Peter Handke's "The Moravian Night"

Reread another Solstad novel (only two I have on Kindle but two more of his works will enter the e-world in May!). Started Handke's The Moravian Night (read about another recent book by Handke, in which he compiles all the lines that arose in sleep over the period of a year -- or something like that -- but I guess no one's in a hurry to translate that one); read (as an aside) a bit on his "critics."

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A short excerpt from The Moravian Night:

No sign indicating where the village of Porodin ended, one of the last enclaves in Europe, barely tolerated, and one that stretched mile after mile, “werst after werst” along the road. Did it end at the point where not even a dog still panted along beside the bus? Or where the first of the barns out in the fields lay in ruins, where the first vineyard huts had been burned to the ground, or at least charred? Where, despite the fertile pastures, neither sheep nor cows were grazing, and certainly no pigs skidded through the muck from one fenced orchard to the next? (Orchards still there, but abandoned, and the fruit, whether in early winter or early spring, still clinging to the trees everywhere, unharvested.) Where no road sign was not pockmarked with bullet holes, painted over with death’s heads, smeared with threatening slogans, in Roman, not Cyrillic, script?