Ferenc Szijj’s second book followed his successful A lassú élet titka (The Secret of Living Slowly, 1990), a book of poems. The second chapter of short prose pieces opens with a poem that includes the lines:

 

Day by day I strain to work

To stay above the surface of existence.

 

Whether a text belongs to the world of the imagination, as do most of the shorter stories, or to the world of experience, as do the longer ones, their protagonists strain desperately to keep above the surface of existence, instead of sinking down into their own memory and emptiness, lest some meaning or explanation should escape from the objects and the relationships around them and shed light on the repeated stories of these “invalid”, lonely heroes. The extremely reserved narrators in these short pieces represent their own, rather closed world. Sometimes the texts are archaic like the romanticism of Büchner, in an alienated, colder version; at other times they recall Kafka’s or Beckett’s reduced language and world of poverty.

This slim book, the best of Szíjj�s volumes of poetry to date, is a harrowing attempt to come to terms with childhood traumas. Each of the six long stanzas of free verse marks a shift in location. Much of the time a nameless character comes and goes in the metropolis. He stops by lakes, graveyards, taxicabs and trees propped up by metal struts. He inspects them thoroughly and talks to himself. Who is the speaker? Someone who mumbles to himself and tries to articulate the simplest things and principles that structure the world. His language is basic to the point of being awkward. He repeats himself and some of his sentences remain incomplete. Despite their apparent insignificance, each event is frightening and provides the descriptive elements that coalesce to give a particular meaning to each new episode. The most dramatic section is perhaps the third, story of how the mother went insane one night. �They are just circumstances, they belong to something, but I don�t really know what,� he says before giving a detached account of the family members� deaths. The texts are puzzling, and give a memorable reading experience.

Szijj�s gripping, eventful and funny fairy-tale is �peopled� by animals, vegetables, objects and human figures with whimsical names. Prince Pitch-Marsh has to save Princess Maria Petalkin from the clutches of the Nightmare King�a task made all the more difficult by the king�s intimidating servant, Squirreltail. The members of Maria Petalkin�s household�among others, Katie Vaxler, the Transylvanian Naked-neck fowl; Tivadar Apafi, the garden gate; the Cucumber sisters; and Little Orphan Vasalinovich, a ripening tomato�do more to hinder than help the hero in carrying out his heroic deed. The novel is in fact constructed around the artifice of delayed consummation: every time the reader believes that Prince Pitch-Marsh is on the verge of rescuing the Princess, something unexpected intervenes. Everyday things that might be familiar to a child�curling-tongs, a toothpick, a thimble�are transformed into objects with miraculous powers. The enemy�s magic ring operates with a PIN code, but our hero prefers to fight with natural weapons (at one point, for instance, a sharp-eared magic handkerchief makes an appearance). In the tale it is not a simple struggle between good and evil, more a matter of docility (and often enough naďve simple-mindedness) being pitted against violence and lust for power. The playful language of the entrancing text is liberally sprinkled with diverting, ironical verbal inventions. The book is likely to appeal to children of elementary school age (6-14 years old).