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By Andrew Nagorski
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Writing is the greatest power there is: the written word is greater than king or pope, greater than the doge," proclaims the title character in the first English translation of Sandor Marai's "Casanova in Bolzano" (294 pages. Knopf). The once acclaimed writer probably believed those words when his novel was first published in his native Hungary in 1940, but almost certainly came to doubt them by the time he ended his own life as a forgotten exile a half century later. The fact that Marai is now enjoying an astonishing posthumous comeback constitutes precisely the kind of ironic twist of fate that he would have relished writing about.
Born in 1900, Marai emerged as a prolific writer in the 1920s and 1930s. He hobnobbed with Thomas Mann, and, like the German, demonstrated the power of traditional prose that was at the same time profoundly subversive. In writing about Casanova, Marai noted that "there is nothing quite as dangerous as a man who will not yield to despotism."
No one could have misread that message in 1940, and Marai was forced to flee Budapest and hide in the countryside during the Nazi occupation. After the Soviet Union imposed a puppet regime in Hungary, he fled again--first to Western Europe, then to the United States, where he worked for Radio Free Europe until his retirement in 1967. With his wife and adopted son already dead, he committed suicide in 1989. A year earlier a friend of his had reportedly searched for his books in a Budapest bookstore and was told: "There is no such writer as Sandor Marai."
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But in recent years the discovery of a few old French translations of his works led to new editions of "Embers," a 1942 novel about friendship and betrayal, in Italian, French, German and English, which have won raves from the critics and transformed him into an international best-selling author. "Casanova" is now winning similar applause, with The New York Times calling it a novel of "exquisite slowness and refreshing oddity."
Framed in baroque descriptive passages that can go on for several pages, Marai's stories revel in their mid-century feel and contemporary undercurrents. In "Embers," two old men confront each other after decades of silence prompted by an act of marital betrayal. In "Casanova," the infamous rake escapes from a Venetian jail to once again seek out the beautiful young wife of the Duke of Parma, the one woman who touched his heart. While the men are center stage with all their pretensions, rituals and pride, it's the women they battle for--confined largely to the shadows--who demonstrate the courage of their emotions, defying conventions and making their men look puny by comparison.
Publishers are certain to delve into the remaining trove of Marai fiction, diaries and articles to produce more translations. A lapsed Roman Catholic, the writer had lost his faith in resurrections. "Gradually we understand the world and then we die," he wrote in "Embers." But in literary terms, Marai is resurrection writ large.
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