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BOX-FOLDER-REPORT: 33-2-100
TITLE:             Hungarian Literary Scene
BY:                
DATE:              1965-6-16
COUNTRY:           Hungary
ORIGINAL SUBJECT:  Hungarian Unit
THEMATIC SUBJECTS: Hungary--1956-1965, Hungary--Literature, Press

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HUNGARY
16 June 1965

HUNGARIAN LITERARY SCENE

As is so often the case with a Communist-governed
country, two opposing trends are apparent today in Hungarian
literary life. On the one hand, since publication of the Party's
"guidelines" in March the leaders of the Party's cultural policy
have been taking an ever more rigid stand and, if need be, they
are even applying administrative measures in order to get writers
working along the lines desired by the HSWP ideologues. Some
of the writers, editors and publishers' readers, on the other
hand, are attempting to defend the achievements attained thus
far and to retain the boundaries of literary freedom which, with
the liberalization of literature, had been broadened to a
certain extent over the past few years.

The pressure exercized by the Party has made literary
periodicals monotonous. The example of Elet es Irodalom, the
literary weekly of the Hungarian Writers' Association,
illustrates this point. In November 1963, Elet es Irodalom, a purely
literary periodical, was transformed into a literary and
political weekly and Kortars, a monthly publication, was selected as
the paper of the Writers' Association. At the same time, the
new editor-in-chief of Elet es Irodalom, a writer, journalist
and loyal adherent of the prevailing cultural policy of the
Party, announced that the chief aim of the paper was to take a
stand against "alien and harmful opinions and ideals" in the
spirit of the HSWP Eighth Congress.

[page 2]

Many of the readers of Elet es Irodalom disapprove of
the change. The editor-in-chief himself has had to admit this:
"The persons who are angry with us -- and many such persons
exist -- suspect us of having arbitrarily proclaimed ourselves
the critics of the errors, mistakes and stupidities of public
life, literary life and the press. "[1]

Another example of the sort of criticism directed at
Elet es Irodalom was published in the 15 May 1965 number of the
paper. It is a letter signed by nine persons, who matriculated
27 years ago, and who are engaged in various walks of life: the
head of a council department, a chemist, an industrial engineer,
a bookkeeper, a welder, a boathouse supervisor, a salesman at
a store, an assessor, and an accountant, According to the
signatories, their opinion represents a major part of public taste
in literature. They also express sharp criticism of Elet es
Irodalom and accuse its editorial board of having lowered
the standard of their publication to that of daily newspapers.

. . .We are fond of poetry, but, unfortunately, the poems
published in our periodicals are intended, in the first
place, for poetry experts and only in the second place
for laymen. We would like to read comprehensible,
modern, progressive and beautiful poems which are
written not only for the initiated or which do not
remind us of poster exhortations. Poetry is the most
valuable part of Hungarian literature. Why don't you
publish more poems?. . .

We are very pleased that short stories are often
published in your paper. However, the majority of these
short stories are rather boring. How is it possible
that, for years, we have not read a short story about
the national past or some more remote phase of Hungarian
history? Perhaps you are not aware of the fact that
next to Hungarian classics, the greatest number of
books borrowed from public libraries are historical

---------------

(1) Elet es Irodalom, 14.11.64.

[page 3]

novels? No one demands a preponderance of this genre,
but it should not be neglected either. . .

The critical articles published in your paper are of
a greatly varying standard. Criticism is a literary
genre as well, and criticism, too, has to make
interesting reading. We hope that we agree on this point.
The majority of book reviews in Elet es Irodalom are
not interesting enough and are not always of a
sufficiently high level.

We liked the literary portraits regularly published,
some time ago, on the last page of your paper. Why
did you abandon this practice? In due course, these
articles would have built up into a portrait gallery
of leading figures of our contemporary literature.
It is our wish that the series be continued.

Perhaps it would be possible not to publish articles
which ought to appear in daily papers. In recent
months, Elet es Irodalom has been comparable to the
Sunday issue of a daily newspaper, although its
readers certainly read the Sunday issues of
Nepszabadsag, Magyar Nemzet and Nepszava. . .

In May 1964, Uj Iras, a literary and critical monthly
published in Budapest, was transformed into a literary, artistic
and critical periodical and took on an entirely new outward
appearance. In its present form, it is very similar to Irodalmi
Szemle, a Hungarian-language literary periodical published in
Bratislava. One of the aims of Uj Iras is to reprint in each
future number the work of a creative artist. As a result of
such graphic insertions and the new make-up of the periodical,
its literary section has diminished considerably. In addition,
the most recent number of the literary periodical contains a
five-page article on industrial agriculture, a subject which has
nothing whatsoever to do with the character of the publication.

Not only have literary periodicals in Hungary grown
dull, but the strictly literary material published in them has

[page 4]

been cut in favor of general political and economic propaganda
material. For example, the May issue of Kortars, one of the best
literary periodicals, contains a 13-page article on the role
occupied by tourism in politics and the economy. Another
characteristic of this state of affairs is that some of the
staggering sociographical situation reports are beginning to
be replaced by articles whose authors wear rose-colored
spectacles.

Plans Concerning Specialization by Literary Periodicals

The May issue of Napjaink, the literary periodical of
northern Hungary, published an article, The Cowardice of Critics, [2]
in which Albert Beke, a less well-known critic, stated that the
average newspaper editor is not much more than a kind of cultural
hack who refuses to assume responsibility and who shifts this
to "higher organizations." According to Beke, writers fall into
different groups and the publication of their works depends on
the outcome of intrigues, struggles, sympathies and antipathies
between these groups and the editors. The author of the article
also suggests that "the various groups which, in any case, exist
somewhere deep down" be legalized and that each group be given
its own periodical. Excerpts:

While reading the memoirs of Jozsef Fodor, Memories
of the Heroic Era, I often wondered why it is that,
today, we can hardly name a single editor -- my
apologies to them -- who in contemporary literary
life would enjoy as much prestige and would be
surrounded with such a nimbus of honor as the editors
of literary periodicals between the two world wars. . .

It is very true that, even today, there are, in the
editorial offices, educated, competent and clever men
who fulfill the not easy task of being an editor with
a sense of responsibility. But, we do not find any
editors who would enjoy an equal amount of respect

-------------

(2) Of. Hungarian Press Survey No.1603.

[page 5]

from both the greatest writers and the literary plebes.
Today, writers regard editors as cultural officials
whose existence and work not only depend on competence,
but also on their ability as diplomats. Where can
one find, today, an editor who would be able to wage
a long fight to enforce a literary-political concept
corresponding to his own ideas? Let us admit quite
frankly that we do not know such an editor. As I
said above, today's editors are mostly cultural
diplomats, who not only adjust literature to the
topical daily political fluctuations, but, in addition,
close their eyes to various literary groups -- because
each newspaper belongs to everyone -- and behave as
if all writers were close friends. . .

But, and everyone knows this, there still are
different literary groups today. Naturally, they are not
separated by political differences of opinion, for
everyone is in agreement with socialism, but by matters
of taste and attitude or -- let us not be afraid to
say so -- by personal or family antipathy. . .

I believe that, even today, the world would not
collapse if we dared to legalize the various groups,
which exist in any case somewhere deep down. It would
also be useful if, within the standard and socialist
literature, Uj Iras, Kortars (literary and critical
periodical of the Hungarian Writers' Association --
Trans.) and Tiszataj (literary periodical of Szeged --
Trans.) were given their separate identities of their
own. . .

An article of Pal E. Feher, published in the February
1965 number of Kritika (literary-political periodical
published in Budapest -- Trans), proves the extent to
which the demand to form such groups is already in
the air. . .

Each of the groups set up in this way would have an
editor who enjoyed respect in his own camp and whom
his staff would regard as a real leader. The lack of

[page 6]

color and character in our existing periodicals is due
to the fact that, in essence, there is no difference
between them. We can detect, at the most, differences
in their standards. This, however, is something
uncertain, because it changes with each issue.

In my opinion, the present bulk of the periodicals
could easily be cut in half. In other words, we
would reduce their size by 50 per cent and would
launch new periodicals from the material thus left
over. Thus, we would not produce a quantitative
increase -- there is no need for that -- but our
literature would become more interesting, with greater
nuance and more variety. The immense advantage of such
a move would also mean that bolder criticism could be
expressed and that personal relations could be
disregarded. In this case, it would not matter if a
writer belonging to another periodical took offense,
because the editor would not have to be on "cordial
terms" with everyone. . .

The HSWP Enforces Disciplinary Measures

The ways in which the Hungarian government has
recently taken to enforcing discipline in literature -- or at
least trying to -- can be well illustrated by the example of
Sandor Csoori (born in 1930), a poet and writer who is one of
the most gifted members of his generation. He is a Communist.
Csoori's reports on life in the countryside have a strongly
social-critical character, His most recent work, a short story,
entitled "Rain of Mud," was published in the February 1965 number
of Kortars, the literary and critical periodical of the Hungarian
Writers Association. According to some unconfirmed reports,
this short story aroused the HSWP to disciplinary measures against
its author. This event constitutes one of the sensations of
literary life in Hungary. It is said that Csoori's scholarship
was cancelled, his travelogue on Cuba, under preparation for the
book week, was withdrawn from distribution and that, in future,
he will only be allowed to have his work published with the
approval of the censors. Even a cursory examination of this

[page 7]

powerful story leaves no doubt as to the inevitability of the
Budapest government's reaction. Indeed, it leaves one wondering
how the story ever got published in the first place.

The Story of "Rain of Mud"

Mihaly Magos, the central figure of Csoori's short
story, is an independent farmer on the Great Hungarian Plain.
In 1959, the authorities try all kinds of threats to make him
join the farmers' cooperative. Magos signs the entrance form on
behalf of his wife, as he refuses to put his own name on the
document. As a last resort, Magos keeps a small piece of land
surrounding his house, on which he works miracles with livestock
breeding. In this way, he earns more money than the cooperative
members.

Mihaly Magos is one of the last representatives of the
vanishing world of independent peasants. He recognizes only
his own law. He stubbornly defends his independence, his last
piece of land and the unity of his family. He does all this
with merciless, almost cruel severity.

Mihaly Magos has three daughters. The eldest, unable
to endure the relentless rigor of her father and the stifling
atmosphere of the lonely farm, escapes from home and finds
employment on a state farm. She turns into a whore. The second
daughter marries a diligent day laborer whom the father is
willing to admit into the family. The case of the youngest girl
is quite sad. A poor construction laborer living on the outskirts
of the village falls in love with her. Mihaly Magos, who owns
a fairly big house in the village, does not want his daughter
to be courted by a "nobody." In her grief, the girl drowns
herself in the canal.

The tone of the short story is shatteringly
pessimistic. The rural background portrayed in the story could hardly
be more gloomy. The events described by the author provide an
opportunity for him to draw a comparison between a farmers'
cooperative and an independent farm. The comparison is clearly
in favor of the latter. In addition, the young author expresses

[page 8]

his frank, undisguised opinion on a number of other topics.

For example, there is a Russian airport near the
village. Fear of the Russians has remained in the people ever
since the Soviet occupation: "The sight of a tractor
transporting a dead body left people with the same kind of terror as if
it had been a motorcycle of the occupation forces." Soviet
officers and soldiers regularly come to the village looking for
girls. From time to time there appears a female singer in the
village who not only excites the village youth, but also the
Soviet officers: "When she was here last, she went with four
Soviet officers to the cemetery, each of them paid her 200
forint. Is this true? Is it also true that they posted a
policeman as sentry?" Many Russian soldiers "take their meals at the
village inn. They drink, make friends and often quarrel.
Because the policemen, out of incomprehensible and misinterpreted
politeness, always throw out the Hungarians first and not the
soldiers, scandals frequently occur."

Life in the countryside is bleak and depressing.
Young people escape from the villages:

It was midnight and closing time. It was not easy to
vacate the premises. Whatever happened that night,
the people had had a good time. Some men fumed with
rage and cursed. This kind of thing could only happen
in the countryside; whether he likes it or not, a
villager has to hit the hay at midnight. . .

A few men paid a final visit to the toilet, which
reeked of chlorine. Others, in their desperation
linked hands, spat and sang. Others again, before going
home, disgorged themselves on the lawn of the
court-yard. . .

What a magnificent rural night!

How often have I longed for its calm, its pure and
nocturnal air. But, after two or three days, I always
escape. Sometimes, I have the feeling that most of

[page 9]

the villages are reservations, that their respective
histories and sights are interesting, but only within
their boundaries. Because, when the time of rebirth
comes, for whom will they be reborn? . . . One of the
general characteristics of the village is that none
of the young people wish to remain peasants. Not
only that, but they would also like to leave the
village if they had any place to go. They have to
grow somewhat older before their eyes can become
accustomed to the lowered horizon and to the
midnight barking of dogs replacing the space-rending
noises of the century.

According to Sandor Csoori, the fate of the poor is sealed in
advance and the joy of real freedom is not given to them:

Suddenly, I was overcome by bitterness. Are we the
blind puppets of our own fate? Is that which is
happening to us the confluence of outside forces? The
hedgehog recognizes his situation and grows quills.
What about the human being? Doesn't he confound his
strength and ability with his desires? Doesn't this
give rise to disappointments? Laci Juhasz loved
Maria Magos and wanted to love her unconditionally!
How could he, miserable man, know that loving the
girl was not all that simple? How could he know that
not even in the womb is a human being independent,
because even there the sequence of preconditions starts
in the form of biography and personal history. The
extent to which this is onerous or useful can only be
reflected in the light of dramas. In my view, this
state of affairs is burdensome and unworthy, because,
in this way, man cannot be born to freedom. He has
to carry within himself the fate of his predecessors
just as he bears their features, the color of their
eyes and shape of their body. . .

Revolutions and uprisings of unforgettable memory

[page 10]

have flared up, in order that the land and rights --
unjustly divided in the past -- be more justly
distributed. What are the accumulated capital of experiences,
the large estates and mines of reason, the power
stations of light which point to the good and function
within ourselves? Are these not privileges? Some
aristocrats distributed their land before history
demanded it! Shouldn't we do the same with our
rational and sentimental large estates? Geniuses
have been doing this for thousands of years --
someone could argue -- and the same was also done, with
smaller repercussions, by the intelligentsia. What
is the result? Human experience accumulated in
geniuses helps those who need it most only indirectly
and with considerable delay. Most of the assistance
received -- from the invention of machines to the
discovery of the rights of man -- recalls almost
exclusively the blissful influence of "beneficent
techniques." It changes, above all, the external
preconditions of mankind: the social macrocosm as
well as the narrowest field of movement in existence,
i.e., the microcosm of individual existence. In the
case of the latter, the influence comes with such
a delay that this in itself causes a tragedy.

Zsigmond Moricz (prominent author of the first half
of the 20th Century; many of his books deal with the
problem of the peasantry -- ed.) wrote on one occasion:
"At the summit of culture, there are no morals. Morals
are identical with respect for the law. For me this,
together with its secrets and dangers, is the most
attractive formulation of freedom. Morals are much
lazier and more immovable than the disquieting
suggestions of culture and freedom, which are born from
perceptions. Morals only assist the human being as
long as they stimulate him to defeat himself. As
soon as he becomes adapted to morals, he falls prey
to impersonal forces and, instead of turning into a
thinker, he turns 'moral'."

The lack of morals at the summit of culture also means

[page 11]

that, beneath the "summit," there is no true freedom
and no real opportunity of decision. . .

Mihaly Magos first became acquainted with the common farm in 1952,
when he joined a cooperative group:

"In the end, my small farm developed into a gold mine.
I collected hay sufficient for another five years, just
as in previous years. When the others grew short of
something, the leadership came begging to me. I gave
them what they wanted, but also made it clear that
this had been my last mistake. I have kept my word.
This is an unfortunate part of the country, the
drought of the Hortobagy is threatening us all the
time. We, who live here, cannot keep our heads above
water unless we are diligent. I am only willing to
cooperate with persons who work as hard as I do.". . .

In spite of the tragedies caused by Mihaly Magos, he
has a clear conscience and finds self-justification for his action.
During his entire life, during the war, and even afterwards, he
was harassed by everything and everyone. His possessions were
taken away from him "by democracy, friendly help, collectivization
and the regrouping of the land." According to Mihaly Magos:

". . .the country is full of rotten and bumptious people.
Everything that you do not do yourself is bad. . ."

". . .You comrade," Magos said, "have been the first
visitor on my farm for the last five years. Before,
only the propagandists urging collectivization came
to pester me. In the end, I gave way and turned
in everything I had on behalf of my wife. All I have
left are the 800 square fathoms of land you see from
here. I traced the perimeter of the land with a plow,
the inside is mine, the outside belongs to the others.

[page 12]

Anyone crossing the black line will have to pay for
such action with his life. When my land was taken
away, people prophesied that I would perish, because:
no land, no life. I do not wish to boast, but, why
don't you look around? The straw I use for litter
was cut as far back as 1959. I have sufficient hay
for the next four years. . . I have no land, but plenty
of animals. . .

They say that I am a miser What about it? Yes, I am
a miser! How else could one live in this part of the
country? The weather is not too bad, but the world,
the system! First came the war, then the Jurcsek era
(Minister of Compulsory Deliveries during World War
II -- ed.) and from then on everything was taken away
by democracy, friendly help, collectivization,
regrouping of the land and who knows what else. People
who were not smart had to go hungry. I know that the
villagers are envious because I managed to make both
ends meet under the previous system, as well as today
Cooperative members blame me for collecting the corn
stalks. They could even kill me for this. What do
you, comrade, think about it? Last year, the corn
stalks were in the fields as late as December. I told
the chairman of the Kossuth Farmers Cooperative that
I could no longer stand this state of affairs and
asked him to let me collect the stalks on lease. My
share amounted to 164 sacks, the rest went to the
cooperative. I am sure you have never seen such an
idiot as I was then, working alone, almost like a
thief on the fields.". . .

"I spit on the world, which is not better than mine.
The whole cooperative is a Micurin-like, unserious
business. I hate the persons who are like me, but I
hate even more those who are not like me. I have
been my own master for 35 years and my fields were
always so clean that even the Almighty could have
eaten off them. As long as such a world does not
come about, people can say whatever they like. As
long as I am right, others cannot be right."

[page 13]

This is how the last of the Mohicans might have ended
his confession. He is the master of the most trivial
secret, who knows that one can only be born and die
through suffering and who gives himself to the truth
of yesterday, in order that the truth of tomorrow
should have a worthy opponent. . .

Mihaly Magos is able to find self-justification for
all his deeds, above all, for the fact that, as a
result of his own work, he earns more than
cooperative members and that, as his own master, he performs
his work in a manner which would be impossible in
the farmers' cooperative, where he would either be
called an ambitious man or would only be able to
work half-heartedly, which is against his nature. . .

"In 1959, when the authorities urged me to join the
cooperative," Mihaly Magos said, "a comrade asked
me whether I had seen anything of the world. I
looked at him and thought: what business is that of
his? I had seen livestock, land, downpours, drought,
hailstorms, weddings, human beings and rotten human
beings. Have I seen anything else? Unfortunately, no.
The last Sunday off I had was in the days when I was
still a bachelor. . . Today, people celebrate Sunday
several times a week. Do you think I envy them? I
do not envy anyone. If I could, I would like to be
a loafer. But, if I had to be the last peasant, I
would not mind. There are people who die last in a
war. Why couldn't I be the last peasant to die. All
I wished to have was order.". . .

Conclusion

Thus, despite the March "guidelines," the government's
current attempts to negate some of the degree of freedom Hungarian
literature has wrested for itself in the past few years are not
proceeding unopposed. While the writers are undoubtedly feeling
the chill of strengthened official criticism, they are not

[page 14]

crumbling before it, nor is there a sudden drop of enthusiasm
for the "oppositional" type of literature. While all this makes
the task of attempting to impose greater restraint on
literature virtually inevitable for a Communist government,
it scarcely makes it any the easier a task.

(Hungarian Unit)

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