Olga Tokarczuk
(born 1962) writes novels and essays and is the most widely admired Polish author of her generation. The winner of many prizes and honours, she has the rare distinction of being equally valued by the critics and the general reading public.
As a teenager she tried her hand at poetry, but then remained silent for many years, until she wrote her first novel, The Journey of the People of the Book (1993), which was very well received by the critics. The book is a sort of modern parable. On the literal level it is about an unsuccessful expedition to find the mysterious Book; along the way the two main characters fall passionately in love. The story is set in seventeenth-century France and Spain; however, it is not the local colour that predominates, but the fascinating enigma of the mysterious Book. In her second novel, E.E. (1995), Tokarczuk turns back to a past era that is much closer to our own. This time the action is set in Wrocław in the early twentieth century. The main character is Erna Eltzner (the E.E. of the title), an adolescent girl from a bourgeois Polish-German family, who is found to have the powers of a medium. Here too we find a fascination with mysterious phenomena that defy human understanding.
Without doubt Tokarczuk’s greatest and most acclaimed success to date is her third novel, Prawiek and Other Times (1996). The Prawiek of the title (the word prawiek means “time immemorial”), a mythical village supposedly lying at the very centre of Poland, is an archetypal universe in miniature where all the joys and sorrows known to man are concentrated. As Jerzy Sosnowski wrote about this novel, “From odds and ends of real history Tokarczuk builds a myth, i.e. a history with a rigid order, where all the events, including the bad and tragic ones, have their reasons for happening. She organises space according to the model of the mandala – a circle drawn inside a square, which is the geometrical image of perfection and completion.” Prawiek and Other Times is the high point in modern Polish mythical fiction.
Her next novel, House of Day, House of Night (1998), is very different in tone and genre. The word “novel” is quite misleading here, because the book is a hybrid of different pieces, including lots of sketches and more coherent stories, notes of an almost essay-like nature, private diary entries, etc. Indeed, House of Day, House of Night is the author’s most personal book and also her most “local”; in it she takes a close look at the area where she lives (in and around a village in the Sudety Mountains on the Polish-Czech border). Among the stories inspired by the place is the captivating tale of the mediaeval Saint Kummernis, a woman whom God saved from an unwanted marriage by giving her a man’s face.
In 1997 she published a small collection of three short stories, entitled The Wardrobe, but until Playing Many Drums (2001) came out there had been few opportunities to admire her talent as a short story writer. This book includes 19 stories arranged in three groups. The first group of stories could be described as self-referring, because they are about the nature of creativity (not just literary). The second group are apocryphal; just like the tale of Kummernis which was based on an authentic story Tokarczuk found in the Lower Silesian provinces, four of the stories included in Drums are also based on local legends, which she develops and continues in her own way, adding colour and enlivening the bare historical facts. Finally, the third group includes a number of stories with realistic main themes of a moral/psychological kind.
Olga Tokarczuk has also published an essay as a separate book (The Doll and the Pearl, 2000), in which she offers a new interpretation of Bolesław Prus’s late nineteenth-century novel The Doll, which is considered a masterpiece of Polish novel writing.
The Latest Stories (2005)
The Latest Stories is three short stories about a grandmother, mother and
granddaughter. The narratives add up to a novel, but the three tales do not
create a full picture. This is no typical family story, no warm tale about close
relationships. It is rather an anti-saga, a tale about torn family ties, lost
relations, and the impossibility of finding oneself in the links of the family
chain. The three female protagonists, Praskowia, Ida and Maja, lack not only
deep ties, but also common sympathy. If something is binding them together it is
a feeling of duty, alienation and guilt. The Latest Stories tries to
answer the question of how intolerable repetitive patterns get formed.
First, a woman seeks emotional fulfillment in a relationship with someone else.
Then comes the feeling of entrapment. The protagonists, starving for a feeling
of acceptance and some recognition of their individuality, set out on the road,
casting off their husbands, parents and loved ones, and exchanging their settled
lives for nomadic wanderings. Each of the three protagonists lives farther away
from her unattainable “good place,” in other words, home: the eldest, Praskowia,
was removed from her small homeland during World War Two; her daughter, Ida, is
a tour guide who goes around five countries in Europe; Ida’s daughter, Maja,
travels about the whole world assembling travel guidebooks. Praskowia was a
prisoner of marriage, Ida and Maja are free.
And yet they can find no joy in their lives. Is the “male world” to blame? To
some degree, yes… It is not by accident that men are absent from these tales:
They have left badly-structured realities and broken relationships, and
departed. They have left suffering behind them. But it doesn’t seem as though
Olga Tokarczuk has written a “gender” novel. It is rather about the
unconquerable alienation of existence, of general non-adaptability to life, of
the cost of delusions, and about how one can achieve fulfillment in life. This
is more than disillusionment with the male world, it is also disillusionment
with family relationships. A child, though it be “of woman born,” need not
maintain faith in that woman. A person, though she may be able to imagine an
ideal life, may also be entirely unsuited for it…
It would be hard to find a book as sad and hypnotic in the Polish literature of
the past decade.
Przemysław Czapliński
Anna In in the Catacombs
Olga Tokarczuk
Olga Tokarczuk’s latest book is a contribution to an international publishing project that is inviting modern writers to retell ancient myths. Tokarczuk has chosen to revive one of the oldest myths known to the world, first recorded by the Sumerians more than two thousand years before Christ. It is the story of the moon goddess Inanna, who descends to the underworld, ruled by her sister Ereshkigal, and is eventually rescued from death by another god. But Ereshkigal demands a substitute to take her place, and according to various versions it is either Inanna’s husband who dies in her place, or his sister who offers to die instead of him. Tokarczuk’s telling of the story takes elements from different versions and uses the peripheral characters, mainly the goddesses’ loyal servants, as narrators. Her telling brings out the echoes in the story that reappear in other ancient cultures, where many myths tell of a descent to the underworld followed by a return in exchange for a sacrifice, as a parallel with the annual cycle of nature, or the cycle of human life.
As Tokarczuk writes in her informative introduction, researching and writing the story was like “a sort of literary archaeology – putting together an entire tale from pieces, and on top of that bringing it as close as possible to the modern reader. This task really did remind me of digging up the broken pieces of an ancient pot that once served its purpose and was used to the full by someone, but which nowadays is not just incomplete but the designation of which is no longer entirely clear.” Thus to some extent the meaning of the myth is lost, and Tokarczuk leaves us to read our own messages into her reinterpretation. While making the story accessible to the modern reader with hints at contemporary settings (like an ancient play produced in modern dress), she also retains the mystery and awe that we should surely feel when entering the realm of the gods, using a poetic style and rhythm reminiscent of ancient epic.
In this extract, the servant of the underworld goddess leads Inanna – renamed by Tokarczuk as Anna In – to his mistress’ malevolent presence.
Antonia Lloyd Jones
Bibliography:
Miasta w lustrach (The City in Mirrors). Klodzko,1989.
Podróż ludzi ksiegi (Journey of the People of the Book). Warsaw: Przedswit, 1993.
E.E. Warsaw: PIW, 1995.
Prawiek i inne czasy (Prawiek and other Times). Warsaw: W.A.B., 1996.
Szafa (The Wardrobe). Lublin: Wydawnictwo UMCS, 1997.
Dom dzienny, dom nocny (Hauseof Day, house of night). Walbrzych: Ruta, 1998.
Opowieści wigilijne (Christmas Tales) (with Jerzy Pilch and Andrzej Stasiuk). Czarna Ruta, 2000.
Lalka i perla (The Doll and the Pearl). Cracow: WL, 2001.
Gra na wielu bębenkach (Playing Many Drums). Wałbrzych: Ruta, 2001.
Ostatnie historie (The Latest Stories), Kraków: WL, 2004.
Anna In w grobowcach świata (Anna In in the Catacombs), Kraków: Znak, 2006.
Translations:
English:
House of day, house of night (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Antonia Lloyd-Jones. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern Univ. Press, 2003.
House of day, house of night (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Antonia Lloyd-Jones. London: Granta Books, 2002.
Chinese:
Taigu he qitade shijian (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Yi Lijun, Yuan Hanrong yi. Taibei: Dakuai Wenhua Chubanshe Gufen Youxian Gongsi, 2003.
Czech:
Denní dům, noční dům (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Petr Vidlák. Brno: Host, 2002.
Pravěk a jiné časy (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Petr Vidlák. Brno: Host, 1999.
Danish:
Arilds tid og andre tider: roman (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Runa Kildegaard Klukowska. København: Fremad, 1998.
Broderskabets rejse: roman (Podróż ludzi Księgi), transl. Runa Kildegaard Klukowska. København: Fremad, 1997.
E. E.: roman (E.E.), transl. Runa Kildegaard Klukowska. København: Fremad, cop. 1996.
Dutch:
Amos, transl. Karol Lesman. Breda: De Geus, 1998.
Huis voor de dag, huis voor de nacht (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Karol Lesman. Breda: De Geus, 1999, 2000.
Oer en andere tijden (Prawiem i inne czasy), transl. Karol Lesman. –Breda: De Geus, 1998.
French:
Dieu, le temps, les hommes, et les anges (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Christophe Glogowski. Paris: R. Laffont, 1998.
Maison de jour, maison de nuit (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Christophe Glogowski. Paris: R. Laffont, 2001.
Hungarian:
Az Öskönyv nyomában (Podróż ludzi Księgi), transl. Mihályi Zsuzsa. Budapest: Európa Kvk., 2000.
Catalan:
Un lloc anomenat Antany (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Anna Rubió, Jerzy Sławomirski. Barcelona: Proa, 2001.
Lithuanian:
Praamžiai ir kiti laikai: romanas (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Vyturys Jarutis. Vilnius: Strofa, 2000.
German:
Der Schrank: Erzählungen (Szafa), transl. Esther Kinsky. München: Dt. Taschenbuch-Verl., 2001.
Der Schrank: Erzählungen (Szafa), transl. Esther Kinsky. Stuttgart; München: Dt. Verl.-Anst., 2000.
Taghaus, Nachthaus: Roman (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Esther Kinsky. 2. Aufl. München: Dt. Taschenbuch-Verl., 2004.
Taghaus, Nachthaus: Roman (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Esther Kinsky. Stuttgart; München: Dt. Verl.-Anst., 2001.
Ur und andere Zeiten: Roman (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Esther Kinsky. Berlin: Berlin-Verl., 2000, 2002.
Italian:
Dio, il tempo, gli uomini e gli angeli (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Raffaella Belletti. Roma: E/O, cop. 1999.
Norwegian:
E. E. (E. E.), transl. Anne Walseng. [Oslo]: Cappelen, 2001.
Rumanian:
Călătoria oamenilor Cărţii (Podróż ludzi Ksiegi), transl. Constantin Geambaşu. Iaşi: Polirom, 2001.
Străveacul şi alte vremi (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Olga Zaicik. Iaşi: Polirom, 2002.
Russian:
Pravek i drugie vremena (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Tatiana Izotova Moskva: Novoe Lit. Obozrenie, 2004.
Put’ ljudej Knigi: roman (Podróż ludzi Księgi). Moskva: AST, 2002.
Serbo-Croatian:
Dnevna kuća, noćna kuća (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Milica Markić. Beograd: Nolit, 2002. – 284,
Dom danji, dom nocni (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Pero Mioč. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Matice Hrvatske, 2002, 2003.
Ormar (Szafa), transl. Đurđica Čilić Škeljo. Zagreb: Naklada MD, 2003.
Pravijek i ostala vremena (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Pero Mioč. Zagreb: Nakladni Zavod Matice Hrvatske, 2001.
Svirka na mnogo bubnjeva (Gra na wielu bębenkach), transl. Milica Markić. Beograd: Nolit, 2004.
U potrazi za knjigom (Podróż ludzi Księgi), transl. Milica Markić. Beograd: Nolit, 2001.
Spanish:
Unlugar llamado Antaño (Prawiek i inne czasy), transl. Ester Rabasco Macías, Bogumila Wyrzykowska. Barcelona: Lumen, 2001.
Swedish:
Spel på många små trummor: noveller (Gra na wielu bębenkach), transl. Jan Henrik Swahn. [Tollarp]: Ariel; Lund: Ellerström, 2002.
Daghus, natthus (Dom dzienny, dom nocny), transl. Jan Henrik Swahn. Ariel Skrifter, 2005.
Olga Tokarczuk The Latest Stories
EXCERPT
The image appears reluctantly, languidly first a rectangle of window shows grey against the uniform darkness of the room, then it starts to shine cold and silver, like a screen woken from inertia where something’s just about to be projected. Ida cannot pinpoint the moment when she woke up. But she has a vague idea of what’s going to happen, she has the feeling this is a repeat of another morning, lots of other mornings even.
Consciousness differs from sleep in the intensity of our thoughts they’re the world’s immortal, flexible atoms, strings that twang and vibrate without beginning or end, missiles that flash through the cosmos at the speed of light like the spawn of Aliens. They settle in our heads and link together in endless chains of single details, associations and analogies. No one really knows how they link up, what holds them together, or what order governs it all, and they don’t know either they don’t need any order, they just form the lining under it, briefly creating logical configurations and fantastical snowflakes, cleverly lining themselves up in rows where there’s a reason, a cause and an effect, only to suddenly destroy and smash it all up, break it off and turn it all upside down, then move forward, but deviously: in circles, in spirals, in zig-zags, or else they do quite the opposite: they disappear, fade away, pass into a dormant state and then unexpectedly explode and come tumbling down like an avalanche. You can get hold of one at random, catch it like the string of a kite, and it’ll let you carry it along or hold it down for a while, take a closer look at it and then set it aside to make room for another one that’s even more tangled and insistent. When you’re awake they put on a show of order, they fool you, but sleep frees them of pretences. At night they lead the high life.
As the light falls through the window they become more and more aggressive and distinct, line up in their deceptive ranks and march off to conquer the day, stretching it out between them, cutting it into little strips and making it go soft. The thinking machine is in motion.
One of the thoughts is more forceful than the rest; it pushes its way through to the front and in a split second dominates all the others. It’s an image, of May, of springtime. Ida recognises the scent of earth that has just put forth the first buds and is now resting for a while. Sunlight is falling through small, scratched window panes, ennobling the house, changing it into another building, bigger and brighter. Almost horizontal rays of light are illuminating the contours of the plaster, some mysterious stains and damp patches on the walls, bringing old layers of paint into view. The sun is more like the world’s canny art dealer than its creator.
Ida is eight years old. She’s learning to do magic, and spends the afternoons playing at making potions that’ll give her magic powers. She’s in her room upstairs. She goes up to the window and sees that the sun has brought out a butterfly from somewhere. It’s lying on the window sill, dusty and dirty, clearly one of last year’s. Its wings are wide open, showing a beautiful, symmetrical pattern. It’s not just the usual swallow-tail, but some rare specimen. It has the shape of two eyes drawn on its grey-and-brown wings. The illusion is perfect the almond-shaped eyes have grey-green irises and black pupils in the middle. The butterfly is lying still, like a beautiful, fascinating object, like a subtle, whimsical piece of jewellery. Little Ida thinks she can see the wingtips shuddering. She carefully slides her hand under it and sets it in the very middle, where the lines cross where the vertical destiny line bisects the heart line and further on the life line. Ida and her mother sometimes play at palm reading, that’s how she knows. She closes her eyes and imagines a life-giving mist flowing from the middle of her hand. The fragile butterfly is entirely bathed in it, the mist washes the winter and the dust off it and brings it back to life. Her excitement grows, until finally she feels something stirring, a gentle, nervous tremble, and when she opens her eyes she sees that the wings really are moving, trying to flatten themselves even more and cover the entire space. The butterfly starts wandering awkwardly about her hand, pattering to and fro, circling on the landing field. Ida moves very carefully, holding her breath. She opens the window and stretches out her hand. Brisk ripples of air flow in, tiny gusts of it. Feeling the sunny open space and the warmth of the day, the butterfly comes to life, and its wings starts to quiver. Ida’s heart is racing as she goes on holding her breath. Her eyes climb her middle finger and gauge the trails of wind, like a hang-glider pilot who’s waiting for the right moment to take off. “Fly, fly,” she says to it, but it stubbornly resists, its wings fluttering and its thin legs still gripping the skin on her finger. Finally, reluctantly, in slow motion it lets go of its support and moves forward, first falling downwards, but soon gliding up again. Ida can see it at the height of the edge of the roof, where it turns a few circles and finally flies towards the chimney. In the corner of her eye she catches sight of a small shadow to her left. It all happens very quickly. A small brown bird the size of a sparrow, with an orange tail, flies up to the flight-intoxicated butterfly and gently seizes it, as if it were a scrap of paper snapped up by the wind. It disappears behind the house.
She stands there amazed, her hand outstretched in the open air.
Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones