สเตฟาน ซไวก์เคยเขียนถึงยุค Belle Epoque ในปารีสไว้อย่างงดงามจับใจในหนังสืออัตชีวประวัติเล่มโปรดของผม The World of Yesterday
...Oh, how easily, how well, one lived in Paris, particularly if one was young! Merely walking about was a pleasure and a lesson at the same time, for everything was within reach. You could walk into a secondhand bookshop and spend a quarter hour turning pages without the dealers grumbling or complaining. You could go into the small galleries and the art shops and browse around as you wished It was not easy to stop once you had started strolling, for the street drew you on magnetically ; it was a kaleidoscope, constantly disclosing something new. If you were tired you could sit on the terrace of one of the ten thousand cafes and write letters on stationery which was supplied free of charge The only difficult thing was to stay home or to go home, especially when it was spring and the lights shone soft and silvery over the Seine, and the trees on the boulevards were beginning to bud, and the girls were wearing bunches of violets which they had bought for a penny. But it as not necessarily spring that put you in a good mood in Paris.
เดินออกจากโรงหนัง ผมรู้สึกเหมือนกับว่าตัวเองได้กลับไปยืนบนสะพาน Alexandre III อีกครั้ง..
ผลงานเล่มใหม่ของนาดาส Parallel Stories หนังสือที่ผู้เขียนใช้เวลาเขียน 15 ปี หนากว่า 1,100 หน้า อ่านความเห็นใน The National น่าอ่านทีเดียวครับ
With the publication of Parallel Stories, Peter Nádas, the Hungarian novelist, playwright and essayist, has unleashed yet another such 1,000-plus pages into the world. But don't let that scare you. Parallel Stories is, quite simply, the finest literary monster that our young century has produced; it's both a bloated high-modernist anachronism and one of the most fully formed arguments for what the novel is still capable of. Here, finally, is a new way forward.
Loosely, baggily, the novel concerns dozens of intertwined characters and nearly 75 years of European history. Hungarians and Germans and Jews and Gypsies; Nazis, communists and secret associations of nationalists and spies, among many others. To attempt an untangling of the threads and stories here would be both impossible and a great disservice to the novel. The very structure of Parallel Stories is in itself a refutation of the linear mode of storytelling and, at times, the novel feels like a film hijacked by its extras.