LIVE, LEARN, & LOVE #25. The Illiterate

LIVE, LEARN, & LOVE

Do you take delight in watching films or listening to pop music? For English learners, movies, songs, and books are one of the most wonderful sources to explore the language! You can indulge in your favorite pastime and still learn some expressions, words of wisdom, and oftentimes good lessons while you’re at it.

 

#25. The Illiterate (authored by Ágota Kristóf)

The Illiterate is a memoir by Hungarian-Swiss writer Ágota Kristóf, composed of stark, concise vignettes that recount her childhood in Hungary, her flight to Switzerland in 1956, and her difficult adjustment to a new life and language. In particular, she grapples with French, which she regards as an “enemy language” that endangers her native tongue. The work reflects on themes of displacement, loss, and the enduring influence of language.

 

"It is here that my battle to conquer this language begins, a long and arduous battle that will last my entire life. I have spoken French for more than thirty years, I have written in French for twenty years, but I still don't know it. I don't speak it without mistakes, and I can only write it with the help of dictionaries, which I frequently consult. It is for this reason that I also call the French language an enemy language. There is a further reason, the most serious of all: this language is killing my mother tongue."

ð  Ágota Kristóf is expressing a deeply personal and emotional struggle with language, which goes far beyond simply learning the new language, French. When she calls her effort a “battle,” she means that acquiring French has never felt natural or fully successful, even after decades. Despite speaking and writing in it for many years, she still feels insecure, dependent on dictionaries, and aware of her imperfections. This shows that language, for her, is tied to identity and a serious sense belonging—not just communication.

Calling French an “enemy language” shows her personal difficulty and resistance. That is, French feels foreign, hard-won, and never fully mastered, almost as if it resists her. More importantly, she feels that using French is gradually replacing or “killing” her native Hungarian. Since she lives in exile, she no longer uses her mother tongue daily, so it fades over time.

 

What she’s really expressing in this passage is the pain of linguistic displacement—the idea that gaining a new language can come at the cost of losing one’s original voice, memories, and sense of self. For Kristóf, French is both necessary for survival and success, yet also a force that distances her from her roots.

 

“At the factory, everyone is kind to us. They smile at us, they speak to us, but we don’t understand. It is here that the desert begins. A social desert, a cultural desert.

………… We were waiting for something when we arrived here. We didn’t know what we were waiting for, but it was certainly not this: these days of dismal work, these silent evenings, this frozen life, without change, without surprise, without hope.”

ð  This pericope is a powerful depiction of how displacement can strip life of meaning, even in a place that is materially safe. Ágota Kristóf is expressing the emotional emptiness and disillusionment she feels as an immigrant adjusting to a new life.

When she describes the factory workers as kind yet incomprehensible, she highlights a painful contradiction: she is surrounded by goodwill, but still feels completely isolated and somewhat detached because of the language barrier. Human connection is present on the surface, but it cannot truly reach her. This is why she calls it a “desert”—not a physical one, but a social and cultural desert, where meaningful communication, shared understanding, and a sense of belonging are absent.

 

The “desert” also suggests barrenness and lifelessness. Her new environment lacks the richness of her former life—its language, culture, and emotional depth. Even though she is physically safe, her inner world feels empty and cut off.

 

In the second part, she reflects on the expectations she carried when arriving in Switzerland. She and others hoped for something better—perhaps freedom, opportunity, or renewal—but instead they encounter monotony and emotional stagnation. The repetition of “without change, without surprise, without hope” emphasizes how lifeless and unfulfilling their new existence feels.

 

** Jean’s Small Thoughts:

As an immigrant living in another country—especially at a time when circumstances can make us feel even more isolated—I found Ágota Kristóf’s The Illiterate to be profoundly relevant and deeply moving. For many, learning a new language is an exciting opportunity. But when it becomes a necessity for survival, and even begins to replace one’s native culture and language, it turns into something far more complicated. In some cases, it can feel like the erasure of one’s original self.

 

I remember when teachers at my son’s first preschool encouraged me to speak only English with him at home so he could learn the language as quickly as possible. Their suggestion left me both hurt and frustrated. What kind of parents would willingly allow their child to lose their mother tongue and fully assimilate into a new language and culture? Looking back, I take pride in having read Korean storybooks to my son and helping him speak and write in Korean while growing up in the United States. Today, he says this has allowed him to feel whole, grounded in a strong sense of identity as a Korean American.

 

As Ágota Kristóf writes, “First of all, you must write. Then, you must continue to write—even when it interests no one, even when you feel it never will. You become a writer through patience and persistence, by never losing faith in what you write.”