Béla Márkus began his career as a literary critic. He entered what Lajos Szakolczay terms the “heroic age,” when “the mercantile spirit had not yet overrun culture, and when writing about minority literature remained a risky task, fraught with censure and admonition.” The preface to his first volume, Magányos portyázók (lit. Solitary Foragers), signals the direction he would pursue as a researcher, as does the fact that Márkus’s career – according to the collections of data and publications [e.g.] Márkus Béla publikációi (1969. január 1. – 2005. november 30.) (lit. Béla Márkus’s Publications [1 January 1969 – 30 November 2005]), Az Alföld ötven éve (Fifty Years of Alföld) – can be divided into two phases: one interpretable through his journalistic practice, the other through his scholarly work.
Márkus commenced his studies in 1965 at the Kossuth Lajos University in Debrecen (now: University of Debrecen), specialising in Hungarian Literature and Cultural Education. In the year of his graduation, 1970, he secured a position in the cultural section of the Hajdú-bihari Napló [a regional daily newspaper], and at this early stage was already publishing regularly in Alföld [monthly literary journal]. He subsequently became a reviewer, critic, and copy editor (from 1975), later serving as deputy (under Béla Juhász) and, from 1990 to 1992, as appointed editor-in-chief of the journal. In the early 1980s, his attention turned decisively towards the academic track, during which he earned his doctoral and then candidate degrees, writing dissertations on Imre Sarkadi’s pre-1948 and sematism-era (1948–1953) career phases – the latter, defended in 1987 as Sarkadi Imre, a parasztíró (lit. Imre Sarkadi, the Peasant Writer), was published largely unchanged in 1996 under the title Átdolgozások kora (lit. The Era of Revisions). Following this, he entered university teaching in Debrecen, changing positions only upon his appointment as associate professor in 1993. His scholarly focus is on Hungarian folk and minority literatures, though as a teacher he covered the full spectrum of twentieth-century Hungarian literature and, prior to his retirement, also subjects in press history.
Márkus’s shifts in employment indicate subtle, nuanced changes in his interests: even during his half-decade in daily journalism, publication in a literary journal was natural for him, and his editorial work did not preclude university teaching. These phases overlap, segmented only by deliberate decisions. Three posts, yet two career phases: the first a phase of fine-tuning, evolving from publicist to editor; the second, more decisive, trades the editor-in-chief post for a university chair. This transition marks the depth of engagement, yet the pace of his critical activity has remained uninterrupted: reviewing the past and present, the nuances and sweeping changes of Hungarian literature is for him a daily practice. One recent reviewer noted his “dizzying pace,” contrasting him with rapid but superficial critics, observing that “he writes on each work with mastery derived from a thorough knowledge of the entire oeuvre.” He observes and evaluates. His fundamental disposition is that of a critic, conscious of the responsibility to ensure that “national consciousness does not further weaken,” even when he perceives his work as futile or unheeded. His 1977 credo, Kritikusok felelnek (lit. Critics Bear Responsibility), forms the foundation of his literary perspective, central to both his journalistic and scholarly endeavours, emphasising the responsibility of the literate.
It is worth recalling the ‘heroic age’ in which he began, for his orientation and career development were profoundly shaped by the nearly two decades he spent at Alföld, whose editorial team developed a distinctive character under political pressure. Reflecting on the journal’s history (Az Alföld negyven éve [lit. Forty Years of Alföld], and in the interview Folyóirat-lét ‘91 [lit. Journal-Life ’91] with Sándor Egri), Márkus, as editor-in-chief, highlighted the “balanced quality” and “impartial evaluation of values,” surpassing the efforts of his semi-academic, semi-editorial predecessors, Kálmán Kovács and Béla Juhász. The emphasis here lies in the adjectives, and the question of how a provincial journal could maintain balanced and impartial perspectives during the era of György Aczél’s [a key cultural politician, ideologist of the Communist Party] ‘three Ts’ literary policy – [the Ts being an abbreviation of the Hungarian words] tolerated, prohibited, supported – when many writers were silenced. Above all, this was achieved through rigorously scholarly, professionally unassailable, and theoretically open critics committed to firm national values. University-teaching editors, continuing the journal’s traditions, invited the most talented students to Alföld Studio, which produced new anthologies every five years. When publication opportunities arose, the students demonstrated formidable intellectual strength, contributing to a professional workshop that, as Márkus notes, “produced generations for literature, launching the careers of figures such as László Ablonczy, Géza Aczél, László Imre, András Görömbei, Ernő Kulcsár Szabó, Balázs Nyilasy, Péter Bálint, Dénes Csengey, and Tibor Keresztury.” The first five volumes published during Márkus’s period as critic/editor reflect how Alföld Studio opened doors to a career in literary history and belles-lettres. In 1971, two years after his first Alföld publication, he contributed a study to the anthology Együtt (lit. Together), entering the literary arena, followed by contributions from Ibolya Cs. Nagy and Anikó Várkonyi; in Közelítések (lit. Perspectives) (1975) from Lea Bálint and István Ószabó; in Kikötő (lit. Harbour) (1982) from Ferenc Balipap, Béla Osztojkán, Sándor Tar, Erzsébet Berta, Zoltán Bertha, Valéria G. Kiss, Gáspár Gróh, and Pál Varga; in Küszöbök (lit. Thresholds) (1986) from István Dobos and Tibor Elek; and in Más vagy (lit. You Are Different) (1991) from Szilárd Borbély, Tamás Bényei, and Péter Szirák. These anthologies signal both the formation of emerging generations and the shaping of the literary canon. Recognition, in this context, is similarly instructive. In line with an organic, nationally conscious perspective, the journal’s leadership granted awards of excellence in the late 1970s to Tamás Kiss, János Barta, Sándor Csoóri, Gáspár Nagy, Miklós Béládi, and Sándor Kányádi; in the 1980s to Attila Tamás, Béla Pomogáts, Imre Oravecz, Dezső Tandori, András Sütő, László Dobos, Mihály Czine, and Sándor Sára; and in the early 1990s to János Székely and Ottó Orbán. In both local and national contexts, the journal sought to uphold the “balanced quality” and “impartial assessment of values,” championing excellence and shaping literary life.
In this context, the Debrecen Literary Days, initiated by the journal and with nationwide reach, played a particularly significant role. Not only did they provide a forum for exchanging views on the topics raised – such as the evaluation of the oeuvres of individual classics (Endre Ady, Zsigmond Móricz, László Nagy), the role and challenges of regional literary organs, or the renewal of specific genres – but also because, during the ‘three Ts’ era, the ‘forbidden and tolerated’ voices could “speak most frequently” there. These occasions, closely monitored by state authorities – Márkus Béla notes – offered the opportunity “to release the tensions of literary life.” The journal’s function as a valve and its balancing role also manifested in its willingness to regularly publish writings that could provoke political reprimand or disciplinary measures. Until the regime change, editors-in-chief repeatedly faced political scrutiny and humiliating situations. The retrospective account (Forty Years of Alföld) contains passages of revelatory power concerning the political intentions that distorted literature. Its diction shifts momentarily from an objective tone to the personal and back again. The sense of personal involvement and sensitivity is evident, since Márkus Béla witnessed or was compelled to mediate numerous disputes and censures. In 1977, he observed his colleague András Görömbei being attacked for an interview with Péter Nádas addressing the “survival problem” and social malaise; in 1978, he drafted a Memorandum defending István Pálfy G.’s article Vallani és vállalni (lit. To Confess and to Commit), which examined the situation of Hungarian theatres in Romania; in 1983, he witnessed editorial reprimands targeting critics who published widely and were questioned over “Sándor Csoóri’s subjective assessment”; in 1986, he could support László Ablonczy’s study Védekező magatartásban (lit. Defensive Conduct), and in 1987, András Sütő’s Álomkommandó (lit. Dream Commando) – published despite official party opposition. He saw, knew, heard, and endured all of this, so it is unsurprising that silencing and suppression could still provoke strong reactions later. Looking back, with a moderated impartiality, one can identify two focal points regarding disciplinary actions. “The first concerns engagement with Hungarian minority literature, ensuring the continuous inclusion of the best creators living beyond Hungary’s borders, and giving voice to them in the spirit of the ‘five-shafted flute.’ [The Hungarian-language literature produced beyond Hungary’s borders in the late 1960s and early 1970s, was fragmented, divided and isolated – a situation that Gyula Illyés [poet, 1883-1977] famously termed the ‘five-shafted flute.’] At that time, even the mere mention of Trianon [Treaty of Trianon, 1920] necessitated written justification. The second focal point emerges around historical-themed writings, marked by the irritation and anger of authorities in response both to so-called ‘fateful questions’ and to the ‘issues of the 1950s’ [i.e. the era of Stalinist dictatorship and the 1956 Hungarian Revolution]. The thematic issues in this series primarily assessed the work of writers associated with the literary tradition of the ‘népi írók’ [«populist writers» was a radical intellectual, literary current of the 1920s–30s in Hungary]”. It can be inferred that editorial work proceeded amid challenging and trying debates; what is certain, however, is that Márkus Béla’s attention and perceptive interest were particularly drawn to the “tolerated and forbidden” ‘népi’ [‘populist’] and cross-border Hungarian literature, and to the literature emerging from this source region – a focus that retains its relevance to this day.
The tendency to correct distortions and the need to process trauma are perceptible even in the titles of his collections of studies, criticisms, and essays: Magányos portyázók (lit. Solitary Foragers) (1989), Átváltozások kora: Sarkadi Imre és a sematizmus (lit. The Era of Revisions: Imre Sarkadi and Sematism) (1996), A betokosodott kudarc (lit. The Calcified Failure) (1996), Démonokkal csatázva (lit. Fighting with Demons) (1996), Nem dolgunk feledni (lit. It Is Not Our Duty to Forget) (2000), Külön sors – külön irodalom (lit. Separate Fates, Separate Literature) (2002), Tények és képzetek (lit. Facts and Notions) (2005), and Mennyei elismervény (lit. Heavenly Acknowledgement) (2010). They indicate the author’s aim: instead of documenting absence, “fickle memory,” or a falsified, silenced literary past, he strives for completeness.
From the very first volume, critics noted that the author “writes literary history, whether consciously or unconsciously” (Lajos Szakolczay), when he “illuminates, through thorough philological research, the devaluation of literary history and the persistent survival of judgments that disregard artistic considerations” (András Görömbei). Although the small volume – contrary to the publisher’s promise – does not provide a cross-section of the author’s nearly fifteen years of diverse critical activity, it often exceeds expectations in what it sets out to achieve. By “surveying the creators and phenomena of Hungarian literature in Romania,” it offers “penetrating characterisations” in Láztalanul? (lit. Without Fever?), a concise critique of a volume of five poetry collections, and, in the case of Sándor Kányádi and László Király, “demonstrates, through exemplary aesthetic analysis, the artistic unity of ethics and the aesthetic,” or reveals the “artistic consequences of disturbances in a creative worldview” (as in the poetry of Kálmán Szőcs). The author does not even hesitate to dissect the ideological fallacies of Lajos Jordáky. In his study on Rodion Markovits, he restores a place in the academic literary history for a novelist who, though acknowledged in Europe, had been marginalised and forgotten due to generational disputes. Critics justly praise the author as a critic for his formal versatility, the portrait-like analyses of individual figures (e.g., János Székely), the rich network of references, objectivity, critical ingenuity (as in his study of Sándor Huszár’s book), and a literary perspective that reinforces national consciousness.
The book The Calcified Failure is a continuation of Solitary Foragers. Its five chapters traverse the terrain of minority Hungarian literatures from the early 1970s onward, under the guiding principle of the “five-shafted flute.” The scope of inquiry widens, the critic’s perspective deepens, and his theoretical references multiply. In his later essays, as András Görömbei notes, he “illuminates the new values of individual oeuvres through the conceptual framework and arguments of modern poetics.” He demonstrates his “multi-faceted and open theoretical orientation” most clearly in those studies engaging with the dilemma posed by János Székely: “Contemporary poetry cannot be simultaneously modern and communicable; that which seeks communication cannot be modern, and that which strives for modernity must forgo communication.” He explores linguistic and poetic issues in the poetry of Sándor Kányádi (Írónk és kora [lit. Our Writer and His Era]), the career turn of Béla Markó (Letörlöm inkább [lit. I Prefer to Delete]), János Bányai’s note A szótár: Noé bárkája (lit. The Dictionary: Noah’s Ark), and the experiments of Romanian and Czechoslovak novelists (Az képzelt világok felé [lit. Towards Imagined Worlds]). In doing so, he cites McHale, Fokkema, Brian T. Fitch, Bourdieu, and Wittgenstein, before ultimately articulating the decisive argument with Heidegger: “All great things have arisen from the fact that man has a homeland and a national tradition.” In agreement with the critic Béla Thomka, he asserts that national literature requires “those images, icons, structures, and small cultural-historical formations that, as archaic, patinated roots, evoke an indivisible cultural-historical unity and heritage.” Márkus surveys the continuity of national tradition in Démonokkal csatázva (lit. Battling with Demons). He does not merely roam along the post-Trianon border; instead, “following the literary guiding thread shaped by Móricz, László Nagy, Sándor Csoóri, Utassy, and Gáspár Nagy” (Jánosy Zoltán), he produces a typological outline of literary approaches. In cataloguing and evaluating oeuvres, literary phenomena, and debates – such as Lobogó? Hajnalcsillag – Jegyzetek a Móricz örökség vizsgálatához (lit. Banner? Morning Star – Notes on the Examination of Móricz’s Legacy; Kivonatos és hiányos emlékeztető a Csoóri-vita történetéhez (lit. Excerpted and Incomplete Memoirs on the Csoóri Debate); and Kórmutató – Egy Alföld-vita tanulságai (lit. Symptom Index – Lessons from the Alföld Debate) – he vividly expresses his historically grounded conception of aesthetics, emphasizing that “the human messages of literature” can serve as guidance and hold ethical validity in every era. He demonstrates that the destructive (“eroding”) literary programs are not new, as the shadow of sematism extends into the present; yet he makes clear his rejection of the extremes of postmodernity (A korszak képe mindig vak közelkép [lit. The Image of an Era is Always a Blind Close-Up]). At the same time, he acknowledges its values and, on multiple occasions – even in his previous volume – considers how works inspired by postmodernity can still engage with literary tradition.
An open evaluative perspective is also evident in the volume It Is Not Our Task to Forget. Reviewers rightly emphasize that, alongside his informed assessments of like-minded authors (István Ágh, Attila Szepesi, Anna Kiss, Géza Páskándi, and Ervin Lázár), the volume’s merit lies in its impartial evaluation of works created under different literary approaches. Márkus Béla, the conscientious critic, “finds aesthetic value even in the works of László Bertók, Szilárd Borbély, László Garaczi, Miklós Gábor, Margit Halász, and Pál Závada.” His balancing nature is further confirmed by the fact that he often “expresses his opinion summarily” about authors closer to him or adopts a “distant tone.” Notably – and especially significant for understanding his career – he elevates Imre Oravecz’s Szajla and Pál Závada’s novel Jadviga’s Pillow to the pantheon of Hungarian national literature because of their well-crafted sociographic qualities.
Surprisingly, the fifth monograph in his series, Separate Fates, Separate Literature, escaped the attention of the scholarly community. It seems to have taken a somewhat independent path. It is puzzling that it is only cited in connection with his next volume, Facts and Notions, which collects criticisms around the turn of the millennium. Yet in this book, two branches of living literary tradition intertwine and produce new shoots. The first, larger part offers a compelling reading on folk literature, bringing the reader closer to the oeuvre of Péter Veres – unpacking the genesis of his Számadás (lit. Account) volume, and interrogating the author of Olvasónapló (lit. Reader’s Journal). He also draws Gyula Illyés into the ‘conversation,’ who in 1941 “poured not just cold but downright icy water on the author of Mit ér az ember, ha magyar? (What is a man worth if he is Hungarian?)” Afterwards, Márkus turns to the newly introduced author, probing their reception – exposing the excesses of the Izsák monograph – and then inquires about Beatrice apródjai (lit. Beatrice’s Pages), which can stand as a “family cross-section novel,” asking directly how the author viewed fifty years of lived experience (Egérfogak [lit. Mouse Teeth]). While Illyés is not naturally self-revealing, “he avoids self-analysis”, it becomes clear that he still has insights to share, particularly in discussions of Hungarian literature beyond the borders. The backbone of the volume is formed by the studies on László Németh. The nearly eighty pages of essays, centred on the eponymous Separate Fates, Separate Literature, reveal their revelatory power to those seeking to understand Márkus Béla. They attest to criticism that is enduring, radiates language, life, and thought, and is capable of self-correction. Both authors share this view: a vivid style, light-hearted wit, and tonal variety are fundamental in their writings. Yet there is also “the patch after the scratch” – a careful, restorative judgment. They weigh works with almost the same humility, knowing that “the writer is not force, not work, but – as in physics – the product of force and displacement.” And since both, quoting Németh László, believe in “Hungary’s distinct ‘European vocation,’” they measure the “separate fates’ separate literature” with a single ethical standard, in the spirit of the literary person’s moral imperative.
The path Márkus Béla follows is direct – marked by the names of László Németh, László Cs. Szabó, Zoltán Szabó, and Zsigmond Móricz. Examining his monographs and related essay collections, it becomes clear that he consciously assumed a balancing role even at the beginning of his career, when he evaluated the period of the tragic Sarkadi Imre – who considered Móricz and László Németh his predecessors – during the time of sematism. He repeatedly returns to two obscure episodes: the four months in Balmazújváros and a death. Both serve as memory sites and points of reference. The former is particularly interesting because the writer attempted cultural education there (teaching and establishing a museum) in the native village of Péter Veres. Márkus Béla’s attention is drawn to the literary landscapes that preserve intellectual heritage: from Szerelmes földrajz (lit. Geography of Love), which encourages wandering through Hungarian intellectual terrains, to folk sociographies (Magyarország felfedezése, [lit. Discovering Hungary]), and subsequently to the emerging confessional and reality-based literature, as well as novels that record the transformations of villages. This focus extends to the Facts and Notions essay on Ady in Nagyvárad (Oradea, Romania), the fictitious letter in Heavenly Acknowledgment that canonizes Pusztakamarás (Cămărașu, Romania) as a national pilgrimage site, and the brilliant piece ‘Pingyom, pocem, pócurka’, as well as to his monographs published in the last half-decade. The works on László Dobos (2010), Gyula Duba (2011), and István Ágh (2015) owe their attention not only to the biography inscribed in the landscape – Bodrogköz village, Királyhelmec (Kráľovský Chlmec, Slovakia), Hontfüzesgyarmat (Hontianska Vrbica, Slovakia) along the Garam (Hron) River, and the central world hidden in the Pannonian plain – but also to their kaleidoscopic depiction of childhood memories and the vertical and horizontal expansion of the boundaries of the native village. After the “trial of wandering existence,” István Ágh found a home in memory; by taking stock of the intellectual assets of his native land – through the voice of the monographer – he “not only reinforces his own identity but also that of his birthplace, its self-consciousness, and cultural memory. Through his brother, Iszkáz [István Ágh’s birthplace] has long been present on the map of Hungarian literature. Ágh’s oeuvre has thickened and continues to thicken the lines of this indelible point, drawing ‘a small separate country’ around it.”
From the Solitary Foragers to the Ágh volume exploring wandering existence, Márkus Béla’s work is consistently characterized by memory against oblivion, clear and nuanced judgment over confused circumlocution, the certainty of knowledge, and the creation of authorial selfhood – elements that carry the weight of a message. Quoting one of his early writings, we might ask: “Literary historian? Critic? […] Editor? All of these, yet none completely identical to any one of them. We would make his assessment more limited by calling him the same. For his work is marked from the first glance by a disconcerting richness: versatility, extensive orientation. A large part of his works – like the essayist László Németh – could boldly be called the genre of public learning.” Márkus Béla, as the worthy successor of György Rónay – the “Catholic humanist,” a “diligent and regular reader” – creates under the sign of moral firmness, erudition, and rigor, because he knows that mediation is also “creation: participation.”
[2016]