Bence’s Book Nook by Bence Bógnar

László Krasznahorkai: Satantango

A Hungarian just won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and it’s an author I actually quite like, so it is only natural that I try to let you all know what Krasznahorkai is all about: devastation, decay, abandonment, and the apocalypse. Isn’t it uplifting? Still, it’d be difficult to argue against it befitting the increasingly pervasive attitudes of more and more people worldwide — and, maybe, if we read about just how bad things can be, we’ll do more to avoid it? Not sure; just a thought. Satantango may be the best example of indirectly apocalyptic novels that I’ve ever read. Set in a crumbling, destitute village in rural Hungary, hidden away from broader civilisation, it explores the petty meanness and apathy of the villagers, all the while following a conman who convinces them that he is a messianic figure (think Waiting for Godot, but Godot actually comes: what do you think he would do?). 

Structurally, the book imitates tango, hence the title. Its twelve chapters involve six steps “forward,” and six “backwards,” as the narrative is first built up, then slowly deconstructed. In general, if you’re looking for structural and formal quality, this is the book for you. Krasznahorkai’s language is heavy and extremely effective, not just in the original Hungarian, but the translation by George Szirtes is of high enough quality to have won the Best Translated Book Award in 2013, an uncommon twenty-eight years after the original’s publication.

It is not patriotism that makes me enthusiastic about Krasznahorkai’s work, but rather a combination of having known its quality ahead of time (“before it was cool”) and of wishing that his works were better known internationally. Satantango was my pick to recommend because it is still the most approachable of the author’s works (although the bar is quite high). Unlike the overwhelming, oppressive darkness of his later works, this novel still has its moments of humour and Kafkaesque dramatic irony. It is also the only book of his that has achieved some renown outside of Hungary, although not necessarily through its own virtue. Filmmaker Béla Tarr’s monumental seven-hour black-and-white adaptation of it – a work I’ve heard referred to as “the Joyce’s Ulysses of media studies” – is a daunting challenge to get through, signifying that one’s officially gotten too deep to turn around. Funnily enough, this reminds me once again of the plot of the novel, since by the time its (mostly unsympathetic, yet pitiful) characters realise something’s wrong, they cannot return where they came from. 

This plot understandably resonates with modern-day audiences, with most apocalypse narratives readable against the backdrop of global warming, of war and genocide, and above all, of turning a blind eye to all of it. However uncomfortable, these are all issues we must face sooner or later, which is exactly why I think it was this year that Krasznahorkai received the Nobel: perhaps his words have never been as relevant as they are today. I recommend you give them a shot.