28 July - Journey by Moonlight

Am reading a novel by a Hungarian writer written just pre-WWII. I've been enjoying the familiar european themes of grappling with soul of an artist trapped in burgeois life and the author's sense of humour, again very mittel European, and the fact that it's a sort of travelogue in which the characters the protagonist meets appear here and there just so conveniently. I like this sort of narrative full of funny and light observations that mask some deeper concerns and the fact he's covering familiar cities (Italy/France/Hungary/England) but with their pre-war environment. You can read a lot about the impending doom of the war but mainly I just imagined the writer was writing from own experience and Mihaly is either himself or a mixture of several of his school friends. I also liked the expositional narrative since modern books are mostly about show don't tell and I have no problems with some telling.

I tend to avoid reading reviews/info before I read a book these days. This was recommended by a friend and that was good enough for me. As am nearing the end I just thought I check him on wikipedia and all was confirmed: he had lived in London/Paris/Rome etc and so many of the slighly picaresque events surely had happened to him... But nothing prepared me for the last line. I should have known really. But I didn't. So I just burst into short tears. Fucking hitler motherfucker.

Szerb was deported to a concentration camp late in 1944, and was beaten to death there in January 1945, at the age of 43.