As soon as László Krasznahorkai won the Nobel Prize in literature, I started getting congratulatory texts. Not because I have played any role in the Hungarian author’s success, but because for years I have attempted, mostly unsuccessfully, to convert friends to his intricate charms. I keep a copy of Seiobo There Below next to my bed as a source of emergency bed-time balm; I have pictures of its three-pages-long first sentence in an email that I send to seemingly persuadable readers. I first