As you may know, black is the colour of mourning. Let's say that's not why I became black, but because when I was born, most typewriters were produced in black. Who knows why, maybe to look more serious. Regardless, grief has been a part of my existence for almost a century now. I was the Hungarian poet Attila József's typewriter. Attila József died in 1937. Some people say his death was an accident; others say that he deliberately threw himself in front of a train. I can't decide on that, but what I do know is that since then no one has written poems on me like he did. The sad incident happened here, in Balatonszárszó, where I also live. If you want to meet me, just come to the Attila József Memorial House. It's a kind of a museum. The building used to function as a boarding house, and he also lived here for a while with his sisters, which is why the Memorial House is located in this building. Attila József only lived for 32 years, but he still published nine volumes. In the meantime, he went to university in Szeged, Vienna, Budapest, and even at the famous Sorbonne in Paris. He was a passionate man, both in terms of his political views and his love life. And he had a very difficult life. He grew up in poverty, often living with foster parents, and deprivation accompanied him throughout his adult life. But no matter how much life threw at him he threw himself into it, and he never gave up on poetry or his principles.