Author’s Introduction (2012 Version)
My name is Ádám Porkoláb, born on September 24, 1988, in Salgótarján, Hungary. My family background and education did not necessarily predestine me for a “life of the mind”: I completed high school in Salgótarján with a focus on computer science. In a moment of bold decision, I enrolled at the University of Pécs, Faculty of Humanities. Half a year more, and I will be a certified high school teacher of Hungarian and History (2024 note: I did become one).
I have felt the compulsion to write since around 2005, when I was seventeen. That was when I penned my first, now rather embarrassing stories. In the autumn of 2007, I gathered these writings, bound them into a small volume, and printed a few copies to distribute. It wasn’t professional inexperience but rather the overwhelming indifference of my audience that ended the attempt. I realized then that while I could write in a way that a few of my peers found sarcastic yet “elevated,” it wasn’t enough. I needed to learn much more before presenting my work publicly, so I consciously began developing myself. Looking back, I can see clearly: I was an eager young man with a passion for literature who had won a few high school story contests—but knew that wasn’t justification enough to call himself a writer. I applied to study literature to perfect myself. After my successful admission, I didn’t write a single line for four years; I only read and listened to the music of words.
Now I feel I’ve recovered from my early writerly ailments: not only my spelling, but my style and expressive ability have improved. I believe I’m ready for professional creative work, and I trust that your publishing house might grant me an opportunity, a platform for publication. In return, I promise work of comparable quality and professionalism—and, not least, loyalty.
I respectfully ask you to honor my work with a reply regarding your decision.
Tar, July 3, 2012.
Andrew Pierce Ashfield
Ádám Porkoláb
2024 Addendum:
I wrote the above author’s introduction in the summer of 2012 for the publishers to whom I sent my manuscripts. None of them ever replied. Yet I still find this curriculum vitae strangely beautiful and honest. Just as Attila József once “laid bare his soul” before Thomas Mann, I do the same now before you, Dear Reader.
Although twelve years have passed, snow has melted and rivers have flowed away from the noble Mátra Mountains, I still begin my self-introduction from this piece of text. This is me—without titles, ranks, or obligations: a writer, a scholar, a human being. And also a husband, a father, a brother, a son, and a grandson. A loving and striving man, proud of his Roman Catholic faith and Palóc Hungarian heritage. The Smallest Palóc.
I feel an ever-deepening spiritual kinship with my ancestors, the Polkorábs of Selmecbánya, who eventually fled to Nógrád County. Likely no trace of them remains, yet I carry them in my bones—unconsciously.
For a long time I considered my Palóc identity rustic and unnecessary, yet I’ve never been able to think or speak any other way. I understand and cherish humor as my ancestors did, and I owe my quick wit and debating spirit to them. However much I once wanted to despise or escape Mikszáth’s “Crooked Country,” I feel increasingly connected to these people and this culture. I cannot forget that I learned my mother tongue with a Palóc accent; that I know what a troszka, a pampuska, or a piszke is. Through Palóc eyes I read Hungarian folk tales and even learned foreign languages. I thank my parents and my sibling for allowing me to grow up this way, even if, upon arriving at the University of Pécs, I often felt it was a disadvantage.
My ancestors, as far as I know, possessed nothing except what they built with their own hands. I’m proud of my grandparents, especially my paternal grandfather—the spark of intellect in me seems to come from him. His miner colleagues nicknamed him “Kosztolányi,” for he was intelligent but too poor to continue his studies. Only now, as an adult, do I see how much I owe him. I saved the only surviving photo of him from decay—it hangs on the wall of my study to this day. Perhaps it is no coincidence that at my high school exams, both my written and oral tests were on Kosztolányi.
I hadn’t thought of her in a long time, but my teacher Andrea Komódi played a decisive role in my becoming a writer. She guided me toward studying Hungarian literature—perhaps I was even a little in love with her then. I thank her for preparing me selflessly, without extra pay, for my advanced Hungarian exam, and for writing the entire set of topics just for me. No one outside my family has ever done so much for me. She was my role model as a teacher. Wherever she may be, I hope her life is blessed. May God bless her life, whatever she does!
My professions may not matter, yet they are part of my story: besides my degree in Hungarian and history teaching, I hold a doctorate in linguistics, a qualification in software development, and two related certifications.
I had to give up writing for a time. Around 2013, despite a few publications, I realized the writer’s path only brought disappointment. Even with small successes, I was never given the chance to truly break through. I published three works, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get my collections or novels released. I thought that was the measure of authorship—the number of published books. Tired of endless correspondence and humble pleas to publishers, I turned instead toward linguistics and logic.
My scientific work was not entirely fruitless: two dictionaries, one monograph, and eighteen academic studies later, I still found no opportunity—I had to abandon my academic ambitions, though by now I might have been a senior lecturer or assistant professor if given a chance.
I grew angry at God, and at myself. For nearly twelve years, I shut myself off completely from both faith and literature. The year 2021 was especially hard: alongside my wife, I almost lost my son in the aftermath of our near-divorce. But we managed to save our marriage. I sought forgiveness from God—and began to write again.
Since then, I’ve written two or three new pieces each year, and since 2023 I’ve found myself writing almost continuously—blog posts, competition stories, editorial reviews. My relationship with literature feels like a youthful love that never faded: an unbroken, magnetic pull that endures.
I turned thirty-six barely a month ago. I no longer hope for a radical transformation of my fate, nor that I’ll become a professional writer or scholar. I love my current work as a software developer and perform it with the same devotion. Perhaps literature can remain a cherished companion—a kind of spiritual friend.
Whatever I had to give up, I’m grateful for my wonderful wife—my “Imprint”—who reads me at the level of the soul and loves me still. I thank God for my amazing son, already perfect and intelligent; I can’t wait to see what he becomes. And I still hold to the quote that once defined my youth:
“I must write. Even if writing never again becomes a vital function for me, let it at least be play. I must play, even if I take no pleasure in it.” (Géza Csáth)
Pécs, November 12, 2024.
Andrew Pierce Ashfield
Dr. Ádám Porkoláb
My Creative Creed
The true depth of literature lies not merely in events but in the search for meaning. A story gains its weight not by asking how things happened but why. Understanding the inner motives of human action and emotion gives literature its timeless resonance. A novel, poem, or play can be powerful even without empirical experience—for there are aspects of human existence, such as death, that we can scarcely experience directly, yet through thought we can make them our own.
It is crucial to be able to feel or comprehend something without direct experience of it. Profound literature is not about experiencing—it is about understanding. That is why poets, writers, and philosophers often express more truth about certain matters than anyone else: because they possess the spiritual depth that makes the subject their own.
The strength of a society cannot be measured solely in economic or political terms but also in the moral solidity of its people. Etiquette, which many consider mere convention, is in truth one of the pillars of human culture. Works of literature and art participate in shaping these moral foundations. Through the teaching and interpretation of symbols, we can recognize the values and lessons that form the identity and cohesion of a nation.
The true value of a work lies in its ability to offer a cathartic experience to its most cultivated readers. Just as a nation is held together by the integrity of its morals, literature derives its power from the capacity to elevate and provoke thought. Like etiquette, the understanding of symbols can be taught through complex sentences and layered expressions that help capture the deeper meaning behind words.
Even in this mad world, prophets still exist—renegades who refuse chaos. Their voices remind us of the timeless power of literature, poetry, and prose. Such creators cannot vanish forever; their works remain the solid foundation future generations will inherit. Literature, therefore, is not merely a genre but a state of being—one that, in every age, seeks answers to eternal questions.
And though the city’s noise may drown the sound of bells, the call of those prophetic voices lingers in every line, every thought that rejects chaos and superficiality. The true reader not only reads the words but interprets the meanings behind them—and in doing so, transforms literature into catharsis.
Pécs, November 15, 2024.