We mustn’t be afraid to see our world in cosmological terms, W. says. In religious terms. The language of apocalypse is wholly appropriate for these times.
That’s what Krasznahorkai understands, W. says. It always amazes him, my inability to read Krasznahorkai. Didn’t he send me his own copies of The Melancholy of Resistance, and War and War? Didn’t he send me email after email, encouraging me to read them?
I didn’t get far with The Melancholy of Resistance, I told him. There’s nothing in War and War for the reader. The books are too boring, I told him. Boring!, W. exploded. Life is boring!, he says. Literature is not a celebrity magazine, he says. It should be boring.
W. has always thought that Krasznahorkai was the closest of contemporary authors to me. – ‘Except he has talent’. I’ve seen Béla Tarr’s adaptations of Krasznahorkai’s books, of course. W. forced me to watch them. But the books themselves … They’re too hard, I told W. The sentences are too long.
Hasn’t he dreamt that I could become a Krasznahorkai of philosophy, just as he could become a Béla Tarr of philosophy? Hasn’t he dreamt that, drawing from my Krasznahorkai-like blog posts about my life in the suburbs, my life in the warehouse, my life with damp and my life with rats, that he might write a Béla Tarr-like philosophy?
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