Satantango
László Krasznahorkai
Language: English
Pages: 288
ISBN: 0811220893
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
From the winner of the 2015 Man Booker International Prize
A dark, haunting masterpiece by the author of The Melancholy of Resistance and Seiobo There Below
Now in paperback, Satantango, the novel that inspired Béla Tarr’s classic film, is proof that the devil has all the good times. Set in an isolated hamlet, the novel unfolds over the course of a few rain-soaked days. Only a dozen inhabitants remain in the bleak village, rank with the stench of failed schemes, betrayals, failure, infidelity, sudden hopes, and aborted dreams. “Their world,” in the words of the renowned translator George Szirtes is “rough and ready, lost somewhere between the cosmic and tragic, in one small insignificant corner of the cosmos. Theirs is the dance of death.” Into this world comes, it seems, a messiah…
The Romantic Paradox: Love, Violence and the Uses of Romance, 1760-1830
The End of Everything (New Yiddish Library Series)
The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders
A Brontë Family Chronology (Author Chronologies)
himself and shouts, his eyes flashing in anger. “I tell you what you should be pulling, you old goat. The skin off your dick!” If Irimiás did not intervene there’d be a fight. “Enough!” he bellows. “How did you know we were on the way?” The boy stands a careful distance from Petrina, rubbing his ear. “That’s my business. It doesn’t matter anyway . . . Everyone knows by now. The driver told them.” Petrina is cursing, looking up at the sky but Irimiás gestures for him to be quiet (“Use your brains!
skull: “Doctor, sir, you shouldn’t have! You really shouldn’t have!” IV. The Work of the Spider I Turn the fire on!” said Kerekes, the farmer. Autumnal horse-flies were buzzing round the cracked lampshade, describing drowsy figures of eight in its weak light, time and again colliding with the filthy porcelain, so that after each dull little thud their bodies fell back into the magnetic paths they themselves had woven, to continue this endless cycle, albeit on a tight closed circuit
on, her days were filled with cramping anxiety and she hid herself behind the barn or, sometimes at the end of the house under the eaves because from there she could keep an eye on the kitchen door so that, though they couldn’t see her from there, if they called she could appear immediately. Having to be constantly on the alert soon played havoc with her emotions: her attention was almost exclusively restricted to the kitchen door, but she registered that with such keen sharpness it almost
in the doctor’s window whose house was set well apart from the others on the far side, and that was only because its occupant had for years been unable to sleep in the dark. Futaki held his breath because he wanted to know where the noise came from: he couldn’t afford to lose a single stray note of the rapidly fading clangor, however remote (“You must be asleep, Futaki . . .”). Despite his lameness he was well known for his light tread and he hobbled across the ice-cold stone floor of the
them. Futaki couldn’t resist joining in. “You’re full of cheer all right. I wonder if you’d be so damn cheerful if you were lame and had to drag these two suitcases around . . . ?” “You think this lousy cart is easy work?” Kráner threw back at him: “I’ve no idea what to do when it falls to pieces on the damn road!” Insulted, he fell silent and from that time on spoke to no one but dragged the cart along, keeping his eyes on the road at his feet. Mrs. Halics was silently cursing Mrs. Kráner
