Művelt Magány

Fin de siécle connoisseur • Lover of Magyar culture • Introvert • Logician.

[erdely-arnyek]

Históriánk három legnagyobb hadvezére: Mátyás király, Bethlen Gábor s Görgey Artur.

Az első kettő azonban nem a harcért harcolt. Nekik a harc arra való volt, hogy politikai céljaikat elérjék. Mátyás nagy európai birodalmat akart alapítani. Meg akarta szerezni a magyarság számára a döntő szót Nyugateurópa felett. Bethlen Gábor szintén Nyugatra tört, mert a magyarnak ezer év óta csak a Nyugat a vágyak s a reménytelenségek világa.

Egyikük sem nyert a Nyugat képviselői felett olyan ragyogó győzelmet, mint Görgey s milyen tragédia: Görgeyt a Kelet teperte le.

MÓRICZ ZSIGMOND: GÖRGEY ARTÚR

[erdely-arnyek]

What a man he was...

"Egy pillanatra sem akarjuk áltatni a nemzetet: ultimátumról van szó s minden attól függ, hogy Szerbia minő választ ad erre. A válasz után fog eldőlni a kocka: a béke vagy háború kérdése. Tovább az eredeti cikkhez."

Tisza István, gróf.

[erdely-arnyek]

"Csak törpe nép felejthet ős nagyságot, Csak elfajult kor hős elődöket; A lelkes eljár ősei sírlakához,S gyújt régi fénynél új szövétneket."

Garai János

[erdely-arnyek]

Az emberek olyanok, hogy csupa irigységből, gonoszságból kikoholnak rendszerint minden hírt, hazugságot, mely szájról szájra geometriai progresszióban terjed és közhitet talál.

Bolyai János

[erdely-arnyek]

You were both breathtakingly beautiful. Whenever I look at this photograph, I realize that some unions are quite literally made in heaven—forged in radiant halls to the singing of angelic hosts.

And you had an entire, beautiful life ahead of you, in the country of your dreams, with dawns over Gellért Hill and sunsets over the Tisza.

Surrounded by loving parents, siblings, friends, and colleagues.

Yet the radiance of your tomorrow was ruthlessly trampled by those who believed that love was permitted—and owed—only to the Party bosses, to a pockmarked ignoramus in a distant eastern land.

I cannot fathom what you felt in that prison, but the predators of the Party failed to break the children of the Danube.

For love is a gift bestowed only by God, and no mortal can take it away. They took your lives; they sought to destroy your dignity, your nobility, and your devotion to your beliefs. But then again, did true Christians ever fear the fangs of the beasts in the Colosseum?

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we...

Edgar Allan Poe

[erdely-arnyek]

Erőteljes családi életet éltünk. Én Bélust szerettem a legjobban, aki 1944 szeptemberében az erdélyi harcokban elesett. Tényleges ezredes volt. Én magam 1897 januárjában születtem, Bélus 1899-ben.

Szálasi Ferenc.

[erdely-arnyek]

[erdely-arnyek]

I look into his eyes—though only in photographs and scratched, grainy old newsreels. Three minutes of futile attempts to grasp a vanishing world, a world where I never, ever existed.

The heat is stifling. Outside, the June night overflows with a violent blossoming, yet my soul tears itself away, rushing toward that beautiful, already fated autumn city. There, the sun is hesitant to rise, and its light, piercing the river’s breath, brings mercy.

October wraps the Citadel in the wings of the Turul.

Why. Why are you looking at me as though... you can see me too?

[erdely-arnyek]

Oldenburg stallion by Schleich and Dual monarchy loot

[erdely-arnyek]

[erdely-arnyek]

Nemzetünk a keresztény európai kultúra védőbástyája.

Szálasi Ferenc

[erdely-arnyek]

Halál… egyike a legszebb magyar szavaknak. A hangkép és jelentés tökéletes egybefonódása. A h borzalma, az a-á elnyújtott rémülete, vagy csodálkozása és az l-ek síkos simasága.

Radnóti Miklós.

[erdely-arnyek]

Once again, the anniversary of the Treaty of Trianon has come, bringing with it a quiet, unrelenting anguish. I may not be Hungarian by birth—regrettably, I was not lucky enough to inherit that lineage—but my soul aches just the same. This grief proves that a profound historical trauma can resonate across bloodlines, striking a chord in anyone who recognizes true injustice. The lines drawn back then did not just fracture a map; they tore apart a living organism, leaving a phantom pain that still throbs today. I look at what was lost and feel a deeply personal sorrow for a wound that stubbornly refuses to heal.

Because no eons of time could ever mend this on their own. I suppose I am just a petty little irredentist, but I believe it is fundamentally wrong to oppress Hungarians in cities like Szabadka or Pozsony just for using their native tongue, their flag, and all that. This is like the wound of the Fisher King—it will never heal through the mere passage of time; it requires specific deeds to finally close.

[erdely-arnyek]

Gizella Lutz never sought power. She was a pianist and a teacher of music, devoting herself to her students, nurturing their minds and hearts. Her life was simple, honest, and devoted to beauty.

The love she bore for Ferenc was selfless. She was uninterested in politics, she gathered no dossiers, she engaged in no intrigue. Her choice was one of the heart, not of strategy. And for that choice, she was condemned to years of imprisonment.

To punish someone for love is a profound injustice. Love is not a crime. Love does not require reports or political approval—it asks only for trust and the freedom to be close to the person one cherishes.

True justice demands that punishment be based on actions, not feelings. Gizella’s love was not a transgression. She deserved respect, compassion, and the right to live freely.

In the eyes of God, her heart was pure; her devotion, innocent. And no human tribunal can ever nullify what Heaven recognizes.

[erdely-arnyek]

Comparison puts everything into perspective. The deeper I delve into the histories of Peter Janko and Péter Gábor, the stronger my respect grows for Robert Bellarmine, Pedro Deza, and Bernard Gui. Ultimately, you cannot deny that the inquisitors possessed a sense of honour. To the commies, however, honour is just a concept in some bourgeois tongue—an outdated prejudice.

[erdely-arnyek]

Yesterday, you were still laughing with the boys from Novara, the sound of it light and unguarded, already half-dreaming of a summer holiday in Trieste — of trains, sea air, and a world that still seemed to promise continuity.

And now there is no continuity left.

Now a boy from Feldkirch is dying in your arms, choking on blood that will not stop coming no matter what you try, no matter how young he is, no matter how impossible it feels that it should be happening at all. And someone is shouting orders behind you, insisting that you turn your rifle on men who, only yesterday, might have shared bread, cigarettes, jokes — men whose faces you still recognize too clearly for comfort.

You are eighteen.

Barely more than a child yourself, trying to hold together a mind that has not yet learned how to contain this kind of rupture in the world. And even here, even now, you hide from the others that thunder still terrifies you — that when the sky breaks open, something inside you breaks with it, and you are afraid they will see it and understand that you are not made for this, any more than anyone else is.

[erdely-arnyek]

In memoriam

Oh, my heart, today you scarcely hurt.

Remember, what is shattered will not break.

In the blue mist, a new dawn comes to light.

My heart, why is the world so cold and quiet?

Do you believe he never will return?

My heart, leave the answer unspoken.

Lora Botcharova (Lora Provençal)

433 years and pain is no less...