I have finally got around to reviewing Imre Kertész's powerful debut novel Fatelessness. In the review, I note:
It is Kertész's tone that is remarkable throughout the novel. As told by György, the horrors of the concentration camp are never theatricalised. Callow throughout, György records and recounts, but never descends to hyperbole. Of course, he has no need. The horror is well known to us. (Indeed, there is a danger that we do not see quite how remarkable, restrained and radical Fatelessness is simply because we know the story quite as well as we do.) But, as told by György, what was happening to him was more strange than hellish, the horror more surreal than visceral. This is not quite right: for György the horror is elsewhere, what is happening to him is just curious and miserable.