THE ILLITERATE

The late Hungarian writer chronicles how she fled her homeland, relearned to read, and began to write.

In this very slim volume, to be read in a single afternoon, Kristóf (1935-2011) briefly recounts her childhood, when she teased her younger brother; fleeing Hungary, in the mid-1950s, with her husband and baby; settling in Switzerland, where she worked in factories; laboriously learning French; and, eventually, beginning to write. Throughout the book, the author’s love of language is evident. “I read. It is like a disease,” she writes about herself as a child. In Switzerland, where she struggled at first to learn French, she found herself unable to read for the first time in years: “I have become illiterate once again.” More than anything, this book is an account of becoming a writer. As a companion to Kristóf’s novels, it is a valuable document, providing insight into her writing process—“The factory is a good place for writing poems. The work is monotonous, you can think about other things, and the machines have a regular rhythm that accentuates the lines of verse. In my drawer I keep a sheet of paper and a pencil. When the poem takes shape, I note it down”—as well as her relationship with several different languages and with literature in general. “What I am certain of is that I would have written,” she notes, “no matter where I was, in no matter what language.” Kristóf’s prose is precise and frequently luminous: There is no preening or pretense, and her sentences have an affectless quality that imbues the writing with a stark intensity. As a stand-alone volume, though, the book doesn’t quite hold up. If you are new to Kristóf’s work, this will serve as an effective appetizer; if you’re already familiar with her oeuvre, it will make a fine dessert.

A tiny jewel of a book.