Startling. Shocking. Surreal.

I’ve seen the name Laszlo Krasznahorkai on best-of lists several since I started reading from the “translated” side of literary fiction over a decade ago. But for some reason, despite recommendations from close friends and booksellers I trust implicitly, Satantango is the first novel of his I’ve ever read. And while this feels cliché to write AND read – it will not be the last. Published by New Directions (and translated by George Szirtis), this bizarre book whirls and careens with feverish abandon, compounded by each chapter being a single unbroken paragraph. I would read multi-page passages multiple times in hopes of unlocking the mysteries of the story simply to find myself agog at the pure writerly craft on display. Only by paying very close attention did I eventually determine the setting, time, and surroundings, but those traditional narrative details still did not ground the reading experience. However, by actively seeking to disorient the reader with its multiple POVs, swirling timelines, and nebulous plot machinations, it deepened my engagement with the events. The combination of formatting, crackling dialogue, and unorthodox character development held me completely in thrall. Packing your book full of unreliable narrators is one thing, but it has been a long time since I felt that the author simply didn’t like any of his characters. It’s not that Krasznahorkai kept putting them into precarious situations, but it was more like I could feel his visceral reactions to the choices they made resonate from the page. Hence, I absolutely had to figure out what was going to happen with this outrageous cast of tragic-coming ne’er-do-wells – and I was never once disappointed.