A giant of contemporary Hungarian literature, Miklós Vámos melds vast existential questions with bread-and-butter concerns in his spellbinding short story, “Electric Train.” Published in Asymptote’s Winter 2024 issue, “Electric Train” approaches the traditional family drama at a slant, discarding the tropes of dramatic realism in favor of a jester-like narratorial voice that boldly announces, “In literature it is practically mandatory to see inside people’s heads,” before plunging headlong into the tattered lives of a family of four. Questions and answers rebound like so many jokes told at a party, but even as the humor attempts to efface the tragedy, what defines this story is a warm, humane glow that emanates from everywhere. Bringing years of expertise in working with Vámos, Ági Bori’s artful translation rises to the experimentalism of the story and crystalizes it into an English that is fresh, magnetic, and strange. In this interview, Ági and I discuss the art of translating a living author, the political history that subtly underpins “Electric Train,” her own circuitous path to becoming a literary translator, and much more.
Willem Marx (WM): By my count, you’ve translated over a dozen of Miklós Vámos’ stories and essays, as well as conducted interviews with him and written essays on his oeuvre. Can you describe the experience of becoming so embedded—as a translator—in the work of a single writer? Are there ways this prolonged focus on one body of work has informed your approach to translation in general?
Ági Bori (ÁB): I have had a lifelong fascination with not only Hungarian, but also translated literature in general, so it seems only natural that over the last decade, I have metamorphosed into a literary translator—perhaps one of a small number of niche translators who, like you said, is embedded in the work of a single writer. The actual moment when something awakened in me was when, shortly after having fallen in love with Miklós’s books and writing style (particularly his unending gallows humor), I wanted to share this experience with my literary friends and discovered that only one of his books, The Book of Fathers, had been translated into English. I sensed that I was at an unprecedented crossroads in my life—and it turns out that I was. I reached out to Miklós and asked him if I could translate an excerpt, and he agreed. I still vividly remember choosing that excerpt, taking a deep breath, and saying to myself—perhaps somewhat naively—that it was time to listen to my inner voice, no matter how intimidating the craft of translating seemed. From that day on, I just kept going and never stopped. As my translation skills blossomed, so did our professional relationship, and it soon became clear that Miklós had an endless supply of materials I could work on, not to mention that as time went by, I became very comfortable with his writing style—by now it feels like a second skin. We work together like a well-oiled machine, one that runs on very little sleep and frequent communication via our transcontinental subway.
This prolonged focus on one body of work has certainly been a rewarding experience. It taught me how important it is to seek out the work you want to translate, and how immensely helpful it is mentally—and even emotionally—when you love the original text that you are about to render into your target language. I feel fortunate to have embarked on a writer’s work with which I was able to connect from the start. Lucky for me, Miklós’s writing style varies greatly within his oeuvre, including stream of consciousness and classic prose. At times I feel like a kid in a candy store.
WM: It sounds like you discovered Vámos after emigrating to the United States. Do you think his oeuvre would have resonated with you differently were you still living in Hungary? Do you think it’s important for a translator to live abroad?
ÁB: Yes, I did encounter his work after emigrating. It’s interesting that you ask me if his oeuvre would have resonated with me differently were I still living in Hungary, because the answer is a resounding yes. I left Hungary when I was in my early twenties, so I wasn’t yet familiar with a lot of contemporary Hungarian authors. About ten years later, a friend of mine introduced me to Miklós’s books and, by a serendipitous twist of fate, the first one happened to be The New York–Budapest Subway, an insightful, light-hearted satire of a foreigner in the United States. Since I am also a foreigner in the United States, I found The New York–Budapest Subway to be an engaging, richly textured, humorous novel that amused me to no end. It recounts Hungarian playwright and actor Gyula Marton’s love-hate affair with the esteemed melting pot in the waning years of the Cold War. Replete with colorful, compelling, and memorable characters, it is a satire of both the United States and a foreigner’s fascination with the nation. Marton’s resilience as a lone warrior in a strange land is captivating, and Miklós meticulously unearths compassion toward him as he assimilates to new concepts. Admittedly, I was keenly aware that the inspiration for this novel came from Miklós’s own experiences, from those few years spent in the United States in the late eighties when, per his own admission, he desperately tried his best to relate to all things new—and I could genuinely connect with that.
While traveling abroad is not a rarity anymore, cultural differences and challenges remain at the forefront of our lives. Marton, steeped in Communism all his life, is a pioneer of sorts—at times, I still feel like a pioneer of sorts, even after all these years. So, no wonder I genuinely connected with the main character’s struggles, both serious and comical, and found the book to be a side-splitting portrayal of what it’s like to be a foreigner abroad. That’s how my fascination with Miklós’s writing started. From then on, my appreciation grew. Had I still lived in Hungary when I first read this novel, I would have found it funny, but from another angle. I would’ve perhaps lacked the personal empathy I have for the protagonist. Living away from my motherland deepens my gratitude for my culture, which automatically deepens my appreciation for Hungarian literature, and within that Miklós’s oeuvre, which is so immersed in Hungarian history, culture, and personal experiences.
I don’t think it’s important for a translator to live abroad, but it is beneficial. Not only with the language itself, but with the cultural intricacies or behaviors that one regularly encounters at the most unexpected places: a football game (you’ll never find me there), a grocery store, a theatrical performance, or a bookstore (a special shout-out to Powell’s and others here in Portland, Oregon).
WM: I imagine it’s an enormous gift as well as an added responsibility to translate the work of a living writer, especially one who can read and write in English. Does Miklós provide input into the translation process? In general, what does your collaboration look like when you’re working on a new translation? Are there moments when you seek his advice regarding an intractable aspect of language or style?
ÁB: It is indeed an enormous gift to work with a living writer as well as an added responsibility—but in a good way, I think. In the beginning, it was undoubtedly intimidating to show my translations to Miklós, but I learned to embrace the anxious feelings that arose from those written or verbal exchanges. From the beginning, he has practically given me free rein to experiment, to find my own voice, and has always been extremely generous with reading my work and giving constructive criticism. I’ve had the good fortune to peruse a couple of his older articles and various pieces he wrote in English back when he lived in the US decades ago; they are exemplary of his style and helped me connect with the English-speaking part of his mind, so to speak. Those few snippets of his works gave me a little boost as I attempted to harness my nascent creative powers and envision how his writing might sound in English.
Our collaboration looks like this: I translate the chosen pieces alone, and then send them to Miklós so that he can have the first look; it is very rare that he’ll suggest any changes or corrections, but it gives me peace of mind knowing he’s read them. After that, I submit the pieces to literary journals or other types of magazines where we think they will fit best. We’ve had a busy year, so he’s had to do a lot of reading of my translations!
There are moments when I seek Miklós’s advice, but usually not about linguistic intricacies of the source language; Hungarian is my native language, so I have a solid comprehension of it. I mostly inquire into the minds of his characters to help me with their voices or, for example, if I’m working on an essay he wrote in Hungarian, then I might want to dive deeper into his thought process to help me express what he wants to convey. If there is ever an encounter with an intractable aspect of language or style, it is when English words are strewn all over the floor of my brain, and I must pick up the right words and assemble them into cohesive and attractive sentences. But I believe that’s par for the course, given the nature of the job, isn’t it?
WM: It certainly is! Translators often work from a second language into their native one, so I find it notable that you primarily translate from your native tongue into English. Although Miklós’s work brought you to translation, did you ever make a conscious choice about which language you wanted to translate from? And in a larger sense, what kind of trade-offs would you say are involved when a translator comes to source material as a native or secondary speaker?
ÁB: Yes, in many ways it was Miklós’s work that brought me to translation, and therefore I didn’t really have to make a conscious choice. I became his translator and, at the same time, a self-appointed advocate for his oeuvre. It has only been lately that I toyed with the idea of translating from English into Hungarian, but haven’t really given it a serious try—except for a few poems by Francesca Bell that will soon be published in a Hungarian literary journal, which, of course, greatly delights me. I felt deeply moved by those poems, and I just couldn’t deny myself the opportunity to bring them to my fellow Hungarian speakers.
Trade-offs vary to a great degree when a translator is looking for the perfect source material; it is a process that depends not only on language skills, but also on life circumstances. I first learned English in high school and soon after that, I moved to the United States. Quite frankly, at first, I could hardly decipher what people were saying to me, but I was still young enough for it to become my beloved second language, though, at times, it might feel faintly moss-covered, especially when compared to Hungarian, which I feel to the deepest crevices of my soul. As Czesław Miłosz so simply but eloquently put it: “Language is the only homeland.” I have a completely different relationship with Russian (my third and least strong language), and when I imagine finding source material in Russian, I’d have yet another distinct set of feelings that originate from my childhood, which was filled with Communist songs that still very much stir my soul and pulsate in my veins. Those feelings would be my guiding light when choosing source material—so much goes into what captivates a translator’s attention!
WM: I’m struck by the way Electric Train’s “dizzying” third person narrator repeatedly renders tragic events and sensibilities into a comic register. It feels like an act of stylistic or emotional translation taking place within the text in real time, creating mirror images—tragic and comic—of each moment. Do you agree with this observation? How would you describe the role of comedy in Electric Train or in Vámos’ writing more generally?
ÁB: I absolutely agree with your observation, and I am so touched that you feel this way. Electric Train is a perfect representation of Miklós’s sense of humor, his ability to mold comedy and tragedy into one. The role of comedy in this short story is crucial. Not only does it mirror the comedic device that is most notably prevalent in Miklós’s book about his mother, Mother’s Nature, Remembered, but it also puts the story in motion right from the start. It is comic relief that makes the story so punchy. The role of the third person narrator, who flows in and out of the characters’ minds with dizzying and unashamed impudence, is to draw readers deeper and deeper into these lives. It almost feels like we are spying on the family through a window that has been accidentally left ajar. Yet, being privy to this family scene feels appropriate and well-balanced—even charming, albeit bitterly.
The role of comedy is a key element throughout Miklós’s oeuvre; it is the glue that holds everything together. He claims that to save himself from his chaotic heritage, he turned to writing novels. What I enjoy about his sense of humor is that it is like a dark-green river that eddies along the banks—it appears to be enticing, and though you might feel momentarily hesitant or vertiginous staring at the waves, you’re in for a thrill once you jump in. It is no coincidence that many of his short stories have been turned into plays or movies, including Electric Train, along with Immortal, which was published in Asymptote’s Translation Tuesday.
WM: Over the course of the story, the question-and-answer format grows from an almost artificial, comic device into something of an ethical statement. At the end, Electric Train’s protagonist, Little Bence, reflects on the existential malaise and paralysis that’s generated by an unjust, dysfunctional society, and asks the story’s final question with the narrator: “Then what?” The final response: “We can ask questions.” How do you understand the role of questions, or the act of questioning, in Electric Train? In your view, does the final line change the story or deepen some aspect of it?
ÁB: It is important to know that Miklós wrote Electric Train in the early eighties, when Hungary was still a Socialist country. Of course, the story punches hard without that background knowledge too, but I am glad you picked up on the aspect of an unjust and dysfunctional society. Back then, you were not allowed to write about a great many topics, and asking questions certainly was considered an act of defiance. Readers who know the history are gifted with an extra layer of meaning, and those who don’t might feel that the story is about Little Bence’s fears and anxieties about his mother, about the authoritarian parental figure in general—which, indeed, are crucial parts as well. Children were not typically known to defy their parents, and parents were not known to defy the authorities who breathed down their necks.
The role of questioning is a brilliant way of going against the grain, especially during socialist times, but, as we can see, this story stands the test of time, and its core elements still ring true today. Little Bence quietly endures the overpowering figure of his mother throughout the story, and it is only toward the end that his voice becomes louder. The last question doesn’t palpably change the story, but deepens it. It even comes across as an encouragement of sorts, a bit of literary advice: keep asking questions, even when you think everything seems hopeless, because you might cross paths with unexpected answers. Or better yet, you might find a loophole—the favored way of trying to get from point A to point B during socialism, when efforts to achieve anything in a timely manner were often futile. Knowing all that, the story suddenly makes even more sense, becomes even more evocative, and illustrates the national morale of Little Bence’s motherland to a T.
WM: That insight brings to mind another of the story’s leitmotifs, the recurring question “Is it possible…” followed by the response: “Of course it is.” There’s play and freedom in this assurance that anything is possible in literature, which is sharply contrasted by the characters who are not aware of being, themselves, in literature. It’s an excellent metaphor for so many things, and personally, it made me reflect both on the obstacles we create for ourselves as well as the loopholes, as you so beautifully put it, that offer the possibility for things to be otherwise. How does this aspect of the story resonate with you?
ÁB: I couldn’t agree with you more. The leitmotif you highlighted is indeed an excellent metaphor for so many things. To piggyback on your earlier question about native speakers versus secondary speakers finding source material, I’d like to point out that when choosing this story for translation, the icing on the cake was that I already knew a lot about Miklós’s family history, and therefore not only did I genuinely adore the seemingly playful back-and-forth questions and responses, I also knew that they represented much more. Like you say, there is a sense of play and freedom, but under the surface there is not that much freedom: Little Bence is overshadowed by his mother even as an adult, and he doesn’t have much say.
WM: In a recent interview, Edwin Frank, the editor of NYRB Classics, describes how different translators highlight different aspects of a source text. In his example, three different translations of Swann’s Way bring out, respectively, an “angular and uncomfortable” aspect of the text; a certain “enameled and art nouveau” attitude; and a version which is “deft and agile, fluent and swift.” Is there a particular shade of Miklós Vámos that you strive to emphasize? What of the original Hungarian, if anything, is lost on English readers?
ÁB: Thank you for highlighting this interesting comparison. Of course, I had to immediately run to my bookshelf to check which translation I have. It is the one by Moncrieff—enameled and art nouveau indeed.
I strive to emphasize the shade or side of Miklós that is therapeutic, that everlastingly processes the trauma of his ancestors, the lack of a large family, and a life bereft of aunts and uncles, all the while tempered by his optimistic or satirical façade. These shades are evident throughout his work, including “Electric Train.” To use some of the above-mentioned adjectives, his writing can certainly be angular and uncomfortable, especially when the topic calls for it. But when I read “deft and agile, fluent and swift,” it reminded me of a technique in Miklós’s longer works. He frequently uses a lot of internal dialogue where timelines swiftly jump back and forth between the present and the past like birds on utility pole wires, and it’s done all without warning as he channels his own feelings and thoughts into his characters. Finally, I want to preserve his surprising and punchy and jocular elements that seem to be always waiting around the corner.
Your question about something that might be lost on English readers warms my heart. There is indeed a charming element in this story that is impossible to render into English—one that would evoke heart-warming childhood memories in English readers the same way it does in Hungarians. When I first reviewed this story, I was particularly struck by Miklós’s clever wordplay regarding the name of the main character, which gets its inspiration from a well-known Hungarian nursery rhyme. You’d be hard-pressed to find a Hungarian whose mind would not momentarily hark back to this nursery rhyme upon reading “Electric Train,” but the story works perfectly in English without knowing about this nostalgic connection to the original Little Bence (Kis Bence). I gave this small-scale Gordian knot a lot of thought, and even considered changing Little Bence’s name to a different one that might work better for English readers, but in the end, I felt better about sticking with the original name. It’s a proverbial nod to a fictional character in Hungarian literature that deserves to stay as it is, and have its legacy continued by its English counterpart.
WM: It’s still early in the year, but do you have any 2024 literary or reading highlights? What books are on your nightstand?
ÁB: I do! I started the year by reading The Red and the Black by Stendhal, a mesmerizing and long overdue read. As a new Asymptote Book Club member, I followed that up with The Singularity by Balsam Karam and Where the Wind Calls Home by Samar Yazbek. For a different feel, I read Rebecca Makkai’s engrossing book, I Have Some Questions for You. A quick but compelling slim novel, Shammai Weitz by Isaac Bashevis Singer really moved me, as did The Lighted Burrow by Max Blecher. I’ll also mention the powerful United Left by Álvaro Lasso.
The ever-changing pile of books on my nightstand is hard to keep track of, but as of today, it is a mixture of old and new: The Story of the Paper Crown by Józef Czechowicz, Ivan and Phoebe by Oksana Lutsysyna, At the Edge of the Solid World by Daniel Davis Wood, Cosmos and Pornografia by Witold Gombrowicz, a few classics by twentieth-century Hungarian authors, always a collection of Russian short stories, and also the inevitable stack of books on translation which I love to browse through when I take a break from leisure reading. Of course, there is the inside of my nightstand whose double doors, for the sake of brevity, we won’t open. It’s mostly jam-packed with Hungarian novels that I am still making my way through ever since my return from the last Budapest Book Festival six months ago.
WM: If you are at liberty to share, do you have any upcoming translation projects that readers should look out for?
ÁB: I am very excited about a soon-to-be-aired radio interview between Miklós and me with Clayton McKee at Trafika Europe Radio, along with an excerpt from Miklós’s latest book, Things to Do After My Death, in Trafika Europe. I am also thrilled about two strong excerpts forthcoming in 3:AM—one from Mother’s Nature, Remembered, and another from a recent slim novel, Fifty-Seven Steps. Both showcase Miklós’s stream-of-consciousness style. Additionally, readers will soon be able to enjoy another short story in the Prague-based literary journal B O D Y.
I have a couple of pieces being read right now so, naturally, I am sitting on pins and needles. Furthermore, Miklós’s agent is in the middle of pitching some of his books, which is exhilarating. We’re keeping our fingers crossed!
Ági Bori originally hails from Hungary, and she has lived in the United States for more than thirty years. In addition to reading and writing in Hungarian and English, her favorite avocation is reading Russian short stories in their native language. Her translations are available or forthcoming in 3:AM, Apofenie, Asymptote, B O D Y, the Forward, Hopscotch Translation, Hungarian Literature Online, the Los Angeles Review, Litro Magazine, MAYDAY, Northwest Review, Tablet, and Trafika Europe. She is a translation editor at the Los Angeles Review.
Willem Marx is a writer, teacher, translator, and assistant fiction editor at Asymptote. His work can be found in Necessary Fiction, Publishers Weekly, and elsewhere.
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