

Where have all the objects gone in fiction?
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Where have all the objects gone in fiction?
When I chose to focus on space and objects in literature for this essay series, it occurred to me I couldn’t have chosen a less sexy topic. What comes to mind on this subject? Landscape descriptions by Jókai or Defoe, and rather boring at that—let’s admit it. But I’ve noticed that contemporary Hungarian literature seems to lack a built and material environment. When it does feature, it functions more as a setting than a narrative force in its own right. See, already this was starting to sound much more exciting to tackle.
“Own Death” by Péter Nádas opens with the narrator breaking habit and choosing to walk on the shady side of the street. His unusual use of space foreshadows the central theme of the story: a heart attack. Speaking of Nádas's work, in The Illuminated Details, material


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