Your critics have compared you to Rimbaud and Warhol. Both of them are
deviant, subversive artists. Do you consider yourself a rebel?

Look, I am sitting on a comfortable sofa, while Ukraine – where my novel became the Book of the Year – is on the verge of civil war. It would be pathetic to assume a revolutionary posture. I didn´t look for trouble, but I was not trying to avoid it either. Most of all, it was my curiosity that drove me, not the urge to change the world – first, I wanted to get to know it. I took part in the East European demonstrations that changed the so-called socialist regimes. I was there in Prague, Berlin, Belgrade and Romania. These trips made more sense to me than any lectures on history. After that, I could not really take the university seriously.

Did you want to be part of history or was it a kind of tour of revolutions that amused you?

Originally, I set out on a university field trip to study the behaviour of masses, which was more or less just a reason I needed. On the very first day in Belgrade, I found out that these people behaved rather individually. I never stayed in hotels, and no one thought of me as a tourist. I was unable to remain an outsider.

Did you want to fight?

No, I had no intention whatsoever. I simply wanted to be there. It was obvious that something had come to an end, and I thought I would better understand the whole by looking backwards from the end. I was certain that the dictatorship was going to collapse, even though many people thought it was bullocks. But it was right in front of my nose, in front of everybody’s nose; and if you missed it, you can only be sorry.

Do you think your generation is a lucky one?

I had my ‘A level’ right the very year of the change, and I got to know two political systems when I was young, and in this sense I’ve been lucky. However, what we are talking about is not a generation, but rather a dividing line between two generations. Those who were born ten years before me had to adapt or flee. In both cases they were humiliated, which could have affected their personalities. Those who were born later, in the seventies, understood nothing of the old ways. We grew up in a dictatorship, but we did not have to be afraid of the authorities really coming after us. They could beat us, even expel us from school, but we were more or less safe.

Was it easier then to be a rebel?

I would say so. Everyone knew the system was bad. This meant that if I was against it, I could be nothing but good. Opposition was inspiring for me. I was there at every protest on 15 March (the anniversary of the 1848 Hungarian revolution), I was there at the ‘Battle of Chain Bridge’ in 1986. Escaping the police, I jumped into a first floor window and landed in a bed packed with cushions. The old lady who lived there was nearly scared to death. I got off light, but later they expelled me from grammar school. I heard about the Hungarian revolution of 1956 from my parents and from my older friends. I tried to understand their memories of euphoria. It was obvious we were not going to have another '56, because we had already had it, so I had to move on to other countries that had not had their revolutions yet.

Did you find what you were looking for?

Yes, for some moments in Prague, and several times in Belgrade.

As far as I know, you did not plan on becoming a writer…

For a time I was interested in genetic engineering and architecture, but after I was kicked out of grammar school, I decided to go to the faculty of arts, which was the most open-minded faculty those days.

I read somewhere that your literary career started on a train…

Yes, I met somebody on a train by accident who turned out to be a professor of antique literature from a university, and he sent my poems to the best literary magazines. Then, to my surprise, they published them all. A few years later, my volume of poems, Statue Under a White Sheet Ready to Jump, came out.

Later you turned to prose. As far as I know, the basic idea of The Last Window Giraffe came to your mind during the 1996-1997 demonstrations in Belgrade.

The revolution in Belgrade was practically a carnival. Thousands of people demonstrated for months on end against the system, against stupidity and against winter. Imagine a party that no one wants to leave, even after several months and several beatings. There were demonstrations in the morning and in the afternoon, and in between I went to the battlements to watch the two rivers, the Danube and the Sava flow together. It was my point of meditation. Looking back, it is too obvious, but it took me nearly two months to come to the idea that I should write a book in which historical, political and aesthetical observations on East Europe and my personal memories flow together into one novel.

How does the theme of childhood enter the picture?

The Communist regime treated all of us like children. Not just me, who was an actual child, but also my parents, my grandparents and my professors, too. That is why I used the form of a Hungarian children’s dictionary called Window–Giraffe for my own dictionary on East Europe. (Window is ‘Ablak’ and Giraffe is ‘Zsiráf’ in Hungarian. These are the first and the last words in this A-Z).

You took the photos for your book yourself; you made a new media CD-ROM, several exhibitions and hundreds of performances all over the world, all based on the novel. Is literature not enough?

Not all of these are based on the novel. They are based on the same idea, but they have different viewpoints. I was always interested in the whole. In the case of the novel, I wrote the text together with the pictures. When the radio play was ready, it became clear that we had to move on towards multimedia. We spent years working on the CD-ROM, and in 2002, my interactive exhibition opened in the Ludwig Museum. This exhibition travelled around Europe. A part of this was the CD-ROM: a combination of text, music, animations and videos. Through various showings of the CD-ROM, a performance developed, which was enacted by two, four or occasionally eight actors. I worked with more than a hundred actors in 28 countries, which was quite an experience.

Your “travelling lexicon” has been around the world from New York to Kiev and Delhi. The book was translated into eighteen languages. It was a success even the biggest names in Hungarian literature can hardly hope for. How did it happen?

The first translation was into Bulgarian. The translator called me up and told me she had translated the book and found a publisher, and she asked me if I would come to Sofia for a launch. I had written this book for a Hungarian audience, and I did not consider whether it was translatable or not. Moreover, there was the alphabetical order. Critics appreciated the book from the beginning, but no one really thought it could actually sell or be published in so many languages. But something had happened, and after the third foreign publishing house came up with an offer, I decided to join the promotion. Unlike young musicians, young Hungarian writers never had international success before. It was a challenge whether I could succeed in something that nobody would have bet a penny on. Since I was no dead classic, my publishers demanded my presence for the launches, and I was always happy to be there. It all went very well, and soon I had to say no to invitations, as I could not be present at two places at the same time.
 
Is self-management important in literature?

Nothing happens without an effort. You deceive yourself if you think otherwise. In Hungary, the old-fashioned rules say you have to wait patiently to deserve acknowledgement. Then, if you are a good boy, there will be somebody to toss you ahead. This passive role is not my cup of tea. I am the cause of my success; I did not leave it to others.

Why did you stop writing poems? I have to confess I liked them a lot. I have just recently seen one of your old poems in the subway, printed in one of the cars.

I still write poems, but I do not publish books of poems anymore. They do not fit into a book. Putting them together in a collection and calling it a book would not feel right. In all of my books, there are parts that are read as poetry, and sometimes these are published as separate poems, too. I do not draw a clear line between poetry and prose. Already among my first poems there were some pieces that might as well be called prose.

How did you manage to break through?

There is an element of luck with every book - being there at the right time and right place - but you can influence it, too. I have always tried to get in touch with only publishers and translators I appreciated. I did not sit around and wait for success, but I did not seek the friendship of everybody who was close to the fire. I’ve never had powerful supporters. Gradually, more and more critics wrote about my works. I was invited to festivals, and slowly a chain reaction started.

A well-known Hungarian writer has recently said that in Hungary, it is almost a sin to be versatile and successful. You spent many months in other countries and generally travel a lot. Are you fleeing from home?

No, I like living here, but there was a time when I was fed up with the way things are done here, and felt like I could leave for a while. And I was right. In Germany, I was welcome, taken more seriously and paid better. But I always come home. My apartment is here, as well as my library and my favourite kinds of food. And the only language I enjoy writing in is Hungarian.

Are you well accepted in Hungary?

I have been in some school books; you saw some of my poems in the subway; major authors wrote praise for my works. I can’t say I'm an outcast. Hungarian literary life is so divided that those who are in are also out, and vice versa. I was acknowledged by a lot of people from the beginning, but officially only from 2004, when they realised I had written a bestseller that could help popularise Hungarian literature abroad. Then, I was chosen to participate in some official programmes as well.

How would you describe the difference between the German and the Hungarian literary scene? Do you think it really helps literature to have such a support system?

Obviously writers are treated better in Germany. They receive more attention and more opportunities. There are also serious critical works which are hard to find in Hungary. There are many residencies where writers can work for several months in peace. You also get paid better, which in a way makes your work more serious. Money actually helps, because those who give the money risk something. They have to organise your event very well, in order to attract an audience; and you’d better be good, or else you won’t get invited again. I have had a dozen readings in Germany with audiences of over a hundred people, which means they even made a profit out of me. You cannot really compare Hungary and Germany, because there is an element of size that cannot be ignored. Germany has the biggest market in Europe, a network of literary houses and twenty times more places to read. Berlin sometimes has more literary events in two weeks than Budapest in a whole year. We are not very well-developed in terms of book fairs and festivals, and there are practically no international residencies in Hungary.

In the meantime, another work of yours was published in Germany. Drei is a selection of your short writings translated into German. When is it going to be published in Hungary? And what have you been working on recently?

It is coming out in Hungarian soon. Recently, I have been working on a novel and a theatre play. There is some pressure from my foreign publishers, who are waiting for the new novel, but there is no need to panic. I have lots of ideas. And lots of time as well.

Zsuzsanna Sándor and Ágnes Simon

Péter Zilahy's website
Zilahy in the Ludwig Museum
Zilahy on Hunlit
Zilahy's poems translated into several languages on Lyrikline