toy-freak pianist”? Let this be the first.
I was delighted both last fall and this spring, when two students whom I have never taught individually submitted poems. Milán Galics’s “Season of Death” appeared in the fall issue, and Zalán Nagykovácsi’s “Silent Reflection” in this one. I could say a lot about what I like in each poem, but I’ll leave this to the reader to discover. Then again, I can’t resist. Here’s the penultimate stanza of “Silent Reflection”:
My thoughts, like ripples in a pond,
Are soft and gentle, and then they’re gone.
As I am lost in this moment of peace,
A short time that will never cease.
As I pointed out to my students yesterday, the stanza ends with a paradox, “A short time that will never cease”—which resembles the ripples, instantaneous but spreading outward, vanishing but somehow never going away. The paradox becomes part of the meaning of the whole poem. But there is much more! Read the whole thing.
Many of the pieces speak to students’ dilemmas and preoccupations: Lili Forgács’s story “What Is Always Coming, but Never Arrives” depicts a contestant in a game show who is bewildered by a particular question that seems to have more than one correct answer. How many times has something similar happened to students, to anyone? We see more than one correct answer but are expected to satisfy someone’s premise that there is only one.
I must run, so that is all.
Take Away the Takeaway 