The Contemporary Nomad is where five authors talk with you, dear reader, about the important subjects of the day. Whatever we decide they might be. Read more 
N A D L E R
As much as anything else, Hungarian literary icon Gyorgy Faludy, who died on Friday in the Nomad sister city of Budapest on Saturday at the age of 95 years (some media reports put Faludy at 101), was a writer with the good fortune of realizing the famous Chinese curse: he lived through interesting times.
Faludy, a Hungarian Jew, endured anti-Semitism, Fascism, and a relentless march towards war when he fled his birthplace of Budapest in 1938, and began a career as an exiled writer. Faludy was already famous as a poet. But he was something else: a man of politics, action, and letters, a breed of writer like Koestler (a fellow Hungarian) and Orwell that officially became extinct with Faludy’s quiet death on September 1.
Orwell died early and so is associated with the ideological clash of the 1930s. Faludy lived to see history repeat itself. He fled Hungary in the late 1930s to escape Nazi camps only to be put in a Hungarian Communist one when he returned to his country after the war. Beginning in 1949, Faludy languished in the infamous Recsk prison for three years.
He suffered from hunger, disease, soul-killing oppression, and daily violence. Even he might have admitted: it was a blessed experience for a writer and a man of action. His already considerable stature grew in prison. He wrote poems in blood on scraps of toilette tissue; he organized literary seminars among fellow inmates to boost morale; after his release he wrote a brilliant memoir of his prison years entitled ‘My Happy Days in Hell.’
During the 1956 revolution, Faludy fought the Soviets, and when that revolt failed he left Hungary for the second time. Faludy wandered: living in a host of countries, including Italy, the U.S. (he taught at Columbia), and Britain. He returned to Hungary after the final collapse of communism, married a young beauty, and became a pop celebrity. For over a decade in Hungary, Faludy’s unmistakable visage – that wonderfully craggy face framed by long locks of gun-barrel gray hair – was as ubiquitous in magazines, posters, and newspapers as any pop star. Hungarians loved him because he was a survivor who, throughout the country’s long complicated history, made the right decisions. He chose the right enemies; he never made compromises. He was a symbol of the best this country could produce.
One or two colleagues questioned Faludy’s proximity to popular culture. They wondered if he was diluting his legacy; selling out. I figured Faludy was doing what he had always done best: he was living well. He was living for the moment: enjoying attention so richly deserved, making new friends, making love to a young wife, … living well.
In fact, I am not being derisive way when I say that Faludy lived better than he wrote. As a writer, he was fortunate enough to experience and survive the most cursed moments of the last century, and interpret them in his poetry; but as a man he was brave enough to face and embrace these times. He fought when he could; he fled when discretion dictated. He eked out as much pain, pleasure, and passion from the years in between.
It is hard to feel grief when a long, stellar, and successfully lived life like Faludy’s comes to a close. But in this case so many of us are for the simple reason: the likes of Gyorgy Faludy won’t be returning any time soon. He was too unique, and far too interesting.
September 4th, 2006 at 1:01 pm
John, I’d never heard of Faludy until reading this piece, and I’m guessing he hasn’t received widespread obits here in the UK. But you’re right, it sounds like an extraordinary life, the kind of life that modern writers tend to write about rather than live.
On a completely shallow side-note, when I’m older, I think that’s how I’ll wear my hair.
September 4th, 2006 at 1:19 pm
Slavica was telling me she thinks Faludy flew Allied fighter planes during WWII. Anyone know if this is true? (The Wiki doesn’t say.)
September 4th, 2006 at 2:24 pm
Wonderful looks! I completely understand the young beauty. :)
Other than that, I also don’t know of him. Poetry doesn’t translate well, and that is a pity.
September 5th, 2006 at 8:23 am
Olen,
Had a quick scout around using “Faludy György második világháború légierő” (‘… second world war airforce’), and some very sketchy details about involved with the air force come up:
‘Between 1940-1 he escaped to Morocco ahead of the Germans, later living in the USA. For three years (between 1943 and 1945) he also served in the American Army. Between 1941-1945 he was the secretary for the Free Hungary Movement.’(source NYUGATI HÍRLEVÉL, number 58, 2003. Oct-Nov)
‘he joined the US forces, through which he became involved in (or had links with) the airforce on the anti-Japanese front, on the islands of the Pacific Ocean.’ (source
Faludy György kilencven esztendeje, (‘George Faludy’s 90th year’) by Pomogáts Béla)
So, far found nothing more definite than that.
You may also be interested to know that his uncle Szilárd Leó worked on the Manhattan Project alongside fellow Hungarians Teller Ede (‘father of the hydrogen bomb’) and Neumann János (aka ‘John von Neumann’).
September 5th, 2006 at 9:15 am
That’s interesting, V. I wonder if he joined the US Army looking to kick around Germans, then found himself frustrated on the Japanese front.
There are a lot of Hungarian “fathers” in the world of scientific invention–I’m always hearing about them. In one of my as-yet-unpublished manuscripts there’s this bit:
…….
Hungarians can prove that Magyars invented anything of importance in the last two hundred years. Csilla has the list committed to memory:
“Ede Teller, the hydrogen bomb; Leo Szilárd, the atomic bomb; János Neumann, binary code and game theory, and the atomic bomb; Tódor von Kármán made supersonic flight possible and designed the first interstellar rocket; John Kemény was the Father of Microcomputing; Peter Carl Goldmark invented the color television and the video recorder; Tivadar Puskás, the telephone switchboard—”
“Okay, okay,” I told her, because I’d heard this before and knew she could go on all night. “I believe you. But where were these Hungarians when they invented these things?”
She knitted her brows.
“All of them, I’ll wager, had emigrated. Either to England or America.”
She didn’t like that one bit. “God, you’re so vain.”
September 5th, 2006 at 2:57 pm
Funny! The Americans did a huge talent search in Europe after WW II.
I can’t say I’m happy about the bomb technology, but much of the incentive seems to have been for war and space.
December 11th, 2007 at 9:31 pm
I’ve read “happy days and hell” and “city of splintered gods”. I love faludy, both his work and the way in which he lived. Great post. you do justice to the man.
March 3rd, 2008 at 10:57 pm
He did not live better than he wrote. Being a poet/writer, we should consider his works, not his life, though those things are close. However, his poems are extraordinary beauty and impression, melody and truth.
April 15th, 2008 at 12:23 pm
Hello!
I am a Hungarian fellow.
I think the most authentical experience is to read it here, in Hungary. You would wonder how authentic the atmosphere is!
June 22nd, 2008 at 1:22 pm
I was very fortunate to know George Faludy personally. He was my mentor, my icon. His life was interesting and wonderful. If you would like to learn more about him, read the `My happy days in hell`! Many of his books are available in english language as well as his poems. Read them and you will enjoy every moment of it!
August 18th, 2008 at 4:00 pm
Beware the humorous verse. It will teach you some lessons.