T o an innocent bystander, The World Goes On might seem a bland title for a story collection, suggestive of heartwarming tales about good, simple people enduring life’s hardships with grit and courage. Seasoned Krasznahorkaians, however, will understand that the title should be read in a tone of mocking, even deranged, sarcasm, followed by a mirthless snort and a forceful expectoration. In László Krasznahorkai’s fiction the world never goes on. It is always ending. Or, as Krasznahorkai might