By Peter Nemes
The Nobel Prize committee is possibly the best-known summarizer of entire literary oeuvres in the world, as it purposefully creates one-liners to justify its selection for each year, something that is then picked up and repeated by news organizations all around the globe. This year, the award was given to the Hungarian writer László Krasznahorkai “for his compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art.” This both makes and misses the point spectacularly.
Krasznahorkai is a writer of immense erudition and depth, who is justifiably celebrated both in his homeland and in many translations (now backed by the stamp of approval of the Nobel Prize) for his unique vision and voice, an unmistakable narrator of intricately crafted sentences, who cannot and should not be reduced to a simple utterance. His work is, in fact, best characterized by a willful resistance to reduction, by a constant and relentless exploration of the human condition in various forms and contexts. He entered the literary scene in 1986, towards the end of the Hungarian socialist experiment, with Satantango, a novel that surprised the literary establishment with its dark and serious tone, a bleakness that seemed existential. And, depending on the readers disposition, many of his books can certainly be perceived as dark and apocalyptic, although the sense of irony, a humorous sense of absurdity is often lurking under the surface. Krasznahorkai is a keen observer and a firm believer in the power of words; a writer who is unapologetically earnest. In his many novels and short stories (that total no less than 20 volumes), he often explores seemingly single-minded characters, driven by what can be described as teetering on the verge of madness, although judgment is not passed, just as the apocalypse can fade into the everyday of being. Once again, whether the experience of reading these stories causes more anxiety or more understanding, whether we close a book of his with a sigh or a half smile (or, indeed, both) has a lot to do with the general outlook of the reader. This is an author who is not prescriptive; he demands attention, not submission.
A defining feature of Krasznahorkai’s life and work is intellectual curiosity and movement. He lived and still lives in various countries (Hungary, Germany, Italy, Austria), and travelled extensively, in the old-fashioned way of taking his time, making friends, living, learning, exploring places like Berlin, New York and Kyoto. His fascination with the cultures of China and Japan is well-known (and resulted in several books), and over the course of his career, he has immersed himself deeply into various aspects of cultural and art history, scientific ideas, and music, with a keen attention to detail and a dedication to historical accuracy. His collaborations with the German painter Max Neumann, and the Hungarian director Béla Tarr are integral parts of his life’s work (he has written a majority of the screenplays for Tarr’s movies). He has published books that include QR codes and links to music on YouTube or (when that was the existing technology) came bundled with a multimedia CD. In other words, his connection to musical and visual expressions are vital to his writing, and appear in several forms: as themes, as an interplay of image and text, as remarkable descriptive abilities or as an emphasis on tempo and musical sequencing.
This brings us to an often mentioned and central feature of his prose: the long sentence. Krasznahorkai has written books with various kinds of syntax, from the more traditional all the way to books that either have sentence-long chapters or, ultimately, consist of one sentence running the entire length of a novel. The long sentence is as much a stylistic device as it is an expression of a world view. It connects Krasznahorkai to such important writers of the recent past as Thomas Bernhard, W. G. Sebald and José Saramago, beyond his obvious debts to Gogol, Dostoevsky and Kafka. His prose is rhythmic, counter-punctual, and deeply connected to the pattern of human breath. It was written to be read out loud, and even if it is not read out loud (as most people read silently or with a voice only they can hear), it depends on the voice that emerges off the page, a voice that is a collaboration between the author, the narrator and the reader. The demand for attention from the reader, as mentioned earlier, is fairly high and certainly worth the effort.
For Hungarian readers, his work is available from the publishing house Magvető, and is always designed and typeset by József Pintér, in a consistent and thoughtful manner, with a similar page design and set in one of a few classic serif fonts (Jansen, Minion, and Kner Antikva). This is important both because of the high aesthetic quality and consistency of oeuvre that the physical books themselves represent, and also because the typographic design facilitates the ability of the reader to focus on the aforementioned voice. Further, this consistent design silently reinforces Krasznahorkai’s insistence on the demand of beauty in a world that he often characterizes (both in interviews and his prose) as nearing towards hopeless, bleak, in a way catastrophic.
He said in a recent interview that “I read too much Dostoevsky, when I was too young,” hence his early interest in the outsiders of society. After a lifetime of success in writing, and now as the recipient of the most prestigious literary award in the world, his personal status is as high as it can be, including in Hungary, where he is openly critical of Orbán and his regime, who had no choice but to publicly congratulate him for his award. Luckily for the readers of contemporary fiction, Krasznahorkai remains steadfast in his commitment to the art of his voice and in pursuit of the elusive beauty of truth.
Peter Nemes is a Senior Lecturer of International Studies at Indiana University, Bloomington. With a background in comparative literature, he teaches courses in cultural studies, with a focus on digital culture and cultural change.
This article is published under the sole responsibility of the author, with editorial oversight. The views expressed do not necessarily reflect those of the editorial team or the CEU Democracy Institute.
