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Huis voor de dag, huis voor de nacht
Marta is de oude buurvrouw van de vertelster in Huis voor de dag, huis voor de nacht. In haar geheugen leven de verhalen over mensen, plekken en gebeurtenissen in het heuvelachtige gebied aan de Pools-Tsjechische grens, de Nowa Ruda.
Marta is geen prater. Maar Olga Tokarczuk weet uit haar schaarse en eenvoudige woorden een wereld tevoorschijn te toveren die meerdere eeuwen omspant. De vele sprookjesachtige anekdotes, die met elkaar een literair mozaïek vormen, vertellen zo de geschiedenis van een klein Pools stadje.
Tegelijkertijd schetst Tokarczuk in Huis voor de dag, huis voor de nacht een beeld van de veranderende samenleving aan het einde van de twintigste eeuw, waarin ook Internet als broedplaats van dromen niet ontbreekt.
Marta is geen prater. Maar Olga Tokarczuk weet uit haar schaarse en eenvoudige woorden een wereld tevoorschijn te toveren die meerdere eeuwen omspant. De vele sprookjesachtige anekdotes, die met elkaar een literair mozaïek vormen, vertellen zo de geschiedenis van een klein Pools stadje.
Tegelijkertijd schetst Tokarczuk in Huis voor de dag, huis voor de nacht een beeld van de veranderende samenleving aan het einde van de twintigste eeuw, waarin ook Internet als broedplaats van dromen niet ontbreekt.
347 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1998
1194 people are currently reading
21590 people want to read
About the author
Olga Tokarczuk
77 books8,636 followersOlga Nawoja Tokarczuk is a Polish writer, activist, and public intellectual. She is one of the most critically acclaimed and successful authors of her generation in Poland. She was awarded the 2018 Nobel Prize in Literature as the first Polish female prose writer for "a narrative imagination that with encyclopedic passion represents the crossing of boundaries as a form of life".
For her novel Flights, Tokarczuk was awarded the 2018 Man Booker International Prize. For Flights and The Books of Jacob, she won the Nike Awards, Poland's top literary prize, among other accolades; she won the Nike audience award five times.
Her works have been translated into almost 40 languages, making her one of the most translated contemporary Polish writers. The Books of Jacob, regarded as her magnum opus, was released in the UK in November 2021 after seven years of translation work, followed by release in the US in February 2022. In March that year, the novel was shortlisted for the 2022 International Booker Prize.
Source: wikipedia
Photo: Łukasz Giza
For her novel Flights, Tokarczuk was awarded the 2018 Man Booker International Prize. For Flights and The Books of Jacob, she won the Nike Awards, Poland's top literary prize, among other accolades; she won the Nike audience award five times.
Her works have been translated into almost 40 languages, making her one of the most translated contemporary Polish writers. The Books of Jacob, regarded as her magnum opus, was released in the UK in November 2021 after seven years of translation work, followed by release in the US in February 2022. In March that year, the novel was shortlisted for the 2022 International Booker Prize.
Source: wikipedia
Photo: Łukasz Giza
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,030 reviews
September 12, 2014
One of the best works of fiction I’ve ever read. This is one of those undefinable, indescribable wonders that make most fiction look so ordinary. Most of all it a novel of place, but not in the usual sense. It’s a novel of exile, but the reasons for its characters’ exile are myriad (and the narrator’s unknown). It’s a novel consisting of stories, but in no way a story collection. It’s a novel of story-telling, but not of storytelling voices, or of stories on a theme. It’s a novel full of fantasy elements, but not in any way a fantasy novel. It is more appropriate to call it a novel where some of the metaphors take shape. And it is a very sad novel, but so wonderfully so.
How everything fits together is left open. Everything is left open. It’s a tightrope walk without a net. And over 300 pages Tokarczuk doesn’t seem to take a wrong step. This is a novel that I will certainly read again.
The translation by Antonia Lloyd-Jones is also remarkable.
How everything fits together is left open. Everything is left open. It’s a tightrope walk without a net. And over 300 pages Tokarczuk doesn’t seem to take a wrong step. This is a novel that I will certainly read again.
The translation by Antonia Lloyd-Jones is also remarkable.
December 11, 2018
This was the first Tokarczuk book to be translated in English, and having greatly enjoyed both Flights and Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead earlier this year, and read Primeval and Other Times a couple of years earlier, I was very keen to track down a second-hand copy of this one.
It is impossible to read this book now without thinking about how it fits into her wider oeuvre, as it contains elements that are familiar from all three. Like Primeval and Plow, it is set in a largely forested location close to the Czech border in what was once Galicia and part of Germany. Like Flights it consists of many short stories and shorter fragments, some of which are in several parts with interruptions. It also has many of the folklore and religious elements of Plow - for example one of the parts tells the story of the popular unofficial saint Kummernis (Wilgefortis), which is then followed by a longer tale of the fictional transvestite monk who wrote her story.
The narrator is an anonymous female settler who has moved into the region with a male partner known simply as R, and the book feels like a conversation with her elderly neighbour Marta, who tells various stories about her neighbours while saying very little about herself, beyond her practical interest in wig-making. Other tales are more rooted in folk beliefs, and the narrator has some unusual beliefs about mushrooms, and includes recipes for various poisonous ones. Many of the stories are about dreams, and others blur the boundaries between reality and imagination. It has more of an overall narrative flow than Flights.
I found this a very interesting read, if a rather uneven one. I suspect that it was translated first because it seemed to embody most aspects of Tokarczuk's work.
As with Flights, I will include an index here, as this may be useful to readers looking for suitable breakpoints (though the longest chapters in this book are not as long and the shortest not as short).
These are the chapters (with page numbers from the Granta paperback edition):
1 The Dream
2 Marta
7 Whatsisname
10 Radio Nowa Ruda
11 Marek Marek
23 Dreams
26 The Day of Cars
27 Amos
42 Peas
44 Coelacanth
45 Guidebooks on Pietno
46 Velvet Foot
48 On Being a Mushroom
49 Ego Dormio et Cor Meum Vigilat
52 The Life of Kummernis of Schonau, written with the aid of the Holy Spirit and of the Mother Superior of the Benedictine Order at Kloster by Paschalis, monk
68 The Wig-maker
71 The Border
72 The Comet
74 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
86 Hens and Cockerels
89 Dreams
89 A Dream from the Internet
90 Things Forgotten
91 The Germans
92 Peter Dieter
98 Rhubarb
99 Cosmogonies
100 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
105 Grass Cake
111 A Dream from the Internet
111 Ephemerides
113 The Fire
114 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
120 Grass Allergy
121 Franz Frost
127 His Wife and his Child
131 The Ways Marta might Die
133 The Smell
135 The Vision of Kummernis from Hilaria
138 Corpus Christi
139 A Dream
139 The Monster
142 Rain
145 The Flood
146 Nails
147 The Clairvoyant
159 Mismancy
160 The Second-hand Man
162 Whiteness
163 July Full Moon
164 Hearing
166 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
172 A Dream
173 Lurid Boletus in Sour Cream
175 The Heatwave
176 Words
177 Ergo Sum
182 Sorrow, and the Feeling that's Worse than Sorrow
188 Two Little Dreams from the Internet
188 Cutting Hair
190 Marta Creates a Typology
192 The Mansion
201 My Mansion
204 Roofs
207 The Cutlers
209 The Forest that Comes Crashing Down
210 The Man with the Chainsaw
212 Ergo Sum
215 Half a Life Takes Place in the Dark
220 Mushrooms
223 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
227 The End
228 The Aloe
230 The Bonfire
231 To the Lord God from the Poles
238 The Pewter Plate
239 The Nanny
242 Treasure Hunting
247 Dahlias
249 A He and a She
259 Silence
260 A She and a He
276 The Eclipse
279 Marta's Awakening
283 Tidying up the Attic
284 Nowa Ruda
285 The Founder
289 The Salvation Machine
290 We're Going, I Said, Tomorrow is All Saints' Day
292 Divination from the Sky
It is impossible to read this book now without thinking about how it fits into her wider oeuvre, as it contains elements that are familiar from all three. Like Primeval and Plow, it is set in a largely forested location close to the Czech border in what was once Galicia and part of Germany. Like Flights it consists of many short stories and shorter fragments, some of which are in several parts with interruptions. It also has many of the folklore and religious elements of Plow - for example one of the parts tells the story of the popular unofficial saint Kummernis (Wilgefortis), which is then followed by a longer tale of the fictional transvestite monk who wrote her story.
The narrator is an anonymous female settler who has moved into the region with a male partner known simply as R, and the book feels like a conversation with her elderly neighbour Marta, who tells various stories about her neighbours while saying very little about herself, beyond her practical interest in wig-making. Other tales are more rooted in folk beliefs, and the narrator has some unusual beliefs about mushrooms, and includes recipes for various poisonous ones. Many of the stories are about dreams, and others blur the boundaries between reality and imagination. It has more of an overall narrative flow than Flights.
I found this a very interesting read, if a rather uneven one. I suspect that it was translated first because it seemed to embody most aspects of Tokarczuk's work.
As with Flights, I will include an index here, as this may be useful to readers looking for suitable breakpoints (though the longest chapters in this book are not as long and the shortest not as short).
These are the chapters (with page numbers from the Granta paperback edition):
1 The Dream
2 Marta
7 Whatsisname
10 Radio Nowa Ruda
11 Marek Marek
23 Dreams
26 The Day of Cars
27 Amos
42 Peas
44 Coelacanth
45 Guidebooks on Pietno
46 Velvet Foot
48 On Being a Mushroom
49 Ego Dormio et Cor Meum Vigilat
52 The Life of Kummernis of Schonau, written with the aid of the Holy Spirit and of the Mother Superior of the Benedictine Order at Kloster by Paschalis, monk
68 The Wig-maker
71 The Border
72 The Comet
74 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
86 Hens and Cockerels
89 Dreams
89 A Dream from the Internet
90 Things Forgotten
91 The Germans
92 Peter Dieter
98 Rhubarb
99 Cosmogonies
100 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
105 Grass Cake
111 A Dream from the Internet
111 Ephemerides
113 The Fire
114 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
120 Grass Allergy
121 Franz Frost
127 His Wife and his Child
131 The Ways Marta might Die
133 The Smell
135 The Vision of Kummernis from Hilaria
138 Corpus Christi
139 A Dream
139 The Monster
142 Rain
145 The Flood
146 Nails
147 The Clairvoyant
159 Mismancy
160 The Second-hand Man
162 Whiteness
163 July Full Moon
164 Hearing
166 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
172 A Dream
173 Lurid Boletus in Sour Cream
175 The Heatwave
176 Words
177 Ergo Sum
182 Sorrow, and the Feeling that's Worse than Sorrow
188 Two Little Dreams from the Internet
188 Cutting Hair
190 Marta Creates a Typology
192 The Mansion
201 My Mansion
204 Roofs
207 The Cutlers
209 The Forest that Comes Crashing Down
210 The Man with the Chainsaw
212 Ergo Sum
215 Half a Life Takes Place in the Dark
220 Mushrooms
223 Who wrote the Life of the Saint, and how he knew it all
227 The End
228 The Aloe
230 The Bonfire
231 To the Lord God from the Poles
238 The Pewter Plate
239 The Nanny
242 Treasure Hunting
247 Dahlias
249 A He and a She
259 Silence
260 A She and a He
276 The Eclipse
279 Marta's Awakening
283 Tidying up the Attic
284 Nowa Ruda
285 The Founder
289 The Salvation Machine
290 We're Going, I Said, Tomorrow is All Saints' Day
292 Divination from the Sky
August 5, 2025
(WiT 2025, #1)
This has some of the vibes of Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead where whimsy meets melancholy, some of the historical sweep of The Books of Jacob, and some of the humour of The Empusium, with even a mushroom recipe!
There's something charming about the way this small Polish village is constructed for us through vignettes which weave across time, using Polish folklore and fairy tale elements to get beneath the surface and create a kind of magic realism effect where a man may be part bird, for example. It's whimsical but it's also a profound revelation, a shorthand to psychological truths that give the story depth.
Playful, intelligent and compassionate at the same time, this feels like quintessential Tokarczuk.
Thanks to the publisher for an ARC via Netgalley
This has some of the vibes of Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead where whimsy meets melancholy, some of the historical sweep of The Books of Jacob, and some of the humour of The Empusium, with even a mushroom recipe!
There's something charming about the way this small Polish village is constructed for us through vignettes which weave across time, using Polish folklore and fairy tale elements to get beneath the surface and create a kind of magic realism effect where a man may be part bird, for example. It's whimsical but it's also a profound revelation, a shorthand to psychological truths that give the story depth.
Playful, intelligent and compassionate at the same time, this feels like quintessential Tokarczuk.
Thanks to the publisher for an ARC via Netgalley
November 16, 2020
Tokarczuk turns the many-sided crystal objects of her writing to reveal their every facet. She shows us the inside, the outside, underneath, and beneath—all the ‘neaths,’ even those that don’t exist—small things like mushrooms, those that may or may not cause death, and large concepts like death itself.
In one small town:
A dead body is kicked across the Polish-Czech border by guards who don’t want to deal with him. Looking down from heights reveals inhabitants on their daily trajectories—they are mechanical, uniform, wooden, wind-up toys. A monk writing about a female saint who took on characteristics of the crucified Christ becomes womanlike; the lover of an unnamed couple switches genders (a great (third-person) story that expands into the first-person narrator’s world). A former teacher realizes he is a wolf and donates copious amounts of blood, yearning for death. The narrator’s elderly neighbor disappears during the long winter; her house is in order and perhaps she hibernates in her cellar.
Tokarczuk’s houses and dreamings put me in mind of her sort-of countryman Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass where houses breathe during the night and the minds of the sleepers within reach out to those without. Both authors lived in areas that were changeable in terms of nationality, and their stories reflect this surreal reality.
While reading this, I was reminded of Primeval and Other Times—another of her mythical small towns full of history and characters and their stories, though this work is less cohesive and more expansive in terms of themes. With its genre fluidity, it resembles Flights. All these works are kaleidoscopic, describing seen and unseen facets with ideas and stories layered and stacked upon another. Tokarczuk wants us to see them as one related piece, knowing that her words alone cannot achieve that. Our imagination must expand to see what she’s seeing.
In one small town:
A dead body is kicked across the Polish-Czech border by guards who don’t want to deal with him. Looking down from heights reveals inhabitants on their daily trajectories—they are mechanical, uniform, wooden, wind-up toys. A monk writing about a female saint who took on characteristics of the crucified Christ becomes womanlike; the lover of an unnamed couple switches genders (a great (third-person) story that expands into the first-person narrator’s world). A former teacher realizes he is a wolf and donates copious amounts of blood, yearning for death. The narrator’s elderly neighbor disappears during the long winter; her house is in order and perhaps she hibernates in her cellar.
Tokarczuk’s houses and dreamings put me in mind of her sort-of countryman Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass where houses breathe during the night and the minds of the sleepers within reach out to those without. Both authors lived in areas that were changeable in terms of nationality, and their stories reflect this surreal reality.
While reading this, I was reminded of Primeval and Other Times—another of her mythical small towns full of history and characters and their stories, though this work is less cohesive and more expansive in terms of themes. With its genre fluidity, it resembles Flights. All these works are kaleidoscopic, describing seen and unseen facets with ideas and stories layered and stacked upon another. Tokarczuk wants us to see them as one related piece, knowing that her words alone cannot achieve that. Our imagination must expand to see what she’s seeing.
September 17, 2025
Oh boy--you know how you dig into a book, not knowing what to expect, and you come across big, glorious ideas about the world, just scattered in among the holey underwear and the bus ride to work? This 1998 Polish novel is one of those books. I love a book that cannot be summarized at all--there's no "elevator pitch". And why should there be? The language is simple, the actions are simple, but the story, the conglomeration of effects, is anything but. It's almost like a short story collection, made up of small chunks, titled rather notationally--like "Velvet Foot" (a kind of mushroom), and, several times, "a dream" rather than chapters. (Dreams figure largely in this book, in a wonderful way, both symbolically and very mundanely). It's the kind of five-star book that makes you want to demote a lot of other books one notch simply because they can't stand the comparison. Yet it is still an Eastern European book where the story itself is of modest people, living very simple lives--all but mentally, and there is a tinge of magical realism, in a very Eastern European way, a certain flavor of folktale, though there is the Internet, a certain matter-of-fact view of the strange, and a Kundera-ish tone of, 'well, alright then. So this is what human life is made of.'
What I particularly admire is that she moves to a bigger thought, a bigger idea, as poets do, and so many contemporary Western writers fail to do. It's something you don't notice you're missing until you you read a book like this. A drunk's irresistible urge and pain here becomes a bird, a big restless bird which lives inside him. Is this metaphor or real? The metaphor IS real. Do not miss this. I'm not done yet but I can tell this will be one of those books like Dovlatov's The Suitcase which I will be pressing on everyone.
What I particularly admire is that she moves to a bigger thought, a bigger idea, as poets do, and so many contemporary Western writers fail to do. It's something you don't notice you're missing until you you read a book like this. A drunk's irresistible urge and pain here becomes a bird, a big restless bird which lives inside him. Is this metaphor or real? The metaphor IS real. Do not miss this. I'm not done yet but I can tell this will be one of those books like Dovlatov's The Suitcase which I will be pressing on everyone.
November 8, 2021
O que me ocorre escrever sobre este livro, e uma forma de tentar, ênfase no tentar, explicá-lo, é fazer uma comparação mal amanhada com uma exposição de pintura. Este livro é um museu e tem diversos quadros nas suas salas, uns quadros em telas maiores, leia-se histórias mais extensas, e uns quadros em telas menores, quase como uma pequena Mona Lisa no Museu do Louvre. Tal como numa exposição de pintura, haverá obras que nos tocam mais e às quais ficamos agarrados e outras que acharemos mal acabadas, quase como um rascunho que teve de ir para a exposição porque não houve tempo de pintar mais uma obra-prima, e que não nos dizem nada. Esta obra da Tia Olga é assim. No entanto, no meio de tantos quadros (histórias), há algo que é inegável, o talento, leia-se escrita, da artista. Essa tem zero defeitos. Numa exposição de pintura algo que também é maravilhoso é poder partilhar a experiência com alguém, debater as obras vistas, pensar no que poderão significar, no que a pintora queria transmitir, por isso, obrigada, Cristina, por vires comigo à exposição! Influenciou bastante a nota final, já que os quadros concentrados na última ala, leia-se as últimas 60-70 páginas, foram um pouco mais estranhos do que alguns dos anteriores, quase quebrando a magia das obras vistas até ali.
November 1, 2020
Lėta ir feel good knyga. Labai džiaugiuosi, kad skaičiau jau po Bėgūnų - man reikėjo prisijaukinti Tokarczuk, nes kai kažkada pasiėmiau jos Praamžius, atrodė išvis nei šis nei tas, kažkoks mito-etno, o man tuo metu reikėjo visai kitko. Dabar, jau žinant, kokia ji ir apie ką, atrodo, galėčiau bet ką skaityt - nuo fikcinės Janinos iki pseudo-autobiografijų.
Knyga sudaryta iš fragmentėlių, juos jungia pasakotoja, gyvenanti atokiame (Silezijos?) kaime, turinti išmintingą, keistą kaimynę Martą, kiekviename fragmentėlyje pasakojanti kažką vis kito - tai iš Martos gyvenimo, tai iš savo kasdienybės, tai iš vietinių pasakojimų / nutikimų. Struktūriškai panašu į "Bėgūnus", bet sykiu nuo jų kažkaip iš esmės skiriasi: "Bėgūnuose" visi juda, keliauja, atrodo, tik ir atgyja išjudėję. O "Dienos namuose" visam kam yra svarbiausia rasti savo vietą arba joje būti. Toks "Isos slėnis", tik be visokių brandos istorijų - ir tuo man daug gražesnis. Labai tinkamas karantinuotis :)
Mylimiausios metaforos / fragmentai:
- apie girtuoklį, kurio viduje gyveno paukštis ir nedavė jam ramybės. Atrodo labai poetiška ir perspausta, kai taip parašai, bet Tokarczuk sugeba per šitą vaizdą parodyti ir nerimą, ir destrukciją, ir kančią / kankinimą. Tas žmogus, gyvenęs kaime, miršta, bet paskui visai kitoj, pusiau mitologinėj istorijoj pasakojama, kaip vietinei šventajai atvedė pagydyti girtuoklį ir ji "įkišusi jam užantin ranką, ištraukė abuoją paukštį, kuris nerangiai, kapodamas sparnais, nuskridęs" (p. 62). Šitoj vietoj net apsiverkiau - tas peršokimas nuo metaforizuoto, bet realaus skausmo prie nerealaus, pasakiško išgijimo kažkaip.. ir supurto, ir tarsi įteisina tą skausmą, padaro tikresnį.
- daugiasluoksnės vietos: ir kaimelyje, ir miestelyje pasakotojai tai vaidenasi, tai ji girdi istorijas apie atsikrausčiusius žmones, apie keistus indus ir daiktus, kuriuos tu visą gyvenimą turi spintoje, bet nežinai iš kur gavai, apie tai, kaip neprisimeni praeities arba jos neturi. Iš pradžių atrodė taip kondrotiška - kaip iš "Kaolino". Bet sulig kažkuriuo pasakojimu - gal apie tai, kaip ankstyvą vasarą pievoje pradeda rastis vokiečių, - supratau, kad čia apie tuos SSRS iškeltintuosius / atkeldintuosius miestus, kur tiesiog permetinėjo ištisas bendruomenes tolyn į vakarus. Tada staiga dingsta visa mistika, visas tipo magiškas realizmas, kai neaišku kaip atsiranda ir dingsta daiktai, - labai aišku, iš kur jie atsiranda, kas juos paliko. Keista nepaaiškinama praeitis pasirodo labai kūniška, labai paaiškinama. Kaip Niliūno "Užgavėnių kaukėse" ar daugely kitų jo eilėraščių, kur - taip, mistika, kultūrinės nuorodos, mitologiniai siužetai - bet tai tiesiog antrinis sluoksnis, padedantis suprasti, kas su tavim darosi ar kas tau yra daroma. Kai jie taip vienas per kitą prasišviečia - grožis.
- Marta, kuri yra.. kaip Janina! Tik Arkle mes girdėjom pačią Janiną, o čia girdim Janinos kaimynę, matom Martą kaimiynės akimis - jei ir ekscentrikę, tai švelniai, jei piktą - tai su pagrindu, niekur neradikalią. Ir sykiu pilną visokios išminties, kurią galima išsirašinėt kaip aforizmus - pvz, kad kai žmonės pradeda sakinį "visada" arba "visi", iš tiesų jie nori kažką pasakyti apie save, ir panašiai. Mano mylimiausi:
[pasakotoja su Marta diskutuoja, kokius gyvūnus Dievas pamiršo sukurti]
Dievas, deja, pamiršo, bet gerai, kad yra Tove Jansson, ir ji sukūrė Morą, ir ją pažinojo Marta.
Labai gražu. Tiesiog - labai gražu, viskas ir visi savo vietoje. Labai smagu skaitant atsidurti toje vietoje, kur tuo metu kažką pasakoja, kažką mato ar prisimena Tokarczuk.
Knyga sudaryta iš fragmentėlių, juos jungia pasakotoja, gyvenanti atokiame (Silezijos?) kaime, turinti išmintingą, keistą kaimynę Martą, kiekviename fragmentėlyje pasakojanti kažką vis kito - tai iš Martos gyvenimo, tai iš savo kasdienybės, tai iš vietinių pasakojimų / nutikimų. Struktūriškai panašu į "Bėgūnus", bet sykiu nuo jų kažkaip iš esmės skiriasi: "Bėgūnuose" visi juda, keliauja, atrodo, tik ir atgyja išjudėję. O "Dienos namuose" visam kam yra svarbiausia rasti savo vietą arba joje būti. Toks "Isos slėnis", tik be visokių brandos istorijų - ir tuo man daug gražesnis. Labai tinkamas karantinuotis :)
Mylimiausios metaforos / fragmentai:
- apie girtuoklį, kurio viduje gyveno paukštis ir nedavė jam ramybės. Atrodo labai poetiška ir perspausta, kai taip parašai, bet Tokarczuk sugeba per šitą vaizdą parodyti ir nerimą, ir destrukciją, ir kančią / kankinimą. Tas žmogus, gyvenęs kaime, miršta, bet paskui visai kitoj, pusiau mitologinėj istorijoj pasakojama, kaip vietinei šventajai atvedė pagydyti girtuoklį ir ji "įkišusi jam užantin ranką, ištraukė abuoją paukštį, kuris nerangiai, kapodamas sparnais, nuskridęs" (p. 62). Šitoj vietoj net apsiverkiau - tas peršokimas nuo metaforizuoto, bet realaus skausmo prie nerealaus, pasakiško išgijimo kažkaip.. ir supurto, ir tarsi įteisina tą skausmą, padaro tikresnį.
- daugiasluoksnės vietos: ir kaimelyje, ir miestelyje pasakotojai tai vaidenasi, tai ji girdi istorijas apie atsikrausčiusius žmones, apie keistus indus ir daiktus, kuriuos tu visą gyvenimą turi spintoje, bet nežinai iš kur gavai, apie tai, kaip neprisimeni praeities arba jos neturi. Iš pradžių atrodė taip kondrotiška - kaip iš "Kaolino". Bet sulig kažkuriuo pasakojimu - gal apie tai, kaip ankstyvą vasarą pievoje pradeda rastis vokiečių, - supratau, kad čia apie tuos SSRS iškeltintuosius / atkeldintuosius miestus, kur tiesiog permetinėjo ištisas bendruomenes tolyn į vakarus. Tada staiga dingsta visa mistika, visas tipo magiškas realizmas, kai neaišku kaip atsiranda ir dingsta daiktai, - labai aišku, iš kur jie atsiranda, kas juos paliko. Keista nepaaiškinama praeitis pasirodo labai kūniška, labai paaiškinama. Kaip Niliūno "Užgavėnių kaukėse" ar daugely kitų jo eilėraščių, kur - taip, mistika, kultūrinės nuorodos, mitologiniai siužetai - bet tai tiesiog antrinis sluoksnis, padedantis suprasti, kas su tavim darosi ar kas tau yra daroma. Kai jie taip vienas per kitą prasišviečia - grožis.
- Marta, kuri yra.. kaip Janina! Tik Arkle mes girdėjom pačią Janiną, o čia girdim Janinos kaimynę, matom Martą kaimiynės akimis - jei ir ekscentrikę, tai švelniai, jei piktą - tai su pagrindu, niekur neradikalią. Ir sykiu pilną visokios išminties, kurią galima išsirašinėt kaip aforizmus - pvz, kad kai žmonės pradeda sakinį "visada" arba "visi", iš tiesų jie nori kažką pasakyti apie save, ir panašiai. Mano mylimiausi:
[pasakotoja su Marta diskutuoja, kokius gyvūnus Dievas pamiršo sukurti]
Ir mudvi ėmėme minėti tuos gyvūnus, kurių Dievas kažkodėl nesukūrė. Praleido šitiek paukščių, šitiek žvėrių, kurie gyvena žemėje. Pabaigoje Marta pasakė, kad jai labiausiai trūksta to didelio, nerangaus padaro, kuris naktimis tupi kelių sankryžoje. Nepasakė, kaip jis vadinasi. (p. 91)
Dievas, deja, pamiršo, bet gerai, kad yra Tove Jansson, ir ji sukūrė Morą, ir ją pažinojo Marta.
Taigi dabar priėjo prie lango ir pranešė:
- Pirkau vištų.
- Suprantu, - burbtelėjau.
- Ką veiki? - paklausė įsiteikiamai.
- Dirbu.
Valandėlę tylėjo. Įrašiau failą.
- Daug laiko tam sugaišti. (p. 88)
Labai gražu. Tiesiog - labai gražu, viskas ir visi savo vietoje. Labai smagu skaitant atsidurti toje vietoje, kur tuo metu kažką pasakoja, kažką mato ar prisimena Tokarczuk.
September 7, 2019
I've been reading Tokarczuk's English translations in reverse original (Polish) publication order, and House of Day, House of Night, from this perspective, seems almost like a seed-case for Flights and Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.
Like Flights, House of Day, House of Night uses Tokarczuk's "constellation novel" approach of mixing vignettes and short chapters on a number of themes, which partially interlock - though where Flights is international, House of Day, House of Night is emphatically local and regional. It shares a number of motifs with Plow, including a man found dead in a kitchen; an eccentric local old lady who has a connection with a middle-aged female author who more recently bought a house in the village; wolves/werewolves; astrology; criticism of a character for appearing more sympathetic to animals than people; and the liminality of this area of Silesia which used to be German before the Second World War, is now Polish and is also very near the Czech border. I imagined a few people in this novel looking the same as characters from Plow, as if they were played by the same fictional actors. And like The Books of Jacob, forthcoming in English in 2020, it takes an interest in historical religious sects or cults in Poland.
House of Day, House of Night also has a great deal in common with Andrzej Stasiuk's Tales of Galicia (1995) - another novel composed of vignettes about locals in a village in post-communist southern Poland which the author moved to in the 90s, and has now made their home for many years. (Goodreads' recommendations are unusually accurate here in listing Tales of Galicia first in recommendations for House of Day, House of Night.) The difference of three years between publication dates (1995 - 1998) is marked by the internet's presence in House.
If you strongly disliked the "woo" elements in Plow, be warned that House has magic-realist, mystical, Romantic undertones. Quite gently magic-realist, in that I could imagine a number of the scenes directed by Wes Anderson, but it's not consistently gritty, and not strictly rationalist. This all blends with that sense of decay and nostalgia sometimes associated with works from the old Austro-Hungarian territories.
I would say that it's cosier than Plow and Flights although that doesn't mean it's devoid of melancholy. It probably helped that there are a lot of small observations and phrases that I connected with - considerably more so than in those two later books - little things like describing trainer laces as wicks, or how a sense of the boundary of home, on a regularly walked route, may extend quite some way away from actual home. (NB some of the approaches to trans/gender fluidity - a theme in two threads in the novel - may not be fully on-message nowadays, although their intention is evidently sympathetic.)
I can't understand why Granta don't reissue House of Day, House of Night following Tokarczuk's recent success in English. If you actively disliked both of her more recent novels, you shouldn't expect anything radically different here in terms of structure and don't need to bother tracking down a copy. (I'm thinking particularly of those people - on GR, mostly in the US that I've noticed - who've been disappointed by media copy describing Tokarczuk as an innovative writer rather than merely literary fiction.) I would in that instance only recommend it if you have a specific interest in Polish culture. However, the characters seem less forceful here, and it is a book of mood and atmosphere and place more than anything - both of which were points in its favour as far as I'm concerned, and at times I considered 4.5 stars. I can imagine wanting to re-read bits of it, as I wouldn't with the other two novels. If you do like her other work, then this may be a nice book to curl up with in winter and to foreground Books of Jacob.
Read for Women in Translation month, August 2019.
Like Flights, House of Day, House of Night uses Tokarczuk's "constellation novel" approach of mixing vignettes and short chapters on a number of themes, which partially interlock - though where Flights is international, House of Day, House of Night is emphatically local and regional. It shares a number of motifs with Plow, including a man found dead in a kitchen; an eccentric local old lady who has a connection with a middle-aged female author who more recently bought a house in the village; wolves/werewolves; astrology; criticism of a character for appearing more sympathetic to animals than people; and the liminality of this area of Silesia which used to be German before the Second World War, is now Polish and is also very near the Czech border. I imagined a few people in this novel looking the same as characters from Plow, as if they were played by the same fictional actors. And like The Books of Jacob, forthcoming in English in 2020, it takes an interest in historical religious sects or cults in Poland.
House of Day, House of Night also has a great deal in common with Andrzej Stasiuk's Tales of Galicia (1995) - another novel composed of vignettes about locals in a village in post-communist southern Poland which the author moved to in the 90s, and has now made their home for many years. (Goodreads' recommendations are unusually accurate here in listing Tales of Galicia first in recommendations for House of Day, House of Night.) The difference of three years between publication dates (1995 - 1998) is marked by the internet's presence in House.
If you strongly disliked the "woo" elements in Plow, be warned that House has magic-realist, mystical, Romantic undertones. Quite gently magic-realist, in that I could imagine a number of the scenes directed by Wes Anderson, but it's not consistently gritty, and not strictly rationalist. This all blends with that sense of decay and nostalgia sometimes associated with works from the old Austro-Hungarian territories.
I would say that it's cosier than Plow and Flights although that doesn't mean it's devoid of melancholy. It probably helped that there are a lot of small observations and phrases that I connected with - considerably more so than in those two later books - little things like describing trainer laces as wicks, or how a sense of the boundary of home, on a regularly walked route, may extend quite some way away from actual home. (NB some of the approaches to trans/gender fluidity - a theme in two threads in the novel - may not be fully on-message nowadays, although their intention is evidently sympathetic.)
I can't understand why Granta don't reissue House of Day, House of Night following Tokarczuk's recent success in English. If you actively disliked both of her more recent novels, you shouldn't expect anything radically different here in terms of structure and don't need to bother tracking down a copy. (I'm thinking particularly of those people - on GR, mostly in the US that I've noticed - who've been disappointed by media copy describing Tokarczuk as an innovative writer rather than merely literary fiction.) I would in that instance only recommend it if you have a specific interest in Polish culture. However, the characters seem less forceful here, and it is a book of mood and atmosphere and place more than anything - both of which were points in its favour as far as I'm concerned, and at times I considered 4.5 stars. I can imagine wanting to re-read bits of it, as I wouldn't with the other two novels. If you do like her other work, then this may be a nice book to curl up with in winter and to foreground Books of Jacob.
Read for Women in Translation month, August 2019.
August 4, 2021
Olga Tokarczuk escreveu uma obra singular e tocante, misturando sem parcimónia a natureza agreste de Nowa Ruda, pedaços das vidas dos seus habitantes, polacos e alemães, descrições de sonhos da Internet, receitas de cogumelos venenosos, questões fronteiriças e lendas de encantar.
A narradora é recente na cidade estabelece uma relação especial com Marta, uma vizinha idosa que faz perucas e parece hibernar durante o inverno.
As histórias são muitas e não têm necessariamente ligação entre si, exetuando a coincidência geográfica.
Fiquei particularmente encantada com Paschalis, o monge que escreveu sobre a lenda da santa Vilgeforte ou Kummernis de Schonau.
"Ali, ajoelhado na capela com os olhos fixos na imagem de Nossa Senhora, parecia dolorosamente belo, insuportavelmente belo. Assim o viu o Irmão Celestyn (...)."
Outra história maravilhosa é a de Ergo Sum, que comeu carne humana e passou a transformar-se em lobo de quando em vez.
No livro, conhecemos também famílias polacas e alemãs que, no pós-guerra, vivem provisoriamente sob o mesmo teto e somos apresentados aos Cutileiros, povo que fazia facas e cantava estranhos salmos, como este:
"(...) Sagrada seja a decomposição e o declínio desejado
maravilhosa é a infrutuosidade do inverno
e as cascas vazias das nozes (...)
E poderia referir ainda tantas histórias que me marcaram, como a do casal que, sem saber, partilha o mesmo amante, ou a de Krysia, que partiu atrás do amado cuja voz ouvia apenas dentro da sua cabeça.
Raras vezes um livro me envolveu e me impressionou tanto como este. Recomendo muito, sobretudo a leitores sem pressas.
A narradora é recente na cidade estabelece uma relação especial com Marta, uma vizinha idosa que faz perucas e parece hibernar durante o inverno.
As histórias são muitas e não têm necessariamente ligação entre si, exetuando a coincidência geográfica.
Fiquei particularmente encantada com Paschalis, o monge que escreveu sobre a lenda da santa Vilgeforte ou Kummernis de Schonau.
"Ali, ajoelhado na capela com os olhos fixos na imagem de Nossa Senhora, parecia dolorosamente belo, insuportavelmente belo. Assim o viu o Irmão Celestyn (...)."
Outra história maravilhosa é a de Ergo Sum, que comeu carne humana e passou a transformar-se em lobo de quando em vez.
No livro, conhecemos também famílias polacas e alemãs que, no pós-guerra, vivem provisoriamente sob o mesmo teto e somos apresentados aos Cutileiros, povo que fazia facas e cantava estranhos salmos, como este:
"(...) Sagrada seja a decomposição e o declínio desejado
maravilhosa é a infrutuosidade do inverno
e as cascas vazias das nozes (...)
E poderia referir ainda tantas histórias que me marcaram, como a do casal que, sem saber, partilha o mesmo amante, ou a de Krysia, que partiu atrás do amado cuja voz ouvia apenas dentro da sua cabeça.
Raras vezes um livro me envolveu e me impressionou tanto como este. Recomendo muito, sobretudo a leitores sem pressas.
December 21, 2025
Silesia, formerly German area now part of western Poland, forms the backdrop to fairytale like vignettes of the very real history of the region
The fact that I have experienced something doesn’t mean I have understood it
The modern world is present with references to computers and cars in this 1998 novel in vignettes, but the tales of ghosts, suicides, generational drunkenness and peculiar neighbours feel timeless, especially when lives of saints and comets start to appear.
House of Day, House of Night is set in Silesia, formerly German area now part of western Poland. An urban couple have a house there, and comment on their eccentric neighbours and the rich history of the region. Life's of saints that gender swap, tales of cannibalism, a person turning into a werewolf, drunks with chainsaws, growing own cannabis, stories of the war and the close border with the Czech Republic make for a rich tapestry.
At times I missed a forward drive or synthesis but overall an enjoyable, relaxing, almost meditative sojourn into a region of Europe that now feels sleepy but has experienced a lot since medieval times.
Quotes:
He isn’t an interesting thing for himself to think about.
If I weren’t a person I’d be a mushroom
The Czech republic borders our land and is visible from our house.
The fact that I have experienced something doesn’t mean I have understood it
In the morning everyone was still alive
If man did not have a soul he would not suffer
The soft, broken, insipid machines that are responsible for bringing the next generations come into being.
The fact that I have experienced something doesn’t mean I have understood it
The modern world is present with references to computers and cars in this 1998 novel in vignettes, but the tales of ghosts, suicides, generational drunkenness and peculiar neighbours feel timeless, especially when lives of saints and comets start to appear.
House of Day, House of Night is set in Silesia, formerly German area now part of western Poland. An urban couple have a house there, and comment on their eccentric neighbours and the rich history of the region. Life's of saints that gender swap, tales of cannibalism, a person turning into a werewolf, drunks with chainsaws, growing own cannabis, stories of the war and the close border with the Czech Republic make for a rich tapestry.
At times I missed a forward drive or synthesis but overall an enjoyable, relaxing, almost meditative sojourn into a region of Europe that now feels sleepy but has experienced a lot since medieval times.
Quotes:
He isn’t an interesting thing for himself to think about.
If I weren’t a person I’d be a mushroom
The Czech republic borders our land and is visible from our house.
The fact that I have experienced something doesn’t mean I have understood it
In the morning everyone was still alive
If man did not have a soul he would not suffer
The soft, broken, insipid machines that are responsible for bringing the next generations come into being.
February 10, 2020
Z każdą kolejną książką Tokarczuk coraz lepiej rozumiem, dlaczego opresyjna władza jest tak jej twórczością przerażona.
Kiedyś, dawno temu, gdy zachwycałem się iberoamerykańskim realizmem magicznym, myślałem, że nie da się stworzyć czegoś takiego po polsku. Że polskie nazwy i polska rzeczywistość zawsze będą zbyt szare i przaśne; że nie da się stworzyć czegoś tak barwnego w naszych warunkach, bo to zawsze będzie silenie się na oryginalność, której po prostu nie ma. Że będzie to ziało sztucznością a próby, z którymi się stykałem potwierdzały tę tezę.
A ona potrafi. Umie wycisnąć z dolnośląskich gór i wiosek piękno i magię używając między innymi tych elementów rzeczywistości, które wg mnie uniemożliwiały takie pisanie w Polsce i o Polsce. Taki paradoks.
Oczywiście - to się udaje, bo Tokarczuk czerpie z rzeczywistości pełnymi garściami nie oglądając się na to, co nasze a co obce i tworzy z tego fantastyczne obrazy i historie od których nie można się oderwać.
"DD, DN" to historia (chyba) jednego lata (wiosny i jesieni też) spędzonego w górskim domku. Błache codzienne wydarzenia są pretekstem do opowiadania niezwykłych historii pełnych ludzkich dramatów, miłości, przewalających się wojen, wędrówek ludów i różnorakich narodowości. Jest w nich magia, sąsiad wilkołak i sąsiadka zapadająca w zimowy sen. Są zwykłe, smutne ale piękne ludzkie historie. Jest nawet transseksualny mnich opisujący dzieje transgenerowej świętej, co jest chyba wystarczającym powodem, żeby obecny MinKul brzydził się wziąć coś takiego do ręki.
Ta powieść, chyba podobnie jak "Bieguni", to książka po którą można po prostu sięgać, otwierać byle gdzie i delektować się słowami.
Z każdą kolejną książką Tokarczuk żałuję, że musiała dostać Nobla, żebym zaczął ją czytać...
Kiedyś, dawno temu, gdy zachwycałem się iberoamerykańskim realizmem magicznym, myślałem, że nie da się stworzyć czegoś takiego po polsku. Że polskie nazwy i polska rzeczywistość zawsze będą zbyt szare i przaśne; że nie da się stworzyć czegoś tak barwnego w naszych warunkach, bo to zawsze będzie silenie się na oryginalność, której po prostu nie ma. Że będzie to ziało sztucznością a próby, z którymi się stykałem potwierdzały tę tezę.
A ona potrafi. Umie wycisnąć z dolnośląskich gór i wiosek piękno i magię używając między innymi tych elementów rzeczywistości, które wg mnie uniemożliwiały takie pisanie w Polsce i o Polsce. Taki paradoks.
Oczywiście - to się udaje, bo Tokarczuk czerpie z rzeczywistości pełnymi garściami nie oglądając się na to, co nasze a co obce i tworzy z tego fantastyczne obrazy i historie od których nie można się oderwać.
"DD, DN" to historia (chyba) jednego lata (wiosny i jesieni też) spędzonego w górskim domku. Błache codzienne wydarzenia są pretekstem do opowiadania niezwykłych historii pełnych ludzkich dramatów, miłości, przewalających się wojen, wędrówek ludów i różnorakich narodowości. Jest w nich magia, sąsiad wilkołak i sąsiadka zapadająca w zimowy sen. Są zwykłe, smutne ale piękne ludzkie historie. Jest nawet transseksualny mnich opisujący dzieje transgenerowej świętej, co jest chyba wystarczającym powodem, żeby obecny MinKul brzydził się wziąć coś takiego do ręki.
Ta powieść, chyba podobnie jak "Bieguni", to książka po którą można po prostu sięgać, otwierać byle gdzie i delektować się słowami.
Z każdą kolejną książką Tokarczuk żałuję, że musiała dostać Nobla, żebym zaczął ją czytać...
Read
October 10, 2019What Solingen brought to Nowa Ruda
Knives to core apples
Knives to trim cabbage
Knives to slice mushrooms
Knives as scissors to shape wigs
Knives as razors to shave beards
Knives as swords to slash enemies
Knives as buried treasure
Knives as tools for divining
Knives as tenets of religion
Knives to cut clearings in forests
Knives to saw wood into coffins
Knives to carve flesh out of snow
Knives arming wolves for the fight
Knives scoring dark into bright
Knives cleaving day out of night
Knives to core apples
Knives to trim cabbage
Knives to slice mushrooms
Knives as scissors to shape wigs
Knives as razors to shave beards
Knives as swords to slash enemies
Knives as buried treasure
Knives as tools for divining
Knives as tenets of religion
Knives to cut clearings in forests
Knives to saw wood into coffins
Knives to carve flesh out of snow
Knives arming wolves for the fight
Knives scoring dark into bright
Knives cleaving day out of night
November 2, 2025
کتاب خانه روز، خانه شب مجموعهای از داستانهاییست که در ظاهر پراکندهاند، اما در عمق، بههم پیوسته و منسجماند.... مکان وقوع همهی روایتها، منطقهای مرزی در جنوب لهستان است؛ جاییکه تاریخ، اسطوره، خواب و واقعیت در هم تنیدهاند. راویان گاهی ثابتاند و گاهی شخصیتهایی هستند که روایتهای تاریخی، اسطورهای یا زیستی را بازگو میکنند....
داستانها مفاهیمی چون خواب، حافظه، مرگ، زندگی، عشق، بدن و معنویت را در فضایی شاعرانه و تأملبرانگیز پوشش میدهند. این کتاب مناسب کسانی است که از روایتهای غیرخطی، در فضایی فلسفی، عرفانی و مراقبه طور لذت میبرند...
داستانها مفاهیمی چون خواب، حافظه، مرگ، زندگی، عشق، بدن و معنویت را در فضایی شاعرانه و تأملبرانگیز پوشش میدهند. این کتاب مناسب کسانی است که از روایتهای غیرخطی، در فضایی فلسفی، عرفانی و مراقبه طور لذت میبرند...
March 28, 2019
Be warned that there are books that I really, really like but that I might not fully understand, resulting in a review that is fundamentally jibberish.
This book could serve as the structural template for Olga Tokarczuk's more recent and award-winning Flights. There are various storylines, clearly identified and shuffled together along with, well, stuff, things noticed and stored by the author, and then inserted, perhaps as clues, perhaps as jokes, perhaps just something akin to a cellphone alert.
In Flights, Tokarczuk wove travel with human anatomy, merging finally when Chopin's heart was transported back to Poland. Here, dreams are told along with a clawing notion of place. Like the man who died on a mountain ridge, half his body in Poland and half his body in Czechoslovakia. Border guards from each country kept dragging him to the opposite side, so he'd be someone else's concern.
Which, it should now be obvious, is how life is like a mushroom.
If I weren't a person, I'd be a mushroom. An indifferent, insensitive mushroom with a cold, slimy skin, hard and soft at the same time. I would grow on fallen trees; I'd be murky and sinister, ever silent, and with my creeping mushroomy fingers I would suck the last drop of sunlight out of them. . . . I would have the same capacity as all mushrooms to hide myself from humans by confusing their timid minds.
I mean, who could argue with that?
Words are like mushrooms too. Really.
But then words and things do form a symbiotic relationship like mushrooms and birch trees. Words grow on things, and only then are they ripe in meaning, ready to be spoken aloud. . . . People are like words in this way too -- they cannot live without being attached to a place, because only then do they become real. Maybe this is what Marta meant when she said something that struck me as odd at the time: 'If you find your place you'll be immortal.'
Marta. Marta is an older woman, kind of mystical. Our narrator turns to her often for wisdom, perspective. She made me think a bit of the character Emerence in Magda Szabo's The Door. In fact, I thought it might be worthwhile to read the two books simultaneously, but who would do something as silly as that?
It takes to the very end before we are confronted with what, not who, Marta is. Now I think I know where Marta came from and why she is never part of our lives in the winter, but first appeared in early spring, when we had just arrived and were turning the key in the damp-rusted lock. Sounds kind of mushroomy, no?
There is another story within that only appears near the end. It's called: A he and a she. I mention it here not because I can use it to explain anything - I think I've demonstrated that I can't - but because it is a wonderful piece of writing, a tale of a childless, loving couple who separately find adultery. The illicit lover of each has the same name, Agni; and the narrator's own husband, R, makes an unexpected, single comment during the tale. Stuff, maybe.
Some mushrooms are poisonous, remember. The author happily gives detailed recipes for how to cook them.
This book could serve as the structural template for Olga Tokarczuk's more recent and award-winning Flights. There are various storylines, clearly identified and shuffled together along with, well, stuff, things noticed and stored by the author, and then inserted, perhaps as clues, perhaps as jokes, perhaps just something akin to a cellphone alert.
In Flights, Tokarczuk wove travel with human anatomy, merging finally when Chopin's heart was transported back to Poland. Here, dreams are told along with a clawing notion of place. Like the man who died on a mountain ridge, half his body in Poland and half his body in Czechoslovakia. Border guards from each country kept dragging him to the opposite side, so he'd be someone else's concern.
Which, it should now be obvious, is how life is like a mushroom.
If I weren't a person, I'd be a mushroom. An indifferent, insensitive mushroom with a cold, slimy skin, hard and soft at the same time. I would grow on fallen trees; I'd be murky and sinister, ever silent, and with my creeping mushroomy fingers I would suck the last drop of sunlight out of them. . . . I would have the same capacity as all mushrooms to hide myself from humans by confusing their timid minds.
I mean, who could argue with that?
Words are like mushrooms too. Really.
But then words and things do form a symbiotic relationship like mushrooms and birch trees. Words grow on things, and only then are they ripe in meaning, ready to be spoken aloud. . . . People are like words in this way too -- they cannot live without being attached to a place, because only then do they become real. Maybe this is what Marta meant when she said something that struck me as odd at the time: 'If you find your place you'll be immortal.'
Marta. Marta is an older woman, kind of mystical. Our narrator turns to her often for wisdom, perspective. She made me think a bit of the character Emerence in Magda Szabo's The Door. In fact, I thought it might be worthwhile to read the two books simultaneously, but who would do something as silly as that?
It takes to the very end before we are confronted with what, not who, Marta is. Now I think I know where Marta came from and why she is never part of our lives in the winter, but first appeared in early spring, when we had just arrived and were turning the key in the damp-rusted lock. Sounds kind of mushroomy, no?
There is another story within that only appears near the end. It's called: A he and a she. I mention it here not because I can use it to explain anything - I think I've demonstrated that I can't - but because it is a wonderful piece of writing, a tale of a childless, loving couple who separately find adultery. The illicit lover of each has the same name, Agni; and the narrator's own husband, R, makes an unexpected, single comment during the tale. Stuff, maybe.
Some mushrooms are poisonous, remember. The author happily gives detailed recipes for how to cook them.
June 27, 2024
Kunsztowne, literackie imaginarium o przesuwaniu granic, społecznych konwenansów. Jest to również oda do pogranicza, z jego skomplikowaną strukturą, uwarunkowaniami i historią. Jawa przeplata się ze snem, a lekturze towarzyszy melancholijny smutek.
Przeplatające się historie bohaterów Domu, momentami są urzekające, choć momentami wprowadzają lekki dysonans.
Dom dzienny, dom nocny to właściwie studium społeczno-geograficzno-historyczne, wieloaspektowe i balansujące na pograniczu prawdy i fikcji. Warto czytać go zarówno w dzień, jak i w nocy.
Przeplatające się historie bohaterów Domu, momentami są urzekające, choć momentami wprowadzają lekki dysonans.
Dom dzienny, dom nocny to właściwie studium społeczno-geograficzno-historyczne, wieloaspektowe i balansujące na pograniczu prawdy i fikcji. Warto czytać go zarówno w dzień, jak i w nocy.
April 7, 2024
How does the world look when your life is filled with longing? It looks artificial, it crumbles and falls apart in your hands. Every single movement, every thought is watching itself, each emotion starts but never finishes, and finally even the object of your longing becomes artificial and unreal. Only the longing is real, imposing conditions on you - that you must be somewhere else, that you must have something you don't possess, or touch someone who doesn't exist. This state of being is self-contradictory - it is the quintessence of life, and at the same time it is opposed to life. It sinks through the skin into the muscles and bones, which have a painful existence from then on. It's not that they hurt, but that the basis of their existence is pain. And there is no escape from such longing. You would have to escape from your own body, from yourself even - by getting drunk perhaps? Or by sleeping for weeks on end? By losing yourself in your work to a point of frenzy? Or by praying incessantly? [...] The years change everything, except for that sense of longing.
September 13, 2025
3.5. Big fan of Tokarczuk's writing and themes as ever, but wanted a little more cohesion. I tend to avoid Goodreads reviews until I'm finished with a book so 1) my opinions aren't tampered with or tested before they've fully developed and 2) so I don't see any sort of spoilers or observations that wouldn't have otherwise occurred to me (I am relatively book-stupid, all things considered); but it seems most people agree with my thoughts regarding its relationship with her other books. I saw and felt almost all of them within its pages. Its vignette structure makes it most akin to Flights, but there are certainly elements of Drive Your Plow, partially with the character of Marta, but also with the mushroom talk. The prevailing theme of death and time reminded me of The Empusium, but that's relatively tenuous, as almost all novels are about death. Vignettes, like short story collections, are always at risk of losing the reader either frequently or infrequently; it is inevitable to like some threads more than others. That was the case here. The cohesion is made through setting and theme, which sounds like a lot, but at times I wanted something more. Enjoyable nonetheless.
August 25, 2018
L’unica cosa che posso dire di me stessa è che mi lascio vivere, scorro attraverso un luogo nello spazio e nel tempo e sono la somma delle proprietà di questo luogo e di questo tempo, niente di più.
Si, si può fare buona letteratura senza squilli di tromba o trovate sensazionalistiche e questo libro ne è la limpida dimostrazione. Con Casa di giorno, casa di notte, Olga Tokarczuk confeziona un ottimo piatto fatto con ingredienti poveri. Poveri ma genuini, veri, non sofisticati.
L’autrice ci porta a spasso per le strade di Nowa Ruda, una cittadina al confine tra Polonia, Germania e Repubblica Ceca e ci presenta le storie sgangherate di un’umanità variegata, composta da personaggi di paese, uomini e donne che sembrano trascinare a spasso le loro esistenze senza vedere oltre il proprio naso. Attenzione però a non trarre conclusioni affrettate, perché questa è solo l’apparenza. Come avverte la voce narrante all’inizio del libro: “l’immobilità di quanto vedo è apparente. Basta che lo voglia e posso penetrare l’apparenza”.
Pensieri, parole ed opere di una piccola comunità persa nella campagna polacca dunque, per un progetto narrativo che, mutatis mutandis, sembra avere parecchie analogie con quello di Jón Kalman Stefánsson: scrivere per non dimenticare, raccontare per continuare a far vivere un mondo che altrimenti sarebbe destinato all’oblio (che poi è la conclusione alla quale giunge anche Paschalis, l’incaricato di scrivere la vita della santa: “lo scopo della sua opera era conciliare tutti i tempi possibili, tutti i luoghi e i paesaggi in un’unica immagine, che sarebbe stata immobile e non sarebbe mai invecchiata né cambiata”).
Impossibile dar conto dei mille personaggi che incontreremo lungo il corso di questo viaggio stralunato: c’è Marta, la vecchia fabbricante di parrucche, convinta che i capelli crescendo assorbano i pensieri degli uomini, che parla solo degli altri e mai di se stessa e che immagina gli animali che Dio si è dimenticato di inventare. C’è Tal dei Tali, che “raccontava l’inverno” e che riusciva a vedere gli spiriti e c’è Marek Marek, un tipo la cui “sofferenza non veniva dall’esterno ma dall’interno” e che “nasceva per la stessa ragione per cui la mattina sorgeva il sole e la notte le stelle”, un’anima in pena che a causa del dolore che portava dentro di sé “non poteva portare a conclusione nessun pensiero, doveva cancellarli e scacciarli, così che smettessero di significare qualcosa”. Ci sono, intrecciate, la storie di Kummernis di Schonau, la santa barbuta e quella di Paschalis, che ne scrisse la biografia. Seguendo la voce narrante capiterà di imbatterci in ricette culinarie a base di funghi velenosi e turisti tedeschi che fotografano spazi vuoti e tra questi turisti Peter Dieter, venuto per rivedere il villaggio nel quale aveva vissuto e destinato a morire proprio sulla metà del confine. Incontreremo Agnieszka con le sue profezie e Franz Frost che vive di certezze, convinto che tutto ciò che è stato e che sarà esiste già ma che sarà messo in crisi dalla scoperta di un nuovo pianeta, al punto da diventare pazzo. Se riusciremo ad entrare in sintonia con la trama, non ci stupiranno certo la comparsa di un mostro nello stagno e neppure le profezie di Lew il veggente. Sarà bello lasciarsi affascinare dalle storie dell’uomo di seconda mano (convinto di essere la copia di qualcun altro), da quelle di Ergo Sum (anche nella sua seconda vita come Bronek), dei Von Goetzen e dei Coltellinai, senza trascurare quelle dell’uomo con la sega, di Gertrude Nietsche, di Lui e Lei e anche quella del misterioso R….
Insomma: storie, tante storie cui star dietro, tante vite da rincorrere con il rischio di perdere l’orientamento. Sarebbe un peccato però, perché questo libro ha un’architettura che poggia su architravi solide: una sono i sogni, quei sogni che ricorrono costantemente e che secondo la voce narrante costituirebbero la parte più vera della vita, l’unica davvero autentica mentre la nostra realtà di esseri umani sarebbe una specie di stato di sospensione dal nostro vero ruolo. L’altro pilastro è la ricerca di un punto di equilibrio perfetto, aspirazione che sembra rintracciabile all’interno di molti degli episodi narrati, una specie di armonia superiore, uno stato quasi di immobilità, fuori dal tempo e dalle passioni, un distacco quasi atarassico dalle cose del mondo.
Casa di giorno, casa di notte è un libro che consiglio, soprattutto a quei lettori che non si sono ancora stancati di cercare storie curiose.
Si, si può fare buona letteratura senza squilli di tromba o trovate sensazionalistiche e questo libro ne è la limpida dimostrazione. Con Casa di giorno, casa di notte, Olga Tokarczuk confeziona un ottimo piatto fatto con ingredienti poveri. Poveri ma genuini, veri, non sofisticati.
L’autrice ci porta a spasso per le strade di Nowa Ruda, una cittadina al confine tra Polonia, Germania e Repubblica Ceca e ci presenta le storie sgangherate di un’umanità variegata, composta da personaggi di paese, uomini e donne che sembrano trascinare a spasso le loro esistenze senza vedere oltre il proprio naso. Attenzione però a non trarre conclusioni affrettate, perché questa è solo l’apparenza. Come avverte la voce narrante all’inizio del libro: “l’immobilità di quanto vedo è apparente. Basta che lo voglia e posso penetrare l’apparenza”.
Pensieri, parole ed opere di una piccola comunità persa nella campagna polacca dunque, per un progetto narrativo che, mutatis mutandis, sembra avere parecchie analogie con quello di Jón Kalman Stefánsson: scrivere per non dimenticare, raccontare per continuare a far vivere un mondo che altrimenti sarebbe destinato all’oblio (che poi è la conclusione alla quale giunge anche Paschalis, l’incaricato di scrivere la vita della santa: “lo scopo della sua opera era conciliare tutti i tempi possibili, tutti i luoghi e i paesaggi in un’unica immagine, che sarebbe stata immobile e non sarebbe mai invecchiata né cambiata”).
Impossibile dar conto dei mille personaggi che incontreremo lungo il corso di questo viaggio stralunato: c’è Marta, la vecchia fabbricante di parrucche, convinta che i capelli crescendo assorbano i pensieri degli uomini, che parla solo degli altri e mai di se stessa e che immagina gli animali che Dio si è dimenticato di inventare. C’è Tal dei Tali, che “raccontava l’inverno” e che riusciva a vedere gli spiriti e c’è Marek Marek, un tipo la cui “sofferenza non veniva dall’esterno ma dall’interno” e che “nasceva per la stessa ragione per cui la mattina sorgeva il sole e la notte le stelle”, un’anima in pena che a causa del dolore che portava dentro di sé “non poteva portare a conclusione nessun pensiero, doveva cancellarli e scacciarli, così che smettessero di significare qualcosa”. Ci sono, intrecciate, la storie di Kummernis di Schonau, la santa barbuta e quella di Paschalis, che ne scrisse la biografia. Seguendo la voce narrante capiterà di imbatterci in ricette culinarie a base di funghi velenosi e turisti tedeschi che fotografano spazi vuoti e tra questi turisti Peter Dieter, venuto per rivedere il villaggio nel quale aveva vissuto e destinato a morire proprio sulla metà del confine. Incontreremo Agnieszka con le sue profezie e Franz Frost che vive di certezze, convinto che tutto ciò che è stato e che sarà esiste già ma che sarà messo in crisi dalla scoperta di un nuovo pianeta, al punto da diventare pazzo. Se riusciremo ad entrare in sintonia con la trama, non ci stupiranno certo la comparsa di un mostro nello stagno e neppure le profezie di Lew il veggente. Sarà bello lasciarsi affascinare dalle storie dell’uomo di seconda mano (convinto di essere la copia di qualcun altro), da quelle di Ergo Sum (anche nella sua seconda vita come Bronek), dei Von Goetzen e dei Coltellinai, senza trascurare quelle dell’uomo con la sega, di Gertrude Nietsche, di Lui e Lei e anche quella del misterioso R….
Insomma: storie, tante storie cui star dietro, tante vite da rincorrere con il rischio di perdere l’orientamento. Sarebbe un peccato però, perché questo libro ha un’architettura che poggia su architravi solide: una sono i sogni, quei sogni che ricorrono costantemente e che secondo la voce narrante costituirebbero la parte più vera della vita, l’unica davvero autentica mentre la nostra realtà di esseri umani sarebbe una specie di stato di sospensione dal nostro vero ruolo. L’altro pilastro è la ricerca di un punto di equilibrio perfetto, aspirazione che sembra rintracciabile all’interno di molti degli episodi narrati, una specie di armonia superiore, uno stato quasi di immobilità, fuori dal tempo e dalle passioni, un distacco quasi atarassico dalle cose del mondo.
Casa di giorno, casa di notte è un libro che consiglio, soprattutto a quei lettori che non si sono ancora stancati di cercare storie curiose.
May 29, 2021
This novel definitely needs far more attention than it currently gets when it comes to Olga's work. It is an extremely original example of magic realism set in a Polish town of Nowa Ruda. Pages of this novel are filled with recipes, short stories, hagiographies, things usual and not so usual. There are various moments here when sacrum meets profanum, when things very ordinary in some unexpected way turn into extraordinary. Olga here reaches the very highs of her writing capabilities, creating sentences and full paragraphs that one wants to read and then reread multiple times. The structure is also very interesting, as in 'Flights' short pieces of text are intertwined with longer forms, some characters are introduced and then reintroduced to us throughout this scattered novel. Sometimes one feels while reading this book as if time had stopped and the only object that exists is the mentioned in the title house, place which consumes but also which creates.
March 23, 2021
Egy borús kora tavaszi hajnalon Gabriel García Marquez hirtelen felriadt.
- Mi baj van, Gabo, rémálom gyötör? - kérdezte felesége.
(Ők már csak ilyen választékosan beszélgettek, még kora reggel is. „Rémálom gyötör”, nem „rosszat álmodtál”. Hiába, az irodalmi közeg.)
- Ne is kérdezd, mi corazón. Azt álmodtam, hogy lengyel író vagyok.
- Lengyel? De honnan tudtad, hogy nem bantu vagy irokéz?
- A vodkából, a katolicizmusból, meg az indokolatlanul sok mássalhangzóból a szereplőim nevében.
- Értem.
- Gombától illatos erdőkben jártam, galócák és tinóruk között, és áradó meséket fogalmaztam piciny, pusztuló falvakról, különös szektáktól, elfeledett vagy sosem volt szentekről, történelmi ballépésekről, kitelepítettekről, öngyilkosokról, szeretőkről, történeteim pedig összekeveredtek egymással, egymásba kulcsolódtak, besűrűsödtek, mint a jó szilvalekvár, és a végén olyanok lettek, akár az álom. Az én álmom.
- De nem a te álmod, Gabo. Csak az álmodban a te álmod. Különben meg valaki más álma.
- Igazad van, mi media naranja. Pedig jó sztori volt. Nobel-szagú. Vállalnám.
- Neked van már Nobeled, mi vida, ne légy telhetetlen. Hagyj egyet ennek a tehetséges lengyelnek is.
- Tudom, tudom... na mindegy, főzök egy kávét.
- Rummal?
- Nem is tudom. Most valahogy inkább vodkával.
- Mi baj van, Gabo, rémálom gyötör? - kérdezte felesége.
(Ők már csak ilyen választékosan beszélgettek, még kora reggel is. „Rémálom gyötör”, nem „rosszat álmodtál”. Hiába, az irodalmi közeg.)
- Ne is kérdezd, mi corazón. Azt álmodtam, hogy lengyel író vagyok.
- Lengyel? De honnan tudtad, hogy nem bantu vagy irokéz?
- A vodkából, a katolicizmusból, meg az indokolatlanul sok mássalhangzóból a szereplőim nevében.
- Értem.
- Gombától illatos erdőkben jártam, galócák és tinóruk között, és áradó meséket fogalmaztam piciny, pusztuló falvakról, különös szektáktól, elfeledett vagy sosem volt szentekről, történelmi ballépésekről, kitelepítettekről, öngyilkosokról, szeretőkről, történeteim pedig összekeveredtek egymással, egymásba kulcsolódtak, besűrűsödtek, mint a jó szilvalekvár, és a végén olyanok lettek, akár az álom. Az én álmom.
- De nem a te álmod, Gabo. Csak az álmodban a te álmod. Különben meg valaki más álma.
- Igazad van, mi media naranja. Pedig jó sztori volt. Nobel-szagú. Vállalnám.
- Neked van már Nobeled, mi vida, ne légy telhetetlen. Hagyj egyet ennek a tehetséges lengyelnek is.
- Tudom, tudom... na mindegy, főzök egy kávét.
- Rummal?
- Nem is tudom. Most valahogy inkább vodkával.
January 23, 2025
এক বই পড়েই লেখিকার ভক্ত হয়ে গেছি। অসম্ভব সুন্দর গদ্য তার। এরকম গল্পও অহরহ লেখা হয় না।
November 30, 2021
Siamo in un paesino della Slesia, un angolo di terra in cui ai tedeschi subentrarono i polacchi in un interessante e doloroso avvicendarsi di lingue e di culture.
L’io narrante è una donna che colleziona sogni e storie, osservando l’alternarsi delle stagioni con estati brevissime e lunghi inverni.
In questo luogo di confine, apparentemente sperduto, si snodano e a volte si intrecciano le vite sgangherate di personaggi indimenticabili.
A cominciare da Marta, l’anziana vicina che sembra cada in letargo d’inverno per risvegliarsi in primavera. Donna di poche parole, perché parlare è “deleterio, seminava scompiglio e minava le cose evidenti”.
Sono tanti i silenzi che ci vengono incontro dalle pagine del libro: “il silenzio di R. è liscio come la sua pelle. È naturale e innocente”, quello della voce narrante è cupo, trascina e risucchia.
C’è il silenzio di una coppia che si è persa, per cui ognuno dei due vive nel ricordo di un amore diverso, forse sognato.
C’è il silenzio della morte, mentre le immagini soffocate per una vita crescono, si affollano e iniziano “a spandersi come brina su un vetro umido”.
Si vive tra illusioni, perché non si deve mai prendere sul serio quello che si vede.
Tal dei Tali parla sempre dell’inverno, perché solo raccontandolo si può sperare che passi; c’è Ergo Sum, professore di filosofia, la cui vita cambia radicalmente per una frase della Repubblica di Platone; c’è il monaco che, sedotto dall’immagine di una santa, ne racconta la vita. Della sua fine ci sono due versioni, una delle quali non dice nulla della sua morte, perché “chi racconta è sempre vivo, in un certo senso è immortale. È al di là del tempo”.
C’è la nostalgia, che scompone il mondo e lo trasforma in briciole.
Ci sono le case, spazi sicuri in un mondo incerto. “Ognuno di noi ha due case - una concreta, collocata nel tempo e nello spazio; l’altra infinita, senza indirizzo … [noi] viviamo contemporaneamente in entrambe”.
C’è il tempo di Marta, un presente infinito; il tempo delle storie, che l’inverno congela; il tempo della Storia che cambia gli uomini e quello di Olga Tokarczuc, magico, concreto, sospeso, che si dilata e si restringe come le ombre durante il giorno, in attesa che il buio le renda tutte uguali.
L’io narrante è una donna che colleziona sogni e storie, osservando l’alternarsi delle stagioni con estati brevissime e lunghi inverni.
In questo luogo di confine, apparentemente sperduto, si snodano e a volte si intrecciano le vite sgangherate di personaggi indimenticabili.
A cominciare da Marta, l’anziana vicina che sembra cada in letargo d’inverno per risvegliarsi in primavera. Donna di poche parole, perché parlare è “deleterio, seminava scompiglio e minava le cose evidenti”.
Sono tanti i silenzi che ci vengono incontro dalle pagine del libro: “il silenzio di R. è liscio come la sua pelle. È naturale e innocente”, quello della voce narrante è cupo, trascina e risucchia.
C’è il silenzio di una coppia che si è persa, per cui ognuno dei due vive nel ricordo di un amore diverso, forse sognato.
C’è il silenzio della morte, mentre le immagini soffocate per una vita crescono, si affollano e iniziano “a spandersi come brina su un vetro umido”.
Si vive tra illusioni, perché non si deve mai prendere sul serio quello che si vede.
Tal dei Tali parla sempre dell’inverno, perché solo raccontandolo si può sperare che passi; c’è Ergo Sum, professore di filosofia, la cui vita cambia radicalmente per una frase della Repubblica di Platone; c’è il monaco che, sedotto dall’immagine di una santa, ne racconta la vita. Della sua fine ci sono due versioni, una delle quali non dice nulla della sua morte, perché “chi racconta è sempre vivo, in un certo senso è immortale. È al di là del tempo”.
C’è la nostalgia, che scompone il mondo e lo trasforma in briciole.
Ci sono le case, spazi sicuri in un mondo incerto. “Ognuno di noi ha due case - una concreta, collocata nel tempo e nello spazio; l’altra infinita, senza indirizzo … [noi] viviamo contemporaneamente in entrambe”.
C’è il tempo di Marta, un presente infinito; il tempo delle storie, che l’inverno congela; il tempo della Storia che cambia gli uomini e quello di Olga Tokarczuc, magico, concreto, sospeso, che si dilata e si restringe come le ombre durante il giorno, in attesa che il buio le renda tutte uguali.
December 24, 2025
Set in a scrappy corner of Lower Silesia where borders have slid around like guilty consciences and houses remember former owners better than current ones. The narrator moves into an old house built directly over an underground river, which is a subtle hint that stability will not be forthcoming. Water murmurs under the floor, the walls sweat, and reality never quite dries out.
Instead of a plot that marches forward , the book behaves like a village gossip who wanders off mid sentence and resumes three weeks later as if nothing happened. We get fragments.
A neighbor called Marta appears and disappears with the seasons, possibly immortal, possibly invented, possibly both. She tells stories about people who may have lived, may have died, or may have been stitched together from rumors and dreams. She plaits hair into wigs, cooks, listens, and avoids supplying a biography.
Around this house and its half reliable inhabitants circulate stories that feel verifiably anchored in mud, weather, hunger, drink, and memory. A man nicknamed Whatsisname calmly tells the story of finding his neighbor Marek Marek half hanged, deciding this was inconvenient, and going home for dinner.
Marek Marek is beautiful, beaten, bookish, alcoholic, violent, desperate, and convinced he has a trapped bird screaming inside his body. His life spirals through libraries that smell like beer, detox wards, ruined houses, stolen vodka, frozen dogs, and one grimly practical suicide attempt.
Other strands drift in. A local radio station reads Anna Karenina to listeners chopping carrots, which feels appropriate since everyone here already knows how things end and listens anyway. Dreams recur obsessively. People collect them, tell them, ignore them, or confuse them with lived events.
One woman hears a man named Amos speaking to her from inside her ear, falls in love based on voice alone, tracks him down via a phone book, and collides head first with the mismatch between dream logic and bureaucratic reality.
Cars appear abandoned in forests, mushrooms grow in their upholstery, border guards chase mysterious vehicles at night, and the internet fills with synchronized dreams about engines and movement. Houses remember Germans who left, Poles who arrived, and everyone who tried to belong. The past leaks through walls, the present feels provisional, and identity keeps changing details to stay interesting.
What ties all of this together is rhythm. Day and night alternate. Stories surface and sink. Lives are told sideways, interrupted, resumed, or forgotten. The book explains itself through repetition, contradiction, and an unspoken agreement that some things are truer when left slightly wrong.
This is a freer, looser Tokarczuk before the Nobel spotlight, before the expectation that every book must arrive with a philosophical thesis laminated to its forehead. Here she is playing, wandering, trying things out, letting the book sprawl and contradict itself. The pleasure is real and it shows.
This is one of her most alive books. It breathes. The later novels are often more polished, more architecturally impressive, and more determined to explain themselves. This one trusts the reader far more. It does not herd you toward conclusions. It lets you sit with fragments, silences, half stories, and unresolved lives. That freedom makes it warmer and also stranger. It feels written from inside curiosity rather than from a position of authority.
The book is full of history, border trauma, displacement, violence, and death, but it doesn't turn any of that into a lecture. History appears as residue, as damp walls, as houses remembering former owners, as people carrying stories they do not fully understand. Suicide is not framed as a moral problem or a symbolic gesture. It is shown as something that grows out of loneliness, addiction, memory, and landscape, and then ripples outward through a community that is too tired or too used to grief to dramatize it.
The mushrooms, dreams, and visions are doing real work here. They are not decorative eccentricities. They undermine the idea that reality is singular, stable, or fully accessible. Dreams leak into waking life, stories behave like dreams, and knowledge arrives sideways.
Borders in the book are never just political lines. They are mental states, linguistic confusions, historical overlays, and moral gray zones. Nothing quite belongs to one category or one owner, including people.
Feminism here is not delivered through slogans or plot victories. It appears in attention. In whose stories get told. In whose labor sustains the village. In how women observe, remember, endure, and quietly shape the moral texture of the place while men self destruct.
I also think the book is making a case for storytelling as a survival instinct rather than a truth machine. Stories are told to pass time, to keep winter at bay, to explain nothing in particular, to make death bearable, to stitch the present to the past. They are not reliable and they do not need to be. Their value lies in the telling, not in their accuracy.
I loved the warning about not following the recipes in the book. Genius! 🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄
Instead of a plot that marches forward , the book behaves like a village gossip who wanders off mid sentence and resumes three weeks later as if nothing happened. We get fragments.
A neighbor called Marta appears and disappears with the seasons, possibly immortal, possibly invented, possibly both. She tells stories about people who may have lived, may have died, or may have been stitched together from rumors and dreams. She plaits hair into wigs, cooks, listens, and avoids supplying a biography.
Around this house and its half reliable inhabitants circulate stories that feel verifiably anchored in mud, weather, hunger, drink, and memory. A man nicknamed Whatsisname calmly tells the story of finding his neighbor Marek Marek half hanged, deciding this was inconvenient, and going home for dinner.
Marek Marek is beautiful, beaten, bookish, alcoholic, violent, desperate, and convinced he has a trapped bird screaming inside his body. His life spirals through libraries that smell like beer, detox wards, ruined houses, stolen vodka, frozen dogs, and one grimly practical suicide attempt.
Other strands drift in. A local radio station reads Anna Karenina to listeners chopping carrots, which feels appropriate since everyone here already knows how things end and listens anyway. Dreams recur obsessively. People collect them, tell them, ignore them, or confuse them with lived events.
One woman hears a man named Amos speaking to her from inside her ear, falls in love based on voice alone, tracks him down via a phone book, and collides head first with the mismatch between dream logic and bureaucratic reality.
Cars appear abandoned in forests, mushrooms grow in their upholstery, border guards chase mysterious vehicles at night, and the internet fills with synchronized dreams about engines and movement. Houses remember Germans who left, Poles who arrived, and everyone who tried to belong. The past leaks through walls, the present feels provisional, and identity keeps changing details to stay interesting.
What ties all of this together is rhythm. Day and night alternate. Stories surface and sink. Lives are told sideways, interrupted, resumed, or forgotten. The book explains itself through repetition, contradiction, and an unspoken agreement that some things are truer when left slightly wrong.
This is a freer, looser Tokarczuk before the Nobel spotlight, before the expectation that every book must arrive with a philosophical thesis laminated to its forehead. Here she is playing, wandering, trying things out, letting the book sprawl and contradict itself. The pleasure is real and it shows.
This is one of her most alive books. It breathes. The later novels are often more polished, more architecturally impressive, and more determined to explain themselves. This one trusts the reader far more. It does not herd you toward conclusions. It lets you sit with fragments, silences, half stories, and unresolved lives. That freedom makes it warmer and also stranger. It feels written from inside curiosity rather than from a position of authority.
The book is full of history, border trauma, displacement, violence, and death, but it doesn't turn any of that into a lecture. History appears as residue, as damp walls, as houses remembering former owners, as people carrying stories they do not fully understand. Suicide is not framed as a moral problem or a symbolic gesture. It is shown as something that grows out of loneliness, addiction, memory, and landscape, and then ripples outward through a community that is too tired or too used to grief to dramatize it.
The mushrooms, dreams, and visions are doing real work here. They are not decorative eccentricities. They undermine the idea that reality is singular, stable, or fully accessible. Dreams leak into waking life, stories behave like dreams, and knowledge arrives sideways.
Borders in the book are never just political lines. They are mental states, linguistic confusions, historical overlays, and moral gray zones. Nothing quite belongs to one category or one owner, including people.
Feminism here is not delivered through slogans or plot victories. It appears in attention. In whose stories get told. In whose labor sustains the village. In how women observe, remember, endure, and quietly shape the moral texture of the place while men self destruct.
I also think the book is making a case for storytelling as a survival instinct rather than a truth machine. Stories are told to pass time, to keep winter at bay, to explain nothing in particular, to make death bearable, to stitch the present to the past. They are not reliable and they do not need to be. Their value lies in the telling, not in their accuracy.
I loved the warning about not following the recipes in the book. Genius! 🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄
October 12, 2017
Finally I found a book set in Poland by a Polish author that isn’t 500+ pages long. This is apparently an award-winner, but to me it often seemed bizarre; perhaps something is lost in translation. The book is divided into many short segments, moving between a nameless narrator and embedded short stories, a few of which the book revisits in multiple sections. The thread binding it all together is the setting of Nowa Ruda, a town on the Czech border that was transferred from Germany to Poland after WWII. The German residents were forced to leave, to be replaced by Poles transferred from land that went to Russia, an upheaval that still echoes in the 1990s when the narrator and her husband buy a farm there.
The short stories are fairly good, though melancholy. They are set in the area of Nowa Ruda throughout its history, from the life of a medieval saint to a late-medieval genderqueer monk who wrote about her, from a man who turns into a werewolf after eating human flesh during the war to the narrator’s neighbor who goes searching for a man who professed love to her in a dream. Magic realism characterizes many but not all of these stories, which are generally interesting in their own right.
Unfortunately, the stories comprise only around half of the book. The rest of it occurs in the narrator’s head, which is taken up by lengthy descriptions of dreams (her own and other people’s, culled from the Internet), flights of fancy, housekeeping minutiae, and mushroom recipes. It is hard for me to fathom the narrator’s purpose, as the author tells no particular story about her: she faces no challenges and experiences no change. Only at the end does she make a startling, though unexplored, discovery about her elderly German neighbor, whose daily habits are also tediously described throughout the book. In the meanwhile she occupies herself with detailed fantasies about being a mushroom or containing a house.
This book has a definite ambiance, and I do like the way it unfolds the history of a place. If it had been a collection of short stories alone, I’d probably have given 3.5 stars. The stories suffer no lack of plot and are often evocative. But as is I wouldn’t recommend it, unless you are the sort of reader who actually enjoys dream sequences.
The short stories are fairly good, though melancholy. They are set in the area of Nowa Ruda throughout its history, from the life of a medieval saint to a late-medieval genderqueer monk who wrote about her, from a man who turns into a werewolf after eating human flesh during the war to the narrator’s neighbor who goes searching for a man who professed love to her in a dream. Magic realism characterizes many but not all of these stories, which are generally interesting in their own right.
Unfortunately, the stories comprise only around half of the book. The rest of it occurs in the narrator’s head, which is taken up by lengthy descriptions of dreams (her own and other people’s, culled from the Internet), flights of fancy, housekeeping minutiae, and mushroom recipes. It is hard for me to fathom the narrator’s purpose, as the author tells no particular story about her: she faces no challenges and experiences no change. Only at the end does she make a startling, though unexplored, discovery about her elderly German neighbor, whose daily habits are also tediously described throughout the book. In the meanwhile she occupies herself with detailed fantasies about being a mushroom or containing a house.
This book has a definite ambiance, and I do like the way it unfolds the history of a place. If it had been a collection of short stories alone, I’d probably have given 3.5 stars. The stories suffer no lack of plot and are often evocative. But as is I wouldn’t recommend it, unless you are the sort of reader who actually enjoys dream sequences.
February 13, 2022
"Casa de dia, casa de noite" é um livro único, sem deter uma narrativa linear mas com poderosas reflexões sobre o tempo, a fragmentação da existência humana, o isolamento, os sonhos e a natureza. Correspondem um conjunto de historias interligadas entre si, habitantes isolados numa pequena localidade que vivem a espera de se encontrar no meio do caos causado pela guerra.
A sua leitura foi uma verdadeira experiência esotérica, em que nos sentimos verdadeiramente conectados com o cosmos. Através de uma linguagem poética somos verdadeiramente "empurrados" para aquela floresta e convivemos com o seus habitantes. Olga Tokarczuk prova a qualidade dos prémios Nobel, e demonstra existirem livros capazes de se tornarem imortais e não permitirem o fim da literatura.
A sua leitura foi uma verdadeira experiência esotérica, em que nos sentimos verdadeiramente conectados com o cosmos. Através de uma linguagem poética somos verdadeiramente "empurrados" para aquela floresta e convivemos com o seus habitantes. Olga Tokarczuk prova a qualidade dos prémios Nobel, e demonstra existirem livros capazes de se tornarem imortais e não permitirem o fim da literatura.
July 9, 2023
[COMENTÁRIO]
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite
Olga Tokarczuk
Tradução de Teresa Fernandes Swiatkiewicz
"Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite" é uma obra envolvente e reflexiva escrita por Olga Tokarczuk. A autora polaca é uma das minhas autoras favoritas contemporâneas
Em maia este livro Tokarczuk apresenta uma narrativa complexa que aborda temas como identidade, memória e busca pelo sentido da vida.
A história se desenrola através da perspectiva de um narrador difuso e complexo, que oscila entre a realidade e a imaginação. Isso cria uma atmosfera intrigante que cativa o leitor. Por outro lado essa ambiguidade contribui para a profundidade da obra, permitindo-nos questionar a natureza e os limites da realidade e da percepção.
Um dos pontos fortes do livro é a maneira como a autora explora a relação entre territorialidades e sentidoa. A casa, que serve como cenário principal, será uma metáfora para a mente humana e seus labirintos? Através de descrições detalhadas e vívidas, Tokarczuk cria uma imagem nítida da atmosfera e das sensações experimentadas pelos personagens.
Além disso, a autora apresenta uma crítica social e política subjacente ao longo do livro. Ela faz isso através de personagens que representam diferentes estratos sociais e experiências de vida, revelando as desigualdades e injustiças presentes na sociedade contemporânea.
Por tudo isto "Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite" me parece ser uma obra literária poderosa que desafia o leitor a questionar suas percepções e a refletir sobre a complexidade da existência humana. Olga Tokarczuk demonstra mais uma vez uma maestria na habilidade em construir uma narrativa profunda e atmosférica, embora possa exigir um esforço maior do leitor para apreciar completamente sua mensagem.
(li de 20/03/2022 a 29/03/2022)
#livro #literatura #leitor #leitores #leitura #literaturapolaca #nobeldaliteratura #nobel #lerosnobel
#book #bookstagram #bookclub #bookstagramportugal #bookworm #booknerd #booklover
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite
Olga Tokarczuk
Tradução de Teresa Fernandes Swiatkiewicz
"Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite" é uma obra envolvente e reflexiva escrita por Olga Tokarczuk. A autora polaca é uma das minhas autoras favoritas contemporâneas
Em maia este livro Tokarczuk apresenta uma narrativa complexa que aborda temas como identidade, memória e busca pelo sentido da vida.
A história se desenrola através da perspectiva de um narrador difuso e complexo, que oscila entre a realidade e a imaginação. Isso cria uma atmosfera intrigante que cativa o leitor. Por outro lado essa ambiguidade contribui para a profundidade da obra, permitindo-nos questionar a natureza e os limites da realidade e da percepção.
Um dos pontos fortes do livro é a maneira como a autora explora a relação entre territorialidades e sentidoa. A casa, que serve como cenário principal, será uma metáfora para a mente humana e seus labirintos? Através de descrições detalhadas e vívidas, Tokarczuk cria uma imagem nítida da atmosfera e das sensações experimentadas pelos personagens.
Além disso, a autora apresenta uma crítica social e política subjacente ao longo do livro. Ela faz isso através de personagens que representam diferentes estratos sociais e experiências de vida, revelando as desigualdades e injustiças presentes na sociedade contemporânea.
Por tudo isto "Casa de Dia, Casa de Noite" me parece ser uma obra literária poderosa que desafia o leitor a questionar suas percepções e a refletir sobre a complexidade da existência humana. Olga Tokarczuk demonstra mais uma vez uma maestria na habilidade em construir uma narrativa profunda e atmosférica, embora possa exigir um esforço maior do leitor para apreciar completamente sua mensagem.
(li de 20/03/2022 a 29/03/2022)
#livro #literatura #leitor #leitores #leitura #literaturapolaca #nobeldaliteratura #nobel #lerosnobel
#book #bookstagram #bookclub #bookstagramportugal #bookworm #booknerd #booklover
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March 28, 2019People see what they want to see, and in the end they get what they want - clear, but false divisions.
"The Paxillus involutus, before being labelled in the modern guides as poisonous, was a tasty mushroom. Whole generations have eaten it, because it grows everywhere. When I was a child it was gathered in a separate basket so that it could be cooked for a long time and the liquid poured off. Now they say it kills you slowly, attacking the kidneys, accumulating somewhere in the intestine to do its harm. So by eating these mushrooms you will end up both alive and dead simultaneously, a certain percentage alive and a certain percentage dead. It is hard to say at what point one passes into the other. For some reason people attach great weight to this one, brief moment of either-or."
Not either-or.
Both.
Both.
Night and day.
Man and woman. Beast and man. You and me. "I am never sure if there is a borderline between what Marta says and what I hear."
Twins, torn open because the Nazis thought they shared a soul.
German, Czech, Polish, Silesian.
Dream and reality: Krysia. Oh Krysia, who dreams a voice speaking into her left ear, a man who seems kind, who seems to know her, who sees she is an unusual person, who loves her. His name is Amos and he is in Mariand. She finds A Mos. Almost. Almost.
Only dreams are real.
"The Paxillus involutus, before being labelled in the modern guides as poisonous, was a tasty mushroom. Whole generations have eaten it, because it grows everywhere. When I was a child it was gathered in a separate basket so that it could be cooked for a long time and the liquid poured off. Now they say it kills you slowly, attacking the kidneys, accumulating somewhere in the intestine to do its harm. So by eating these mushrooms you will end up both alive and dead simultaneously, a certain percentage alive and a certain percentage dead. It is hard to say at what point one passes into the other. For some reason people attach great weight to this one, brief moment of either-or."
Not either-or.
Both.
Both.
Night and day.
Man and woman. Beast and man. You and me. "I am never sure if there is a borderline between what Marta says and what I hear."
Twins, torn open because the Nazis thought they shared a soul.
German, Czech, Polish, Silesian.
Dream and reality: Krysia. Oh Krysia, who dreams a voice speaking into her left ear, a man who seems kind, who seems to know her, who sees she is an unusual person, who loves her. His name is Amos and he is in Mariand. She finds A Mos. Almost. Almost.
Only dreams are real.
June 25, 2025
Well, ну це so far мій улюблений текст Токарчук. Отако без зайвих тудин-сюдинів зізнаюсь чистосердечно в успішному читацькому досвіді - мені сподобалось ❤️
Здається, авторка зібрала тут все найкраще з романів, які я вже встигла прочитати:
🥔містицизм і езотерику з Е.Е.
🥔життя сілезійського села з Веди Свій Плуг
🥔досконалу фрагментарність з Бігунів
🥔вишуканий магічний реалізм з Мандрівки Людей Книги
🥔рецепти страв з отруйних грибів бонусом
☁️ Оповідь, хоч і фрагментарна, більшістю своєю ведеться від цілком собі врівноваженої оповідачки, що мешкає під одним дахом зі старою і якоюсь злегка моторошною Мартою. Поки оповідачка ділиться моментами свого співіснування, їй вдається розказати (хоча це вже я особисто додумала, що всі історії читач дізнається саме від неї) і про своїх сусідів, і про історію села Нова Руда, і про сусідні хутори в Сілезії - специфічному районі Польщі, де суто їхнє, національне, живе поруч з німецьким і чеським.
🌧 В романі перемішані не тільки історії людей і сіл; здається, там перестав існувати сам час - якісь події часів Другої світової межуватимуть зі Снами з Інтернету. Ба навіть персонажі коротенького часослову, що оповідачка читає іншим героям, оживають і органічно вписуються у цю магічну канву.
🧡 Якби я мала описати Дім кількома словами, то це була б назва однієї з глав цього роману: Смуток і те щось, що гірше від смутку.
З іншого боку, не можу сказати, що із Домом мені сталась любов з першої сторінки - навіть навпаки.
Намалюйте формулу
магічний реалізм + маленьке село між гір + відголоски Другої світової
і ви отримаєте цілий букет триґерів, які Токарчук вирішила вивалити щедро на перший 30 сторінках, щоби відлякати потенційного легко шокованого читача. Ще трохи гидоти вона розмазала на інших 330 сторінках тексту, але всі ми знаємо, що навіть нанокрапля лайна тхне достатньо, щоб знудило.
Рахуємо:
Алкоголізм
Жорстоке поводження з тваринами
Канібалізм
Подружня зрада
Спроби суїциду
Що я можу сказати у виправдання, окрім того, що це магічний реалізм? Якщо ви вже шокувались умовним Прохасько, то Дім - то як насіння полускати 😇
Здається, авторка зібрала тут все найкраще з романів, які я вже встигла прочитати:
🥔містицизм і езотерику з Е.Е.
🥔життя сілезійського села з Веди Свій Плуг
🥔досконалу фрагментарність з Бігунів
🥔вишуканий магічний реалізм з Мандрівки Людей Книги
🥔рецепти страв з отруйних грибів бонусом
☁️ Оповідь, хоч і фрагментарна, більшістю своєю ведеться від цілком собі врівноваженої оповідачки, що мешкає під одним дахом зі старою і якоюсь злегка моторошною Мартою. Поки оповідачка ділиться моментами свого співіснування, їй вдається розказати (хоча це вже я особисто додумала, що всі історії читач дізнається саме від неї) і про своїх сусідів, і про історію села Нова Руда, і про сусідні хутори в Сілезії - специфічному районі Польщі, де суто їхнє, національне, живе поруч з німецьким і чеським.
🌧 В романі перемішані не тільки історії людей і сіл; здається, там перестав існувати сам час - якісь події часів Другої світової межуватимуть зі Снами з Інтернету. Ба навіть персонажі коротенького часослову, що оповідачка читає іншим героям, оживають і органічно вписуються у цю магічну канву.
🧡 Якби я мала описати Дім кількома словами, то це була б назва однієї з глав цього роману: Смуток і те щось, що гірше від смутку.
З іншого боку, не можу сказати, що із Домом мені сталась любов з першої сторінки - навіть навпаки.
Намалюйте формулу
магічний реалізм + маленьке село між гір + відголоски Другої світової
і ви отримаєте цілий букет триґерів, які Токарчук вирішила вивалити щедро на перший 30 сторінках, щоби відлякати потенційного легко шокованого читача. Ще трохи гидоти вона розмазала на інших 330 сторінках тексту, але всі ми знаємо, що навіть нанокрапля лайна тхне достатньо, щоб знудило.
Рахуємо:
Алкоголізм
Жорстоке поводження з тваринами
Канібалізм
Подружня зрада
Спроби суїциду
Що я можу сказати у виправдання, окрім того, що це магічний реалізм? Якщо ви вже шокувались умовним Прохасько, то Дім - то як насіння полускати 😇
September 7, 2022
3,9 🌟 “Casa de dia, Casa de Noite” é, de todos os livros de Olga Tokarczuk traduzidos para português, o mais complexo. Inicialmente parece uma história desorganizada, sem nexo espacial nem temporal, como uma hebefrenia em papel.
Mas ao longo da história entendemos que todas as histórias têm em comum algo: o local. A região de Nowa Ruda, previamente da Silesia, depois da Prussia, seguida da Checoslováquia, depois alemã e por fim Polaca, concentra em si várias histórias anacrónicas que têm um sentido transcendente.
Um livro que nos faz recordar que o agora é como um ponto matemático, adimensional. Tudo é perene, tudo está em metamorfose numa constante transmutação. Esse é o verdadeiro sentido de “Casa de dia, Casa da Noite”. Nowa Ruda é exatamente o que o título promete: um lugar de histórias claras como a luz do dia e de outras mais saturnas como a noite. Restam ainda aquelas que não são nem noturnas nem diurnas mas sim crepusculares.
Merece ainda destaque a brilhante tradução do Polaco que manteve a expressividade e o realismo mágico que mereceu a Tokarczuk o prémio Nobel da Literatura.
Mas ao longo da história entendemos que todas as histórias têm em comum algo: o local. A região de Nowa Ruda, previamente da Silesia, depois da Prussia, seguida da Checoslováquia, depois alemã e por fim Polaca, concentra em si várias histórias anacrónicas que têm um sentido transcendente.
Um livro que nos faz recordar que o agora é como um ponto matemático, adimensional. Tudo é perene, tudo está em metamorfose numa constante transmutação. Esse é o verdadeiro sentido de “Casa de dia, Casa da Noite”. Nowa Ruda é exatamente o que o título promete: um lugar de histórias claras como a luz do dia e de outras mais saturnas como a noite. Restam ainda aquelas que não são nem noturnas nem diurnas mas sim crepusculares.
Merece ainda destaque a brilhante tradução do Polaco que manteve a expressividade e o realismo mágico que mereceu a Tokarczuk o prémio Nobel da Literatura.
January 25, 2021
Czasem trafiają się nam takie książki, które udowadniają, że jakiekolwiek szufladkowanie literatury czy szufladkowanie własnych preferencji w odniesieniu do niej są zupełnie bezpodstawne. I "Dom dzienny, dom nocny" jest dla mnie dokładnie taką książką, która w teorii nie do końca powinna mi się spodobać, a jednak w praktyce okazała się przecudowną książką, którą będę długo przytulać.
"Dom dzienny..." to oniryczna opowieść o pewnym miasteczku na Dolnym Śląsku i jej mieszkańcach. Zbudowana z rozdziałów o różnej długości, które pozornie przypominają osobne odcinki, a jednak finalnie scalają się w jedną magiczną opowieść. I jest to opowieść o ludziach, o granicach, o miejscach i o naszych ludzkich ich interpretacjach. To taka książka, której nie trzeba czytać w całości, choć oczywiście dopiero mając pełen ogląd na konstrukcję i filozofię tej powieści możemy ją stuprocentowo docenić. Natomiast wydaje mi się, że "Dom dzienny..." jest taką książką, po którą można by sięgnąć na krótszą bądź dłuższą chwilę, by po prostu złapać oddech.
"Dom dzienny..." to książka, przy której się wyciszałam, uspokajałam; przy której odpoczywałam w podstawowym tego słowa znaczeniu. Mimo że wiem, że czytając tę książkę nie dotarłam do wszystkich jej warstw to wyciągnęłam z niej tyle, ile w tym momencie potrzebowałam. To piękna książka - wyjątkowo urokliwa językowo, Olga Tokarczuk ma absolutny dar do snucia opowieści, używając przy tym języka, który zachwyca lirycznością, ale nie odstręcza górnolotnością. Uwielbiam ten senny nastrój, jaki pojawia się w opowieściach Olgi Tokarczuk - to zacieranie się granic między snem a jawą, między nocą a dniem, między myślą a czynem, między przeszłością a teraźniejszością. Ten mistycyzm połączony z przyziemnością tworzy kombinację swoistą dla prozy Noblistki. I jestem w stanie to ocenić na podstawie tylko kilku przeczytanych książek. Dobrze mi jest w tych światach wykreowanych przez Olgę Tokarczuk, choć generalnie nie jestem fanką tak "uduchowionych" książek. Jestem za to bezsprzecznie fanką prozy Olgi Tokarczuk, i z każdą kolejną książką czuję się coraz bardziej "u siebie".
"Dom dzienny..." to oniryczna opowieść o pewnym miasteczku na Dolnym Śląsku i jej mieszkańcach. Zbudowana z rozdziałów o różnej długości, które pozornie przypominają osobne odcinki, a jednak finalnie scalają się w jedną magiczną opowieść. I jest to opowieść o ludziach, o granicach, o miejscach i o naszych ludzkich ich interpretacjach. To taka książka, której nie trzeba czytać w całości, choć oczywiście dopiero mając pełen ogląd na konstrukcję i filozofię tej powieści możemy ją stuprocentowo docenić. Natomiast wydaje mi się, że "Dom dzienny..." jest taką książką, po którą można by sięgnąć na krótszą bądź dłuższą chwilę, by po prostu złapać oddech.
"Dom dzienny..." to książka, przy której się wyciszałam, uspokajałam; przy której odpoczywałam w podstawowym tego słowa znaczeniu. Mimo że wiem, że czytając tę książkę nie dotarłam do wszystkich jej warstw to wyciągnęłam z niej tyle, ile w tym momencie potrzebowałam. To piękna książka - wyjątkowo urokliwa językowo, Olga Tokarczuk ma absolutny dar do snucia opowieści, używając przy tym języka, który zachwyca lirycznością, ale nie odstręcza górnolotnością. Uwielbiam ten senny nastrój, jaki pojawia się w opowieściach Olgi Tokarczuk - to zacieranie się granic między snem a jawą, między nocą a dniem, między myślą a czynem, między przeszłością a teraźniejszością. Ten mistycyzm połączony z przyziemnością tworzy kombinację swoistą dla prozy Noblistki. I jestem w stanie to ocenić na podstawie tylko kilku przeczytanych książek. Dobrze mi jest w tych światach wykreowanych przez Olgę Tokarczuk, choć generalnie nie jestem fanką tak "uduchowionych" książek. Jestem za to bezsprzecznie fanką prozy Olgi Tokarczuk, i z każdą kolejną książką czuję się coraz bardziej "u siebie".
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