Disclaimers
CW: suicidal thoughts, ideations of sexual violence, implied self-harm, explicit language.
This is a controversial venture. Attila József is a highly venerated 20th-century Hungarian poet and the publication of Diary of Free Ideas (Szabad-ötletek jegyzéke) divides readers and academics to this day. József has produced an immense body of poetry, and this diary does not diminish their value and importance. Nevertheless, that does not mean that the Diary should be avoided at all costs. For convenience, I only included my translations and not the original Hungarian, but a transcript of the document can be found here.
A beautiful bilingual copy of József’s poetry was staring at me from my shelf over the course of my writing this article. I could have taken the easy route and gone with a curated selection of published poetry with decent translations waiting to be analysed and celebrated for their ingenuity. However, the Diary of Free Ideas posed a fascinating challenge. József proved to me that sometimes it is impossible to heal between the lines. He wrote this diary in May 1936 and took his own life in December 1937.
At the time of writing the Diary he was in the care of a prominent Hungarian psychoanalyst, Edit Gyömrői, who built her praxis mainly on Freudian principles. The Diary is, therefore, highly introspective, but introspective in the most disturbing and disoriented way. The reading (and translating) journey, therefore, relies heavily on the reader’s ability and willingness to navigate themselves across the maze of his thoughts. Hungarians are undoubtedly more affected––we are raised on József’s tranquil and calculated works. To my English-speaking readers (whom I anticipate to be the majority) I can offer the most unorthodox introduction to József. Admittedly, my selection of quotations excludes the most violent and shocking examples, simply because I would like to engage your compassion without relying on shock value and sensationalism. I tried to find József at his most vulnerable moments, where he does not let linguistic vulgarities mask his disrupted self-conception. That being said, I do not recommend searching for cohesion or a strong sense of authorial intention; József records thoughts as they flow, unrestrained by conventions of genre and morality. It is a difficult text, and again, contains a great deal of violence, but the poet who has written ‘Óda’ (Ode) and ‘A Dunánál’ (By the Danube) is still there. I am not trying to fix him; I would just like to extract substance from this tumultuous stream of thoughts which I have the privilege of accessing.
“I didn’t do it
Oh my god what have I done
Will she read it
Will she realise
I ate the sweet buns”
First and foremost, the specific sweet bun, bukta, has no English equivalent. Either way, this passage exemplifies what I mean by stream of consciousness in the Diary. On one level we can observe a mechanism of guilt: the “it” stands in for an ambiguous act József has done (or was accused of doing) and now he fears discovery. His anxiety whether “she” (meaning either his psychiatrist or his mother––a general trend throughout) “read[s]” it betrays the intimate relationship between his psyche and his writings. His words flow from the heart, raising the stakes of what a reader may “realise” about his mind and personhood. It may just be about sweet buns. For, after all, who can blame a wee fella for eating some bukta? Or, he may have done or written something during an episode when he was feeling particularly unwell. From a reader’s perspective, the ‘“it” ceases to be the point once the verbs are introduced: as opposed to the ambiguous “it,” we are faced with verbs that ring very familiar. Will anyone ever read the poems in my Notes app? you may ask. Or will they realise what I really meant? I empathise with József’s fear of being misinterpreted, revealed in his pure, unmediated authenticity. Realisation is a double-edged sword: we foster intimacy through opening up to another but receive absolutely no guarantee that they won’t leave a gaping void in that very same spot. The stream of consciousness records this anxiety: it moves from the act to his perception, that of others, and finally, the repercussions. The cause is unclear, but eating more bukta than he was meant to is an apt stand-in for acts, in general, he was not supposed to do.
“I will fill this then end it
This is labour
For free
And then I have to pay for it
It’d be better to sleep
I’d have to go home for that
I am not going home
I am not going back to the paper
Never more”
This sentiment cannot be too alien for a predominantly student readership. The first line refers to the Diary itself, but József’s flow of consciousness swiftly stirs his mind towards his other responsibilities as an author. He cites the difficulty of making a living and the pressure to labour as much as possible. I am by no means a venerated and revolutionary Hungarian poet, but I do spend considerable hours poring over texts to extract only a handful of kernels of meaning; I dissect my old poetry in need of a heart transplant; I write articles each week just to keep my mind busy. When you allow yourself to be swallowed up by your studies, the thought of returning to looser, less structured and organised routines at home may seem terrifying. On the flipside, once you grow comfortable with ways of life at home, an Oxford term is bound to cause some anxiety. I, for one, tear up each time I board the Airline coach––Oxford and Heathrow on travel day are equally daunting.
“I’ve read what I’ve written, [!] here and there, anxiety seized me at the sight of these vulgarities; I got sad. Now I will continue, because perhaps I can become something after all – worth something after all.”
Here he notes another all-too-familiar phenomenon. I flicked through my own journal the other day and a strange feeling seized me as well: the distance between the person I was a month ago versus who I am now felt almost unbridgeable. Can I still empathise with her? Do I judge the aggression in her handwriting by the end of the passages? No, I don’t. Though József’s violence makes me feel uncomfortable at times, I do not judge him either. I would take this quote as inspiration to continue just writing, painting, or whatever that you are passionate about, because you need to realise you are worth a great deal. You are already worthy of happiness, fulfilment and self-actualisation, so just continue, even if it gets messy at times.
“there is testicular cancer too
I lived like a testicle
“It made sense then” – says Gyömrői”
This is one of the less shocking examples of self-flagellation in the Diary. If any of you are familiar with the “Stupid Piece of Shit” (S6 E4) episode in the Netflix series, Bojack Horseman, József’s Diary will not be alien material. What shocks me here, however, is Gyömrői’s patience and compassion in response to the testicle comment above. Now, we do not know for a fact whether this is a record of an actual conversation, but if József’s mind wants to guide us in this way, we may as well have some faith in him. I would expect most of us to carry some guilt about certain actions or behavioural patterns we display when feeling unwell. That is why I would like to encourage you to take “It made sense then” on board. Gyömrői speaks to József in a compassionate, understanding manner, validating that even the most irrational acts or words make ‘sense’ in their own way. However, the ‘then’ reminds us that we must still evaluate, reflect, and assess whether those acts and behaviours mirror the person we aim to be or become. My anxiety-ridden trains of thought make sense to me; but when an experience proves that anxiety wrong, I have to embrace it instead of endlessly feeding into an anxious feedback cycle.
How do I approach the translation of violent material? Do I tone it down to make it more palatable (both for me and the reader) or do I stay faithful to József’s vulgarities and intrusive thoughts? Uncomfortable as it was, I went with the latter. Having chosen that, how do I reconcile violence in a column concerned with healing between the lines? As suggested in my introduction, I found the limitations of this concept in reading the Diary. This text was never intended for publication, so one may argue it is not a literary work as such. They are records of private thoughts made public posthumously; thoughts with immense potential for sensationalism and shock; thoughts reflecting the interior perversions of a prominent Hungarian literary figure.
Engaging with the text through translation diverted my focus from the ridiculousness or harshness of some passages and pushed me to seek meaning, to entangle his psyche as much as possible. In the Diary we find lines like “everything starts from the beginning / it eats men with its cunt, starts at the cock” and “when one’s dick blows, it’s like it’s been bitten.” In fact, the Diary is swamped with these sorts of phrases. One may ask, why take him seriously then? My answer to that is the psychological intrigue of certain lines that seem silly but carry immense semiotic potential.
“go and die dog-Goddamnit
goddamnit all lowercase”
At first glance, especially in Anglophone circles, this pair is just amusing. Why does lowercase matter, why is it emphasised? Changing the capital letter to a lowercase one echoes the devaluation of a character, Nemecsek, in an incredibly widespread Hungarian novel, Pál Utcai Fiúk (Boys of Paul Street, first published in 1906). Centred around a territory-based conflict between two groups of teenage boys, the novel follows the meek, good-tempered, and shy Nemecsek who refrains from fighting the antagonist group. He is, therefore, devalued as a human by having his name recorded in the boys’ journal in lowercase letters. He dies from a respiratory illness before they amend this record. József does give the impression of a man out of his mind, but he still carries the subtle semiotics of lowercase letters in Hungarian culture.
“I will kill Attila József
I pictured it at night, that on the 1st, when Gyömrői set the deadline, I’ll take barrel into my mouth, take a drag, pull it then end it
And it was so good to take big-big breaths afterwards: I’m alive
I’ve got my neck, uncut by the train
They didn’t cut my tongue either
But who would I speak to
This is made of poetry”
This passage made me consider whether I would like to platform József’s suicidal ideations. Is this how I want to commemorate him? Suicide is a complex matter––these lines must be handled with care over the course of interpretation and translation. What struck me here were his deep breaths. I took two “big-big breaths afterwards” as well and gave thanks for his perseverance throughout his tempestuous life. Hungarian literary culture is unimaginable without his contributions. But I also see his struggle. He could not tell whether or not he would have a legacy; indeed, he rejects that idea when he asks, “who would I speak to.” I suppose this is why it is important that we listen. As he says, there are aspects of “poetry” in the Diary, disturbing as they are, that can engage us, and elicit sympathy and compassion.
Once we censor, we cease to listen. However, a critical stance remains important. His established status should not mitigate the violence of his words, ideations of rape and physical assault (whether that is himself or others). Nevertheless, it is valuable that we grow comfortable with the fact that he suffered, so that we do not brush past it. Periods of mental illness greatly impacted his life, especially in the later stages. His life is not detached from the page. Ultimately, if anything, my venture to translate some of this material was for the purpose of commemorating the struggle hiding between the lines. Him I cannot heal, but I am all the more inclined to listen carefully to those around me who are struggling. Minding one’s own (or a loved one’s) mental health is not a simple or straightforward commitment. But once we are willing to engage with struggles––which may seem intimidating at first––we could find nuances about ourselves (or someone else) that we would not have noticed otherwise. Then, with a stronger sense of confidence and awareness, healing may begin.
***
I am adding some extra quotes simply because I cannot let this text go.
“The unfortunate person, who wrote these, yearns for love immeasurably, love that may keep him from doing things, that he is afraid of. […] Now this unfortunate person is a madman, fosters great love for his psychoanalyist, only because he believes, in his feelings, that this does not hurt him.”
“I want to be loved, but I must keep that a secret
But then they do not love me anymore, because I know, that they love whom I show myself to be
And not me
Syphillis must be kept a secret too
Rubin told me: everyone loves you, since you’re your poetry
My poetry is not me: I am what I write here
I would not love such a person, I would maybe help them, like Gyömrői helps me”
“somewhere my thoughts emotions and my emotions physical functions become, I am completely healthy and that is why Gyömrői shouldn’t have characterised “me” based on what I express as free ideas, and should have instead talked about the intellectual core of the disturbing thoughts I presented”
“I want the perversion of lying beside her on the divan”
“why can’t I speak of all my follies at once
instructed, conditioned to order
how’d you do it”