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English
Kőrösi Zoltán művei angol nyelven:
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Írta: Kőrösi
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2011. június 26. vasárnap 22:15 |
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Dear water drinkers, water eaters,
water-dwellers and water-thinkers!
As we all know well
70% of the human body and 75% of the Earth’s surface is water.
As we all know,
there’s no pure chance in our world.
Ancient people
smarter than us used to say we are what we eat.
Those even
smarter than ancient people used to say we are what we drink.
Drinking
ourselves is what makes us humans.
We are what we
drink and we are what we are swimming in.
Never put off
till tomorrow what you may drink today.
We are the breath
of air in the water.
We are a bubble
floating up, carrying air, bursting or not. Where is it going or swimming ? It
thinks: upwards.
The
transcendence of a bubble.
It’s the same
water that circulates in our bodies that we circulate in, it’s the same water that
flows in us which our city is swimming in.
They say that
human is the only creature on earth that (who?) always wants to be someone
else.
Other than what
it is now.
Whether
bursting or not.
Everbody, who
pays a little attention, knows that it’s not the river flowing through the city
at night, but the city, this huge ship departs. Its strict and quiet sailors weigh
the anchor, the many cumbersome chains with huge links rattle and at first,
slowly and heavily, then more dynamically the city starts, and the hills nearby
sail with it, the trees bend cracking, the towers tremble, and we cruise, only
the clouds and the stars can keep up with us.
Destination
Japan.
Where the pink
blossoms are.
Water, as we’ve
learnt it in grade school, is building.
Water, as we’ve
learnt it in grade school, is destroying.
Water, as we’ve
never learnt it, is living.
Open-eyed,
smiling babies in the water.
The Hungarian
language says: under the water.
The water under
the water.
The most
attractive hero of Hungarian literature is Szindbád, the seaman, who has never
boarded a ship, but was always travelling.
Beneath our
feet, there waves the…
Japan, as we
all know, is surrounded by the ocean, embraced by the water.
It is also
called an island.
Margaret
Island. Japanese Island.
Hungary is a
country surrounded by understanding and love, under which there is a secret (or
rather non-secret) sea of drinking water, thermal water and artesian water.
Hungary is not
called a sziget, however...
Water rules.
Beneath, above
and in the middle; it is the water we are.
We rule like
lords and can be happy about it.
Water lords, so
to say.
We live like
fish in the water.
Thus saluting to
the eternal and unseverable Hungarian-Japanese relationship finally proved by
international British scientists I declare this exhibition open.
Zoltán Kőrösi
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Írta: Kőrösi
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2009. június 19. péntek 06:38 |
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Zoltán KŐRÖSI |
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(
1962
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1962 (14th March) born in Budapest
1981–1982 studies at Debrecen University
1982–1986 graduates in History and Hungarian Philology from Loránd Eötvös University, Budapest
1986–1990 freelance writer
1989– present member of the Hungarian Writers’ Association
1990 columnist for the literary Kritika
1991–1995 editor of Hungarian Radio’s Literature Department
1992–1997 on the board of Young Writers’ Circle
1995– present Chief editor of Hungarian Radio’s Literature Department
1995–1996 editor for the bulletins for the Young Writers’ Circle
1997– present member of the Belletrists’ Society
2008- chief editor of Litera.hu
2008- dramaturg of Gardonyi Geza Theater of Eger
2010- Prezident of the Hungarian Motion Picture Public Fundation
His prizes include:
1990 Zsigmond Móricz Scholarship, 1992 1st prize of Magyar Napló’s
Örkény Short Story Writing Contest, 1992 The Soros Foundation’s
Literary Prize, 1997 István Örkény Prize, 1st prize of 2000’s Short
Story Writing Contest, Eötvös Scholarship, The National Cultural
Foundation’s Scholarship, 1st Prize of Élet és Irodalom’s Short Story
Writing Contest, 2004 1st Prize in the Short Story Category of “Our
Mother Tongue” Contest
József Attila-prize
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1994 Felrombolás, Magánirodalmi beszélgetések (Blowing Up, Personal-literary interviews)
1995 A testtől való szabadulás útja (The Way to Bodily Release, short stories)
1996 A tárt szárnyú lepke (The Open-Winged Butterfly, novel)
1997 Romkert (Ruined Garden; novel)
1998 Történetek a csodálatos csecsemők életéből, Úti regény (Stories
from the Lives of Miraculous Babies. A Travelogue; novel of short
stories, with György Czabán’s photos)
1999 Hentesek kézikönyve (Butchers’ Handbook; short stories)
2000 Orrocskák (nagy-budapesti-szerelmes-regény) (Tiny Noses. A Greater Budapest Love Story; novel)
2004 Budapest, nőváros (The Feminine City of Budapest; novel)
2006 What a woman's breast is like? The hart of the contry (novel)
2007 Afternoon nap (short stories)
2009 Lovely years - Cowardice (novel)
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1998
Stories from the Lives of Miraculous Babies. A Travelogue
(.)
This
collection’s subtitle (‘a travelogue’), indicates Kőrösi’s approach:
each of the 46 stories is introduced by a photo, one of György Czabán’s
pictures of familiar Hungarian cities or towns and well-known literary
figures. The book is permeated with a sense of cosiness and, yet,
mystery. The stories begin with alienating phrases (“they say”, “rumour
has it”, “as the saying goes”), and in this fictional framework, events
are governed and ruined by mysterious child-beings, who are
continuously appearing before us, then disappearing all the same. Our
sense of transcendence, however, is counterbalanced by the author’s
resigned, calm sentences.
“The world is incapable of living with wonders or learning
anything whatsoever from them, and they pass just as unnoticed, as
their origins cannot be explained. In this respect, it is irrelevant
whether we see the miracles with our own eyes or have it all only from
hearsay: our puzzlement remains the same. Kőrösi’s narrator travels
through the country with this clear recognition in mind, as if he were
fulfilling a task he had received from some higher authority, a task
that, as he very well knows, can never be finished. It is only a final
resignation that can inform us of the nature of the world. The bravura
of the book lies in the fact that this resignation does not become
tragic in the space of the written page, or in other words, in the
figure of the narrator, but in me, the reader, when I’m thinking about
the book afterwards. This is why I think this book does not give an
account of the stories of the miraculous life of the babies, but keeps
silent about the cold, impassionate and barren pain of being cast into
the world.”
-Gábor Németh
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2000
Tiny Noses. A Greater Budapest Love Story
(.)
The
novel draws together story lines and motifs from Kőrösi’s earlier
short-story collections in a multi-stranded construction in which
happiness, romance, peace and the stars are the four main recurrent
elements. One day in October 1999, young Ádám Bárány (‘Lamb’) leaves
his job at a slaughterhouse near Lake Balaton to take up a new job at a
research institute in Budapest. One of his colleagues there is Katalin
Farkas (‘Wolf’), who may or may not be the same person as the pretty,
black haired Katalin whom he encountered on the train travelling to the
city. The ensuing romance has a sinister counterpart in a parallel plot
relating a chilling series of attacks made by a wolf or, rather, a
wolf-man figure, which draws on and expands centuries-old legends,
interlacing them with authentic anecdotes concerning some of the
Hungarian Communist Party’s own wolves: leaders such as Rákosi, Gerő,
Kádár and, indeed, Mihály Farkas. As the novel notes at one point:
“What was, is; what is, was.”
While following these plot lines, we encounter a
kaleidoscope of little stories, some relating to Ádám’s family, others
to such events as the visit made by a Party boss to the Young Pioneers’
camp, or the fate of an unfortunate electrician. Yet for all its
horrors, Tiny Noses manages to justify its subtitle: ‘A Greater Budapest Love Story’,
for its real protagonist is the capital itself: “the most odoriferous
city in the world, a city of love, a city of happy dreams”. Kőrösi
congers up an enigmatic thriller from his urban novel.
“Zoltán Kőrösi has written a great novel. A restrained love story, precise yet mysterious.”
-László Bedecs, Élet és Irodalom
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2006
What Is a Woman's Breast Like?
(Kalligram)
Both
a family saga and a love story, this novel tells the intertwined
stories of the Flaschner family, who originally emigrated from Moravia
to the Hungarian town of Baja, of the marriage and children of Péter
Weimand (later Vágó), who resettles from what was Upper Hungary (now
Slovakia), and of Ilona Orlik, from another immigrant family, in her
case Galician. The characters are followed from the mid-nineteenth
century, with all the major events of Hungary’s recent history as a
backdrop, including the first and second world wars, the Holocaust, the
1956 Revolution, and the 1989 change of régime. The stories of the
various families and individuals are not told chronologically, but the
events are linked by definitive motifs. The author has taken the
opportunity to incorporate in this volume a number of short stories
from his earlier works.
“A mature, gripping, startling book has emerged which confronts us
with the fact that, however we live, ‘time does not exist for us to
survive it, its purpose is for us to relive it again and again’—but
then it is not given to everyone to be one of Fortune’s darlings.”
-Boglárka Nagy, Élet és Irodalom
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Írta: Kőrösi
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2009. február 19. csütörtök 17:59 |
| Written by Kõrösi |
| Thursday, 01 January 2009 |
An incident hard to believe occurred in the Zalaegerszeg Sports Club football stadium during a match played against Gyõr Concord Sports Club. It was a game of sorts: sleepy, grey. The kick-off and the first excited moments had already vanished into the distant past, and the three whistle blows that would finally bring the locker room, benches and showers were still a long way away. As all who have watched these things know: it was all hearts throbbing, playing for time, sweating, and awful boredom.
Now, this incident in the Zalaegerszeg Sports Club Stadium took place in the seventy-third minute. After an ill aimed free kick, the ball suddenly disappeared. All twenty-two players, the three referees, the coaches, a few thousand spectators and even the television camera saw very well that Lovas, one of the Zalaegerszeg stand-ins, his head bent forward, had kicked the ball with all his might towards the centre, but, in the very next moment, instead of the ball flying down into the centre circle, a baby in light blue rompers was seen crawling towards the spot. There was no trace of the ball. A train's whistle blown by the wind from the direction of Zrínyi Street at the far end of town could be heard. Then, no more than half a minute later, the ball reappeared. The light blue baby had stopped crawling and was on all fours looking around, lying on the ball as he did so. His hands and knees just reaching the ground, and his head bouncing onto the leather, slobbered onto the ball's black and white pattern. For a while he see-sawed, but naturally the ball rolled from under him and he fell on to the grass. Only his legs and feet could be seen kicking in the air.
He then got back on all fours, and set off for the ball again which was little more than a metre away.
The stadium fell silent, the referee didn't blow his whistle, even the television commentator was speechless. And when the baby in the light blue rompers was just about to reach the ball again, and climb onto its black and white pattern and suck its red ink inscription, the players, the three referees, the spectators, and the television camera - in short, everyone - saw nothing there but the ball. The ball that Lovas, the Zalaegerszeg stand-in, had blasted from the penalty area. Lying there forlorn.
Of the baby there was no trace.
The remaining quarter of an hour elapsed uneventfully. An even midfield game without the risk of there being any goals. Characteristically, the spectators started to leave well before the three blows of the whistle terminated the match. It was obvious nothing interesting would happen.
The brief report on the goalless draw spoke rightly of how boring and drab the game was. And how the reporter had thought it important to mention that without some sort of radical change there was no hope.
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Írta: Kőrösi
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2009. január 01. csütörtök 18:47 |
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An incident hard to believe occurred in the Zalaegerszeg Sports Club football stadium during a match played against Győr Concord Sports Club. It was a game of sorts: sleepy, grey. The kick-off and the first excited moments had already vanished into the distant past, and the three whistle blows that would finally bring the locker room, benches and showers were still a long way away. As all who have watched these things know: it was all hearts throbbing, playing for time, sweating, and awful boredom.
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Írta: Kőrösi
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2009. január 01. csütörtök 18:46 |
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It was summer, the middle of summer, July, about a week after Village Day. At this time of the year in this area, the vegetation is still green, the smells of water, fish and reed drift from the river, mixing with the smoke of fires made by campers. The wind brings the sounds of splashing from the river Dráva and shouts from the Old Oak-forest; dawn comes slowly, glimmering whitely, but the light is already yellow in the afternoon, and the western sky turns red at dusk while purple and blue clouds cling together at the tops of the trees.
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