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‘Journal of the Plague Year 1951,’ declared the title of the first Burgess notebook I transcribed as a new Archive Volunteer for the Foundation. Meanwhile, its last page — flipped upside-down and used as a second starting point for the diarist, so that you can read the notebook from both ends — bore another ominous title: ‘Down…
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Decades after escaping its borders, my parents took me to their hometown, this dreamlike city torn between East and West. The graffiti shouting, “Russians, go home!” had disappeared. But the past still sang urgently down the old-world streets, all pink, green, and gold. The Szechenyi Baths are golden yellow like krémes. Locals play chess there…
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Viv Pencz 