The Vindication of László Krasznahorkai

As soon as László Krasznahorkai won the Nobel Prize in literature, I started getting congratulatory texts. Not because I have played any role in the Hungarian author’s success but because for years I have attempted, mostly unsuccessfully, to convert friends to his intricate charms. I keep a copy of Seiobo There Below next to my bed as a source of emergency bedtime balm; I have pictures of its three-pages-long first sentence in an email that I send to seemingly persuadable readers. I first read Krasznahorkai by accident, frozen in a bookstore and vulnerable to the holograph on Seiobo’s cover. As befits the cascading form of his novels and the fanatics among his characters, one book led to another and another and another. Except for those still only in Hungarian and the novella Animalinside (of which only 2,000 copies were printed, each costing $300), I have read every one of his books. I’ve wanted to write about him for years: about his style, his themes, his lonely acolytes. But until now, no one has been too interested.