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Adam Bence Balázs, PhD
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Tributes
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Agnes Szabo
Nagyon hiányzol, Ádám. Ez a pár fotó a doktori disszertációd írása közben készült, gondoltam kiteszem. Szép emlékek abból az időszakból, amikor a teljes AL-Crew (Gombival az élen) drukkolt, hogy összejöjjön. Nagy volt az öröm, amikor Öreg azzal állított haza Párizsból a védésről, hogy nagyon jó voltál.
Lucia Sulikova
Eulogy for Ádám by Dagmar Kusá Translated into Hungarian from the original English text Kedves Ádám kolléga, radikális barátom! Te most bizonyára tiltakoznál, hogy nem vagy radikális. Valóban, te szelíd modorú, kiegyensúlyozott, bizonyos tekintetben régi vágású voltál, de igenis radikális a szó eredeti értelmében. Radikális, aki a dolgok gyökeréig, az alapokig hatol, és aki keresztül viszi a gondolatokat a logikus végkövetkeztetésig, nem törődve a következményekkel és a kényelemmel. Ebben az értelemben te radikális gondolkodó voltál. A gyors megoldások korában elutasítottad az effajta játékot. A becsületes, eredeti, kemény munkában hittél, amely a tudás világához kötődik, a tudáséban, amit különféle világokból halmoztál föl a fejedben. Ugyanezt vártad másoktól is, és mindnyájunkat úgy kezelted, mint akik képesek erre. Radikális tanító voltál. Ezt sok hallgatónk egész életére magával viszi. A tanítás nem egy „kilenctől ötig” munka volt számodra. Sztoikusan türelmes voltál a hallgatóiddal, amit tettetett mogorvasággal lepleztél. De tudtuk, hogy szereted őket. Aggódtál a jóllétük miatt. Számtalan órát töltöttünk azzal, hogy boncolgattuk a küzdelmeiket és a képességeiket. Te láttad, hogy mi rejlik bennük, akkor is, ha ők ennek nem voltak tudatában. A válságban lévő hallgató volt a te feladatod. Kiváló voltál a radikális kezelésben: átláttad az egészüket és a legjobb önmaguk eléréséig támogattad őket. Sokuk számára te voltál „A” tanító, aki mindörökre megváltoztatta az életüket. Nézz csak körül: jó pár volt tanítványod jött el ma is. Te adtál mintát számukra, hogy mit jelent az integritás. Te mutattad meg nekik, hogy a gondolatokkal, a pontossággal és az igazsággal való törődés kell az élet fölépítéséhez. Ők ezt tovább viszik és majdan tudósok, szakemberek, felnőttek lesznek… Készek a világ számára – hála neked. Te barátnak is radikális voltál. Nem hízelegtél, vagy ha igen, akkor rendszerint tréfából. Te a barátaidat is nyomás alá helyezted. Barátodnak lenni azt jelentette, hogy komolyan vettél: komoly és kényelmetlen kérdéseket tettél fel, amelyek elől az ember legszívesebben elrejtőzik. Persze a kérdéseket félig szarkazmus itatta át. A bennünket körülvevő világ azt mondja, amit hallani szeretünk, benned megvolt a tisztesség, hogy azt mondd, amire szükségünk van. Radikális humanista voltál. Olyan, akit kevéssé kötnek a különféle identitások – nemzeti, szakmai, társadalmi – börtönei. Te akadálytalanul átsuhantál rajtuk és kapcsolatot találtál bármilyen sorsú emberekkel, jöjjenek akárhonnan. Valódi nemzetközösséget teremtettél magad körül. Többféle világot hordoztál magadban anélkül, hogy ellentmondásokra szabdaltad volna fel. Te magad is csodálatos ötvözet voltál: magyar földben gyökereztél, mégis keresztül-kasul európai, ugyanolyan könnyedséggel idézted Szent Ágostont, mint a hupikék törpök tréfáit három nyelven. És tudtál teljesen szeretni. Nem szentimentálisan, nem diszkrimináció nélkül, de igazából. Látva itt a családodat együtt és partneredet, Luciát, teljesen világos, hogy radikális gondosságod a szívedre is kiterjedt. Luciával ritkaságot leltél, olyan partnerséget, ahol két ember nyilvánvalóan és letagadhatatlanul boldog. Tudom, hogy ő az életében soha nem volt boldogabb, elég ideje ismerem őt. És te sem voltál boldogabb. Egyeseknél azonnal látható, ha szeretet veszi körül őket, hogy szeretetből érkeznek. Látható abból, hogy miként mozognak a világban, abból, ahogyan az emberek köréjük gyűlnek. Ádám, te ilyen ember voltál. Teljes önmagadat, teljes szeretetedet adtad a családodnak. Ők maguk a bizonyíték erre. Párizsba készülök, cher ami, szeretett városodba. Egy csésze eszpresszót emelek majd rád, istentelen mennyiségű cukorral, valamelyik kedvenc kávéházadban. És bedobok néhány szem cukrot a Szajnába, mint te tetted Passauban Pozsony felé, és elképzelem, miként olvadnak bele a világba. Búcsút intünk neked „Pozsony-cityből”, sok szeretettel, mély nagyrabecsüléssel és hálával a radikális gondoskodásért, amelyet irántunk tanúsítottál. A szeretet, amelyet tőled kaptunk, velünk marad és nem fog eltűnni. Isten veled, Ádám, mindent köszönünk.
Lucia Sulikova
Milestones in Ádám’s Life — Part 2 of 2 Presented by Toma Hrisztov Translated into English from the original Hungarian text This is the second of two parts, as the full text could not fit into a single post. Meanwhile, he is searching for his place: where and how could he put his vast knowledge to use: in what context, at home or abroad? This is a period in Ádám’s life filled with inner struggles and crises. His deep and sensitive soul suffers through this search for direction, but thanks to his characteristic perseverance and his thoughtful, creative spirit, he manages to emerge victorious. He begins to pay attention again to himself, his health, his surroundings, his parents. He also finds a family bond with his older sisters. Above all, he chooses a vocation: teaching. His first stop is Sofia, where he teaches philosophy and sociology at the university to an international audience in English and French. He develops a passion for hiking; the mountains bring him back to himself, strengthening his not only physically but also spiritually. “I already know Western Europe,” he says, “now I’m discovering the East.” He roams the Balkans, traveling to every country on foot, by public transportation, and by hitchhiking. He then receives a postdoctoral fellowship at a research institute in Geneva, but Covid interrupts his plans; he works in isolation at his accommodation, though he swims regularly in Lake Geneva and goes on excursions in the Swiss Alps. Upon returning home, he lectures at the German-language Andrássy University in Budapest—in English—and joins the work of the Center for Democracy Studies there. His next stop is the School of Liberal Arts in Bratislava (BISLA). It is here that his knowledge and experience truly come into their own. He teaches several courses, and mentors his students with great care. He becomes a respected and beloved member of the university among both students and faculty. Meanwhile, he also becomes a permanent member of research institutes in Paris and Vienna. He attends international conferences, lectures, and publishes in English and French. His atmospheric writings also appear in Hungarian in Élet és Irodalom and other journals. He edits books, focusing primarily on the catch-up of Eastern Europe, particularly the Balkans. In Bratislava, he finally finds a worthy partner, and together they plan their future. They often visit Budapest or the site of his childhood summers, Mosonmagyaróvár. The traditional Advent trips to Vienna with his mother are now attended by the three of them. Through his academic work, he comes into contact with the University of Passau. He is invited to teach there and sees the position as a step forward. After more than three years in Bratislava, he moves to Bavaria. Lucia is also preparing to join him. From there, he travels to Prague at the end of March this year, where he gives several lectures. He enthusiastically reports on the phone about new invitations. In his hotel room, alone, far from everyone, sudden death takes him. The diagnosis: cardiac arrest. At the age of 44, in excellent mental and physical condition, his promising life was cut short, accompanied by the recognition and love of many. His future, his career, and his personal happiness were all firmly established. Decades of productive work would have followed, with many books, students, and an expanding circle of friends, lasting well into old age. Ádám was a true intellectual; he observed and analyzed the world, writing diligently and with enthusiasm. Drawing on his diverse international experience, he viewed Hungary from the outside with a critical eye, acknowledging both its flaws and its virtues. At first, he was still hesitant to embark on a career path similar to that of his well-known father, but he successfully built his own professional profile and reputation. Father and son now debated as equals, accepted each other’s advice, and sought each other’s opinions on their articles and studies written in various languages. Ádám took on a great deal, both intellectually and physically. He read and wrote voraciously, while training tirelessly; he was prone to overworking himself. His undeservedly short life subjected him to countless trials. After all, he lived, studied, and worked in nine European countries, not counting other visits. His acquired knowledge was enriched by his rich personal experiences. These nourished his wise humanism and the humor that always lurked in his gaze. So much for the biography. A few weeks ago, we celebrated my mother’s milestone birthday, and the whole extended family gathered. Ádám’s older and younger sisters were there, along with numerous cousins and relatives, each with their own families. He had a kind word and a friendly smile for everyone. He will always remain with us, just as cheerful, strong, and young as we last saw him, just as he left us. Now three people will share their memories of Ádám: • on behalf of his university colleagues Dagmar Kusá, professor at the School of Liberal Arts in Bratislava (in English); • on behalf of his students Tamás István Fehér; • and a friend from Paris, Alexandre Duclos (in French). Translation is not possible here, but we will publish the Hungarian text of the speeches on Ádám’s memorial page.
Lucia Sulikova
Eulogy for Ádám by Alexandre Duclos Translated into Hungarian from the original French text Ádám, drága barátom! Hozzád szólok, mert ez az utolsó találkozásunk. Többé nem látjuk egymást ezen a földön. Meghaltál. Tudomásul veszem, de nem távozhatsz így. 26 évnyi barátság során megtanultuk, hogy sem a távolság, sem az idő nem változtat azon az igaz barátságon, amelyet te képes voltál felkelteni és fenntartani. Fogadjunk, hogy a halál sem fog rajta. És ez érvényes barátaid seregére, akiket sok éven át gyűjtöttél a világ négy sarkában. A bizonyíték, hogy holnap Párizsban találkozunk és ott folytatjuk a rád való emlékezést. Barátodnak lenni azt jelentette, hogy vidáman éljük meg a világot, a hétköznapokat és azokat a kis szokásokat, amelyeknek oly lelkesen tudtál örülni. De barátodnak lenni azt is jelentette, hogy beléphettünk egy másik világba, amely barokkosabb, csodálatosabb, gazdagabb, amely tele van könyvekkel, versekkel, barátokkal, zenével és humorral, és ezek ellenállnak a hétköznapok középszerűségének. Ez a te világod. Barátodnak lenni azt jelentette, hogy ismerjük barátságod különleges értékét, óriási mosolyodat, hatalmas nevetésedet, kitárt karjaidat, titáni lelkesedésedet, leveleidet, ajándék könyveidet, amelyek a meglepetés erejével szóltak bele a másik életébe. Mindez megváltoztatja a mindennapok hangulatát, akkor is, ha te nem vagy jelen. De ismerjük választékos modorodat is, tágabb értelemben azt a gondosságot, amit mindenben képviseltél, a baráti kapcsolataidban, a legkisebb gesztusaidban, az olvasmányaidban, az utazásaidban. Azt a rendkívüli figyelmet, amelyet ugyanúgy szenteltél a legjelentéktelenebb és a leghatalmasabb dolgoknak. Ádám, te képes voltál egy globális geopolitikai elemzésig eljutni abból kiindulva, hogy az emberek miként keverik a kávéjukat a kiskanállal. Te képes voltál Mitteleuropa-t és a tudás építésének feltételeit felrajzolni egy kis történetből kiindulva, amely az előadásra jövet a vonaton történt. „Hogy a konferencia témáját összekapcsoljam jelenlegi gondolataimmal, had’ mondjak el egy, illetve két esetet. Az első ide jövet a vonaton történt: egy gyerek a papáját faggatta: „Papa, miért nagy az elefánt?” A kérdés intelligens volt, a papa kevésbé…” – és így tovább. Te a mosoly, a finomság, a történetek, a humor és az utazások embere voltál. A szakadatlan utazásé, mert a te utad – ellentétben Odüsszeusszal – nem volt se távozás, se visszatérés (az utóbbit lehetetlennek tartottad). Az utazás az életmód volt számodra. 2000 táján, egy délután, a Villiers-i kis lakásodban, a tanulástól és kultúrától megrészegült prepa-diákok, Cioran-t olvastuk és backgammont játszottunk. Cioran mondatán rágódtunk: „Az ember nem egy országban, hanem egy nyelvben lakik”. Ebből azután rengeteg vita kerekedett nálad, az uszodában (ó, az uszoda…), a gyógyfürdőben (ó, a gyógyfürdő…), a szaunában, a sétákon és az utakon, amelyek nem vezetnek sehová, de mindenütt csak erről beszélgettünk. „Az ember nem egy országban, hanem egy nyelvben lakik.” Te hol laktál? Melyik nyelvben? Láttalak ínyencségekről álmodozni bolgárul, gondolkodni franciául, beszéni magyarul, tanítani angolul, nevetni németül, költészetről elmélkedni belgául – vagy fordítva? A világ kicsi számodra, kicsi és óriási egyszerre. Kicsi, mert például midőn egy lelkes és tanulságos estét töltöttünk egy kabaréban, valahol a párizsi Saint-Michel negyedben, azt javasoltad, hogy nyújtóztassuk ki a lelkünket és fogadjuk a hajnalt egy korzikai strandon, amely repülővel csupán ugrás. Igaz, nem volt sem időnk, se pénzünk. De megcsináltuk, Ádám, megcsináltuk – és a hajnal csodálatos volt aznap Bastia-ban. És a lelkünk kinyílt. A Földközi-tenger párizsi tájjá változott gyermeki lelkesedésed varázslata által. Veled a világ hatalmasra tágul, mert te lassú, szinte visszatartott, szemlélődő lépéseiddel járod be országról országra, városról városra, utcáról utcára, barátságos, de éles tekintettel szemlélve mindent és azt keresve, ami egyedivé teszi a helyet és az embereket. Városról városra vándorolva a száműzetés számos erkélyén jártál anélkül, hogy bárhol megállapodtál és lekönyököltél volna. A száműzetés erkélyei talán túlzottan éreztették a melankóliát a személyiségedben. Európai kertedben sétálva, mint kényes esztéta, gyűjteményt készítettél belőlük. Hol laktál tulajdonképpen? Melyik ország az otthona mindannak a barátságnak, amelyeket mindenütt ápoltál, és amelyek fényes szövetben egyesülnek téren és időn át? Az „Európa Kávéház” volt a hazád (Viktor Klemperer meghatározását kölcsön véve), az az Európa, amely maximális sokféleséget mutat egy minimális térben. Vagy talán a város metaforája, minden városé, amelyet tanulmányoztál. Láttalak élni és lélegezni Párizsban, Berlinben, Brüsszelben, Budapesten, Montreálban. Úgy képzelem, hogy a városok sora a gondviselés tervezte útvonal volt számodra, labirintus, hogy egy napon földet érj valahol Pozsonyban, Lucia karjaiban. Amikor először láttalak titeket együtt, úgy tűnt, hogy befejezted a lapozást, befejezted a rohanást, befejezted a bukdácsolást, kikötöttél, megtaláltad a lágy és befogadó menedéket, ahol együtt építitek a boldogságotokat. Azon a napon, amikor megpillantottalak titeket a párizsi múzeumban – ahol szokásod szerint ellenőrizted, hogy a pterodactilus megkövült tojása nem kelt-e ki –, nos azon a napon, Lucia oldalán úgy láttam, hogy beteljesült ember vagy, totálisan boldog, teljességgel boldog, és akik ismernek, tudják, hogy ez mekkora csoda, a tiszta fény pillanata. Ezt megéltétek és senki és semmi nem veheti el tőletek. Soha. Bárhol és bármi leszel is öregem, ha valamire szükséged van, ugorj be hozzám és én segítek, ahogyan tudok. Szeretném kinyújtani a kezemet, hogy megfoghasd. De ennek vége. Ádám, a nekünk kijelölt idő értékes volt, de véget ér. Isten veled – és holnap találkozunk Párizsban.
Lucia Sulikova
Translated into English from the original Hungarian text Excerpts from an earlier, unpublished piece by Ádám Ithaca Falls Silent A Letter to a Distant Friend The subtitle is taken from a letter written by the Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran to a friend who remained in Romania while he was in exile in Paris. I, too, am writing to a distant friend. The situation, however, is reversed: I am not writing home from exile abroad, but calling out to you from my exile in Budapest, to Paris or Auvergne, wherever you may be. Ever since I came home, time has collapsed within me. Have I been living—or rather, vegetating—in Budapest for two, three, or perhaps even more years now? And what has happened since I landed at Ferihegy Airport with one and a half suitcases, after several years of wandering abroad, exhausted? I came home to rest, seeking a kind of comfort, a family, and the washing machine and iron that come with it—things I sometimes sorely missed during my wanderings through Western Europe and North America. Yes, I longed for security, that fundamental human need that often clashes with freedom. Within the confines of that security, however, I lost my sense of time. Is this my fault, or has Budapest simply drifted onto a fundamentally wrong path? I remember exactly when you visited me one summer. Budapest was a promising place back then, just like Berlin, which was also flourishing in a state of transition. Things were moving in the right direction; cultural life was thriving in the alluring labyrinth of Pest’s gloomy ruins. A promise presupposes two encounters: the first, when someone makes a pledge, and a second, when it becomes clear whether they have kept their promise. Was it not up to us to make a promise that could be expected to be kept decades later? You and I have argued at length that a modern, healthy intelligentsia requires a major city. Budapest used to be a crossroads of countless life paths, a hub where many met; destinies and languages converged in the Hungarian capital. But who promised that this would continue so? Politics has also had a powerful say in Budapest’s promise. The current, fundamentally provincial government fears the big city. It fears cosmopolitanism, it fears informedness, and it dreads public humour. Our radical right-wing leaders do not understand humour, even though public humour is one of the cornerstones of democracy. Intelligence and culture laugh at the stiff-necked authorities. Unfortunately, there is less and less sarcastic, cynical writing in the last bastions of democracy and freedom of speech. You know, among us Hungarians, the style of journalism is rougher, sometimes cruder, than anything that makes it into print over there in France. In our somewhat archaic language, words haven’t drifted so far from reality as they have in the salons and cafés of Paris. For us, the word is often the thing itself, and this allows for the formulation of ruthless criticism. But in our part of the world, there is hope as long as words are the things themselves; in yours, as long as the spirit of words is capable of detaching itself from the materiality of things. We are refined barbarians—I think Cioran said that too. Or refined Huns? And he hit the nail on the head: Hungarian, as I explained to you, is a sticky language. The words, however—perhaps precisely for this reason—cling to things. On the one hand, this lends the language poetic sincerity; on the other, it leaves room for the most commonplace style. Today, the problem lies precisely here, with public taste: our politicians have accustomed us to vulgar banter, and we often regard as witty what is simply vulgar. We think we recognize political talent in cursing. Sophisticated language is considered old-fashioned. Those in power fear the big city. There lived and worked a Hungarian poet who, incidentally, spent a great deal of time with you in Paris—a certain Endre Ady. He wrote the following in a Budapest newspaper; please excuse the clumsy translation: “I cannot think of a more apt and fitting judgment off the top of my head: the Hungarians are not a city-building people. Wherever the pure Hungarian race built cities, they surrounded them for miles with tiny farmsteads. This is a dream of the old tent villages.”—he wrote under the pseudonym Ódi in 1906. I walk through the streets of Pest that you know so well. I can only blame myself, my best friends, and my colleagues for the fact that the city has grown dark. We ourselves ruined it in the sense that our fruitless conflicts gave ground to our political opponents, who stood with arms folded as we became entangled in our own illusions. The greatest misconception of the Western view of history is that Homer’s Ithaca is the land of homecoming. It is not. Odysseus is tested precisely because he does not recognize his homeland, the island of Ithaca. He arrives “home” in a foreign land. Perhaps the philosophers Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe and Jean Borrel felt this most deeply. And Alfred Schütz pointed it out most aptly, reading and quoting the Odyssey, that Ithaca itself is the site of alienation. James Joyce, too, who in the name of modernity transplanted the Odyssey to the mainland, into a world where, with the demise of the classical city-state centres, the Mediterranean could scarcely offer a path home. It is within this Western uncertainty that Michel Foucault drew a parallel between the island of the Sirens and Ithaca: one must not listen to them, yet one is compelled to hear death; otherwise, Odysseus cannot return home. In this sense, Ithaca is the site of an impossible homecoming. The most tragic mirage of our modernity, writes philosopher Jacques Rancière, is that we believed: the wisest of the Greeks, Odysseus, had to return home so that Europeans could set out across the Atlantic. Here, in Hungary, after the national Anthem, we usually sing the Szózat. It’s a terrible poem. It’s not true that “there is no other place for me on this earth”. I take exception to that. But words and things bind me tightly here; that’s why I came home, that’s why I find it hard to bring myself to leave again. What can be done? To lament, to grumble, to stumble confusedly along the boulevards of the Hungarian capital, which are at once sad and hateful, because we are incapable of civilly avoiding one another. This place deserves better, despite everything. I would like to quote a line from Baudelaire: "And when the monotonous evenings of winter snow upon me, I place great locks upon doors and windows, and build enchanted castles at night."
Lucia Sulikova
Milestones in Ádám’s Life — Part 1 of 2 Presented by Toma Hrisztov Translated into English from the original Hungarian text This is the first of two parts, as the full text could not fit into a single post. Milestones of Ádám’s life – presented by Toma Hrisztov We are saying goodbye to Ádám Balázs. Ádám was my uncle, my mother’s younger brother. His parents have summarized the major milestones of his life, which was cut short at the age of 44. I will now read this to you. Ádám was born on April 9 in Budapest, when the hills of Buda turn green. That day fell on Good Friday in 1982, and his mother considered it his true birthday. Ádám began his international travels at six months old, a journey that would accompany him throughout his life. On a diplomatic assignment, the small family moved to Brussels, where the world opened up before Ádám. He attended daycare and kindergarten, becoming bilingual right away, learning to speak Hungarian and French simultaneously. His earliest memories are tied to his Belgian friends, playgrounds, and the swimming pool, where he learned to swim at an early age. He returns home at the age of five; after experiencing the free-spirited atmosphere of Brussels, he is introduced to the strictness of the Hungarian kindergarten and then begins elementary school. Two years later, by family decision, he continues his studies at the French school in Budapest to preserve the language. He still speaks well, but hasn’t learned to write; to the amusement of his classmates, he initially writes down French words using Hungarian phonetics. The young teacher has faith in him: “This child works very hard; by Christmas, he’ll catch up with the others.” And so it happens; Ádám first demonstrates what he is capable of, the sheer will and perseverance he possesses. By the age of five, he’s already riding weekly; first he does vaulting, performing gymnastic exercises on the back of a trotting horse, then he moves on to a pony, and finally to a full-sized horse. He’s so skilled that he’s soon able to go out into the field with the adults. Starting at age seven, he attends a summer riding camp in Mosonmagyaróvár with her father, where she even jumps over obstacles. The same group also meets at winter ski camps in neighbouring countries. His parents give him every opportunity to find activities that suit him. His excellent manual dexterity becomes apparent; he attends art school and creates his own comic books. He also tries his hand at tennis. He takes exams to achieve higher ranks in judo, learning to fight and defend himself in close combat, skills that will later prove useful. At age 12, he experiences his parents’ divorce, which takes a toll on both him and his mother. Ádám moves to Denmark with his father; in sixth grade, he ends up at the French Lycée in Copenhagen in the middle of the school year. He has to fight for his place in the hierarchy until the boys there accept him. He swims for a club and competes in races. He rides horses here too; he gets to go out into the countryside with the older riders, and on the forest trails during harsh winters, he has to contend with real obstacles. In this cycling-friendly city, he also rides his bike to school, arriving home flushed. In Copenhagen, a great joy awaits him: his little sister is born. Fruzsi’s arrival stabilizes the new family circle; their strong bond remains even as adults and, in fact, deepens. During his stays abroad, Ádám spends Christmas, Easter, and part of his school holidays at home with his mother and beloved grandparents. He cherishes fond childhood memories of summers in Bánk and the exploratory trips abroad with his mother to England, Italy, Israel, and Greece. It is here that his studies of ancient philosophy and mythology are enriched by experiences he would later weave into his university course on Plato. Barely after three years in Denmark, his father is transferred to Germany. Ádám changes schools again in the middle of the school year, continuing his studies at the French high school in Bonn starting in early 1997. He plays sports here as well, competing in pentathlon for a while, but the two daily training sessions prove too much alongside his studies, so he quits, though he continues swimming and horseback riding. At school, he makes new international friends; they start hanging out, drinking beer, and playing pool, and he begins to take an interest in girls. His second younger sister, Zsófi, is born in Bonn, and he welcomes her with the same love he had for Fruzsi. In 1999, the capital of reunified Germany moves from Bonn to Berlin, and the diplomats relocate as well. Ádám has changed schools five times since starting kindergarten. He is in his final year at the prestigious French school in Berlin and will graduate from high school there in 2000. Meanwhile, he also completes the Hungarian high school curriculum as a home-schooled student. He consciously nurtures his dual cultural ties, but at the French school he steadfastly identifies as Hungarian. “I don’t want to be a bumbling emigrant who has to search for Hungarian words,” he declared at home. After graduation, his path diverges from his family’s; at 18, he begins his adult life. By his own choice, he continues his studies in Paris. With his mother’s active support, he rents an apartment and sets up his household. He does not go straight to university but continues his studies at the prepa, the French system’s intensive preparatory program. He spends two grueling years at the renowned Lycée Condorcet, then applies to the Sorbonne to study philosophy. From there, he returns to Budapest with a French degree. His return surprises everyone. He explains his move back home by saying he wants to spend as much time as possible with his grandparents. He has a particularly close relationship with his grandfather; his personality, erudition, and sense of humor served as role models for him, just as his musician uncle’s critical spirit and knowledge did. He begins working, first as a librarian at the French Cultural Institute in Budapest, then at a political analysis firm. He later earns a master’s degree in political science from the English-language Central European University. He began his doctoral studies in Canada in French after winning a scholarship at the University of Montreal, but he longed to return to Europe. Two years later, he continued his studies in Paris and defended his dissertation at the Sorbonne. The 650-page work analyzes in great detail the writings of Eastern European thinkers who emigrated to the West—Ferenc Fejtő, Sándor Márai, the Romanian Emil Cioran, and the Polish Czesław Miłosz. The title of his dissertation is ambiguous: La pensée en exil –“The thought in exile”, but it could also mean “The exiled thought.” At the defense, a five-member academic committee grills him with difficult questions, while his two parents sit nervously in the audience. He receives his doctoral degree with honors.
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