Two hundred years ago a poet, considered by Hungarians to be the epitome of a poet, was born. When, as a child, I told my parents and grandparents that I wanted to be a poet, they laughed. My family had been poor farmers for centuries. There was not even a teacher among them. Farmers become farmers, not poets, my parents thought and laughed, but some children are crazy. He’ll outgrow this, the way children outgrow their clothes. But I was determined, so as a final argument they told me that there already is a poet: Petőfi.