The writer bought a literary magazine, leafed through it, and was gratified: he hadn’t submitted anything and none of his work had been published.
Try to ask even a very well-read English-speaking literary type to name a Slovak writer and you will likely be met with a blank stare. "Well, Milan Kundera was from Czechoslovakia . . . does that count?"
I’m on display here, you fool. I’m wearing my best dress, simple, posh, fresh like fresh fruit, flammable, cling-wrapped to protect it from vagrants, cool like a crouching leopard with taut muscles. And the first words you shoot at me are Hi, Paula, feeling better now?
In that steam bath, where everyone was soaked to the skin, our completely dry hands touched. My mouth had also dried up from excitement, and I was sure hers had too.
I’d like to draw a parallel between the nascent Kingdom of Hungary and the passionate lovemaking of frenzied young lovers.
The Benkóczi women went on sipping their soup in silence. Then when the older of the two had finished eating, she glared at the servant girl, wiped her nose on the tablecloth, swore something in Hungarian under her breath and clambered up heavily from her chair.
What he couldn’t afford to do was attend his wife’s funeral where quite a few people might see him. He could not go to his wife’s funeral one day and phone Highly Placed the next. That might ruin everything.
Eventually she got over the pain of having been left behind. After all, so much else had happened to remove the slight shadow this had cast over their relationship, a shadow he was never even aware of. And what use would it have been to dwell on that shadow?
Yuck. What an awful sound. I’m dead. Jesus, I’m seriously dead. It can’t be true! I’m going to die on the toilet. No one dies on the toilet. Not that.