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I am reading Satantango at my parents' house. A communist block of flats, tiny cubicles with thin walls, through which the noise of a Tv set penetrates from my neighbor upstairs. Later on, my mother comes in my room and falls asleep on my bed.

Poor mom, she is always so tired. Soon, the muffled noise of the Tv intermingles with my mother's snores. I am expelled from the depths of evil; I leave behind the colony, the putrid rooms, the decay. I come back to my banal reality. I glimpse at the hal I am reading Satantango at my parents' house.

A communist block of flats, tiny cubicles with thin walls, through which the noise of a Tv set penetrates from my neighbor upstairs. Later on, my mother comes in my room and falls asleep on my bed. Poor mom, she is always so tired. Soon, the muffled noise of the Tv intermingles with my mother's snores. I am expelled from the depths of evil; I leave behind the colony, the putrid rooms, the decay. I come back to my banal reality.

I glimpse at the half-eaten cake, the orderly room, my warm feet. I hold the book open with my toes, fingers plucked deep in my ears. Slowly, word upon word, I can hear once again the rumbling of thunder, the incessant tapping of rain. Shadowy hands pull me once more inside the sickening gloom and despair. I am back in the colony, caught up in a maddening Satan's tango. Back to Bucharest, I finish the novel. Rain has followed me around, accompanying my reading of Satantango.

I couldn't have arranged for a better setting for this bleak, absurd novel, which dragged me through a world in a deepening state of decay. Civilization seems to have been erased, people decimated by an unknown plague, with only an isolated community which survived an apocalypse. For a long time, I had no notion of time and space, nor of the purpose of me being there. No explanations, no causes, only a sour taste in one's mouth, as a sign of impending death. The few people left in the colony retreat, powerless, in the face of an abstract disease, incapable of defending or saving themselves. Everything around them crumbles and rots.

Paint flakes, roofs collapse, mold creeps along walls, furniture and clothes. Unseen spiders weave their cobwebs in silence, trapping objects and beings alike in silvery cocoons, in an attempt to preserve, to hold the world still. It is a life adrift, Sodom and Gomorrah on a smaller scale - men crave for their neighbors' wives, young girls sell their bodies, the school master no longer teaches the young, the doctor no longer heals the sick. Nothing works anymore - the mill and the shops are deserted, the fields are abandoned. The only one standing is the tavern, where people gather to drink and dance madly until dawn. The inhabitants dream of escaping, of leaving their colony behind. Thoughts of starting a better life elsewhere fade away the minute they take shape.

They place their hopes in an outward salvation. One day, a tragedy befalls them, followed by a miracle witnessed by few, but they can't read the signs; their minds are too numbed, their souls too hardened to understand.

And when the much awaited savior arrives, they abandon every shred of reason and follow him blindly. In his hands, the once hopeless puppets return to life, as he infuses them with hope and renewed energy. Docile, they walk the road their master puppeteer has chosen for them. Krasznahorkai's prose has a hypnotic, overwhelming power.

I allowed myself to be carried away by his words, by the rhythm of his long, winding phrases. Slowly, I immersed into the suffocating world of the colony; I could sense the moans of collapsing houses, the lament of an eternal rain, the weaving of cobwebs, the advancing of mold.

I could almost smell the heavy stench of mud and putrefaction, oozing from the crumbling walls and the skin of their helpless inhabitants. In twelve steps of a dance executed in circle, the narrative opens and closes with the mysterious ringing of bells. Behind a window, safely tucked under blankets, there is a hand that writes in notebooks. Reality and imagination commence to overlap; it is either a descent into madness or an ascent towards truth.

*Spoilers below, most likely* In so many ways, Satantango is not a dystopia. It is, in effect, real life. Crude, unforgiving life, in which we can bring the apocalypse onto ourselves through our ignorance, indolence and depravity.

Page after page, I started to realize that the unnamed plague, the unmentioned disaster did not happen from external causes. The so-called catastrophe was brought by the people themselves, through their laziness, vice and fatality. Dehumanized, hopeless, they linger in a state of lethargy; their will is paralyzed. It is the kind of disease that is eating them from the inside; they have condemned themselves. Instead of relying on their own powers, they hope for salvation from elsewhere; they ultimately subject to a higher will, because it is always easier to be led than to lead. Ironically, the salvation they await for could mean, in the end, a further downfall.

A powerful open text, one rife with both fire and human failures. As I quipped early, it's a Faulkner noir in the Magyar mud. What ripens and stings is more akin to Beckett: a waiting for IKEA, with ideological trappings. The novel opens essentially with a bell in the night.

Then it rains. The contemporary reader will ascribe a historical arc to the symbolism, unfortunately the novel was written in 1985. INXS didn't script the Velvet Revolution. Many phenomenon are repositioned after the fact. Th A powerful open text, one rife with both fire and human failures.

As I quipped early, it's a Faulkner noir in the Magyar mud. What ripens and stings is more akin to Beckett: a waiting for IKEA, with ideological trappings.

The novel opens essentially with a bell in the night. Then it rains.

The contemporary reader will ascribe a historical arc to the symbolism, unfortunately the novel was written in 1985. INXS didn't script the Velvet Revolution. Many phenomenon are repositioned after the fact. The novel in translation appears in the wake of Bela Tate's imperious adaptation. The language is a live wire amidst the sodden decay. This should be pursued at all costs. Satantango, or Satan's Tango, is a wandering, twisted, dark, exhausting snarl of a book.

It takes six steps forward, and six steps back, leaving chaos and the blackest of humor. The novel is an allegorical story of a dance with the devil - the characters in their bleak little rainy hole of a village futz around, and every time they try and move forwards, the inertia of their lives drags them back. They dream of the fool's prophet, Irimias, and regress further. Sink into the earth. It's more than E Satantango, or Satan's Tango, is a wandering, twisted, dark, exhausting snarl of a book. It takes six steps forward, and six steps back, leaving chaos and the blackest of humor.

The novel is an allegorical story of a dance with the devil - the characters in their bleak little rainy hole of a village futz around, and every time they try and move forwards, the inertia of their lives drags them back. They dream of the fool's prophet, Irimias, and regress further. Sink into the earth.

It's more than Eastern Europeans Being Depressed. Just read some of the sentences out loud. But the plot and all those things are secondary to the astonishing language and detail of the author.

The sheer mass of the text is first intimidating, then wholly absorbing. Krasznahorkai has an astonishing grasp of the slowness of memory and time.

A stunning read. Just as Breughel paintings are revered for their almost musical composition, Krasznahorkai’s long-awaited (in English at least) Satantango unfolds likes a piece of music – a tango - in style – but not in tone.

And also like Brueghel’s peasants – Kraszhnahorkai’s failures scrape along through the mud in a shambling mess of drunken sin and debauchery - but somehow are never not worth your attention. Satantango is populated by only failures and false prophets. It also works like a A stunning read. Just as Breughel paintings are revered for their almost musical composition, Krasznahorkai’s long-awaited (in English at least) Satantango unfolds likes a piece of music – a tango - in style – but not in tone. Glitter Bot Seafight Password. And also like Brueghel’s peasants – Kraszhnahorkai’s failures scrape along through the mud in a shambling mess of drunken sin and debauchery - but somehow are never not worth your attention. Satantango is populated by only failures and false prophets.

It also works like a desiccated and transmogrified Wizard of Oz where imagination leads to failure, little girls kill animals, humans fall more easily than ambulant scarecrows and your friends kick you in the face when you need it least. “There’s no sense or meaning in anything. It’s nothing but a network of dependency under enormous fluctuating pressures. Saigon The Greatest Story Never Told Chapter 2 Rar Association. It’s only our imaginations, not our senses that continually confront us with failure and the false belief that we can raise ourselves by our own bootstraps from the miserable pulp of decay.” Furthermore in Kraznahorkai’s words, “to distinguish the bad from the good” – this is probably what makes any difference in the face of such perpetual decay. This basic premise is reinforced by an almost Buddhist like animism that animates nature with the same fate – or does it serve to unanimate humans into animal forms? This point was reinforced when Bela Tarr decided to open his movie of this book with an extended scene of cows engaged in desultory mating and mud-wandering – just the same and no better than humans.

Spiders scamper throughout the work and spill right over to the cover design – reinforcing this same concept. Although there is very little that would be considered pleasurable to be found here – there is something of a very profound admonition that is made palatable by the sheer prowess of the writing and translation. Another salient point of comparison would be an organ composition by American Robert Bates, Charon’s Oar (hear it here at about the 29:45 mark of the program - ) that never left my head while reading this. Not that there’s anything wrong with Vig’s music for the film – and the dark and cyclical patterns of the music are similar in both pieces – but like Charon’s Oar – you can almost feel the steady hand of Krasznahorkai slowly churning the waters of the Acheron with an experienced form that is the product of years of practice. The repeating swirls of tone in Bates’ work are a suitable soundtrack for the coiled decay of reality in Satantango – and also like Satantango it is immense, important and engaging.

Sin after sin follows debauchery and depravity and nobody escapes except a youth that longs to transcend earth to return to her dead father’s side in what is possibly the most crushing and horrible scene of cruelty and despair I’ve read this side of Ledig, Platonov and Shalomov. Even when a seemingly magic event unfolds before the eyes of unworthy spectators its thaumaturgical prowess is stilted by simple self- denial and craven disbelief. A further anti-Oz appears in the notion that such magic resides with our grasps and by simply being aware of this – you can take that magic – shove it in your pocket and suffocate ‘til death – leaving absolutely no value of anyone but to serve as a demonstration of the murder of hope. And yet again – it ends like Proust, Farrell and Rezzori with the notion that all such life and memory is only what we, as writers, bother to record. I guess when four of your favorite writers remind you that writers should write, it’s time to stop dancing, mix your palinka a little weaker and get to writing before you die. Reality will slowly fade for all of us and those that have read Krasznahorkai might be less confused when it happens.

A book i wished to return to not one i could not put down. The author leads us on a bleak following of people left with no tangible sense of hope. They escape the experience of life and themselves through a variety of means of withdrawal and avoidance while they wait the return of a dubious character, who they have imbued with the powers of saving them. They ask not for particulars but bolster each other in their faith. The book is filled with religious-spiritual nihilistic dance steps. I found a book i wished to return to not one i could not put down. The author leads us on a bleak following of people left with no tangible sense of hope.

They escape the experience of life and themselves through a variety of means of withdrawal and avoidance while they wait the return of a dubious character, who they have imbued with the powers of saving them. They ask not for particulars but bolster each other in their faith.

The book is filled with religious-spiritual nihilistic dance steps. I found the book strangely gripping. The characters as a group meant something to me and i wanted to find out what happened to them. I turned the pages to the very end while taking in the allegorical symbols and meanings.

There is much to be mined and learned from this book. My complaint, small as it may be is that the narrator's allegorical distance is slightly too great and soft.

I would have liked the lens set for a sharper precision. I believe the message could have been conveyed with greater immediacy with characters and narrative movement clearer cut.