by Laszlo Krasnahorkai

Following a mishmash of pretty unpleasant characters in a small Hungarian village you need to pay attention to spot the pockets of humour. Not an easy read, I found the challenge of the long, rambling sentences with no paragraphs interesting stylistically, and quite hypnotic. A bleak and claustrophobic read but also a beautiful book.


The rain that had been gently pouring till now suddenly turned into a veritable deluge, like a river breaking over a dam, drowning the already choking fields, the lowest lying of which were riddled with serpentine channels, and though it was impossible to see anything through the glass he did not turn away but stared at the worm-eaten wooden frame from which the putty had dropped out, when suddenly a vague form appeared at the window, one that eventually could be made out to be a human face, though he couldn't tell at first whose it was, until he succeeded in picking out a pair of startled eyes, at which point he saw "his own careworn features" and recognized them with a shock like a stab of pain since he felt that what the rain was doing to his face was exactly what time would do.
Translated by George Szirtes


Dead Souls by Nikolay Gogol

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