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A review by hank_moody
Blizanačka trilogija by Ágota Kristóf
5.0
"No book, no matter how sad, can be as sad as a life." If I were asked to introduce this masterful work by Hungarian author Agota Kristof with one sentence, I would choose this one. Kristof, who published her first novel, The Notebook, relatively late at 51, claimed she never planned to continue the dark story of the twins growing up with their grandmother amidst the chaos of war, enduring things that no child should ever experience. Yet, she went on to write two sequels that contradict each other, serving up one of the greatest literary enigmas by playing with her readers across the three parts of her The Twins Trilogy, also known as The Book of Lies ([b:The Notebook|230522|The Notebook|Ágota Kristóf|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1346399359l/230522._SX50_.jpg|26619540]; [b:The Proof|130848687|The Proof by Agota Kristof (1991-11-02)|Ágota Kristóf|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1697597131l/130848687._SX50_.jpg|2075010]; [b:The Third Lie|230529|The Third Lie|Ágota Kristóf|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1471620836l/230529._SY75_.jpg|223263]).
After reading these books, you’ll realize they are, in fact, an evolution of Agota herself and that they had to be written in this form, in the way Kristof chose (shifting perspectives from "we" to "he" to "I")—no other way would work. Agota began the first part as a record of her childhood memories, with short vignettes that resulted in brief chapters that, despite their length, left a powerful impact. Written in a stripped-down style, devoid of embellishments and warm emotions, The Notebook resembles a fairy tale with its house on the outskirts of town, an old witch, and two children. But here, there is no clear division between good and evil. At least not a simple one, as all the characters drift in a gray zone, and even the twins follow their own moral code and behavior, agreeing to everything and doing whatever seems right or moral to them. In the end, they still show certain emotions. Even their grandmother, whom they call a witch and who mistreats them from the moment they arrive, reveals emotions. You’ll also notice that the twins are the only characters who aren’t lonely, unlike the others.
Harelip, a girl living in poverty with her mother, is one of the most tragic characters you’ll encounter in literature. Rejected by society and lonely, she yearns for closeness so much that she offers herself to anyone, even the twins, but no one wants her. Other children torment her, and so she gives herself to a dog, as that is the only form of closeness she feels, only to eventually welcome the “liberating army” and die with a smile on her face after a group sexual encounter—whether consensual or rape, depending on how one interprets her act and the fact that this is recorded in the boys' notebook as “absolute truth,” which they altered at will. She isn’t the only one who’s lonely; you’ll see a whole array of lonely characters. Loneliness is one of the main themes woven through all three books, along with alienation and the search for personal and national identity.
The second part picks up right where the first left off, telling the story of one brother, Lukas, the one who stayed, and his attempt to prove the existence of his brother while he lives with the skeletons of his past in the closet—literally, not metaphorically—and tries to be a father to an unloved child who is not his own. The third part tells the story of the brother who left, convinced that death is approaching. He returns to the small town to find his brother, only for Agota to surprise us with a twist midway through the novel, shifting the narrative from Klaus to Lukas.
The simplified style, which may bother some readers, changes slightly across the novels but not excessively. It remains restrained, merely evolving by removing the childlike sentences Kristof intentionally chose, inspired by her son’s schoolwork at the time, which she mimicked while writing about her memories. She says that the pared-down style was a result of her learning French and writing poetry, which she grew tired of. Poetry felt too emotional and lush to her, so she opted for a dry approach devoid of excessive emotion. Her years of writing plays also significantly influenced her style, giving readers the sense that a play is unfolding before them or that they are reading a dramatic text.
To understand the background of this unusual novel, you need to look into Kristof’s life, where you’ll find many elements mirrored in this trilogy, offering insight into this beautiful allegory of the fragmented human psyche, longing for what was left behind, and the search for oneself. You’ll also understand that these novels emerged as the author’s own therapy in her fight against depression, which is another theme running through them—the act of writing and the need for it. Lukas and Klaus, an evident anagram, represent no one other than Agota’s alter ego, two halves of her being.
Layer upon layer of these novels gradually unfold, concealing the aforementioned themes but also the tragic fates of unnamed people from wartime casualties; they conceal the entire life of the author and her family. Some even say they represent a divided Europe, as Slavoj Žižek argued, which isn’t far from the truth. However, at the core of this work is Kristof herself and her internal struggle because The Twins Trilogy is precisely that—a description of her turmoil wrapped in a brilliant allegory.
The Twins Trilogy is undoubtedly one of contemporary European literature's strangest and most powerful novels.
After reading these books, you’ll realize they are, in fact, an evolution of Agota herself and that they had to be written in this form, in the way Kristof chose (shifting perspectives from "we" to "he" to "I")—no other way would work. Agota began the first part as a record of her childhood memories, with short vignettes that resulted in brief chapters that, despite their length, left a powerful impact. Written in a stripped-down style, devoid of embellishments and warm emotions, The Notebook resembles a fairy tale with its house on the outskirts of town, an old witch, and two children. But here, there is no clear division between good and evil. At least not a simple one, as all the characters drift in a gray zone, and even the twins follow their own moral code and behavior, agreeing to everything and doing whatever seems right or moral to them. In the end, they still show certain emotions. Even their grandmother, whom they call a witch and who mistreats them from the moment they arrive, reveals emotions. You’ll also notice that the twins are the only characters who aren’t lonely, unlike the others.
Harelip, a girl living in poverty with her mother, is one of the most tragic characters you’ll encounter in literature. Rejected by society and lonely, she yearns for closeness so much that she offers herself to anyone, even the twins, but no one wants her. Other children torment her, and so she gives herself to a dog, as that is the only form of closeness she feels, only to eventually welcome the “liberating army” and die with a smile on her face after a group sexual encounter—whether consensual or rape, depending on how one interprets her act and the fact that this is recorded in the boys' notebook as “absolute truth,” which they altered at will. She isn’t the only one who’s lonely; you’ll see a whole array of lonely characters. Loneliness is one of the main themes woven through all three books, along with alienation and the search for personal and national identity.
The second part picks up right where the first left off, telling the story of one brother, Lukas, the one who stayed, and his attempt to prove the existence of his brother while he lives with the skeletons of his past in the closet—literally, not metaphorically—and tries to be a father to an unloved child who is not his own. The third part tells the story of the brother who left, convinced that death is approaching. He returns to the small town to find his brother, only for Agota to surprise us with a twist midway through the novel, shifting the narrative from Klaus to Lukas.
The simplified style, which may bother some readers, changes slightly across the novels but not excessively. It remains restrained, merely evolving by removing the childlike sentences Kristof intentionally chose, inspired by her son’s schoolwork at the time, which she mimicked while writing about her memories. She says that the pared-down style was a result of her learning French and writing poetry, which she grew tired of. Poetry felt too emotional and lush to her, so she opted for a dry approach devoid of excessive emotion. Her years of writing plays also significantly influenced her style, giving readers the sense that a play is unfolding before them or that they are reading a dramatic text.
To understand the background of this unusual novel, you need to look into Kristof’s life, where you’ll find many elements mirrored in this trilogy, offering insight into this beautiful allegory of the fragmented human psyche, longing for what was left behind, and the search for oneself. You’ll also understand that these novels emerged as the author’s own therapy in her fight against depression, which is another theme running through them—the act of writing and the need for it. Lukas and Klaus, an evident anagram, represent no one other than Agota’s alter ego, two halves of her being.
Layer upon layer of these novels gradually unfold, concealing the aforementioned themes but also the tragic fates of unnamed people from wartime casualties; they conceal the entire life of the author and her family. Some even say they represent a divided Europe, as Slavoj Žižek argued, which isn’t far from the truth. However, at the core of this work is Kristof herself and her internal struggle because The Twins Trilogy is precisely that—a description of her turmoil wrapped in a brilliant allegory.
The Twins Trilogy is undoubtedly one of contemporary European literature's strangest and most powerful novels.