So she was summoned to return at once the old blush she had sunk into her handbag, while conscientiously placing an identical one in her shopping cart so that, after payment, she could powder her cheeks with it for the award ceremony of the Freud medal for lifetime achievement, to be handed her by the minister of education himself.

We long to be continued after the last episode, although the producers opened the champagne and gave us a small farewell party. This afternoon even we sit on the kitchen stools in front of the camera hoping to see ourselves in the new chapter: we have played our part for a full year and this recent indifference to our fate, the plotlines unfolding without us in the new scenario hurt us to the quick.

Is it possible that the audience is losing interest in us? We fear it might be disapproving. While contemplating suicide by the open window, to be soaked not in springtime melancholia but in grenadiermarsch [1] stench.

After a night spent awake due to the weather turning, to drowse off when our life sentence is announced. Instead of ours, to enter the hotel room of the lust killer who is shaving naked in front of the full-length mirror.

To go raspy when given the right to the last word.

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To meet ourselves on the staircase she going upstairs, I tumbling down. Incensed, to shove our manhood into the bread slicer instead of bread. To knock on our own door, waiting to be let in.

With our mouth full of spinach to choke convulsively on some antediluvial joke on the silken sofa of the newly wed. To eat gilded-edged caramel custard while changing diapers.

To see the light under shadowy circumstances. To remain standing for good, half-dressed, in front of the cupboard, or sitting in the bathtub until icicles grow on the tap out of a penchant for parallelism.

And if not, let go!

Then the day will come: the grenadiermarsch smell in the open window, the killer with the razor will come to cut off the ice from our skin.

And spring! During his visit now and then the king stops on a whim, and throws a look across his realm. Winter has worn out the city, the fences lean in, the frost drove new cracks in the pavement.

Snow, black, is blocked in the gutter mouths. Open lorries carry sand to a nearby construction site, fine dust drizzles down.

But to follow your brother, sadly, into the fire — Really, is that customary? Blush long sleeve lace insert high leg cupped body knitting His limited patience had expired when he learned that Jack had been drugged.

With light fingers he wipes the grains from his brow. The brass band strikes up a fanfare.

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He spots the mutilated Romanian sitting in the same corner, a babbling would-be greeting on his cardboard sign. So his faithful subject has come to him, travelling all night on the blackened train, or defecting across the green border of hope!

He waves at the man kneeling at his feet, whose eyes run over with tears. Daily routine.

To stand up to the clash. A month ago? Blush long sleeve lace insert high leg cupped body knitting Flowers from morning glory beach vines and waterlilies, plaited into long garlands, drenched our tresses there as slick crabs fled from me and my friends and into the sea.

On a mouth organ a duke plays operetta. The hailing, the attention directed at him, the loud calling of his name, the hands grabbing the hem of his robe wear him out, he feels repulsion.

And yet: he was born for this, when all the bells spoke of hope, I will be one of themhe said, but now it is as if he were watching in a microscope the beings, invisible to the naked eye, scurrying, worming on the ground.

I dreamed I gave birth to a child: by him.

All their happiness and their atrocious suffering. Dresses for Women, Mini Club Dresses different sizes, designs, cuts Vomiting was the logical consequence of an unwanted meal.

But they warned me beforehand: it is stillborn. The most awful of all was my indifference. A huge, waxen newborn was laid out on the table.

Next to it, under a damask cloth, props of an unfinished breakfast. We must behave as if he were alive, the midwife said and cried out twice: Look, how cutely he is wobbling!

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I started eating. No blood oozed from it: it was final. Like the outcome of something long-planned.

I knew I was the one who wounded him, unawares when slicing the bread. I even recalled how. I felt fear and hazy remorse. I knew I was to be sentenced.

Surely I cannot be the killer of our love? Surely it was the child of another, a stranger, not yours, and by no means mine? Most likely it was a wax doll.

Someone must have made a savage joke, for everything around us is: life. And inside me too: you surely know me! Even if leaves are falling on the rails and the tram turns the corner with long shrieks.

Needless to resist anymore: as I have always wanted. I never managed, as I now realize, to align, however hard I tried.

Gentler than any lover on the craved pudenda. This was the most exquisite movement, thank you, leaf.

This was the most exquisite movement. Not to look forward on the way but backward only. To stand up to the clash. Then on the water a leaf may fall.

To smuggle my remembrance into the manner of the farewell, the moral of experience paid with blood, the gift of clear-sightedness, before my eyesight is blurred and my pupils hitch upward.

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Where does bargaining begin, the withdrawal of consent, the defensive fidgeting, the living for the last moment, the hour stolen for banqueting, or making love?

I might lapse there as well — our emperor left the decision to us, but Socrates forbids cowardly action. But since you had promised to pay my debt, what would hold me here still?

The sand sifting from my eyes will settle on the borders of Athens. I have never believed in borders, yet feel no triumph. My legs go heavy, I lie down on my back, as the man who brought the hemlock advised.

The world loses its contours, grows cold.

She started publishing in the early s, gradually developing a consciously understated, slightly elegiac lyric voice coupled with profoundly personal themes, addressing both private and historical traumas.

A former professor of Romance literatures, she has translated St. John of the Cross, Pessoa, Borges and others into Hungarian. My Autobiographies ].

Her work is widely anthologized, and has been translated into English by George Szirtes, Laura Schiff, and Ottilie Mulzet, among others.

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She lives in Budapest. A regular collaborator to various Hungarian reviews, she is editor, together with Rainer J. B ack into the body ; may commotion reach her no more.

Busy people had disturbed her relentlessly. Bad memories—noises—had showered her, even amid the strain of—inner—tunes.

All rhythm, sheer sound. No one knew of her rare ability; she kept the secret well. The concealed sounds now began storming within her—all of them, at once.

Making their word heard? A fine orgy flooded through her. Perhaps her overblown need for a personality, her oversize ability to attune, was linked to her singular sensitivity to sounds.

Effortlessly she assumed the—rhythm of the—other.

Only when turning directly its way. She is in sound and she is so as long as she is—as long as she might be. Yet another orgy flooded through her.

She would have broken through her own sounds, but a complete commotion?! May nothing happen! This grammatically unsound call to action, which back then was found also on pins, now came to mind.

An aftershock of the beat generation. Back then, everyone wore tight T-shirts and jeans.

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T-shirts emblazoned with words, wrapped snugly around breasts. Beautifying operations—she was weary of those. No ambition, no action; no action going forward, either.

Because externals were all sucked into her at once, they were stuck in her—hiding her. No aligning of perspectives. The vibrations within her were too many.

Sound or prosthesis?