Home » Opium and Other Stories by Géza Csáth
Opium and Other Stories Géza Csáth

Opium and Other Stories

Géza Csáth

Published May 26th 1983
ISBN : 9780140066890
205 pages
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 About the Book 

You sigh, you disengage yourself from the magic. Why? Because if you dont, the joy imparted by it slowly fades- you tire of gazing, of feeling the music die- and thats even more distressing. from A Joseph in EgyptIm not sorry. In Souvenir he confesses to an envy to write with true delight, enthusiasm and dedication. An admittance is strangled on a wish that is wrong. He envies Joseph his dream. The dream stays with him after, waving in his windows. A hand in promises of words of love unheard (Im a lip reader of dream speech). The Egyptian woman and the would be stoners of her death, if he would want that (an accusation dark cloud. Could you time travel to too late. I had that feeling it could still change, become real, and he takes on her price). A hand and a goodbye, a dream kiss. The Souvenir man tells of the young cousin shut into a mysterious spinsterhood. A sad face, she must be, but not to him. Pressed into the pages of his book, if she lives for anyone else I dont know. I felt like watching a butterfly net, somehow. More falling inside thinking about another side of the story. Hes priceless for that other side of the story. Its amazing how you could keep walking past the end. Fresh hells.Suppose you pick up on opium as a strong, well-developed adult and take good care of your health- best left to a skilled doctor- why, then you can live for ten years. And then at twenty million years of age you can let your head fall on the icy pillow of eternal annihilation.As for those who dont wish to pay the price, who dont desire twenty million years of life eternal- let them live a hundred years increasing and multiplying. from OpiumCsáth dedicated his story Opium to artist Attila Sassy. It wasnt until I was reaching the end of the book that I realized I had been expecting the nude body parts to make an expression as if they were the faces. Also the real faces as mute mouths and the background (a fleshly genie prison). The influence on his story The Pass is undeniable in swallowing pillars. People are your animals. I had that feeling before in the dream An Afternoon Dream. He wakes up in a headache he fails to prevent. Csáth must have felt as I do the sickness in trying too hard to keep the body pulled under attached to the eyes. The behind my eyes will feel like both crying too much and trying to stay awake for too long. The fantasy force up maybe should feel bad too. I dont know what the key is in not doing it too long. I loved that he wakes up with that head pain. Anyway, I meant that the broken countess of his dream reminded me of the harem ladies of Sassys pictures. It is not desire, it is a languishing too long in sex that doesnt happen. Their bodies in The Pass had to be the same dream. They do nothing and eat the men. I had the feeling that if I were to meet the countess of Dream I would be a ghost from the past or future, unseen. Not feeding on waiting around for the idea of sex. The doctor in Opium swears of his invention to make all his patients die before they had ever been born. The presence of time in the brain, the irresistible tide of life rhythms and rhymes, and all reason. I didnt understand the frothing in the insides reach the eyes of this man. I know by now that falling down in the dirt to get back up and try for the beautiful moments again is the other side of the face that makes it turn. The waking hours and the ones asleep. One side can get underneath when the other one isnt looking. I dont want his surgery, or his smoke dreams, but the falling down he already is feels like all of that to me anyway. The truth inexpressible. Csáths stories had this unspeakable that I dont reach. The envy of the dream.Their eyes shone- they felt the hunters strength in their shoulders as they came galloping back through the dark streets, exultant. Long ago they had grown interested in that owl. Its head was like two huge eyes. Old marvels lay hid in its mind. It lived a hundred years, more.... That owl they wanted desperately. from MatricideThe Witman boys lost their father, lost their mother to her rooms or theirs. I dont believe Csáth when he says When fathers of fine, healthy children die young, theres trouble. He left nothing in them, was probably not there. They exist to each other like a savage wind that picks up more force over a heartless land. A Frankensteins monster of a dogs head and got the cats tongue. Blood, no pity. A girl in a house. Another pulse to break in hands, mysterious anatomy. They dont know what to do with life. I only wonder they buy it. To kill their mother for the girls payment didnt feel the escalation to me. It was when they wait to finish off the owl to feel its stolen flight die in their promised dreams. They must have waited with the girl in another kind of foreplay. Csáth is best when the boys hold this pleasure between them. The younger one must have looked up at his brother. Their anticipation of pleasure. Thats where they are trouble. Their torture to hear the source of what holds dear past words. They are blind to discovery, murderers grasping for answers. I bet they are the most frightening namelessly looking between them. I had that feeling a lot in these stories. The dark taking from others life when it cannot be old. The willing coma on the outside. It will most probably win, that complacency, the just being the person who hears about it much later. The journal of the already suicided boy who destroyed his beloved Little Emma in calculating childhood games. I didnt mean it other side the cruelty of.... its too late, everyone is dead, conveyor belt of body parts. Teachers with whips, dog ate dog, and I can just see the knowing look on the living Little Emma that she is pretty and knows it. Knows her father is above their fathers. Not untouchable though, too late. All together I had this feeling that the first cousins Paul and Virginia toddled on the lawn in fat pink baby love. Shutting out outsiders and its just like being the woman if you come near one of those lounging sex symbols. They arent your dream and not for you. Virginias mother sacrifices her life position by confessing to adultery. So the first cousins can legally marry after all. Csáth doesnt judge the girl if she would gladly send her mother to torture if it black clouded her own happiness. Whatever he says that he cant judge her, I think the story doesnt take place where the lovers are happy. Its outside when you are the sacrifice. Happiness leaves you behind and you are breakfast for the fire. Yeah, I had a lot of feelings about these stories. The helplessness to insanity, a half awake horror. The sandman comes in childhood and leaves his shadow on the wall (Saturday Evening) and The Black Silence turns the blonde baby brother into a louder than pain menace. Dead in hands, and back to baby. Doctor, I cant sleep any night. I LOVED this slipping back into the ghost you call to you when youre happy to say but but but what about your worst nightmare. And the time you self destructed and didnt feel sorry. You liked the way it looked all wet and outside. Love it this way and feel gross on purpose. I dont know about some of Csáths narrator going all like the homely girl was lucky that guy twice her age ordained to notice an attractive quality about her. She would have eclipsed in the woods where no one would hear it because like she cant hear herself? Thats bullshit. Also, Im dying to get away from the blind butts that are faces and the breasts that are mouths. Please, next book I read dont care about young lips and fresh tits. Please. Im getting tired trying to dream past it where theres a place for me who isnt just a pair of tits. It feels like hes tired of himself, when he judges the train stop man who stupors past the real way out (tell the truth, open a window). I know all about the mixed up of going past windows of selfish people and looking for the dark ones. Im a bad person too. Im tired too. I loved that these felt like MORE than stories. Like not something ABOUT feeling like that, but if you were looking in where it was really happening. (Then you get to remember youre just a bleeding ghost.) When you are so damned tired and the door is closing. Same old hell.