“He who is born in imagination discovers the latent forces of Nature . . . Besides the stars that are established, there is yet another—Imagination—that begets a new star and a new heaven.”
In the last two decades, a considerable shift toward expanding the impact of Hungarian culture has occurred; as its literature gains more and more worldwide prominence, contemporary writers such as Péter Nádas, Péter Esterházy, and László Krasznahorkai are becoming nearly as familiar to readers of world literature as Saramago, Banville, and Bolaño. In addition, writers such as Sándor Petőfi, Imre Madách, and Miklós Radnóti have finally begun to be read in numbers deserving of their talent. Yet, Hungarian writer Miklós Szentkuthy, who has at different times been compared to the holy trinity of Proust, Joyce, and Musil, still remains something of an obscurity, even though his work predates that of Kertész and the former trio, who represent the new, late Cold War generation, all of whom didn’t begin publishing until the end of the ’70s and early ’80s, long after Szentkuthy had produced all of his major works and established himself as Hungary’s foremost modernist. In fact, many of Hungary’s leading writers have sent signed copies of their works to Szentkuthy out of deference to him but, in the West, they have largely eclipsed their prodigious herald—Krasznahorkai advancing more swiftly to the world stage in part due to his association with Béla Tarr and Ágnes Hranitzky, Imré Kertész through writing novels on the Holocaust, which accord instant caché and significance.
If Szentkuthy is Hungary’s foremost modernist, in some ways, he is not really a “Hungarian” writer, not in any folkloric or nationalistic sense, for his work doesn’t deal with Hungarian reality or culture, except perhaps in extremely covert or complex allegorical ways. “Homelessness,” said László Németh, “is one of his main distinguishing marks, as compared with kindred Western writers.” Elaborating further, Németh suggested that “homelessness to be a higher form of protection of the mind.”
The fortification of that homelessness was clearly vital. Since the first volume of Szenkuthy’s St. Orpheus Breviary was censored, he was forced to vet each of his publications with the Hungarian state. Although he was not persona non grata under Rákosi’s Communist regime, and his Jewish origins were unknown at the time, he was certainly forced to become a kind of internal émigré. This all might have changed: after receiving the Baumgarten Prize, Szentkuthy was sent to London from February to autumn of 1948—he might have defected and, like Conrad or Nabokov, gone on to write in English without fear of censorship. But, although he was far from nationalistic, to Szentkuthy, emigrating remained a form of betrayal, if only to his linguistic identity. As Maria Tompa points out, “being a Hungarian writer, he wanted to live out his personal identity, along with all of its difficulties, in his native country.” A keen decision, one which perhaps preserved Szentkuthy since even an expert like Nabokov lamented losing something fundamental in adopting English as the language of his art, as he himself avowed in a rare admission: “Of the two instruments in my possession, one—my native tongue—I can no longer use, and this not only because I lack a Russian audience, but also because the excitement of verbal adventure in the Russian medium has faded away gradually after I turned to English in 1940.”
Szentkuthy was sensitive to this potential risk and, in choosing to return to Hungary, skirted it, knowing full well the conditions under which he would have to live. But it was only in Hungary that he knew he could sustain and cultivate his vision, and his attitude toward tragedy was spartan and stoic:
It is not meant as idle chatter when I emphasize that I live with . . . distant stellar constellations . . . From that huge perspective, from among such backdrops, please don’t take it as boastfulness on my part that on such a small territory I can’t take a historical period like that too tragically . . . I was one of the regime’s victims . . . but that way of looking at things has consequences for one’s general state of health and character: those few years of dictatorship . . . were an insignificant miniature, a weekend compared with the milliards of years of the universe. It would be ridiculous for me to speak about sub specie aeterni and meanwhile whine on about tragedy . . . 
Tompa explains how he “thought it was grotesque and, above all, senseless to light his imagination in voluntary exile, a thousand miles from his native land, and set down on paper the offspring of an imagination which luxuriated in the Hungarian language and artificially create a substratum for that mother language.” If in his subject matter Szentkuthy is not Hungarian, it is then in language that he is, through and through, and it is then in language that he is not homeless but profoundly bennszülött. A cosmopolitan, indubitably, but autochthonous.
When Prae, Szentkuthy’s first novel, appeared in 1934, the book was so startling that András Hevesi deemed him a “monster” and, despite his own misgivings about the term, Szentkuthy essentially inaugurated the Hungarian avant-garde. He would see such ‘experiments’ within a vaster historical continuum, “amply demonstrating” that what were “imagined” as “revolutionary innovations” by surrealists and others “had also played a part, to a greater or lesser extent (better too), in the history of the arts.”
To Szentkuthy, the style of the ultra-modernists was outdated. In Towards the One and Only Metaphor, he outlines what he sees as the two principal forms of experimentation: “one is strictly rational, self-analytical, and overscrupulous, simply a pathology of consciousness,” and the other is “the perennial experimentation of nature,” such as biological forms of development, where there are no distinctions between ‘final results’ and ‘undecided, exploratory trials.’” “If Prae and other works I have planned are ‘experimental,’ ” he counters, “then they are so in a specific biological sense: not an apprehensive, exaggerated self-conscience, but experiments of primal vitality, which are in a special biological relationship with form (cf. the ‘forms’ of protozoa: experiment and totality of life are absolutely identical, they coincide).”
Denounced as non-Hungarian, the mercurial Prae was considered “an eerie attack on the Hungarian realist novel,” a curse then against nationalism and folk-culture. But if Szentkuthy is to be critiqued for being cosmopolitan, then we may ask what happened to the sea change from national to world literature that Goethe envisioned? The Hungary of 1848 is no more, nor the American of 1950. To Nietzsche, “what is normal is crossed races,” and they “always mean at the same time crossed cultures, crossed moralities . . . Purity,” he continues, upending any nationalistic conception of the term, “is the final result of countless adaptations.” Over 50 years after Szentkuthy was denounced for being non-Hungarian, Kertész would suffer similar attacks after winning the Nobel for a body of writings that do not glorify Hungary, prompting many people to question whether or not he was “a real Hungarian writer.” An intractable question, and as Szentkuthy himself knew all too well, cultural diversity has its perils; but then, if, as Nietzsche argues, hybridization and adaptation is what ultimately creates ‘purity,’ the whole swindle of essentializing races and cultures is rendered impotent.
Although the monstrum had its champions, aside from an excerpt translated into French in 1974, Prae has never been published outside of Hungary, severely circumscribing its legitimate place in the history of world literature. Despite the fact that it foregrounds and presages many of the innovations of later literary movements, Prae currently remains lost to the world, despite the initial intrepid efforts of the French. If, as József J. Fekete observed, “linearity of time, coherent characterization, and plotline disappeared from his work and were replaced by something alien, a mysterious secret: authorial method,” Szentkuthy is then a true innovator whose work will force us to reconsider not only the genealogy of the nouveau roman, but perhaps other genealogies, too. Countering the parallels often made between Szentkuthy and Proust or Joyce, parallels that even Szentkuthy rejected as misconceptions “on the part of people who have never read either Joyce or myself,” Németh perceives a more accurate corollary in Kant:
What is important here is not the sensual material but the introspection of the artistic spirit that goes with it. If we wish to compare him with one of the big monsters, then Kant is much nearer the mark than either Proust or Joyce. The Critique of Pure Reason in point of fact is an introspection of the emptied mind. The mind jettisons the world from itself and strives to grasp what is left. As an experiment, it then again repeatedly gobbles one thing or other from the world and watches how space, time, and the categories chew it. It is not the item of food that is important, but the chewing itself; the food is only placed in the mouth so that there should be some chewing to investigate. It is like that with Szentkuthy as well, with the difference being that it is not the scholar’s brain that is observing its own mechanism of chewing, but the on-looking and shaping artist.
In effect, a Kantian, but an artistic-poetic one scaling politics, literature, science, painting, history, and the self. Although this risks hyperbole, to convey the genuine significance of Prae, that it is a Rosetta Stone of Hungary’s instrumental role in the development of world literature—imagine Joyce’s Ulysses, or Einstein’s theory of relativity still being unknown, and the shock—and knowledge—our encounter with them would now bring. But that is the mantle of the posthumous; the works of those who are Unzeitgemässe are always in advance of their time. Thus began Szentkuthy’s strange fate, with him struggling in the shadows during Rákosi’s rule, yet all while writing original tome after tome, producing a prodigious and innovative body of essays, novels, and biographical ‘fantasies,’ to translations of Gulliver’s Travels, Joyce’s Ulysses, as well as a host of other works, including a diary of over 100,000 pages spanning nearly 60 years, which the author declared three years before his death contains his ‘real’ writing. (The first part, which dates from the 1930–1947, an undeniably fertile and significant historical period, was recently opened on the anniversary of his death in July of 2013.)
While Szentkuthy would experience a renaissance of his work within Hungary during his own lifetime, following his death in 1988 his reputation broadened even more: his works were translated into French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, and Slovakian. His lack of such a reception in the Anglophone world is in part ironic considering he began as an Anglicist, penned a dissertation on Ben Jonson, and would later translate into Hungarian not only Poe, Twain, and Dickens but Donne, Milton, and even Sir Thomas Browne (who figures—along with Mauriac—at the end of Towards the One and Only Metaphor as a key typus for Szentkuthy’s conception of writing). And that Szentkuthy still remains almost entirely obscure to most readers of world literature, despite circulating in translation since 1990 (in book form),  lends heft to Erich Auerbach’s foreboding dialectic that, “in a uniformly organized world, only one single literary culture—indeed, in a relatively short time, only a few literary languages, soon perhaps only one—will remain alive. And with this, the idea of world literature would be at once realized and destroyed.” Clearly, he means English, confirming thereby the distressing reality that it is only with Szentkuthy’s translation into English that he will enter the world stage.
With the publication of Marginalia on Casanova, volume I of Szentkuthy’s St. Orpheus Breviary and the first book of his to be translated into English, Contra Mundum Press is seeking to make his work more well known. In selecting him as our featured author, we will publish further translations—all to be rendered by Tim Wilkinson—of his work over the coming decade, including Prae, at last exporting that infamous text in its entirety. Now, with Towards the One and Only Metaphor, we offer the second English translation of Szentkuthy’s work to date.
Originally published in 1935 and republished in 1985, Towards the One and Only Metaphor, Szentkuthy’s second book, is comprised of 112 numbered sections ranging in length from one sentence to several pages. The seeding ground out of which much of Szentkuthy’s future work would come, it is a text that defies classification, yet is perhaps most accurately thought of as literature in Blanchot’s expansive sense of the term, that which ‘ruins’ distinctions and limits in its creation of a unique and amorphous hybrid beyond the distinctions of a particular genre. As Dezső Baróti described when reviewing the book in 1935, it is comprised of “unconventional journal-like passages expanded into short essays, plans for novels, poetic meditations that have the effect of free verse, and paradoxical aphorisms,” all of which reveal a moral philosophy, a politics, an erotics. “Its predominant motifs (insofar as one can succinctly describe it in a few words) are most especially nature, love, eroticism, sex. All that, however, is constantly painted over by the vibration of the unconcealed presence of a writer constantly in search of himself, and rife with beguiling, stimulating, and ever-renewed surprises.” This accords with Szentkuthy’s grandiose if not quixotic goal of creating what he repeatedly called “a Catalogus Rerum, a listing of entities and phenomena, a Catalogue of everything in the Entire World.”
Recognizing the absurdity of totalizing projects like the Catalogus Rerum, Szentkuthy himself found it laughable; yet, at the same time, it was to him “a truly noble, Faustian goal” in which he sought to summarize “the untold thousands of phenomena in the world.” This included cataloguing “all of nature’s accessible phenomena, all the heavens and hells of love, the whole world of history, and finally a universal review of mythologies (the universal show), all the way to Christian mythology.” What differentiates Szentkuthy from the Encyclopaedists et alia, though, is that this is only a cataloguing, not a Promethean attempt to harness and dominate nature; what further differentiates him from them is also his very jocularity, as well as his recognizing that the Faustian target will never be reached. The fool is the saving figure, the moral fulcrum, he who sabotages the Socratic project for he knows its perils (the Revolution, the Terror, the Napoleonic Wars). Echoing the ne quid nimis of Pittacus of Mytilene, both Horace and Ovid respectively warn: aurea mediocritas and medio tutissimus ibis.
What, one might wonder, informs this strange boke? Szentkuthy is guided or prompted into his Faustian venture by sources as varied and diverse as Paracelsus, Spengler, and Viennese psychology, among other things. In addition, Towards the One and Only Metaphor is a response to criticisms directed against Prae. To combat the image of himself as “some sort of book-bug homunculus,” he wrote Metaphor to establish his humanity, and the very title is a signification of the arc, movement, and revolutions through which it moves, from the maniacal cataloguing of everything in the world to the one and only crystallizing metaphor that will contain it all. First, Paracelsus:
Just as Paracelsus brought the human body, the stars, and minerals to a common denominator, or the way modern physics has a tendency to crop up every now and again, bringing to a common denominator all the material phenomena of the world (material is actually a property of energy, energy is actually a property of space . . . ), so I wished to offer some kind of summing-up of art, theology, love, life, death, the everyday, mythology, games, tragedy, the cradle, the grave, jokes, a declaration. A listing is not moonshine: with me those are true ‘contrasts.’
And so it is, with Szentkuthy taking up through his means the Paracelsian ethos and tracing out through his ‘lists’ not only contrasts, but affinities and analogies, the vibrating correspondences that reveal the very fabric or threads underlining the universe. What is it, the indefatigable searcher asks, that underlies all things? What is the common denominator that can link one’s organs, a chemical substance, and the most distant nebulae?  How can these disparate things be united? Szentkuthy’s lists then are not mere lists, not “moonshine” as he objects, but are gathered from that sub specie aeterni perspective; if he catalogues, he does not descend into a mere grocery list of items. Instead, his cataloguing is more mercurial, more chemical, a transplanting of mathematical formulae into literary style. In this, in the Paracelsian ethos, we have the methodology of the book, though that word sounds too theoretical for a clowning, prankish, iconoclastic author like Szentkuthy who, just like Paracelsus, believed that “knowledge is experience” and since the “high colleges manage to produce so many high asses . . . a doctor must seek out old wives, gypsies, sorcerers, wandering tribes, old robbers, and such outlaws and take lessons from them.”
While a Catalogus Rerum, Towards the One and Only Metaphor is also a confessio, and this takes us—cursorily—into Spengler and Viennese psychology, into the practice of analysis, for Szentkuthy came of age during the birth, struggle, and apotheosis of modern psychology. By the time he wrote his book, Freud, Jung, and Adler had published almost all of their major works and the International Psychoanalytical Association had not only been in existence for a quarter-of-a-century but had suffered its major fractures and strongest opposing theories, most prominently with Jung’s Psychology of the Unconscious (1912), Rank’s The Trauma of Birth (1924), and Reich’s Function of the Orgasm (1927). In 1933—one year before the publication of Szentkuthy’s Prae—Hitler rose to power, Freud’s and Reich’s books were destroyed on the infamous night of book burning, and Jung published his seminal text, Modern Man in Search of a Soul. In fact, the quite exacting and singular definition that Jung outlines of the modern man could very well apply to Szentkuthy:
. . . the man we call modern, the man who is aware of the immediate present, is by no means the average man. He is rather the man who stands upon a peak, or at the very edge of the world, the abyss of the future before him, above him the heavens, and below him the whole of mankind with a history that disappears in primeval mists. Since to be wholly of the present means to be fully conscious of one’s existence as a man, it requires the most intensive and extensive consciousness, with a minimum of unconsciousness. It must be clearly understood that the mere fact of living in the present does not make a man modern, for in that case everyone at present alive would be so. He alone is modern who is fully conscious of the present.
The man whom we can with justice call “modern” is solitary. He is so of necessity and at all times, for every step towards a fuller consciousness of the present moves him further from his original “participation mystique” with the mass of man—from submersion in a common unconsciousness. Every step forward means an act of tearing himself loose from that all-embracing, pristine unconsciousness which claims the bulk of mankind almost entirely.
It is in the ferment of this political upheaval and intense psychic exploration that Szentkuthy begins his life as a writer. While as a Catholic, albeit a highly unorthodox one, the rite of confession was central to his life, the act of analysis and ruthless self-examination was intensely heightened by his impassioned study of the works of Freud, Jung, and Adler. If there is no explicit trace of their terminology in his work, the ‘influence’ is there, most prominently in his obsessive pursuit of the question. For one of the most conspicuous features of Towards the One and Only Metaphor is analysis. “My endeavor,” he revealed, points
to a world concept [világkép] in which I am able to offer a summation of the ultimate questions of life. (Like the figures seen in old coats of arms—the stylized images of a lion, the moon, stars, a chess table, an arm with a mace, hillocks and stretches of water, et cetera—a lot of fine things fit into a small space . . . ) Ultimate question is a very good term because in this world of ours everything remains a question, at least for the examining brain. As a result . . . , it is of much more value to catalogue issues that reach to the very foundations of the world than to give premature answers and solutions.
No answers, no solutions, but a catalogue of questions, though that is not meant literally: one will not find in this book a single list in the common sense. Whatever came to hand, ear, eye or skin was analyzed by Szentkuthy with rigor, to the extent that it lay in his powers, he “endeavored to get to the bottom of things with the same passion as that exerted by the Viennese physician.” To listen to him think is mesmerizing. This persistent mania for analysis and summation was vindicated he said by Spengler’s The Decline of the West (1918). In particular, as Szentkuthy describes it, Spengler’s biological view of the life cycle of cultures solidified his search for the unifying Paracelsian metaphor:
According to Spengler, the history of the Chinese, Jews, Greeks, Egyptians, Arabs, etc. all displayed one and the same biological progression and formula, the primitive epoch of birth may be seen everywhere, the most splendid era of flowering, and then the over-ripeness in every area at harvesting time, which in turn leads on to total withering and an almost sickly unproductive decadence. Thus, for Spengler at least, world history shows a single picture or recipe—a one and only metaphor!—as, indeed, in several other respects, the histories of plants and animals also do from the earliest times until the present age.
Early critics such as Gábor Halász saw in the book only a chaos of oral speech devoid of an organizing principle, let alone a calculating geometry. Instead, it was pure excitability, tension, flair, nerve, and intellectual paroxysm; not a unified work, only the precursor to a work; all that “is left is this prae,” he concluded his review, pointing back toward Szentkuthy’s audacious first novel, remarking then, dismissively, that he had still not yet learned how to write but was simply casting at his readers “raw material.” Clearly, Halász could not recognize the Paracelsian aim of the book, nor that its organizing principle was entirely unique; like with any fragmentary work, its lack of some systematic structure does not betray a lack of design, nor lack of a guiding vision. True, it is an essayistic and confessional work à la Montaigne, yet, if fragmentary, Towards the One and Only Metaphor is at the same time ordered, like a group of disparate stars which, when viewed from afar, reveal or can be perceived to form a constellation—they are sculpted by a geometry of thought, for, as András Keszthelyi observed, the text is essentially something of a manifesto, “an explicit formulation of the author’s intentions, his scale of values, or, if you wish: his ars poetica.” And when reviewing the book upon its original publication, Németh elucidated its geometrical and biological dimensions, noting how, through dehumanization, Szentkuthy returns us to the embryo and the ornament. Such is done to take us into the very particles of existence, as Németh also outlines:
There is no form and content in humanity; our protoplasm is more geometrical and our form more formless than the geometry and biology bubbling up in Szentkuthy’s U-tube. His method is dehumanizing; he dehumanizes man by mutilating him in the direction of the embryo and the ornament. The dehumanization, at root, is irony, and the type of writer who simply wishes to keep on smiling during the puppet show and gut-wrenching may well feel just fine. But Szentkuthy is not that type; indeed, he is greatly preoccupied with humanity, and in his ecstasy as lyrical agitator-cum-preacher would far sooner push our eyes, ears, and heads under his gestures and words.
And in Marginalia on Casanova, through the figure of its narrator, St. Orpheus, Szentkuthy offers a key to his very art: he describes ‘the most savage battle of his life,’ which he goes on to define as “the battle of the ‘descriptive’ versus the ‘anecdoticizing,’ the Romantically luxuriant in statics versus the French moralizing. . .” While both figure prominently throughout his oeuvre, description is undoubtedly victorious, and in it he finds “many more novelties, variations, elements, and shades than in any kind of so-called rational thinking. The most complex thoughts, poetic sensibilities, or philosophical sophistications are all stupefying platitudes, oafish homogenizing beside the infinity of nuancing an object.” And so he brings us into the very particles of existence through his principle of analysis. It is not only objects that Szentkuthy works with but also concepts, historical phenomena, consciousness, and many others, including language itself, which he turns into living creatures.
It is hoped that the 21st century will see Szentkuthy’s transcontinental reception and renascence, and that—as Nicholas Birns predicted in a review of Marginalia on Casanova—“Szentkuthy will unquestionably enter and alter the canon of twentieth-century literature as we know it.” For the canon will not be closed as long as Weltliteratur is moving—like Szentkuthy, and now with Szentkuthy—towards the one and only metaphor.
Rainer J. Hanshe is the founder of Contra Mundum Press. His novels include The Acolytes and The Abdication (currently being translated into Italian, Turkish, and Slovakian). He is at work on his third, Humanimality.
 For one analysis of this in English, see Nicholas Birns, “Startling Dryness: Szentkuthy’s Black Renaissance,” Hyperion: On the Future of Aesthetics (summer 2013), 227-242.
 László Németh, “Miklós Szentkuthy, Az egyetlen metafora felé,” Tanú, No. 1-2 (1936), tr. by Tim Wilkinson.
 Maria Tompa, “A végső kérdések kulisszái,” Orpheus, N. 1, Vol. V (1994) 45-52. An expanded, English version of this essay, “Backdrops to the Ultimate Questions: Szentkuthy’s Diary Life,” appeared in Hyperion: On the Future of Aesthetics (summer 2013), 282-313.
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Frivolitások és hitvallások (Budapest: Magvető, 1988) XII, 340.
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Prae: Recollections of My Career, tr. by Tim Wilkinson, Hungarian Literature Online (April 23, 2012) §21.
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Towards the One and Only Metaphor, tr. by Tim Wilkinson (New York: Contra Mundum Press, 2013) §43. This section begins with the phrase: “A Haydn sonata and a cactus.” Haydn is representative of the first form of experimentation and cacti of the second.
 Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) §272.
 Florence Noiville, “Imre Kertész’s Hungary: A Country on the Wrong Side of History,” The Guardian (February 12, 2012).
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Prae, tr. by Philippe Dôme, Pál Nagy, and Tibor Papp, D’Atelier, No. 6–7 (1974) 7–58.
 József J. Fekete, “Outprousting Proust: Szentkuthy, the Proteus of Hungarian Literature,” Hungarian Literature Online (July 3, 2008).
 Szentkuthy, Prae: Recollections of My Career, ibid.
 Németh, ibid.
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Az élet faggatottja: Beszélgetések, riportok, interjúk Sz.M.-sal (Budapest: Hamvas Intézet, 2006) 107.
 Szentkuthy also met both Eliot and Dylan Thomas at a reading in England, corresponded in brief with Thomas after asking the poet to revise his wife’s translation of an essay he’d written on Joyce, and met with Robert Graves in Hungary in May of 1968. Despite these encounters with three of the foremost writers of the 20th century, it did not lead to any greater notice of Szentkuthy’s work, nor efforts to translate it into English. For Szentkuthy’s own account of his encounters with Eliot and Thomas, see Prae: Recollections of My Career, ibid., §36. For his translation of Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” see “Hagyomány és egyéniség,” Uõ: Káosz a rendben (Budapest: Gondolat, 1981) 61-72.
 Translation of Szentkuthy’s work actually began in the mid 30s, when excerpts of Prae and other texts (mostly essays), were translated into German; however, they were never published. The very first published translation of Szentkuthy’s work was of an essay he wrote on Thomas Mann’s Joseph and His Brothers. See “Joseph-Geschichten,” tr. by Pia Razgha, Sinn und Form (1965) 205-217. Mann read the essay and expressed his admiration for it, writing to Razgha that he found it an “exceedingly artistic, spirited, and chromatic review” and that Szentkuthy is “an amusable, very astute, sensitive, and susceptible spirit, blessed with a supreme degree of humor. . .” Mann concluded his letter by noting that Szentkuthy’s critical tone reminded him “very much of something Russian; in the manner Mereschkowsky writes about Gogol, for instance. Anyway: I read his whole study feeling true pleasure from the first to the last word. . .” The original German letter precedes Razgha’s translation of Szentkuthy’s essay: “Thomas Mann an Pia Razgha,” Sinn und Form (1965) 204. Szentkuthy was then translated into Serbo-Croatian in 1970 (an excerpt from Prae), into French in 1974 (an excerpt from Prae), into Serbo-Croatian again in 1985 (the essay “Makrokosmos”), and into Polish in 1986 (an excerpt from the St. Orpheus Breviary). The first complete work of Szentkuthy’s to be translated into another language was Divertimento, his novel on Mozart, which was published by Tatran in Slovakia in 1990.
 Dezső Baróti, “On Az egyetlen metafora felé,” Új tükör 21, No. 1 (1985). Tr. by Tim Wilkinson.
 Frivolitások és hitvallások, ibid., ch. XIII.
 Miklós Szentkuthy, Frivolitások és hitvallások, ibid., 325.
 George Constable, Secrets of the Alchemists: Mysteries of the Unknown (Alexandria, VA: Time Life Education, 1991) 63.
 Carl Jung, Modern Man in Search of a Soul (New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1933) 196-197.
 Frivolitások és hitvallások, ibid., ch. XIII.
 “On Az egyetlen metafora felé,” Napkelet, No. 12 (1935).
 András Keszthelyi, “Mit üzen a ‘monstrum’?” Élet és Irodalom (November 7, 1985). Tr. by Tim Wilkinson.
 Németh, ibid.
 Marginalia on Casanova, ibid., §73, p. 130. Emphasis added.
 Nicholas Birns, Tropes of Tenth Street (October 6, 2012).
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