Death of a Doctor [antikvár]

Author's Preface to the English Edition I am a native of Hungary—and I am beginning to believe that it is not altogether unlucky for me that I was born in a land which is neither rich enough to breed an indolent race, nor so bare as to reduce its inhabitants to the level of a vegetative life. It is a country not big enough for us to be unaware of the squeeze of its frontiers at all points of the compass—the barriers separating us from the rest of mankind—nor too small to provide a home, even for the space of a life-span, for creative work. It is not a land of over-refined civilization detached from reality, nor is it one inhabited by a people lagging behind the times. I could pursue this enumeration but for my fear that I might be misinterpreted. A disposition for the Golden Mean is not, I am afraid, one of our national characteristics. Indeed, it would be nearer the truth to say that ours is a country of conflicting extremes, combining the West and the East, one of exotic provincialism and cosmopolitan snobbery. Socialism and capitalism are locked in a struggle in our minds, while the ways of the gentry and the servility of the old days are fighting side by side for survival. We have given mankind both champions of freedom and henchmen, enlightened minds as well as narrow-minded potentates, well above our numerical ratio. Had I been born in some other part of the world, most hkely I should know little more than the silly allurements peddled by tourist posters about this country. Some historical event or other, perhaps, and the names of a few scientists who were born here, a couple of composers and a few football players. I would not be aware—in fact it would be hard for me to believe—that in poetry this nation's achievement is tremendous, not only in relation to its number but in absolute terms as well, and that in fiction, too, it is in the front-ranks. The Hungarians are a nation isolated both ethnically and linguistically: their culture is, for the most part, inaccessible for non-Hungarians. It is a one-sided isolation we live in; it seems as if we Hungarians all wore reflecting glasses: we can see the outside world, but the contemporary outside world never has a chance to look us in the eyes. That is why, in a way, we have remained something of an exotic nation right in the second half of the 20th century, although surely we must have some stories to tell about our harsh experiences that would