Vyhľadávanie
Jana Juráňová
Žila som s Hviezdoslavom
I Lived with Hviezdoslav
Bratislava, Aspekt 2008
Jana Juráňová wrote a para-biographic fiction narrated by the main protagonist – the wife of the poet Pavol Országh Hviezdoslav Ilona – however, as a third person narrative. Thus, he author is, comfortably, both in and out – narrating both for and about Ilona Országhová, being her and at the same time having a distance.
Juráňová puts the rather conventional marriage of a dominant man and a submissive woman under a magnifier. What makes it interesting is the fact that the dominant man is an important public and social figure in the rather backward Slovakia (Upper Hungary) of the last two decades of the nineteenth century and the first quarter of the 20th century, and the submissive woman is a girl from a good bourgeoisie family, bright and well educated in Prague, whose both mental and intellectual abilities far exceed the traditional role of hearth-keeping. This is set against the firm background of values and traditions of a small town and its society. In his love relationship with Ilona, the to-be bard hardly plays the first fiddle, but Ilona knows she “must meet her duties”, so her mother learns her “how to run a household that is important for the whole town as the home of an important man.” Out of love, her sense of duty, and true to the good morals, she accepts her fate – to live with the greatest Slovak poet.
The price she pays is her suppressed ego. Identity reduced to the role of the bard’s wife. Juráňová conveys her resolutely negative view of Ilona’s life role softly, yet very efficiently – with gentle, yet pungent sarcasm. In ironical takes, she acknowledges Ilona‘s dignity with which she accepted her fate by highlighting her devotion to her husband and his mission to the point of unbearable suffering, which easily invokes the reader’s repulsion – and, without a doubt, the author‘s.
Even bitterer are the author’s representations of Hviezdoslav. Through his wife, she is building and at the same time undoing his monument – if not entirely, then at least littering the bronze with pigeon’s poo, which is stronger and hurts more.
How Hviezdoslav was in the entire scope of his personality, whether he was really great and what made him really great we will not find, although, at least in this book, he keeps being visited by a professor from Prague, who wrote his monograph. The author selected the material from his life she needed to write this book. If looking for a deeper and more complex picture of the life of P. O. H. and his wife Ilona, the reader can be disappointed, and rightly so. That, however, was not the point of Juráňová’s book – she treated the story of the woman who had lived with Hviezdoslav with a gentle, though clear intention. And wrote it well, in her own right.
Ján Štrasser
(Appeared 2 January 2009 in SME daily.)
Gabriela Futová
Dokonalá Klára
The Perfect Clara
Bratislava, SPN – Mladé letá 2008
„Well, I am skillful. And almost perfect.“ The six years old girl – perfect Clara – of the book’s title has this unchallengeable idea of herself, nourished as it is by adults, too. Clara is a fresh first year pupil, entering the school ahead of her fellow-pupils as she can already read and do some math. Her emotional and social skills are somewhat inadequate, though. Devoid of respect, she cannot develop healthy relationships with her peers or older people outside of her family circle. All she expects from her surroundings is adoration and service – that’s what she learned at home. Clara is a more convincing character than the “little witch baby” Mimka (Keby som bola bosorka, 2003). The author focuses on the girl‘s problem as a result of pretentious ambitions and overrating by her loved ones. Typically Clara’s first person narrative, the book offers no cheap happy-end. Although now confronted with her doings and aware of her failure, she nevertheless still cherishes the illusion that, due to her skills, improving will be easy, if not automatic. The author has tackled what some children are finding an acutely real issue. This, distorted self-reflection is not uncommon today. The family often fails at giving the child the necessary feedback for sound development. Futová seems well at ease with difficult characters. They are vivid and a good read, as she let them be free, allowing them to show what they apparently are. Simply, they are not shaped like bonsais.
Timotea Vráblová
Július Vanovič
Kronika nepriznaného času
Chronicle of Unacknowledged Time
Bratislava, Tatran 2008
The reading public knows Július Vanovič as a brilliant literary scholar, critic and essay writer. This time, however, he tries his pen as a novelist, although the book was actually written much earlier. It is always rather awkward to judge a work by an expert on literature – which Vanovič undoubtedly is. He can, ultimately, choose whatever style a creative method he likes and knows and has the potential to cover. In the 1960s and 1970s, the novelists seemed more interested in the subjectivism of their protagonists: suddenly unhampered by the previously dutiful collectivism, they prevailingly acted as intellectual solitary figures, often pessimistic in their view of life, which was earlier downplayed as decadent. In this vein, Vanovič’s protagonist is awash with scepticism, depressed by what he finds the treason of ideals. First the 1950s, then the „brotherly help“ in suppressing socialism with human face; both were tough to survive morally. Those who refused to join the crowd were often jettisoned by their earlier comrades. In this sense, Vanovičov’s novel is a political work – but as is also concerned about morality, conscience and the faith in truth, its more universal appeal is discernable. The author had relatively little to fictionalize, as most of the material actually happened to him when he was branded „class enemy“. This perhaps led to him to use introspection. Each chapter is narrated by a different character including Andrea, the ex-fiancée, Ivan, her now husband, an associate professor and Juraj’s treating physician, and Zuzana, the nurse. All these narratives converge on Juraj’s destiny. Vanovič shows that having four different narrators is only a formal vehicle for representing the philosophy or esthetics of defiance, as formulated by Kornel Földvári in his after-word. Protagonists are not discernable by the idiosyncrasies of their language or stylistically; it is a single story explaining a single personal attitude that does not change with life’s unfolding. Unfortunately, Vanovič’s novel arrives only thirty years after it was conceived. Yet, its testimony and remembrance of literary efforts and accomplishments, which today are no longer so stunning in their expressiveness, provides an interesting reading even today.
Ľuboš Svetoň
Oto Čenko
Ty nie si náš, teba zožerieme
You’re Not One of Us, We’ll Rub You Out
Bratislava, Slovart 2008
After reading the opening chapters of the book, everything seems clear: Oto Čenko’s novel You Are Not Ours And Will Be Devoured (Ty nie si náš, teba zožerieme, Slovart, 2008) is a parody of the first government of the “as yet tender Slovak Republic”, when the President’s son was kidnapped to Austria. The novel by a previously unknown fiction-writer (the name appears to be an alias) initially keeps to the facts of this scandalous event, merely making-up fictitious names of the protagonists. The point of the book is different, though: the Prime Minister’s massive campaign against the President (including the President’s abduction and his incarceration in the Ilava prison), his gradual subordination and manipulation of the media. Čenka does not reconstruct the investigation line, often venturing beyond the then reality, making up thrilling actions by, for instance, having the ruler organize a pompous anti-Czech National Fighters Day. The novel is packed changes cascading one after another; the abducted son finds itself in the hands of other – the right – hijackers; the President is abducted home from Ilava; armed men are mobbing villas finding unknown manuscripts – the chaos is plentiful. All these actions are more or less masterminded by two friends – fellow-students René and Vajco. The reader finds them switching sides, only to realize, ultimately, that everything has been made up – of course, except the abduction of the President’s son. René, longing to see America for so long, flies there after all, holding some envelope from his friend Vajco, who has come out of the political changes as the new cabinet Minister of Culture. When René opens the envelope, all he sees is the film title „Ty nie si náš, teba zožerieme“. Apparently, his friend is expecting him to write the scenario we have just finished reading in the form of the novel. Čenka‘s book abounds with humor in both details and as a whole. He managed – as clearly for the first time in post-November 1989 Slovak literature – a perfect parody of the nationalist ambitions. International acclaim of Čenko’s book, as printed on the jacket cover, adds to the series of mystifications.
Jozef Bžoch
Jaroslav Rumpli
V znamení hovna
Under Shit
Bratislava, Slovart 2008
The book is better than its name suggests.
After nine years, Jaroslav Rumpli is back with a book whose name should be provocative, “indecent” and meant to be read by underground enthusiasts rather than the “gentle connoisseurs” and lovers of perfect national writing.
Rumpli’s narrative is a mosaic of three stories running in parallel before they entangle in a single story. The most bizarre part is the story of the unborn Hombre, a monstrosity living on he dead side of life. Hombre is the vehicle of the author’s nihilistic philosophy, which is situated somewhere between good old black humor and slightly moralizing Christian pro-life fundamentalism; mercifully, the black humor part prevails in the book. Further lines appear to be taking place in our time, and although no actual reality is named, clearly, Slovakia of late 20th century and early 21st century provides the setting for authentic stories, some worn-out like the collar of the communist youth member’s shirt, others somewhat cliché-ridden like the representations of communist or post-revolutionary times with bad Mafiosi, even worse former cadres now turned in dog-eat-dog businessmen.
Rather than self-confident rebels, Rumpli’s characters are escapists cutting themselves away from any generally acceptable modes of a conventional society, and embracing some sort of nihilistic and existentialist nothingness.
From this perspective, Jaroslav Rumpli attempted to pinpoint the loss of ideals, goals and moral values, which our generation is struggling to live through. From our mothers‘milk, we know that lying is a matter of successful survival. And that bad people are eradicable, like bad weed. If anything, the revolution only reinforced this belief. Rumpli is giving us this awareness accompanied by his moral thinking on the meaning of life, which sees the only rescue in human relationships, love and understanding. This, of course, is the thin ice of a rose garden, which Rumpli is fortunate to handle well, and his ultimate happy end is counterpoised by yet another option – suicide.
Rumpli’s book is not as bad as the pseudo-underground title would promise. The initially ambiguous feeling finally gives way to the insistence of the second part of the book, where the author actually finds both his theme and narration. If you dig easy books, this one would be not-as-easy. If you are looking for a good contemporary Slovak literature for home uses, it’s worth a try.
Martin Kasarda
(Appeared 10 May 2008 in the Pravda daily.)
