Pancreatic Journal

Cancer, this good opening word introduces the reader to his new life on the first page of Péter Esterházy's diary. Then it begins to speak in the silence created by the sentence: we know and we don't know this voice, which sometimes speaks from a distance, sometimes close, plays, scans, reads, prays, and sometimes almost sings to the other one who nestles inside. Then it darkens and falls silent. For days. What can be done if the body, which served the work until then, suddenly turns against writing? How does the writer, whose every work is based on the inseparability of reality and poetry, record his days? What happens to ontological serenity when terminal illness becomes a daily practice? Can pancreatic cancer be described as love? It's not a simple story.