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Journalism of Courage
For a writer who has spent decades cultivating his own difficult, unyielding form of literary soil — slow-growing, deeply rooted, indifferent to the pressures of the season — the 2025 Nobel Prize in Literature to Hungarian writer László Krasznahorkai, 71, awarded for his “singular prose that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art”, seems only befitting.
For years, Krasznahorkai’s fiction has walked the knife-edge between despair and grace, winning him the Man Booker Prize in 2015, and the Kossuth Prize, Hungary’s highest cultural honour, in 2004, among others.
Krasznahorkai will receive the medal and diploma in a ceremony in December in Stockholm. He is the second Hungarian, after Imre Kertesz in 2002, to bag the award.
Born in 1954 in Gyula, a small Hungarian town near the Romanian border, Krasznahorkai came of age in the long dusk of state socialism. His upbringing — Jewish, rural, and repressive — fed his early awareness of history. After studying law and literature in Budapest, he published his debut novel, Sátántangó, in 1985: a sprawling bleak story set on a dying collective farm. It became an immediate sensation for the novelty of how the subject was treated, and for the philosophical heft Krasznahorkai brought to it.
Since then, he has occupied a unique space: marginal and mythic, fiercely literary, defiantly uncommercial. His friend and frequent collaborator, filmmaker Béla Tarr, adapted Sátántangó into a seven-hour cinematic dirge that sealed both their reputations as prophets of doom.
If there is a thematic core in Krasznahorkai’s oeuvre, it is the tension between ruination and possibility, of the collapse of old narratives, and the human impulse to resist change.
In The Melancholy of Resistance (1989), a circus arrives in a small town, unleashing an almost biblical unravelling of order. In War and War (1999), a Hungarian archivist believes he’s discovered a manuscript of transcendent importance — and will stop at nothing to preserve it, even as the world around him falls apart.
Krasznahorkai interrogates moral collapse, institutional rot, spiritual drift, how individuals confront history, how society dissolves, how memory falters, how hope flickers. His vision is not sentimental. It is unsparing, rigorous, exacting. But that intensity also stands witness to and guard over human dignity.
Though grounded in the Central European tradition championed by the likes of Franz Kafka, Thomas Bernhard, Robert Musil, Samuel Beckett, Krasznahorkai’s later work reflects his deep engagement with Asia, particularly Japan and China. In books like Seiobo There Below (2008) and Destruction and Sorrow Beneath the Heavens (2004), he becomes a kind of cultural pilgrim, tracing the remnants of sacred beauty and artistic devotion in an increasingly indifferent world.
Art, in Krasznahorkai’s vision, is not a thing of beauty and joy but humanity’s urgent and necessary response to existential crisis. It earned him the epithet of “the contemporary Hungarian master of apocalypse” from the writer Susan Sontag.
In an interview to The Guardian in 2015, Krasznahorkai described his work as: “Letters; then from letters, words; then from these words, some short sentences; then more sentences that are longer, and in the main very long sentences, for the duration of 35 years. Beauty in language. Fun in hell.”
Krasznahorkai’s literary hallmark is his uncompromising sentence — dense, recursive, often stretching across multiple pages, with its insistence on being lived through. Reading his prose is an exercise in immersion, a breathless surrender to an undertow of existential dread. There is a kind of stern grace in his language, a patient perseverance that nudges the reader to open herself up to rhythm, to nuance, and associative leaps.
For years, Krasznahorkai’s name has made the rounds before every Nobel season. In choosing Krasznahorkai, the Swedish Academy has shown both defiance of and deference to the existential dread of a world caught between wars and conflicts, climate crises and politics of insularity.
The award also recognises the need for stolidity in a world of churn. In an attention-deficit society, it demands engagement. But perhaps that’s precisely the point. At a time when language is increasingly hollowed out by speed, cynicism, and spectacle, Krasznahorkai offers something rare — a stubborn defiance, a persistent faith in human agency and its ability to endure and resist. His fiction doesn’t chase relevance. It waits, it watches and it holds up the memory as a warning and as hope.
