- published: 07 Sep 2011
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Imre Kertész (Hungarian: [ˈimrɛ ˈkɛrteːs]; born 9 November 1929) is a Hungarian author, Holocaust concentration camp survivor, and recipient of the 2002 Nobel Prize in Literature, "for writing that upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history".
During World War II, Kertész was deported at the age of 14 with other Hungarian Jews to the Auschwitz concentration camp, and was later sent to Buchenwald. His best-known work, Fatelessness (Sorstalanság), describes the experience of 15-year-old György (George) Köves in the concentration camps of Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Zeitz. Some have interpreted the book as quasi-autobiographical, but the author disavows a strong biographical connection. In 2005, a film based on the novel, for which he wrote the script, was made in Hungary. Although sharing the same title, the film is more autobiographical than the book: it was released internationally at various dates in 2005 and 2006.
Kertész's writings translated into English include Kaddish for a Child Not Born (Kaddis a meg nem született gyermekért) and Liquidation (Felszámolás). Kertész initially found little appreciation for his writing in Hungary and moved to Germany. Kertész started translating German works into Hungarian — such as The Birth of Tragedy by Nietzsche, the plays of Dürrenmatt, Schnitzler and Tankred Dorst, the thoughts of Wittgenstein — and he did not publish another novel until the late 1980s. He continues to write in Hungarian and submits his works to publishers in Hungary.
Oh - my regrets
How they pale and die
Like crippled white creatures
Left behind the chariot
Dissolving where they fell
Did you ever see such power
Black horses running, foaming
Blasting along the path
Away from the questions
That should never have been asked
Did you ever see such force
Their master;
Flaring eyes
Maddened quest
Yet, mind at ease
Oh, my regrets
How pathetic a quest
They are aiming at a target
That is long ago washed away
By the change of day
Did you ever see such pride
In the raised shoulders of one
He throws a short glance
- at his past -
But look; he holds his horses back
Just in time to throw his
Carriage on to another path
He races towards the mountains
Where the paths are narrow and steep
The creatures try to follow
But the road has narrowed in
Then with deadly precession
His whip scorch
their greedy, grasping hands
And forever they fall
Oh, my regrets
Their memory will vanish with me
Like crippled white creatures
Left behind the chariot