Johannes Brahms can make autumn leaves dance in one of nature’s most graceful circle. The chill in the air was about to birth the season’s very first snowflake. The clatter of rusty shovels being removed equated to the asinine banters of old women gossiping on the porch. After the death of its final leaf, the trees lay barren like a country that had abruptly lost its people. There were no birds to be seen, yet I heard them chirp a summer song. The fervent barking of a mongrel was followed by a pair of impenetrable irises; blue as the deepest ocean. The frost on my eyes made it tricky to see the peculiar lady carrying a christening bowl with glistening chicken soup. I rubbed my eyes to wipe the frost and something terribly stung me. It was morning, again!! The sunlight on my pillow showed beads of sweat on my arms and the frost along with the barking dog and the lady magically vanished. While poor Brahms still played his 'Lullaby' at my bedside, Emerence saw that I still stayed in bed. It’s been couple days now that I sleep with Emerence’ s ‘mirror-like’ face and wake up trying to experience the sound of her soprano voice. When I open the pages of ‘The Door’ , my heart beats faster than the breeze on my window and my lips are bitten while I take deep breathes, for Emerence brings out my emotional vulnerabilities ; letting my scars bleed through someone else’s wounds.“Sometimes the strongest women are the ones who love beyond all faults, cry behind closed doors and fight battles that nobody knows”- Anon.Indeed, the silent , big-boned lady with an impenetrable face and having the persona of a Valkyrie ; Emerence was the strongest of the lot. A mystery that deepened the moment the door was shut. What kind of a flower was Emerence? A rose or a white oleander that tenderly grew around the fence. The now tranquil garden had once seen the dishonorable terror of red and white roses and the bloodbath that a few revolutionary chrysanthemums caused as they tore apart the fair camellias. They were bruised petals scattered like feathers of a hunted dove; each time when a flower revolted, irrespective to their colour. At times it was better when the pristine flowers hanged themselves from the devilish vines because shootings never seem to work all the way. And , “ if you don’t die straightaway, they have to come over and beat you to death or shoot you back”, till all was left were trampled saplings.“How can I truly describe her, or trace the real anatomy of her compassion — this woman who peopled her home with animals?”Emerence comes across as an eccentric, arrogant lady bearing an unfathomable obscurity. When the writer hires Emerence as a caretaker, a series of love-hate relationship flourishes between the two ladies. The oddity of Emerence‘s demeanor created a haunting mesh of rumors of what really thrives behind the closed door of the villa. With every tiny window that Emerence opened,it led a draft of fresh air into Emerence’s concealed life whilst the writer gaining confidence of someday being the owner of the clandestine key. But, was it this wretched key that the writer held firmly in her palm, be the very cause of her disloyalty to Emerence?“I killed Emerence…….”Szabo creates a marvelous personality through Emerence. Like a mother who bestows her true love at the rarest moments in a child’s life, Emerence spreads her loving arms ; her kindliness becomes the healing medicine for a hemorrhaged life. Her eyes were so intense that they could win battles and a heart that was warmer than the sun on a spring morning. Emerence was authoritative yet lovable; she was irascible on the verge of being bi-polar, yet she was comical and angelic when she smiled. She had an innate goodness that shone through her being a dedicated soldier to her profession and when she saved a helpless life from a deathly ditch by giving it a home. The porch of her villa became a dais for culinary entertainments. Her loneliness was veiled among the silken folds of her compassion. Her uprightness was stricter than the commands of a lion tamer and her honor came from her ambitious vibrant Taj Mahal. She valued the idea of absolute love because it is only love that saves, even through betrayal and death. The fragmentary chronicling of Emerence’s life demarcates the historical events that led the foundation of a burgeoning country and its people. I believe that when one comes across a commendable book, it becomes essential to cherish the prose with intellectual finesse and not mockery as it silently pays a tribute to the efforts and thoughts of the author. This book certainly deserves the said gesture."It is just that, as well as love, you also have to know how to kill”.... “ Lord kills too..."Szabo makes it decisively known to the reader, the mindset of war victims and people who were spectators to the bloodbath of a country’s egotistical power battle and their probable abhorrence to religious validations. These sentences in the book, makes you think the legitimacy of religious norms adhered to find a welcoming acknowledgement and defining the presence of God, even if it means to sacrifice the well-being of human life, the very own premise that celebrates God’s worship. If it us humans, who ultimately authorize the matter life and death, choose to love and hate as per as our fallacious opinions and annihilate the very foundation of survival, then why do we use the pretext of the Lord to define our mortal egocentricities. Szabo’s prose is not only hypnotic but memorable, as her words follow you like a willful shadow never letting go even in the darkest night.“You can't give anyone a greater gift than to spare them suffering...."It was these among numerous other words that made me fall in love with Emerence. It may sound harsh even horrifying maybe, but when a blood drenched body lies on the gates of death, breathes gasping for its finality an additional bullet or a stab may just bring a smile on the departed rather than the sorrow that engulfs a slow death. When Emerence reminiscences her past while she stitches , I cry ; when she reprimands either Viola or the writer and shows a speck of her blooming affection ; I smile and when her eccentricities peak with obnoxious childish acts ; I laugh. ‘The Door’ is a powerful metaphoric representation of a woman and several others like Emerence who rather live a restrictive yet dignified life dwelling in the opaqueness of a wooden door than drowning in the nakedness of merciful alms. Emerence was more than a categorical flower; she was “a truly great lady, pure as the stars”.Szabo’s writings make me reflect whether we who belong to the generation that frets on the mere number of ‘likes’ acquired on a social website, ever tried to know people like Emerence who have seen a country grow, perish and once again grow? Is it too late before an entire generation is wiped out and their stories are just mere sentences in newspaper archives? When a country is in its most horrendous turmoil and when innocent lives are cut short, isn’t it becomes necessary on the part of those alive to give a significant burial and carve memorable tombstones so that the perished do not have wasted lives. Is it too much to ask to honor the dead? Emerence makes me wonder about the degree of pain to be suffered that eventually dries up a human’s tear ducts. How many heart wrenching cries does it take to have a single serene bath? There are several who have move past the atrocities of egotistical power hoarders and have a flourishing life, but what about those who have closed all doors and have lost the key of faith along the way. With every inch that Emerence opens the door of her life, floodgates are opened within me, hurling me in a vortex of emotions. It is here that I wish so dearly to be sitting with Viola, Emerence, Polette, Sutu and Adelka on the porch, and while Emerence poured tea in her prettiest china I have an earnest desire that I was the sole owner of the key that would open the door to all of their precious lives.“Like a truly great commander she settled everything around her in person, with a single impressive gesture………. Humankind has come a long way since its beginnings and people of the future won't be able to imagine the barbaric early days in which we fought with one another, in groups or individually, over little more than a cup of cocoa. But not even then will it be possible to soften the fate of a woman for whom no-one has made a place in their life. If we all lacked the courage to admit this to ourselves, she at least had done so.....”Ladies and Gentlemen!!! Emerence Szeredás..(** Actor Helen Mirren essaying the role in the namesake movie).
It isn’t often that a book instantly grabs the reader from the first line and holds on for dear life. “The Door”, by Magda Azabo, is one of those precious gems. How does it fare?From its synopsis, “The Door” appears to be a dramatic mystery or an over-exaggerated allegory but this is deceiving, as Szabo’s novel is neither of these things. “The Door” is difficult to describe with its mashing of drama, stream of consciousness, character and relationship studies, and philosophy into one novel. Although a fictional novel, “The Door” reads almost like a memoir with the narrator (and one of the main characters) reminiscing on her time employing a housekeeper named Emerence. “The Door” is a unique tale with multi-layered complexity exploring various topics (love, death, philosophy, relationships, war, animals, etc) in between the lines. The storytelling is imaginative and strikingly rich. “The Door” isn’t typical or traditional with little dialogue and a lack of an arc building to a climax. Despite this, it is a moral story comparable to a fable and therefore penetrates deep with the reader and refuses to be put down, encouraging page turning.Szabo’s prose is remarkable with beautiful and accessible language and grammar. The narrator is conversational (and often times, quite hilarious) but well spoken; truly bringing the characters, events, and story to life. Like a fable, much of “The Door” seems unlikely and yet it is believable and ‘real’. “The Door” charms by not being predictable. There is absolutely no way in knowing what will happen next which adds to its gripping characteristics. At the same time, Hungarian readers will relate to the story with characters having strong Hungarian personalities and nothing being lost in the book’s translation. Szabo is able to convey various emotions powerfully allowing the reader to ‘feel’ and also think about the expressions. The timing is precise and well-effected resulting in an entertaining novel with folds of depth. Plus, the novel is strong throughout versus ebbing and flowing like most books.As is natural in character studies, the underlying lesson is the self-reflection of the narrator and in turn of the reader versus of the subject. This occurs subtly in “The Door” without being overextended or forced by Szabo.A complaint with “The Door” is that the plot can feel repetitive with events being similar but told in a different way. At times, it feels Szabo is unsure the reader has understood the message (he/she has and keeps revisiting it. The climax of “The Door” is somewhat expected but quickens the pace in a hectic way which makes sense to the story and continues to urge readability (in a good way). The conclusion to the novel is well-rounded and strong in terms of both the plot and in sinking in the moral lesson of relationships, trust, dependency, etc. This is relatable and applies to all readers, making “The Door” accessible to a general audience. “The Door” is a unique and entertaining novel with powerful levels of depth which don’t overwhelm the reader and feel quite natural (it is a rather quick read). Szabo’s writing is terrific and is recommended for those seeking a humorous, almost fable-like tale.
Do You like book The Door (2005)?
Quando l'umanità andrà a spasso tra le stelle, nessuno ricorderà più quel pianeta lontano, quel barbaro asilo infantile dove abbiamo combattuto così tante misere battaglie, pubbliche e private, per conquistare una tazza di cioccolata, ma anche allora sarà impossibile accomodare il destino degli esseri umani che non trovano posto nella vita degli altri.Sicuramente avrete preso fra le mani questo libro attratti dalla trama vagamente misteriosa annunciata dalla quarta di copertina: una scrittrice, la sua donna delle pulizie scontrosa e instancabile che non lascia varcare la porta di casa sua a nessuno, un mistero da scoprire. Ingredienti appetitosi. Il titolo aggiunge enfasi all'ignoto: la porta, quella precisa e specifica porta che nasconde chissà quale segreto, non una a caso fra l'infinita stirpe delle porte, una speciale, distinguibile dalle altre relegate nel cimitero dell'ordinario. I capitoli vi accompagneranno lungo il tragitto verso quel mistero, e voi continuerete a osservare gli eventi con occhio rapito ma non potrete fare a meno di continuare a fissare lo sguardo su quella porta, come se fosse il centro dell'universo, semplicemente perché nasconde qualcosa, e attende di essere aperta, spiata, di rivelarsi in un sussurro e poi svanire con la chiusura del libro. Sazi, conoscerete finalmente il segreto e potrete continuare felici la vostra esistenza facendo i preziosi con chi ancora il libro non l'ha letto e vi chiede indizi, come chi ha già visto un film e ne conosce tutti i colpi di scena.Scordatevi una lettura di così lieve impatto. Dietro quella porta c'è un'ascia, ed è rivolta contro di voi.La porta di Emerenc non è solo la sua porta. Vi accorgerete con il cuore a pezzi che quel pezzo di legno speciale non è altro che l'uscio di tutti coloro che passeggiano sulla terra accanto a voi, che siano oggetto dei vostri pensieri quotidiani o meno. Tutti noi abbiamo una porta personale: bella, rispettabile, deteriorata, rosa dai tarli. Lasciamo varcare la soglia solo a chi riteniamo degno della nostra considerazione oppure a chiunque possa consegnarci un po' di attenzione, perché la solitudine si deposita rapidamente sui mobili, e tenere ordine all'interno è un compito gravoso per sbrigarsela da soli. A volte l'ingresso degli estranei avrà un effetto benefico, altre volte devasterà il vostro nido come il più potente dei terremoti. Altre volte sarete voi a varcare l'uscio altrui, osserverete con sdegno qualche rotolo di polvere in bella vista o ammirerete lo splendore della pianta sul davanzale, quella che voi non riuscite mai a tenere in vita a casa vostra. Questo libro vi dà la possibilità di vivere le vostre relazioni con gli altri con un occhio più consapevole. E di vergognarvi di voi stessi, anche se la vostra faccia - o porta, che sia - è riconosciuta dal mondo intero come rispettabile e ammirevole. E' come un galateo che spunta dalla vostra borsa dopo che avete visitato l'ultima casa, e vi mostra con disappunto che siete stati inopportuni e selvaggi come vandali in terra straniera. Emerenc è quella che si definirebbe una vecchia bisbetica, solo una vecchia, e probabilmente ne avrete individuate diverse nel corso delle vostre passeggiate per le strade del mondo. Dopo aver letto questo libro non riuscirete ad usare l'articolo indeterminativo in modo così indiscriminato. Che la grammatica si metta l'anima in pace. La porta di Emerenc è quella che fino a poco tempo fa avreste definito UNA porta e bollato con un "mah, niente di speciale" prima di immergervi nuovamente nella vostra vita, nei vostri affari, all'insegna del "che me n'importa". Dopo Emerenc, non potrete più farlo, perché il sogno che tormenta Magda sarà il vostro, e il viso della vecchia vi si parerà davanti ogni volta che cercherete di porre l'inutile davanti all'essenziale, semplicemente perché l'inutile vi riguarda e l'essenziale comporta una spesa di energie, tempo, vita per qualcun'altro, chiunque esso sia. O, per lo meno, il suo viso vi si parerà davanti finché la filosofia del "chi me lo fa fare" non ritornerà roboante nella vostra vita, e non tornerete inconsapevolmente sui passi di Magda, di Sutu, di tutti quelli che sono troppo occupati a vivere i propri sogni e sopravvivere per tendere una mano a chi, sfortunatamente, resta indietro.
—Elisa
Questo libro è entrato ed uscito dalla mia to-read list tante volte. Troppe col senno di poi: perché ho aspettato così tanto per leggerlo? E' stupendo, e crudele.Sostanzialmente, una gattara di Budapest prende emotivamente in ostaggio un'intera via, accanendosi particolarmente sulla scrittice a cui fa da donna di servizio. La scrittrice è la stessa Szabó, assai generosa nei dettagli autobiografici.Questa storia parla di ricatti emotivi, di sopravvivenza, di religione, di amore per gli animali esibito anche tramite il maltrattamento, di affetti espressi in maniera deviata e, in ultimo, di tradimento. La scrittrice tenta di razionalizzare le sue decisioni, le quali sono razionalizzabili. Tuttavia la forza animalesca della signora Emerenc, sia fisica che morale, è una montagna contro cui il ragionamento si va a schiantare. Emerenc è manipolatrice, pur avanzando nella vita come un treno. Emerenc è una sorta di divinità capricciosa che vede tutto in bianco e nero, ed organizza la vita della sua via di conseguenza. Emerenc è anche giusta, raramente contestabile, e quando la malattia la costringe ad essere una donna normale sappiamo che la fine è vicina.Il tono del libro è splendido tanto quanto la trama. Ci ho trovato un'eleganza trattenuta, sovrastata dall'esuberanza rude della gattara. Magda ed Emerenc si incontrano e si amano proprio perché si compensano e si capiscono, elaborando tutto un rituale di gesti e allusioni che si caricano di tensione fino a scoppiare, con regolarità, per tutto il romanzo.Il finale, che normalmente avrei trovato lungo, qui è adatto. Mi spiego: a me piace la fine in stile "e vissero tutti felici e contenti". Nelle storie c'è un'introduzione, lo sviluppo della vicenda e la sua risoluzione (che sia positiva o meno), e raramente ho voglia di sapere cosa succederà nei mesi e negli anni successivi a tale risoluzione. Qui invece lo strascico è necessario per capire come l'intera comunità sia riuscita a guarire dalla scomparsa di Emerenc perché, per quanto sostanzialmente positiva, la presenza della donna ha monopolizzato l'intera strada. Potranno queste persone cavarsela da sole? Dovranno, e se riusciranno a seguire almeno in parte l'onestà intrinseca di Emerenc staranno sicuramente bene.
—Roberta
How on earth could the telling of the life and character of an aged Hungarian cleaning lady feel so eerily uncanny? Because, do not be mistaken, this is not a mystery book. This is a novel about the relationship between two women: an illiterate servant and her considerably younger employer, a writer. The latter narrates the story, which is set in Hungary around the 1960s-80s. So, how could this be such a memorable story? Magda Szabo (1917-2007) proves in The Door to be an astounding writer. After a gripping beginning, she then takes us through a very intense, scary, and magical unfolding of the tale. Szabo draws her brushstrokes regularly, building up the suspense, or may be peeling off the many veils that cover reality. What emerges is the extraordinary and colossally strong personality of Emerence, the servant. She is an atavistic force that communicates with animals like no other person can, and who has a magnetic power and physical strength to attract or banish or condemn those beings around her according to her beliefs, moods and whims.In contrast, the other woman --the “woman writer”-- as narrator seems subjected to the will of the strong elderly servant. The unbalance in strength is found also in the way the book focuses our view. If the name of Emerence is introduced at the very beginning of the book, the name of the “woman writer”, Magdchen, which is also Szabo’s name, is only mentioned, in passing, towards the end. The writer and creator becomes the anonymous observer, the “woman writer” in the story.But is she just an observer? Is she really subjected to Emerence’s forces? For, as she tells us, at the very beginning: “ I killed Emerence…” And this chilling start prompts the telling of the story that led to this, the relationship between two beings that The Door separates. This ambiguity on who is acting on whom makes me think of this book as a meditation on subjectivity.The Door was published in Hungary in 1987 and has been translated by Len Rix, winning him the prestigious Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize in 2006. This is my first book by Magda Szabo and would like to read more. Unfortunately very little has been translated. Now I will wait until Istvan Sazbo’s 2012 film version, with Helen Mirren as Emerence is shown in a cinema near me…!!!
—Kalliope
