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This is the book in which, at the beginning of the eighties, I tried to write what actually happened to us, reaching or passing the Christian age, what happened to my generation, my friends, my loves. I wasn't even thirty when I started. I was thirty-six years old when it came out in 1986.
Since then, I have always stubbornly prevented Félnóta from being published again (I wrote a foreword and an afterword about my reasons, which I believe to be serious, if you are interested, see it there). I haven't read it since 1986 - or rather '85, when I got the second proofreading. Now yes. It really upset me. It doesn't matter, of course. I can't even imagine what the under-thirties have to say about it. It contains many terms unknown to them, from géemka to the Konsumex dollar store. But these concepts are not essential.
The Hungarian history and political relations of the 1960s merely provided the background for the novel, not its theme in any way. Félnóta is about friendship, love, betrayal, backbone, solidarity and loyalty. I think so. In other words: about youth. About mine for sure. About ours.
