Nobel prize-winning writers are often very hard to read—but that may be the point

That is not what the Nobel Prize committee said a few days ago when it awarded the Hungarian writer its Literature award. The panel said the award was for his “compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art." But what ‘apocalyptic terror’? Where? Not in his novels. Not in the real world as we know it, and as we know what ‘apocalypse’ means. Shouldn’t the gatekeepers of literature at least describe our world without hyperbole?

It was as though the prize committee had pinched that quote from a character in his book Satantango, who says, “We are living in apocalyptic times." But even in her world, no one takes her seriously because there is no apocalypse. Other guardians of literature have received Krasznahorkai’s honour very well, praising him even as they say his prose is “difficult" and “dense" and “dour."

Many Nobel winners, even those who are very good, are not easy to read. What does that mean? Why is acclaimed literature often so difficult, even unbearable? Who is it for then? Is it really so hard for anyone with some talent and narcissism to write a dreary stream of consciousness? Isn’t reaching out the truly difficult craft? Or is a novel like love—the more it makes you suffer, the more you respect it? Or is it just that the gatekeepers of literature are of frail intellect, who need dreariness to grant that something is intelligent and important?

There is a bit of all this in the canonization of some works. But still, I think it is justice, especially today, that someone like Krasznahorkai is celebrated precisely because he is difficult to read.

The Nobel Prize is the resistance of art against commerce. And so it is important that it shows this resistance through something that is the exact opposite of mass media.

Reading Krasznahorkai is the antithesis of scrolling, and of consumption of the entertainment industry’s inane output. It is the antithesis of a corporate pandering to “what people want." I have no quarrels with pandering; just that most of the analysis of “what people want" is unintelligent and fails far more often than art. Generally, the ‘entertainment’ industry bores people in ways a Krasznahorkai novel never does.

That art has contempt for pulp is true, and this is fairly well known. What most people do not realize is that pulp too has contempt for art—real, visceral disdain. Many people, if not all, who thrive in the business of pandering have disdain for artists whose reach is very small. So it is fair that the Nobel should scoff back by celebrating the exact opposite of mainstream inanity.

Krasznahorkai represents the idea that an artist should create without any concern for what people are or what they want. He must surely hope that you like his stuff, but I don’t think that influences his work.

In fact, to understand the extent to which he doesn’t care for what you want, consider this: if you think you are a low-maintenance reader of novels who demands nothing but just ‘full stops’ after every sentence, there are works by Krasznahorkai that do not provide even that. He writes sentences that are longer than short stories. It is as though he is challenging you to read him. In return, he accepts that he will pay a price. And that price is failure. Very few people read him.

Literary prizes are a form of justice to people like him, and maybe he, like other acclaimed writers like him, does write for awards. We will never know. What does irk me in Nobel literature winners is how much this tribute means to them. That defeats the whole charm of writing for failure.

But even if Krasznahorkai does write for acclaim, it is alright. Consider the meaning of his success. It symbolizes resistance to the takeover of mass media by executives who have no clue what they are doing. The middle ground between art and commerce, like Haruki Murakami’s work, cannot convey the resounding slap that art wants to give mindlessness, even though this middle ground is harder to achieve than pure art.

The reason pulp creates so much rubbish that fails to move anyone lies in a fallacy at the heart of its decisions. Its executives, who are usually from affluent homes, try to think lower than their own tastes. Or, if they have low tastes themselves, they feel empowered to decide “what would work."

The problem with this is best explained by a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them." The problem that mass media tries to solve is what people should do with their time. They need to solve it from a level higher than their consumers.

This is also how the gatekeepers of art think, even though they may not articulate it this way. In fact, this is the only moral reason for gatekeepers of art to exist—that they seek to encourage a human mind that is somehow higher in many ways than the capacity of most people.

This leads to its own set of problems. So often the Nobel is not about talent, but about gravitas and human virtues. It is almost always a good-boy-good-girl award. It inescapably celebrates posturing, denying us exposure to so many endearing rogues.

The author is a journalist, novelist and screenwriter. His latest book is ‘Why the Poor Don’t Kill Us.’