Hello Gentle Reader
Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.
The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.
“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.
The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.
Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.
What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.
“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”
Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”
Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:
“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”
Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
