Kőszegi Lajos



(Translated by Palásthy Beáta Anna)

* details *


(2011, translated by Beata Palasthy)




Kelj fel!
Gondolj rám!
Látogasd meg a földet

For now we see in a mirror indirectly,

but then we will see face to face. Now I know in part,

but then I will know fully, just as I have been fully known.”

1 Kor 13,12






I live between reality and nothing. In this abyss are whirling my emotions and the thoughts which don't lay claim to ownership in which the nothing starts to be rather than anything, at what I don't know more human.

   We are approaching a world, that will be worse, than any has been so far. We are departing from reality, that never has been ours. After the rare moments of recognizing, remained some delightful–distressful memory of it: the unwiseness of forgery, or the indifferentness of deceiving.

Those, who hoped the disappearing of the West, because as they said, it had exhausted its possibilities, believed in a world, that never had been, to which those remembered in advance, who had never seen it. Those, who didn't remember in advance, but lived stepping back, hating, laughing, put the continous crisis with their continous protest into their scolding prayers. They played for the end, for the only one, that all of us will know, without exception. Between end and beginning here is the whole, just like the (desire for) getting clean between pleasure and pain.

   My most important inheritance is sleeping. I have been sleeping since my birth and I don't dream. If I moved, I would go along with those, who still believe in some relative separatness. To separate from the human race, and to connect with something „Wholly-holy Else”. Is it possible, or is it impossible? What is possible, or what I think it is, falls out.

   In the age reduced of sense of smell (clever animals must die). We'll gain the glory of perception in the sensuous-imagined immortality. We can't get rid of inclination, story, fate. Everybody would like a little immortality.

   (I) would like to be a tree. Not to perceive, only to be. To be in the unconscious spirit, where there isn't sleeping and awaking. Growing at night, roots in the earth, branches in the sky, to bud and to bloom, and not to say a word. Maybe trees are the last apostles.


   The will is(n't) free. Wherever I hearken I hear the struggle of the unfreedomness of will. Empty books, aphoristicks, fargments, paradoxs, (deterioration of the tradition) – the personal speech fell out of the world.

   The day of the phalloscentered age breaks, in which the place of will is occupied by the war of independence of desire. The despair of the ego: to long for desire. Free will died, when itt opposed the Ten Commandments.

   I forget the evil of yesterday and tomorrow.  Do the evil of today. Solace comes in forgetting. The tension disappears together with the bric-brack of problems and questions. My prejudices dressed in certainties fall out of mind, I'm floating in the indifferent space of forgetting, where darkness is, because darkness doesn't have substance.

   Loneliness and the evil that comes from it are rising. The knowledge, as it prevailes over my actions. Before I'd step out of the door to take a walk with my dog in the empty streets of the sleeping town, „wu wei” (indifference).

   The arrangement of any age lives on the separates, heretices, oppositors of the previous period. Nobody knows, who they were. If they were here with us, we wouldn't even notice them. The cult of separatness is: there is no place to escape.

   The separates, the heretices, the oppositors as the selected astronaut-team departed to the Universe, covered up the deepening degeneration of the third planet. The delegates of the invisible didn't travel to anywhere of course, they live longer in our misunderstandings. They watch the terrible war of senses from the auditorium of the dead.

   (I) not (am) here. We are (non-sensual) beings arriving from the invisible. I can't speak to you as if you have never been to in and out of over there. Loneliness doesn't exist. The non-passing taste of unknown-ness, as a fallen angel's unrecognized face wonders at you from the mirror. You say: to be a human is very hard. I don't know, whom you speak about.

   To appreciate the existence and non-existence of the (Name), without any debate, any claim to certainty and teodicea, to live as if (it) wouldn't exist or would exist and would be far away – because this is the only requirement forced not from out on us, that we can fulfill: to live without the help of the (Name), not haughtily-arrogantly, but only not to count on that (it) puts our lives to right and switches the light off after us.

Where do we come from, where do we go?

   We come from the nothing, we go to the nothing.

   What is the „ nothing”?

From this aspect it is a reality of (non-sensual) (mental) (personal) beings, where this word comes from – „nothing”. Eventually the „nothing” is a negative, and if we look at it better, it means: I don't know.




The Book of Exodus implies that the wise men built the holy tent of the meeting entirely so, (löchol) as it must be built. Becalél made the bronze basin and its pedestal of the mirrors of the women who came together to the camp, who crowded at the entrance of the tent of the meeting. Moses first wanted to refuse the mirrors that were offered, because they served women's vanity. Before he would have passed his decision, he had withdrown. He brooded and remembered: women shared suffering, and this proved to be cogenter than their dissaproved vanity. He accepted the mirrors, but he didn't allow to use the metal for building the tent, but only outside. The bronze mirrors became a washbasin. Mirror, in which you can see yourself only when you're washing.



Fragments of Miklós Várhegyi's lecture


„totem – community: in the spirit of dealing with humbler (plant: process, animal: state) – praise, poetry: goose – necked – spiritmurder – (lasted) (kept), prolonged moment – for the sake of catching – autonomoused not autonomous – idol – it's impossible that I wouldn' glorify (it), it's given as a matter of course – Creating, left to oneself, freedom – everyone wants the most, in comparison, being seen, torment, emphasizing „ the me” in a community, unsacred – watchfuls (Herakleitos) – pluralism – to do good (to be useful) (thank for the nazis, remembering) – power, policy – body: soul – spirit, filling in – hierarchy of being – being attained: beyond (Buber: good swimmer) – redeeming (exists it is) – changigng: annuling (Babel) – every problem is: (an) accent-problem – infinite-problem – there is no solution, because there is no problem – person – spiritual unchanging – the unity (concord) of reality: the humbler dwarfs, distinguished tendency of concord – only the superior – the rest (is) in only case and unreflected – the first choice is „the” important – it canot be not to be – the superior exists the rest has power – the over-religioned meaning of Creating (being created) – thinking of the before-time – devilish (second) – fictioned reality (pro forma) reality – „the manifestation of the mistaken” is the creature of activity – teaching etc. – the falsifying of „ Who asked you?” – (the) person left being empty – lafe sacrificed for searching etc. – states of whole world image (aspect) – to give existence to devil – (oh to by whom) – devilish and not devil ( accent-problem) – freedom as being devilish, not filled in spirit (if you know what you do, you'll get salvation) – (put a ) woman (not the feminine!) into man – being form – spirit-catching – places in the between (method, arts, question, critics, etc.) – one cannot observe, one can't have a word – the community (is) in the person (cannot be manifested, cannot be separated, cannot be observed, etc.) and only this way – giving potency to it, the eternal is in the now, arts and knowledge are in movement, drama and myth are in the person and not inversely – everyone who has been and will be (is) in me: start – whole (entire) – I don't know – in any case an aspect of power is: there is something wrong – as starting („first to subtract the thought number” – infinite-problem) – effectuality, microscope, paying homage to locusts, wins in any (kind of) quantity, women's emancipation, poster-art etc. – declares and hides: bhávaná, is not a hause – spiritmurder – snake, dust-eater, can't ask (chaszid) – without sewing –isn't history, sci-fi – absurd fantastic: only combined (quantity), revolt (quantity present: policy, senses) – modern space-music, miracle-racionalizing – by pro forma reality the veritable – ignoring activity – cause ( reason) of the soul – end of oneself – nuclear bomb – environmental pollution – everytime everything is told – I can start from anywhere – spreading out – to take it seriously – connection – I can't tell everything for the first time – the second is the first monkey, sap – say (something) good, than it only must be done – to be the first: spirit – to agree with one thing, not with more, the rest is the falsed of the first – because of („mistaken manifestation”) through series of forgeries – totally spoiled systems – only the secularization gives being (mind) – faith: optimism – the everlasting bondage (restriction) of revolt, only can be an example, a formula – it was made for catching – Saint Lawrence's turning on the spit: did he feel better on his other side? – gods who have everlasting lives are stupid – the spirit denies laughing and has to stop – to fall out of creating – to improve: to spoil (to annihilate) (to crush) – to provoke – movement (embracing, sense-spirit, power, lie, dealing with humbler) – labyrinth: smell – freedom: hasn't sense of it here, it can't present itself – method (power, using, policy) – sin (fault, evil), punishing God – the monotonity of reality – manifestating out – Creating-fudgement (not from a part towards the whole or inversely, but from the comparatively less differented – anything – towards the comparatively better differented – the taken anything) – ready-ness – recognizing a moment fully, freedom arises – taking( it) on myself etc. – it starts when it has no importance any more – if I don't want to bring out the „unrecognizableness” of the rest from its place – contracting: being seen (deviating from absolute) towards the nothing happens in open – in awareness with the declared community with all aware – to drop reality in (the) continous declaring







Words that have lost their way. They are left, robbed, mocked, maltreated crowd of birds. What is entrusted tu you that revives and kills you. Words that are kept back, pronounced, written down, read – your lives are one moment. You are flying thoroughout twenty – four hours in the national roaring and whispering. You fall multiplied into the abyss of an age,(period), which painfully wakes to oneself.

The words. You can't hear them, and they don't come when you would say them. Where are they?

He was sitting on a bench. He was old and wordless. He showed lace to me. Sometimes he said something.

  „You can't escape from people”.

  „What happened, that I got involved in, was the example of the total turning back to the primitiveness treading down people as if they were material.”

  „ I live in a collapsed country, rain drezzles into the opened graves. Because men's tears have run out. In the distance (far away) somebody is crying”.

  „ I'd like to say, I've loved”. (I loved)

The apocalypse was „logo-centered” at first. In the defensive struggle of the phenomenology-hermeneutica (burning world) succeed the „eidetic” age, the time of the non-existing images. The words died in the deafness of the inner hearing and in the mistaken manifestation.




We were sitting in the cell by four. We strove not to do anything. If one of us still tried something, the others tenderly hindred him. We took away his shoelace, maybe even his shoes. We put a curtain on the window of the cell, with the unspoken ( tacit) reason, that looking out is hopelessness itself. In the dusk we were planning our collective escape. The monotonous volley-firing, the rattling of the electronic typewriter, the cracking of the rocket-launcher of the telex were heard through the thin walls.

  One of us was always taken to the questioning. One by one we were more vulnerable, and this fact was well-known by the leaders of the questioning. When it was possible, we went all together. These times the scandal was unavoidable. Most frequently the senior was taken. Afterwards he fell in through the „cowbelling” door and roared painfully, and meanwhile he blemmed himself. Once, exceptionally, didn't happen like that. He hung out from beneath his „ricked” moustache his „heart-shovel” teeth, he grinned, stood in the doorway just like his favourite great-great grandfather, Francois Villon did, under the gallows. We thought, his sentence of death was changed for ten years' exile.

   With the soberness of madmen in his voice he said: „Sirs, freedom of the press is (exists).” We were stupefied and we asked him with profound anxiety: Where (is it)? He said: „Here! In this cell”.

Sometimes one knows, what is. When the shackles are taken down of the startled thief and they remained (in two) together, he and the great questions of life. When in a strange flat on a grey mattress he is sailing as „androgynos” towards the harbour. When „the devil literally keeps its promises, but remains a debtor with them as the interpretation by spirit; God remains literally a debtor with His promises, but always fulfills them by spirit, above all hope”. (Coventry Patmore) Man can be punished, truth can't. Sometimes one knows (it), the rest is unessential.

I can't accept any spoiled aspect of anyone. Even yours. You had a good word: shell. It took a long time, till I understood it. I look at your old writings, supposing each of them tries to hide a pearl. A word, a sentence.

  Be invisible. Lie calmly in the grass. I'm silent too. Wait for the birdswarm from the glittering lake. They are looking for your boat in the free port.

  We live helping one another (each other).




Dreams have come to an end. The taste of honey has stolen away, you missed the time when, as on a blade of grass, bears dewdrop on your tongue. Where were you, when you could have dreamt, when dewdrop bears?

   You were late again. Lonely crowd hit on nape, wakes up this pale country. The radio is speaking. You heart is jerking, the borrowed warmness is flying up from the curch of your body. At that time the day is over. It can't start. The only thing is that one says who preserves the rest of his (hers) presence: „The first duty is that one has every morning: To blush of oneself”. (Cioran)

Kostas Axelos says that we can't speak of human tragedy any more, because tragedy existed as tragedy only then, when it had a sacred meaning. Nowadays we aren't in a situation either tragical or comical. These days a much more fundamental fear would be needed. Thronging is needed that is productive, fear is needed, that is positive. Beyond fear and thronging is reality. We are on this side (we aren't beyond). World is, for us, the empty space of giving answers.

   This period is a sunset, just like the others, tumbles into the abyss. Don't step forward from being forgotten. Do initiativing steps to yourself. The overture is dumb. Speaking of the first rank of metaphysical.




I do nothing. I am brooding, I am gaping, and in secret I live delightened, as the one, who has got the knowledge: I also have my star in the sky. I am streching myself, scenting into the sun. I am murmuring the prayer of Burton:

     „I am not poor, I am not rich;

      I have little, I want nothing…”

Newspapers are the drugs of the story. If they don't exist, strange things happen. In the city of Saint Francis in America, because the strike of journalists and printers, newspapers haven't been published for two weeks. In this period the number of suicides decreased significantly – as it is written in a newspaper, what is the story of the unessential, of daily stupidity.

   The only thing that is to be appreciated in the story is the effort drawing forth an immense pain, as it strives to arise a story. The story continues: it misunderstands the words of its disowned, what they think they understand of their spirit is used by them till they have satisfied their daily struggles of power. Tha mad relay of some great spirits of the 19th century was the overture of the daytime age that proved to be darker than the night of any age.

How was this day?

    It was good.

    I've done nothing.





The blotted atlas is a meaningless painting – book, the pages of it – over milliards of people – were always coloured by the Great Painters. For two thousand years here, in this painting-book that strives to conceal awkwardly the inferiorities.

   The lot of Europe is sad. There is not a single day in its story, when there was belonging together. The broken, torn, crushed body of the story. Battlefield and common grave, cradle-landscape that was looted by interests and dependences. There is nothing in Europe to that wouldn't stick any sin. It lies spreading out as a trodden animal. To be a Europian is not a triumph, this virtual continent is the starting-point of immense suffering on the Eart.

   Europé means: far sighted. She was a Goddess in the country of Epirus. She was walking alone in the field, picking flowers, when Zeus, this lecher male, who looked like a bull, kidnapped her. Europé wasn't Europian, she was far sighted, even in her captivity. She gave birth to kings, who listened to people's hearts that were entrusted to them, in order to make nicer the soul of their people. Men lived here who were in love with the woman, who was far sighted. Orpheus, Dante, Shakespeare, Hölderlin, Rilke, and some more. They were kings, who wanted to make nicer the souls of their people. Herodotos was of the opinion, that the vocation of Europe was: to bring up men. No real demand has ever been for this vocation.

   Márai says, that there isn't a common Europe without a common language. „ At last Latin was that band, which held up the Europian education into some kind of spiritual unit. This band broke: national ambition tore it. There isn't Europe without a common language, there are only nations, that hate one another in forty languages”. Nothing was left of Europe, but the soul of some people.

Maybe someday somebody starts speaking, begins to sing in squares, and people stop involuntarily, they look up, break off the vain comings and goings because perhaps they feel and understand the joy of being together. A man comes, who only says:

    „The sky is the same here.”

   This man will be beaten to death again.




It is full moon, and the apostles dispersed once for all, and they don't come again. A thunderstorm arises, the thunderbolt strikes into stooks of wheat. Phoen wind blows, there will be high prices, and by springtime the price of wheat would rise. Near the town, in the field, a shower catches me, my papers get drenched, only this is left: „ Don't be the deserter of life!”

   It's summer, in the middle there is Saint Ann's Day, who is Jesus' grandmother. This time you give up the heroic monotonity of everyday life. In the throbbing heat the villages, cities calm down and perhaps you feel their strange character. The house, the village, „ the city is the enlarged alter ego ( replica) of women”. ( Mumford) What are our women like? We've never loked at them, we run to unknown villages, cities, to unknown women. We go by car even to hell. We take a sunbath as if it was an overpaid reward of a year. Days run out without that we would have jumped over the fire on Midsummer Night.

   There is a verge, from which there is no forth, than which you don't get higher – this is summer. It's impossible to step out. In lifetime doesn't pain that, what is bad, here it is, and pains, you endure that. In lifetime pains that, what is good, and it isn't there. Where is it, why isn't it there? It happens, that the good, the lack of joy doesn't smart. At that time seems as if you would have lost yourself. If you were good, I couldn't think with compassion, of whom you live with. What is the good? There isn't knowledge, skills of it, nobody knows it. When you are familiar with it, you still haven't known it, when you know it, you already haven't been familiar with it, such is good. It's different for everyone. Common good doesn't exist. What will you tell me, what has happened this summer? Have you learnt to fly, have you already been able to walk on water, can you strech out your hands? Finally are you alive?

   You are the one, who feels cold also in summer, however you are not ill at all, you just feel cold. Don't depart. Once, perhaps you catch sight of the village, the city, the woman when dawns that day for which we wake up consciously, with all our might. Summer is not an adventure, it is the place of the solar principle, this time it is the closest to you.





Every watch of the world has stopped, stillness is great. Sounds haven't got concrete content and interpretable meaning. Forest doesn't know anything of the world just as the world knows nothing about forest. It closes and opens. That it shows of itself directly is good for hiding all it has. Forest is as invisible as every important thing is in the earth and in the sky. Shadow doesn't fit tight to the side to that light does.

   Everybody knows the contract of Faustus, that he concluded with devil (with himself), in order to get domination of this world by means of knowledge and power. Everyone went bankrupt with the deal besides devil. Experts conclude a new contract with devil. In the age of Aquarius were published the Big Future-scenarios, the horror pictures of the natural world-catastrophes were aimed in the place of atomic-death. The investmental experts and the insurance councielors act as agents of Nirvana. Science delimits itself from catastrophes in the name of „common sense” raises environmental centres, new prayer-- houses, it sanctions the right of intervention again. Who concludes a contract with devil, the power of him-her remains vain and he (she) doesn't come off without being entirely stupid. The one, who makes fellow with devil dies in early time among great pains, meantime devil has him (her) in its power. Doesn't help the situation, that politician, economists, scientists and experts have confessed lately, that things don't happen on their purpose.

   Forest is the stillness of life, green ocean, sea and lake on the Earth. You can't see it, because „forest is always a little bit beyond us”. ( Ortega y Gasset)

   Forest can guide to purify impressions, its secret gate opens to the sunken continent. Be Pan or a dryad.





We are peeling of crackling leaves of the cabbage, meanwhile the news runs out into the world: „the marvelage has come to an end”. It has come to an end, thanks to the Voyager-2 robot spaceship, for from now on astronomers can study the blue Neptunus, the eight-th planet at photographs coming from enormous distance. My daughter is musing and turning round the cabbage that is left: „It tries to hide something in itself, we fold its leaves in vain, we don't find the secret of it... it's a marvel-cabbage.

   The marvelage hasn't come to an end. The Voyager will fly out of the solar system and will disappear. The robot was sent by imagination in order to solve secrets, but it couldn't find out more and more essential than the imagination was: „one of the border-planet is green and blue.” Facts don't surmount imagination, that „remains faithful to something that can't be disputable” (Chesterton)

   It remains faithful to the secret of the cabbage, that we can't be aware of.

   The deer is steping to the fence, it is eating from our palms. Its legs are long and thin, its hooves are small and sharp, white and yellow spots bloom on its reddish fur. Its soft and warm snout is stroking our hands. It is free, even in imprisonment. As the cabbage is given out, it is stepping back, and is watching seriously with its big, warm eyes, that could mean: I am tamely untamable.

    A military moment slips in hunting, that  hunting teaches politician leaders and their servants how to await coldly and pull the trigger, when they catch sight of the „games” from the „ambush-towers”.

    According to the prophecy, Iphigeneia, Agamemnon's daughter must be sacrificed, otherwise the calmness doesn't stop which hinders the departure of the navy. The picture that represents the scene of the sacrifice was immortalizaded on a wall painting of a house of Pompej. Iphigeneia is waiting for death in the hands of her bailiffs, Odysseus and Diomedes. The victim never gets to know, why he or she has been sacrificed. This story has a happy ending. In the last moment, Artemis replaces the victim for a hind calf. The navy can depart, and there will be victims.





He was aged, at least four hundred years old, sometimes he told stories. He was a sailor, the kind of man, who knows that it's impossible to look into the sun, but the invisible fire explains all things that keep aloof himself. Once they landed at Suncity, which of Campanella also gave account in his book. The old man has read the book, moreover he has read the book of Jambulos, about the Sun-islands that don't know opression. He said that the trouble with these books was that they spoke about that which didn't had existed, and didn't exist. The ideal society can't be lost, one can't loose anything that never has been existed. He said that there hadn't been already that kind of sailors who departed in the way, that something waited for them everywhere, that they could discover for the good of people. There was something common in the discoveries: every city tries to hide a suncity. The Earth can't be untied of the Sun.

   The slogan of the New Age is: starting again. Teilhard de Chardin, one of the enricher of the world movement proposed that „let's meet at the point of omega”. Ferguson, one of the leaders of the movement says that „a powerful network is working nowadays all around the world in order to cause radical changes.” The followers of the New-Age are on the opinion, that we step from the Fish into the „rainbow-like” Aquarius, from force into gentleness, from hate into peace. The „heuristic” thinking will be followed by the „holistic” thinking, the whole-seeing will gain the victory, the whole-hearing will triumph, one harmony will be created by the voice of several strings.  Planetary brotherhood will connect living persons, humans will make contacts with animals, with plants, with the soul of objects. The human of the new age heightens one's consciousness in permanent process. One can say concerning this, that the New-Age is nothing else, but a throne-demand of a new heathen-ness in an obscure gnosis; there are some, who say that it is a new noise in a spekulative costume, and it has nothing to do with the „parusia”. And if it – yet?

   On the basis of the Olbers-paradox, we should live in daylight even at night. According to the explanation of Hubble, the Universe becomes wider, the Sun and its starcompanions move off from one another, they loose their light while moving off. Sciences and movements are born (will be born), the constructions of knowing and converting. Occassional certainty of statements that aren't definitive, changes the occassional uncertainty of definitive statements.

Helios, Sol, Surya, Ré. The sun is gliding on a bark in the sky, nothing new can be seen on the Earth. „Don't abuse the visible light any more”. (Saint-Martin)




The one who approaches humaity through its belly, can count on that he (she) touches the sorest spot. Everybody is interested in eating namely fully at the risk of oneself. Approaching need not be started by some kind of obscuring method scooping in the bowels, but by the choice of food.

   I give priority to the largest bread before every foods. In Bible-times bread mostly was baked of barley-flour, to bake bread of wheat-flour passed for luxury. Though in he age of kingdoms, there were professional bakers, and the royal chief baking master performed a greatly high office, bread baking was the lady of the house's daily morning work. She kneaded the dough in the through, she stired leaven into the flour and salted it. She heated the oven that stood in the court in a little hut before kneading and she put the griddle-cakes onto the hot day-slab. She put the bread without leaven into hot ash and she baked it covered with ash. She laced the baked bread-rolls on a stick and she didn't slice of them by knife, but she broke it with her hands. Eating bread together with somebody meant an alliance.

   In all ages one thinks, that his (her) own age is the hardest. Whichever age, this also, stands under the judgement of God („the bread of tears”). It is hard, but not the hardest. That, what is really hard here is to break a piece of bread and to eat the bread of wisdom. To sit at the table tranquily, where you are a guest.





There are graphics of Dalí, Man Ray, Picasso and others on the exhibition in Tihany. I'm standing for a long time in front of the picture of Calder. Above, there is a clear stripe, below a wide red stripe tears the picture in two. Blue, yellow, red, white circles are floating n the stripes, the spots are showing balance. This picture is the landscape of the Earth, it's a storming red country. All people's soul is burning here at the same time, the picture was painted on the Judgement Day.

   Not only an age or a style, but a single man can be without red colour. The blind (who has coloured vision) feel red colour at first. Goethe and Itten in their book of the theory of colours as they get to the discussion about red colour, loose the objective tone, and speak as if they were taken prisoners. Red is the colour of life, of earthly being. It is the colour of blood, of flesh, of birth, of passion, of fire, of dawn, of twilight, it's disquieting and reassuring at the same time, it's stimulating and warming. It isn't easy to speak about it, Rimbaud also could only scream, when he got to the red, he shouted: „I”!

   A colour, just like a child is able to reveal injustice, it is able to reveal a whole age. Red is neither responsible for its expressive power, not for that, what is expressed by it. Red is in a definite symbolical effect the colour of fault. It's the colour of blood. Blood is the place where the soul, the life lives. One is strickly forbidden drinking blood. Blood flows at the time of conciliating sacrificing at the time of getting clean. The colour of blood makes clear that life [originally] is in fault. Red is a sacred colour. It's the colour of dread.

   Purple is the closest relative of red. That violet-- red coloured paint was made of the secretion of the „ murex” species of snail. The curtain of the church, the clothing of the priests were painted by purple. After his capture, a purple-- coloured cloack was put on Jesus, but it was a military greatcoat, the means of ridicule.

   The one, who dies in time, doesn't take red colour with oneself, one leaves it for living persons.





Philosophers have replaced poets. Einstein, Heisenberg, Bohr, Schrödinger (who wrote a book of poems), and others recognized, that we have something to do with impressions, and in the depths of the impressions there isn't a reason which could be explained by experience. The world around us can't be comprehended by our thinking, because we haven't anything to do with an absolute world that exists in itself. „Beyond the World there is ’an unknown’, that does something, but we don't know, what.” (Eddington) The scientist, who considers the picture of nature as the whole of occurrences, is only a poet in so far as he recognizes, maintains his connection with the unknown, and besides expresses (his emotions). But this fails. When he tries to express it, he begins stammering, one-line poems are born, reduced poetry. Where physicists stop speaking, there could begin – not merely poetry – but something else.

   In the East, the physical (sensuous) world is called „maya”. He world surrounding people is not reality, but appearance, illusion. Appearence came into being so, that gods disappeared behind the external physical occurrences. They didn't consider the world as a big illusion from the beginning, but only later, and only for that it „became god-less” (Steiner)

What the eastern view calls „maya”, that is energy and radiation (material) in the view of western scientists. The „maya veil” is the analogy of the European natural science.

   „Dwelling on object of Senses

    Engenders attachment to them;

    From attachment desire is born;

    And from desire anger is born.

    From anger 'rises delusion,

    From delusion, loss of mem'ry;

    From loss of mem'ry, destruction

    Of intelligence: All is lost.”

     (Bhagavad Gita)





Under number 8 Dom gasse in Wien, where at one time worked a Hungarian bookshop, and where the western Hungarian literature could be available, and somehow it could be brought home, that bookshop closed down. In its place a strange shop opened. Soft, tibetian music floats, almost all books of the tradition, of the mystic can be found on the shelves. The concentrateness of knowledge is fantastic: the Greeks, Egyptians, the Kabbalah, the sufism, the buddhism, the hindu, the gnosis, the taoism, the zen, the heretics. There is something common in these books, what Plotinos wrote about, about the „hen”, that stands over the world, what needn't (can't) be said better than Herakleitos did: „hen panta”.

   It's very likely, that the first number was zero. The space, the nothing, the unessential. We can call zero as a number only by our today's thinking. Because zero was not a number. Zero is all that of we can never know anything that is certain. Intelligence isn't able to overcome zero. Approaching it any way, we attach some kind of existence to it. It's inconceivable, it never has been ours. Zero is only in our mind.

   The hindu culture count with immense numbers, and they have numerals for numbers that are verging on the unthinkable. For example, Mahábhárata that is considered to be the oldest epic, mentions 24x1015 Gods, or supposedly, Buddha had 600 thousand million sons (since The Creation there haven't lived so many people on the Earth). These numbers don't mean anything in themselves. Their meaning is in the pointing to the largeness, to the immense-ness. The numbers exactly express: the unlimitedness that comes to an end, or the infinite that is bounded.

The computer accepts only ’yes’ and ’no’. Working with these machines is difficult mainly for they carry on everything what they are told „in the strictest sense of the word” (Neumann) The computer works with zero and one. This „one” is not identical with the one, that of Paul the Apostle wrote in the letter sent to the Galathians: „Now an intermediary is not for one party alone, but God is one.” (The Epistle of Paul to the Galatians 3.20)





There are geraniums in my mother's window. The rose is blowing for long in front of the house. The garden is simple: some fruit trees, evergreens, grape and flowers. Nothing special, nothing provokative, nothing stimulating. The Garden of Eden could be such as this.

   The eyes of today's man would be dissatisfied with Eden, and wouldn't even notice the tree of life and knowledge. One wouldn't see, and wouldn't long for their fruit. It wouldn't be possible to argue about, what are the flowers of the tree of knowledge like: are they white, or pink, or yellow, because nobody would look at them.

   Did the tree of knowledge have flowers at all? One thing is certain: nobody saw it. That fatal tree couldn't have flowers, fruit, but it could have only an alter ego (replica). Magic.

Eden was a simple garden, and every flower remembers that garden. Flowers keep something in their frail petals, in their fragrance that flies away. Flower held the Earth on their very frail, faint green bodies.

   Suddenly autumn has come, very autumn, and my grandmother changed into a flower. Not into an orchid, not into a jasmine, not into a lily, and not into a rose. She became an unknown flower, be her name: „illaflower”.

   We live among flowers. It would be good not to write, not to say anything. It would be good to leave alone the one, whose only desire is fulfilled. Not to write, so as not to take the noble time from you, that you can spend among them.

It would be good to bear as much sunshine as they do.





Platon tells in the Protagoras, that there used to be a period, when Gods had already been, but mortal races didn't exist yet. It isn't known why, but the time came, when Gods laid claim to cratures. Before giving birth to their creatures, they charged Prometheus and Epimetheus to supply them with necessary things, and to distribute the abilities among them in the appropiate way. Epimetheus asked Prometheus to entrust the sorting to him; „when I am ready – he said – you can revise my work”. Prometheus wasn't inquisitive about why, moreover he admired his brother, who wanted to carry out the gigantic venture alone. Epimetheus distributed the abilities in a strange way: To whom he gave power, he refused quickness from, on the other hand, he invested the weaker with quickness, he armed some of them, but he invented other abilities for the protection of undefended beings. Epimetheus supposedly wasn't very wise, and it's greatly probable, that he wanted to carry out the task alone, in order to convince his God-fellows of the opposite. Prometheus alowed that his brother could prove. But at a point, he ran out of science namely there was the totally naked human race for him, and he didn't know what to do with it. He called Prometheus for help, therefore he would make something up. Prometheus, he himself didn't know the kind of protection, they could get for the humans. „Human race stood in front of them without shoes, without covering, naked, and unprotected” (Kerényi Károly) In his despair he fell into the fault of stealing, he stole from Hephaistos and from Athene the knowledge of trade and at the same time fire. Without fire it could have been impossible to get and apply this ability for anybody.

   Prometheus the „knower in advance” or „the provider in advance”, and Epimetheus, who only „learns subsequently” or the „rash”, supposed the existing of beings who needed caring. The attesting of the reports of the fire-stealing that survived, Prometheus got the fire from the workshop of Hephaistos, or from the fireplace of Zeus' Godpalace that was on the Olumpos.

He hid the spark into the hollowed stem of the narthéx-shrub, and he swinged it, so that the fire wouldn't burn out, while he was  flied rejoicing and excitedly to the people. Powys says, if the first Prometheus brought fire from the sky in an anise stem, the last takes it back in a book.





Bushyasta, the demon of sleepiness has come, it (he) is whispering from beyond of the glory of the lamp: „Just sleep, man, just sleep, your time hasn't come yet.” (Zend Avesta) When the human listened to the demonds, the golden age passed.

   Heidegger, the great tale-teller affected our century in an extraordinary way, not by what he said, much rather by the way he spoke. He didn't construct a systematic philosophy, and it did credit to him. He appeared where nobody waited. Not in science, not in theology, but in his philosophical poetry, parallel with the world. For his stunt, the reward was abnormous ardour and abnormous refusal. Perhaps he was the last rocking to sleep tale teller. An evening, when he was sorrounded by a million yawns he said: we are floating in anxiety. Nobody paid attention, on the eve of the massacres the majority was sleepy. He also said that this „anxiety imposed silence on us”. By this time almost everybody was snoring. Heidegger thought that what had happened to humanity, the „nothing itself” was present in it.

What was the 20th century like?

  Total mendacity and howling confession.

   „The sowing of this happy century has grown ripe.”(Csokits János)

   Nobody has recovered from the great disease of life, we sacrified a cock to Asklepios in vain.

   Man could have been a comparison (simile) (Novalis), but his time is up.





If once you would dip in a leaf, if once you would realize who has written it, you would calm down. Leaves (parts) are swirling in the autumn-fog. The connection with the invisible is lost. Old utopias are born in new word-ghettos, and „dreamrevolution” again (Hajas Tbor) Doesn't lead anybody into utopia, does run for one's life. Teokracy starts at the point when everybody knows who he (she) is. The power of my free will in unceasing self-enlightenment over my prejudices, desires, sicknesses.

   The story of Lear is the total breaking up of the family, the terror of economy and policy (that are incarneted in himself) injures right through his life. Disobedience mustn't hide into life. The question is late: „How is life going?” He has to get mad so as he would finally understand: I see to fill that. Cordelia doesn't say a word. Only a few feel the ease and help of love.

Salamov on his return from Kolima says, that great offence burdens the souls of humanist writers of the nineteenth century. The offence of the blood shed under their colours in the 20th century. All terrorists were tolstoyans and vegetarians, all fanatics were pupils of the russian humanists. Salamov doesn't give absolution from this offence.

   Shakespeare tells by Prospero that his goal was the approval. But he already has known that the spirit is gone. Let the sacred prayer ease his despair that is the pressure of grace:

„Give mercy also on me.”

   It's autumn, the time of forgiveness. The man who is followed, isn't responsible for those, who follow him. Everyone vouches for oneself. If anybody came after me, first of all: (does) turn back, and run for one's life.




Ajax and Hella, the two Alsatians are running around naked under the trees. They don't search the meaning, the sense, the justness of matters. I'm going after them. We are nestling in the forest. The pine trees are always here, they know the secret of moral courage, they are growing. On the edge of a glade, the dogs are sitting down, they are listening. A hut stands under the trees. A mattress, rags, a fireside set with stones, ashes, leavings. An open book is lying on a wide stone. We are going along immediately. We don't disturb anybody's life. We are going away, in order to not find the way back. We lie down somewhere and getting warm among the treasures of autumn.

The Dog supposedly was a powerfully built man with great strenght, in scanty attire, while he was an excellent archer, discus thrower, a brilliant improviser, he was the famous-- infamous „Künikosz”, the shameless and impudent man. Diogenes got the same that anyone else, who doesn't take care of human stupidity. He offended people but he suffered with them. He was out of the daily moral, out of the obligatory and desired civilization of his age, he couldn't count on understanding. Diogenes had a hut far from the city, where he lived alone, he didn't have to enlighten anybody that ”Turn your arse to, who is not God!”.

   The human-- image of Rousseau is one of the most popular ones, and in such a way, it is the most damaging one. Its fire led mobs into revolution, raised moods, the lust after life to religion. Thoreau realized the Walden-- life, when Marx didn't hesitated about sending off his attempt, the Communist Manifesto. Thoreau lived alone in the shore of lake Walden. It wasn't a romantic secession out of society, but the allegoric, gentle picture of  Diogenes about human existence. Pirsig found a similar solution in travelling. He rode a motorcycle among the timeless contemporaries, from Platon to Nietzsche. He looked for the substance of human existence in quality, in harmony with the technique of Prometheus. He says that „the trials, of course, never end”.

    One of the dogs is coming to me and smelling the book.




The mountain is silent, white fog is its dream. Somló is an incomparable place of the world, it is old and wise, motionless and renewed, ready to catastrophes, and trusty, it is a lonely island. According to a sociological investigation, everybody can be degenerated in the wine-district. The vinegrower lives on an island, he stands outside of parodies of law, not in the world, not in the ends of the earth-out of. He is the monk of the mountain, the monk of the island of the fire and the light. If he takes a look down over the vine-stocks, he sees (gets site of) the distant country, the near villages, which are ships, sinking into spray. If he stumbles down from the mountain, he doesn't survive it, and it's most likely that he will be taken to a detoxication cure, or will be closed into the madhouse. If he drinks a glass of wine in the cool cellar, it's completely clear, how simple is living over the world.

   Somewhere down, near by an inn, at the foot of the pissed walls, at the side of the ditch, on the worned banches of the parks, a ragpack is snoring, he is rattling, panting. A man, who is sleeping the sleep of the just. If he wakes up, he doesn't long for anything, but a glass of wine, so as he could fall asleep again. The lost monk, who „can't live and believe anymore without wine” (Omar Khajjam)

   Wine is fluid light. It would be good growing ripe and settle like wine. To feel the swell of the barrels, to break bread to the bacon and to the fried potatoes. To close the book. To listen and to drink in front of the cellar. To drink „juhfark” or „furmint” that is green, like the leaf of spring.




I live in a crushed country (bury the dead their dead), this place is „end-homeland”. To the pain, could it be anyone's, comes consolation. We've got the sense of pain in order to not give pain. We've come to the earth to be humans and not to be enemies. None of us can state that he(she) depends on the other. The country is a black garden where we must light a candle. The dead don't speak, their only argument is: their silence – our lives.

   One isn't (people aren't) serious in the street. The word is lost in the incalculable passion of the crowd. The truth of things doesn't live in the street, but rage awakened feelings by the desire for things.The street is a river of passions, sometimes it is a target-practice. The street needs only your puppet-figure. The crowd doesn't bear any private opinion. If you stand in the queue, you advance against the ones who are out. If you don't, you are against them. Crowd is companionlessness and for a being „who wouldn't have any prejudice, neither illusion, nor sin or virtue, he(she) would clash with society so much, that loneliness would be the  only shelter for him(her)” (Le Bon) We can talk only when we keep stopping, look into each other's eyes,when out walking.

   Nights, pains, torments. Black gives a background to the stars and the blue earth. What comes from blackness, doesn't want to rule. Sin can be hidden to the dark, but it stires it up. What we bury into the darkness, we get back in the light.

   Tinguely built useless, lonely, hopeless machine-sculptures. Self-destroying, unvailing machines, which tremble like the crowd. Tinguely says, we have to overstep ourselves, the wheel, that spins human. He painted black his exposed machines. Paint all black, because world is rotting away, and perhaps it dims into the black space. And every one of us.




The „I” tears out the flesh from eternity. The „I” can become anything, but isn't able to throw away itself, and go through this: „I am one with you” (Si King) We live on the favour of the nevertold thoughts. We eat of the fruit of better times. Our „I” if it's empty – invisible. It has got everything, and how little it lives on.

   I'd like you start off silently one day, with the gleefullness of recognition, with the word in the ear:

   „I am”.

There is a well in me, I can draw from. It's not mine, only someone entrusted it to me. Sometimes it is dry, sometimes it is ample. I can't keep even one drop of it. In this well shines the water of life.

   I listen to you, but there will be some things, I won't be pleased at. Perhaps they miss from me, or there is a planty of them in me. It's enough if you accept yourself, in this way, we'll have a common source. Everyone has helplessness, that can't be drown into negation. You can be entirely: if there isn't negation, if you can say „yes” to everything.

   Some kind of advantage lies hidden in me, that knows of my ancient times, of my middle ages, of my modern times, of a „once upon a time” golden age, of everything we can really know. The advantage means to quite down. There is no need of sorrow and joy, beginning and ending, acceptance and refusing, sympathy and aversion, hate and love, the only (I) need is this stillness that is in the bottom of all curse and helplessness, the way, that plants and animals live (in suffer) the earth.




In he narrow valley sheet of water flashes. The little stream flows through the non-existing time. The valley was a place of pilgrimage where one couldn't live, because there was so much beauty here, that a human being couldn't take.

   Somebody is crooning under the willow trees of the stream. Perhaps the nacreous sparkling figure of the ”Rhodos Aphrodite” is bending, she's bathed, and is adjusting her hair. If we wade through to her, she would disappear forever.

   I am looking for the source in the ditection I guess, the thick reeds don't allow me, the bog is impassable, the wild rose-wall stops me. The source doesn't want me to see it. One has to wait for calling.

   „Tao k'o tao féi cs'ang tao” ( Lao-tse) (The way that is practicable isn't true) Not that is dreadful that there aren't ways, but that nobody looks for his(her) own. Because there aren't ways in the world, but pavements, motorways, „aerial-passages” – labyrinths. Our lives have fallen in zones which are near and in us. „The Zone is like a complicated trap. I don't know how could it be without human, but as soon as human has appeared, it turns into impassable.” (Tarkowski)

The labyrinth drives us together in order to rob and eat up one another. Minotauros if he would plod out from his den, would find only stinking bits of flesh and chewed bones. The zone is the Atlantis of the labyrinth where one must get to, otherwise murder (suicide) remains the only good deed. Everyone can be the „Stalker” of oneself own the idiote, the mad limit-crosser.

I found the source in the foot of a tree. The valley fell asleep, the water was soundless. I bended over it, two faces were there. I dipped my head into the source-mirror. Narkissos (the rat and the saint) disappeared. It was one face.

The human was water.

The water was the human.

The water was love.




Fin de siécle. This obscure expression comes up again and we'll feel the effects of it. An indefinable reference to an indefinable „endlike”. The end of the century is at the gates, here is the end of the thousand years, the tribunal of the declining and the calling to account. Unfullfilled lots, wasted lives, unperformed works, unkept promises, all that has happened and what could have happened. Because these three generations could have been intelligent, rich and just, in which the end doesn't have a tragic meaning.

   This century was like we are. The time, our time in it was of no use to anyone. We didin't discover anything, we didn't find anything, but we thought out profound theories,we recreate repletion and hunger, freedom and mass murder, pleasure and pain. We followed the strange footprints of which turned out to be ours. Our souls didappeared at that time. In the 20th century we abandoned every moment to death. We looked for the eternity and we didn't find it. The arrivals after us inherited the entrophy of fear. We exhausted the sources of future. Religion, phylosophy, arts, nuclear-bomb, didn't help human(s). Time, as we believed, works for us.

„Non in tempore sed cum tempore incepit creatit” (St. Augustino of Hippo) (Not „in” time but „by” time began the Creation). Time is real and dreamlike in so far as, it is totally unimportant. „Time doesn't exist.” (Posch Jenő)

   Senses verify and refute the existence of time. It is, and it isn't. It exists and it doesn't exist. Time (if it exists) is a demonic phenomenon, it wrings one's throat, and it is unsparing. One sinks the deeper, the faster time becomes. Distance exists in time. If someone would get beyond this, he (she) could meet everyone who hadn't been alive already, but knew well that it was worth. The one who has seen once, has seen all, but nothing repeats itself.




The detailed writing of Schopenhauer about reading and books, of this „paperremembering”. The generations marching hastily into failure never have understood their thinkers, and they gave their epochal fools a raw „with care”. It is probable that not a single present, that is balanced on razor-- edge needs the advaices of the permanent contemporaries. In spite of this, how a lot of people there were, and are, who led claim along Schopenhauer to the laurel wreath of ignorancy of age. They've forgotten that good advices don't deserve credit.

   Something unknown is always left out from books. Just the half of, what it is all about. Socrates wouldn't have allow to print a single book, but not by the reason of Hugo Wolf, the madman and composer kept shouting not to have anything to do with publicity, with this base mob, with this omnivore, because it's enough if some people love and understand him, but it's needless that thousands of people listen and abuse him. Socrates knew that there were ones, who understood,and ones who didn't, and any of them was ready to vote for the sentence of death. Someone voted it because he didn't understand, the other because he understood it so well.

Writing began by Platon and since than it has been weakness, pain, pleasure and shame. The books are the enemy of life, because it has knowledge of everything, that life isn't able to realize. Because how is life here „where the sun about as often can be seen in the sky, as diamonds can be seen in the shit-hole of a pig.” ( Flaubert)

   To forgive everyone,who has written books. It is worthy to read that book, by I am better. I put the sheet of the unwritten books under the pillow.




This is a melancholic country, that denies its feelings stridently. Disappointed, prematurely old, resigned and receptive-like. It's many-sided and accomodating, mobile and impressible, monomaniacly remembering and superficially forgetful. It's self-reproaching and willing to make sacrifices, it foments its self-love in the fire of hate.

   This is Moon-country it hasn't its own light, but at night it reflects some of the distant lights. At night it glimmers, daytime it is „anaemice”. This is Desire-country, where we sleep deeply. Day-dreamer people live on here, which covered its dreams with a lie, dissaminate in dissolute mood its greatest sons and treasures in the world. Men left for the Moon. This country is lived by sleeping people, it suffers from its epochal failures, it distends its occassional succeses to enormous glory. The slightest troubles eat its heart out, it tosses and turns all night.

   „Moonpeople” are stubborn in vain, they are diligent and initiative, because their lability of lot is immense, they reel where world knocks them, missing a certain point.In their horoscopes the house of actions is empty, the house of connections is empty, the house of life is empty,the house of trials is full. They desire for connections, but they can't build and hold connections, they are surrounded by the stables of lot and the hungries of lot. There are epochal failures on the daily side, that are accompanied by beautiful dreams on the night side.

   Dreaming people sleep lightly here, you don't know what they want, perhaps nothing. Not the desires that miss, the will misses. This country should be left alone at last, there should be stillness here, inner peace, it should be waited for, that it would wake up from its leaded helplessness and makes its free wishes known.

    Till than, let it sleep and don't bother its dream.

   The Moon is an astrological cardinality, it doesn't light, it reflects the light. It is something, that is not that. Every woman is the daughter of the Moon. Something, and isn't that. If at a dense night someone would put the Moon into his pocket, a little complication would arise, the powers would accuse one another, the seas would calm down, stoppages would show up in race preservation, the watchers would mourn for the night monk. But at last the exiles would come home, who live on the Moon, and now they are sadly looking at the earth, the squandered inherity. Till then they send signs in the night, mostly warnings, sometimes the light of gleefulness.




Something's got ready, I haven't even noticed it. Something has got in its place. If something–like so far as that is ready by overcoming so many difficulties, one is empty, as if he(she) wouldn't have done anything.

   What I had got to know at night, I've forgotten by daytime.

   I gave higher for lower, I paid for it by years.

   The night tempts in the question, in the answer, in the silence and in the unfounded misery.

   Day belongs to night, richness to poverty, shame to pride, transcience to eternity, knowledge to unknowledge, difficult to easy, darkness to brightness, cold to warm, visible to invisible, weekday to holiday, inhuman to human, big to small, intelligence to unconsciousness, to make sacrifices to offering. The base belongs to the spirit.

   Don't be afraid, look for loneliness and don't forget, that all signs prove that things are decided at night, by the silent light of the Moon, when the world sleeps and dreams of the nicer „itself”.




„I dreamt that: you were alive, and you weren't afraid of that I was dreaming, were you. You didn't know about it, you could have a guess, when at last you didn't feel the desire to take out for yourself a whirling story from the interstellar dust, which falls back into the interstellar dust.

   Whose dream are you?”

Ibsen writes asleep: He gives judgement on himself. Peer Gynt wanted to be present. In fighting glory, where one is thrusted by misunderstood, robbed, spoiled dreams.

   Ceremony isn't a mirror. Theatre is a turned divine service.

   World doesn't dream, human dreams it.

   To sleep calmly, to be ready for awakening.

Human first tore off from the dream a piece, that was a size of an apple. Everything collapsed. Blood, dread, squalor became his dream.

When you are dreaming you are sinking into the depth, as the embryo, you are floating. The stars are looming in you. When you are dreaming, you can't lie. At the verge of wakefulness, pleasure and trembling are true. In our dreams come together.

   To dream and take everything into awakening.




The bottled fruit are running low, the longest night comes that nobody waits for, to sleep over, to get away with winter without wounds, winter, that is long in prophecies. Some birds freeze to death by morning, you must get ready. Darkness grows rapidly. All our actions, judgements, hates, mercilessnesses, as the stone, dropped into the sky, fall back on to ouerselves. The longest night approaches, this time the outer light decrease, the inner light has to become stronger in the human.

   To keep awake, not only at long nights, when one unconsciously clings to an imperceptible touch of a palm, when the whole world is a night-recourse, that waits for crowing of the cock. You have to keep awake these days also in daytime. Though the odds are against us, because „time has gone, when spirit of God was conceivable and the sense of the world has been lost for ever.” (Novalis)

   Meditation: you are somebody's son – life as the being left alone of human is reversible – I am allowed needing anybody as much as anybody needs me – base, Sattipathana, menu – to see (beyond) the verge of perceptibility – not to overpay life – the always present possibility of spirit – naturalness and breaking into the infinity – unnoticed turning points – mysterium: to recognize completely this moment.




The Earth, the place where we live a little part of which, sinks in the ocean of stars. If one is able to stand here with full attention, he(she) feels that he(she) is in contact not only with a few square centimetres, but with the whole Earth, and perhaps he(she) is in connection with the ocean of stars. The earthy story is the indefinable past, it is a moment in which was the future before. Sometimes the story seems to be enormous, but it is just an auxiliary-construction, humanity, that has been left alone tries to get back, to padlock the lost time.

   What was, a loving glance of a man, his unconscious amazement of the visible and invisible miracles, the glimmery light of his clear life is perceptible in anywhere in the distance, at the verge of the Galaxy. Once more, and never more. What has been left for us, is not that, what it was. We can't see the lights of the past, we're only looking for them-- hopelessly, because past never is that, what has remained from it for us.

   What is past? Is it the whirl of campaignes and schedules, sand pit-toys of destroyers and builders, horrible decays and cancerous pullulation of empires, series of stupidities and forgettings, consuming connection of modes of production and dealings, rises and falls of ideas and spiritual contagions, the increases and sinkings (like Atlantis) of cultures and civilizations, is it the triumph of material and the shrinking of soul? Or are they the tales about unchanged and mortal creations, about legends, fables, eposes, myths, poems, pictures, sculptures, music, and the remains of the building of spirit turned to stone? Then what is past?

   The secret rolling in the ocean of stars.

   Past doesn't know itself, but there is a story made of mud and clay in it. The story of the one, who wants to be freed of faults, but becomes involved deeper and deeper in faults.

   Jesus stands in the middle of the story. ( In the middle of the story stands: Jesus)

   And what has happened, is the story of our alineation.

The world is: a museum. This museum is not the servant of the past, but of the present. Past is always the importance of present, it never can be itself. Present is the razor-edge that cuts eager slices of future that imagined to be abundant. Present is the prisoner of unkept promises, it never gives up representing itself to be the realized „eldorado” of the past. Present lives on the fruit of past, and meanwhile it exhusted the sources of future.

   Museum of the World. It's not museion, it's not a grove, devoted to Muses, because there is nobody who sanctifies it. The Museum of the World is the place of brooding, where what can't exist, must be embalmed. The Museum of the World is: the post-life of the invisible.

   Out of time: we see past in worth. Only the limitless, endless survives. Every positive past at the same time is present. Because there is not past ever, there is not future ever, only always is here, the life – the everlasting present, which is flowing continously from the secret source of the Creation.

   There must be a place, where the story of forgetting is stopped, where the broken up picture of the fragments of remembering can become complete, where time cries and stops.

   Because inhumanity starts, when one forgets something. One forgets that he(she) is human.




Visible is not all. Eternity manifest itself in its parts, it hides as a whole. It comes from somewhere and returns to somewhere.


The manuscript doesn't live between the writer and the reader, but in front of two humans, who are side by side, one is still brooding over the manuscript, the other already hasn't been here.

     Where from

There is writing on the manuscript (the one who unravels the secret of the birth of writing, finds a medium that is higher ranking than writing).

   The menuscript of a work has a principal, transcendental, „escatologic” nature. The origin (not inevitably in a reasonable way) includes its final consequences.

   The regular and irregular beating of the signs, symbols, sentences and bigger items in the manuscript is the projection of the dance of spirit. There is no writing which is born without a request. Who requests: the unknown behind the age.

   Science doesn't know how we write. The manuscript firms immediately that someone entrust to it.

   The condition of writing: to be alone. Aloneness is the place, where one can't lie. It is the place, where in the dreariness and darkness of aloneness, one receives lightness as a present by the lighting power of spirit.

   The manuscript is negative: white paper, black scripts.

   Writing controls soul, and lifts it up to the intelligence of spirit.

   Writing is not a way of speaking, only so far as if silence is the celebration of speaking.

   What can't be spoken about, that has to be written about.

   Writing is the „symboltechnic” of language.

   One's being fascinated of language ( one's thirst for knowledge) is the eclipse of the marvelcaracter of the Logos.

   Language is not only a medium among the others, but it is the possibility of human and Human for creating (collectivity): to recognize the divine meaning in knowing.

   The manuscript is of writing, writing is of hearing, writing becomes belief.

   Where speaking comes to an end, writing can start.

   Changing (in)to writing: is looking for speaking, putting the word in calling.

   Who writes is the son of God, serves the enlightening work of the Logos.

     Where to

Manuscripts are never printed, always something else is printed.

   The first manuscript was the smoothed sandy ground. Stone, clay tablet, animal skin, papyrus, wax, parchment, silk, bark of birch-tree, palm leaf, human skin, paper, metal, foil, screen...

   When I wash my face, I write with my hands on my face.

   If a writing wasn't kept, even the unreasonable attention has to be maintained for it.

   The accidental (stupidity) plays with the survival of writing.

   The pressure of power and the hope of the secret guards.

   Only the unchangable can't be seen.

   Fire is the writing of he flame of it.

   The one who writes, always lives simoultaneously with oneself and with others, but it often occours that he hasn't got contamporaries, and not a single reader lives together with him (at the same time).

   The one who writes is obliged to shun out of the rummaging, searching hands of the posterity.

   The one who cares for seeking, searching for writings, has to maintain the hope.

   Writing becomes text. The intoxicated-dusty, philological, linguistic, textological, genetical-text-critical, graphological attack can come. Depending on everything, pressing on none of them.

  Soul-guiding – children's drowings – hermeneutic.

   The text definited by the power as the dedication of the reader.

   Writing doesn't loose its meaning. The technology of intelligence doesn't know about that was entrusted to it.

   The getting-massed of writing literature and the paralel conquest-story of money. The striking going hand in hand of writing literature and nationalism.

   We live between writing and the invisible picture.

   Writing is the exceeding its fourfold intelligence.

   Spirit is in the poisonedness: eternity can't get defiled.

   What I've got to know, I know it myself – always with the help of others.

   Manuscripts are dead forests – the brothers and sisters of the life- (and knowledge) -tree.

   The manuscripts, guarded in the libraries of the world are the slips which are pressed under the tongue of humanity-golem.

   I can't step over the limit of personal speakableness.




The spirit of the age is: the postmodern. It's the end of history (Fukuyama), total Eclipse of God (Buber), where body, massage, process disappear accelerating in the unstoppable field of force of a new gravitation. The gravitational-pull is „the mammon, the mean stand that economy-centred common opinion by getting jellied.” (Szabó Lajos) The rule of the instrument, the illusion of limitlessness of the media, the deterioration to pleasure of life, the desire for money and sex, as the parody of life.

   Person and reality. The substance of Atlantis sinks in the hunger for life, in the new self-respecting. Appearence of demographic A-bomb and mutants, posthistorical man: he is the Narkissos of intelligency, electronocs, technology, informatics, who executes with pragmatic bestiality the violent humanization of the Earth – under a spell of theories and actions of terror and totalitarianism, plurality and demokracy. Market and indifference are in the concentration and distribution of the forces of the world, there are fight and bickering for the positions of destruction. Bemoaing of Babel, hermetic sealing of regions, getting casted around the corpse.

   The spirit as it becomes wordless, word-(meaning)-decrease (in tidal wave of word). Silence. In all ages it's so.

   The verges of science and arts fade away, and dissolve into one another. The end of theology, phylosophy, exact sciences, sociology, psychology – irony and metaphysics combine. Nostalgy for the utopias and uchronias. Sweet nihilism: (it's simultaneously) anarchy and hierarchy, participation and distance, accident and plan, nominating and nominated, absentia and praesentia, surface and depth, deconstruction and totalization, play and death, self-confidence and relieing on, consumption and slimmind-diet, drug and medicinal–plants – the becoming imbued by the proapocalyptic mood, of which we can hardly wait to its end. We are after the modern and (the super-, hiper-) postmodern: we are in the proapokalyps.

   It's a War (raging in ourselves, exploding into manifestation).

Age is, such as it is. There's no cause for alarm. „Those who are wise lament neither for the living nor for the dead. Never was there a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor all these kings; nor in the future shall any of us cease to be.” (Bhagavad-Gita 2:11-12)

   We are all here in feast. The matter is very simple:

„But the humble shall inherit the land, and delight themselves in the abundance of peace.” (Book of Psalms 37,11)




„There was a story going round that a youngster's book was published, an innerdiary with swan- and stone-poems in it. It was done in secret, as every important work. The quadrisyllabic form of it was complicatedly simple, the theme of it was serious. He spoke in an unknown voice in the book, in a voice, that is hardly heard nowadays, that could be heard a long time ago. Only the dead spoke this way, who are really not with us, and this voice can be heard only by a book. He cought one of the knots of the unsolvable thread, the Daidalos-story, the greek myth. The deepest question of the artistic-- being, that is beyond lot, is raised in the book: should my life be of Daidalos or of Ikaros? Should I live as Daidalos, should Í build a labirynth-life-work, where my monster-soul roams, should I teach my son the dangerous knowledge of flying, and should I see as he falls immediately into death from the highest? Or should I live as Ikaros, in everlasting youth, in violent joy for one single moment? Both of them are failure.

   The speaking voice in the book, the poet, doesn't choose either of them, because he accepts both( of them). To fly to the highest, and to write a „Daidalos-like” diary at the same time,  about flying, about the fatal fall. To live in paradox. This is the hardest. There is a moment, when the master and the disciple are standing near the labirynth, they have to take to somewhere. Only one way leads from the earthy trouble, fault, confinement: heaven is open. Heaven can't be found either by the way of Ikaros, or Daidalos. The poet looks for it. There is a line in the book, where the dilemma comes to an end, and the heaven opens. It's not really a line, but only two words. The voice says: I miss you: amen. The lack of God is appropiated in the echo of the Hebrew closing or augmentative word. Will it be at least the lack of God.

   I saw this book of him in this way, when there was a story going round that it was a story going round, that it was a promising start, but nobody had known yet, that he would have to write only one single poem...” – said master Daedalus, and he waved me to leave him alone, before I would try to ask a question.




The chessboard containes 8x8 squares. When investigating the mathematical problems at the formation of the number eight (the halving of patterns of four terms – cross, cardinal points, seasons, first principles etc.) is worth watching the number itself. Everybody knows the sign of eight derived from arabic („8”) What is the matter? Number eight symbolizes all, that creates the snake-logic of humans. Number eight: double zero „compound”/ two times nothing – the self-portrait of man. Understanding number eight is the first lesson of chess.

   On the chessboard stand a light-coloured and a dark-coloured group that don't exist without each other, a pair as man and woman, right and left, jang ang jin, Abel and Kain etc. The pair contains the dual organization, and the dichotom unit of the two halves. Any kind of neutralizing the two poles of the „binarily” existing is fatal. We can't say that there is good and there is bad , there is yes, and there is no. We can only say, that they are unseparably. We can kill ourselves by the half of our brain, that is remarkable in a sense, but we would be forced to finish off our lives.

   The cautionary tale of the grain of wheat that was put on the chessboard essentially is the overture of the trials tending to bleed the magical attraction of the game of chess, the seemingly limitless secrets of it. Game of chess is the criterion of spirit – says Goethe. Game of chess is related to the pyramids and the cathedrals. It is the imitation of creation. The movements that take place on the chessboard every time can be different, and they aren't arrenged in a serie that would be supported in the slightest degree-mathematically. All mathematical approximation, whatsoever incalculably finite the serie of combinations are, knock against an inscrutable wall, that the numbers don't break through. „Only God can complete the calculations, we can just finish the demonstrations.” ( Donald Knuth)

   The artist has the possibility to represent the abstract feelings and moods on new models. If the model is as anachronistic as chess, then either we stay in the axiom-system, or we attempt to correct the axioms by the total exclusion of arbitrariness. An axiom can't be discarded, because it comes back (Tóth Imre) We constantly are after the seventh day of the Creation.What we have to do is (on this 8th day, that runs to a great length) to correct the axioms that stroke root in the thoughts of ourselves, so as the human who  lives in us, as Cusanus says: illa imitari protest Deum (Do act the way of God).

   On he chessboard the pieces according to rules that can't be eluded, but within it, can step without restriction , as we all can do in our lives. Stepping back is impossible, we have to go further, end waits for us. In the chess game play two players. In our lives we play only with ourselves, the dark that lives in us with the light that lives in us. We don't know, who wins, the light or the dark.


You, little candle- flame,
help the Sun to come back,
spark in my eyes,
shine through my flickering cells,
awake my sleeping soul,
turn to alive the thoughts,
and now my every single cell,
all my feelings
and all my thoughts
do turn into a shining diamond- body,
and do unit with everyone in joy

Kőszegi Lajos  writer, editor, teacher (born in Hungary – Devecser, 1956. Nov. 7). Pécs: technical architect and teacher (1981).  Budapest: journalism-school (1984).  Budapest University of Technology: engineering monument (2008). 1981-1988 journalist: Universitas, Dunántúli Napló, Somogyi Néplap, veszprémi Napló.  Veszprém: editor of Visszhang art magazine (1985-86). Veszprém: literary-historians (1988-1991). Book serieseditor of Pantheon Pannon (1989-1999). Veszprém Petőfi Theater: literary manager (2000-2004). Since 2004: teacher.

Tel: +36-70-618-5005
e-mail: koszegis@gmail.com


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