Down fell the statue of Goliath [antikvár]

GYÖRGY FEKETE Lectori salutem (Köszöntő) Christianity has a Bible. A powerful summary of all that our ancestors did, suffered and celebrated. The experiences, teachings and testimonies of this heroic chronicle have been preserved throughout several thousands of years as a compulsory gift and inheritance for the descendents. It was done for remembrance, enlightenment, caution and guidance. It became a standard for the passing of time. Nations have their own history. One by one the multitude of nations of the world, across six continents, live out the days and years tallotted to them. Their successes, dejections, failures - as their common lot - which undoubtedly have proven their survival. Our fate is a wonder both in richness and in tribulations. The Hungarian destiny is the wonder of survival, even the maimed state of our land is the symbol of permanence; our life is sustainable even in the swiftness of changes. The chariot of history races on, I heard for the first time as a primary schoolboy from my clergyman father who was also a divinity teacher. Being a youngster, I naturally thought just of the speed that I knew from playing tag. Ever since then I continuously feel and know that the speed of history has exceeded our ability to react many times over, and again and again it outstrips the possible physical and intellectual steps of our human existence. 1956 was an unusual year because history did not overrun us as usual; instead, for a few days we dictated the direction of history, which, finding it hard to reconcile the daring of a tiny nation, did not give us our just reward. It cautioned us with weapons, and the warning was followed by an apparent silence throughout the continents under the delusion that the defeat could be thought of as final. That reckoning was false. Underground and above ground writings grew into seeds and the newer and newer sowings with their unique beauty covered the endless fields of remembrance with green. The fresh shoots of bereavements, tribulations, injustices and heroism opened as flowers in the warm homes of closed gardens; and more and more often legendary lines of poetry and moving memories became prayers. In their wake lovely encouragements grew new branches, and these stood up ever more doggedly against destructive wind storms, right up to the time of the new springs. However their traces did not disappear, they marked the direction of new paths. Because to leave a trail is the most natural and true reflex of thinking people. They 19