Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

Anger makes the mind clear and incisive, able to see more. It sweeps up the other emotions and takes control of the body. Without a doubt Anger is the source of all wisdom, for Anger has the power to exceed any limits.

Oddball’s surname, for instance, is Świerszczyński—that’s what it says on his front door, with the letter “Ś” in front of it. Is there really a first name that starts with the letter Ś? He has always introduced himself as “Świerszczyński,” but he can’t expect us to twist our tongues trying to pronounce it.

The naming of Big Foot occurred in a similar way. It was quite straightforward—it suggested itself to me when I saw his footprints in the snow. To begin with, Oddball had called him “Shaggy,” but then he borrowed “Big Foot” from me. All it means is that I chose the right name for him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t choose a suitable name for myself. I regard the one that’s written on my identity card as scandalously wrong and unfair—Janina. I think my real name is Emilia, or Joanna. Sometimes I think it’s something like Irmtrud too. Or Bellona. Or Medea. Meanwhile Oddball avoids calling me by my name like the plague. That means something too. Somehow he always finds a way to address me as “you.”

I find the satellite pictures and the curvature of the Earth very moving. So is it true that we live on the surface of a sphere, exposed to the gaze of the planets, left in a great void, where after the Fall the light was smashed to smithereens and blown apart? It is true. We should remember that every day, for we do tend to forget. We believe we are free, and that God will forgive us. Personally I think otherwise. Finally, transformed into tiny quivering photons, each of our deeds will set off into Outer Space, where the planets will keep watching it like a film until the end of the world.

But the truth is that anyone who feels Anger, and does not take action, merely spreads the infection. So says our Blake.

“Don’t argue with her, she’s crazy.” At that point I felt a surge of Anger, genuine, not to say Divine Anger. It flooded me from inside in a burning-hot wave. This energy made me feel great, as if it were lifting me off the ground, a mini Big Bang within the universe of my body. There was fire burning within me, like a neutron star.

My Ailments were destroying my body, gradually, relentlessly. Each year my knees ached more, and my liver was clearly no longer fit for purpose. After all, I’ve been alive a long time. That’s what I was thinking, rather pitifully. But one day I would have to start giving it all some proper thought.

“What sort of a world is this? Someone’s body is made into shoes, into meatballs, sausages, a bedside rug, someone’s bones are boiled to make broth . . . Shoes, sofas, a shoulder bag made of someone’s belly, keeping warm with someone else’s fur, eating someone’s body, cutting it into bits and frying it in oil . . . Can it really be true? Is this nightmare really happening? This mass killing, cruel, impassive, automatic, without any pangs of conscience, without the slightest pause for thought, though plenty of thought is applied to ingenious philosophies and theologies. What sort of a world is this, where killing and pain are the norm? What on earth is wrong with us?”

Boros’s presence reminded me what it’s like to live with someone. And how very awkward it is. How much it diverts you from your own thoughts and distracts you. How another Person starts to irritate you without actually doing anything annoying, but simply by being there. Each morning when he went off to the forest, I blessed my glorious solitude. How do people manage to spend decades living together in a small space? I wondered. How can they possibly sleep in the same bed together, breathing on and jostling each other accidentally in their sleep? I’m not saying it hasn’t happened to me too. For some time I shared my bed with a Catholic, and nothing good came of it.

I had my Theory about interjections of this kind: every single Person has their own expression which he or she overuses. Or uses incorrectly. These words or phrases are the key to their intellect. Mr. “Apparently,” Mr. “Generally,” Mrs. “Probably,” Mr. “Fucking,” Mrs. “Don’t You Think?,” Mr. “As If.” The President was Mr. “In Truth.”

Animals have a very strong sense of justice.

I wrote to you. In fact, I still haven’t received an answer. It’s bad manners not to answer letters.

And I think it tallies with one of my Theories—my belief that the human psyche evolved in order to defend us against seeing the truth. To prevent us from catching sight of the mechanism. The psyche is our defense system—it makes sure we’ll never understand what’s going on around us. Its main task is to filter information, even though the capabilities of our brains are enormous. For it would be impossible to carry the weight of this knowledge. Because every tiny particle of the world is made of suffering.

The winter starts straight after All Saints’ Day. That’s the way here; the autumn takes away all her Tools and toys, shakes off the leaves—they won’t be needed anymore—sweeps them under the field boundary, and strips the colors from the grass until it goes dull and gray. Then everything becomes black against white: snow falls on the plowed fields. “Drive your plow over the bones of the dead,” I said to myself in the words of Blake; is that how it went?

“What are you gawping at?” I cried. “Have you fallen asleep? How can you listen to such nonsense without batting an eyelid? Have you lost your minds? Or your hearts? Have you still got hearts?”

Mustard soup. It’s quickly made, without much effort, so I had it ready in time. First we heat a little butter in a frying pan and add some flour, as if we were going to make a béchamel. The flour sucks up the melted butter beautifully, then gorges on it, swelling with satisfaction. At this point we flood it with milk and water, half and half. That’s the end of the frolics between flour and butter, unfortunately, but gradually the soup appears; now we must add a pinch of salt, pepper and caraway to this clear, still-innocent liquid, bring it to the boil and then switch off the heat. Only now do we add the mustard in three forms: whole-grain French Dijon mustard; smooth brown mustard or the mild, creamy kind; and mustard powder. It’s important not to let the Mustard boil, or else the soup will lose its flavor and go bitter. I serve this soup with croutons, and I know how much Dizzy likes it.

Didn’t I tell you that the sport I won all the medals for was hammer throwing? I came second in the national championships in 1971.

Between the boiler room and the garage there was a small hiding place for the water meters, cables and mops. Every house should have a hiding place like that in case of Persecution and War. Every house.

Newspapers rely on keeping us in a constant state of anxiety, on diverting our emotions away from the things that really matter to us. Why should I yield to their power and let them tell me what to think?