We are at the gloomiest time of year in one of the world’s gloomiest countries. Surely, there must be some comedy to be found here.

How can you spot a former AVO informant? They are the people who are frowning.

How do Hungarians inaugurate a new bridge? By jumping off it.

This does beg the question: If Hungarians are so proud as a people and a culture, why do they keep killing themselves in such astonishing numbers? While no longer the world leader in suicides per capita, Hungary, in 6th place, still has a respectable showing in this dubious claim of distinction. Today, Hungary has been eclipsed by Lithuania, South Korea, Guyana, Kazakhstan and Belarus. (South Korea? What’s up with that?)

Much has been written about Hungary’s penchant for gloom and any student of mental health would surely want to spend some quality time in Hungary for a first-hand look at one of the world’s largest collective mental health problems.

No instance of mental illness is complete without a high suicide rate, a high incidence of alcoholism and a cavalier indifference to the health risks of cigarette smoking. Hungary has them all. In fact, Hungary also has it’s own suicide song, Gloomy Sunday, composed by Rezsõ Seress (music) and Lásló Jávor (lyrics) in 1933. This memorable little ditty is believed to have precipitated more suicides than any other piece of music. It’s so bloody depressing, even Seress killed himself. In 1936 the song was translated into English and since then Gloomy Sunday has been recorded by Billy Holliday, Sarah Brightman, Ricky Nelson, Marianne Faithful, Sinead O’Connor, Paul Robeson, Elvis Costello and Sarah McLachan to name just a few. Go to iTunes and you will find fifty versions.

Forever lost in the translation.

Although translations to English never do justice to the original Hungarian, (as we are frequently told) here is one version of this inspiring song:

Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless,

Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless.

Little white flowers will never awaken you,

Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.

Angels have no thought of ever returning you.

Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?

Gloomy Sunday.

Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all.

My heart and I have decided to end it all.

Soon there will be candles and prayers that are sad, I know.

Death is no dream, for in death I am caressing you.

With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you.

Gloomy Sunday.

Gloomy is right. And trust me, the melody does nothing to improve the lyrics.

For a time, the public performance of the song was banned in Hungary since it was seen as a health risk, (unlike cigarettes and alcohol). There were numerous reports this song played during many suicides in Hungary and the United States but, of course, it is difficult to substantiate these claims when the only witnesses are dead. In Budapest, many people at the time when this song was at its peak in popularity, committed suicide by jumping off one of the Danube bridges while clinging the Gloomy Sunday sheet music.

A past to forget

Hungarians like to stake their claim to inventions, creativity and the numerous world firsts they have earned and they certainly are proud that Hungarians have won the most Nobel prizes per capita than any other nation. But having a high suicide rate is a distinction one would want to eradicate. Certainly, for the dark humourists, (especially the Hungarians living abroad and watching their homeland from afar), the suicide distinction is almost too good to ignore as a source of dark comedy. And heaven knows, I like a good laugh as much as the next manic depressive. But this is where perhaps even I might show some restraint.

There is a stigma to many mental health issues and depression is one of them. “Suck it up” being the common response someone might get to depression. But here, there is almost an encouragement of suicide. Why? Why Hungary? Another Magyar DNA anomaly? Or perhaps the hangover of an old-world phenomenon akin to settling disputes by challenging someone to a duel? Hungarian history is littered with politicians, musicians, artists and writers who chose to end their own lives, some in quite dramatic fashion: from throwing themselves in front of trains to the more popular bridge hop. These historical figures are not the most ideal role models. Noble, ideal-driven suicide was somewhat of a fade in the Victorian era, at least by myth or reputation. And while I admire the preservation of Hungarian history and culture, there are some things that are best left behind where we found them and bodies at the bottom of the Danube is one of them. Just saying.