PanWorld Literature Today... fails spectacularly ... falls on the side of tedious; its prose falls about in self-precious fits and starts. It may admittedly be unfair to hold an author to the standards of his greatest achievements, and certainly there are passages here where the work shines ... Kraszhahorkai can be a master stylist; there are even startlingly wise lessons hiding in this work—yet the overall execution feels lazy, like a draft ... It’s probably also no fault of the translator that the work’s self-abnegating, often pedestrian tone and boring word choice works better in Hungarian ... As Hungarian culture continues to chart its own path, it’s possible this work’s faux political outrage as well as its prevaricating and smelly old-world charm remain relevant there. If so, that’s a sad metacommentary—but not sufficient reason for us to read it ... Some may suggest this book is a pinnacle of Krasznahorkai’s oevre. It is not. Why not take the time instead to read the author’s previous volumes, or something else important or beautiful? Finally, it is reflective of how much the ground may have shifted beneath our feet, that we may no longer have this much time to waste, sifting through muck looking for the gems.
