One book that I return to again and again is Sunflower, by Gyula Krúdy, a Hungarian of the late-Empire, reprobate and dandy, dreamer and drunk. I read this book whenever I need inspiration in my own writing. I read it when I need something to rescue me from feeling apathetic and dejected, and sometimes, simply because I love it. A sliver of this love comes from my first experience with the book. I remember I skimmed the first few sentences and put it down again instantly. At the time I was traveling for work and often ate meals by myself. In order to really embrace the awkwardness of being alone in the centre of a room full of people, I often brought something to read with me. In this particular case, I started the book as soon as I sat down. Less than a minute later I laid it back on the table and picked up my phone.
You see, my partner is a book fanatic as well, a devotee of words and the way they meet and dance and love and hate each other. I knew immediately that Krúdy was something he needed to experience. So I got the poor man on the phone and, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, read him the first few sentences. I told him to find the book; that he would love it, and then I hung up.
Several sentences later, I called back and read him two whole paragraphs. By this point I had sent the waitress away twice because I had forgotten the reason that I was actually seated at her table. After I hung up from the second call, I did my best to keep focused on hunger, since I only had so much time on dinner break before I had to be back at work.
Except that, yes, I called back a third time and read the whole first chapter down the phone. At some point, my partner had to be the responsible one and tell me to go away and stop tormenting the wait staff.
The next morning found me reading sections of the book to the woman behind the check-in desk at my hotel. Was she a lover of words? I have no idea. Throughout the rest of the trip, my co-workers had to tread carefully, as I was liable to break into an excited recitation or summary of the book so far at the smallest provocation. When I explained the plot to them, one of them burst into uncontrollable giggles. Mostly they just shook their heads and retreated to an appropriate distance.
Looking back, I can’t quite explain why Sunflower filled me with such joy then, and why it continues to resonate so strongly with me today. All I know is that Krúdy is a word magician. His language is mesmerising, irreverent, dream-like, sexual, sophisticated, and fleshy. In Sunflower, lovers escape a desperate love in Bucharest, only to find love of a more languishing sort in the country. It feels like a mundane frame to a chaotic painting. While concealed at her rural estate, the heroine Eveline encounters a cast of melancholic aristocrats, bizarre and beautiful houseguests, and archaic, semi-mythical country folk. There is a terrible allure in Krúdy’s imaginings, and an irrepressible call for wonder amidst a life that can be brutal and meaningless, exhilarating and awe-inspiring, often at the same time.
Ultimately, I think that’s what made me put it down after the first few sentences and pick up my phone. Because joy should be shared as often as possible.
— Kirsti Mikoda is from Vancouver, BC. Her story “Pam Sunday” was a winner in the Senior Short Fiction Section of the 2024 NL Arts and Letters Awards. She has another upcoming publication in Bewildering Stories, and two screenplays that finaled at the Austin Film Festival and Final Draft Screenplay Competition.
You can read Kirsti Mikoda's story "A Life in Moving Pictures" in Issue 303 (Spring 2025). Order the issue now:
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