January 18–25, 2001
books
Hungary for More
Let The Melancholy of Resistance be your introduction to Hungarian literature.
The Melancholy of Resistance
By László Krasznahorkai
Quartet Books, 272 p., $13.95
Hungary doesn’t have the same reputation for literature that it does for, say, classical music or wine or pornography. That’s because the native language is among the most unique and inaccessible in the world. How many Finno-Ugric languages can you name? How many Hungarian authors?
In the States, we’re far more familiar with the works of Béla Lugosi and Zsa Zsa Gabor than Endre Ady and Dezso Kosztolányi. As for more contemporary Hungarian writers go, few have been translated and even fewer have received any sort of exposure here in the New World. The Two Péters, Nádas and Eszterházy, make a small splash every couple of years when something new sneaks into English, but Miklós Mészöly, Lajos Grendel and Tibor Déry represent a truly lost generation, at least to us.
The publication of László Krasznahorkai’s The Melancholy of Resistance can change all that. It’s one Hungarian book well deserving of a place on every reading list and within every new year’s resolution.
Melancholy originally appeared in Hungary in 1989, but like the Magyar countryside itself, the book maintains a truly timeless quality. Krasznahorkai is stingy with the details of the setting; only a few clues (a red star on a toy solider, "all those shiny Mercedes") place the book in the waning years of the Russian occupation. Otherwise, it could have just as easily taken place a hundred years ago. The action, for lack of a better word, takes place in a small, rural village near the Hungarian-Rumanian border.
The book begins by exploding the myth that, if nothing else, at least the Soviets made the trains run on time. From there, Krasznahorkai dismantles many of the falsities that had seeped down from the official propagandists into the collective psyche of the proletariat. A traveling circus comes to town, boasting the remains of the largest whale in the entire world. The enormous dead beast being dragged from city to city serves as a blank metaphor. The author leaves the story open-ended enough that every reader can apply his or her own interpretation. As interest in the circus swells, so do the conspiracies. The carneys have nefarious intentions, or so some locals believe, which gives them an excuse for their eccentric behavior.
As in William Gaddis’ classic novel JR, the book’s narrative voice and focus change without warning, shifting from character to character, occasionally in mid-sentence. Krasznahorkai flirts with surrealism, but without ever consummating the relationship. His style is dense, and the story meanders at the pace of social change, gaining speed only by force of its own gravity. Each paragraph runs on uninterrupted for dozens of pages, resisting abbreviation or quotation.
The lively translation by George Szirtes maintains the weighty, forward momentum, and his rich word choices make you want to read slowly. The language, fully charged, is something to savor. The winding pace roils with meaning, metaphor and allusion, as if the story is going to burst at the seams. A kind of breathlessness overtakes the reader.
Part of the fun of reading Cold War literature derives from uncovering the historical ironies beyond the author’s line of vision at the time of writing. We have an entirely different perspective now from which to impose meaning on the open-ended metaphors. If Krasznahorkai knew then what we know now, we’d have a much different book on our hands. As it stands, it’s a perfect snapshot of a not-too-distant past and it definitely withstands the dual-headed test of time and translation. Does the dead whale represent God? Mother Russia? Hungary’s hopes of independence? Every reader must answer these questions for himself.
Do yourself and ten million Hungarians a favor. Don’t allow the brilliant work of László Krasznahorkai to remain in obscurity. Put this newspaper down, brave the cold and go buy a copy of The Melancholy of Resistance. Make no mistake: it’s a difficult book, but a vastly rewarding one.