Coincidentally, Chico Buarque’s Budapest was given to me as a present just before I announced that I’d be living here. But it took me six months to get around to reading it. Perhaps I was concerned that I’d be living his life instead of mine.
It's the story of a Brazilian writer, temporarily stranded in Budapest, who instantly develops a connection to the city and the Hungarian language. His appetite whetted, he seizes a chance to renew his acquaintance and begins to concoct a new reality.
Budapest is described warmly but it’s the Hungarian language that attracts the lion’s share of the author’s admiration. His unbridled enthusiasm radiates from the central character. If your desire to learn Hungarian needs rekindling, 'Budapest' could provide the spark of inspiration.
Buarque delights in ambiguity, in dissolving the borders between people, places and, indeed, paragraphs. He's poetic, romantic, yet often frustrating. He'll lead you down certain roads, hiding ‘round corners and disappearing down side-streets at every opportunity. At times, the side-streets become the thoroughfares, resulting in an intriguing but exhausting journey.
The author’s dedication to a weaving plot made my relationship with narrator, Jose Kosta, a little turbulent. Unlikely situations and dubious decision-making sometimes wrecked my suspension of disbelief as Buarque stretched the plot to fit the skeleton of his post-modern ambitions.
Rather like Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation, the self-referential plot is folded several layers thick. It’s impossible not to appreciate Buarque’s craftsmanship and imagination but equally, it's impossible to ignore his vanity. He treats his readers as Kosta treats his women and colleagues: with an air of intellectual superiority. How much you are wowed by his resolution will probably influence how much of this you're willing to forgive.
Andy Sz.
Budapest is described warmly but it’s the Hungarian language that attracts the lion’s share of the author’s admiration. His unbridled enthusiasm radiates from the central character. If your desire to learn Hungarian needs rekindling, 'Budapest' could provide the spark of inspiration.
Buarque delights in ambiguity, in dissolving the borders between people, places and, indeed, paragraphs. He's poetic, romantic, yet often frustrating. He'll lead you down certain roads, hiding ‘round corners and disappearing down side-streets at every opportunity. At times, the side-streets become the thoroughfares, resulting in an intriguing but exhausting journey.
The author’s dedication to a weaving plot made my relationship with narrator, Jose Kosta, a little turbulent. Unlikely situations and dubious decision-making sometimes wrecked my suspension of disbelief as Buarque stretched the plot to fit the skeleton of his post-modern ambitions.
Rather like Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation, the self-referential plot is folded several layers thick. It’s impossible not to appreciate Buarque’s craftsmanship and imagination but equally, it's impossible to ignore his vanity. He treats his readers as Kosta treats his women and colleagues: with an air of intellectual superiority. How much you are wowed by his resolution will probably influence how much of this you're willing to forgive.
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I wasn't interested in any of that self-refential crap. It just has to have that in there to keep the beardies at the University of Exeter happy. If there's a point to the book, I think it examines (male) desires and finds an analogy for them in language-learning.
But... Why Budapest? Why Hungary? Any ideas?
KENT
Why are we here? Why Budapest? Why Hungary? Any ideas?
YORK