90 years.

My favourite poet in the world is without a doubt Endre Ady. His words, filled with bittersweetness, passion and sometimes anger made me quit writing poems and read his works instead. I knew I could never, ever express what I feel in rhymes the way he did express things I feel as well. His personality, that mesmerized just about everyone around him, his genious, that should have never been questioned by everyone makes him the most important poet in the history of Hungarian literature. One of his friends, fellow writer Zsigmond Móricz wrote about him: "Many times I was just watching him all night, as he sat in the centre of his company, glowing and dazed. Eyes were sparkling at him and hearts were burning around him: for him, everyone wanted to seem more beautiful, more intelligent, more evil and more intoxicating and even the most balanced person created hysteria around oneself, just to live up to him."

Endre Ady, the epitome of what we call artist, died exactly 90 years ago in Budapest, after a long suffering from syphilis (though the exact reason of death was pneumonia that he got due to his weakness). He died young, at age 42; he lead a quite bohemian life, surrounded by countless women who served not only as bodies that could quench his thirst for love, but who also were muses, more or less important muses, with the unknown mission to inspire a soul that gave our literature the most beautiful poems of all time.