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The Presumption of Culture: Structure, Strategy and Survival in the Canadian Cultural Landscape by Tom Henighan (review)

its fiction, its film and art. The heroes of Teleky's book include some of Hungary's more noteworthy citizens and some of its immigrants to North America, and also some who are less noteworthy. For example, Teleky praises Peter Esterhazy for his fine elliptical fiction as intelligently as he defines Hungarian kitsch; he applauds ZsaZsa Gabor and other Hollywood Hungarians; he extols the Hungarian miracle food, paprika; and he documents the influence of Hungary on contemporary television when he mentions Jessica Fletcher, the wily hero of the drama, Murder She Wrote, who in one episode becomes an expert on the Hungary which produced vampires. Although there is a well-paced humour in this tenderly written book, there is also a wise man's longing for a place and a tradition which, until now, has been dispersed by war, politics and other modern tragedies which, because of his own family's immigration, remain at some distance from him. Yet, Teleky shares this longing with some of his heroes: heroes as varied as the soulful photographer, Andre Kertesz, or as practical as the owner of Pannonia Books on Bloor Street in Toronto, Kate (not Kati or Katya) Karacsony (whose face reminds him of the young Vivien Leigh). To read Hungarian Rhapsodies is to learn and enjoy and want more. Teleky ends the book wistfully: 'I wish I could say that my Hungarian studies have made me feel less dissatisfied with my own culture, able to forgive it for some of the details of its own particular and insistent way of being arbitrary. But I can't.' While valuing all that remains with him of Hnngarianness Teleky is also all too aware that truths and conventions which are regarded as 'eternal' are illusory and arbitrary, and need to be remembered as such. Although Teleky's grandmother, Mari Poczik Takacsto whom the book is dedicatednever returned to her birthplace, the village of Pali in northwestern Hungary, Teleky reminds himself (and us) that' she didn't put Hungary behind her.' And Teleky remembers that throughout his childhood it is Mari's wound, 'the immigrant wound,' he 'sensed' without fully knowing 'what it was.' Without bemoaning his state, Teleky improvises on his grandmother's loss, a loss that becomes his, a loss that wisely and tentatively grips him, and pushes him into writing Hnngarian rhapsodies rather than tirades or moonlight sonatas. (MARLENE KADAR)