To outsiders, the former USSR is always been a place where everything is strangely different. All the more so in the Exclusion Zone around the ill-fated Chernobyl power plant, where after a secret experiment went wrong in 2006, the laws of physics are bent and mysterious phenomena manifest.
"...a sumptuous and captivating novella, rich in psychological insights and depth of linguistic expression. Death in Venice for Generation X, The Forest does for post-communist Budapest what Hemmingway and Fitzgerald did for Paris in the twenties."
I can only subscribe to that, except the last part (more about that later). "The Forest" is about the surrealistic love of a hopelessly self-deceiving man - probably it's not a coincidence that he works in the advertisement business, that archetypical art of deception. The psychology is flawless, with the author using a very intellectual approach to describe the protagnist's motives and emotional development. All actions and conclusions are born out of the protagonist contemplating the apparently meaningless events in the outside world; he is driven by the impetus of vividly described moments that give the story's psychology an almost Zen feeling. Through the psychological authenticity of the protagonists's thoughts and emotions, I became so much involved with the story that once I got used to the relatively slow pace, I couldn't put the book down and finished it in two long reads.
Alas, the Hemingway and Paris thing didn't work out that well. It overlaps with one of the two main issues I had with the book: one of the key characters is a dud. First, I failed to sense any chemistry, any bond between her and the protagonist. She carried no weight, even though she was to bear the key part of the story in the end. The reaon why: she was supposed to be a Hungarin-American moving back to her native land, but right in her first dialogue part, when asked about life in Hungary, the author makes her say complete and utter nonsense about her country's history and culture. It seriously damaged the character's credibility. It made her a fake.
Which leads to the other problem I have with this book. As the story proceeded, I more and more doubted if the author had ever been to Hungary and not just used a guide book to get a few street names and phrases from. Budapest as a setting is a mixed bag here: it remains void of any articular atmosphere, but at parts it comes through that the author knows the life in Budapest of the mid-Nineties very well. However, to the protagonists, it's just a city filled up with the cheapest clichés - Eastern Europe? Prostitutes: checked. Corrupt police: checked. Russian Maffia: checked. So, it's more Hollywood than Hemingway.
Lastly, I was bothered by the many errors in the Hungarian expressions. There's barely a word or local name that would be written correctly. Probably the most painful was to read Andrássy utca instead of Andrássy út. This is like writing Times Place for Times Square or Fifth Street for Fifth Avenue in a book set in New York.