Prague

I have this preconceived notion about expatriates. I think they're pretentious, self-involved wannabes who are misfits in their own countries, so they go to another country because they need to be challenged or inspired or whatever it is they cannot seem to get in their own country. Usually manners and common sense would do the trick, but I digress. Prague validated my opinion on expatriates. I nodded and smiled and laughed out loud throughout this book.

Which is not to say this is an easy book to read. Arthur Phillips is a talented writer, but there were times I wanted to suggest that he didn't have to prove that in just one sentence or one paragraph. There are other books to write, and some of that brilliance could have been saved for show more a future book. But at the same time, I wouldn't have the vaguest idea where to cut or edit anything from Prague. It just takes a bit of patience to stick with Prague. It's worth the time.

I liked the way Arthur Phillips linked his expats to Hungary where the 5 misfits of his story decided to settle for a while. I also liked the back stories to each of the characters, particularly those who survived the uncertainty of a life spent from birth to death for the most part in such an unsettled country. In my view, this made the expats all the more clueless about the place they chose to find their "inspiration" and new lives.

Phillips has a good grasp of what it's like to grow old and have one's accomplishments behind him or her. To be judged by the young who haven't an iota of life experience with which to understand what it took to reach advanced age during the time and setting of this book was an area in which Phillips absolutely nailed the attitudes of one generation interacting with another.

I don't think it's a spoiler to reveal that there are a few deaths in the story of Prague. One of them made me cry. It takes a gifted writer to be able to wring that response out of me because these are, after all, characters in a book. It's just that In Prague so many of them are quite memorable. show less

Minél kisebb egy ország, annál nagyobb az öröm, ha foglalkoznak vele. "Nézd, az ott a Ferenczy utca, nem?" - böködjük egymás a legújabb Marvel mozi közben. "A tádzsik elnök megint a mi miniszterelnökünkre hivatkozott" - fut át rajtunk az édes borzongás a hírösszefoglalót hallgatva. Boldogok vagyunk, mert felkerültünk a világtérképre. Ha azért, mert szidnak, kit érdekel. A negatív reklám is reklám.

Phillips könyve pedig aztán tényleg velünk foglalkozik. Illetve dehogy: velünk foglalkozik a legkevésbé. Főszereplői ugyanis olyan angolszászok, akik a rendszerváltás utáni zűrzavarban érkeznek Budapestre, hogy megcsinálják a maguk szerencséjét. Aranyásók. A kalandvágy hozta ide őket, no show more meg az, hogy egy ügyes üzletember számára ez szűzföld, ahol pár üveggyöngyért meg színes kendőért komplett gyártelepeket lehet vásárolni a bennszülöttektől. És igen, ebben az egyenletben mi, magyarok, bennszülöttek vagyunk. Indiánok, akik maximum statisztaként szerepelhetnek az angol nyelvű kolónia perifériáján. Mi vagyunk a vicces beszédű* járókelők, az egzotikus háttér, ami előtt a cselekmény zajlik.

Nem különösebben hízelgő megközelítés, de szerintem izgalmas. Mert szigorúan véve talán nem igaz, hogy 1990-ben a magyarok ünneplőbe öltözve, hosszú sorokban állva várták, hogy megnyisson a McDonald's a Váci utcában. De az ezzel együtt lehet igaz, hogy egy amerikai így látott minket: faragatlan, naiv, szegény barbároknak, akik most találkoznak először a kapitalizmus nevű képződménnyel, szagolgatják, forgatják jobbra-balra, és azon gondolkodnak, ehető-e egyáltalán. Ez persze nem biztos, hogy rólunk árul el sokat, lehet, inkább az ide érkező nyugatiak előítéleteiről, de ettől még nem kevésbé érdekes.

Ennek a nagyregénynek a kétségtelen erénye (a fentieken túl), hogy Phillips imád írni. Élvezi a mesélést, ami igencsak kompatibilis az angolszász epika azon tulajdonságával, hogy szeret szertekígyózó anekdotákba és cselekményszálakba bonyolódni. Ugyanakkor a jobb nagyepika a látszólagos széttartó szerkezet és ráérős történetvezetés ellenére valójában egy fegyelmezett műfaj, ami pontosan tudja, hová tart, hol az a pont, ahol a szálak végül találkoznak. Ilyen értelemben pedig a Prágát nem tudom nyugodt lelkiismerettel a "jobb" epikus regények közé sorolni, mert végig azt éreztem, Phillipsnek nincs határozott koncepciója arról, mit is akar kezdeni az anyaggal. Csak úgy viszi a lendület, belekap ebbe is, abba is, ha támad egy jó ötlete, kiírja magából, de bizonytalan vagyok, hogy haladunk-e egyáltalán valahová. Ez persze - legyek jóindulatú - tulajdonképpen kompatibilis a mű általános hangulatával, a szereplők lelkiállapotával, ami a "sodródás" szóval írható körül. Hogy ők se tudják igazából, mit akarnak, hová szeretnének eljutni** - logikus tehát, hogy az író is csak sodródik velük.

Ja, igen, a szereplők. Velük is van gondom. Phillips történetmesélői kvalitásai arra is alkalmasak, hogy színes figurákat teremtsen, ám a koncepciótlanság itt is kikukucskál a sorok közül, leginkább pont központi szereplőjénél, Johnnál. Akit a szerző (szvsz) nem tudott koherens egyéniségként papírra tenni, végig sajátosan lekerekítetlen, önellentmondásokkal terhes alak maradt. Kósza hipotézis részemről, de azért elmondom: szerintem pont azért, mert Johnban tükröződik vissza leginkább maga az író személye, viszont önmagunkat sosem tudjuk olyan koherensen megrajzolni, mint a fiktív szereplőket.

Mindent összevetve azért egyszer sem volt olyan gondolatom, hogy olvashatnék mást is. Hatott rám Phillips mesélő kedve: hiába éreztem gyakran, hogy ezt lehetett volna jobban is, feszesebben is, azért csak mentem vele, mert az ösvény, amin mentünk, soha nem untatott.

* Fordítói szempontból amúgy kihívás lehetett ez a kötet: egy olyan szöveget kellett magyarítani, ahol a figurák hol a magyart törik, hol az angolt, és az olvasóval érzékeltetni kell, éppen melyiket.
** Itt ragadnám meg az alkalmat, hogy elmondjam, miért Prága a könyv címe, mikor egy percet sem töltenek benne Prágában. A sodródás miatt. Mert ezek az amcsik, akik itt üldögélnek a Gerbeaud teraszán, valójában nem is itt akarnak üldögélni, hanem Prágában, mert állítólag ott zajlik igazán az élet. Persze lehet, ha a regény Prágában játszódna, akkor a címe meg Budapest lenne, ugyanezen okból. show less

This novel perfectly captures youth on the precipice of adulthood, full of earnest yearning, eternal questions, irony and a creeping cynicism and even dread that that moment, right then, is about as good as it gets. It's about a group of American expats hanging out in Eastern Europe, Budapest to be exact, where they all yearn for Prague, the epitome of cool, told in thick stylish ironic prose that I enjoyed, laughed at, and occasionally envied. Having been an expat myself at about the same point in my youth, I immediately recognized these characters, and by the end, I knew them nearly as well as their real-life counterparts.

This is a serious book. It forces the reader to read carefully and analyze what life is like in a foreign country undergoing transition from repression to freedom. It shows how Americans look to the rest of the world through the lives of five Generation-X expatriates who treat their adopted country with derision and play games with the truth.

Through Phillips' artful writing, I became aware of a city in recovery filled with jazz clubs and coffee shops where the Hungarians were annoyed by the foreigners working in Budapest and the expats were equally annoyed by the tourists. I'd never thought much about Hungary before reading this book, but ended up admiring how the people bore up under the tyranny of Communism. Phillips reveals the past show more through the family history of the Horvath Publishing Company from 1808 until the time in 1990 when Imre Horvath enters the story lending a touch of integrity. He was a welcome contrast to the expats who were full of the self-absorbed ignorance of youth. They began to believe the invented stories they told each other until they simply tired of one another and sought truth and meaning for their lives as they went their separate ways.

This book is full of hypocrisy and irony that begins with the title. I felt slightly cheated by the bait-and-switch ploy. Prague is the city on a hill while Budapest is reality. Just as the quintet of main characters try so hard to be cosmopolitan and end up looking like imposters, Prague remains an idealized longing, while Budapest proves to be a place of substance. Even though we never get to Prague in the book, I'm glad I learned this lesson from Budapest..."It's all a game and the winners are those who can tell serious from not." (Pg. 366) This is a promising first book from a winning author, and I'll eagerly read the three other books he has published since this 2002 debut. show less

My reaction to this book is very complicated. My first thought, my first feeling, was oh, how we hated these men in Prague, with their gold cards and their expat cafes and their ivy league theories and their inability to learn anything but pickup lines. But then, the author doesn't treat them with undue forgiveness, and I'm embarrassingly reminded I might want some of that forgiveness myself... And there are the one or two things that awaken my nostalgia, and then the quite interesting monologue about nostalgia... but then again, some rather unresolved character arcs, and a general rephrasing of life is elsewhere, with actual reference to Life is Elsewhere... oh, I don't know, it's complicated.

It’s 1990 in Budapest, Hungary. In the opening scene four young American ex-patriots and one Canadian, sit in a local cafe playing a mind game called “Sincerity”. They each have different reasons for being in Hungary (jobs and scholastic studies), but generally their entire lives are a game; a search for adventure, an opportunity to explore, get rich, an escape from the mundane routines at home, a random curiosity..... as opposed to the deliberate choice of traveling to a renowned “hot-spot” destination like Prague.

Arthur Phillips cleverly juxtaposes these spoiled young adults with the local Hungarians... and it provides a stark contrast indeed.

The local Magyars, after centuries of suffering and repression under communist show more rule, are learning to adapt to their newly earned freedom; capitalism, entrepreneurial opportunities, and a chance to reclaim their heritage. I don’t know if it was Nadja (the exotic elderly piano player at the local jazz bar) or the tormented Imre Horvath (who has recently returned to Hungary after thirty years of exile with the hopes of reclaiming the family’s legendary publishing company) but one of them - in a moment of frustration, refers to America as a “country of children”.

By the way, both Nadja and Imre are wonderful characters.

Sadly, none of American ex-patriots, nor the Canadian, are very likable. They’re self absorbed, shallow, pretentious, ignorant, rude, and insensitive. Featured in their own country's environment as post-college players, they may have seemed relatively normal, but set against the Hungarian background they were truly the “Ugly Americans”. And the one and only Polish character is a baldheaded, “ugly”, bi-sexual, mentally disturbed, wanna-be artist. Most of the female characters were just ludicrous... phony opportunists and sex maniacs with violent tempers, a lack of scruples, and no morals. Arthur Phillips doesn’t speak well of females in general, but perhaps these particular male characters were incapable of attracting normal women. They frequently repeated the smug proverb, “they say the best place to learn a language is in bed.” (Pg. 56...and many other pages thereafter).

"Prague" offers colorful descriptions of the tired ancient city of Budapest, authentic atmosphere, and lovely Hungarian characters. Phillips is a talented writer and It could have been a 5-Star book but for the excessive emphasis on the slovenly Polish artist and her articulately described perverted artwork. She and her “loosely termed” artwork were repulsive and nauseating. She added nothing to this particular story but to make the other characters look like idiots. She seemed to belong to a different book.... of a different plot... perhaps a tawdry pulp fiction novella at a different location. I don’t blame her for hiding out in a backwater like Budapest, but she would have better served the reader had she been far away.... perhaps in Prague. show less

Prague is a novel about sincerity and the lack of it in personal and historical nostalgia. Phillips develops his characters artfully to illustrate deception in their dealings with each other and with key players in post cold war Budapest. The problem the expatriates have in the old city is the suspicion that their insight into emotions and behavior is insincere. They have lived personal fictions for so much of their young adult lives that self deception causes them to miss the reality of current events. This leads them to underestimate the local residents and humiliate themselves in the presence of the Magyar. Cynicism and irony become parameters of the characters’ existence and all they can look forward to are rueful reminiscences of show more their short time in Budapest. This nostalgia may take the form of the phony surrealism of the borderline personality photographer Nicky creating superficially shocking collages, or the true surrealism of emotionally surprising and haunting oral myths created by Nadja the ancient piano player in a run down jazz club. The decision is up to the reader in this very good first novel. show less