You sigh, you disengage yourself from the magic. Why? Because if you don't, the joy imparted by it slowly fades; you tire of gazing, of feeling the music die; and that's even more distressing. from 'A Joseph in Egypt'
I'm not sorry. In 'Souvenir' he confesses to an envy to write with true delight, enthusiasm and dedication. An admittance is strangled on a wish that is wrong. He envies Joseph his dream. The dream stays with him after, waving in his windows. A hand in promises of words of love unhYou sigh, you disengage yourself from the magic. Why? Because if you don't, the joy imparted by it slowly fades; you tire of gazing, of feeling the music die; and that's even more distressing. from 'A Joseph in Egypt'
I'm not sorry. In 'Souvenir' he confesses to an envy to write with true delight, enthusiasm and dedication. An admittance is strangled on a wish that is wrong. He envies Joseph his dream. The dream stays with him after, waving in his windows. A hand in promises of words of love unheard (I'm a lip reader of dream speech). The Egyptian woman and the would be stoners of her death, if he would want that (an accusation dark cloud. Could you time travel to too late. I had that feeling it could still change, become real, and he takes on her price). A hand and a goodbye, a dream kiss. The 'Souvenir' man tells of the young cousin shut into a mysterious spinsterhood. A sad face, she must be, but not to him. Pressed into the pages of his book, if she lives for anyone else I don't know. I felt like watching a butterfly net, somehow. More falling inside thinking about another side of the story. He's priceless for that other side of the story. It's amazing how you could keep walking past the end. Fresh hells.
Suppose you pick up on opium as a strong, well-developed adult and take good care of your health- best left to a skilled doctor- why, then you can live for ten years. And then at twenty million years of age you can let your head fall on the icy pillow of eternal annihilation. As for those who don't wish to pay the price, who don't desire twenty million years of life eternal- let them live a hundred years increasing and multiplying. from 'Opium'
Csáth dedicated his story "Opium" to artist Attila Sassy. It wasn't until I was reaching the end of the book that I realized I had been expecting the nude body parts to make an expression as if they were the faces. Also the real faces as mute mouths and the background (a fleshly genie prison). The influence on his story "The Pass" is undeniable in swallowing pillars. People are your animals. I had that feeling before in the dream 'An Afternoon Dream'. He wakes up in a headache he fails to prevent. Csáth must have felt as I do the sickness in trying too hard to keep the body pulled under attached to the eyes. The behind my eyes will feel like both crying too much and trying to stay awake for too long. The fantasy force up maybe should feel bad too. I don't know what the key is in not doing it too long. I loved that he wakes up with that head pain. Anyway, I meant that the broken countess of his dream reminded me of the harem ladies of Sassy's pictures. It is not desire, it is a languishing too long in sex that doesn't happen. Their bodies in 'The Pass" had to be the same dream. They do nothing and eat the men. I had the feeling that if I were to meet the countess of 'Dream' I would be a ghost from the past or future, unseen. Not feeding on waiting around for the idea of sex. The doctor in 'Opium' swears of his invention to make all his patients die before they had ever been born. The presence of time in the brain, the irresistible tide of life rhythms and rhymes, and all reason. I didn't understand the frothing in the insides reach the eyes of this man. I know by now that falling down in the dirt to get back up and try for the beautiful moments again is the other side of the face that makes it turn. The waking hours and the ones asleep. One side can get underneath when the other one isn't looking. I don't want his surgery, or his smoke dreams, but the falling down he already is feels like all of that to me anyway. The truth inexpressible. Csáth's stories had this unspeakable that I don't reach. The envy of the dream.
Their eyes shone; they felt the hunter's strength in their shoulders as they came galloping back through the dark streets, exultant. Long ago they had grown interested in that owl. Its head was like two huge eyes. Old marvels lay hid in its mind. It lived a hundred years, more.... That owl they wanted desperately. from 'Matricide' The Witman boys lost their father, lost their mother to her rooms or theirs. I don't believe Csáth when he says "When fathers of fine, healthy children die young, there's trouble". He left nothing in them, was probably not there. They exist to each other like a savage wind that picks up more force over a heartless land. A Frankenstein's monster of a dog's head and got the cat's tongue. Blood, no pity. A girl in a house. Another pulse to break in hands, mysterious anatomy. They don't know what to do with life. I only wonder they buy it. To kill their mother for the girl's payment didn't feel the escalation to me. It was when they wait to finish off the owl to feel its stolen flight die in their promised dreams. They must have waited with the girl in another kind of foreplay. Csáth is best when the boys hold this pleasure between them. The younger one must have looked up at his brother. Their anticipation of pleasure. That's where they are trouble. Their torture to hear the source of what holds dear past words. They are blind to discovery, murderers grasping for answers. I bet they are the most frightening namelessly looking between them. I had that feeling a lot in these stories. The dark taking from others life when it cannot be old. The willing coma on the outside. It will most probably win, that complacency, the just being the person who hears about it much later. The journal of the already suicided boy who destroyed his beloved "Little Emma" in calculating childhood games. I didn't mean it other side the cruelty of.... it's too late, everyone is dead, conveyor belt of body parts. Teachers with whips, dog ate dog, and I can just see the knowing look on the living Little Emma that she is pretty and knows it. Knows her father is above their fathers. Not untouchable though, too late. All together I had this feeling that the first cousins 'Paul and Virginia' toddled on the lawn in fat pink baby love. Shutting out outsiders and it's just like being the woman if you come near one of those lounging sex symbols. They aren't your dream and not for you. Virginia's mother sacrifices her life position by confessing to adultery. So the first cousins can legally marry after all. Csáth doesn't judge the girl if she would gladly send her mother to torture if it black clouded her own happiness. Whatever he says that he can't judge her, I think the story doesn't take place where the lovers are happy. It's outside when you are the sacrifice. Happiness leaves you behind and you are breakfast for the fire. Yeah, I had a lot of feelings about these stories. The helplessness to insanity, a half awake horror. The sandman comes in childhood and leaves his shadow on the wall ('Saturday Evening') and 'The Black Silence' turns the blonde baby brother into a louder than pain menace. Dead in hands, and back to baby. Doctor, I can't sleep any night. I LOVED this slipping back into the ghost you call to you when you're happy to say but but but what about your worst nightmare. And the time you self destructed and didn't feel sorry. You liked the way it looked all wet and outside. Love it this way and feel gross on purpose. I don't know about some of Csáth's narrator going all like the homely girl was lucky that guy twice her age ordained to notice an attractive quality about her. She would have eclipsed in the woods where no one would hear it because like she can't hear herself? That's bullshit. Also, I'm dying to get away from the blind butts that are faces and the breasts that are mouths. Please, next book I read don't care about young lips and fresh tits. Please. I'm getting tired trying to dream past it where there's a place for me who isn't just a pair of tits. It feels like he's tired of himself, when he judges the train stop man who stupors past the real way out (tell the truth, open a window). I know all about the mixed up of going past windows of selfish people and looking for the dark ones. I'm a bad person too. I'm tired too. I loved that these felt like MORE than stories. Like not something ABOUT feeling like that, but if you were looking in where it was really happening. (Then you get to remember you're just a bleeding ghost.) When you are so damned tired and the door is closing. Same old hell....more
Géza Csáth (the pen name of József Brenner) was a Hungarian writer, musician, music critic and physician working with the mentally ill who lived from 1887 to 1919. Csáth’s tragic personal history has often been recounted. While in his teens, and showing great promise as a writer and musician (to the point that his father wanted him to become a professional violinist), he chose instead to pursue a career in medicine and graduated with his degree in 1909. His main interest was in the effect of narGéza Csáth (the pen name of József Brenner) was a Hungarian writer, musician, music critic and physician working with the mentally ill who lived from 1887 to 1919. Csáth’s tragic personal history has often been recounted. While in his teens, and showing great promise as a writer and musician (to the point that his father wanted him to become a professional violinist), he chose instead to pursue a career in medicine and graduated with his degree in 1909. His main interest was in the effect of narcotics on the mind, and he started experimenting with morphine in 1910 and quickly became addicted. He married in 1913 and was drafted in 1914. During his time in the army and following his discharge in 1917 his drug dependency worsened, though he continued working as a doctor. By 1919 his addiction had taken over his life and he was showing signs of paranoia, and that summer he shot and killed his wife and later killed himself with poison. The stories collected in The Magician’s Garden are heavily influenced by the author’s clinical interest in the workings of the mind. They are sometimes structured like a dreamt adventure, with a single protagonist being led or wandering in pursuit of something through a bizarre or grotesque landscape. Other stories ruthlessly explore various perversities of human nature. In “Trepov on the Dissecting Table” a corpse is beaten and ridiculed by an orderly with a grudge against the dead man. In “Festal Slaughter” the butcher who comes to kill the pig exacts extra payment by raping Rosie the scullery maid. Most disconcerting, however, are the stories that feature children. “Matricide” is the tale of two brothers who kill their mother while stealing some of her jewellery to give to a girl they’ve fallen in love with. And in “Little Emma” an unusually pretty girl is murdered by her playmates, her body left hanging in the attic. Csáth was a writer of great originality who, had he lived, could very well have produced a body of work as impressive as Kafka. However, we must content ourselves with the works left to us, which are as compelling and disturbing as fiction gets. ...more
Estaba escrito que, con un título como ‘Cuentos que acaban mal’, servidora tenía que acabar leyendo este libro tarde o temprano. Ciertamente el libro da lo que este título promete; se trata de cuentos breves y oscuros, sobre temas como el mal, la muerte, la crueldad, el sufrimiento. A veces me da la sensación que este húngaro es una especie de mezcla entre Edgar Allan Poe y Franz Kafka. Sus cuentos siempre son angustiantes y en ocasiones terroríficos. Y se nota que Géza Csáth sabe de lo que hablEstaba escrito que, con un título como ‘Cuentos que acaban mal’, servidora tenía que acabar leyendo este libro tarde o temprano. Ciertamente el libro da lo que este título promete; se trata de cuentos breves y oscuros, sobre temas como el mal, la muerte, la crueldad, el sufrimiento. A veces me da la sensación que este húngaro es una especie de mezcla entre Edgar Allan Poe y Franz Kafka. Sus cuentos siempre son angustiantes y en ocasiones terroríficos. Y se nota que Géza Csáth sabe de lo que habla. Reconozco que es fácil decir esto sabiendo lo mal que terminó su vida, pero es cierto: se nota que Csáth sabe de lo que habla, cosa que hace estos cuentos doblemente escalofriantes.
Cuando digo que la historia de Géza Csáth terminó muy mal no lo digo por decir, no estoy exagerando. Él era un joven prodigio, psiquiatra y escritor, amigo de Dezsó Kostolányi, y en principio no le faltaba de nada y derrochaba talento, pero se volvió adicto a la morfina y acabó suicidándose a los 32 años, después de asesinar a su esposa. En sus cuentos, el mal es una entidad abstracta y misteriosa, pero muy real, que viene de fuera y que se acaba instalando dentro de nosotros. Es un silencio negro que se acerca amenazador, una rana grande y peluda que es indicio de mal agüero, un miedo que nos despierta por la noche y ya no nos deja volver a dormir, un jardín exuberante que puede que esconda secretos macabros. Un tipo especial del mal es el que practican los niños como si fuera algo totalmente inocente, esa crueldad disfrazada de juego, y probablemente los cuentos que hablan de este mal sean los más brutales.
Luego está la muerte. Hay un cuento sobre un hijo que tiene que ir a recuperar el cadáver de su padre que ha sido entregado a la ciencia, el de un colegial al que la muerte viene a buscar, el de un mago que es espectador de su propio velatorio, el de dos celadores que arreglan el cadáver de un condecorado militar, el de un joven que persigue a una quimera y encuentra la muerte, etc. Y, aún así, probablemente uno de los cuentos más duros sea el de unos músicos que llegan a una ciudad de provincias donde lo último que se aprecia es el arte en general y la música en particular. Probablemente sea el más duro porque habla de las desilusiones y los sinsabores de la vida, de renunciar a los sueños y verse obligado a asentarse en la mediocridad. Todos los cuentos son demoledores, pero probablemente éste es el que me lo ha parecido más, sencillamente porque es el que me es más cercano y, por eso, el más terrible.
Jeez. Murder, suicide and opium were the major plot points of Csath's life. His stories blended fairy tale, dreamscapes, and horror, which makes a certain sense. I was curious to learn in the intro that these stories comprise most of his short life's literary work. As a collection, they weren't particularly cohesive, but the unexpected switch of tone wasn't entirely unwelcome. I sort of enjoyed feeling like they were written during short, frantic, lucid moments in between trying to pass as a comJeez. Murder, suicide and opium were the major plot points of Csath's life. His stories blended fairy tale, dreamscapes, and horror, which makes a certain sense. I was curious to learn in the intro that these stories comprise most of his short life's literary work. As a collection, they weren't particularly cohesive, but the unexpected switch of tone wasn't entirely unwelcome. I sort of enjoyed feeling like they were written during short, frantic, lucid moments in between trying to pass as a competent doctor, and drug induced dreaming. ...more