László Krasznahorkai

George Szirtes

Stuck in the middle of nowhere during days of endless rain, a dozen inhabitants of an isolated hamlet share schemes, crimes, infidelities--and even some dancing--at a local watering hole.

Satantango

 is László Krasznahorkai’s postmodern novel about a run-down Hungarian estate and its past workers on the days leading up to the apocalypse, in a sense. The industry that had been operating on the estate was shut down, and its workers, now of no use to the government and thus left unattended, spend their days of damnation; drunkenness, unfaithfulness, prostitution, and neglect has became the norm, the people who stuck there fantasize of leaving, secretly resenting but at the same time desperately keeping to each other while 

rendered unable to “be the blacksmiths of their own fates”, as we say in Hungary

This is the state of things when rumour catches wind that Irimiás — a man who once brought the community to flourish then been presumed dead conveniently as things went south — has been resurrected, and is on his way back to the estate in what the workers blindly trusts is the embodiment of a prophet and messiah, He who will build them their Eden and break them out of this bleak existence. In reality, Irimiás is but a government informant, using and stringing them along for the sake of his assignment. 

This novel is, and pardon my bluntness, an intertextuality wet dream. As such, there’s a lot of lenses through which this novel can be examined and interpreted. Between the long-winded, paragraph-break-less sentences (this might be the turn off for some, but I wouldn’t worry about it — can’t speak for the English translation, but I heard George Szirtes made an amazing job keeping the text just as accessible, rhythmic, and picturesque as the original) countless allusions to the Bible and other philosophical reflections make their home, with nihilism becoming one of the most significant themes of the plot. Of course, since the whole thing has a tangible sense of decay to it — both the characters and their environment are stagnant and rotting from the inside out in the continuous autumn rainfall that never lets up for even a moment during this whole story. 

The narrative structure is also interesting; I know nothing of dance, as the chapters are referred to, let alone the specifics of tango. But we open and close with the ringing of bells, quite ominous since there’s no plausible source for the sound near the estate, and count up to six and then down to one until “the circle closes”. We have an omniscient narrator through it all, every single minute detail in the lives at the estate carefully recorded in a notebook, and it was executed flawlessly but often had me trying to keep up with whose head we are currently seeing into. Certain chapters are more dedicated to one character’s inner turmoil, but in most of them we are jumping around from mind to mind. 

All in all, despite my apprehension, since I used to think “What business do I have reading authors who are creative partners with Tarr and books that can be adapted into seven hour-long cult classic films?”, I was thoroughly entertained, even if I feel like this book didn’t particularly 

 to me. It has beautiful quotes, and interesting commentary on the human condition, society, and the effects of nihilism and the People’s Republic on life.

lambie

Satantango is László Krasznahorkai’s postmodern novel about a run-down Hungarian estate and its past workers on the days leading up to the apocalypse, in a sense. The industry that had been operating on the estate was shut down, and its workers, now of no use to the government and thus left unattended, spend their days of damnation; drunkenness, unfaithfulness, prostitution, and neglect has became the norm, the people who stuck there fantasize of leaving, secretly resenting but at the same time desperately keeping to each other while waiting for something to happen, rendered unable to “be the blacksmiths of their own fates”, as we say in Hungary.

This is the state of things when rumour catches wind that Irimiás — a man who once brought the community to flourish then been presumed dead conveniently as things went south — has been resurrected, and is on his way back to the estate in what the workers blindly trusts is the embodiment of a prophet and messiah, He who will build them their Eden and break them out of this bleak existence. In reality, Irimiás is but a government informant, using and stringing them along for the sake of his assignment. 

This novel is, and pardon my bluntness, an intertextuality wet dream. As such, there’s a lot of lenses through which this novel can be examined and interpreted. Between the long-winded, paragraph-break-less sentences (this might be the turn off for some, but I wouldn’t worry about it — can’t speak for the English translation, but I heard George Szirtes made an amazing job keeping the text just as accessible, rhythmic, and picturesque as the original) countless allusions to the Bible and other philosophical reflections make their home, with nihilism becoming one of the most significant themes of the plot. Of course, since the whole thing has a tangible sense of decay to it — both the characters and their environment are stagnant and rotting from the inside out in the continuous autumn rainfall that never lets up for even a moment during this whole story. 

The narrative structure is also interesting; I know nothing of dance, as the chapters are referred to, let alone the specifics of tango. But we open and close with the ringing of bells, quite ominous since there’s no plausible source for the sound near the estate, and count up to six and then down to one until “the circle closes”. We have an omniscient narrator through it all, every single minute detail in the lives at the estate carefully recorded in a notebook, and it was executed flawlessly but often had me trying to keep up with whose head we are currently seeing into. Certain chapters are more dedicated to one character’s inner turmoil, but in most of them we are jumping around from mind to mind. 

All in all, despite my apprehension, since I used to think “What business do I have reading authors who are creative partners with Tarr and books that can be adapted into seven hour-long cult classic films?”, I was thoroughly entertained, even if I feel like this book didn’t particularly speak to me. It has beautiful quotes, and interesting commentary on the human condition, society, and the effects of nihilism and the People’s Republic on life.

Satantango follows a once-prosperous agricultural estate that has now been long abandoned. The residents who remain are ‘stuck’, both physically and mentally, and spend their days in squalor, drinking, cheating, and commiting petty crimes. Decay is omnipotent, it's rare to not see a chapter where wood isn’t rotting, cobwebs aren’t being spun, foliage overgrowing, mud and rain not reclaiming the earth. But there is suddenly hope, the great figure of Irimias, a former resident once presumed dead, has seemingly been resurrected, and is returning to the estate to offer ‘salvation.’

I will say first that this is not an easy read. You will instantly notice there are no line breaks in this novel. Every chapter is one continuous paragraph written in a constantly head hopping third-person omniscient perspective; description, dialogue and thought all mixes into one long delerious stream-of-consciousness. It is not a book I would recommend if you're not into that kind of thing or find that difficult. 

If you're sick like me though and you love “To The Lighthouse” and kind of lives for this modernist style, Satantango has some of the most incredible prose writing I've ever read. Sentences don't drag on but they sing, and they're intoxicating in a way that isn't pretentuous, largely due to the prose being mixed with this crude, lowbrow, Eastern Bloc humour where pretty much every character is completely farcical and Krasznahorkai has no pretensions of making characters relatable or empathetic.

I don't think I've ever smiled and laughed out loud more in reading any other book. It's a kind of slapstick comedy you barely find in writing and so much better than any book that pens itself to be ‘comedic.’

Writing an omniscient narrator is, of course, no easy task, and I was extremely impressed with Krasznahorkai’s ability to embody dozens of different ‘heads’ in a way where each perspective felt it had a distinct voice. The best example of this were the characters of The Doctor, who inhabits a terrifying alcoholic obsessive compulsive view of the world in which everything is meticulously recorded and monitored; and Esti, a young girl who is shocked into a constant passive panic reatly due to the consistent abuse of her family. Just two of many diametrically opposing characters who Krasznahorkai offers up with complete empathy and nonjudgment.

The beauty of the novel is that alongside the style and humour there is a large philosophical undertow regarding fate and determinism—questioning whether being ‘stuck’ is any worse than blindly binding yourself to a movement, being constantly in its whims; and a sociological dimension regarding poverty, tragedy, and its relation to one’s willingness to give oneself up to a cultish, charismatic strongman. Satantango is not polemical but still presents an important message.

Highly recommended. I will definitely be reading more of his books.

shain

Satantango follows a once-prosperous agricultural estate that has now been long abandoned. The residents who remain are ‘stuck’, both physically and mentally, and spend their days in squalor, drinking, cheating, and commiting petty crimes. Decay is omnipotent, it's rare to not see a chapter where wood isn’t rotting, cobwebs aren’t being spun, foliage overgrowing, mud and rain not reclaiming the earth. But there is suddenly hope, the great figure of Irimias, a former resident once presumed dead, has seemingly been resurrected, and is returning to the estate to offer ‘salvation.’

I will say first that this is not an easy read. You will instantly notice there are no line breaks in this novel. Every chapter is one continuous paragraph written in a constantly head hopping third-person omniscient perspective; description, dialogue and thought all mixes into one long delerious stream-of-consciousness. It is not a book I would recommend if you're not into that kind of thing or find that difficult. 

If you're sick like me though and you love “To The Lighthouse” and kind of lives for this modernist style, Satantango has some of the most incredible prose writing I've ever read. Sentences don't drag on but they sing, and they're intoxicating in a way that isn't pretentuous, largely due to the prose being mixed with this crude, lowbrow, Eastern Bloc humour where pretty much every character is completely farcical and Krasznahorkai has no pretensions of making characters relatable or empathetic.

I don't think I've ever smiled and laughed out loud more in reading any other book. It's a kind of slapstick comedy you barely find in writing and so much better than any book that pens itself to be ‘comedic.’

Writing an omniscient narrator is, of course, no easy task, and I was extremely impressed with Krasznahorkai’s ability to embody dozens of different ‘heads’ in a way where each perspective felt it had a distinct voice. The best example of this were the characters of The Doctor, who inhabits a terrifying alcoholic obsessive compulsive view of the world in which everything is meticulously recorded and monitored; and Esti, a young girl who is shocked into a constant passive panic reatly due to the consistent abuse of her family. Just two of many diametrically opposing characters who Krasznahorkai offers up with complete empathy and nonjudgment.

The beauty of the novel is that alongside the style and humour there is a large philosophical undertow regarding fate and determinism—questioning whether being ‘stuck’ is any worse than blindly binding yourself to a movement, being constantly in its whims; and a sociological dimension regarding poverty, tragedy, and its relation to one’s willingness to give oneself up to a cultish, charismatic strongman. Satantango is not polemical but still presents an important message.

Highly recommended. I will definitely be reading more of his books.

Anthony Sabourin

This book has a reputation for difficulty, and, I mean, flip through it, it's page after page of unbroken text. Barbed wire type runs down every page, unceasing. And it looks intimidating, or rather I was intimidated, but it's a book and you read it a page at a time, and it is maybe like walking outside in the rain, or into a cave - it's wet, and the rain is so furious you cannot help but laugh, or it's so dark that you cannot see, but your other senses sharpen and a different world reveals itself. By turns hopeless, bleak, bleakly funny, and transcendent, I recommend it highly.

Satantango

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