b. Nov. 22, 1877, d. Jan. 27, 1919, is generally considered the greatest Hungarian poet of the 20th century. His innovative poems, influenced by French symbolism, countered the earlier poetic tradition of Janos Arany and Sandor Petofi.
Ady left the study of law to become a journalist.
After he met Adele Brull, called "Leda" in many of his poems, he followed her to Paris, where he came in contact with new literary fashions.
When he returned to Hungary, his unconventional beliefs and attacks on the Hungarian aristocracy made him a controversial figure.
His break with poetic and social traditions came with Uj versek (New Poems, 1906) and continued in nine subsequent volumes. Beginning about 1909 he contributed poetry and prose to Nyugat (West), a leading literary and social journal. Ady's lyrical and religious verse draws on colloquial and biblical sources and explores suffering and death in a world that has lost God.

b. Mar. 2, 1817, d. Oct. 22, 1882, was Hungary's greatest epic poet and, with Sandor PETOFI, the creator of a realistic poetry based on Hungarian folk traditions. He produced literary treatises of lasting value, landmark translations of Shakespeare and Aristophanes, and ballads unsurpassed in Hungarian literature.

His Toldi trilogy--Toldi (1847), Toldi szerelme (Toldi's Love, 1848-79), and Toldi esteje (1854; Toldi's Evening, 1914)--an epic tracing the life of the 14th-century Hungarian hero, remains the best narrative poem in Hungarian literature. It is distinguished by penetrating characterization, a striking use of mythology and chivalry, and vivid diction.

b. Budapest, Apr. 11, 1905, d. Dec. 3, 1937, was Hungary's first truly proletarian poet and one of the greatest Hungarian poets of the 20th century. The son of a simple soapmaker who deserted his family, Jozsef was brought up in harsh poverty by his mother, a washerwoman. He had an almost schizophrenic drive to alter the existing order of things, and his seven volumes of poetry reflect a profound sympathy for the exploited Hungarian working classes. Jozsef committed suicide, having been troubled by mental illness throughout his life.

Hungarian lyric poet b. Jan. 1, 1823, enriched the artistry and extended the range of his nation's poetry beyond any predecessor and created a new synthesis of poetic techniques and realistic subjects. His epics were powerful blends of folk topics, attitudes, and verse forms, and his lyric poems stood out as aesthetic expressions of genuinely felt human experiences. They celebrated nature, the joys and sorrows of common folk, married love, family life, and patriotism. His language, images, folklore, and characters were rooted in the Hungarian Great Plains. He participated in Hungary's War of Independence (1848-49) and disappeared on July 31, 1849, in a battle against Russian forces. He was probably buried in a mass grave.

a most accomplished and prolific author of romantic fiction, b. Feb. 18, 1825, d. May 5, 1904, established the novel as a genre in Hungary. Black Diamonds (1870; Eng. trans., 1894), which develops the concept of an ideal man, and Az aranyember (1873; trans. as A Modern Midas, 1884), which uses the Midas motif, are considered his best works.

b. Jan. 12, 1878, d. Apr. 2, 1952, is perhaps the best-known Hungarian author outside of that country. His plays have been translated into more than 25 languages, and several have been adapted for the screen. Liliom (1909; Eng. trans., 1921) and The Swan (1920; Eng. trans., 1922) are frequently staged in the West.

A keen observer of urban life, Molnar was especially adept at depicting middle- and upper-class urban life. His plays display a mastery of stagecraft, witty dialogue, and a polished style. Some of his best short stories are collected in Muzsika (Music, 1908). Molnar was also the author of several novels, the most successful being The Paul Street Boys (1907; Eng. trans., 1927), written for young people. He left Hungary in the 1930s to settle in New York.

b. June 29, 1879, d. Sept. 4, 1942, was the most prominent 20th-century Hungarian prose writer. He was primarily a novelist and short-story writer, and his work is remarkable for its realistic portrayal of life in Hungarian villages and provincial towns. His finest novels include the historical trilogy Erdely (Transylvania, 1922-35). Moricz was also the editor of the literary journal Nyugat (West), which supported modernist literature and liberal politics.

1878–1952, Hungarian dramatist and novelist. He studied law in Budapest and Geneva and was for some time a journalist in Budapest. He was a prolific author of plays, novels, stories, sketches, dialogues, and war reports. His best-known works are the plays Liliom (1909, tr. 1921), which was made into the musical comedy Carousel; The Guardsman (1910, tr. 1924); and The Swan (1920, tr. 1922). His plays exhibit masterful technique, sophisticated dialogue, and a satirical edge that is tempered by genuine sentiment. Although technically of high caliber, his plays rely upon superficial theatrical special effects. Molnár emigrated to the United States during the Nazi regime; he wrote film scripts and was famed as a wit.

Rise up, Magyar, the country calls!
It's 'now or never' what fate befalls...
Shall we live as slaves or free men?
That's the question - choose your `Amen'!
God of Hungarians,
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall
no longer be!

For up till now we lived like slaves,
Damned lie our forefathers in their graves -
They who lived and died in freedom
Cannot rest in dusts of thraldom.
God of Hungarians,
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall
no longer be!

A coward and a lowly bastard
Is he, who dares not raise the standard -
He, whose wretched life is dearer
Than the country's sacred honor.
God of Hungarians
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall
no longer be!

Sabers outshine chains and fetters,
It's the sword that one's arm betters.
Yet we wear grim chains and shackles.
Swords, slash through the damned manacles!
God of Hungarians,
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall
no longer be!

Magyars' name will tell the story
Worthy of our erstwhile glory:
We must scrub off - fiercely cleansing
Centuries of shame condensing.
God of Hungarians
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee that slaves we shall
no longer be!

Where our grave-mounds bulge in grey earth
Grandsons kneel and say their prayers,
While in blessing words they mention
All our sainted names' ascension.
God of Hungarians,
we swear unto Thee,
We swear unto Thee - that slaves we shall
no longer be!

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed,
"For I will see if Wales," said he,
"Accepts my rule indeed.

"Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash'd with rebel's blood?

"And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver's yoke?

"In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in your crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair and dale and down.

"And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave."

Edward the king, the English King
Bestrides his tawni steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.

The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day's journeying;
The castle's lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.

Then game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.

With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.

"You lords, you lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What? Each one fails, you dogs of Wales,
To toast the English king?

"Though game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a slight.

"You rascal lords, you dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!"

The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blanch but do not quail.

All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:

"Lo, here I stand, at your command,
To chant your deeds, O king!"
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.

"Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf -
This, Edward, is your deed!

"A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed your hand hath done!"

"Now let him perish! I must have"
(The monarch's voice is hard)
"Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!"
In steps a boyish bard:

"The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Havens moans;
It whispers maidens' stifled cries,
It breathes of widows' groans.

"You maidens, bear no captive babes!
You mothers, rear them not!"
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz'd
And hurried from the spot.

Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:

"Our bravest died to slake your pride -
Proud Edward, hear my lays!
No Welsh bards live who e'er will give
Your name a song a praise.

"Our harps with dead men's memories weep.
Welsh bards to you will sing
One changeless verse - our blackest curse
To blast your soul, O king!"

"No more! Enough!" - cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
"Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!"

His men ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.

Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.

In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov'd to say he lov'd
The tyrant in his pride.

"Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor shall feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!

Each voice is hush'd; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
"Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep."

"Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come -
I see their dead eyes glare..."

But high above all drum and fife
and trumpets' shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr'd voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate.

No shriek of mine, it is the earth that thunders.
Beware, beware, Satan has gone insane;
cling to the clean dim floors of the translucent springs,
melt yourself to the plate glass,
hide behind the diamond's glittering,
beneath the stones, the beetle's twittering,
O sink yourself within the smell of fresh-baked bread,
poor wretched one, poor wretch.
Ooze with the fresh showers into the rills of earth--
in vain you bathe your own face in your self,
it can be cleansed only in that of others.
Be the tiny blade upon the grass:
greater than the spindle of the whole world's mass.
O you machines, birds, tree-branches, constellations!
Our barren mother cries out for a child.
My friend, you dear, you most beloved friend,
whether it comes in horror or in grandeur,
it is no shriek of mine, but the earth's thunder.