" He gazed sadly at the threatening sky, at the burned-out remnants of a locust-plagued summer, and suddenly saw on the twig of an acacia, as in a vision, the progress of spring, summer, fall and winter, as if the whole of time were a frivolous interlude in the much greater space of eternity, a brilliant conjuring trick to produce something apparently orderly out of chaos, to establish a vantage point from which chance might begin to look like necessity... "

" Death, he felt, was only a kind of warning rather than a desperate and permanent end ."

After the news broke that Hungarian novelist László Krasznahorkai had won the Nobel Prize in Literature, I scoured through my Gmail drafts and found these passages from Satantango —two lines I had once saved and that now resurfaced with re

See Full Page