Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

I am already at an age and additionally in a state where I must always wash my feet thoroughly before bed, in the event of having to be removed by an ambulance in the Night.

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

That’s what I dislike most of all in people—cold irony. It’s a very cowardly attitude to mock or belittle everything, never be committed to anything, not feel tied to anything.