Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

Once meek, and in a perilous path, The just man kept his course along The vale of death.

Cautiously I unwound the repulsive foot wrappings, and saw his feet. They astonished me. I have always regarded the feet as the most intimate and personal part of our bodies, and not the genitals, not the heart, or even the brain, organs of no great significance that are too highly valued. It is in the feet that all knowledge of Mankind lies hidden; the body sends them a weighty sense of who we really are and how we relate to the earth. It’s in the touch of the earth, at its point of contact with the body that the whole mystery is located—the fact that we’re built of elements of matter, while also being alien to it, separated from it. The feet—those are our plugs into the socket. And now those naked feet gave me proof that his origin was different. He couldn’t have been human. He must have been some sort of nameless form, one of the kind that—as Blake tells us—melts metals into infinity, changes order into chaos. Perhaps he was a sort of devil. Devilish creatures are always recognized by their feet—they stamp the earth with a different seal.

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.

A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate Predicts the ruin of the State.

With age, many men come down with testosterone autism, the symptoms of which are a gradual decline in social intelligence and capacity for interpersonal communication, as well as a reduced ability to formulate thoughts. The Person beset by this Ailment becomes taciturn and appears to be lost in contemplation. He develops an interest in various Tools and machinery, and he’s drawn to the Second World War and the biographies of famous people, mainly politicians and villains. His capacity to read novels almost entirely vanishes; testosterone autism disturbs the character’s psychological understanding.

Sometimes, when a Person feels Anger, everything seems simple and obvious. Anger puts things in order and shows you the world in a nutshell; Anger restores the gift of Clarity of Vision, which it’s hard to attain in any other state.

The prison is not outside, but inside each of us. Perhaps we simply don’t know how to live without it.

Whate’er is Born of Mortal Birth Must be consumed with the Earth.

He who Doubts from what he sees Will ne’er Believe, do what you Please. If the Sun & Moon should Doubt They’d immediately Go out.

As I gazed at the black-and-white landscape of the Plateau I realized that sorrow is an important word for defining the world. It lies at the foundations of everything, it is the fifth element, the quintessence.

In a way, people like her, those who wield a pen, can be dangerous. At once a suspicion of fakery springs to mind—that such a Person is not him- or herself, but an eye that’s constantly watching, and whatever it sees it changes into sentences; in the process it strips reality of its most essential quality—its inexpressibility.

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

Reality has grown old and gone senile; after all, it is definitely subject to the same laws as every living organism—it ages. Just like the cells of the body, its tiniest components, the senses, succumb to apoptosis. Apoptosis is natural death, brought about by the tiredness and exhaustion of matter. In Greek this word means “the dropping of petals.” The world has dropped its petals.

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.

The wild deer, wand’ring here & there Keeps the Human Soul from Care.

A Horse misused upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood.

Every thing possible to be believ’d is an image of truth.

A Skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing.

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.

He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

The Questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to Reply.

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 Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore.

“Drive your plow over the bones of the dead,” I said to myself in the words of Blake; is that how it went?

The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity, This is caught by Females bright And return’d to its own delight.