Badacsonytördemic-Szigliget | Örkény in a swimming trunk.

Örkény in a swimming trunk. I saw a photo of him like that once. A writer is human being too, even if he is a writer. Is „writer” an adjective or adverb? Seriously. This is important. Being a writer is something given, and this writer was just born to be a man. He is a writer man. Örkény. He likes to relax, have fun, etc., only to return to the deep pits, chasms, etc. of fatalism (see the dictionary of synonyms). Örkény is the writer, who is not writing at the moment. Or he is writing indeed, he is just not showing it. He is in the process of gaining experience while taking a rest. First, he takes a dip in Lake Balaton, eats a lángos, goes for a walk, stops, a policeman checks his papers. He looks at him strangely, what kind of a job is it to be a writer. But if he is a writer, why is he writing or not writing in his swimming trunk, and why is he not writing now. Maybe he’s not a writer at all, he is just pretending to be one? A writer writes. He does not take a dip, he does not eat and when he goes for a walk, he prefers to sit on a bench on a terrace of a café and writes. On a piece of paper, on a napkin, on the back of a receipt. He would even write on a white tablecloth, but he is not allowed to take it home anyway. The minimum requirement for today is four pages, i.e., two tablecloths. Örkény, the tourist. Everyone else around him is a tourist, but none of them is a writer. There is only one Örkény. Just as there is only one Illyés. Márai too. It would be nice to be just a simple tourist for once. When the police officer does not look at you strangely, but checks your papers and says goodbye, let’s move on. Örkény does not move. Örkény just stands there and watches why he is not moving on. Why nothing is moving on here. He takes a dip in the water, the water ripples and waves, it moves. Even the water moves, the water in the lake
moves on. Örkény is a writer. And a writer is a writer even in a swimming trunk. And a writer keeps thinking about things like that. On the shores of Lake Balaton, ready to jump, just before splashing, during splashing and after splashing, he keeps thinking about things like that. That is the trouble with writers. They are told to move on, but they don’t. Instead, they wonder why we don’t move, even when we are told to. The sky is blue, the birds are chirping, the water is rippling, and this writer, even he is trying to disguise himself, even if he is trying to hide behind his swimming trunk, you can seem from a mile off that this Örkény is a writer.