Ervin Lázár is the creator of a genre we may safely call
Central European folk surrealism, which takes on the quality of a
hallucinatory exploration into that part of the soul where beauty, hope,
and yearning live in close proximity with the harsh realities of life.
László Krasznahorkai is not a fashionable writer. He is marching directly against what the age is about: that literature should become part of the entertainment industry. He is failing to adapt smoothly to what is going on. This art is powerfully pitched against the intention to skim through life laughing or just sticking it out as best you can without taking any particular risk.
Everybody who knows something about football (and that’s about two billion people) knows that Hungarian football is dead. It didn’t die just now—its condition gradually deteriorated, and in the end it didn’t even recognize itself in the hospital—but on this day it has been pronounced clinically dead.