In just a few minutes, I will board a plane to New York–so this is a quick post filled with thanks. I am grateful to the Dallas Institute, its Summer Institute, the Cowan Center, and everyone in and involved with them. The literary works, music, discussions, lectures, films, conversations, laughter, delicious meals, and overall spirit made this one of the most glorious summers yet. I learned from my colleagues, the participating teachers, the staff, the works we read, the songs we sang, and more. Thanks to Marcell Bajnai and all of 1LIFE for the song “Maradok ember,” which brought so much to our last two days here. I played it twice: first during my faculty remarks (the opening remarks before the main lecture) on Thursday, and then at the closing ceremony on Friday. Both times, people sang along in the chorus; the second time, there was a standing ovation! Here are two photos courtesy of the Dallas Institute (if you click on them, you can see them on Flickr and browse the other photos as well); here, also, is a short video taken at the closing ceremony by Leo Vaughns Jr. MEd.
Thanks to Dallas Strings, the wonderful place up in Allen where I rented the cello and purchased some sheet music for future playing (including cello pieces by Liszt and Farkas).
Thanks to Congregation Shearith Israel, the synagogue I have attended every summer when in Dallas, which has become a “shul away from shul” for me. I got to leyn (chant) Torah again–from one of my favorite parshiot, Balak (about which I hope to say something later). It was good to be there again—in the shul, community, liturgy, teachings, and text.
And thanks to the extraordinarily generous person who lets me stay in her apartment, summer after summer. This has made my Summer Institutes not only possible but fruitful, since there, in the quiet of her place, I could read, write, gather my thoughts, and sleep.
One more thanks: to Tom McLaughlin, who made one of these beautiful pieces for each of the faculty members, using pyrography and a branch from a nearby felled tree—and gave each of us a lovely antique book too. And to everyone who gave their works and thoughts.
I am leaving some things out, but that’s the nature of it, full and unfinished. From here into the air.
This morning, on the way to the Dallas Institute, I was listening to 1LIFE’s song “Kopog a szív” and getting caught up in the phrase “nyílik a szem” (“the eye opens”). The song lands on it, by surprise, and repeats it, and returns to it, and stays there; the song is about a lot of things, but part of it is about suddenly seeing what is going on. To me, its montage of images tells a story, or two; different listeners will hear different stories in it.
It fit well (though unintentionally) with today’s discussions of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King and yesterday’s of Aeschylus’s Eumenides, both having to do with the opening of the eyes (as tragedy generally does). When things (like a song and a play) come together without planning, they set off many thoughts. I was thinking all day about having the eyes opened and what this can mean in different forms and places: in the plays we are reading, in this song, and beyond. When your eyes are opened to yourself, whether in tragedy or in song, there are two sides to it: you realize what you have done, and you realize who you are. Also, this opening of the eyes can’t be taken back. It can be terrible or joyful, but it’s there for good.
It isn’t just an intellectual consideration; I think of vivid moments in my life when my eyes were opened in some way, through a meeting with another person, through accident, through loss, through poetry, through learning, through mistakes.
The song opened up to me slowly over the past months; I enjoyed its melody and rhythm from the start but needed some time to grasp the lyrics, since I am still far from fluent in Hungarian. I remember hearing it in concert (at Európa-nap, I think) and suddenly understanding “nyílik a szem.” The rest came from there. It is now one of my favorite 1LIFE songs. (I have previously commented here on “Maradok ember” and “Kapcsolj ki!“)
Here is a video of the song, which contains the lyrics; and below it, my tentative translation. I took a few liberties and may have made some outright mistakes. It is a start; I will make corrections and improvements over time. “Szem” can be taken in a singular or plural sense. I first translated it as “eyes” (“the eyes open”) but later my eye opened and I changed my mind. “Eye” in English can also have a general or plural meaning, and all the other images in the chorus are singular (or archetypal). “Nyílik a szem” could also be translated as “the eye is opened,” but that suggests that it has already happened, whereas here it seems to be happening right in the moment. “The eye opens” does not fit the rhythm of the song, even in translation–but it is more vivid and direct than the alternatives I considered. So I will leave it as is.
over the housetops, the sky
in the lonely streets, the wind
see our brain does not converse
gut and feeling, what goes with them?
infinity is in our cells
fear resides in our bones
suddenly a stroke of luck
makes our fingers interlock
winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, the heart knocks
this is all that our eyes see
from the sky a cloud cries onto us
the truth has no clothes
our empty room is overcrowded
winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, it stands in the door,
it waits for the key, the lock gives way,
quiet in the room, order on the shelf,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens
winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, it stands in the door,
it waits for the key, the lock gives way,
quiet in the room, order on the shelf,
the eyes opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens
I took all three photos today. The first and third are of the Dallas Institute; the second, of the dashboard of my rental car. The video was made by Zsombor Papp; the song “Kopog a szív” is by 1LIFE, and its lyrics are by Marcell Bajnai.
I made a few additions and an important correction to this piece after posting it: “kopog a szív” means “the heart knocks,” not “the heart beats.”This correction is important because first of all, it’s accurate; second, it’s a fresher image than “the heart beats”; and third, it goes with the door, lock, and everything else. It affects everything. Also, I commented a little more on “nyílik a szem” (which I first translated as “the eyes open” but then changed to “the eye opens”).
Szolnok’s beloved Tiszavirág Fesztivál, commemorating the emergence of the mayflies from the Tisza river, is now in full swing, with music, food, drink, and general cheer. It is fun to spend time there with friends, as I did last night, or go to listen to music, as I will do this evening, or just head down there without specific plans. If you live in Szolnok, you will probably run into people you know. You will also hear various languages besides Hungarian: Russian, English, French, German, Croatian, and others.
Yesterday evening, while hanging out with Tündi and Böbi and their friend Gábor, I got intrigued by the sound of Eskelina, a Swedish musician who now lives in France and writes and sings mainly in French. I went up close a couple of times to listen. A little kid went even closer.
Besides the music, what I enjoy about this festival (and the one in Esztergom too) is the ease of spending time in it, no matter what you are doing. People come there to be together. No one is in a rush, it seems. There are lots of places to sit, so you can just find a place and settle down for an hour or two, or else walk around and explore.
At the end of the evening I biked along the Tisza, then up the Zagyva, the one crowded with teenagers and reminiscent of “Álmok a parton“, the other almost desolate, except for a few bikers, river-gazers, and the sky. I now head down for more: an acoustic concert by 1LIFE (just an hour away!), maybe some walking around, more time with Tündi and Böbi, and a not-too-late return home, since I head to Budapest early in the morning.
Update: The 1LIFE concert was fantastic. I have few words for it right now, but the songs are still in my mind. Afterward I sat for a little while with Tündi, Böbi, and their colleagues. And then came home. A beautiful day.
Does life get a whole lot better than this: listening to a terrific band in one of the most beautiful cities in the world? If it does, I hope to be there for it; but if not, I have already lived well.
Established late in the tenth century, Esztergom was Hungary’s capital until the Mongol seige of 1241. It towers above and alongside the Danube; you quickly encounter its steep hill and cliffs (I was generally able to bike uphill; I just had to watch for cars). When I arrived, it was just early afternoon, so I had time to see the Basilica (up high) and bike along the Danube below.
The Basilica, planned in 1822 and completed in 1869, stands on the foundation of a much older church, built in the eleventh century, that suffered burning, sacking, and ultimate ruin, with renovations in between. Esztergom itself, for all its splendor, has been through war after war, trouble after trouble. Later, when I commented on its beauty to the staff at the Atrium, the bed-and-breakfast place where I stayed, they replied, “Szép lesz.” (It will be beautiful.)
The synagogue, which I did not get to see (I mistook another building for it) is supposedly Hungary’s oldest—I have yet to verify this—but with the deportation and killing of almost the entire Jewish community in World War II, it stopped being a place for services. Today it functions as a cultural center.
After coming down from the hill, I walked through the Comedium Corso festival grounds to get my bearings. I heard an organ grinder, saw children riding Shetland ponies, and found the large stage where the bands were to play. I checked in at the Atrium before biking back down for the concert.
1LIFE ascended the stage through billows of fog and began to play up a storm. Within seconds or minutes, the audience (ranging in age from about 3 to 60, with a large teenage contingent) was tapping, dancing, singing, cheering along. Some of these songs, such as “Nincsen kérdés,” are heartbreaking and exhilarating at once; the hard-edged sound combines with the raw and thoughtful lyrics. Their sound reminds me a little of Nirvana and a little more of Son Volt (especially the Wide Swing Tremolo album) but their mixture of music and lyrics is unlike any other I have heard.
Several little kids were dancing through almost the whole show—and really dancing to the beat, not just randomly jumping around; teens were singing along to every word; and I was thrilled to be there. I realized, in a new way, that 1LIFE had “it”: the combination of music, lyrics, zest, stage presence, and knowhow that makes you enjoy every moment and want still more. They have more to discover and try out—this is always true for good artists—and they are clearly doing this. They show it through their appreciation of others’ music, their range of textures and tones, and their willingness to go for it, play shows, work with each new situation. They are professional in the best sense of the word: not staid-professional, but live-out-the-art professional.
They played most of the songs from their album, including “Kapcsolj ki!” and other favorites; one still-unrecorded song whose name I didn’t catch (I think it has “bölcsesség,” “wisdom,” in it) and which begins with “Na na na”—I love it so far and can’t wait to hear it again—and another song, “Londoni idő,” that is not on the album either but can be found on video. Midway through “Álmok a parton,” in the chorus, Marcell Bajnai changed “A Tisza-parton éjsaka….” to “A Duna-parton éjsaka” (in accordance with Esztergom’s location on the Danube). I don’t know if this was planned, but it felt spontaneous and perfect. There were memorable moments between the songs, too: quick stage banter, an eloquent impromptu song introduction by Marcell Jankó, the bassist—and then the one sad moment: they announced that they would play their next-to-last song, “Maradok ember,” but a festival staff person apparently told them that they were out of time and could only play one more song. So they skipped “Maradok ember” and played a gorgeous, exuberant “Táncolunk a végtelenben,” which turned responsive toward the end—that is, we sang back when we were supposed to, with full voice. And then cheered and cheered. And hoped for an encore. It did not come, but the concert didn’t go away quickly either. The pictures I took of the show (below) are limited in quality, but Kitti Berényi (kittiphoto) took some great ones.
After the concert, I biked along the Danube again, walked over the bridge to Slovakia and back, got some beef stew from one of the festival food stands, ran into the band and congratulated them, and then walked and biked through sloping alleys, up and down steps, until the sun went down. I got a good night’s sleep; early in the morning, I set out for Budapest (by train), where Rabbi Katalin Kelemen and I led Szim Salom’s Shavuot service. I had been preparing for this daily (it involved, among other things, leyning the Ten Commandments and chanting the first chapter of Ruth), but I didn’t realize that Esztergom would be part of the preparation too. I arrived so rested and happy, and met with such cheer and warmth from the others (regulars and visitors) that it went the way a Shavuot festival should. From festival to festival, the bridge was not long.
Some may think it’s eccentric of a 55-year-old to travel to Esztergom to hear a band led by one of her former students. Well, it is eccentric, but it’s part of my nature, and I don’t regret a second of it. Good music reaches people of all ages. This does not mean that I would go to all their shows. For instance, if they were playing at a young people’s nightclub or party, I wouldn’t want to step into their space. But a festival is meant to bring people together; age is less important there than other things.
There’s another aspect of this too. In his essay “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson writes of the individual: “The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray.“ That is, it is given to each of us in life to appreciate particular things, to see them in a particular way. No one else can do this for us. It’s each person’s choice whether to live this out or not, but for me it’s the difference between full life and a sort of whimpering hesitation. Live modestly; be thoughtful of others; remember life’s stages, necessities and losses; but live out that life that is only yours, because that’s what it’s there for, briefly.
(I added links to this piece and edited it here and there after posting it.)
Rest will be scarce over the coming months (or plentiful, from some perspectives), so I will be looking to make the most of it. I have three different translation projects ahead and am excited about them all. I am participating in two literary events in the U.S. in October: the ALSCW Conference in Worcester, Massachusetts, and a series of events at the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture featuring two of my Hungarian colleagues (more about that soon!). In addition, I have a few writing deadlines, will continue my synagogue responsibilities as usual, and may hold another event at the Szolnok Gallery/Synagogue in September. The event on May 23 went beautifully. The audience was enthusiastic, everyone joined in the singing, and the acoustics lifted the voices.
Yes, and there’s the upcoming Hamlet performance and discussion–by some of my tenth-grade students–at the Ferenc Verseghy Public Library on June 14! They will perform three scenes from Hamlet, followed by discussions and interviews with the characters. We are now heading into our final rehearsals.
All of this is in addition to regular teaching, which is in an irregular state right now, since I am meeting frequently with seniors to help them prepare for their oral exams.
The next few weekends will be packed. Next Saturday I go to Esztergom to enjoy the Comedium Corso festival–where 1LIFE will be performing–and explore the surroundings, which look stunning in the photos I have seen. (I will take my bike on the train so that I can explore more easily.) From there I go to Budapest to lead Szim Salom’s Shavuot service on Sunday. The following weekend, we have the Hamlet performance on Friday; right after that, also in the library, there will be a performance by Zsolt Bajnai and Marcell Bajnai (father and son)! On Saturday, June 15, I plan to attend a folk dance festival in Zagyvarékas; one of my students, Dániel Lipcsei, will be performing in three groups, and there will be many more groups from all over the country. Some of it might look and sound like this:
Then on Sunday, June 16, I go to Budapest for the Budapest Festival Orchestra’s annual Dancing on the Square event. Later in the week, Szolnok’s Tiszavirág Fesztivál begins; I look forward to its concerts–including an acoustic show by 1LIFE–and other festivities. The following Shabbat (on June 22) I lead a service–with a bat mitzvah ceremony–in Budapest; on June 30, I leave for the U.S. I will be teaching, for the ninth consecutive summer, at the Dallas Institute’s Sue Rose Summer Institute for Teachers; this year we focus on tragedy and comedy, as we always do in the odd-numbered years (the even-numbered summers are devoted to epic). Those will be an intense, focused three and a half weeks, with lectures, seminars, panel discussions, films, and more. A few days on either end for visiting people–and then back to Hungary on August 5!
Back to the topic of rest: there are different levels and kinds. One of the reasons that I find Shabbat challenging (and important) is that it takes me about a day to wind down from the week. Resting on Friday evening and Saturday takes planning, focus, and determination (and I don’t always succeed at it). On Sunday, a greater calm sets in, but by then it’s already time to gear up for Monday. I have found it difficult, even in “free” time, to read books unrelated to my teaching, projects, and other preparations; several books have been waiting for months, not because I lacked time for them, but because my mind would not fit them in. I have now returned to The Book of Why by Judea Pearl and Dana Mackenzie; this time I hope to stay with it instead of letting more months go by. It gets more and more interesting as I get farther into it; I will have more to say about it later. I am also overdue with Cynthia Haven’s biography of René Girard, Evolution of Desire, not to mention books in Hungarian, which I read especially slowly.
Reading a long book (for pleasure and interest) takes a particular kind of restfulness. It’s different from reading a poem or short story; while these require intense focus and attention (and time), they tend to take less time on the initial reading than a novel or nonfiction book; thus you can reread them many times. I enjoy rereading more than I enjoy first-time reading, because of the new understandings that come with the repetition. To come to know a long book, you have to be willing to dedicate many hours just to the first reading. This is especially true for slow readers like me. I know people who can read a 350-page book in an afternoon or two; I am not one of these.
So there’s the rest that involves unwinding and the rest that makes room for reading. What other kinds are there? Writing, playing music, and other creative activities require stretches of time for trying things out, going back and revising, etc. There’s also the rest that comes through exercise: biking, for instance, over long distances. There’s the rest that comes from spending time with others: laughing with them, playing music with them, sitting down for a meal with them. There’s the rest that comes from doing something different: going somewhere on vacation, for instance. There’s the rest that comes from attending a concert, reading, or other performance. There’s the rest that comes from sorting things out in the mind: reflecting on the week, remembering important things, and putting less important things in their place. Then there’s the rest that comes with pure laziness: puttering around, doing what you feel like doing, whether or not it’s productive. There’s the rest that comes from sitting quietly and doing nothing. There’s structured, time-bound, hallowed rest, such as the rest of Shabbat. Finally, or near-finally, there’s sleep, and, at the end of life, death.
These all overlap, yet they are distinct, taking different forms and playing different roles. Yet each one can be well or poorly carried out. It’s all too easy to compromise rest, to try to make it serve something else. To rest well, you have to rest with all your heart. Or maybe that’s what makes something restful in the first place: doing it with all your heart, instead of pulling it this way and that.
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
The immediate occasion for this post is a new online vote–and while I don’t trust in online votes or their results, I vote for 1LIFE, because they deserve the chance to play at East Fest–Mezőtúr. (Update: they will perform there on July 27!) I will not get to hear them, because I will be in Dallas for the month–but others will be able to enjoy the occasion. Enough of that; I am here to say a few things about “Kapcsolj ki!,” a song that has intrigued me for months. In particular, I see an interesting relationship between the poetic form–particularly the stanzas and rhymes–and the meaning. Parts of the song are especially difficult to translate–and it’s always hard to convey music in words–so anything I say will be a rough approximation. (The lyrics are by the band’s lead singer, guitarist, and lyricist, Marcell Bajnai.)
The video, by the way, is my favorite of all of theirs, because it’s taken in the studio, and it’s so well put together, from different times and moments in the recording session. Over the course of the video, the recording comes into being, and yet you’re listening to the finished thing all along.
Now for the song: it moves from looking outward toward looking inward (though both are present throughout); it seems to speak, at first, of a relationship where the other person is afraid to notice the speaker–and if only that person were willing to take the risk, things would become possible. But then it shifts; in the second verse and the bridge, the speaker begins to see the obstacle in himself. This gives the chorus (and the entire song) a new meaning. By the end, you hear everything in a new way.
The translation is rough, intended just to give some access to the original. I want to draw attention to the rhyme pattern and its relation to the meaning. The song’s rhythm breaks the lines into stanzas of three, with clearly audible line divisions. The first stanza has a strict rhyme (the “án” sound) throughout; in addition, the three lines sound like a tight unit:
Monoton mozdulatok során,
Zavaros gondolatok taván,
Úgy érzem elnyel az óceán
(In the course of monotone motions,
In the lake of confused thoughts,
I feel the ocean swallow me)
The next stanza has slant rhyme; the vowels rhyme, but the consonants do not:
Hajóm süllyed még egyszer
Engedd meg, hogy megértsem
Ne tégy úgy mintha féltenéd
(My boat is sinking once again
Give me a chance to understand
Don’t pretend to be afraid)
In the third stanza, there is slant rhyme once again, but for the first time, the stanza’s unity is broken, since the sentence is incomplete; the final word, “könnyedén,” leads directly into the fourth stanza (and gets repeated there). This is especially difficult to translate because of the incompleteness of the thoughts; I hope that I have conveyed the overall gesture. (See the first footnote for a comment on “kérdeznék.”)
Tudom jól, ha kérdeznék*
De inkább nem mert én,
Azt is tudom, hogy könnyedén
(I know well, if I would ask
But I would rather not, since I
know too well how easily)
And then, in the fourth stanza, the rhyme falls away, just as it says that “the dream easily evaporates” (“Könnyedén elillan az álom”). So the evaporation of the dream is accompanied by the slipping away of the rhyme–and the breakdown of the stanzas–over the course of the entire first verse. (I took some liberties in the translation to capture the repetition of “könnyedén.”)
Könnyedén elillan az álom
Amit annyira vártunk
Mintha nem is lenne rég
(How easily it turns to air,
The dream we waited for so long,
As if it were not long delayed)
Then, in the pre-chorus and chorus, a new pattern gets set up, that also gets broken slightly, at just the right time.
Valamit akkor is mondanék
Valamit az égbe kiáltanék
Csak hogy te is halld a hangom
Valamit akkor is kérdeznék
Érted bármit megtennék
Csak hogy te is észrevedd
(Something then I would say
Something I’d shout into the sky
Just so you would hear my voice
Something then I would ask
I’d do anything for you
Just so you would notice [me])
It works really well in the ear to have “Valamit” occur three times here but not four; if it were “Valamit” instead of “Érted,” it would be too much, but here it’s just right. Similarly, in the chorus:
Kapcsolj ki mindent, nézz fel az égre
Legyél most bátor, én várok rád
Dobd el a kulcsot, kezedben a sorsod
Legyél most bátor én várok rád
Kapcsolj ki!
(Turn off everything, look up at the sky,
Be brave now, I am waiting for you
Throw away the key, your fate is in your hand
Be brave now, I am waiting for you
Turn [it all] off!)*
The chorus has a series of commands (“turn everything off,” “look up at the sky,” “be brave now,” “throw away the key”), three of them with a different preposition in the verb (ki, fel, el), and one with no preposition at all. But “kezedben a sorsod” breaks the pattern; it’s a declaration rather than a command. This variation, once again, works well in the ear. (See the second footnote for a little more about “kapcsolj ki.”)
Now for the second verse. If the first verse represents a breaking down, the second verse represents a building up, but only in the imagination, in the apprehension of possibility. Here the rhymes and verse structures move in the opposite direction, from dissociation to unity. At first the lines do not rhyme (well, there’s off-rhyme in the first two, but not in the third, unless you listen to the middle of the line as well):
A nap szárítja a könnyeket
Áradnak már a tengerek
De mi lesz ha betörnek a házba?
(The sun is drying up the tears
By now the seas are swelling up
And what if they break into the house?)
Then the rhyme begins to build up: you hear the “o” and “a” sound.
Víz folyik be az ablakon
Hallok egy távoli dallamot
Hallom pedig messze van
(Water flowing through the window
I hear a distant melody
I hear that it is far away)
Notice the difference between “hallok” (indefinite) and “hallom” (definite). Both mean “I hear.” Since it is “a” distant melody, not a specific one, “hallok” is required in the first instance–but in the second instance, something specific is heard, namely, the fact that it is far away; hence “hallom.” This seems just a grammatical detail, but it adds to the musicality and richness of the verse.
From here on, for the rest of the verse, the off-rhyme with the “e” sound prevails. The phrase and line repetitions give a sense of building and climbing, but then, once again, loss and absence. (“Bárcsak most is itt lennél,” “I wish you were here”).
Közelebb nem is lehetne
Akár el is érhetem
Akár el is tehetném
Akár el is tehetném
Többé el sem engedném
Bárcsak most is itt lennél
(It couldn’t get closer
If I could reach it
If I could preserve it
If I could preserve it
I would no longer let it go
If only you were here)
This was by far the most difficult part to translate. I am not sure that I have conveyed “akár” correctly. “Akár… “akár” usually means “whether … or,” but that sounds awkward here. “Akár” can also indicate an emphasis, something along the lines of “even.” But here, in the song, its meaning seems to shift as it repeats, and the best way to convey that, I think, is through a simple “if,” even though that isn’t as emphatic as “akár.”
Then come the pre-chorus and chorus again, followed by the bridge, which (as I hear it) holds a key to the whole song–somewhat buried in vocal distortion effects, so you have to pay even closer attention than usual. (“Mi van ha tényleg velem van,” “What if it really is with me?”)
Mi van ha tényleg velem van
A baj csak nem látom magam
Szó nélkül elmenni hagytalak
Mi van ha mást is tehetnék?
Rögtön hozzád rohannék
Talán te is megértenéd
(What if it really is with me
The problem is I can’t see myself
I left you without a word
What if I could do something else?
I would rush to you right away
Maybe you would understand)
In more than 1500 words, I have barely grazed the surface of the song. “Kapcsolj ki!” tells itself through the music; one can analyze it up to a point, but from there it takes off. This is probably my favorite 1LIFE song after “Maradok ember” (though there are other close contenders); while I don’t expect to play it on cello, I can’t wait to hear it live for the first time. I may have heard it at the school gala last year, but at that point I did not know who the band was and did not understand any of the lyrics. The upcoming Esztergom show (at the Comedium Corso festival) will be the first time that I knowingly hear them in concert. I wish many others this joy, and I wish 1LIFE many more shows and songs!
*The lyrics posted with the YouTube video–which I take as the official lyrics–show “kérdeznék,” but in the recording and video I hear “kérdezném,” the definite form of the verb. This alters the meaning slightly, since it suggests asking something specific. Also, I am really not sure of my translation of this part of the song. I think there might be something colloquial here that I don’t yet understand.
**(“Kapcsolj ki” can also be translated as “disconnect,” which is both transitive and intransitive. I thought, though, that this translation would distort the meaning slightly, since at the end of the chorus, “Disconnect!” would seem purely intransitive, pointing back to the subject. “Disconnect!” also has connotations that I don’t think are present in the Hungarian. In the Hungarian, as I hear it, “Kapcsolj ki!” still implies a direct object.)
The photo appears courtesy of 1LIFE’s Facebook page.
I made a few edits to this piece after posting it–and added a rough translation of the song, which I subsequently revised in a few places. I will likely continue revising this over time. If you see any glaring errors or misinterpretations, please do not hesitate to let me know.
The Hungarian band 1LIFE released their debut CD, Nincsen Kérdés(“There Is No Question”), in February 2019. Here are some thoughts on one of their songs, “Maradok ember” (“I remain human” or “I will stay human”; it can be taken in both a present and future sense).* My translations and interpretations are imperfect; fortunately you can listen to the song itself. The music is by 1LIFE; the lyrics are by their guitarist, lead singer, and lyricist, Marcell Bajnai.
As with their other songs (for instance, “Kapcsolj ki!“), the words and music carry each other. The lilting, descending melody, wistful lyrics, and layers of sound (guitar, bass, drums, and piano or keyboard) make room for each other but also move tautly together; each detail holds the rest. The song begins,
lehetnék hajó, te meg
lehetnél a folyó
úgysem engednéd, hogy benned
elmerüljek én
This translates approximately as
I could be a boat, and you
you could be the river
you would never allow
me to sink in you
This is an image of possibility: two things that could exist in relation to each other–gracefully, strongly. The music seems to play it out; it is as if the lyrics were the boat, and the music the river. Yet none of this has happened yet; the scene plays out in a possible future.
The first word of the song, “lehetnék” (“I could be”) is the first person conditional of the verb “lesz” (“to become” or future “to be”) with the potential suffix “-het”: lesz + -het + nék = lehetnék. The song’s fifth word, “lehetnél” (“you could be”) is the second person singular. They suggest becoming and imagination.
The grammar helps to convey the relationship between the two things. The boat is not preceded by a definite article (or any article at all), but the river is. Thus the first image of the pair is not specified–it’s a boat (or ship), any boat, or an archetypal boat–but the second thing is specific, existing in relation to the first. This pattern–of verbs and definite article–persists through the subsequent three pairs of images in the first verse. (Yet part of the initial pattern gets broken: the “úgysem” segment occurs only twice. I like this about the band’s songs in general: patterns are detectable but not overdone, and they change at just the right time. “Kapcsolj ki!” is also outstanding in that way.)
At first the images and even the action seem common: just as people hold each other up, the river will not let the boat sink. I think I have heard this metaphor before. But there’s an ambivalence: is the river protecting the boat from danger and disaster, or keeping it from what it wants to do? Is there some kind of danger and loss in the protection? The next stanza extends the puzzle:
lehetnék felhő, te meg
lehetnél as eső
úgysem engedném, hogy végül
zápor legyünk
I could be a cloud, and you
you could be the rain
I would never let us end
up as a downpour
It seems, at first glance, that the cloud is holding things together, preventing the downpour from happening–but the rain is already falling, and so the cloud could be holding back from the action, refusing to join in, refusing to become “us,” even though it is made of the same matter as the rain. There might be some separation, some breakage, in this restraint.
Even here, the meanings have not been revealed; we don’t know what the boat and river, cloud and rain are, except that they express relations of some kind. Things take a turn with the next stanza, where living beings (as opposed to inanimate matter) come into play:
lehetnék erdő, te meg
lehetnél a madár
bújj el bennem, és igérem
itt senki nem talál
I could be a forest, and you
you could be the bird
hide in me, and I promise
no one will find [you] here
This picture seems peaceful, except for the suggestion of a threat: that the bird needs to hide from those pursuing it. It’s idyllic and fragile at the same time. But then the next stanza casts new meaning on what has occurred up to now (or the possibilities that have been suggested).
lehetnék bolond, te meg
lehetnél a király
mondd csak, minek is játszanék, hisz itt
mindenki bánt
I could be a fool, and you
you could be the king
just tell me what else I could play, since here
everybody hurts
Now it seems that all of the images from before–boat and river, cloud and rain, bird and forest–are roles being played, like the fool (or jester) and king, and that no matter what part you play, you do not escape the basic pain and your own ability to hurt others. As I understand it, “bánt” is transitive, so the hurting is inflicted as well as suffered.
But then comes the chorus, which seems joyous, almost:
nem leszek több, mint aminek látsz
nem leszek jobb, mint amire vágysz
maradok csendben, maradok ember
nem leszek szebb, mint ez a világ
nem leszek bölcsebb mint az apám
maradok csendben, maradok ember
I will not be more than what you see
I will not be better than what you desire
I remain quiet, I remain human
I will not be lovelier than this world
I will not be wiser than my father
I remain quiet, I remain human
Is this the true victory: staying human, staying quiet, not succumbing to the pressures toward extremes? If so, this song seems to stand up against the hyperbole of our times, the pressure to be the best, the first, the loudest, the fastest. (It could even be a retort to U2’s “Invisible,” whose chorus has been translated into Hungarian as follows: “Több vagyok, mint akinek ismersz, több, mint aminek látsz. Nagyobb vagyok, mint akinek gondolsz. Testben élek. Most még nem, de egyszer majd meglátsz.“) Or maybe it is not protest, but an admission, a promise, or a simple statement of truth. (I originally translated “maradok” as “I will stay”–but because it can also be understood in a present sense as well, I changed it to “I remain.”)
The second verse–only half as long as the first–gives a new dimension to the puzzle. It returns to the first two pairs of images, but not the second two. Now, instead of looking ahead at possibilities, it looks back on what has happened.
te voltál a folyó, és látod
én voltam a hajó
vigyáztam de te mégis
partra vetettél
You were the river, and you see
I was the boat
I was careful but all the same
you landed on the shore
te voltál az eső, és látod
én voltam a felhő
azt mondtad, hogy minden rendben végül
viharrá lettél
You were the rain, and you see
I was the cloud
you said that all was well at last
you turned into a tempest
All the cautions and protections come to nothing: the boat ends up on the shore, and the rain turns into a storm. Also, the becoming has come to an end; the primary verb is now “voltál”/”voltam,” the past tense of “van.” The phrase “viharrá lettél” caught my attention: “vihar” (“storm, tempest”) is of Slavic origin, and it appears here in the translative case, “viharrá,” which gives a sense of transformation (“into a tempest”). From what I gather, the translative case has a slightly archaic or poetic feel. And then there’s “lettél,” the second-person singular past form of “lesz,” the verb I brought up in the beginning. It’s a past future of sorts: in the past, you became.
The forest and bird, fool and king, do not return, but they do not have to; we can decide for ourselves how they end up–how we end up, since we are they. How far do we hide? What and whom do we play? At what cost? To what end?
Then comes the chorus again, several times, along with interjections of “és látod” (“and you see”) and “és hát” (“and well”), and changes of musical texture. What does it mean, staying human? What does it consist of? Maybe being human has to do with two opposite things: protecting each other and yet failing to fully protect or be protected. Or maybe we play parts, well or poorly, while human pain and joy take their own course. Or we lighten our lives and mend the breaks with interjections (“well, you see”).
These words, patterns, melodies, and layers make “Maradok ember” no ordinary song. I sense that these musicians have much more coming, but right now they deserve to be heard.
*Some background: One of the band members was my student (in a class that met once a week); he has now graduated. Another still attends the school. In February a colleague told me about their CD; I purchased it, listened to it, and then listened more. I write about this song because it (along with the rest of the album) has had an effect on me and because I would like others, particularly English speakers, to know about it. It’s a magnificent song, and I am grateful for it.
Update: I have made edits to the piece, including the translation, as recently as July 23. Since writing it, I worked out a cello cover of the song, which I played in a little concert at school on April 29. On July 25 and 26 I played it again, this time at the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Here is an excerpt from the July 26 performance (at the closing ceremony of the 2019 Summer Institute). The next day, 1LIFE played at East Fest Mezőtúr!
As of November 2017, she teaches English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, her students released the inaugural issue of their philosophy journal, CONTRARIWISE, which has international participation and readership.
On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss culture, education, literature, and other things.
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.
Some of the pieces on this blog are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the blog's satire category. For a full list of my satirical pieces, please see my website.
