The Door by Magda Szabó: the perfect novel that teaches us how to die (and live)

There are books that don't need to be defended: they exist, they breathe, they pass through us. They are not simply " great novels ," but experiences that change us. There are works that don't simply tell a story, but that impose themselves as true thought devices, capable of transforming our perception of life and of ourselves. The Door belongs to this rare and precious category , because it doesn't offer the reader a simple narrative, but rather an experience that forces us to question the nature of bonds, the responsibility that binds us to others, and the unfathomable mystery that accompanies every human existence . Some masterpieces thrive on imperfections—think of Kafka's The Castle , suspended in an ending that will never come—and yet they find their strength precisely in that incompleteness. But The Door is different: it is a perfect novel. Perfect not because it is polished, but because it is inevitable. Published in 1987 , it explores the complex relationship between the author and her servant . The story focuses on a rough and reserved woman, with secrets hidden behind an eternally closed door . This book is considered one of the most significant works by the contemporary Hungarian writer and has had a profound impact on readers, thanks to its delicate and disarming narrative.

The seemingly simple story centers on the encounter between a young, established writer and her elderly housekeeper, Emerenc , an enigmatic and irreducible figure who guards a private, impenetrable world behind the door of her home, symbolizing an impassable boundary between what is revealed and what is hidden. But to reduce the novel to this plot would be to betray its significance: what Szabó constructs is a laboratory of truth , a prism through which to observe the fragility and strength of relationships , the tension between the need to understand and the impossibility of truly possessing the other .

Emerenc: The Life That Cannot Be Tamed

Emerenc is not a character: he is a presence. Too real, too terrifyingly true to be confined to fiction. His " Forbidden City," his dog Viola, the crumbling furniture: unforgettable images that imprint themselves like invisible tattoos on the reader's memory. Szabó forces us to look at life without filters, without anesthesia. And we, young or old, find ourselves protesting: " Give me a little fiction, please! " But the truth is that we can no longer go back: once Emerenc's door is opened, it never closes. Emerenc , with his absolute dedication to work, his love for animals, his uncompromising moral inflexibility, gradually becomes a mythical, almost archetypal figure, yet rooted in the most ruthless concreteness of everyday life; It is precisely this ambivalence that makes it unforgettable, because it forces us to recognize that the truth of existence can never be reduced to a univocal image , but always manifests itself as tension, as conflict, as enigma.

The novel as a mirror of the self

The strength of The Door lies in its prism of memories. Reading it, we don't simply follow the story of Magda and Emerenc : we find ourselves inside other lives, lives we have never lived but which belong to us. It's as if Szabó were telling us: " You are not just a spectator, you are part of this drama ." And so the novel becomes a mirror, a confession, a wound that never heals. The novel, in this sense, is not only a moving story, but a didactic exercise in the highest sense of the word: it educates us about complexity, it teaches us that life cannot be simplified without losing its substance , and that every authentic relationship carries the risk of being hurt , of being put to the test, of having to accept the other's otherness without reducing it to what is convenient for us .

Philosophy of love and death

Perhaps the most radical gesture The Door offers us is the idea that letting die can be the greatest act of love. Not an abandonment, but an acknowledgment: life is not something you own, it's something you accompany. For a young reader, immersed in a world that idolizes performance and survival at all costs, this is a destabilizing lesson. Loving also means knowing how to let go. And there is nothing more revolutionary than that.

The door that no one can cross thus becomes a metaphor for the human condition: each of us holds an inviolable core, a secret that cannot be revealed, and yet our relationships with others are played out precisely on this limit, on this threshold that we don't cross but learn to respect. It is here that the novel becomes philosophy, because it shows us that the dignity of existence lies not in possessing, but in accompanying; not in dominating, but in recognizing.

Why is it not celebrated as it should be?

The Door is well-known, awarded, and translated. But not well enough. It's not yet perceived as one of the pillars of the twentieth century. Perhaps because it doesn't allow itself to be pigeonholed, doesn't lend itself to slogans, can't be reduced to a "theme." It's too alive, too uncomfortable. But precisely for this reason, it's necessary. For those who have read it, for those who will read it, for those who don't yet know that their lives will change after opening it.

And when, in the finale, the question arises as to whether letting die could be the greatest act of love, Szabó delivers a lesson that goes beyond literature: he invites us to understand that love is not only care and protection, but also the ability to let go, to accept that life has an end and that our responsibility is not to deny it, but rather to make it humane, dignified, shared. For this reason, The Door, even more so , is the perfect novel : not because it is free of flaws, but because it is capable of transforming reading into a formative experience , an exercise in truth that accompanies us well beyond the pages. It is a book that does not wear out, but that settles , that remains , that continues to work within us like a silent master.