Was László Krasznahorkai molested by a paragraph as a child?

Was László Krasznahorkai molested by a paragraph as a child?

Kek. I know the feeling. Good shitpost.

and check'd.

>Quietly, continually, the rain fell and the inconsolable wind that died then was forever resurrected ruffled the still surfaces of puddles so lightly it failed to disturb the delicate dead skin that had covered them during the night so that instead of recovering the previous day's tired glitter they increasingly and remorselessly absorbed the light that swam slowly out of the east.
>Bruised and battered, the child's fingers as thin and white as the bones of his father dead and buried in the yard two summers past (though summer the word had been forgot winter and winter ago) peeled at blighted potato with nails bitten and chewed some in anger but hunger most, sustenance to preserve the shrunken and juvenile form of Kraznahorkai, growth a word reserved for only disease.
>"You have potato little Laszlo. Now you will taste meat." The sardonic grin, a horror ineffable to the child unschooled in writ or speech, who's terrors to his mind knew only the forms of screams and ghostly shapes, madness and fear boiled to their noumenal forms, unshackled by language, horror a priori.
>But the child would come to know what words and speech writ slant upon the walls of his soul contain within their bounds. What concept born to latin and greek, alien and unconscionable to the child that knew no history or future, only a scream stretched taut through time, the name of his accursed, the demiurgic nightmare laying prey upon him since paw was struck dead in the frozen dirt of the yard by the selfsame. The paragraph, leviathan of old, pressing down the childs face and neck into the rotting boards of the cold floor, tearing into the child, writhing and screaming beneath his heavy thrusts, his hands against Laszlo's face littered with flecks of his father's brain.

I always thought of Krasz's technique as labouring the reader to give a sense of the struggle of life, and the way his sentences seem to correct themselves an indicator of the slippery path language leads to chaos, or maybe they're just neurotic, but even thats good; the use of the descriptive, meandering sentence with a soft-of "punch" on the end most reminds me of Kafka. And even when he ends a sentence, he'll often burst right into the next one, leaving no rest.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but I love him all the same. Fuck seiobo there below tho.

it took me a few chapters to get into war and war but once i did his style seemed so readable to me that other authors seem annoying with how much they stop for periods.

I thought Seiobo was his best tho?

Is Satantango worth a read? I loved the movie.

seiobo is his best, but it's not his best translated

some people prefer his much more melancholic work (especially his collaborations with bela tarr)
I for one think Seiobo is his best work but maybe hungarians know something I don't

it's incredibly good
I put it off and read the other books first because I had liked the movie so much but the book really is at least as good if not better than the film