Attila Bartis Livres

A serpentine maze of memory and artistic obsession in post-war communist Hungary told in bold experimental style and perfect for fans of Helen DeWitt Nothing approximates death as closely as photography. Unspooling like a roll of film, The End captures in frames of language the faces and places of András’ memory, which together form a fever-dream collage of an artist’s psyche. In a small town in communist Hungary, András Szabad’s childhood comes to an abrupt end with his father’s return from prison and the death of his loving mother. In search of new beginnings, András moves with his father to Budapest, where he discovers a passion for photography, for uncovering the invisible through the visible, and for fixing matter and memory so as to ward them against the inevitability of time. An unorthodox first encounter brings András together with Éva, and soon they become entangled in a psychosexual relationship of consuming passion, but also bitterness and resentment. With vibrant precision and fluid dialogue, Attila Bartis blends a sprawling family saga with 20th-century European history and offers an unflinchingly lucid yet boundlessly compassionate account of psychological devastation under authoritarianism.

Set against the backdrop of Communist Hungary, the narrative explores the tumultuous relationship between Andor Weér, a writer, and his domineering mother, Rebeka, a former stage actress. Their toxic bond, marked by resentment and dependency, is disrupted when Andor meets the enchanting Eszter, igniting a passionate romance. As he contemplates introducing her to his mother, the story unfolds as a darkly comedic psychodrama, highlighting the absurdity of human suffering and the irony of freedom within a totalitarian regime.

In seinem neuen Buch erfindet sich Attila Bartis ein Alter ego, einen auferstandenen Lazarus, der ein Jahr lang monatlich einen Zeitungsartikel abliefern muß – »zwölf wahre Geschichen von Gott«. Unverhohlen autobiographisch, spielen einige im Rumänien der Ceau? escu-Diktatur, andere handeln von einer Reise in den Nahen Osten, an den »tiefsten Punkt der Welt«, wo ihn die Frage nach dem Ort Gottes umtreibt – ob seine Stelle am Ende leer sei. »Vielleicht war sie auch nicht leer, nur ließ er sich nicht richtig blicken. Oder er ließ sich blicken, doch der Mensch hatte sich ihn ganz anders vorgestellt.«