"Sarolta Dobray's sociographically accurate stories tell about the most vulnerable people in today's Hungary, reporting with deadly precision, with deep empathy and love. It is not the outsider writer who stoops down here to stylize suffering into stories: the responsible scribe observes and records. The restless scribe leaves traces of the age , in which we live. He takes snapshots, always from the right angle, with the right image cropping. He knows exactly that there is no us and them, that they are also us, that there are no two types of Hungary, there is no safety and peace where people are left to fend for themselves. That indeed we all have a responsibility towards them, one by one. Following in the footsteps of Erzsébet Galgóczi, Zsolt Csalog and Sándor Tar, he captures the humanity that can be seen even in poverty, the indestructible desire for dignity. We can smell the musty walls, the old clothes, and see before us the eyes that have lost their light. also a glimmering final hope: yes, there are still people watching. There are people who still care about all the debris of these shattered lives."
Krisztina Tóth is a writer, poet, translator

There was no garbage there. They also said that they had never seen such a clean pipe farm in their lives. We had a table outside and a real double bed. It was the terrace. And a sled, we tied a sponge gut to it, and whoops, we got the princely throne. The surrounding residents came to discuss with us, it was so comfortable. If we decided to get bored, we started playing cards. If we get bored of that too, we've hit the target. We laughed like madmen, the mess swirled around us. The woman's partner was cooking, behind her the radio hummed with the battery gone, the light came on with the candle. The stove kept the heat at bay, despite the minus ten temperature outside. We were free forever.
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