Translated by Owen Good

For some years now I always start the first of January with a run. The typically deserted trails through the hills are flooded with crowds compensating for the New Year’s (or other) events. This year too I threw myself among them, lungs rattling. It was worth it. Because for me running is closely knit with taking (back) control, now more than ever.

On the turn of the 2020s, over the course of three years, a large part of my original family died. The men went first: the introverted ones, the silent ones, the subdued ones, the neuralgic ones. Taken one after another by delusion, dementia, cancer, stroke, cardiac arrest. Sickness and death are curious things because what remains most with the survivors is the complete loss of control. After a while any attempt to restore order and stability turns out to be a fantasy: perhaps if the top doctor took a look, perhaps it’s not all that bad, perhaps a shaman could do something, perhaps the reputable clinic can find some solution, perhaps it’s all a mix-up and he hasn’t died. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

They say that in good cases the experience of grief can lead to a safer world. Grief can be slow and grief can be surprising. It can’t be boxed up. And there is no remedy. Some go running a lot, for example.

The same grieving process can also occur upon realising that one no longer feels at home in the country where one lives, in the family into which one was born, or in the profession in which one spends their every day. Loss of control is a fundamental experience here too. And accompanied by well-known fantasies: perhaps if we were to behave appropriately, we wouldn’t suffer maltreatment / impoverishment / violation of our boundaries. Perhaps if we were on good terms with people in positions of authority, perhaps if we subjected ourselves to the logic of power, perhaps if we kept quiet we wouldn’t have any problems. Perhaps. We’d be better off recognising that those systems – be it in the family, in professional life, or in a social circle – that operate along toxic dynamics, never were and never will be stable. They aren’t predictable. There is no foundation on which to build. Losing one’s (non-existent) sense of security is: grief work. To uphold the illusion of security is: suppression, a toxin, a delusion.

Such toxic illusions can be confronted both individually and as a community. By listening to true stories (rather than myths and normative precepts) we can launch from a new foundation. This is the only path towards stable solidarity. And recovery? No idea.

When I think about healing, I’m reminded of a Hungarian theatre show from last year: Idol. A coproduction by the ArtMan Association, ArtMenők, and Hodworks. The show was performed by fantastic dancers; among whom were many with normative bodies and many more with various disabilities or non-normative bodies. So-called impaired and so-called healthy. And yet: their performance together was perfectly natural. As if nothing could be simpler. One dancer quite literally dragged their wheelchair-using partner, while carrying another person on their back. Today in Hungary this appears more of a radical political statement than many topical, political works. The liberation, skill, and aestheticism, through which the dancers, helping one another, evoked unforgettable scenes about diverse rhythms of life and codes of cohabitation, gave me hope. It struck me that if the theatre can do this, can bear witness to the strength of community, then the country can be healed.

Coming back to literature: maybe we don’t have to shoot ourselves into space to find refuge. Resistance can begin in small communities too. Against abuse of power, hierarchical structures, exploitation, and toxicity. Quietly, determinedly. In the face of glamour, persuasion, and malice; where if the writer feels isolated, at best they leave the community. They withdraw. Are purged, become disillusioned, recede into the background. In worse cases they become cynical, burnt out, drained. Ghostlike. They may never make it to their first publication, their first book. Or only by gritting their teeth, without any joy. And this can be crucial for the future of the community.

I read somewhere that the primary goal of literary life must be the production of great works. Now, disregarding how impossible it would be to define what a great work might mean (both sales and critical reception leave us in the lurch), my ever growing belief is that it’s much more essential to establish and maintain a community where the welfare and mental wellbeing are more important than perfectionism. Where solidarity is manifest in our knowledge that although we can’t make a living from it at the moment: literature doesn’t have to be a stage for ill feelings or circus attractions. Where we can look after ourselves and look after each other – the youth, the elderly, and everyone in between. Passionate and determined. With ease of mind.

But until then: there’s running.