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Az ördög egy fekete kutya
In the nineteen extraordinary stories that comprise The Devil Is a Black Dog and Other Stories, writer and photojournalist Sándor Jászberényi shows us the human side of war and revolution in the contemporary Middle East and Africa, and of the social upheaval that has held Eastern Europe in its grip since the fall of communism. Characters contemplate the meaning of home, love, despair, family, and friendship against the backdrop of brutality. From Cairo to the Gaza Strip, from Benghazi to Budapest, religious men have their faith challenged, and people under the duress of war or traumatic personal memories deal with the feelings that emerge. Often they seem to suppress these feelings . . . but, no, not quite.
Set in countries the author has reported from or lived in, these stories are all told from different perspectives, but always with the individual at the center: the mother, the soldier, the martyr, the religious man, the journalist, and so on. They form a kaleidoscope of miniworlds, of moments, of decisions that together put a face, an emotion, a thought behind humans who confront war and conflict. Although they are fiction, they could have all happened exactly as they are told. Each story leaves a powerful visual image, an unforgettable image you conjure up again and again.
Jászberényi is able to do all this so convincingly, in part, because he himself is not a "helicopter journalist" but rather lives in a residential Cairo neighborhood. He is, moreover, from a corner of Eastern Europe where cynicism almost equates with survival, and yet his writing evinces not only wry humor but great sensitivity and a profound sense of beauty. He speaks Arabic (in addition to English and his native Hungarian) and immerses himself in the society he reports on. But, in doing so, he still remains a reporter, and as such the stories are approached with the clinical, observant eye of an outsider. Whether addressing the contradictions of international humanitarian work or the moral dilemmas faced by those who seek to improve the health and lives of women and girls, he does so in a singularly provocative and yet intelligent manner.
Set in countries the author has reported from or lived in, these stories are all told from different perspectives, but always with the individual at the center: the mother, the soldier, the martyr, the religious man, the journalist, and so on. They form a kaleidoscope of miniworlds, of moments, of decisions that together put a face, an emotion, a thought behind humans who confront war and conflict. Although they are fiction, they could have all happened exactly as they are told. Each story leaves a powerful visual image, an unforgettable image you conjure up again and again.
Jászberényi is able to do all this so convincingly, in part, because he himself is not a "helicopter journalist" but rather lives in a residential Cairo neighborhood. He is, moreover, from a corner of Eastern Europe where cynicism almost equates with survival, and yet his writing evinces not only wry humor but great sensitivity and a profound sense of beauty. He speaks Arabic (in addition to English and his native Hungarian) and immerses himself in the society he reports on. But, in doing so, he still remains a reporter, and as such the stories are approached with the clinical, observant eye of an outsider. Whether addressing the contradictions of international humanitarian work or the moral dilemmas faced by those who seek to improve the health and lives of women and girls, he does so in a singularly provocative and yet intelligent manner.
212 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2013
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December 9, 2015
This collection of short stories, translated from Hungarian by Matt Henderson Ellis, offers a truly breathtakingly stark glance—in a series of carefully constructed snapshots, mirroring each in their haunting portrayal of violence—at the horror of countries torn apart by war. The Devil Is a Black Dog by Sándor Jászberényi explores the destruction that plagues these obscure, far-away nations—making us feel as though it is the reader who stands alone, dust and sand sticking to one’s clothes.
It’s to Jászberényi’s credit that the tales that make up this thin volume never quite feel like fiction: the image of a photojournalist’s jacket riddled with bullets—or of a man, lined up with others against a wall and offered a smoke, before being shot by a commander as that very same, just-lit cigarette hangs from his lips—is all too real. Similar images adorn our newspapers and television news channels on a daily basis, often to the point where we have, more than ever, become desensitized to the violence of war.
Despite that, Jászberényi’s stripped-back narrative style—which does not concern itself with political detail or very much background information at all—works effectively in bringing to the forefront the harsh realities of these war zones. In a manner that evokes Ernest Hemingway—and in particular the short vignettes that are interspersed between the stories of his first collection, In Our Time—Jászberényi gives us just enough, concentrating on the personal reactions of the people caught up in the violence, rather than the detail behind why these things are happening. All of the stories in The Devil is a Black Dog can be read without prior knowledge of the specific conflicts that are taking place.
At the same time, there is a peculiar sense of displacement; despite the sudden and often shocking images of bullet-ridden bodies and blood-spattered walls, our narrator—who, when all said and done is Jászberényi himself, the stories based on his time spent as a photojournalist in the likes of Cairo and Chad—mostly stays apart from the action, drinking whisky on a rooftop bar while and playing games on his phone while remaining detached. Ultimately, the reader struggles with this attachment too.
Perhaps “favourite” isn’t the right word for a collection of this kind, but for this reader there were certain stories that jumped out more than others. “The Dead Ride Fast”, the final tale in this collection, tells the story of two photojournalists—our reoccurring character Marosh, who often narrates throughout the book, and a scarred German woman—both of whom are trying to make the most of living in this world of rebellion and gunfire. “The Field’ is effective in a different way: its cruel conclusion—where a British humanitarian aid worker sits complaining about the delays in Heathrow airport, while the village she has just left is being burned to the ground—is a punch to the gut.
Each short story in Jászberényi’s The Devil is a Black Dog offers something different, even if the overreaching theme—the consequences of war—remains the same, as we’re swept along from Benghazi to Budapest. Perhaps inevitably—by the very nature of the author’s personal experiences being written about via fiction rather than, say, memoir—the writing is assured: Jászberenyi knows exactly what he wants to say, but more importantly how he wants to say it.
This, Jászberényi’s first collection, is an impressive read—and this reader at least will be looking forward to future publications.
——-
Thank you to the lovely people at @ScribeUKbooks for the ARC.
It’s to Jászberényi’s credit that the tales that make up this thin volume never quite feel like fiction: the image of a photojournalist’s jacket riddled with bullets—or of a man, lined up with others against a wall and offered a smoke, before being shot by a commander as that very same, just-lit cigarette hangs from his lips—is all too real. Similar images adorn our newspapers and television news channels on a daily basis, often to the point where we have, more than ever, become desensitized to the violence of war.
Despite that, Jászberényi’s stripped-back narrative style—which does not concern itself with political detail or very much background information at all—works effectively in bringing to the forefront the harsh realities of these war zones. In a manner that evokes Ernest Hemingway—and in particular the short vignettes that are interspersed between the stories of his first collection, In Our Time—Jászberényi gives us just enough, concentrating on the personal reactions of the people caught up in the violence, rather than the detail behind why these things are happening. All of the stories in The Devil is a Black Dog can be read without prior knowledge of the specific conflicts that are taking place.
At the same time, there is a peculiar sense of displacement; despite the sudden and often shocking images of bullet-ridden bodies and blood-spattered walls, our narrator—who, when all said and done is Jászberényi himself, the stories based on his time spent as a photojournalist in the likes of Cairo and Chad—mostly stays apart from the action, drinking whisky on a rooftop bar while and playing games on his phone while remaining detached. Ultimately, the reader struggles with this attachment too.
Perhaps “favourite” isn’t the right word for a collection of this kind, but for this reader there were certain stories that jumped out more than others. “The Dead Ride Fast”, the final tale in this collection, tells the story of two photojournalists—our reoccurring character Marosh, who often narrates throughout the book, and a scarred German woman—both of whom are trying to make the most of living in this world of rebellion and gunfire. “The Field’ is effective in a different way: its cruel conclusion—where a British humanitarian aid worker sits complaining about the delays in Heathrow airport, while the village she has just left is being burned to the ground—is a punch to the gut.
Each short story in Jászberényi’s The Devil is a Black Dog offers something different, even if the overreaching theme—the consequences of war—remains the same, as we’re swept along from Benghazi to Budapest. Perhaps inevitably—by the very nature of the author’s personal experiences being written about via fiction rather than, say, memoir—the writing is assured: Jászberenyi knows exactly what he wants to say, but more importantly how he wants to say it.
This, Jászberényi’s first collection, is an impressive read—and this reader at least will be looking forward to future publications.
——-
Thank you to the lovely people at @ScribeUKbooks for the ARC.
March 20, 2021
Értem, hogy miért mondják JS novelláiról, hogy ha egyet olvastál, mindet olvastad. És azt is, hogy Jászberényi Sándor történeteitől függetlenül is félelmetes, hogy mennyire meg lehet szokni a leggázabb/legdrámaibb helyzeteket is.
Mégis. Közel áll hozzám JS írói stílusa. A hangulatai. A történetei. Hogy ez most nekem jó, vagy rossz, azt nem szeretném végiggondolni/kielemezni. Egyszerűen csak szeretem olvasni. Felkavaró és megnyugtató egyben.
Mégis. Közel áll hozzám JS írói stílusa. A hangulatai. A történetei. Hogy ez most nekem jó, vagy rossz, azt nem szeretném végiggondolni/kielemezni. Egyszerűen csak szeretem olvasni. Felkavaró és megnyugtató egyben.
December 30, 2014
Hungarian author Jászberényi chooses the words for this collection of literary short stories very carefully, yet lets the tales fly with such abandon that’s it’s hard to square the difference. Fluid and highly observational, each tale is a rich, poetic slice of life from places you might never go—such as Egypt and Chad. The author’s day job as a Cairo-based journalist covering the Middle East informs the stories, and each contains the ring of truth. The first story, “The Fever,” sets the book’s “no prisoners taken, no punches pulled” tone with the narrator dying a nasty death in a remote developing country. The stories all describe experiences alien to Westerners and skilfully explore material about which readers are curious: two guys bullshitting at their jobs, which happen to be verifying the numbers of massacred civilians; a dude living with townspeople who fear a wild dog that has enjoyed human blood. “Everything looked good bathed in its light,” notes the narrator of the moon in the title story, even as the tale uncoils the divisions present among his fundamentalist hosts, their fear and uncertainty that the devil could be almost anything to them. “The First” shows a dispassionate crowd observing the public execution of three men, then returning to lazily chew their betel as though nothing had changed, “…only that now the air was a bit sweet with the scent of fresh blood.” “Taking Trinidad” comments on journalists inured to the scenes of death and suffering that they cover. The only quibble readers might have is that the narrators are so hell-bent on observation that it’s difficult to feel any simpatico with them. VERDICT Mr. J is a gifted writer, this book is to be savored and relished.
Find reviews of books for men at Books for Dudes, Books for Dudes, the online reader's advisory column for men from Library Journal. Copyright Library Journal.
Find reviews of books for men at Books for Dudes, Books for Dudes, the online reader's advisory column for men from Library Journal. Copyright Library Journal.
February 22, 2018
Akitől vettem a "A lélek legszebb éjszakája" kötetet azt mondta nem tetszett neki mert "kicsit túl tolta az óra" és hogy a korábbi könyveket jobban szerette. Én pont fordítva gondolom, lehet csak arról van szó, hogy ezt olvastam először. A legnagyobb különbség, hogy itt a mesélő kevésbé van megtörve, sokkal tárgyilagosabb. Akár nézhetjük úgy is hogy itt még sokkos attól amit látott és ami történt vele a magán életben, a későbbi kötetben pedig már azt látjuk, hogy a sokk után hogyan próbálja feldoglozni a látottakat.
Külön jók voltak a Magyarországon játszódó sztorik. A varjasba még ma is bele remegek, a kutyás miatt meg többet biztos nem olvasok J.S-t.
A tavalyi Libri gálán volt lehetőségem közelről is látni az írót, és a koktél partin egy nagyon vissza húzódó emberként jött le. Nem tudom, hogy csak el szokott az ilyen jellegű eseményektől, nem olyan mint amilyennek írja vagy szimplán beütött a morfium tabletta.
Külön jók voltak a Magyarországon játszódó sztorik. A varjasba még ma is bele remegek, a kutyás miatt meg többet biztos nem olvasok J.S-t.
A tavalyi Libri gálán volt lehetőségem közelről is látni az írót, és a koktél partin egy nagyon vissza húzódó emberként jött le. Nem tudom, hogy csak el szokott az ilyen jellegű eseményektől, nem olyan mint amilyennek írja vagy szimplán beütött a morfium tabletta.
March 3, 2016
All the press around this name-checks Hemingway, so I should have realised it would all be a bit too macho for my tastes. It's fascinating to read stories set in places and situations so far removed from my life, but the narrators of most of these stories are damaged and cruel, and I really didn't enjoy spending time with them.
February 4, 2015
This was a great collection of short stories. Well written, war stories. If you're interested in stories about the Middle East/Africa, this is a good, interesting easy read.
March 5, 2015
A very good and well written fast read. Stories from war zones in the Middle East.
Read
November 21, 2023rewrite
I’d never heard of Sàndor Jàszberènyi; his career as a photo-journalist passed me by.
This collection of short stories describes a dystopian, disturbing, violent world which his protagonist accepts as the natural order of things. I can only conclude that this was his objective and as such it works quite well.
As others have said the writing is deft and direct in the style of Hemingway. His 'war correspondent' subject matter lends itself to the Hemingway / Robert Capa treatment. Bouts of heavy drinking interspersed with hubris and machismo, a blasé “I might die at any minute so what’s the point of worrying?” his considered response to the crises he finds himself in.
World weary, emotionally anaesthetised by trauma and brutality.
This all stands in sharp contrast to the work of Robert Fitch for example who never became desensitised, always finding the next story of cruelty and injustice as repulisive as the last.
I suspect that Mr. Jàszberènyi hasn’t had much of a journalistic career. He has much more to say about himself than he does about the people he’s paid to report upon.
These short stories are autobiographical and the character of Jászberényi's narrator, who is of course Jászberényi himself is both unsympathetic and deeply flawed.
There’s a story about the idiotic Csaba lying in a Budapest hospital having been beaten with his own vipera. (A curious coincidence as the only time I ever saw a vipera in the flesh was when it was wielded by a middle aged Roma lady in a Budapest hospital).
Our narrator and his friend Bàlint visit Csaba in hospital and vow to take their revenge on his assailant. They find him at a disco, hit him in the head with a wine bottle, kick him about and then systematically break his wrist.
Subsequently they discover they got the wrong person.
Then it's back to the journalist on a middle east assignment mindlessly playing games on his smartphone whilst recalling a woman accused of adultery being stoned to death. The graphic account of her 'execution' was harrowing and very well written. But to what end?
Is there any point to all this? Are we supposed to admire Jászberényi’s unflinching portrayal of inhumanity? His raw, gritty realism? His belief in the nihilistic, unfathomable pointlessness of the human condition?
In another story he writes about the death of his father. He begrudgingly leaves Budapest by train to deal with the lawyer (so he can collect his meagre inheritance) and get the house ready to be sold. He attempts to kill his father’s dog with an axe. The dog survives and that night, bleeding profusely it crawls into bed next to our drink befuddled anti-hero. So the next day he washes off the blood and takes it to the vet to have it put down professionally.
I’m sorry but Mr. Jàszberènyi doesn’t come across as someone you’d want to share a few beers and unicum chasers with. He exhibits the insecurities of a man who needs to tell you how hard he works out at the gym. He gaudily wears a multitude of insecurities, craves attention whilst feigning ambivalence.
I have some great memories of Jàszberèny. Fishing with Gyula on the Tarna, watching the bears feed on half a pig at the zoo and a couple of drawings I bought from a dealer in the town.
Sàndor Jàszberènyi is from Sopron.
I’d never heard of Sàndor Jàszberènyi; his career as a photo-journalist passed me by.
This collection of short stories describes a dystopian, disturbing, violent world which his protagonist accepts as the natural order of things. I can only conclude that this was his objective and as such it works quite well.
As others have said the writing is deft and direct in the style of Hemingway. His 'war correspondent' subject matter lends itself to the Hemingway / Robert Capa treatment. Bouts of heavy drinking interspersed with hubris and machismo, a blasé “I might die at any minute so what’s the point of worrying?” his considered response to the crises he finds himself in.
World weary, emotionally anaesthetised by trauma and brutality.
This all stands in sharp contrast to the work of Robert Fitch for example who never became desensitised, always finding the next story of cruelty and injustice as repulisive as the last.
I suspect that Mr. Jàszberènyi hasn’t had much of a journalistic career. He has much more to say about himself than he does about the people he’s paid to report upon.
These short stories are autobiographical and the character of Jászberényi's narrator, who is of course Jászberényi himself is both unsympathetic and deeply flawed.
There’s a story about the idiotic Csaba lying in a Budapest hospital having been beaten with his own vipera. (A curious coincidence as the only time I ever saw a vipera in the flesh was when it was wielded by a middle aged Roma lady in a Budapest hospital).
Our narrator and his friend Bàlint visit Csaba in hospital and vow to take their revenge on his assailant. They find him at a disco, hit him in the head with a wine bottle, kick him about and then systematically break his wrist.
Subsequently they discover they got the wrong person.
Then it's back to the journalist on a middle east assignment mindlessly playing games on his smartphone whilst recalling a woman accused of adultery being stoned to death. The graphic account of her 'execution' was harrowing and very well written. But to what end?
Is there any point to all this? Are we supposed to admire Jászberényi’s unflinching portrayal of inhumanity? His raw, gritty realism? His belief in the nihilistic, unfathomable pointlessness of the human condition?
In another story he writes about the death of his father. He begrudgingly leaves Budapest by train to deal with the lawyer (so he can collect his meagre inheritance) and get the house ready to be sold. He attempts to kill his father’s dog with an axe. The dog survives and that night, bleeding profusely it crawls into bed next to our drink befuddled anti-hero. So the next day he washes off the blood and takes it to the vet to have it put down professionally.
I’m sorry but Mr. Jàszberènyi doesn’t come across as someone you’d want to share a few beers and unicum chasers with. He exhibits the insecurities of a man who needs to tell you how hard he works out at the gym. He gaudily wears a multitude of insecurities, craves attention whilst feigning ambivalence.
I have some great memories of Jàszberèny. Fishing with Gyula on the Tarna, watching the bears feed on half a pig at the zoo and a couple of drawings I bought from a dealer in the town.
Sàndor Jàszberènyi is from Sopron.
Read
August 9, 2024kompletnie inaczej wyobrażałam sobie tę książkę; i w żadnym stopniu nie jest to wina autora, tylko mnie kupującej ją w ciemno. nie zmienia to jednak faktu, że format kompletnie do mnie nie przemawia. pół-fikcyjność zebranych historii zabiera im ciężkość i autentyczność, tak że zostaje jedynie ponure epatowanie cierpieniem i cuchnący sztucznością cynizm. nie pomaga też fakt, że forma jest tak krótka- niekt��re “opowiadania” mają po trzy strony- przez co jakikolwiek kontakt z sytuacją i narratorem jest skrajnie ograniczony. generalnie liczyłam na pracę skupiającą się wokół zła i człowieka napisaną przez doświadczonego korespondenta wojennego (którym notabene autor jest), a dostałam iście houellebecqowski zbiór opowiadań, który rozgrywa się na dotkniętych konfliktami terenach.
November 15, 2021
ezt a konyvet is sok emberrel elolvastatnam (erzekenyites cimszoval, foleg a mai vilagban) - neha nem is fogjuk fel, mennyire szerencsesek vagyunk
December 31, 2022
Briliáns.
January 24, 2025
Bardzo dobre. Miłośnicy psów mogą pominąć rozdziały o psach.
May 19, 2016
Dislocation
Though many of the stories maintain a certain distance, Jászberényi is totally immersed in the terrifying first piece, "Fever," an hallucinatory first-person account of an attack of malaria. Most of the other stories in the book are written in the first person too, though there is also the appearance of a photo-journalist called Marosh, who seems to be used as an alter ego to fictionalize the author's experiences. I don't know why he sometimes uses this name and sometimes not, nor am I sure that the Marosh in all the stories is consistently the same man. I do think, however, that the increased presence of the named character towards the end of the book coincides with the author's shift from describing what happens around him to describing what happens to him and eventually in him. I had the feeling that, behind these stories, there was a novel trying to get out.
The publisher warned me that the stories were not for the faint-hearted. Again, yes and no. We have that almost casual execution mentioned in my first quote, we have a woman stoned for adultery, we have a female circumcision gone wrong, and many deaths from bombs or gunfire. But with all of these, I felt a curious sense of dislocation, always conscious that these things were happening to someone else. In his stories, Jászberényi is certainly writing on a level of personal experience quite different from anything he might submit to his paper, but his role is still that of an observer. The first story I found truly excruciating had nothing to do with war at all; the narrator travels back to his home town in Eastern Hungary following the death of his father, and has to deal with putting down the family dog. Looking back now at the index, I realize that stories away from the war zone have been placed carefully throughout the book (again like O'Brien), and their cumulative effect may be greater than any one of the war stories, because they speak of the potential for callousness lurking in even the best of us.
To speak of favorites in such a collection would not be the apposite word, but there are two that especially struck me. One is "The Field," which ends with a British humanitarian aid worker complaining about minor delays at Heathrow while the village she has just left in Chad is being eradicated by militants. The other is the final story, "The Dead Ride Fast," a love story of a kind, an encounter between Marosh and a hard-bitten German photographer, each trying to make the best of a world in which, spiritually, they are already dead.
The comparison to The Things They Carried may have been unfair, for that was a six-or-seven-star book. But I would call The Devil is a Black Dog a four-or-five-star one, as a first-hand account of terrible happenings in North Africa and the Middle East, and a requiem for the death of compassion.
I ate. Then I left [Chad] for Darfur, and from there went back to Europe, and then to the Gaza Strip, Yemen, Libya, Nigeria, and beyond. It took six years. He was right, I got used to it, though I never forgot that execution. You never forget your first.The publisher's request to review this collection of stories by Hungarian journalist Sándor Jászberényi referred to my review of Tim O'Brien's masterpiece The Things They Carried, with the implication that the two books are comparable. He is both right and wrong. Jászberényi (as translated by M. Henderson Ellis) writes with a similar no-nonsense clarity of detail, and he shares the view that the dislocation of modern war is better captured by disparate vignettes than in a single heroic narrative. But he is wrong in one important respect: while O'Brien was a soldier, Jászberényi is a journalist, and that is significant. The latter's stories are mostly reports of things that he has merely seen; O'Brien writes of what he has lived through. But this is offset by a further similarity: in the latter part of both books, the authors move beyond descriptions of war to the effects they have on the private lives of those experiencing them, and in that respect journalist and soldier are little different.
Though many of the stories maintain a certain distance, Jászberényi is totally immersed in the terrifying first piece, "Fever," an hallucinatory first-person account of an attack of malaria. Most of the other stories in the book are written in the first person too, though there is also the appearance of a photo-journalist called Marosh, who seems to be used as an alter ego to fictionalize the author's experiences. I don't know why he sometimes uses this name and sometimes not, nor am I sure that the Marosh in all the stories is consistently the same man. I do think, however, that the increased presence of the named character towards the end of the book coincides with the author's shift from describing what happens around him to describing what happens to him and eventually in him. I had the feeling that, behind these stories, there was a novel trying to get out.
The publisher warned me that the stories were not for the faint-hearted. Again, yes and no. We have that almost casual execution mentioned in my first quote, we have a woman stoned for adultery, we have a female circumcision gone wrong, and many deaths from bombs or gunfire. But with all of these, I felt a curious sense of dislocation, always conscious that these things were happening to someone else. In his stories, Jászberényi is certainly writing on a level of personal experience quite different from anything he might submit to his paper, but his role is still that of an observer. The first story I found truly excruciating had nothing to do with war at all; the narrator travels back to his home town in Eastern Hungary following the death of his father, and has to deal with putting down the family dog. Looking back now at the index, I realize that stories away from the war zone have been placed carefully throughout the book (again like O'Brien), and their cumulative effect may be greater than any one of the war stories, because they speak of the potential for callousness lurking in even the best of us.
To speak of favorites in such a collection would not be the apposite word, but there are two that especially struck me. One is "The Field," which ends with a British humanitarian aid worker complaining about minor delays at Heathrow while the village she has just left in Chad is being eradicated by militants. The other is the final story, "The Dead Ride Fast," a love story of a kind, an encounter between Marosh and a hard-bitten German photographer, each trying to make the best of a world in which, spiritually, they are already dead.
The comparison to The Things They Carried may have been unfair, for that was a six-or-seven-star book. But I would call The Devil is a Black Dog a four-or-five-star one, as a first-hand account of terrible happenings in North Africa and the Middle East, and a requiem for the death of compassion.
November 6, 2014
just when I was ready to get angry at a character, a moment, I found out how entirely I'd misjudged. and every time I smacked myself, not the writer. not many books can pull that off.
so honest I forgot it was fiction. the kind of sad that somehow has hope wrapped up in it.
more, please.
I reserve 5 stars for books that change my universe. black dog's already pushing a 4.5; I've a sneaking suspicion it's silently slid into my consciousness and will grow, not fade, with time...
disclosure : I am acquainted with the translator. I read a sample on a blog somewhere and cajoled him into giving me an advance copy. if you ask him, he’ll heartily confirm I’m not a terribly nice person. you will not regret reading this book. well, unless you’re on honeymoon in the caribbean. but you wouldn’t be that silly.
so honest I forgot it was fiction. the kind of sad that somehow has hope wrapped up in it.
more, please.
I reserve 5 stars for books that change my universe. black dog's already pushing a 4.5; I've a sneaking suspicion it's silently slid into my consciousness and will grow, not fade, with time...
disclosure : I am acquainted with the translator. I read a sample on a blog somewhere and cajoled him into giving me an advance copy. if you ask him, he’ll heartily confirm I’m not a terribly nice person. you will not regret reading this book. well, unless you’re on honeymoon in the caribbean. but you wouldn’t be that silly.
July 30, 2015
A terrific collection of stories that reflect the stark brutality, wretchedness, and emotion-numbing experiences of a foreign correspondent assigned to war torn areas of Africa and the Middle East. It's impossible for the reader to not feel sickened and utterly in despair for the characters....and yet the author also is able to convey the same numbing conditions that dehumanize the situation simply so our minds can endure all the brutality our senses our experiencing.
And I mean all the senses! Even though this book is translated from Hungarian, I still felt a intimacy within the senses of where I was and what was occurring. Sometimes to the point of being nauseating.
These stories are not for the faint of heart. But they should be necessary reading.
And I mean all the senses! Even though this book is translated from Hungarian, I still felt a intimacy within the senses of where I was and what was occurring. Sometimes to the point of being nauseating.
These stories are not for the faint of heart. But they should be necessary reading.
May 15, 2014
“Sándor Jászberenyi is a real pro at writing short stories, and with this book he joins the top ranks of the genre’s contemporary practitioners.” --Élet és Irodalom, Hungary
“Hell has different forms, but Jászberényi moves comfortably in them all.” -- www.konyves.blog.hu, Hungary
“Jaszberenyi not just writes, but tells. Let me be a bit pathetic instead of him: he shows his heart. He would never call that particular organ a heart, that would be way too sentimental for him; instead he says: look at this fistful of bloody meat--that's me.” --Népszabadság, Hungary
“Hell has different forms, but Jászberényi moves comfortably in them all.” -- www.konyves.blog.hu, Hungary
“Jaszberenyi not just writes, but tells. Let me be a bit pathetic instead of him: he shows his heart. He would never call that particular organ a heart, that would be way too sentimental for him; instead he says: look at this fistful of bloody meat--that's me.” --Népszabadság, Hungary
March 20, 2015
An approachable tale, yet jaltering (in the best way) all at the same time.The Devil is a Black Dog is a great read for anyone interested in conflict in the middle east, journalism, or fictitious stories that feel as if they were real! I'll probably begin my second read through soon to see how my understanding of the conflicts has changed with more context/story underneath my belt!
September 25, 2015
Vividly powerful and most unsettling in their evocation of the disturbing evocation of war, violence and apathy and betraying a range of literary influences from Conrad, Greene and Hemingway...
January 27, 2016
Haunting
September 13, 2020
Hungarian writer and photojournalist Sándor Jászberényi is not your regular run of the mill author. He has traveled to and documented places and events from around the Middle East and Africa which have so far only been excerpts from news blurbs to me.
Through nineteen short anecdotes, he takes us through often brutal but accurate accounts of what the reality of life is in these war torn regions. Interspersed between these accounts, are short stories from the author's own childhood and his own life - deeply personal and often bleak - which offer you a look behind the scenes which are not so easily available.
The book touches on war, religion, politics and person - in a way I have seldom seen. It talks of men of faith, deeply religious, immovable in their beliefs - but tolerant and protective of others as well. It gives you a very personal look into the hallmark nature of Arabs - guests are gifts from God. Something which is often forgotten by the media.
The book, and the stories in it touch upon some of the most momentous occasions of the Twenty first century - the conflict in Middle East, the continuing crisis in Africa. These are events which have been covered, dissected and analysed by many on our news screens, in the papers and in scholarly articles. But what Sándor does effortlessly is put a human face on all this.
Be it the doctor who loses his only daughter in the Egyptian crisis or Mara, the girl in the refugee camp who suffers genital mutilation as part of a ritual which should have no place in today's world, or Khalid, the younger twin in Libya who shoots himself after his brother is killed as a "Shahid" - these are real people; with family just like you and I. They have hopes, dreams, aspirations just as you and I. But most often they're caught up in events over which they have no control and they are pulled into the center of the raging storm from the fringes in the blink of an eye.
This book will touch you deeply and force you to think deeper - about the people behind all those stories you read in the paper. This is a work which is perhaps not high on literary content; but it is full of humanity. Full of people whom you can think about; whom you can remember; whom you can pray for.
I have always had a romantic notion of war - perhaps influenced by the European authors from an older era who gave the brutalities an aura of greatness. Sándor and a few others like him are tearing that shade of blissful romance off and showing us the gore and the blood which actually makes up war. And we should be thankful for it.
Read the full review and many more at my blog: https://www.uprootedbong.com/blog
Through nineteen short anecdotes, he takes us through often brutal but accurate accounts of what the reality of life is in these war torn regions. Interspersed between these accounts, are short stories from the author's own childhood and his own life - deeply personal and often bleak - which offer you a look behind the scenes which are not so easily available.
The book touches on war, religion, politics and person - in a way I have seldom seen. It talks of men of faith, deeply religious, immovable in their beliefs - but tolerant and protective of others as well. It gives you a very personal look into the hallmark nature of Arabs - guests are gifts from God. Something which is often forgotten by the media.
The book, and the stories in it touch upon some of the most momentous occasions of the Twenty first century - the conflict in Middle East, the continuing crisis in Africa. These are events which have been covered, dissected and analysed by many on our news screens, in the papers and in scholarly articles. But what Sándor does effortlessly is put a human face on all this.
Be it the doctor who loses his only daughter in the Egyptian crisis or Mara, the girl in the refugee camp who suffers genital mutilation as part of a ritual which should have no place in today's world, or Khalid, the younger twin in Libya who shoots himself after his brother is killed as a "Shahid" - these are real people; with family just like you and I. They have hopes, dreams, aspirations just as you and I. But most often they're caught up in events over which they have no control and they are pulled into the center of the raging storm from the fringes in the blink of an eye.
This book will touch you deeply and force you to think deeper - about the people behind all those stories you read in the paper. This is a work which is perhaps not high on literary content; but it is full of humanity. Full of people whom you can think about; whom you can remember; whom you can pray for.
I have always had a romantic notion of war - perhaps influenced by the European authors from an older era who gave the brutalities an aura of greatness. Sándor and a few others like him are tearing that shade of blissful romance off and showing us the gore and the blood which actually makes up war. And we should be thankful for it.
Read the full review and many more at my blog: https://www.uprootedbong.com/blog
September 14, 2018
“Most African diseases come with fever. When it begins, time pauses. The hand on the wristwatch doesn’t move, the wind doesn’t blow sand. There is nothing to a person, just a body. One that is about to betray you.”
Originally published in Hungarian in 2013, I would recommend this English translation for those who enjoy something a little different. As this is written from a Magyar perspective we really get something fresh and yet due to the quality of the writing, it still retains a pleasing familiarity. People familiar with the great work of the Polish journalist, Ryszard Kapuscinski, will see some echoes and influences in this collection, with the many forays into deepest, darkest Africa.
There is some really nice writing and well-crafted stories in here, with action set in places like Sudan, Egypt and Chad, as well as outside Africa, in Yemen, Palestine and the author’s native Hungary. This is a world of Sudanese prostitutes, Chinese made Kalashnikov knock offs and advancing rebels never too far away from the horizon. You’ve got one native landmine victim hobbling home in the African wilderness, yet still managing to feel sympathy for the poor cocaine addict he heard about back in London, who must be suffering more than him. These are war stories with many original angles.
These are gritty, spare and confronting stories of killing, disease, war, sex, drink, with a strong air of superstition and the supernatural hanging over much of it. Jaszberenyi has packed these short, short stories with a lot of goodies, and almost every one of them is bigger than the sum of its parts.
January 10, 2025
"Świat nie stanie się ani odrobinę lepszy, jeśli odsłonimy jego okrucieństwa, co najwyżej ludzie przy śniadaniu będą z niedowierzaniem kręcić głowami tak długo aż nie dopiją soku pomarańczowego."
Proza obserwacyjna, sugestywna, skupiająca się na detalu, prezentująca miejsca i sytuacje, w które przeciętny człowiek nigdy nie trafi.
Chyba najbardziej zwraca uwagę brutalność wojny, konfliktu i obojętność, zimny dystans korespondenta, grającego w gry na telefonie,czy pijącego w hotelu - enklawie bezpieczeństwa dla korespondentów, aktywistów, wolontariuszy, pracowników organizacji humanitarnych, z której mozna wyjść i wejsc w dowolnym momencie. Przenieść siędo świata pozbawionego porządku - uwarunkowań politycznych, reguł przetrwania, świata wojny, przemocy, wykorzenienia, zagrożenia. Są tylko reakcje, emocje, myśli, atawistyczne wola przetrwania. Tym bardziej dosadna, jeśli zestawia się ją z reakcjami tych z zewnątrz, którym problemy pierwszego świata przesłaniają destrukcje miejsc, w których tyle co byli lub lada chwila będę.
Książka to albo słabo zamaskowane fikcją noszącą cechy realizmu obrazki zdarzeń albo realistyczne, autobiograficzne wspomnienia przykryte elementami fikcji. Czyta się dobrze, coś między Kapuścińskim a Hemingway'em. Zbiór 15 opowiadań, z których kilka w
Proza obserwacyjna, sugestywna, skupiająca się na detalu, prezentująca miejsca i sytuacje, w które przeciętny człowiek nigdy nie trafi.
Chyba najbardziej zwraca uwagę brutalność wojny, konfliktu i obojętność, zimny dystans korespondenta, grającego w gry na telefonie,czy pijącego w hotelu - enklawie bezpieczeństwa dla korespondentów, aktywistów, wolontariuszy, pracowników organizacji humanitarnych, z której mozna wyjść i wejsc w dowolnym momencie. Przenieść siędo świata pozbawionego porządku - uwarunkowań politycznych, reguł przetrwania, świata wojny, przemocy, wykorzenienia, zagrożenia. Są tylko reakcje, emocje, myśli, atawistyczne wola przetrwania. Tym bardziej dosadna, jeśli zestawia się ją z reakcjami tych z zewnątrz, którym problemy pierwszego świata przesłaniają destrukcje miejsc, w których tyle co byli lub lada chwila będę.
Książka to albo słabo zamaskowane fikcją noszącą cechy realizmu obrazki zdarzeń albo realistyczne, autobiograficzne wspomnienia przykryte elementami fikcji. Czyta się dobrze, coś między Kapuścińskim a Hemingway'em. Zbiór 15 opowiadań, z których kilka w
January 6, 2021
Ten thousand stars for this book! I cannot begin to describe how real and beautiful the language used to tell the stories in this book is. There are 19 short vignettes almost, in this and I can't help but want to read more.
A war correspondent, a hardened heavy soul (occupational hazards it would seem), delivering his truths like bombs that rain down on civilians everywhere, unwavering and unexpected. He (and his words) slips between life and death with a ghoul-like ease, allowing us to see through his trusty lens and his blue eyes that are "green after lovemaking", worlds and horrors otherwise distant that we'd never know of without those like him.
Please please read this book. I am in love with words and language all over again, in love with its unwavering unexpected beauty. This is one of those books that you're forced to put down if only for fear of finishing it too soon. This is one of those books you'll want to share with the whole entire world.
A war correspondent, a hardened heavy soul (occupational hazards it would seem), delivering his truths like bombs that rain down on civilians everywhere, unwavering and unexpected. He (and his words) slips between life and death with a ghoul-like ease, allowing us to see through his trusty lens and his blue eyes that are "green after lovemaking", worlds and horrors otherwise distant that we'd never know of without those like him.
Please please read this book. I am in love with words and language all over again, in love with its unwavering unexpected beauty. This is one of those books that you're forced to put down if only for fear of finishing it too soon. This is one of those books you'll want to share with the whole entire world.
July 1, 2017
Outstandingly constructed and written collection of short stories, each with a component the reader can take as thinly masked fiction or all but non fiction from the middle eastern and northern African conflicts of our modern, and therefore known, times.
Here is hoping that someone, someday translates the authors other works for the non Hungarian literate amongst us.
A book I will re-visit again
Here is hoping that someone, someday translates the authors other works for the non Hungarian literate amongst us.
A book I will re-visit again
May 14, 2025
Cynizm trzydziestolatka, albo co robi w głowę turystyka wojenna, albo... no, można sobie dopisywać, wedle woli. Reporterstwo wojenne przyciąga jednak specyficznych ludzi, a potem jeszcze wydaje im to oficyna, w której nikt nawet nie mrugnie na "siedem i sześćdziesiąt dwie dziesiąte milimetra", bo najwyraźniej zespół in gremio kończył liceum w czasach nieobowiązkowej matmy.
Więc - dla fanów, z raczej nisko zawieszoną poprzeczką.
Więc - dla fanów, z raczej nisko zawieszoną poprzeczką.
August 29, 2020
A variety of short stories with autobiographical flavour and set in war-torn Middle East, Africa, these stories do not hide behind words, nor do they pull any punches.
Not so bleak as expected, and very much readable.
Not so bleak as expected, and very much readable.
July 20, 2017
a collection of addictive short stories.
September 15, 2020
Short stories from war-torn Middle-East by a Hungarian journalist-novelist in a crystall-clear style. Strong stories, you will not forget a few of them.
January 3, 2023
The short story format enabled the author to present the stories in their rawest forms. While they were tough to read at times, they were fascinating episodes of humanity.
October 24, 2023
More noir than noir, this is my book of 2023. Pure blackness.
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