Not Art

A great deal feels lost in translation in acclaimed Hungarian author Esterházy's collection of vignettes about the soccer-obsessed mother of an Esterházy-like author. From the very first sentence (it's footnoted) through meta-asides along the lines of “My mother spoke French like my father did in my novels (if he happened to be speaking French)” and a chapter near the end consisting of enigmatic epigrams spoken to or by the author (“You are emotionally unpretentious. [You, dear, are emotionally unpretentious.] Who, me? [Me?]”), the cloying self-references drain what little dramatic tension the largely momentum-free narrative builds. The anecdotes, monologues, and memories that constitute the work progress in apparently random order, although most have to do with the mother, who interprets the world through soccer. The footnotes about soccer and Hungarian history are refreshingly concise, and some early passages contain interesting details about life in Communist Hungary. Once in a while, Esterházy's style and subject matter spark a stray profundity, but this rambling, pretentious book will leave readers wondering what the point is. (Mar.)