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THE NOTEBOOK Ágota Kristóf; translated by Alan Sheridan _CB Editions, 174pp, £8.99_ THE ILLITERATE Ágota Kristóf; translated by Nina Bogin _CB Editions, 58pp, £7.99_ Like many authors in

translation, the Hungarian writer Ágota Kristóf (and no, her name isn’t an eastern European corruption of “Agatha Christie”, as Slavoj Žižek admits he initially assumed in his admiring

afterword) has not become widely known in this country. Yet this is not to say her most famous novel, _The Notebook_, remains an obscure case of _succès d’estime_, celebrated only by a small

circle of devotees. The book, handsomely reissued by CB Editions, has been translated into 30 languages since it was first published in France in 1986 and last year it was made into a

critically acclaimed film. Little is known about Kristóf’s life, but most of what we do know is contained in her short memoir _The Illiterate_, which came out in 2004 and is now available to

us in this excellent translation by Nina Bogin. (Bogin informs us that later in life, despite the lack of detail in these 11 short chapters, Kristóf regretted publishing the book.) Growing

up in a remote village, the precocious Kristóf, whose father was the local schoolteacher, contracted early on what she calls the “reading disease”. In 1949, when she was 14, the first major

disruption to her life came when her father was imprisoned by the communist authorities (we don’t learn what for) and she was separated from her beloved brother and sent to an orphanage-like

girls’ boarding school in the city. It was here that, through necessity and loneliness, she began to write and act. Without saying goodbye to her family, the 21-year-old Kristóf escaped

Hungary in the aftermath of the 1956 uprising, crossing the border by night into Austria before finding a home in Neuchâtel, Switzerland. While working in a clock factory and navigating the

precarious existence of a refugee, she painstakingly began to “conquer” and then write seriously in an “enemy language . . . killing my mother tongue”. Eventually Kristóf had plays performed

in French in a local bistro but her breakthrough came with the publication of _The Notebook_, which brought her prizes and well-merited international recognition. The title alludes to the

“Big Notebook” of secret diary entries kept by young twins during the tail end of an unnamed war in an unspecified country. Their mother evacuates them from the Big Town, which is under

siege, and deposits them at their grandmother’s house on the edge of the Little Town. Grandmother, who makes it clear that she doesn’t want the boys, is a miserly old crone known as “the

Witch” and is rumoured to have poisoned her husband. The twins devise toughening “exercises” to immunise themselves against the physical and verbal abuse meted out by Grandmother and

strangers alike. They arm themselves with a razor and lash each other with belts, gradually learning to stop crying. They commit, with unnerving calmness, senseless acts of violence, kill

animals and conduct experiments in fasting and “immobility” (lying face-down on the floor for as long as possible). Through play-acting as deaf and blind beggars, they learn to scrounge in

local taverns; drilling holes in the floor of the attic, they spy on the masochistic foreign officer billeted in Grandmother’s spare room. The boys strip corpses they find in the forest

beyond the garden, full of war deserters and locals attempting to escape across the heavily guarded frontier into “the other country”. Once the occupying forces retreat, as the “New

Foreigners” advance to liberate the Little Town, the twins break into what is clearly a concentration camp, heaped with charred bodies. Even without the facts later borne out in _The

Illiterate_ – reminiscences of growing up in a border town under Nazi and then Soviet occupation – such details confirm the feeling that _The Notebook_ is a thinly veiled parable of Hungary

towards the end of the Second World War. The boys have their own set of skewed values but just when the reader believes they have displayed some sign of humanity, they jolt you with new

heights of pathological cruelty. In this land devoid of moral agency, riven by nameless foreign armies, deportations, forced disappearances, air raids and “liberators”, they clinically

record their exploits in the Big Notebook kept hidden in the attic. The aim of these strict “composition exercises” is to set down a record unadorned by opinion or information superfluous to

a straight record of fact. It is the spare nature of the narrative that sets up _The Notebook_’s most grimly humorous moments and makes it such a compelling read. Most shocking are the

accounts of the twins’ hare-lipped young neighbour, who is so starved of intimacy that she indulges in bestiality, later to die “happy, fucked to death” by a gang of foreign soldiers. When

the twins’ mother is killed by a shell blast, they bury her in the garden where she fell but later dig her up, polish her bones, re-articulate the skeleton with wire and hang it from a beam

in the attic. _The Notebook_ is a transfixing house of horrors. _J S Tennant works for PEN International and is the poetry editor of the White Review_