Letter from Enrique Molina to Miklos Meszöly

Dear friend,

All of a sudden I’m in the air, carried by the wind! Beyond all limits on that magic carpet that’s been woven by Batuz with his Société Imaginare. Here in an unexpected part in the world – Schaumburg – at the foot of a castle atop a hill and maybe also in the bottom of a pit, you and I were gathered around a fire for an asado. It was nighttime, the place was dark, lit only by the fire where some chunks of meat, sausages and perhaps kidneys were roasting, viscera offered to the gods as in pagan sacrifices. You know I’m pagan, that is, I would like to be, but like Rimbaud “I am a slave of my baptism.” Anyway I am an animist. The continent where I live is also animist in an unconscious way, and I am especially American, that is, “Latin-American” although Borges once said that he never had seen a Latin.

Let’s get back to the asado. The ground was wet; some of the guests sat on logs, but I, in a privileged position, sat in an iron chair. Suddenly the chair legs started to sink into the ground, a strange sensation, the uncertainty of not knowing how far I would continue sinking, and hoping that at least my head would remain above ground. In that moment of great expectation I saw that you were facing me, on the other side of the circle of guests, and I thought you were looking at me with curiosity, perhaps to offer aid, as the chair slowly sank. Later we would travel together to Koblenz or Limburg; I can’t remember which. Neither my Hungarian nor your Spanish existed, so we could only see each other’s face, have a few glasses of wine, like during the meals at the castle with Batuz. Anyway, there was a friendship, a bond, which now could become more of a reality. You know, at that moment I really felt alone, out of touch in the midst of forty million people, and having that feeling precisely in the presence of the Société Imaginare where the Tower of Babel was supposed to evaporate.

The horizon – as Batuz insists – is the only limit of Société Imaginare. His will is visionary, combined with an incredible ability to do the unthinkable: to create a kind of fraternity, a brotherhood, which gradually expands and links writers and artists beyond borders and languages. I imagine how wonderful it will be to have a friend in Budapest or Prague or in the Galapagos Islands. A friendship born from a very unusual meeting where the power of chance is absolute. As was the case with you. Right now I am thinking of a mythical country, yours. Suddenly countries, like characters in a story are invested with fabulous attributes, like colorful travel posters. The Société Imaginare most certainly will give us a deeper insight into the places of our destiny, of the strange references and places no one chooses, the way we don’t choose our parents, and where we are immersed. For me Hungary is an invasion of Mongols, a plain ravaged by thousands of Attila’s riders who eat goulash, emitting ear-splitting war cries from the backs of small ponies, invaders in huge encampments and also disproportionately heroic Christian kings. Our pampas are also endless plains. In olden times the Indians were the owners, the barbarians. But there everything was played out in reverse. The Mongols were white men who ravaged and slaughtered the natives, a huge genocide. In another letter, if you’re interested, I’ll talk more about this contradictory country, now in crisis, with riots and markets under attack.

Batuz promised to get me a book of yours translated into Spanish, since I can’t find one here. I would like that because the Société Imaginare, in spite of everything, has made this exchange of correspondence possible between two writers who are so distant and so mutually unknown to each other. For me it is an exceptional event.

Across borders and the sea,
please receive this big hug from your Argentine friend,
Enrique Molina

Handwritten letter from Enrique Molina to Miklos Meszöly

Handwritten letter from Enrique Molina to Miklos Meszöly