Orsolya Fenyvesi: Hunger is the Best Sauce 

I am a terrible eater, the great Hungarian writers, 

as we know, bolted down their dinner. In the museum 

of Hungarian literature, after the section where Petőfi 

comes under bitter attack for his poems, I reached 

an exhibition filling several rooms, showcasing our greats’ 

own recipe books, teapots, and favourite dishes. 

Hangover soup, sloppy cabbage stew, and tripe. 

My nausea only subsided slightly 

when in a photo I spotted among a rather  

literary table society the antagonist 

replicant from Blade Runner: Roy Batty, 

who, when the Sentries weren’t standing guard, 

saw attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, 

and C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. 

And I’m going to be a wife, and one who likes 

neither cooking nor eating. Just writing and pasta. 

But then, wandering further, I eventually 

found something I did desire. 

In the next room the light came on over an altar, 

and there rested Endre Ady, laid out. His shroud-drapery 

had place enough for one or more to sit (to snuggle?), 

but I wanted to perch on his heart. I gave the life-sized Venus of Willendorf 

a kick up the arse, and wanted to pop myself down on his heart, 

like a nightmare, someone who can write as she pleases, when he 

is almost a hundred years dead. 

Translated by Owen Good 

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