Gyula Krudy, Sunflower

Krudy-SUNFLOWER-2007-001Every now and again I do a straight random pull off the stacks in the library and give a book a go that nothing in my experience would have led me to intentionally seek. To some extent, I fool myself, because it’s not entirely random. I tend to do this when I find myself in some section that I intended to go to and maybe I end up getting the book I came for and maybe I don’t. In this case, I had accidentally stepped on my Kobo and broke the screen, so I had gone to the library to get their copy of The Water Margin, which was on my Kobo. The library only had one volume of it, so I figured I’d just bite the bullet and replace my device. But my eyes wandered around the shelf where The Water Margin was, and I found Gyula Krudy. One book of his, my library has, but it is fantastic.

It’s a bad tendency of people from the United States to group together disparate societies into fictional wholes because they know next to nothing about them. Africa becomes a country, for example. So I feel somewhat hesitant in even mentioning that I went through a semi-significant phase of reading Czech literature, primarily Jaroslav Hasek and Karel Capek, in my 20’s. The impact was strong and there was a musical artifact of my own.

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I’m sort of embarrassed that having read a modest amount of Czech literature that I feel I have some background that primes me for a Hungarian writer. And yet, there it is.

I do know enough to know that I know very little about what we in the United States call Eastern Europe to know that nobody ever taught me very much about Hungary except that Magyar is not a Slavic language. This strikes me as really important in terms of why I had never heard of Krudy, who strikes me, at least from this preliminary example, as one of the finest novelists I’ve come across. The back cover uses descriptive words like “satirical” and “surreal,” or at least words along those lines, and there’s talk in the introduction of Krudy as a “modern” novelist. I’ve since returned the book so I can’t check for precision here. The point here is that upon reading the book it’s clear why someone would call much of what happens in the book “surreal,” or “satirical,” but when one says “surreal” one immediately calls to mind someone like Andre Breton, and the comparison is misleading. There is an outsized absurdity to the characterization–in an entirely satisfying way–that at times made me think of Gogol, but I like Gogol so much that I compare basically anything satirical to him and, in fact, Krudy’s satire, if we want to call it that, is not really Gogolian. And it’s a mistake to try to lump him in with literary modernism in the sense most people in this country understand it–Joyce, Stein, etc. He’s not really operating with the same parameters as that crowd. I got the feeling, reading him, that much as Magyar sustained an endogamous development, that I imagine its literature did as well. I could be horribly wrong, but Krudy’s work is, among what I’ve read, totally unique, and it’s for that reason that I make these suppositions.

Get the book. Krudy should be read much more widely in this country.


Haruki Murakami, After Dark

df124716-cfdb-58c5-a5f5-390bed2fa7ed.preview-300Six or seven years ago a good friend, also a reader, gave me two Murakami books for my birthday: Norwegian Wood and After the Quake. I read the latter first and absolutely loved it. The former I started but didn’t finish. I have a long-standing policy of not finishing books I don’t actually want to read. I think the habit must have started in elementary school, as soon as teachers started assigning books, because in all my schooling I never really wanted to read anything my teachers assigned, and I never really read anything in school. When the teacher assigned Vonnegut I thanked God it was The Sirens of Titan, which I’d already read on my own by that time. I actually did skim it for class which was for me a pretty good showing.

I will be clear from the start that I did finish the book and I did enjoy it. This speaks of a basic quality of the book. That said, After Dark is by no means a great book and this is particularly disappointing given Murakami’s elevated reputation. This is a writer whose name one drops for literary hipster cred. And I say that having really enjoyed, as I noted above, one of his books. I remember as I read it–before this “blog” came into being–thinking more than once, “ah…this is really interesting. I think that’s one of the things I read for, those moments when I see things in a way I hadn’t expected to see.

But here we have bits like the following. The full text is from the book, and the strikethrough is mine.

A thin cream-colored coat and red pumps. The shoe bottoms are worn out of shape. A deep pink, beaded crew-neck sweater, an embroidered white blouse, a tight blue miniskirt. Black pantyhose. Underthings of an intense pink with an unmistakably synthetic lace trim. These pieces of clothing give an impression that is less sexual than sad. (128)

There is nothing in the experience of a work of art that makes my skin crawl more than being told how to feel about something that happens. I’ve never expressed it here, but I detest everything Steven Spielberg has ever done, even the things I actually enjoyed watching. And why? Because he hates his audience. Only an artist who hates his audience would, as Spielberg persistently does, tell them how to feel. You can imagine my disappointment that Murakami descended here to Spielberg’s depths.

A writer should approach text like Hitchcock, not Spielberg. Hitchcock directed the viewers’ attention, where Spielberg directs their emotion. Strike out that last sentence, and we have perfect mise en scene a la Hitchcock, or that great shot in “Citizen  Kane” where Kane and the doctor break down the bedroom door, the one that’s in every film textbook.


In the film, Welles, like Hitchcock, has entirely prepared us to see the glass, spoon and bottle. No explanation is needed and we know entirely what it means. As a result, our feelings on seeing them are appropriate. The things onscreen elicit our response. This is how a writer, particularly a writer of fiction, should write.

As it happens, Murakami–who can, in fact, write–has likewise set up the scene. I remember reading the list of clothing and finding it incredibly sad. And then, that last line.

These pieces of clothing give an impression that is less sexual than sad.

When I read that it was like getting slapped in the face by an insult. One of my pet terrors is that we live in a society that is becoming more elitist while producing elites of diminishing quality. This line struck me as clear evidence of the process. If this is how one of the “great writers” of the day approaches the craft and his audience, we’re more screwed than I had previously imagined.

I also wondered who the h**l edited the book. No way would that have gotten past an editor of serious fiction at Random House back in the ’50’s or early ’60’s. The assumption was that the reader was capable of doing some of the work in the work of art. None of this back then, at least in “serious fiction.” Again, my strikethrough.

Backed up by electric piano, acoustic bass, and drums, Takahashi is playing a long trombone solo, Sonny Rollins “Sonnymoon for Two,” a midtempo blues. (163)

Now, any writer who cites Sonny Rollins scores a few points with me. And in my case, I would have gotten the reference immediately without aid. Most readers at this point, and likely when the record was new as well, wouldn’t have known the tune. But when Joyce packed Ulysses full of references, he very consciously didn’t pad them with explanations. He thought enough of his readers to assume they would put forth the effort to chase down his references if they were curious. And Joyce is not so scary and high-falutin’ as some people would have you believe, if you just put in the time and effort.

A work of art does not exist as a thing, but comes into being as it is experienced by an audience. The artist is not the most important part of the relationship between artist, work of art, and audience. It’s the audience. And when a reference in a novel doesn’t just let the reference be but explains it–in this case, tells the reader who composed the tune, and what type of tune it is–the novel, the author, and the industry kill the process of the reception of the novel as an active, imaginative process. We need novels that let their readers breathe, not that do their breathing for them.

Don’t misunderstand me. I finished the book. It was good enough to finish.