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AE Housman — the poet and classicist of Trinity College, Cambridge — reputedly believed literary criticism to represent the highest intellectual pursuit. In his Leslie Stephen lecture, _The

Name and Nature of Poetry_, he says, referring to the time that had elapsed since his inaugural lecture: “In these twenty-two years I have improved in some respects and deteriorated in

others but I have not so much improved as to become a literary critic, nor so much deteriorated as to fancy that I have become one.” GH Hardy, a mathematician, the purest ever, and a

fellow-Fellow, disagreed. Housman’s admiration for literary criticism “startled and scandalised him”. His views were very different. He made the point that “statesmen despise publicists,

painters despise art critics and physiologists, physicists and mathematicians have usually similar feelings; there is no scorn more profound, and on the whole more justifiable, than that of

the men who make for the men who explain. Exposition, criticism, appreciation is work for second-rate minds.” I happen to disagree with both of them, but that is not really the purpose of

this piece. In such matters I would be reluctant to express an opinion. I would though concede that literary criticism has got ample merits, and I remember that while still in Hungary I

greatly admired the many forms it can take. I think one of these pieces, written by the eminent Hungarian author (who died some eighty years ago) Frigyes Karinthy, might be of interest to a

British audience. I think its main attraction is its uniqueness within the genre: it stands alone. The essay starts in an unusual manner by telling a story. It is about a Mr B, a man who,

having reached the ripe old age of three-score and ten, decides to commit suicide. He jumps off one of the beautiful bridges over the Danube in Budapest right into the river where he duly

dies. He promptly arrives in heaven, where in the main hall, recently converted to a cinema, Saint Peter is just screening the film of Mr B’s life. At the end of the film when Mr B jumps, he

kicks his legs in a manner that appears to be very amusing to a number of saints and angels of lower education, whose sense of humour stopped at slapstick. They laugh out loud in an

irritating manner. Although Peter has the patience of a saint, this is too much for him. In his fury, he makes an unfortunate mistake. He presses the wrong button; the film breaks. This has

never happened before. There is no quick fix. There is only one thing for it — rewind the film. It must be played backwards from the end to the beginning. So, Mr B is despatched back to

Earth where, with legs upwards, he jumps out of the Danube back up to the bridge. Facing Buda, he returns to Pest. He climbs up three storeys, opens the door of his apartment, puts on his

pyjamas, goes to bed, has a long sleep, pours the coffee from his mouth into a cup. Then he goes out to the street, the cigarette in his mouth keeps on growing. He lights it and then he puts

it into his cigarette case. His hair gets darker, his teeth fall into his mouth, his pension is withdrawn, his salary keeps on decreasing. His wife loves him more and more and becomes more

and more beautiful. He takes her back to his parents and then come three fantastic nights of great happiness, after which she disappears from his life. At the University he is a good

student. Owing to his diligence he knows less and less. As he gets younger, he first recovers from polio, then he is infected, forgets to talk, regularly provides some milk to his mother,

and, finally, he is swallowed violently into a dark hole. With his second coming, Saint Peter greets him at the pearly gates: “Behold, thou blessed mortal,” he intones, “thou who standeth

beyond all other beings. Thou who, through the infinite wisdom of our gracious Lord, hath travelled life’s journey, not once but twice — once proceeding forwards, the other proceeding

backwards — pray thou, teach us, what lessons have been delivered unto thee?” Mr B weighs up the question and after a long pause he replies. “Plentiful were the learnings bestowed upon me,

but as for conclusions, my heavenly father, there is only one that I can draw with clear conscience: The poems of Lajos Kassak make no sense whatsoever whether they are read from beginning

to end or from the end to the beginning.” A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s committed to covering every angle. We have an important contribution to make, one

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