I’m not convinced of anything. I don’t trust my memory, which tells me that the entire village gathered in front of the house that night. They had come to do something bad. I can still see the whole thing. A tribal ritual.

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?"

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.