My Happy Days in Hell by Gyorgy Faludy
I picked up My Happy Days in Hell in Budapest. It's an autobiography from a poet who saw a lot of World War II: he flees Hungary for Paris, then Paris for North Africa, then North America for military service, and back to Europe for the war.
Most of the translated Hungarian fiction at Bestsellers had unhappy sounding titles: you can see in the picture "tragedy" and "sinister." I wondered if this was because Hungarians only wrote miserable stories, or because English-reading audiences only cares to read about Hungarian misery.
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