There will be obituaries of István Csurka leader of MIÉP (Hungarian Justice and Health Party) and of the first wave of the far right after 1989, though he claimed to be of neither the left or the right. There's a link to a summing up of his life here.
And this happens to be the last Hungarian poem I translated some six weeks ago for what was the independent Hungarian Quarterly (now in the hands of government supporters). It's by the important contemporary poet, Zsuzsa Takács. Csurka is the subject.
How perfect it is, this hat,
hung on the copper hook next to my own.
It’s green but of a rather subtle shade,
the ribbon black, threaded through with gold.
How many terrible thoughts have brewed beneath it,
what thoughts have dashed themselves to death within it.
Surely it has passed from father to son.
It disturbs me like some kind of family heirloom.
It’s rather tight but has been brushed to a shine.
Just looking at it the blood drains from my face.
Its owner is a swollen-faced fat man
who will eventually come to claim it,
and when he does I won’t look, let him not see me.
I’d like him to put it on as he was leaving,
but I’m sure he’ll stand there and take a look around,
and no one will fail to rise in honour of him.
I wish I could forget that I have met him
or that I might have to meet him again.
If possible let him have no family,
nor dog that he could put in a sack and beat.
If he’s a judge, let me not come before him.
If he is a torturer, let his first blow be fatal.