![]() ![]() There are of course times I put on a Zelenka mass or listen to one of Schiff’s “Wohltemperiertes Klavier” interpretations, or take out Spoon, Karen Dalton or Vic Chesnutt, but after a fewīars I turn it off so it may be quiet again, because I want to be ready and I don’t want anything disturbing going on when he arrives and finds me. That is what complete silence is like round here. But everything dies away, soon lost in the constant low-level murmur of the street outside. Often a dog barks briefly, someone laughs or shouts. ![]() Stairwell, someone dragging a sack, a carpet, a package, or a corpse, God knows what, along the ground or the sound of the elevator as it slows, stops, opens, then closes and starts to rise or descend. I’ve been living in complete silence for months, I might say for years, with just the usual dull sounds you hear at the outskirts of town, the occasional echo of steps in the corridor and, further off, in the Below, in the author’s words, is “a lyrical essay about the terrible meeting between boorishness and aggressiveness,” a meditation on a type of violent person who produces in him “the deepest personal anxiety.” It was translated by George Szirtes from the Hungarian. The editors of Anxiety recently asked the Hungarian novelist Laszlo Krasznahorkai to contribute to the series. A gallery of contributors count the ways. ![]()
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