I finished Satantango by László Krasznahorkai tonight. Amazing. 'Too' much to be described.
"He looked sadly at the ominous sky, the parched remnants of a summer marked by the invasion of locusts, and suddenly on a single acacia twig he saw spring, summer, autumn, and winter pass by, and it seemed to him that he perceived the totality of time as a farcical deception in the unmoving sphere of eternity, which traverses the discontinuity of chaos creating the satanic illusion of a straight path, peddling absurdity as necessity through a false perspective... and he saw himself, on the cross of the cradle and the coffin, as he strained once more, one last time, only to find himself, by virtue of an imperative and inescapable order, completely naked – without any sign of distinction or identification – in the hands of the undertakers, among the grins of those busy skinners of corpses, where he could not help but grasp the measure of all human things, without a shadow of pity, without even a single path to take him back, because by that point he would have been aware that he had always played with cheats against whom it was impossible to win, as all the cards in the game were predetermined: it was a rigged game at the end of which he would be stripped of even his last weapon, hope, the hope of being able to find the way home one day" (L. Krasznahorkai, Satantango, Bompiani, 2017, pp. 10 and 315, on the path of eternal return, of the Tango)