I just finished reading Dezső Kosztolányi's Kornél Esti, and, boy, are my arms tired.

So many good things to say about this book that I can't say any of them. Well, just one: I read this after reading my first Dezső Kosztolányi book, which was Skylark, and the next book I'm going to read is my third Dezső Kosztolányi book, Anna Édes, and after that I'm going to read my fourth Dezső Kosztolányi book, Nero, the Bloody Poet. And after that I'm going to read a book written by someone else, but only because there aren't any other Dezső Kosztolányi books which have been translated into English. (But I am SERIOUSly thinking about learning Hungarian so that I can get at his other works.) This guy is such an incredible writer that I can't get enough of him. What is it with these Hungarian writers? First László Krasznahorkai's Seiobo There Below cracks the shell of my brain and sends me through all of his available books and all of the films of Béla Tarr, and then leads me (by accident) to this Dezső Kosztolányi fellow, who picks some of the broken shell off of my previously mentioned cracked shell brain. Must be in the water.

Here are some non-spoilerish bits from the last chapter of Kornél Esti that I dearly loved:

And if that whets your appetite, it might be time to wet your whistle.