O retorno do Barão de Wenckheim

by László Krasznahorkai, Zsuzsanna Spiry (Translator)

Publicado em 2016, O retorno do Barão de Wenckheim é uma espécie de desfecho magistral para o universo colocado em marcha em Sátántangó.

Após décadas de exílio na Argentina, um velho aristocrata arruinado por dívidas de jogo, o barão Béla Wenckheim, regressa à sua cidade natal, uma localidade húngara perdida no mapa e mergulhada em poeira, loucura e ressentimento.

Os habitantes, desesperados, projetam no Barão a figura de um salvador, alguém que poderá trazer redenção e prosperidade ao lugar. Em meio a vigaristas de toda ordem, uma gangue de motociclistas e um professor recluso que observa o mundo em colapso com ironia e terror, o que vemos é a chegada de um homem cansado, que só deseja reencontrar seu amor de juventude, e talvez, num gesto derradeiro, reconciliar-se com o mundo.

Riso, vertigem e devastação se combinam numa inesquecível polifonia de vozes orquestrada por um dos autores fundamentais do nosso tempo, aquele a quem Susan Sontag chamou de "o mestre húngaro do apocalipse".

Genres: Fiction, Hungary, Hungarian Literature, Literature, Literary Fiction, Historical Fiction, Novels

512 pages, Paperback

First published September 14, 2016

About the author

László Krasznahorkai is a Hungarian novelist and screenwriter who is known for critically difficult and demanding novels, often labelled as postmodern, with dystopian and bleak melancholic themes. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2025.

He is probably best known through the oeuvre of the director Béla Tarr, who has collaborated with him on several movies.

Apart from the Nobel Prize, Krasznahorkai has also been honored with numerous literary prizes, among them the highest award of the Hungarian state, the Kossuth Prize, and the 2015 Man Booker International Prize for his English-translated oeuvre.

Reviews

[Chris Molnar · Rating 5 out of 5]

On the surface, this is Satantango for the Viktor Orbán era. Instead of a dismal Hungarian village in the late-Communist 1980s, it's a dismal Hungarian village in the proto-Fascist 2010s, and instead of a criminal returning home as a prophet who unites the craven villagers, it's the titular fuck-up and minor nobility.

The book is much longer, though, with many more characters and plot threads, and Krasznahorkai has shed the oblique modernism that made his early work so timeless and eerie. There is Pynchonesque humor, action and plot mechanics, combined with a feeling of societal direct address, even without mentioning larger political forces or much of anything outside of one tiny village.

If this is his last book, as he has insinuated, it would be a brave way to go. There is something strangely vulnerable about an apocalyptic visionary attempting to use his methods on the soul-sucking disillusionment of late capitalism. In any Krasznahorkai story, the random effects of ignorance, naivete, beauty, cravenness and evil create endless sparkling moments of tragedy and comedy that feel sharp and real beyond the capabilities of any other living writer. Pulled into a present day of idiotic tabloids, anti-human austerity and free-floating nationalist groupthink, the gears of primal shame, hope and fear that drive his work are suddenly revealed, and revealed to be tragically utopian in a way he could have never predicted.

Because he believes in such a deep way that these are the motors that drive humanity, he isn't able to truly reckon with the post-shame, post-hope, post-fear world we live in, dominated by subhuman grotesques like Trump, Boris Johnson, or Orbán. But rather than rendering this unspeakably urgent text less effective, it makes his commitment to the idea that power can be shamed, that hope can be harnessed and that fear is our inner demon plangent and perversely hopeful.

His books have ended with such downers as an infinite loop (Satantango) or the step-by-step decomposition of a body (The Melancholy of Resistance), but here, as he tries to outdo himself once and for all, with a Grand Guignol of torment, destruction, and vitriolic condemnations of main characters, Hungarians, humanity, and perhaps himself too - there sprouts hope for the next generation of thinkers, writers and people, perhaps against his own intention, one that has always been buried right under the surface of any of his sentences, a curiosity about everything and everyone, a belief that even the most abject or soulless among us has an interest, a love, a best self that they wish more than anything they could run back to.

These moments of heart-wrenching, strange yet absolutely familiar Being are as viscerally powerful, as viscerally human as anything he's written before, and written in the context of so many characters (every paragraph moves effortlessly between different close-third narrators). A Nazi biker gang playing the theme from Evita on their horns in competition with a choir; a homeless encampment burning and pissing on priceless clothes; a deadbeat professor hiding from his daughter in a gun-filled shack; a town full of silent tanker trucks at dawn; escaped orphans rejecting said Nazi gang to become white rappers; a disabled child singing from a water tower as the world burns. Béla Tarr obviously needs to come out of retirement to film this as television show, which would challenge him to add a strong dose of Quentin Tarantino and Roy Andersson, and which would be the only use of the medium that could possibly compete with Lynch.

This ability to draw multitudinous, interconnected lives, and make every single one feel absurd and tragic in a human way is what makes him the greatest living novelist in any language. It's also what makes fiction so necessary and so powerful in these end times - that in scenarios, in characters, in language we can see the absolute worth in existence (something the Baron tries to find in so many words as he takes a walk with an extremely famous real-life person in the one cameo from the outside world), the reason to keep thinking, to keep working, to truly believe in the seriousness of our situation and to work against those who would trivialize it.

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Before the beginning some unknown authority gives intimidating directives to the orchestra…

I don’t like music, namely I don’t like at all what we are about to bring together here now, I confess, because I’m the one who is supervising everything here, I am the one – not creating anything – but who is simply present before every sound, because I am the one who, by the truth of God, is simply waiting for all of this to be over.

And musicians commence playing… And characters start dancing…
The first pas is performed by an angry professor shooting at the besieging journalists and his illegitimate daughter…

If she has a strategy, he hissed, his brain darkened over, then I have my rifle, and not only do I not give a fuck about her big strategy, but I’m going to blow it to pieces, and still he waited a few moments, but only so he could look over all of the magazines he’d prepared, and double-check the cartridges which he then put back into the weapon with a single confident movement…

Then the leader of the local nazi bikers appears on his doorstep and tells the professor that he is under their protection… Everything is unstable and tumult is all around… And there are rumours that Baron returns home from exile…

…life is going to change because the Baron is coming home, and everyone is saying how everything will be different when the Baron gets here, and supposedly he’s on the train already, and they’re saying that they saw him in Pest or somewhere, and that he’s surely on the train, the Baron, life-size…

However Baron is already quite old: “between eighty-something and death, but looking good…” And he is defined by an accidental witness as a spaz… But on returnig he dreams to meet the love of his youth…
Of hoofers there are plenty… So the narration is a real dance floor…
Baron arrives and his arrival turns into an absurdist pandemonium…

…he suddenly heard the bikers blowing that Madonna tune randomly on their motorcycle horns, and then the women’s chorus – as if this had been their sign – started in on the same song, at which point the crowd began to yell all kinds of things, but not what he’d instructed them beforehand to call out from his megaphone, instead some were yelling: long live the Baron, some were yelling: welcome, others were screaming: bravo, yet others were yelling: well hail!

The dance of history isn’t a ballroom cotillion, it is a manic rock and roll.

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 5 out of 5]

From the winner of the 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature

so, the professor then yelled, because it had taken him that long to collect all the oxygen that was needed for the manifestation of his first indignation, you’ll be opening with the Satantango, the Satantango, and now he was roaring, which frightened the three emissaries so much that they slowly took a step backward, in case they had to clear out of there quickly, say it once again, Satantango, the professor rattled hoarsely in a frightening voice, and they didn’t dare to speak

In 2018, Laszlo Krasznahorkai told the Paris Review’s Art of Fiction Series (https://www.theparisreview.org/interv...

I always wanted to write just one book. I wasn’t satisfied with the first, and that’s why I wrote the second. I wasn’t satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story. With this novel I can prove that I really wrote just one book in my life. This is the book—Satantango, Melancholy,War and War, and Baron. This is my one book.

Those four novels are:
- Sátántangó, 1985 – translated by as Satantango (2012);
- Az ellenállás melankóliája, 1989 – translated by George Szirtes as The Melancholy of Resistance (2002);
- Háború és háború, 1999 – translated by George Szirtes as War & War (2006); and
- Báró Wenckheim hazatér, 2016 – translated by Ottilie Mulzet as Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming (2019)

Set in a Hungarian town near to the border with Romania (not named but based on the real-life Gyula, also featured in the other books), Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming switches between the perspective of a rich cast of multiple narrators, the narrator changing with each new paragraph (the paragraphs themselves often lengthy, and single sentences).

It opens with the perspective of a Professor he to whom everyone in this town referred with the greatest devotion as an internationally renowned and learned professor for his so-called international, more over, world-famous investigations into mosses.

But the Professor (whose popularity isn’t as universal as the previous sentence suggests – elsewhere he is referred to as a sanctimonious swindler unjustifiably basking in his own renown, a petty moss forager) has renounced society, leaving the town to live in a makeshift shelter in the middle of thorn bushes, where we can carry out his Bernhardian project of “thought immunisation” exercises.

I never cease repeating it yet again and again and again, in general, because as it may have occured to you, I am fond of repetition, because repetititon stupifies, and this stupifaction is greatly needed for the emergence or the birth of intuition

As the novel opens, his biological daughter has come to find him, demanding maintenance and recognition, and, as the press gathers, the Professor takes matters into his own hands, shooting at the crowd with an illicit machine gun. This is turn earns him what seems to be a admiring visit from a motorcycle gang:

once, maybe a year ago, when somebody back there in town had begun cursing them in a conversation, he had somehow come to their defence, saying that now, when the central government in the capital city was nothing more than a mere formality, when every locality in this unhappy country, sunk into destitution, was completely left to its own devices – when they had all been left to the mercy of frauds, robbers, plunderers, and murderers—then the formation and activities of such a group should instead be welcomed, that's exactly what he deigned to say, and by now he had regretted it exactly seven times, but afterward there was nothing he could do, indeed, he had to bear it when the news of his words quickly spread, and to his greatest surprise one day later in front of his house at the time, there in the old German Quarter, somebody had placed a gift parcel in front of his door, a gift parcel which was for him the most useless, senseless, and confused gift that could ever have existed, because in it all jumbled together were a bottle of men's shampoo, chocolate, a map of Greater Hungry, smuggled cognac, a cheap quartz watch, a bundle of matches, and a few old newspapers from 1944 with certain sentences underlined in red, as well as one single rose placed at the top of the package, he remembered this very precisely, but at that time he didn't think that they would somehow be relying on him, that they would be keeping an eye on him, and be treating him as some kind of intellectual reference point, moreover, because of yesterday's events they were now celebrating him as a kind of hero, because from the confused words of this hick King Kong it appeared that these certain events, namely, his own role in these events yesterday, in a harebrained fashion, had made him a noble figure in their eyes and no matter how he tried to approach this, he couldn't explain it by any other means, only by the fact that they were lunatics, a public danger, and there was no point in trying to hypothesize any rational or logical motives for their activities, because this posse—the Professor stared at the Hungarocell panel with rounded eyes—were simply sick psychopaths, and vile to such a degree that only the worst could be expected from them, just as he only expected the worst, and precisely because of this he had to do something, because this role which accordingly they had attributed to him could easily turn fatal

And indeed their visit turns out to be less in admiration and more in search of where he had obtained the weapon – as it is from their own secret stash – leading to a bloody confrontation.

Meanwhile in the town attention has switched to another celebrity, the eponymous Baron. His aristocratic family have facilitated his departure from Argentina, where he has lived for many years, to avoid his imprisonment for gambling debts, and he returns to the town, his childhood home.

people were saying that somebody was arriving, somebody for whom they had been waiting a long time, and that everything had changed, everything today was different than it had been yesterday, so that everyone was staking everything on tomorrow, he said

The townspeople are convinced that he is returning with fabulous wealth to transform their fortunes and restore the impoverished town , and the Mayor, Chief of Police, the Editor of the local newspaper, the leader of the motorcycle gang and other local worthies all compete to offer the most effusive greeting and elaborate speech when he disembarks from the train.

Another less-renowned local, a swindler who runs the local chain of slot machines, gets in first, approaching the Baron on the train and worming his way into his confidence as his assistant. He goes by the nickname of Dante – but, to the Baron’s bemusement, not the author of the Divine Comedy, but rather the (2012-15) Bayern Munich defender, famed for his haircut: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante...

[And indeed, while Satantango was set in a Communist-era Hungary that felt mired in time, this is, unusually, a Krasznahorkai novel where the characters have iphones.]

But in reality, the Baron is a naïve, Prince Myshkin-like character, bankrupt, with only the thousand euros spending money given to him by his relatives, and returning with no aim other than seeking out his former love from 40-50 years earlier (who he then singularly fails to recognise, in his naivety seeming to forget she will have aged as he has).

And visiting the town, and the novel, twice, fleetingingly and mysteriously, a devil-like character travelling in a procession of cars, twice signals that things are unlikely to end well, with the novel proceeds to an apocalyptic conclusion.

his infinite number of vehicles, glimpsed from a closer perspective, seemed to belong to some kind of otherworldly army than any actual procession of cars, and they moved across the city with extraordinary speed, but nobody said this, everyone kept it to themselves

A fitting end to a magnificent project – David Auerbach’s brilliant essay at Music and Literature explains the links and themes that run through four very different novels: http://www.musicandliterature.org/rev...

[María Carpio · Rating 5 out of 5]

***Actualización post-Nobel: ¡Ganó Krasznahorkai! Esta era mi principal apuesta. premio totalmente merecido. siento que no alabé lo suficiente esta su última novela en mi reseña, así que con mi emoción por el premio va mi halago a esta tremenda novela***

Aquí todo parece empezar a girar a una velocidad en un principio imperceptible, que luego se va acelerando y todas las cosas, gente, animales, objetos, todo, sale despedido hacia el infinito. Ojo que no es una acción literal que suceda en la novela, es sólo una percepción sobre la sensación que subyace a la trama. El orden poco a poco va entregándose a la entropía, y a ese universo literario de Krasznahorkai, que clama desesperadamente por un sentido. Aunque la desesperación en esta novela es menos oscura y densa, quizás más ligera, tal vez, paradójicamente, más ordenada.

Parecería que estamos en el mismo pueblo devastado y vetusto de ‘Tango satánico’, y, de hecho, las referencias están dentro de ambos libros (el Castillo Wenckheim en ‘Tango Satánico’ y el baile del tango satánico en esta novela), y hasta podría ser una continuación de aquello que quedó suspendido en la primera novela. Pero lo cierto es que aunque la atmósfera es similar, y por ahí aparece el nombre de uno de los personajes (Eszter), en realidad no hay una línea cierta de continuidad en trama y personajes, aunque quizás sea posible una especie de refundación sobre el mismo lugar. Casi como un sitio arqueológico emplazado sobre otro sitio arqueológico. Porque la amenaza de la aniquilación está siempre, en ambas novelas.

Y tras esa atracción hacia la desintegración, desde el plano existencial-filosófico, pero encarnado en la acción a través del argumento de esta novela, es que aparece el Barón Wenckheim como una especie de presencia fantasmagórica aunque real de un pasado pomposo y aristocrático que ya no existe. El barón llega a su pueblo natal en Hungría después de haber vivido casi toda su vida en Argentina, y se convierte sin quererlo en una especie de mesías del progreso. Con él vendrán dinero e inversiones para mejorar al pueblo. Pero todo son rumores. Hay que recibir al barón con toda la ceremonia aparatosa y grandilocuente que se merece. Todo se pone patas arriba. Y el barón es apenas una sombra de sí mismo que apenas puede hablar. Viene a ver a su primer amor, dice, pero ni siquiera la reconoce. Ella ya es una anciana igual que él.

Y en otro plano existencial, el que abre el libro, el de la razón y el absurdo, la lucidez y la locura, está el profesor experto en una minucia que empieza a carecer de sentido: los musgos. Se retira a una cabaña para tratar de entender cómo funciona el mundo, la sociedad, la realidad. Casi una neurosis. La irrupción de su hija no deseada en su aislamiento desata una tormenta mediática que pronto será reemplazada y olvidada por la llegada del Barón. Luego, todo será desplazado y fulminado. El ritmo de lo fortuito y absurdo envolverán al pueblo en un halo de tragedia, y los acontecimientos empezarán a ocurrir sin motivo aparente, sin explicación alguna. El Barón era casi un heraldo de la destrucción. Pero dentro de lo aparentemente oscuro y terrible está siempre ese tono satírico y un peculiar humor de lo desconcertante.

Si hay alguna metáfora clara desde lo histórico es quizás la misma de ‘Tango satánico’: el post-comunismo y el anhelo mesiánico de salvación, de un rumbo cierto, de redención. También tiene paralelismos y semejanzas con otra de sus novelas, 'Melancolía de la resistencia'. La misma pulsión de caos y absurdo. Salvo que esta novela está escrita y emplazada en el tiempo actual, y aunque la desesperanza se grafica en menor importancia, la fuerza de la entropía termina siendo incluso más intensa, más devastadora.

El estilo de Krasznahorkai es el mismo del resto de su obra, largas oraciones y párrafos interminables, pero con una cadencia casi lírica, un ritmo que fluye en la oralidad de las palabras, que casi es necesaria una lectura en voz alta en varios párrafos. El narrador es omnisciente pero pasa de un personaje a otro en movimientos apenas perceptibles, con una destreza tal que las voces y las conciencias parecerían ser la continuación las unas de las otras. Estas múltiples voces, aunque con un sólo narrador, la convierten en una novela casi coral, con intrincadas relaciones entre unos personajes y otros. Pero en medio de ello, el barón es una presencia no-presencia, es como la dilución de un ser y está presente en la novela casi como un eco. Conocemos su conciencia interior sólo en un pasaje en el que recuerda aquella vez que, sin saberlo, se encontró en una calle desierta de madrugada en Buenos Aires con el arzobispo Jorge Bergoglio, quien tenía una inquietud casi herética: “¿Cómo era posible que una cosa buena no sea suficiente para el bien, pero una cosa mala es suficiente para el mal”. Años más tarde el barón supo que ese sacerdote se convirtió en el Papa Francisco y entonces se dijo que de saberlo le hubiese preguntado: “¿por qué tenía yo que vivir?”. Esta escena es definitiva y definitoria de todo lo que abarca la novela y quizás, halla su significado más profundo en esas dos preguntas que no puede resolver y que se desbordan y explotan en una rueda de incoherencias que devuelven solo lo inexplicable de la existencia. Gran novela.

P.D. Esta es otra novela en la que hay una escena de tiempo paralizado como en 'Recuerdos del porvenir' de Elena Garro, y 'La mirada del ángel' de Thomas Wolfe.

[sean]

In the winter of 2019 I was lucky enough to see a restored print of Bela Tarr's Sátantángo—his eight hour film adaptation of Krasznahorkai's novel of the same name—played at the Astor Theatre as part of the Melbourne International Film Festival. I had read the book a few weeks earlier and had developed an obsession with Krasznahorkai, quickly moving onto Seiobo There Below and War and War. The film ran from 10am to 6pm, and we were given two intermissions. After it ended, I walked around Chapel Street trying to find something to eat, or something to do, or someone to talk to. I wasn't sure. Finally I got in the car to drive home, across town, but I could barely focus on the road, and had to tune into a football match on the radio to keep my mind tethered to reality, so I wouldn't drive off the freeway. All this sounds like a bit much, maybe. But having had some time to process it, I am convinced that Krasznahorkai (who wrote the film's screenplay) is one of the only artists alive who can meaningfully grapple with a world whose spirit is gone but whose body remains. I say that because I've never seen a film that has impaired my ability to drive before.

Baron encapsulates the other three novels in its quartet, but goes beyond them at the same time. It sees Krasznahorkai using a voice he has not quite used before. The sentences are still long, and the pages still look like solid bricks of text, but the world is more recognisably ours. Though its inhabitants are just as doomed, the city of Baron doesn't quite resemble the muddy, rained-out hamlet of Satantango: characters watch seasons of The Real World, there are copies of Danielle Steel novels lying around, neo-Nazi bikers maraud the country, and the politicians appear more like used car salesmen than ideologues. The humour of it is—and I know how overused this comparison is, but I'm making it—very much like Pynchon, and its tenor is much lighter than previous books. (And the last section of Baron closely parallels the finale of Gravity's Rainbow, down to its final lines...)

This would make it easy to say that Baron is his most accessible work, but that would be doing it a disservice. It is less inscrutable than Satantango or The Melancholy of Resistance, but it is dizzying to read, circling between narratives and stubbornly refusing to name characters. Its several lengthy monologues are very bleak, and its finale is fittingly apocalyptic. But it is an astounding book, and if it is K's final novel, it will confirm him as one of the best novelists of the last 50 years.

[Katia N]

Reading this novel, the longest I’ve read by Krasznahorkai so far, made me ask myself again: why do i read fiction. In my younger days, i did not even ask myself this question: i’ve just devoured books. But after a certain critical mass of uncritical reading one starts to asking. And the answer is not set in stone. However, i can just about articulate my current thinking: I am not looking for a story, or characters, or a theme or even a “universal message” anymore. I read to be amazed by an experiment in style, the depth of ideas and the ability to seamlessly combine them with more conventional elements; the craft of a sentence, language, poetry and timelessness. I read for the author to hit me with something that i would never imagine possible to do with the words on paper; ideally with something i have not seen before. If it has to be a plot i value the unpredictability, the ability to surprise and subvert, not the conventional “story arc”, please or a variation there of. In other words, currently in my reading of fiction i am looking for a work of art. Ideally, as someone else said: “something speaks to me in this book, i am not sure what, i am struggling expressing it in words, but i want to tell everyone about it.” If this is a very high bar, then at minimum i would want to be able to appreciate what the author does differently not only from millions of other authors, but also from his prior work.

In his early essay , “The superstitious Ethics of the Reader” (1931) Borges said:

The impoverished condition of our literature, its incapacity to attract readers, has produced a superstition about style, an inattentive reading that favours certain affectations. Those who condone this superstition reckon that style is not the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a certain page but rather the writer’s apparent skills: his analogies, acoustics, the rhythm of his syntax or punctuation. They are indifferent to their own convictions or feelings, and seek techniques that will inform them whether or not this reading matter has the right to please them.

So why i am talking about all of this and quoting Borges before i got to anything to say about this novel? Borges has perfectly articulated my lack of satisfaction with the book. You might think i contradict myself as I’ve just mentioned how important the style is for me. And this book is written in a style, characteristic of the author and very different from the mainstream. But there is no contradiction there. The style is “effective” not due to the punctuation or the lack of it, but by bringing up in me some new “convictions or feelings” pertinent to this particular work.

Expectations play role of course. They were justifiably high for the writer of such a caliber and fame. Moreover, he did deliver in all three previous novels from this “quartet”. But this last instalment did not bring anything new to table in comparison with those three previous books. In fairness, Krasznahorkai himself acknowledged in his interview that he was writing the same book again and again all four times.

I've said it a thousand times that I always wanted to write just one book. I wasn't satisfied with the first, and that's why I wrote the second. I wasn't satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story.

Broadly the story “to close”, as far as I understood it, was a story of existential apocalypses combined with the elements of a bitter satire told in very long sentences, usually monologues by the one of characters. However, each of previous three novels has contributed something incrementally new both in terms of the basic conflict at the core of the plot and in a way how the novel was written. I’ve reviewed all three of them here on GR, so i do not want to come back to what made them unique. This book however did not bring anything new. It indeed “closed the story” dramatically and unambiguously. But by this act it took the breathing space out of it. In terms of the plot, it replaced open endings of the previous books with solidity of a long chain of dramatic events. But somehow in spite of vivid imagery, actions etc., the last few chapters felt long-winded, predictable and strangely lacking drama. The long awaited apocalypses when it came was rather tedious, almost cosy and seemingly affected only one small geographical locality. It looks like in this novel Kraz dialled down his usual existential angst tilting the balance towards a satire. If his previous works were palpably inspired by Dostoyevsky (“Melancholy of resistance”- especially), this time around the novel is closer to Bernhard in his angriest and angstiest. The highlight of the second part (that generally lacked dynamism of the first to me) was a few pages diatribe about the Hungarians as a nation with their numerous and profound character inadequacies from greed to envy and everything in between. Though i had to admit that i experienced a bit of a guilty pleasure reading it considering the current political context.

The style also lacked the boldness of the experiment i loved so much in the previous novels. The sentences were as long as before. But they seem to lose some elegance. In spite lacking full stops on the page, it was not difficult to parse them into a smaller sentences inside my head. The majority of them were just a sequence of clauses missing a full stop in between. That resulted in a disappointedly accessible reading experience (of course compared to his previous novels where i needed to re-read a sentence a few times to admire not only a thought it delivered, but its structure). He used a kaleidoscopic technique from ‘War&War” when each part of the text is told from the closed third point of view of a character. Some of them are reappearing, but many are in more episodic roles that the others. So the readers observe the story progressing from different points of view. The technique was well crafted, but even this has missed the virtuosity of “War&War” when we would have a few unreliable narrators, often up to three steps removed from the events and with more distinctive voices.

Again like in previous books, there was a serving of philosophic musings. Here they belong to the Professor, not unlike the character in “Melancholy of resistance”, but seemingly more nihilistic and more energetic one. But this Professor was at the stage when he was against thinking. So he limited his contemplation to two hours a day to “immunise” himself from thinking in any other time. Instead he has become refreshingly a man of actions. Even if he was not sure how to hold the gun, he was rapidly and successfully gaining the proficiency in that department filling the plot with noisy bonkers actions all Tarantino. But nothing comes without the price. His philosophising has appeared to be somewhat muddled, contradictory and occasionally a bit shallow. In previous books, I loved those philosophical digressions and revelations Krasznahorkai assigned to his characters. Here, I worked hard to decipher the sentences, but the results often disappointed me. The example:

...now we are returning to the question of quantity, and let’s say that only finite quantities exist, as infinite quantities do not exist, well, so there are finite qualities, as surely the idea of an infinite quality is nonsense; every process, event, and instance is exclusively finite, everything that takes place in the so-called universe is finite: it has a beginning and an end—or at least it appears that way to the brain of a human being, that’s how it appears to be, and it doesn’t matter at all where we are positioned on one of the various observational stages, there’s only that which takes place, there’s no other way to express it, this wording is, of course, arbitrary, but every wording is always arbitrary in the fullest measure; if anything exists at all, and we subsequently term this as the Great Flow of Being—then that is truly what takes place … the mere word “nothing”—or not even that, I’ll express it better—simply the sentence “there is nothing” is in and of itself unintelligible, because only that which exists can be named, that which exists, however, is never extant, because nothing is extant, only that which takes place, and in this Great Flow there is nothing outside of itself, and—and this is the essential point—there is nothing within itself, either!!!—this is why we can only state—that yes, the only thing that exists is a YES; that, however, can’t be expanded, expansion is a process in our brain, I would mention this again, because I never cease repeating it yet again and again and again, in general, because as it may have occurred to you, I am fond of repetition, because repetition stupefies, and this stupefaction is greatly needed for the emergence or the birth of intuition—call it what you want, well, never mind, let’s leave this,..

So we travel a few circles, trying to penetrate through this forest of words to come to the conclusion that only thing that exists is YES. But then we were also giving a way out of it “never mind, let’s leave this”.. Apart from word’s labyrinth, philosophically there is not much new either in this book: the same old complaints about the limitation of scientific method, limitation of language, inability of brain to reflect the reality. Krasznahorkai introduced Cantor. And i was anticipating he would use him for a good purpose. But his Professor seemed to lose track of his thought on that as well.

In general, this is the least successful novel by him I’ve read, a paler and extended compilation of his earlier improvisations of the topic. I plan to read more of his earlier work. But i am weary of his novel Herscht 07769 just published in English. I have a feeling that it would be another reiteration of this one satirising a different geographical locality but a similar sinister social malady. And the life at the moment is richer than fiction in this respect.

[Yiannis · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ο Κρασναχορκάι είναι υπέροχος.

[Antonio Luis · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cómo lo he disfrutado y cuántas ganas tenía de disfrutar una obra redonda de Krasznahorkai porque la anterior me dejó un gusto amargo. En esta me he divertido como si fuera un juguete. El valor que para mí como lector tiene esto es incalculable.

Cada capítulo es una maravilla de ironía, de estilo, de inteligencia. La llegada del barón, la reacción de los vecinos y mil detalles de dobles sentidos desde diversas perspectivas que se entretejen de esa forma tan brillante y resultan tan reales.
Es una narración muy divertida, inmersiva, aunque también muy oscura, extraña, y brillantemente escrita.

Krasznahorkai tiene una capacidad visionaria increíble y cada historia bien podría entenderse como una reflexión trascendental sobre la naturaleza humana, el tiempo, la decadencia y la búsqueda de sentido.

Este autor, como ocurre con Cartarescu o Gospodinov, consigue ubicar con facilidad lo que nos narra a partir de la descomposición de los regímenes comunistas de Europa del Este, pero lo convierte en un paradigma universal como símbolo del colapso de nuestra sociedad contemporánea, no sabría cómo explicarlo, visto que no puede haber un mundo bueno para los buenos o castigo para los malos ya sin utopías posibles queda un vacío que se llena del interés instantáneo que persiga el más listo o aprovechado, en términos de sociedad no hay progreso alguno.

En Krasznahorkai es especialmente simbólico, ya en Tango Satánico revelaba con claridad la esperanza frustrada en esa figura mesiánica que en realidad es incapaz de cumplir las expectativas de una sociedad fallida, de instituciones inútiles, sin posibilidad de progreso. Pero en este barón Wenckheim el simbolismo de personajes es espectacular, y lo consigue con una escritura torrencial y soberbia, con frases largas de páginas enteras, y personajes memorables, arquetipos caricaturizados de la sociedad local que al mismo tiempo son universalmente válidos, es inevitable pensar en el alcalde o en el concejal de festejos de cualquier pueblo, o figuras públicas perfectamente reconocibles que se mueven entre lo absurdo y lo trágico y resultan totalmente reales, especialmente el Barón, un hombre ya fuera de su tiempo al que no puede adaptarse ni comprenderlo, en una representación casi teatral en cuanto a roles o papeles, repleta de un humor negro, cargado de cinismo, que facilita la comprensión de la visión bastante pesimista del autor, y desde luego la distiende y la canaliza a una narración como poco muy amena.

La atmósfera que crea a la llegada del barón es soberbia, brillante, animada y surrealista, casi distópica en cuanto a su encaje en una sociedad donde todo valor ha desaparecido, con ocasión para una celebración cómico-trágica que conducirá a una serie de desastres y culminará en un final que lo arrollará todo, reflejando una naturaleza humana sedienta de poder y riqueza, la sociedad que hemos creado, toleramos y mantenemos.

[Javier Ventura · Rating 4 out of 5]

Primer acercamiento al particular universo literario de Krasznahorkai. El resultado ha sido muy satisfactorio, pero mentiría si no reconociera que la lectura me ha dejado exhausto. La forma de escribir del autor húngaro es densa, retorcida y laberíntica. Me ha recordado mucho en la forma, que no en el contenido a Thomas Bernhard. Las frases son largas y repetitivas, los párrafos enormes (absténgase los que evitan los ladrillos). Dos líneas argumentales principales, desarrolladas de forma fragmentaria que confluyen hacia el final. Una atmósfera que se respira enrarecida y que evoluciona hacia una decadencia irremisible. Pero el camino nos deja a pesar de todo episodios divertidos intercalados con otros más oscuros y digresiones fatalistas sobre una sociedad que se derrumba.
A pesar de la exigencia del texto, la recompensa es indudable. Una novela y un autor que juegan en la liga de los escritores extraordinarios, y que si no califico con 5 estrellas, es por su excesiva dificultad.
4.5

[Titi Coolda · Rating 5 out of 5]

Toate stelele cerului i-aș fi dat cărții ăsteia. Efectiv m-a secat. Nu pot pune, deocamdată, mâna pe-o altă carte. Am încercat. Tyll. Încă nu mă pot debarasa de tumultul de impresii. Temele recurente ale lui Krasznahorkai (am citit doar Sátántango) sunt: așteptarea mesianică, descriptivul social și apocalipsa, prezente din plin și în Intoarcerea baronului...Scriitura superbă,cu fraze lungi pe pagini întregi ce-i conferă o verbozitate diabolică, personaje memorabile, arhetipuri caricaturale ale societății lui V.Orban, universal valabile, în același timp. O poveste despre speranță, așteptare, degradare morală, dictatură și...apocalipsă. Un must read pentru toți cei care iubesc literatura de mare clasă.

[SCARABOOKS · Rating 5 out of 5]

Li ho letti quasi tutti i libri di Krasznahorkai (mi mancano "Herscht 07769" e il libro di racconti) e ho raggiunto ogni volta che ne finivo uno le stesse conclusioni.
La prima. E’ senza dubbio il più grande scrittore vivente che mi è capitato di incontrare. Lo è per la potenza visionaria nel costruire le storie, per il livello di profondità della riflessione filosofica da cui cui i suoi libri risalgono, per la complessità e la bellezza della sua prosa.
La seconda. Le letterature dell’est stanno producendo in questi ultimi anni le cose migliori che si trovano in giro. Penso anche a Cartarescu e a Gospodinov soprattutto. E per una ragione precisa che li accomuna. Perché riescono ad elevare l’ultimo grande tracollo della storia contemporanea, quello dei regimi del comunismo reale, a paradigma del tracollo nichilista della metafisica dell’uomo contemporaneo e della percezione ormai comune del (non)senso che ha il vivere nell’universo e nel nostro piccolo mondo così come possiamo percepirli ed interpretarli oggi. Sembra che il crollo dell'ultima utopia apra la strada al trionfo del nulla. E Krasznahorkai anche nel racconto di questa percezione è il più grande.
La terza. Pochi scrittori hanno un livello di qualità così alto e così omogeneo nei romanzi che hanno pubblicato nel corso degli anni. Al punto che ogni volta mi sembra che l’ultimo letto è il migliore. Poi vado a riguardarmi le schede dei precedenti e mi accorgo che ogni classifica è arbitraria. Semplicemente, sono tutti bellissimi.

[Markus · Rating 5 out of 5]

TRRR, RAM, PAM, PAM, PAM, HMMM, RARIRA …, so die Tanzkarte, denn wie schon im ersten Roman Krasznahorkais spielt hier die Tanzmusik, nur ist es diesmal kein Tango, eher ein Marsch, ein Höllenmarsch, oder was weiß ich welch infernale Disziplin, so ist denn auch, noch vor dem Frontispiz, eine Warnung vorangestellt, eine Warnung an die Herren Musici, und Krasznahorkai läßt, wie in Satanstango, auch hier einen Totgeglaubten zurückkehren, Baron Béla Wenckheim, ein Abkömmling des alten fränkischen Adelsgeschlechts Wenckheim, ungarischer Politiker im 19. Jahrhundert, hier kehrt der Baron allerdings aus Argentinien in ein heutiges Ungarn zurück, direkt aus dem Gefängnis, in das ihn die Spielsucht geführt hat, ein alter Mann, verarmt und verblödet, um noch einmal die unerfüllte Liebe seiner Jugend, Marietta, zu sehen, und ebenso seine geliebte Heimatstadt, handelt es sich doch um einen Heimatroman, weil es sowas wie Heimat gar nicht gibt, außer im Kopf, als Hirngespinst, denn wo damals der Fluß war, ist auch heute ein Fluß, nur ist es ein anderer Fluß, und wo damals der Stadtwald war, wo sich der junge Béla mit seiner Angebeteten erging, ist auch heute der Stadtwald, nur ist es ein anderer Wald, und wo früher der stolze Bahnhof in kaiserlichem Gelb stand, steht heute ein brutaler Klotz aus Beton, Wenckheims Heimat ist eine einzige Enttäuschung, auch Krasznahorkai ist Ungar und in derselben Stadt geboren, eine eventuelle Ähnlichkeit der im Roman vorkommenden usw. usw. sind ausschließlich das Werk des verdammten Zufalls und entsprechen nicht der Absicht des Autors, so der Autor auf den ersten Seiten, jedenfalls entwickelt sich der Heimatroman immer mehr von einer anfangs bitterbösen zur letztlich tödlichen Satire, das ganze Land ist verkommen, ruiniert, voller Flüchtlinge, nichts funktioniert, außer Korruption und Kleinkriminalität, ein Bürgermeister mit Allmachtsphantasie, dem in seinem Zynismus nichts so heilig ist, wie die Pressefreiheit, wie er sagt, der Polizeihauptmann hält sich zur Aufrechterhaltung des Anscheins eines öffentlichen Lebens und zur allgemeinen Einschüchterung eine Motorradgang, in deren Naziköpfen Heimat als die Reine Idee schwärt, weiters zahlreiche illustre Nebenfiguren wie den Direktor der Stadtbibliothek, ein Schöngeist in seiner Kopfheimat, Heimat als Lüge und Betrug, als Illusion und als großes Missverständnis, überhaupt ein Buch voller Missverständnisse, wie auch die große Liebe des Barons schon lange nicht mehr wahr ist, die 19-jährige Marietta, deren Foto er in der Brieftasche trägt, und als es endlich zum ersehnten Treffen kommt, erkennt er die alte Frau nicht, die aber ist zu Tode gekränkt, eine tragische Szene, es ist eben auch eine Liebesgeschichte, furchtbar und sehr peinlich, zugleich komisch, sowie das ganze Buch überaus komisch ist, wenn etwa zur Ankunft des Barons der städtische Frauenchor Don't cry for me Argentina (auf ungarisch?) singt, begleitet von den getunten Hupen der Motorradgang, oder wenn der Herr Professor, der nur von 15:00 bis 17:00 Uhr zu denken pflegt und in der übrigen Zeit seinen Gedankenentleerungsübungen nachgeht, in einer aufgelassenen Bahnstation zwischen 15:00 und 17:00 Uhr einen Vortrag über Cantor, die Prädikatenlogik und die Unmöglichkeit Gottes hält und sein einziger Zuhörer ein Hund ist, der Professor und seine Tochter sind schon im ersten Kapital dabei, die Tochter verschwindet aber bald und ohne Kommentar aus der Handlung und auch der Herr Professor verschwindet früher, als man das von einer der Hauptfiguren erwarten würde, die vielen Handlungsfäden nehmen nicht unbedingt einen stringenten Lauf, sie lösen sich einfach auf, vielleicht ist es ein Buch über Entropie, die erfolgreichen Rezepte der Handlungsentwicklung dürften Krasznahorkai jedenfalls am Arsch vorbeigehen, sogar der arme Baron Wenckheim, nein, das wäre gespoilert, es ist nur ungewohnt, plotfixierten Leserinnen und Lesern würde ich das Buch nur bedingt empfehlen, so wie auch das Lesen, also der Text selber, zumindest auf den ersten Seiten gewöhnungsbedürftig ist, jeder Absatz, und die sind oft mehrere Seiten lang, ist zugleich ein Satz, was zu vielen Kommas und wenigen Punkten führt, anders gesagt zu ziemlich langen Sätzen, das klingt jetzt mühsam, ist es aber nicht, denn es sind nicht die berüchtigten Schachtelsätze, bei denen man irgendwann das Verb suchen muss, die Sätze sind wie auch unser Denken ein endloser stürmischer Prozess, der auch keine Punkte kennt und die Musik von Bach ist ebenfalls sehr komplex, doch wir hören sie uns an, ohne sie an den Taktgrenzen anzuhalten, nur weil wir so die Zeit hätten zu überdenken, wo wir uns eigentlich befinden, sagt Krasznahorkai, lese ich in einem Interview, wer denkt schon mit Punkten, und schon nach kurzer Zeit staunte ich, wie leicht und zugänglich sich der Text anfühlt, immer ganz nah an den Figuren, ich höre ihre Stimmen, ihre Sprache, nehme an ihrem Denken teil, nehme die Ereignisse aus ihrer Perspektive wahr, was bei den vielen und teils sehr bizarren Figuren sehr unterhaltsam sein kann, nur muss man sich den Zusammenhang, soweit es den gibt, aus den Stimmen und Hirngespinsten selbst zusammenreimen, in Summe eine mehr als abgedrehte, jedoch richtungsweisende Darbietung, bei der Krasznahorkai die Romanform so richtig aufmischt, in jeder Beziehung, sprachlich, inhaltlich, die Genres überschlagen sich, und dann auf den letzten Seiten eskaliert die Erzählung endgültig, es wird mysteriös, geradezu dystopisch und die stets und ständig arbeitende Auflösung beschleunigt in einen apokalyptischen Showdown, wer allerdings eine Auflösung erhofft hat, wird wohl enttäuscht übrigbleiben.

[Gabriela Pistol · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5

De fapt, încă ezit între 3 și 4. Daca aș ține cont doar de finalul apocaliptic și de absurdul căutat, artificial, nu aș da mai mult de 3. Dar mi-au plăcut frazele uriașe, arbori care se întind pe pagini întregi (uneori pe câte zece).
Mi-ar plăcea, cred, mai mult un film cu scenariul ăsta. Și aș avea ocazia sa ascult și partiturile fiecărui capitol.

[switterbug (Betsey) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Addendum 10/9/25: Krasznahorkai wins Nobel for Literature 2025. So well deserved!

These are uncertain times, and all the dystopian books I’ve read come back to haunt me. I finished Baron before the coronavirus rolled in, when I was carefree. This book does not console, but real life was fine then. Reading it now may trigger intense dwelling on things. There’s no strong redemption, and the tone is black with ignorance melted down to absurdity. Krasznahorkai portrays its nihilism with burlesque delivery, like a sinister clown dancing for wages. Any pretension is tongue-in-cheek because the narrative is also compelling—there’s a town reminiscent of Brigadoon, but inverted and bleak because it exists in denial of its own nature. The emperors are walking the streets naked and bragging of their finery, and the existential threat of doom hovers while the town vacillates between hammer and nail.

An aging Lord Baron escapes gambling debts in Buenos Aires, where he has spent much of his life. He returns to this burg of a town in Hungary (far away from Budapest) where he was born, a melancholy, static village where mediocrity glitters to perfection in a place that Google forgot. Baron Wenkheim has vivid nostalgia for the one woman, Marika, who got away from him in his youth. He packs his bags and travels back by train with the intention of asking Marika to marry him. I can’t remember how old he is now—mid 60s—70?

Krasznahorkai is a combination of Dostoevsky, Beckett, Kafka, and David Lynch, with some of the humor of 1984 and Brave New World circulating. It is difficult to describe, because it is an experience of tone and syntactical intensity and athleticism that creates this lost world of parody, but the cast of Baron believe their agendas have gravitas. There are a few unsung antiheroes, one or two that they could play up in a movie version. I won’t mention who they are, because that is part of reader discovery.

Marika is intriguing, as is her relationship with her best friend. This tomb of a book is partly a portrayal of alliances, colleagues, partnerships, family, friends. There are grifters, whiners, thinkers, bikers, a chorus, musicians, repurposed old horses for royal pageantry, and there’s a monkish professor who wants to rid the planet of imbecility and only allows himself to think for an hour or so daily, if you can imagine that. It’s difficult for someone so cerebral.

Krasznahorkai doesn’t write in straightforward talk. At the end of a two-page sentence, however, you have gotten to the core, the seeds, and the juice. Krasznahorkai creates generous growth around malignancy. Give him a blank space and he will erect the cosmos to hell, but in a wise, heavenly way.

Baron Wenkheim’s Homecoming was translated by Ottille Muizet, who won the 2019 National Book Award for Translated Literature. Krasznahorkai won the 2015 Man Booker International Prize for Lifetime Achievement. Both well-deserved.

[Hristina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mi-a scos sufletul? M-a lăsat fără suflu ca pe o păpușă de cârpe? Da și da. Vă doresc sa pățiți și voi asta din aceeași pricina, întâlnirea cu Krasznahorkai.

Întoarcerea acasă a baronului Wenckheim de Laszlo Krasznahorkai este o carte nebună, nebună, un balon umflat de un coșmar care evadează la final. Autorul este apt sa determine iadul să-și deschidă rugul gurii; întunericul din boltă palatină stă întins peste o lume arsă, mistuita de un sfârșit irevocabil. Și stând cu cartea încheiată în mâini, te întrebi: ce-ti rămâne de făcut?

Un fel de horror al realului, o apocalipsă a contemporaneității, o repetiție imediată a scenariului final și ultim. Nu vă faceți iluzii, nu este despre Ungaria, nici despre orășelul ei prăfuit de la granița estica, nici despre maghiarul care iese din carte plin de rahat, mânjit cu voluptate până-n măduvă, este vorba despre toți, despre noi toți, despre omul ticălos si mizerabil, despre natura noastră scârbavnică, vicioasă, lașă, mincinoasă și însetată de putere, de avere, de fală și mărire. Este despre lumea ce-am croit-o, cea pe care o îngăduim și o întreținem. Urbea maghiară este copia unei mari părți din lume. Ea are un invariabil numitor comun. Ca să-i găsești hoții, prădătorii și leprele, du-te negreșit la mai marii locului. Instituția publica este viesparul ideal al infracționalității, cloșca ouătoare si incubatorul la un loc, loc de unde ies monștri cu fețe de primari, politisti, preoți, demnitari, clociți direct în fotoliul cald, plin de beșinile sforăitoare al persoanei publice ce se îndeletnicire cu puterea de orice fel. De la nivelul fotoliului în jos se înșiruiesc după mărime tovarăși de cârdășie, slugi și, ultimele la rând, victimele.
Asta s-a mai văzut, o sa ziceti, la fel zic și eu. Poate nu este foarte inedit nici ceea ce face cartea să se miște, să respire, ceea ce suflă în străfundul acestui butoi care intruchipeaza lumea si drojdiile din ea. Motoarele care împing aceasta narațiune către noi sunt, măcar în parte, profile cunoscute în literatură, unul cel puțin este cel al marelui naiv, al celui ce nu se poate alinia la rău, care se expune mizeriei umane total neechipat. Eroul cu pieptul dezvelit, un fel de Prinț Mîșkin. Al doilea este omul obsedat de cautarea sensului vieții, gânditorul, filosoful, omul care-si traieste existența prin frământarea neobosita, mistuitoare minții. Impotriva primei impresii, si a familiarei aperențe, se dovedesc motoare incredibil de puternice pentru ca pun in miscare un cataclism veritabil și într-un fel neașteptat. Cu consecințe si final total imprevizibil.
Acesti doi poli din carte, sunt două personaje emblematice, doi mari inadaptați, doi oameni pierduti în lumi închise, în propria minte. Unul, total inutil, ieșind din trecut ca o veritabila relicvă, înfășurat în frumusețea decrepită a defunctei nobilimii, este incapabil sa găsească un sens vieții. El, baronul, are fragilitatea omului desprins total de realitate, vulnerabil până la ridicol, inocent și expus himerelor întreținute decenii la rând. Istoria revenirii lui acasă este de un grotesc sfâșietor, are ceva din sacrificiul blânzilor idioți care nu înțeleg ca merg la tăiere nici când se afla pe eșafod. Al doilea, Profesorul, motorul activ, dinamic, nesupus, este captivul ideilor, este Omul în căutarea Ideii, a Sensului, a tiparului primordial. Este modelul omului care atinge succesul, cunoașterea și recunoașterea mundană și care înțelege ca este tot cu mâinile goale. Respinge lumea cu brutalitate, iremediabil și cu forta omului inteligent. Este omul care găsește în cotloanele minții un Dumnezeu mort, un Dumnezeu fantoma, iluzie. În locul lui găsește axul care învârte lumea toată: frica. Frica de moarte, frica de viață, frica de suferință, frica de pierdere, frica de orice fel este simțământul sub care se mișcă tot ce e viu, iar asta înseamnă tot un vid de sens, un gol în mijlocul existenței. Între aceste doua găuri negre din sufletul acestora, între acești doi oameni condamnați, vânați, hăituiți, revendicati de unii și de alții, care fug de lume ca de o imensă și nedorită povară, se naște o a treia forța, una cu înfățișare nenaturală, împotriva firii, una neînțelesă, nevăzută dar pe care o simt toți la nivel fizic, este o amenințare, o stare indescriptibilă de haos și lipsa de control a sinelui. Este momentul judecății intr-o lume fără Dumnezeu si fără sens.

Emblematic pentru carte este fluxul scrierii, un fel de torent care curge din gura în gura, fără întrerupere. Frazele au o cadență autistă, concentrata pe lipsa de respiro, te ignoră cu totul, privind numai înspre interiorul minții care vorbește, vorbește, fără odihna. Oamenii par conectați prin aceasta emisie verbala, un fel de trup cât un oraș dar cu mai multe capete, astfel că vorba se preda ca o ștafeta intr-o cursă. Doar capitolele îți dau răgaz sa rasufli între texte.

Krasznahorkai ia omenirea de guler, o ridica în aer cu doua degete, cu o imensa forța lucidă, pătruns de înțelegerea micimii ei și se uita la ea cu cinism, cu un umor macabru, cu o neagră clarviziune. El este ca un exemplar dinr-o specie superioară care se uita într-o cutie cu viermuș și contempla zvârcolirea neîncetată a trupurilor albe, grase, frematatoare, ce cauta un cadavru pe care sa-l devoreze. Omenitea se vede dezolantă în urâțenia esenței ei, neavand nimic pur, nimic bun. Există un iad? Există o plată undeva? Un foc cu puterea unei extincții? Eu nu știu, dar se pare că oamenii alimentează zi de zi, neobosiți și fără minte, un foc uriaș, nu în alta lume, ci aici, undeva între noi, aproape.

[Veronica · Rating 4 out of 5]

Până și numele acestui scriitor este destul de greu de citit sau de scris, Laszlo Krasznahorkai, dar lectura acestui roman este și mai dificilă deoarece necesită o atenție sporită și o răbdare de titan.

În primul rând fiindcă sunt doar 557 de pagini de citit + o tehnică de scriere fără semnele de punctuație necesare unei narațiuni; există doar virgulă și, din loc în loc, câte un punct, deoarece scriitorul nu este preocupat de frazele înșirate pe foaie, fiindcă nici cotidianul nu mai este atent la evenimentele importante și de calitate din viața noastră. Totul este un mix de mediocritate, oportunism și prostie din plin.

În al doilea rând, Krasznahorkai (aici, recunosc, m-a ajutat corectorul telefonului să scriu numele autorului, mi-a apărut pe tastatură) descrie elegant, asiduu descompunerea societății. Întoarcerea baronului pe meleagurile de baștină reprezintă pretextul acestui roman în care banalitatea și filosofia, sărăcia, mediocritatea, oportuniștii societății, oamenii mărunți plasați în funcții sunt descriși/ descrise în fraze interminabile, labirintice.

Câteva cuvinte înșir aici și despre baron, unul din personajele cheie ale romanului. Acesta ne este prezentat ca având o poveste de viață viciată de jocurile de noroc și este de fapt cel mai retras, rezervat, sensibil și inutil personaj din roman. Și de aici și absurdul din roman: cu cât inutilitatea baronului este mai mare, cu atât mai elogios sau cu fast ne este prezentată întoarcerea și prezența acestuia pe meleagurile natale.

Masa media este și aici cea care profită de senzaționalul isteric al societății.

4 🌟 sunt suficiente pentru o astfel de aventură literară. 😊

[Tasos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Σίγουρα δεν είμαι ο πιο αντικειμενικός άνθρωπος για να κρίνω τον Κρασναχορκάι (ως γνωστό #ΟΣΟΖΩΛΑΖΛΟ), αλλά η πρώτη πρόταση τελειώνει μετά τη δέκατη σελίδα και είναι ένας παρατεταμένος οργασμός, η ατμόσφαιρα είναι και πάλι ζοφερή και σουρεαλιστική, με τα σημεία στίξης να απελπίζονται μπροστά στο έρεβος μιας δυστοπικής κενότητας, η Ουγγαρία μετατρέπεται σε μια no man's land, όπου τα πάντα έχουν καταρρεύσει, η άφιξη του βαρώνου του τίτλου γίνεται αφορμή για μια κωμικοτραγική γιορτή που θα οδηγήσει με εντροπική νομοτέλεια σε μια σειρά από ανείπωτες καταστροφές και η λογοτεχνία θα κορυφωθεί ως είδος στο παραλήρημα του συγγραφέα εναντίον των συμπατριωτών του και σε ένα τέλος που συμπαρασύρει τα πάντα, ακόμα και τις λέξεις, στο διάβα του. Εν ολίγοις, ΠΟΤΕ ΘΑ ΤΟ ΒΓΑΛΟΥΝ ΟΙ ΕΚΔΟΣΕΙΣ ΠΟΛΙΣ ΓΙΑ ΝΑ ΤΟ ΞΑΝΑΔΙΑΒΑΣΩ.

[Jorge Morcillo · Rating 5 out of 5]

El barón Wenckheim vuelve a casa

"Nuestra única tarea consiste en abarcar todo el territorio del temor, y qué significa eso, significa, claro está, investigar el temor con todas sus consecuencias, y yo lo entiendo en el sentido de que debes contemplar al hombre, no, lo diré de otra manera, en el sentido de que debes contemplar a todos los seres vivos de la Tierra, no, tampoco es eso, lo diré de otra manera, contempla todo cuanto existe en la Tierra, todos los miembros del mundo orgánico e inorgánico poseedores del carnet del partido de la Tierra, y ya verás entonces que el temor es lo más profundo que de se puede aprehender en el mundo orgánico e inorgánico, el temor y punto, no existe fuerza tan tremendamente fuerte, nada fuera de él es capaz de resultar determinante tanto en los universos de lo orgánico e inorgánico, de él se deriva todo, pero decir que él, al temor, se remonta esto o aquello es imposible, por eso no seguimos interesándonos por este punto, sino que afirmamos que ya está bien de pícaras excusas, que hemos de concentrarnos en el temor, y así llegamos a la conclusión de que el temor es la esencia de la existencia, he estado a punto de precipitarme y decirte que la existencia sólo puede afirmarse que está dirigida por el temor, porque Attila Jósef, te conviene recordar ese nombre, dio curiosamente con una expresión, y da igual si cobró conciencia del enorme territorio sobre el que proyectó luz con esa fórmula, sea como fuere, su genio acertó, porque efectivamente el temor a que cese la existencia, que de hecho se da siempre en un momento dado, es la fuerza más profunda que conocemos".

Imaginen que los dioses, aburridos de tanta eternidad y de su condición de inmortales, deciden un buen día ponerse a escribir. Primero trataran de delimitar los límites del universo. Trataran de describir, que es lo mismo que asir, todo lo que compone este mundo: el barro, las piedras, el mar, el cielo, todo lo vivo y todo lo inerte, lo orgánico e inorgánico, la materia y la antimateria. Elegirán para ello la expresividad prosística que más se acerque a la música, puesto que la música es el lenguaje que con mayor entusiasmo podrá expresarse “la divinidad”. Luego, sucumbidos y magnetizados por el infinito tratarán de transformarlo en palabras. Tal vez describan la formación de un jardín y nos den las coordenadas de un monasterio; tal vez en la imagen de una garza que está a punto de levantar el vuelo descubramos una de las emanaciones más plenas de la belleza del mundo. En todo caso comprenderán que toda materia literaria es cosa ardua e incompleta, incluso para los dioses, y que por más que lo intenten jamás serán capaces de hacer presente a la totalidad del universo bajo las formas primarias y conocidas de la inteligencia.

Aun así son las formas más puras y capaces de domeñar el tiempo, puesto que la carne es corrupta y se arruga y perece y con cualquier superficie afilada se corta y sangra. Y en el fondo eso es lo que necesitamos: hacer presente la belleza en un mundo caduco y dominado por las fuerzas ocultas del caos; los dioses deberán de poner su mirada literaria en esos raros bichos crecidos y presuntuosos que se hacen llamar “humanos”. Son los mismos que —separados de su tronco natural por ser capaces de elevarse sobre sus débiles patas— han ascendido en soberbia y tecnología, que no en capacidades interiores. Tal vez los dioses crean erróneamente que las grandes personalidades mantengan algo de ese fuego prometeico que sus palabras desean expresar, porque todo creador debe ser hoguera y los dioses han comprendido que la realidad no existe, que es un supuesto más e igual de errado que el resto, que todo depende del prisma desde el que se observen las cosas. Pero a la par que la eternidad es aburrida —y algo intensa y complicada de soportar— al final decidirán que ya que el infinito les provoca cierta melancolía es mejor bajar a la tierra y apresar entre palabras todo un conjunto de vidas en conjunto: un barrio, una aldea, un pueblo, una ciudad, qué más da, y ver de qué pie cojean cada uno de sus miembros. Se sorprenderán de las ambiciones que mueven a la mayoría de ellos; de las estupideces que los encadenan y destrozan; de cómo malgastan sus días en trabajos inútiles; pero al mismo tiempo también descubrirán el cauce de una prosa musical y ahíta de sueños y trascendencia, como si en la sangre que les circula por las venas todavía existiesen ecos de un templo sagrado. Haces de luces entremezclados entre la claridad y la sombra, entre el acertar y equivocarse y errar y errar porque ese y no otro es nuestro destino.

Ahora olvídense de los dioses (ya nos advertía Lucrecio que no hay que preocuparse mucho de ellos porque en el fondo no les interesamos lo más mínimo) y pongamos rostro al escritor divino: László Krasznahorkai. Es húngaro y busca el infinito. Comenzó su carrera literaria escribiendo un Tango Satánico, entre el barro, la música y la sordidez de esas vidas pueblerinas y golpeadas que él llegó a conocer en su época de vagabundeos. Luego trató de hablarnos de la materia y la antimateria y nos enseñó la corrupción de la muerte que a todos nos espera. A un nivel, casi, científico. Llamó a ese libro Melancolía de la resistencia, porque los libros siempre tienen que tener un título para que los editores y los lectores idiotas se queden tranquilos, pero podría haberlo llamado La Galaxia retratada y seguiría siendo igual de válido; en ese libro las almas más puras eras sometidas por la tiranía del orden, porque en este mundo las cosas más bellas y las personalidades más puras acaban siempre arrastradas y derrotadas por la tiranía, locura, la desidia y la antimateria.

Como Hungría es un país muy vetusto y cada cierto tiempo anda muy entusiasmado por autodestruirse buscó nuevas geografías. Quizá ansiaba y esperaba encontrar algo de pureza en la libertad de la naturaleza más recóndita y salvaje. En cierta medida lo halló en una región perdida de Extremadura y a esa novelita la llamó El último lobo. Es la única con traducción al castellano que no está editada por Acantilado, sino por la Fundación Muñoz que apadrinó un proyecto creativo de invitar a escritores a pasar unos días en Extremadura y que luego escribiesen sobre ello. Krasznahorkai no perdió la oportunidad.

Vinieron más ensayos con la complejidad y con esa búsqueda de voces que pudiesen captar algo de esa belleza decadente, Guerra y Guerra, Ha llegado Isaías. Todo escritor necesita conocer sus límites; saber la altura de la arquitectura que puede lograr; aprender a manejar todos los flexibles recursos estilísticos. Domeñar la crueldad del mundo que no tendrá piedad de sus aficiones y convertirlas en palabras. Ninguna catedral se puede elevar sin haber ensayado antes la construcción de una ermita. Fueron los años en los que László vivió en Nueva York, en el pequeño apartamento de Allen Ginsberg.

Un buen día decidió que América también había que dejarla atrás y buscar esa belleza herida y perdida en paisajes y entornos más orientales. La felicidad debía estar en el este, hacia donde intuimos que puede vivir anclada la renacentista flor de loto y la pálido- rosa de los cerezos, y allá que se fue a vivir y a escribir. Ahora sí, muy consciente ya de sus propias fuerzas creativas, trató de describir el infinito y consiguió apresarlo en la descripción de ese jardín en Al norte la montaña, al sur el lago, al oeste el camino, al este el río. Para un descendiente del resplandeciente príncipe Genji tuvo que ser muy deslumbrante “ese momento literario” que trató después de seguir ahondando en las emanaciones de belleza artística, en esas estampas narrativas que nos regaló en Y Seobo descendió a la tierra, que es uno de sus libros más complejos de leer y un auténtico muestrario de sincretismo entre lo barroco y lo oriental. En mi opinión su joya escondida.

Como un escritor sin retos no puede mantenerse vivo durante mucho tiempo decidió que las huellas y revueltas de su vida ya eran excesivas y que se había acabado también el tiempo de los vagabundeos orientales. Decidió volver a Europa, a la decadencia con estilo y puñales de doble filo; al otoño de las hojas secas. Pero no volver a Hungría, eso solo lo haría en la ficción a través de El barón Wenckheim vuelve a casa, porque un escritor que se precie solo puede ser una máscara zarandeada por sus propios miedos y anhelos. Cansado de la tundra, de los espacios infinitos y de los jardines zen más majestuosos —porque la búsqueda de la belleza literaria es algo muy arduo y cansino de soportar— decidió que esta vez no describiría tanto; quizá algún precioso detalle de instantes detenidos, en esos paisajes en tren que tan característicos son de su literatura; en esas miradas furtivas y apresuradas por las ventanas en las que el personaje de pronto “comienza a ver” y el tiempo queda como suspendido; y todos esos paisajes por esa Hungría que no ha cambiado un ápice desde los tiempos de las granjas comunales, que sigue siendo la misma herida sangrante pero con más asfalto y menos cultura; que una vez más vive arrasada, y en este caso y en estos años por el capitalismo, que es otra infección igual de dañina. Todo se compra, todo se vende. Las voluntades solo funcionan en el modo de qué puedo sacar de esto y cuánto puedo producir. Un horror. Siempre pierden los mismos.

Y así llegamos al barón Weckheim, una novela que se editó en húngaro en 2016 y que, por fin en 2024, nos llega traducida. Si siguiésemos un orden de traducción debiéramos estar con Herscht 07769, que si no me equivoco es la que se editó el año pasado en su idioma original, pero vayan a saber ustedes cuándo podremos disfrutarla en nuestro idioma. Nada que objetar al también escritor y traductor Adan Kovacsics; el hombre estará haciendo todo lo que puede, puesto que esa prosa densa y hasta cierto punto apocalíptica no debe ser muy sencilla de amasar a nuestro idioma; aparte no dispondrá del tiempo suficiente para traducir tanto. No importa, con el paso del tiempo se ha convertido en un traductor inseparable de la obra de László Krasznahorkai y ya no podemos concebir al uno sin el otro. Es un tándem perfecto. La otra vez que sucedió algo así fue con el señor Miguel Sáenz y Thomas Bernhard.

Y ya centrándonos en El barón Wenckheim vuelve a casa nos topamos una vez más con obra exigente y de vanguardia narrativa. Si bien, esta quizá sea de sus obras más accesibles, puesto que permite respirar y oxigenar la lectura. Que sea más accesible no quiere decir que Krasznahorkai ha deseado bajar el listón, no se equivoquen. Es un escritor que nunca hace concesiones al lector. Él busca la belleza, la inteligencia y la música interna de las cosas, porque en realidad esas son las manifestaciones creativas más perennes. Los párrafos ya no tienden hacia el infinito, porque ahora de lo que se trata es de dar una visión más plural. Siguen siendo largos para lo que la mayoría de los lectores están acostumbrados, pero son una minucia en extensión (que no en calidad) comparados con otros libros suyos. Un mosaico de personalidades que fluctúan entre la desesperanza y el sarcasmo; una especie de fresco etrusco situado en las inmediaciones de Szolnok (si no me equivoco con mis apresurados apuntes del libro y me escaso conocimiento geográfico de los pueblos y ciudades de Hungría, una ciudad cuya única referencia literaria que tengo es por libros de historia, porque fue abandonada cuando los mongoles invadieron Europa), y cuyo hilo conductor va a situarse en el regreso del anciano barón Wenckheim a su patria. Unos creen (por la falsa información periodística) que el barón ha regresado para donar su legado; pero la realidad es mucho más prosaica y lo que en realidad lo han empujado a irse es su familia, tras abonar esta todas sus deudas de juego en Argentina. No querían que “se manchase el ilustre apellido” por la ludopatía del barón. O sea, que en cierta medida lo han “largado”.

Y de nuevo, por encima del argumento y cual marca indiscutible de un estilo que escribe para la posteridad, esa prosa densa que contiene meandros que atisban el infinito y lo absoluto, y toda la estupidez y sordidez de los seres humanos y sus ambiciones idiotas. Con todas las preparaciones que se dispensan en el pueblo al barón no puede uno más que reírse; que si el coro que no sabe pronunciar en húngaro <>; que si el barón arreglará los desperfectos de la ciudad y el abandonado palacio; que si el carruaje para recibirlo; la prensa, los focos; que si todo el pueblo engalanado para cuando el barón baje del tren. Esa parte es desternillante, y la del carpintero y la cama es magistral, unas páginas para lanzárselas a la cara a todos esos mamarrachos de literatos españoles que se pasean por nuestros periódicos y emisoras de radio hablando de literatura. Bueno, eso es ser muy exagerado: hablando de sus tonterías y sus egos, de literatura saben muy poco. Si bien, en esta ocasión, Krasznahorkai apuesta más por la suma de partituras para seguir creando una sinfonía divina (divinal-dimensional) cuya música se desliza entre la añoranza y la verdadera situación anímica de una Hungría que asolada por el totalitarismo vuelve a ser hoy en día asolada; “ese nada ha cambiado”, “ese todo sigue igual”, que se repite constante en muchos momentos del libro, esa desesperanza en una realidad que anula a los seres humanos convirtiéndolos en meras comparsas, en insanos productos de consumo, en banalidades sin espíritu y con ambiciones triviales.

Hay una constante en toda su obra (aparte de la exigencia y la no concesiones al lector; es decir, el respeto máximo a la literatura) y es la despiadada lucha entre seres de luz y tiranos del orden; una confrontación que resulta más espiritual que social, como una gran desavenencia entre el matrimonio del cielo con el infierno, parafraseando el famoso poema de William Blake. Muchas veces aparecen intelectuales de música y ciencia que han perdido toda esperanza, todo asidero, toda fe en el futuro; recuérdese, por ejemplo, al Sr Estzer en Melancolía de la resistencia, el cual vivía postrado en la cama cual un Juan Carlos Onetti. Aquí salen varios que podrían considerarse sus “hermanos de espíritu”: el Profesor, el propio barón, etcétera. También hay guiños a dos de sus libros más conocidos: Tango Satánico y Melancolía de la resistencia, las dos llevadas al cine por un dúo inclasificable y titánico entre Béla Tarr y el propio László Krasznahorkai.

László Krasznahorkai se nos hace mayor. Ya tiene 70 años y posiblemente ha forjado la mejor literatura europea que se está haciendo desde finales del siglo pasado a nuestros días. El barón, en cierta medida, tiene algo de él, de ese vislumbrar su final y evocar cierta nostalgia sobre los amores y las geografías íntimas que se quedaron por el camino. El personaje de Marietta (Marita en realidad) es de una belleza interior despampanante, de esos personajes que se pueden decir que superará los límites del tiempo quedando en nuestra memoria lectora para siempre. Sufre una tremenda transformación interior durante el libro y es el personaje más vitalista de todo los que nos presenta.

Como siempre, todos los secretos de este libro se abrirán como una flor en esas futuras relecturas que sin duda haremos y que se sumarán a las del resto de su obra. Son ya casi veinte años leyendo y releyendo a este autor, a este monje moldeador del barro, a este místico de la belleza de las tormentas, a este superviviente del Deméter (el nombre del barco en el que viajaba Drácula). Pese a ello Krasznahorkai me saca más de veinte años en el tránsito nómada hacia la nada. 22 para ser exactos. No hay esperanza alguna leyendo a Krasznahorkai; pero la mejor belleza prosística aflora y toda su obra es un homenaje a la mejor literatura, tanto la húngara como la universal. Las menciones a Dante son tan evidentes que sin duda son una bromita que con mucha mordacidad nos ha querido lanzar el húngaro. En realidad, uno de los mayores manipuladores de la historia de la literatura fue Dante, y lo que le hizo a Virgilio sigue resultando (después de tantos siglos) imperdonable. Con Lucrecio, que sin duda fue el padre espiritual de Virgilio, no se atrevió, porque Lucrecio lo hubiese destrozado. Algún día hablaremos sobre ello, por supuesto en clave literaria, que en realidad es la única que nos interesa; pero ya el texto con el que se habría esta reseña señalaba otra de sus grandes influencias literarias: el gran poeta húngaro Attila József.

Ahora que Krasznahorkai empiece a ser muy premiado quizá llegue a muchos más lectores, es muy posible que esté dando por fin ese gran salto que tanto se merecía desde hace ya tantas décadas. Si se tiene paciencia y respeto por la majestuosidad de una obra tan profunda y singular, el húngaro hará saltar todos los goznes y llegará a formar parte de nuestra cotidianidad lectora. Yo casi no concibo que pase un año de mi vida y no leer o releer algo de él. Es como una cita con la divinidad que tengo en mi agenda siempre preparada. Porque él es un escritor divino, de los que sobrevivirá al paso de los siglos; el escritor de la tundra y los monasterios; del barro y el Tango; el escritor del fin del mundo; capaz de hacer bailar a los astros en una taberna si le da la gana o de darnos las coordenadas de un monasterio Zen; de explicarnos cómo se hace una máscara Noh del teatro japonés y de mostrarnos esa última resistencia de naturaleza salvaje en la figura de un lobo extremeño; o también en la de un guardabosques retirado llamado Herman, que es su mejor relato de las Relaciones misericordiosas y una pequeña síntesis espiritual de su obra. Los trenes, los guardabosques, los perros, las ventanas..., siempre están presentes en su literatura. En una literatura que invoca y nos provoca crecer en inteligencia sapiencial. No solo nos seduce con su belleza prosística, sino que nos conquista por su intelecto. Es capaz de todo. Capaz de hacer regresar a un barón en horas bajas y convertirlo en una fiesta. En una fiesta macabra y muy sarcástica de perspicacia narrativa y coral. En LITERATURA INMORTAL, con mayúsculas y a viva voz, como se tienen que gritar las cosas que de verdad merecen la pena. Su prosa es un santuario que debiera ser declarado patrimonio inmaterial de la humanidad.

Que suene la orquesta del Titanic. Alcemos nuestras copas a rebosar de pálinka y brindemos. El barco se hunde, ¿y qué? No hay esperanza, ni para el barón ni para el profesor ni para Marika ni para ninguno de nosotros.... Todos los trenes nos arrollarán hasta dejarnos aplastados. No importa. El mundo es bello y los dioses nos envidian.

[Laurent De Maertelaer · Rating 4 out of 5]

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

[Sini · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sinds "Satanstango" en vooral "De melancholie van het verzet" ben ik devoot fan van het even inktzwarte als volprachtige proza van Laszlo Krasznahorkai, en wil ik alles van hem lezen. Dus ook zijn nieuwste roman "Baron Wenckheim keert terug", die de afsluiting is van een cyclus die met beide eerder genoemde boeken begon, en die zelfs de afsluiting schijnt te zijn van Krasznahorkais hele oeuvre. Een bijzonder waardige afsluiting, naar mijn smaak, want het boek schudde mij nog harder door elkaar dan het hectische "De melancholie van het verzet" al deed. Terwijl ik het, ondanks dat het maar liefst 496 bladzijden dik is, toch twee keer achter elkaar las: ten eerste omdat ik de bizarre en duistere pracht van dit boek niet in één keer bevatten kon, maar vooral omdat ik er na één keer lezen nog geen afscheid van kon nemen.

Ook dit boek trekt Krasznahorkai weer op uit ellenlange, soms wel pagina's lang doordenderende zinnen, vol met komma's en bijstellingen en terzijdes en herhalingen en nuanceringen, of met tegenspraken op wat net is gezegd. Zinnen dus die nauwelijks eindigen, en vaak ook zomaar ergens beginnen, wat leidt tot ongehoord intens en manisch ademloos proza dat als een chaotische lavastroom op je af komt. Een van de personages, een volgens velen getikte professor die zich vol verdrietige walging afwendt van het denken en van de hele wereld, zegt in een manische monoloog bijvoorbeeld het volgende: "want het valt gemakkelijk in te zien dat de wereld niets anders is dan een gekte van gebeurtenissen, een razernij van miljarden en miljarden gebeurtenissen, niets is vast, niets is begrensd, niets is grijpbaar, alles glipt weg als we het willen vastpakken, want er is geen tijd, wat we ook zo kunnen opvatten dat er geen tijd is om iets te grijpen, omdat het steeds wegglipt, en dat hoort ook zo te zijn, aangezien alles slechts verloop is, miljarden gebeurtenissen die er zijn en ook niet zijn […]".

Precies die "gekte" en "razernij" van gebeurtenissen komt prachtig tot uiting in die eindeloos doordenderende en steeds doorkolkende zinnen van Krasznahorkai. En bovendien in de werkelijk maniakale pluriformiteit van de roman, want die bestaat uit tientallen elkaar opvolgende innerlijke monologen (en diverse verhit gememoreerde dialogen) van vele verschillende personages. Het boek verandert dus voortdurend van perspectief, soms zelfs meerdere keren in één enkele ellenlange zin. En die perspectieven spreken elkaar soms totaal tegen, of hebben maar heel indirect iets met elkaar te maken, simpelweg omdat de personages en hun handelingen samen nauwelijks een zinvol verband vormen. Wat zij als individu doen is voor de lezer al redeloos en zonder patroon, maar wat ze als groep (of beter: toevallige verzameling van individuen) doen leidt voor de lezer tot zelfs nog meer verwarring en onsamenhangendheid.

Dat wordt nog aangescherpt doordat de perspectiefwisselingen vaak samengaan met flashbacks of flashforwards, en zich dus vaak totaal niet storen aan logica of chronologie. Volgens de net geciteerde verhitte professor is "alles slechts verloop", omdat alles in het bestaan totale chaos en gratuit toeval en redeloze grilligheid is. Precies dat wordt door Krasznahorkai in elke ellenlange zin voelbaar gemaakt, en wordt nog verder onderstreept door de adembenemende hoeveelheid van grillige en onverwachte perspectiefwisselingen. Waarbij vaak wel een alwetende vertellerfiguur aanwezig is, en die laat dat ook tussen de regels door voelen door de formuleringen van zijn personages op bijtend ironische wijze te parafraseren, of door taferelen te beschrijven die zodanig ongerijmd zijn dat geen personage ze kan zien of zelfs maar vermoeden. Maar de verteller oordeelt uiteindelijk niet, geeft nergens een psychologische of oorzakelijke verklaring, legt nergens verhelderende verbanden. Ook hij ziet kennelijk alleen een redeloze razernij van chaotische gebeurtenissen.

De verhaallijn van deze roman is dan ook hoogst gefragmenteerd. Veel van de grillige gebeurtenissen worden, als ketens van niet- causale toevalligheden, in beweging gezet door de terugkeer van de oude Baron Wenkcheim naar het Hongaarse dorp van zijn jeugd. Een dorp dat geteisterd wordt door surrealistische vormen van verval, karikaturale vormen van vervuiling, grotesk grote vluchtelingenstromen, en gebrek aan ongeveer alles. Geen wonder dat het dorp denkt dat de baron een Messias is die veel geld meebrengt en de stad tot bloei zal brengen. Maar die baron is berooid, is door zijn familie maar net uit de gevangenis gered waar hij vastzat wegens speelschulden, en komt alleen naar zijn dorp terug om nog één keer te mogen verwijlen in de sferen van zijn jeugd toen zijn eigen leven nog goed was. En ook, misschien, om zijn jeugdliefde van toen, Marika, nog één keer van een afstand te bewonderen.

Dus nee, een Messias is hij bepaald niet, onze baron. Maar wel een werkelijk prachtig beschreven Quichotteske figuur, die mij tegelijk deed denken aan vorst Mysjkin uit Dostojevski's "De idioot": een totaal onaangepaste, onschuldige en zuivere persoon, die precies daardoor ook geen aansluiting vindt bij de conventies van de huidige tijd. En ja, hij gaat dan ook bruut ten onder, in een niet na te vertellen turbulentie van tragi-komische en groteske toevalligheden. Wat een paar prachtige scenes vol schrijnende desillusie oplevert, tussen de baron en Marika, die elkaar na tientallen jaren wederom niet echt ontmoeten. Of liever: die elkaar, tientallen jaren na hun eerste niet- ontmoeting, nogmaals verkeerd begrijpen en elkaar wederom op tragikomische wijze desillusioneren. Verrassend genoeg leidt dat bij de baron later weer tot een innerlijke monoloog vol werkelijk prachtige berusting in de redeloosheid, teloorgang en fragiliteit van het bestaan. Iets wat je niet zou verwachten van de ogenschijnlijk getikte baron. Temeer niet omdat die berusting voorafgegaan wordt door een - mij overigens diep ontroerend- afscheid van een wereld die niet langer zijn wereld is, omdat alles uit zijn jeugd er nog steeds wel is, maar ingrijpend van waarde en betekenis is veranderd. Maar toch, ondanks dat omarmt hij toch het leven, in al zijn ondoorgrondelijkheid, op een voor mij heel verrassende wijze. Waarna het idiote toeval hem overigens alsnog verscheurt. Dat dan weer wel.

De ongerijmde dood van de baron leidt tot diepe teleurstelling in heel het Hongaarse dorp. Een teleurstelling die even tragikomisch is als eerder de hoop. Het al steeds toenemende verval zet daarna steeds verder door, en de in het verhaal steeds al aanwezige onderhuidse apocalyptische dreiging neemt meer en meer toe, terwijl ook de wanhoop en desoriëntatie bij alle personages meer en meer toeneemt. Dat geeft Krasznahorkai de gelegenheid tot meerdere zwarte parels van apocalyptische schrijfkunst. Bijvoorbeeld in een lange passage over oneindige hoeveelheden krankzinnige padden die ineens uit de grond gekropen komen, en vervolgens dolzinnig rondspringen: "ze zwermden niet in één richting maar maakten gekke sprongen in de lucht, alsof ze eigenlijk niet op aarde een richting zochten maar omhoog wilden komen, de lucht in, ze maakte steeds grotere sprongen, probeerden steeds hoger te komen, en het lukte ze natuurlijk niet om de begeerde hoogte te bereiken, want de hoogte die ze konden bereiken was in geen enkele zin hoog genoeg, ze gooiden zich omhoog en draaiden ondertussen om hun eigen as, hun ogen puilden uit en spoten van tijd tot tijd een gelige vloeistof uit, en alle straten en pleinen waren vol padden, van noord tot zuid en van oost tot west, en toen keken de mensen er wel naar, met ontzetting, de meesten vanuit hun huis, weer vanachter de gordijnen, maar een enkel vermetel type dat op straat onderweg was naar een doel dat inmiddels volkomen zinloos was maar hem op dat moment toch zinvol leek, zag de weerzinwekkende hordes rond zijn voeten […]".

Geweldig, dat horror-tafereel van die padden. Maar nog indrukwekkender vind ik de totale zinloosheid van die ene mens die door die stroom van padden heen loopt. Wat een beeld, mensen, wat een beeld..... Met dat soort adembenemende beelden en passages geeft "Baron Wenckheim keert terug" meer en meer stem aan de onbevattelijke horror en zinloosheid. En op het eind van deze roman wordt alles verzengd door één chaotische apocalyptische vuurzee, wat leidt tot taferelen die in taal al helemaal niet meer te bevatten zijn. Exact dat weet Krasznahorkai echter toch pregnant in woorden te vatten: "er was helemaal geen volgorde, aangezien de gebouwen niet achter elkaar in brand vlogen maar op hetzelfde moment, zelfs de juiste woordkeus is een probleem, want als er al iemand zou zijn geweest die het had kunnen vertellen, wat dus niet het geval was, dan had die waarschijnlijk de ene keer gezegd dat iets 'in brand vloog' en de andere keer dat het 'vlam vatte' of 'ten prooi viel aan de vlammen' en de lijst kan nog wel worden aangevuld, maar in dit geval waren de predicaten al opgehouden hun functie te vervullen, want of ze het zelf wilden of niet, de predicaten suggereerden een opeenvolging, maar wat er in werkelijkheid gebeurde, was dat een onbevattelijk grote, monumentale stormaanval van vuur de stad overviel, veel groter dan de stad zelf […]".

Als je de hoofdstuktitels van dit boek achter elkaar zet, krijg je iets als "trrr…. ram, pam, pam, pam, hmmm, rarira, ri, rom". Een humoristisch lied? Een rare treurmars? Het boek eindigt ook met een grotesk lied over een brand, gedirigeerd door een idioot. Groteske humor? Burleske tragedie? Tragedie die spotlust oproept, wat de tragiek nog met totale lachwekkendheid verdiept? Ook veel passages in het boek zijn hilarisch en schrijnend tegelijk: wonderen van pikzwarte humor, soms uiterst ontroerend vanwege alle uitgeschreeuwde teleurstellingen, soms stuitend vanwege alle uitgeschreeuwde kleinheid en zwartgallige rancune, maar meestal stuitend, lachwekkend én ontroerend tegelijk. Je kan dit boek lezen als één langgerekte vervloeking van de lachwekkende menselijke voosheid die onafwendbaar tot apocalyptische ondergang leidt. Maar met sommige personages wordt wel degelijk ook onze empathie opgeroepen: ja, ze zijn klein en rancuneus en teleurgesteld en in hun leven gefnuikt en soms ronduit abject, maar hoeveel grootser zijn wij als de omstandigheden net zo hard tegenzitten?

Bovendien, Krasznahorkai is ongelofelijk goed in het beschrijven van ervaringen van zinloosheid, en dat zijn naar mijn smaak ervaringen waar ook wij ons toe moeten verhouden: ook ons veilige leventje is immers eindig, ook mijn bestaantje is fragiel. Daarom raken Krasznahorkais passages over zinloosheid mij stevig. Prachtig vind ik bijvoorbeeld een ellenlange monoloog van de eerder al genoemde professor, waarin hij o.a. betoogt dat angst voor onze eindigheid al ons denken doordesemt en dat zelfs geen enkele atheïst ten volle durft te doordenken wat het betekent dat er geen God is en dat de wereld dus verstoken is van waarheid en zin. Scherpzinniger ontluistering heb ik in andere romans zelden gezien.

Even prachtig vind ik de scene waarin een priester, in de snijdend koude wind, woorden van troost spreekt tot een rouwstoet die er had horen te zijn maar er helemaal niet is. Of een andere scene waarin diezelfde priester bidt en bidt en bidt, bescherming afsmekend tegen het volstrekt onbekende, in de totale leegte van een volkomen verlaten kerk. Na Gods dood rest ons alleen kosmische kou en suizen door de leegte, zei Nietzsche al: het lijkt wel alsof deze priester precies dat ervaart. Ook schitterend zijn diverse passages over een Satanische personificatie van het onbeschrijfbare kwaad, waarbij het onbeschrijflijke van die gestalte erg indringend wordt verwoord: het is niet eens echt een gestalte, maar een soort zwart gat, een totale negatie, een alles vernietigende demonische kracht, een volstrekte breuk met alle herkenbaarheid en logische orde. Wat Krasznahorkai geweldig voelbaar maakt, ook door zijn suggestieve beschrijving van de steeds toenemende en steeds vormlozer wordende sferen van moord, verkrachting en redeloos geweld.

De zwartgalligheid van dit boek is wel enorm, en benam mij wel eens letterlijk de adem. Tegelijk denk ik dat er veel reden is voor zwartgalligheid, en voor een inktzwarte kijk op de mens en de wereld. Dat alleen al rechtvaardigt een boek als dit, zeker als het in zo'n schitterende stijl is opgeschreven. Bovendien, in alle zwartgalligheid is er ook mededogen met alle menselijke kleinheid en rancune. Naast alle voosheid is er immers ook de scherpzinnigheid van de professor, de ontroerende acceptatie van het bestaan door de baron, of het zo naïeve maar ook innemende verlangen naar liefde van Marika, of de enorme schaamte van een ongelofelijk arrogante zak voor zijn eigen stiekeme vreetverslaving. Veel passages zijn niet alleen ongelofelijk zwartgallig maar ook heel vermakelijk, en de veelvuldige perspectiefwisselingen voegen niet alleen veel fragmentatie toe maar ook veel variatie en vaart. En naast alle geniaal uitgemeten zinloosheid en wanhoop is er bovendien soms ook, ineens, een verrassende droom van hoop: "ze zweefden in een bijzondere, hemelse ruimte, zonder belemmering, in hun eentje, met alleen de gevulde kussens van de wolken ergens onder hun armen, en rondom de stilte, zelfs geen vogelgekwetter, alleen een oneindige stilte, ze daalden en stegen, de armen breed gespreid, alsof ze die leegte wilden omhelzen, die hemelse stilte, die blauwe reus die hun eindelijk was gegeven […]". Een zeldzame, en ook snel vervliegende droom, maar wel een indringende.

Ook de nieuwste roman van Krasznahorkai vond ik kortom imponerend. Ik hoop dat al zijn nu nog niet vertaalde werk ooit zal zijn vertaald. Bovendien hoop ik dat dit boek helemaal niet zijn allerlaatste roman is, ondanks alle geruchten in die richting, en dat hij ons nog jaren blijft verbazen met het unieke gitzwarte licht dat hij werpt op mens en wereld.

[balagesh · Rating 4 out of 5]

Inside texts (mostly manuscripts) always play an important role for Krasznahorkai. Here we also find a work within a work setting. The chapter entitled ‘To the Hungarians’ contains a pamphlet of literary and cultural significance, holding presumably the same title. With a flash of genius, it reports on the reading of the article and its effects in the present by evoking the readers’ complete life situations.
The title calls forth the poetic tonality of the era of national awakening (the first half of the 19th century), in so far as a prophet (vates) speaks to his people.* Although at that time poems were born to exhort and inspire, while they held up the glorious past as an example to the Hungarians, here, after 200 wasted years later, the prophet appears to be the final judge and after a humiliating self-disclosure he asks for the doom for his own people.
This chapter stands out from the whole work, and I do regard the novel as something written apropos of this manifesto, whereas the novel itself is a legal trial, leading to the prosecution’s sentence request and the implementation of the court’s judgement.
The book show-cases a provincial town in Hungary, an allegory of the whole country, very much in the present. It describes the place as it really looks adding gradually more and more details. The rendering is caricaturistic, which is, not to forget, a difficult venture. A caricature simplifies, relying on some exaggerated traits. There is a whole universe made up of caricatures, we see everybody in this way: the title character, the mayor, the Chinese merchant, the priest, the biker guy, and ‘Scraggy’ the librarian.
As a Hungarian addressed by the novel, I recognized myself in my own public reality. My approach is the same as that of the Germans to George Grosz's art after World War I. This radicalism had not previously been characteristic to Krasznahorkai. Messianistic figures, social criticism, apocalyptic visions have always characterized him, but either the story had some openness to the future, or the plot assumed more abstract circumstances. Here we find the darkest biblical parallels (details of the Egyptian plague, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, or the failure to recognize the Messiah) that manifest a very specific, detailed and identifiable description of our era. So, if you read news about Hungary, let this vision guide you!
As to the reception, Bosch (perhaps it's surprising to mention him among the caricaturists) is adored by most because of his elevation from the reality. In contrast, we tend to see Grosz's works as a product of an era that is not ours or may even hate the idea that his body of work is the imprint of our times. Through the comparison of the two painters, it is understandable why there is no love for this novel (this is not the ‘War & War’). The adequate emotions are dismay and disgust. The reader maintains a distance and no identification can occur. Is perhaps this generally low-keyed author really angry this time? 

* Dániel Berzsenyi: To the hungarian (II)

[Αντίποδες · Rating 5 out of 5]

Υπάρχουν μερικές λογοτεχνικές χειρονομίες που επιφυλάσσονται μόνο στους μεγάλους συγγραφείς. Η πιο επιθετική και επικίνδυνη από αυτές είναι πάντα η άμεση απεύθυνση στον αναγνώστη, ιδίως όταν αυτή προτάσσεται στο έργο, υπό τη μορφή μιας εισαγωγής, ενός σημειώματος, μιας προσφώνησης ή μιας προειδοποίησης, όπως επιλέγει να τιτλοφορήσει ο Κρασναχορκάι τις δικές του εναρκτήριες σελίδες από την Επιστροφή του βαρόνου Βένκχαϊμ. Και σε αυτές τις σελίδες ακτινοβολεί η θεατρική ειρωνεία και ο απόλυτος εκφραστικός έλεγχος ενός πολύ σπουδαίου συγγραφέα της εποχής μας:

«[…] και τούτη εδώ τώρα ήταν προειδοποίηση, αν και όχι καλοπροαίρετη, διότι εδώ δεν θα μπορείτε να παίξετε παρά μόνο ένα πράγμα, κι αυτό με έναν συγκεκριμένο τρόπο, κι εγώ είμαι αυτός που καθορίζει […] και τα δύο μέρη της συνεργασίας, κύριοι, θα παίξετε μουσική όπως θα σας σφυρίζω εγώ και, πιστέψτε με, μιλώ εκ πείρας, δεν συμφέρει να τα βάζετε μαζί μου, απλώς δεν έχει κανένα νόημα, μπορείτε να φαντάζεστε, εφόσον το γνωρίζω, μπορείτε να ονειρεύεστε, εφόσον μου το ομολογήσετε, ότι κάποτε θα είναι διαφορετικά, ότι θα είναι αλλιώς, αλλά δεν θα είναι διαφορετικά και δεν θα είναι αλλιώς, θα είναι έτσι και μόνο έτσι όσο παραμένω εγώ […] ο ιμπρεσάριος αυτής της παράστασης, και ώς τότε θα γίνεται ό,τι ορίζω εγώ, κι αυτό το ώς τότε είναι σαν την αιωνιότητα […]»

[Tommi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Generally, I attempt to eschew ascribing adjectives such as “monolithic” or “labyrinthine” to the works of old Western male authors, especially if meant in a positive way. The words carry a tinge of worship of the canonical postmodernists, whose lengthy, sprawling, bewildering sentences characteristically find their fan base in male readers. Despite this aversion, I find myself reading and praising a certain Hungarian giant, whose ostensibly final novel, Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming (translated by Ottilie Mulzet), is monolithic and labyrinthine in all the best connotations of the words. This novel also ends my year-long project of reading through the somewhat connected quartet of novels: Satantango, The Melancholy of Resistance, War & War, and now finally Homecoming.

I won’t attempt to compare the four, since David Auerbach over at Music & Literature has done a fantastic analysis where he ties the novels together. Suffice it to say that Homecoming works as a standalone, although at nearly 600 pages it may be a heavy introduction to the author; I would perhaps suggest Satantango as a more suitable starting point in that respect.

However, what I do want to point out in light of the author’s earlier novels is the amount of comedy in Homecoming. Juxtaposing caricature characters and absurdity with the author’s trademark fixation with the apocalypse has never been funnier. I laughed out loud at various points, most audibly when the residents of the fictional version of Gyula welcome the book’s titular Baron back to his childhood town. The welcoming party is an absolute disaster. Nothing quite goes according to plan:

All the flawless organizing had been in vain, the Mayor shook his head, […] the train didn’t even stop properly, and for some reason [the Baron] didn’t even want to get out of the train at first, well, never mind – what is certain is that when he finally started walking with him from the train to the main microphone, he suddenly heard the bikers blowing that Madonna tune randomly on their motorcycle horns, and then the women’s chorus – as if this had been their sign – started in on the same song, at which point the crowd began to yell all kinds of things, but not what he’d instructed them beforehand to call out from his megaphone, instead some were yelling: long live the Baron, some were yelling: welcome, others were screaming: bravo, yet others were yelling: well hail!; can somebody tell me – he had been posing the question for days now – what is “well hail” supposed to mean, well, is that the right way to receive such an important guest?

And it only gets worse, or funnier, depending on how you perceive Krasznahorkai’s dark sense of humor. The eventual degradation of everything is not a surprising development in his novels, and fans won’t be disappointed. Intertwined with the Baron storyline is the story of the reclusive Professor living in a self-built shack on a tiny plot of forest, whose complete disregard for the outside world as well as his “thought-immunization” exercises maintain Krasznahorkai’s reputation as a writer of curmudgeon novels.

His sentences in Homecoming, however, are surprisingly short. They do span pages, yes, and they are sweeping one-sentence paragraphs, but they rarely surpass 6–7 pages. What poses a difficulty to the reader – well, at least to me – is the shift of perspective in each new paragraph. In this novel, a paragraph break usually entails a new viewpoint, and these changes do not adhere to any unities of time or space. As the focalizers shift every 6–7 pages, and Krasznahorkai does not let us immediately know who is now reporting, this occasionally presents a challenge. Fortuitously, over the course of the 600 pages, the relatively large cast of characters develops voices of their own. Toward the end, it is no longer difficult to distinguish between these voices. They are a town of multitudinous voices, an absurd conglomeration of Hungarian personalities ruthlessly ridiculed and denounced in a long letter discovered in a chapter entitled “To the Hungarians.”

This immersive, strange, addictive, utterly dark yet funny, and altogether brilliantly written narrative leaps to the top of my reads this year. There is just something highly idiosyncratic about the author’s style that leaves a lasting impression. The first UK edition has some unfortunate misspellings around the beginning of the novel – I must have counted almost a dozen – and even the title page is lacking the name of the translator (although they have appropriately tucked in an “Erratum” sheet to point out the mistake). Regardless of these editorial oversights, this book is a gem.

[Hugh · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have rather got out of the habit of reviewing books immediately after finishing them, so this review is a few days late, for which I apologise. This is only my second Krasznohorkai after Satantango, and I am still not convinced that I want to read the rest, though this one is an enjoyable read, and rather funnier. It does still demand patience of the reader - it is a long book written in very long sentences, whose subjects frequently switch without any warning.

The book is set in a small Hungarian town near the Romanian border. Although the central figure is the Baron, a minor aristocrat returning from South America, his story is rather less important than the reactions he engenders, not least from civic authorities desperate for investment and anything that would make the place attractive. The baron does not even appear in the first chapter, and is dead before the last - the first part concerns an eccentric professor who has abandoned his life to live on a wasteland/dump, where he has been provided with weapons by a gang of Nazi bikers.

As in Satantango, the portrait Krasznohorkai paints of his native Hungary is not a flattering one, and at times there are Bernhardian rants, but there are also plenty of lighter moments, and the baron is a brilliant comic creation.

[Radu Popovici · Rating 4 out of 5]

4,5 *

[Anna · Rating 5 out of 5]

Now worthy winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature 2025

Suite Macabre Optimiste

Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming, the last of its kind according to the author, is a musical work. Instead of a table of contents, on the last page of the Hungarian hardback we have a dance card whose last item is the sheet music library which lists two categories of items utilized, as if a list of ingredients for the menu at the dark ball: those missing and - vastly outnumbering the missing - those destroyed. Then follow instructions to repeat, concluding the book with Da capo al fine.

I’ve wondered what musical structure this might correspond to. Since dance is hinted at, a suite comes to mind. The chapters could either be movements or more simply, as they are entitled in a way to reflect crooning sounds, they could represent beats in a bar, perhaps in 4/4 time minus the opening warning section and the first chapter which, according to the ‘sheet’, we are not supposed to include in the three repeats. The second chapter is where the Baron makes his appearance and gives rise to the hopes of the locals, described in chapter three in a delicious stream of social study and characterization. The third repeat on the dance card varies the music and it is exactly this chapter three – the hopes attached to the appearance of a messianic character – where we can change the course of the game.

The final piece in Krasznahorkai’s existential quartet is more humorously satirical, but compassionately so, than his first three major novels. There is no obvious time sequence between these major stories, although fine threads connect them: Satantango is referenced as a folk dance that made this town world famous; the empty slogan of the new government from The Melancholy of Resistance is mentioned here as a precursor to the right-wing bikers’ movement.

The timeline in the Wenckheim book is like a horizontal spiral: every now and then, he jumps back just a little to explore the antecedents of individual events before proceeding with the straight-line presentation. Krasznahorkai’s hallmark style is not so relentless here: although he doesn’t believe in the period, we get full stops where he shifts to another character (and gives the reader time to take a breath). His change of focus is like a signal to the individual characters: it’s their turn to dance in this suite macabre.

The story of a failed redemption in motion blur is built on two pillars: the Professor, who escaped the town by fleeing, and the much awaited Baron Wenckheim, a quixotic character, who escaped the town by dying. The Professor echoes musicologist Eszter from Melancholy. He is disillusioned with the world, but also with thought and intellectual effort, “the sick compulsion of thought”. He differs from the Baron in that he does Watch Out For and runs while he can, unlike the dreamy Baron who meets his death in the chapter entitled so, right after experiencing a revelation about meaning and the very purpose of existence. The Baron’s sad end seems to confirm the Professor’s pessimism: cogitation does not save. Or is it the contrary? Does finding a meaning indeed complete life?

We witness the rewriting of history in action when the town aediles later deny the excessive and abusive enthusiasm they had attached to the Baron’s arrival. They also turn down the chance of introspection that might have been inspired by the diatribe against the Hungarians and specifically against some of these town leaders, published anonymously in the only surviving newspaper, after the frustrated meeting with the savior who is not a savior. Their subsequent actions transform the critical article into a prophecy: they are rapists and big-mouthed cowards who only look after themselves, reminiscing about a glorious and rewritten past. Marika has always been Marika, but she deludes herself with asking to be called by the more elegant name Marietta. When her illusion is dispelled, she flees. The priest and the daughter-in-law of the Baron’s old sweetheart’s friend are the only characters who look inwards when the apocalypse strikes: the former prays, the latter reaches out to help.

After the Baron’s arrival has marked the moral end of the town, its physical end is announced by another, more mysterious arrival, of the tankers, in a scene that conjures the entrance of the stuffed whale in Melancholy. Melancholy retells the Hobbesian Leviathan, an exemplification of how brute mobs can only be controlled by strong government, while BWH reverses this and presents a gradual collapse of the government and then of society, in a final chapter that calls to mind Alfred Kubin’s Armageddon in The Other Side where both inefficient savior and the inefficiently saved die as the illusory world consumes itself.

The page-long passages that make up this dark existential performance are often monologues, true to Krasznahorkai’s skepticism about dialogue. Even though this more articulated structure is friendlier on the reader, it creates a sense of disconnection and demonstrates the destructive force of not hearing the other’s monologue, of being “a not very attentive audience”. The end of the world is also the end of speech:

there was no one left to say what happened, and that would only be the words following mechanically one after the other, as they lined up nicely in space in single file, but there was no one anymore to say them, so let the words just line up, one after the other…

Wenckheim’s wonderful and frightening conclusion, namely that the question about meaning is itself the answer (a conclusion reverberated by Della in Marilynne Robinson's Jack) and his own grotesque end as he reaches this conclusion, become a strange self-fulfilling prophecy: finding an answer and stopping the inquiry marks the end of the world. When speech becomes redundant, time becomes redundant, too. This is bad news or good news, depending on the landscape of your own soul.

Upon his return, Baron Wenckheim notices, repeatedly, “how much everything was in the same place, as if it was the same, although nothing was the same” (an interesting parallel to Ben Lerner's 10:04). His homecoming is his own attempt at playing da capo, with minor variations. As bleak as the Krasznahorkai universe is, I find a vague hope here. The Wenckheim story ends with a representation of the fear of having no one to talk to, as all opposition has disappeared. Perhaps this fear, too, as humanity repeats its dance according to instructions from finis to finis, will repeat its effects as they are described here: “it is precisely fear and its dreadful strength that gave birth to culture”.

[Maria · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un regal.

[Nathanimal · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my most common finger wags is “A novel is not about something; a novel IS something.” By which I guess I mean a novel is its own object of contemplation, not the means of contemplating some other topic. I should probably be a lot more careful declaring what a novel IS.

This finger wag is largely animated by Krasznahorkai, a longtime favorite writer. Like Thomas Bernhard and other modernist-like European writers, Krasznahorkai blackens the page with sensibility, a voice that talks for miles without going much of anywhere, a voice that resembles a kind of thick substance. These blocks of text are set beside each other, building one on the next or offsetting each other in some way, and create something less like a narrative and more like an edifice.

Baron Wenckheim's Homecoming piles up smaller blocks than usual, but in a similar way. This book is an edifice built upon a single cornerstone, the return of a supposedly illustrious aristocrat to Hungary, and the way a town assembles itself atop that expectation. And then Krazsnahorkai gleefully rips away this cornerstone to watch it all collapse. It's amazing how easily it does that. Krasznahorkai is obsessed with destruction, entropy, as well as with the grueling effort required for anything to persist. There’s also a professor (of mosses) in here that only likes to think once a day, and from the extended excerpt of his inner monologue, once a day is enough. As an object of contemplation, this book seems whole. It leaves one with a clean taste in the mouth. It’s also a very silly book, thank heavens. Silly and cosmically serious. Like that photo of Krasznahorkai on the back flap with his hands templed together like a Buddhist mage. You giggle and then you feel uneasy, like, How serious am I supposed to take this guy!

[Namira Galando · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have no words. It feels like this novel has carved out a piece of me and carried it off without any reassurance that what's been taken will ever be returned. Recommended? Sure, if you're brave enough...

[Fin · Rating 4 out of 5]

...we always end up doing what we have to anyway, there aren't any other choices, and it's superfluous, boundlessly and profoundly superfluous, if, at some point, we attempt (and we still think it's us!) to make any kind of decision at all, we don't decide anything, which still is, quite simply, I mean the whole thing is simply not interesting, it doesn't matter, its significance is zero because it only has a meaning and a mood, and we just keeping doing our little maneuvers on this modulation scale, but only for our own amusement, because we always end up completing the essential, namely we do whatever we have to, and so on...

The apocalypse signalled by Sátantango-Melancholy-War arrives with a bang and a whimper, where the world and all its significance 'like a pile of hewn timber / []lies heaped upon itself' - no sequential connection or order left. The decay of Melancholy's final corpse has been revealed as a function of the universe itself.