West · / · 1908 · / · 1908. Issue 4 · / · ENDRE ADY: THE HUNGARIAN PIMODAN
I am a woma
When I became a writer or what the hell, I should have met and befriended a rude Sainte-Beuve from somewhere. This would obviously have noticed (honny soit, qui Wilde means) that basically, inside, I'm really a woman. And he would have said to me: Madame, you can't enter the writing career like this, let's throw away her youth and feminine vanity first. Because that's where my tragedy began, that I've been young and femininely vain since I've been conscious. Even though I wore out, went bald, went bald and was overwhelmed by the scumbags, I always felt like Princess Chaulnes: a princess, a Péter Tas, can never be older than thirty years for the plebs. And that's how I hated myself with people who are important people, but whom I never considered people, even though when they laid a wreath, it was nice. That's how I was forced, when the crying spasms threatened me up close,in order to preserve the appearance of my masculinity, to escape into alcohol, from where, as long as I was young, I always came out as a drunken victor.
Did Mary Stuart, or did Mary Stuart, have a fatal affair because she wanted to be the first of many women to enter the church? I once had a lot of problems with this first place: I wanted to be the first to get into church, school, fame, and female virginity. The Erinnis punished me for this in such a way that I could not be the first where no one else had the right to earn or even to covet besides me. When I was a student, I wanted to beat my gym teacher, because he messed up three, enough, in my excellent certificate. I had to be afraid that this would put me in second place, behind someone who also received an excellent classification from the tournament. This time, and perhaps this time for the first and last time, the eternal, sick, longing joy of my female soul, the primacy, was not taken away from me. Since then, everything seems to have colluded against me,to taste the last fate: the fate of second or third place. Devil and hell, but most of all my dear contemporaries united - against my youth and vanity. After all, they worked well: I left all places, first, second and third, I live far away, I don't even live. But I am the dead of the dead, whom the living had to reckon with, because I do not take their bread. I endanger their peace, their faith and, moreover, their cynicism, and when new and hungry people of their kind come, I will be the donkey-jaw in the hands of this young Samson.But I am the dead of the dead, whom the living had to reckon with, because I do not take their bread. I endanger their peace, their faith and, moreover, their cynicism, and when new and hungry people of their kind come, I will be the donkey-jaw in the hands of this young Samson.But I am the dead of the dead, whom the living had to reckon with, because I do not take their bread. I endanger their peace, their faith and, moreover, their cynicism, and when new and hungry people of their kind come, I will be the donkey-jaw in the hands of this young Samson.
Of Art, I once had my own sure, ordinary, well-ridden cane paripa. I took stock of who I am, where I come from, how much strength I have, what excites me the most, how far I can go and where Art is from me. My race from the Kyrgyz neighborhood could hardly bring with it the pillars of flame that came before it, thirsts or spells ingrained in its soul. An individual misfortune, somewhat reminiscent of the legend of Hunor and Magor, that I set off for the quagmire for the singing and dancing virgins. Yet I thought for a long time that Art was quite close to Athens, but just as far from Sparta as it was from Rome, Carthage or Jerusalem. I was disappointed: Athens and Art are furthest from Sparta, and the road from Cincinnatus to Ovid is one step away. And the new, economic,in modern life, a good-natured Armenian sailing ship is even closer to Athens, and the Jerusalem money changers are also close. Squids ride with mules, even today spiritually, and it is easier to climb Olympus with mules than with Transylvanian, caped, and mokány horses. These look like cheap complaints. The late Lajos Tolnay didn't fit in with his caracans either, but honesty can't help but mean that he's on the side of the road. And many are free to those who have walked through it with their faith, who have stepped aside from the path of aspirants and who, although they have not yet reached the age of forty, already have to write memoirs.but honesty can't help but be a wayside. And many are free to those who have walked through it with their faith, who have stepped aside from the path of aspirants and who, although they have not yet reached the age of forty, already have to write memoirs.but honesty can't help but be a wayside. And many are free to those who have walked through it with their faith, who have stepped aside from the path of aspirants and who, although they have not yet reached the age of forty, already have to write memoirs.
*
I search the black chest of my pains, what was the most painful of my pains, which were abundant and never writer's pains, but kind of real? I really needed the Woman, I always had to, I could have died more easily and sooner for the Woman than for Art. But the Woman was relatively, so-and-so, somehow always kinder to me than the Other and the human bushes that I would have had to wade through in order to get to the Other, to Art. For the wickedness of the Woman, I have always established death as a medicine; the Other was never so generous as to point to death, command life and defiance, and these required intoxication and alcohol. It just wouldn't have been a daily order between us, between me and Art, Money. I would have done what I came with, who didn't like me,I would have spat on him and today I would not be a self-accusing, crying and restless dead. But I feel the difference terribly, to use a drink example, Goulet, Moëbetween T and Chandonne and Hungarian champagnes. I like to eat a lot of underwear, refine my skin, I like good soap and good perfumes. I like to be a Krőzus like Morgan, the soft, oriental delicacy, playful with my eyes, multi-colored, sinking and original carpet is also a great gem. I have already written poems about the yacht, which is mine and will never be mine, and is not a junk sailboat like Ferenc Herczeg's. Hell, don't let anyone look at me as a bamba, I knew that I wouldn't be able to fulfill all these desires and wills from Hungarian poems, or even from any poems. But as a consolation, as a narcosis, I just wanted and could want to be what I could be. For example, Herod should not take note of me in Hungary, just as his ancestor who lived in Judea noticed the little one who brought trouble. Well, I have achieved that, Herod, the new Herod,he didn't kill hundreds of little ones, he made a mistake on me. I was waiting for someone to come to my aid, finally neither the case itself nor death belonged to one person, but even though I waited, I failed without anyone noticing except one or two passive Samaritans. On the other hand, the speech was full of words that Péter Tas is freaking out, Péter Tas is hysterical, which is true. That Péter Tas takes his companions on his evil, biting mouth and says bad things about everyone. How can someone in Budapest remember that there are noble, too honest people in their feelings, unusual people in Budapest? they are not noble by heraldry, but by their thousand faults, pains, splendors, and humanity.that no one but one or two passive Samaritans had even noticed. On the other hand, the speech was full of talk that Péter Tas is freaking out, Péter Tas is hysterical, which is true. That Péter Tas takes his companions on his evil, biting mouth and says bad things about everyone. How can someone in Budapest remember that there are noble, too honest people in their feelings, unusual people in Budapest? they are not noble by heraldry, but by their thousand faults, pain, splendor, and humanity.that no one but one or two passive Samaritans had even noticed. On the other hand, the speech was full of talk that Péter Tas is freaking out, Péter Tas is hysterical, which is true. That Péter Tas takes his companions on his evil, biting mouth and says bad things about everyone. How can someone in Budapest remember that there are noble, too honest people in their feelings, unusual people in Budapest? they are not noble by heraldry, but by their thousand faults, pain, splendor, and humanity.are they unusual in Budapest? they are not noble by heraldry, but by their thousand faults, pains, splendors, and humanity.are they unusual in Budapest? they are not noble by heraldry, but by their thousand faults, pains, splendors, and humanity.
At that time, at the beginning, I was good for my story, even very good. He is united only in his lack of culture, an outlaw in Hungarian, a frech in Jewish, and a liar even in his noble incitements in Budapest. A hard head equipped with the passe par tout of Hungarianness and religion of good chance. I also went to him for every wall, the sittya and the letterless in the first row, because I had the first access to this, but also for the Hebrew letter, if I had to. I broke a gap or two, I remember kicking a superstition or two, conquering a person or two, maybe. The miracle is only a miracle for two days, the people got up and cleaned the dead with me. My head was a little broken, but my eyes remained intact and I saw how those who teased me the most angrily jumped through the cracks. This is also a fate: to be born such a person,he who paves the way for others within thirty years and everywhere, also for the future. But it hurts more than this fate that no one sees my bloody head and heart, not even now. When, at the time when these things happened, I wanted a little relief and friends besides alcohol, I had to find fools or really fantastic ones as my companions. Those who, according to the external order of things, should have stood by me as brothers, went to the fair, they were already happy about what was to happen, when it was not necessary to deal with my person as a matter of fact. It is likely that my woman-soul pulls me into it, forces me into many injustices, but my anger is just. And I laugh forward at the sage who wants to comfort me, who wants to convince me with foreign and domestic examples that this has always been the case. Neither Akiba nor any other more authentic sage to me,it doesn't impress: the professional sage works for teachers, but the individual is his own philosopher. Everyone who has the ability to do so has the right to forgive their own mistakes and complain to people about what they believe should be complained about.
*
The Evening has already dazzled my soul with the indescribable, mournful, beautiful colors of the farewell November Sun: I will die or at least I want to die. It's not like death comes when I know I'm a little on the wrong nerves. But surprise me at any time, and in two days anyone can read it in a village cemetery, even with spelling mistakes on the black headboard: "It's Péter Tas nyukszik". There is a red jug in front of me: two or three small glasses of wine are just sitting on the bottom. This jug didn't even promise more or anything else: it promised wine until I won the bottom. But we made a slightly different contract with life, God bless him, when I made the deals with young frivolity and gave the reservations. Well, if I have the time, strength and whim, I will find Hungarian legality for myself and build the Hungarian Pimodan. But they can come after me, even better believers,even more innocent guys who can't help themselves. Here on this earth, where we must live and die, everything will only get worse than it is today. So only then will those who are born copies, but hungry copies who can eat when they are hungry, have a really good time with ten originals.
Athé or whatever Shakespeare calls the goddess of corruption in Julius Caesar, he let us have his army. The congested, ancient, Tatar savagery and the unstyle, tuxedo-clad parlor-rascality of the twentieth century are about to thoroughly kill what would be beautiful Hungarianness and intellectuality. It was good to move away from this and instead of great - so to speak - type pains, only to hurt and suffer for myself. What a sacred and great thing pain is, edged with a purple-brown, pregnant halo of old grudges and fury. Again, all you need is Baudelaire's advice for the wine jug: a reason and an excuse to cry and perish.
I am old enough and antipoetic enough, even a moralist, today to be made easier by crying for others. Of course, I mourn myself above all else, because a Pharisee is someone who considers someone else different, more precious and more to be pitied than himself. But I then lament everyone whose feelings are commanding, absolute, more powerful than man, cannot be channeled into literary or artistic activity, and do not ease with tears or swearing. I mourn those who were not born in their own country, came from very far away, and if they wanted to get to where they were sent as batons from somewhere, they would have to live ten lives. I mourn the Hungarianness of myself and my few brothers, which has been a curse especially since the discovery of America, where the new age is also calculated from. I mourn them, my brothers, who they were, who are alive and to come, and who will get to the Pimodan hotel.With even more crying, I mourn those who won't even have that left and die or go crazy on dry land.
Faith is a product that comes and comes like bread to the people of every era. There was a case where bread was charged separately for meals in Paris, and in Budapest they gave twice as much as today for two krajcár. Smart economists tell the curious what constellations are the reasons for this. But faith is perhaps more economically inexplicable than grain and bread. It is not true that every now and then a pessimistic current starts its way to people's souls from somewhere in the south or north pole. But it is true that faith today is still tinsel even in the realm of the proletarian, the new hearts. There is no faith and absolutely no faith here in the Danube-Tisza region, where there was usually always little. I'm talking about the people with the skin, which is obvious, the sensitive and the sensible sad.
Úgy látom, hogy semmit se mondtam el abból, amit akartam s két napig tolulna a ceruzám alá az írnivaló. De ha most még tovább írnék, halálban is kegyetlen volnék s a síromból is kikaparnának. Jobb egyelőre magamnak sírni, elbújva, hangtalanul és írástalanul. Befejezem a magyar Pimodánról kelt furcsa írásomat. Dokumentumnak így is dokumentum és én dokumentumot akartam adni. Hiányosnak akkor is hiányos volna, ha mindent megírnék, ami az én tragédiám mögött rajzik s amit meg tudnék írni. Egyszer, talán, ha a halál igazán és alaposan nem végez velem, valahol folytatom. De ha nem én írom meg a folytatást - óh a szerencsétlen -, meg fog születni vagy talán már ír és harcol is, aki tovább írja a magyar Pimodánt.
(Vége)