FAITH Vol01 Issue03

EDITOR’S NOTE

The M and the Si

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Muses Sándor Jászberényi

ilence

The first issue of The Continental Literary Magazine was launched in New York in February. We had gathered in an apartment which looked out on Central Park for a reception hosted by the wonderful Sylvia Hemingway in honor of the journal. We were sipping white wine from cut glass snifters and admiring our host’s impressive collection of fine art. Never have I stood so close to a Picasso.

It was winter in New York and there was peace in Europe.

Storm clouds, however, were gathering across the continent.

More precisely, they were gathering in Belarus. Freight trains were carrying darkness to the border between Belorussia and Ukraine, so much so that even in early February it looked like an invasion.

I hoped, of course, that my eyes were fooling me. As a war correspondent, I have been covering Ukraine’s bitter struggle to break free from Russian influence since 2014. Just before I flew to New York, I went to Kiev to see what my Ukrainian journalist colleagues, politicians, and veterans were saying.

Everyone expected fighting to flare up in the breakaway territories on the Ukrainian-Russian border. No one would have imagined an outright offensive in the middle of Europe in 2022. It seemed quite simply unthinkable that Russia would do such a thing. Which is why we were planning to present the magazine in the United States in February. Even if Russia were to make some aggressive move, it wouldn’t shake the cultural and political map of Europe.

I remember, I was gazing at the evening lights at the Rockefeller Center from my hotel room after the reception when my phone rang. The time difference between New York and Central Europe is eight hours. Thus, one can easily go to bed in New York in a time of peace and wake up the next morning in a time of war.

EDITOR’S NOTE

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Sándor Jászberényi

The Muses and the Silence

As soon as I got the news, I immediately canceled the American tour. While my fellow editors went to New Jersey, I flew to Budapest and from there went by car to Kyiv. In Lviv, where a blackout had been implemented because of the fear of air raids, the glitter of Manhattan seemed like another world. The New York bars, which have some of the best live music in the world, offered a stark, perverse contrast to the wail of air raid sirens.

With some journalists from Reuters, we came under heavy fire in Irpin, not far from Kyiv. We lay on the ground next to houses in flames, hoping simply to survive the shelling.

“In times of war, the muses fall silent.” The Latin proverb was in my head, and my mouth was full of mud.

We survived the shelling, and as it later turned out, the muses do not fall silent in times of war. On the contrary.

Ukraine repelled the Russian forces which sought to invade its capital. An entire nation moved to take up arms and stand up to an occupying army. The Ukrainian people were guided by faith, by the firm conviction that Ukraine is an independent and free state, and that its fate cannot be decided by ageing tyrants and the delusions of imperial nostalgia.

The Continental Literary Magazine was created to serve as a bridge between the two sides of the ocean, to foster dialogue between contemporary literature in the United States or, more broadly, in the Anglo-Saxon world and the national literatures and cultures of Central Europe. Our work is important in times of peace, but in times of war, it is indispensable.

There is a legend about Winston Churchill according to which, when asked to cut back on spending for culture and the

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Sándor Jászberényi

arts during the Second World War, he refused. “Then what would we be fighting for?” he asked.

Whether Churchill actually said this little bon mot or it was merely invented as a show of gratitude in the wake of the war, it certainly is valid. Our culture is what we fight for. Our freedom, our faith, our literature, and our language are all parts of our culture.

You now hold the third issue of our magazine in your hands, an issue the theme of which is faith. If there is one thing we can look on with a sense of joy and even optimism in our globalized and increasingly war-torn world, it is the myriad array of faiths in which the people and peoples of this world find fortitude and consolation. They believe in God, whatever words or names they may use, for instance compassion, country, kindness, freedom, and one could go on. But one thing is certain: we all believe in something.

Ukrainians, for example, whether native speakers of Russian or Ukrainian, believe that they are one nation, with their own literature and, most importantly, their own freedom. In this issue, we asked contemporary Ukrainian women poets to talk about their faiths. The collection of poems they offered is living proof that, however deafening the roar of cannons may seem, the muses do not fall silent in times of war.

We spoke at length with Marianne Williamson about the war in Ukraine, President Biden’s achievements, and religious life in

EDITOR’S NOTE

The Muses and the Silence

the United States and the world. Daphne Merkin wrote an essay for us on unbelief, and Michael Rips shared an anecdote about how he can tell if someone will definitely go to heaven.

Nobel Prize-nominated Romanian poet Mircea Cărtărescu has written a wonderful essay on the limits and potentials of cognition, a story by Hungarian author Ilka Papp-Zakor takes the metaphor of illness to the point of madness, and Jan Němec explains how, because of a midlife crisis, one can end up in the middle of a war.

We firmly believe that, alongside works by some of the finest American writers, you have in your hands a sample of some of the most exciting writings in Central European literature today.

And in the meantime, one of the countries of Central Europe is being torn to shreds by war. As I write this introduction, the Russian invasion of Ukraine is still going on. The cannons are roaring, and the air raid sirens are wailing.

Culture is important in peacetime, but as I noted above, it is indispensable in times of war. We hope that you will enjoy this issue, and we urge you to recommend The Continental Literary Magazine to your friends and to consider subscribing.

The Continental Literary Magazine may reveal little about exor how people, from international lawyers to ordinary Ukrainian peasants, are giving their lives for the war effort.

But it reveals a great deal about why. ¶

¶

actly how Central Europe is fighting against Russian occupation

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FICTION

Pan But

AUTHOR

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/jɒn ɲɛmɛt͡ s/

nic tton Jan

NĚMEC (1981, BRNO)

TRANSLATOR

Jan Němec was born in 1981 in Brno. He studied sociology and dramaturgy. He has published four books: První život (First Life, poetry, 2007), Hra pro čtyři ruce (Playing Four Hands, short stories, 2009), Dějiny světla (A History of Light, novel, 2013), Možnosti milostného románu (Possibilities of Love Novel, novel, 2019). A History of Light is a biographical novel about the photographer František Drtikol and won The Czech Book and the European Union Prize for Literature.

/deːvis ʃoɾt/

David

SHORT

(1943, UNITED KINGDOM)

David Short was born in 1943 in Prestbury, UK. He graduated in Russian and French from the University of Birmingham and went on to study at the Arts Faculty of Charles University Prague. At London University’s School of Slavonic and East European Studies, he taught Czech and Slovak languages for almost four decades, retiring in 2011. He has worked as a translator, interpreter, and editor, published a number of books, including one of the standard textbooks of Czech.

He turned the ignition key. The concealed cameras showed him his immediate surroundings via the screen on the dashboard. The red Alfa Romeo to the left belonged to the lady next door, whom he had once quite fancied, while the Škoda on the other side meant nothing. He reversed out of their embrace without triggering a single annoying bleep and stopped briefly in the middle of the street, hands resting on the wheel. He glanced at the screen. It showed an aerial view of his car ringed by smudgy yellow blotches where the wet roadway reflected the street lights. His mobile automatically paired up with the speakers, and a Spotify podcast resumed where he’d left off. “So it’s a kind of philosophy that doesn’t cause offence, but–” he switched it off from the steering wheel. Raindrops were trickling down the windshield, which was supposed to start the wipers automatically. He turned them on manually, took a deep breath, in, and out, put the car in gear and drove off up the familiar street.

It was almost eleven-thirty. He’d thought it best to set out at once: if he’d left it till morning, he’d never have gotten away: in the morning, you wake up, do your teeth, and just get on with life.

His hands on the wheel began to feel cold, so he turned on the heat. He hadn’t gone far before he passed the pub on the corner where the previous evening he’d met up with a girl he’d known at university. Some things need time before they can be judged in the round, while others never gel into a whole. The girl, who had been quite unapproachable at uni, asked him that evening if he was pleased to have achieved all the things he’d talked about ten years before, and for the fifth time in twenty minutes she ran her fingers through her hair. He was surprised that she remembered what he had talked about back then. And that she thought he’d achieved something. He had briefly wondered if sleeping together after a lapse of ten years made any sense, but rejected the idea after two beers.

He’d ordered a cab, but then didn’t take it.

Several crossroads later, each marked out by a single flashing amber light, he was out of the city. Gradually fewer proper buildings, but more warehouse facilities. He stopped at the first petrol station out in the wilds. What they’d said on the news was true − petrol had gone up by almost three crowns a liter during the last week. Not that that mattered, it still had the same reek however much it cost. He thrust the nozzle down the fuel filler neck, hmm, this is about the limit to any violence on my part. He looked about him with the vague realization that he quite liked petrol stations that were open at night. Islets amid a distant void.

It’s great when glass doors slide open before you in the middle of the night and

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Jan Němec

Panic Button

you can treat yourself to coffee and a baguette and stare vacantly into the eyes of the person behind the counter.

“Number four, paying by card.” He paid for a full tank and some extra food to keep in reserve. He hadn’t had much in the house, and he hadn’t wanted to waste time packing anything. He’d grabbed a suitcase to toss some clothes in, then decided it wasn’t the best idea to arrive with a case full of washing. So he’d taken just a sports bag from the closet and stuffed it with the first items that came to mind: energy bars, thermal underwear, a sleeping bag. It was obvious from the outset that he was taking all the wrong things.

He couldn’t have said how he was feeling, but the car’s upholstery had a calming effect, so somewhere inside he must have been feeling nervous. The screen glimmered, and when he turned on the satnav it was taken over by a spider of roads. Through Poland, or Slovakia? He wasn’t bothered, it would all be the same at night, and by daybreak he’d be so muzzy that whether they were Polish fields or Slovak, it would simply pass him by.

He drove out of the petrol station and realized this might be his last chance to phone. Midnight, still okay: Zuzana goes to bed late. But if he did phone, he’d have to say something; that was the trouble with phones. He’d much rather just listen to her.

If only she might read something to him the way he used to read to her when they were still living together, the way he would read to her when she was away on business and couldn’t get to sleep in hotel rooms. But that was exactly what would call for some explaining. He took out his phone and began flicking through his audio books. He’d got himself in a muddle again. He was forever getting himself muddled.

He moved up into top gear and switched to cruise control. His headlights dissolved the blocks of darkness, and he sailed on inside his mobile capsule, disturbed only now and again by another car. He gradually drifted into motorway mooning, a kind of slipshod hypnosis. Between Olomouc and Ostrava he tried to piece together the names and surnames of all his classmates at primary school. Alena what was it? Between Ostrava and Katowice he tried to recall all the trainers he’d worn when he was growing up. Sometime at around fifteen he’d used the money from his first summer job to buy some Pumas, ring trainers they were, Puma.

He had his first sense of malaise somewhere between Katowice and Cracow.

Possibly because he knew Cracow. He couldn’t deny how easy it would be to get a bed, have a good night’s sleep, and in the morning go and have breakfast in that coffee shop overlooking the Vistula. When you wake up in the morning, there’s nothing to stop you simply getting on with life. Being oneself just isn’t a problem.

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Jan Němec

That’s pretty dim, but it is the same for everyone. All this twaddle had almost left his head in disarray, but at the roundabout he did eventually make it to the right exit for the E40 motorway.

His journey continued, uneventful, and untroubled by thoughts. Just once, in some small town or other, the lights turned red on him. A drunk set off to cross the road; goodness knows what made him toot his horn at him. The man turned towards the car and waved his arms in an odd way, something between surprise and menace. He flashed his lights at him, the drunk shaded his eyes and tried to peer inside the car. He probably thought someone he knew was trying to attract his attention. But who knew him?

Day was breaking. At first, the horizon was sucked in by light. Then, half an hour later, it was taken over by the sun. He realized that you don’t have to have slept for morning to still mean something. Inside the human eye there are cells that have nothing to do with seeing but are light-sensitive and trigger biological rhythms. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. Knowing of course that just as a man’s cells don’t bother him with questions, his car’s accident-prevention systems wouldn’t let him crash.

He drove on and on. Road signs were carrying increasing numbers of UA codes. The queue at the frontier shouldn’t be too long from this side. And indeed, most cars were waiting on the other side, in the stopping lane and with their engines off. A number of stalls and repurposed shipping containers stood on a patch of concrete, and two women happened to be carrying a steaming kettle across to one stall. He hesitated. He could park up, have a cup of tea, and ask how things were looking; he might even try the internet.

He’d last seen the news the evening before. The couple who got married in a city under siege and had their wedding photos taken wearing camouflage and holding automatic rifles. The woman who’d given birth to twins in the metro and was as happy as if she were in some clinic in Switzerland. And again he saw that old man who had knelt down in front of a tank. It all left a nasty taste in his

FICTION

Panic Button

mouth. The news should really be about the latest draft legislation and inflation, so as to leave no one in doubt that the day’s main events are utterly meaningless.

That’s the only way life is possible.

The Polish frontier guards didn’t ask him anything. As he was waiting for clearance, two civilians in tracksuits and puffer jackets tapped on his window. They had the name of the capital scrawled on a piece of cardboard and carried leather shoulder bags. He wound down the window and through it one of them immediately thrust his angular face borne on a thick neck. He didn’t understand most of the words, but the men were undoubtedly after a lift. The one on the far side was already reaching for the door handle, while the first one was breathing very fast, like a fighting dog. He had absolutely no desire to share the inside of his car with them for the next seven hours and got out of it by saying he was only going as far as the nearest town. As he set off, the Ukrainian gave his roof a couple of thumps.

Once past the frontier, he stopped for a pee by the roadside. So this is Ukraine. What was he doing here?

He’d known beforehand that in the morning everything would be different from the evening before. Had he been lured here in pursuit of adventure? The adventure of pursuit, more like.

He had to admit to having not the foggiest idea of how he might shape up.

And that was the one thing about it that had drawn him on.

Coming the opposite way was a long line of cars and alongside them people who’d set off on foot. He was surprised at how little there was that could be said of them. At first sight, these fugitives looked no different from people queuing outside a shop that’s holding a liquidation sale. Migrants from the Middle East were unlucky in that everything about them constituted a distinct category of mankind, refugees. These people only looked like frustrated customers. They were like us.

He took his baguette and waited for a car going in the opposite direction to pass, then he tried to offer it to a woman in a purple coat. She shuffled her feet; she was wearing high boots with very thin soles, and her cheeks were aflame with cold. His problem was that he’d always been shy about helping others, knowing that he himself must never want anything from them. In that spirit, the lady declined his baguette, but her son reached out a mittened hand for it.

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“The sys is rigged against do not ex that to c INTERVIEW

stem d you and xpect change” INTERVIEW WITH

110–111

/mɛɾiɛn viliɛmsn/

Marianne

WILLIAMSON (1952, UNITED STATES)

Marianne Williamson is an American bestselling author, political activist, and spiritual thought leader. She has been a leader in spiritual and religiously progressive circles for over three decades. Williamson is the author of 14 books, four of which have been #1 New York Times bestsellers. She has also worked throughout her career on poverty, anti-hunger and racial reconciliation issues and supports the creation of a U.S. Department of Peace. She ran for the Democratic nomination for president in 2020.

INTERVIEWED BY SÁNDOR JÁSZBERÉNYI ON APRIL 25, 2022

Marianne Williamson

Marianne Williamson is a well-known figure in the spiritual and religiously progressive communities in the United States. She has written fourteen books, four of which have reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. In 2021, she ran for president as a democratic candidate.

We asked her about the conflict in Ukraine, the greatest challenges facing the world, and her thoughts on President Biden’s policies.

INTERVIEW

“The system is rigged against you and do not expect that to change”

Europe is in flames, there’s war in Ukraine, and peace is quite distant at this moment. When I was researching for this interview, I found a quote of yours that you do believe in a just war waged against the Nazi military machine. How do you perceive the conflict in Ukraine?

This is a more complicated situation than World War II, in that there is a legitimate argument that the behavior of the United States and other Western governments over the last two decades, specifically in regards to NATO and its expansion, poked this bear. Having said that, there was obviously no justification for Putin’s brutal invasion of Ukraine. I support giving Ukraine whatever they need to defend themselves, but at the same time, I support vigorous efforts, at creating an off-ramp here. President Biden seems to have pivoted, somewhat dramatically, in the direction of a military focus, and it concerns me that we are hearing so little about negotiations that could possibly work. I feel that when United States intelligence recognized that the invasion was not only on the table but clearly about to begin, President Biden could have had a serious conversation with Putin at that time. There’s a high probability that whatever agreement is ultimately reached will basically be the same agreement that could have been reached before all these thousands of people had to die such horrible deaths.

I found another quote of yours saying, “the eradication of war is the great moral issue of this generation.” How do you see this now with the recent war in Ukraine? Do you think we can actually accomplish this in this generation?

What we have to understand—I mean, really, deeply, viscerally understand—is that we have no choice. As President Kennedy said, we will end war, or war will end us. I’m certainly not the first person to point out that even if you’d consider Putin’s use of a nuclear bomb now at one percent— one percent is too high. This situation has brought into full visibility the complete political as well as moral bankruptcy of the modern geopolitical order. The United States has somewhere in the vicinity of 7000 nuclear bombs. Russia supposedly has somewhere in the vicinity of 6000. We’ve all been told for years that because of the principle of Mutually Assured Destruction, none of us really have to worry, because no one would use one, knowing that were they to do so, they would be hit as well. Well, guess

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Editor-in-Chief Sándor Jászberényi Editorial Team Thomas Cooper Margit Garajszki Owen Good Balázs Keresztes Guest Editors Márton Méhes Shubha Sunder Diána Vonnák Copy Editor Michael Stein Online Editor & Social Media Manager Eszter Jászberényi Communications (PR & Marketing) Viktória Stift Editorial Assistant Bence Horváth Executive Director Dániel Levente Pál Art Editor & Design Dániel Németh Lobov Typefaces Mohol by Ádám Katyi – hungarumlaut.com Latienne Pro by Mark Jamra for TypeCulture – typeculture.com Cover page design Based on the painting Acts of Jesus - The Lost Lamb (2020)

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