I mentioned somewhere below my general aversion to novels but my occasional weakness in trying one just in case I might get lucky. Well, with the virtually unknown Miklos Banffy and the first of his trilogy, They Were Counted, I have won the lottery! What a superb story-teller. It is true that the plethora of foreign names is confusing to begin with but I would advise the reader not to concentrate too hard because very soon the cast of characters thins out, or to be precise, the main personalities stand out, and after that, one is hooked. Banffy, as a true Hungarian who, in the early part of the 20th century, played his part in the politics that led to the first world war, which in turn led to the destruction of that magnificent edifice, the Austro-Hungarian empire, keeps the politics of the period, c. 1904/5, with its internecine squabbles between the 'Austrian party' and the nationalists before the reader's eyes but never in a way that distracts from the personal. However, even in the personal, say, a small, intimate dinner party in a dining room deliberately decorated in mooted, somber colours with all the light concentrated on the table and the diners, provides him with a metaphor, thus:
It was rather the strange contrast between the glittering pageant laid out on the table and the cool mysterious darkness that surrounded the island of sophistication in the centre.
Laszlo felt this keenly as soon as he was seated near the spinster cousins. For him this contrast represented the triumph of a pleasure seeking society, symbolized by the fact that mankind should be brilliantly lit while around was outer darkness. He shivered as he took his place, his face to the world but his back to a murky shadow that held who knew what untold terrors. The guests were served in total silence and the servants were all but invisible. A dish would appear at Laszlo's side, only to disappear as if unheld by human hand. In front was everything that was good and beautiful. There was pleasure for every sense, for the eyes, the taste, the nose; every object was perfect in itself; the flowers a triumph of nature; the crystal and silver the work of dedicated masters; the virginal whiteness of the starched linen cloth and above all the pale pink roses, heavy with scent and denuded of their leaves, seemed to blush in maidenly shame to find themselves set down among the 'chefs d'ouvre' of man's art. Opposite him in even more provocative nudity, the bare flesh of Fanny's arms, her neck and shoulders and the faint swelling of her breasts from which at any moment the silk of her dress might fall to reveal the voluptuous promise beneath. And yet, thought Laszlo, behind all this lay the uncertainty of real life; bleak, cold, cruel, unrelenting and evil. In front was every pleasure that man could invent; food to be savoured with knowledge, wine to drive one to ecstasy, beauty, colour, light and the rosy temptation of women's flesh to make one forget everything, especially the merciless advance of death which lurked in the shadows behind them. The feast had been prepared so knowingly that it seemed to Laszlo that everyone present ate and drank more voraciously than usual and chatted with more hectic vivacity, as if they were driven to enjoy themselves whilst there was time.
Here's an Eng. Lit. proposition with which you may wish to arue: One's enjoyment of any novel is reflected in direct proportion as to how much you wish for a chance to have dinner with the author. Discuss!
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