It's true, some senior Hungarian writers are not known for their

Host: The afternoon sun poured through the high windows of a dim, smoky bookstore café in Budapest. The walls were lined with cracked, leather-bound volumes, their spines faded by time and dust. Outside, the Danube moved like a slow, silver mirror, catching the last light of the day. Inside, the smell of espresso mixed with old paper and rain-soaked wool.

Host: At a corner table, Jack sat — tall, lean, his grey eyes fixed on a book of Hungarian poems, the pages untouched. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on her elbow, her fingers playing absently with a teaspoon. Her brown eyes glowed with quiet amusement.

Host: The air between them hummed with tension, like a string pulled taut between two souls — the skeptic and the believer — about to clash again.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this quote?” she said, smiling softly. “Fischer’s talking about how joy gets mistaken for shallowness. As if laughter disqualifies truth.”

Jack: “Or maybe he’s admitting something honest — that art isn’t supposed to be comfortable,” he said, his voice low, his eyes never leaving the page. “The moment you start enjoying it too much, you’re probably not learning anything.”

Jeeny: “You think pain and depth are the same thing?”

Jack: “Often, yes. The best literature, the kind that lasts, comes from suffering, not entertainment. Look at Kafka — his entire world was built on isolation, bureaucracy, and despair. That’s what made it powerful.”

Host: The sound of the espresso machine hissed behind the counter, like a brief sigh interrupting their argument. Outside, pigeons fluttered past the window, scattering light across their faces.

Jeeny: “And yet, even Kafka had humor, Jack. You just have to look for it. It’s dark, but it’s there — a kind of cosmic irony. It’s what keeps his madness human.”

Jack: “Dark humor isn’t laughter. It’s resignation with a smirk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still a bridge. Between despair and understanding. Between the absurd and the divine.”

Host: Jack looked up now, his expression sharp, eyes catching a faint glint of annoyance.

Jack: “You really think laughter can reveal truth?”

Jeeny: “I think laughter is truth. It’s honesty stripped of pretense. When you laugh, you stop performing. That’s why so many cultures fear it in art — it’s uncontrollable, raw, democratic.”

Jack: “That sounds like a nice Instagram quote. But real literature — Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Márai — it’s not about democracy. It’s about excavation. The deeper you dig, the darker it gets.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing depth with gloom. The Germanic attitude Fischer talks about — that joy cheapens art — that’s a kind of cultural pride, not philosophy. They mistake solemnity for seriousness.”

Host: The rain began to fall, thin threads against the glass, streaking the light like tears. Jeeny’s voice grew softer, but her eyes shone fiercer.

Jeeny: “But the Greeks — they understood balance. Comedy was as sacred as tragedy. Aristophanes could mock gods and still teach people to think. Joy can be profound, Jack. It can be revolutionary.”

Jack: “Revolutionary?” He laughed, dryly. “Laughter doesn’t change systems.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? Remember the Soviet era? Humor was resistance. People told jokes to survive censorship, to keep their humanity alive. You can burn books, but you can’t outlaw laughter. It’s the last weapon of the oppressed.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but his gaze softened just slightly. The rain thickened, the rhythm steady, almost hypnotic.

Jack: “So you think laughter equals rebellion. That’s… naïve.”

Jeeny: “Not rebellion — resilience. There’s a difference. Laughter doesn’t always fight; sometimes it forgives. Sometimes it keeps you from becoming the very monster you’re resisting.”

Host: The café lights flickered as the rain washed the windows clean. The barista hummed under her breath, some old Hungarian folk tune, while the city outside sank into mist.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe laughter is a kind of prayer for people who’ve run out of words.”

Host: He stared at her, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t quite find the energy.

Jack: “And what about Fischer’s point? That Hungarian writers — influenced by German rigor — can’t take joy seriously? Maybe they’re right. Maybe the world’s too absurd to deserve laughter anymore.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s exactly why we need it. Fischer isn’t mocking them — he’s mourning them. He’s mourning a generation that mistook heaviness for intelligence.”

Jack: “And you think modern writers are better?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just freer. We’re starting to realize that laughter isn’t the opposite of depth — it’s its twin. They both come from surprise. The only difference is whether it makes you cry or laugh when the truth hits.”

Host: The rain slowed. A tram bell rang faintly in the distance, echoing down the cobblestone street. Jack rubbed his forehead, his expression caught somewhere between thought and surrender.

Jack: “You know, my father used to quote Nietzsche — ‘A joke is an epigram on the death of a feeling.’ I never understood it until now. Maybe he meant that laughter only comes after the pain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s how we mark the end of suffering — by laughing at it. That’s not trivial. That’s transcendent.”

Host: A pause. The sound of rain stopped completely. The air held a stillness like the final note of a song.

Jack: “So, you’re saying laughter can be literature?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Literature is life, and life is unbearable without laughter. If art doesn’t make us laugh sometimes, then it’s only showing us half of what it means to be human.”

Host: Jack looked around the bookstore, at the rows of solemn faces staring from their dusty spines — Goethe, Thomas Mann, Ady Endre. The silent witnesses of centuries of seriousness.

Host: Slowly, a faint, incredulous smile broke across his face.

Jack: “Maybe Fischer had a point. Maybe we took the ‘serious writer’ thing too far.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the bravest thing a serious writer can do now… is make someone laugh without losing their soul.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her cup, took a slow sip, and smiled. Jack leaned back, his eyes softer now, tracing the steam as it rose and disappeared.

Host: Outside, the sun broke through the last veil of clouds, spilling light into the café, catching on the gold lettering of the books. For the first time that afternoon, the world looked lighter — not because it had changed, but because they had.

Host: Two voices, once divided by solemnity, now shared a quiet laughter that echoed softly through the room, mingling with the scent of coffee and old paper — a reminder that joy, too, can be profound.