Gyula Krúdy (1878–1933)

- Rezső.
- Igen?
- Rezsőke. Rezsőkém, drága Rezsődémonom.
- Mondjad, mucuska.
- Csináljuk megint úgy.
- Hogy „úgy”, szívem?
- Beszélj megint úgy, mint Krúdy Adyról.
- Ah. Értem. Khm. Szóval. Hozzád képest a többiek csak gyufalángok, amelyek tűnő fényt rajzolnak ugyan a Király utca kávéházainak vaksi tükörablakaira, de csak te vagy, csak te vagy a szikrát hányó máglya, a hamvasztó vad tűz.
- Huh. Igen, Rezső. Még. Ezt.
- Felejthetetlen kun tekintetedben show more felfénylenek az orfeumi asszonyok, a könnyű ujjú borok simogatásai, a hazabattyogások a hajnali esőben, a nehéz sors és a könnyű élet, ott fénylik benne, mi is az: költőnek lenni.
- Mrrrrr. Mrrrrrr. Mrrrrrrezső.



(Sok tekintetben tipikus Krúdy-mű. Csak épp nem Rezeda Kázmér a főszereplő, hanem Ady Endre. Akiből ezek szerint csak azért nem lett igazi Krúdy-hős, mert nem élt meg elég időt ahhoz, hogy kiérlelje magában a jellegzetesen Krúdy-s nosztalgiát, amitől - visszanézve - aranyfényben látszanak tündökölni a lumpen éjszakák. Ez a könyv egyfajta nekrológ, ami nem feltétlenül követi az életrajzi tényeket, ugyanakkor azt is elkerüli, hogy karcolhatatlan ércszoborként ábrázolja Adyt. Mert Krúdy pontosan tudja, hogy egy zseni a gyarlóságaival együtt zseni, sőt: a gyarlóságai csak közelebb hozzák hozzánk őt. Ugyanakkor ez nem csak Ady-nekrológ, hanem búcsú egy egész generációtól: a kávéháziaktól, akik füstbe burkolózva ittak, vitáztak, marcangolták egymást hajnalig. Ők azok, akik elhullottak Európa csataterein, vagy csúf betegségek zabálták ki belőlük az életet. Ők azok, akik a kávéházak lelkei, dobogó szívei voltak. De már nincsenek. Így a kávéházak is lelküket vesztették, szívük sem ver már. Egy korszak véget ért.) show less

As Sindbad, an inveterate seducer and lover of women, travels (largely as a ghost), searching for his lost loves and lovingly and erotically recalls their appearances and personalities, Krúdy is really exploring the loss of a centuries-old culture. It is the waning days of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and change is accelerating and inevitable, but the ancestors whose portraits hang on the walls of ancient homes and the dead in their graves are almost as real as the living.

As in his show more fascinating and mysterious Sunflower, Krúdy brilliantly evokes the beauty of the Hungarian countryside, the almost soporific quality of life in small villages, the bustling activity in Budapest (or, Buda and Pest) and, in this work, the characters of a huge number of women. As with Sunflower, very little is straightforward. At various times, Sindbad is alive and 300 years old, buried in a grave, traveling as a ghost in a carriage, and even transformed into a sprig of mistletoe. The boundary between life and death is porous, connected by love and longing.

Above all, there is a feeling of melancholy and loss. The stories abound with autumn leaves, dark nights illuminated by the moon, misty landscapes, rivers begging to be jumped into, men and women who have killed themselves for love. Musing about one of his loves, Sindbad recalls that she called him not "to the enjoyments of a quiet life, but rather to death, decay and annihilation, to the dance to exhaustion at the ball of life where the masked guests are encouraged to lie, cheat and steal, to push old people aside, to mislead the inexperienced young, and always to lie and weep alone . ." show less

Krudy (1878-1933) left behind an enormous body of work, a dozen or so of his books being available (at least at one point) in English. (A few dozen works of his works are available on Project Gutenberg and the Internet Archive but every single one is in Hungarian—there is nothing in any other language.) This collection (and other works as well) of short stories is based on the adventures of the hero from the Thousand and One Nights. But these stories are all told by the ghost of Sindbad, show more an old man looking back on his many love affairs; it comprises equal parts nostalgia, philosophizing, poignant history, and wit. Death is ever-present in these stories, particularly the matter of coming to terms with death and how we view our lives as we age and this lends a certain wistfulness as well. Still, though some stories resonated, I never quite warmed up to the collection and, while I don’t doubt Krudy’s talent, I’ll be very selective in picking up any of his novels. show less

“Movendo-se em ambientes atulhados de móveis e memórias, de anseios e superstições, que vibram de realidade e cheiram a sonho, o narrador torna-se pivô de uma grande convulsão na cidade. O retiro torna-se armadilha nesta narrativa ceia de guinadas e nuanças, ora hilariantes ora elegíacas. (...) Se olhar vagava pela cidade ou pelo campo e pousava numa vitrine ou numa lápide, o enredo se detinha, e esse objeto comum, qualquer, ganhava vida, crescia, assumia o papel principal. Um show more perfume ou um violino iluminava um pedaço de pele, o canto de um lábio ou um retrato desbotado, e do presente ele se transportava em um passado mítico, irreal. Irrompia o espantoso, o sobrenatural, a ficção se impunha sobre a realidade. Esquadrinhava as obsessões e as paixões, aproximava-se tanto do que escrevia que, com alguns traços de tinta lilás, como um compositor verista com uns poucos compassos, criava uma atmosfera em que o erotismo, a compaixão e a crueldade arrastavam o leitor a um mundo de sonhos. Numa linguagem musical, num tom menor, grave, da literatura húngara, seus narradores, que muitas vezes se confundiam com o próprio autor, diluíam-se entre os personagens e com eles caminhavam por paisagens nebulosas, onde tudo era possível.”
Retirado do prefácio de outro clássico do autor: O Companheiro de Viagem show less