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Flights / by Olga Tokarczuk (translated from the Polish by Jennifer Croft).

By: Tokarczuk, Olga, 1962- [author.].
Contributor(s): Croft, Jennifer [translator.].
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: Melbourne, Vic. The Text Publishing Company, 2017Description: 410 pages : illustrations, maps ; 24 cm.Content type: text | still image | cartographic image Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9781925603149; 1925603148.Subject(s): Travel -- Fiction | Polish fiction -- Translations into English | Polish fiction | TravelGenre/Form: Fiction. | Translations.DDC classification: 891.8538 Summary: Flights is a series of imaginative and mesmerising meditations on travel in all its forms, not only the philosophy and meaning of travel, but also fascinating anecdotes that take us out of ourselves, and back to ourselves.Olga Tokarczuk brilliantly connects travel with spellbinding anecdotes about anatomy, about life and death, about the very nature of humankind. Thrilling characters and stories abound- the Russian sect who escape the devil by remaining constantly in motion; the anatomist Verheyen who writes letters to his amputated leg; the story of Chopin's heart as it makes its journey from Paris to Warsaw, stored in a tightly sealed jar beneath his sister's skirt; the quest of a Polish woman who emigrated to New Zealand as a teen but must now return in order to poison her terminally ill high-school sweetheartaYou will never read anything like this extraordinary, utterly original, mind-expanding book. Many consider Tokarczuk to be the most important Polish writer of her generation and Flights is one of those rare books that seems to conjure life itself out of the air.
List(s) this item appears in: Man Booker International ~Shortlist
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Flights is a series of imaginative and mesmerising meditations on travel in all its forms, not only the philosophy and meaning of travel, but also fascinating anecdotes that take us out of ourselves, and back to ourselves.

Olga Tokarczuk brilliantly connects travel with spellbinding anecdotes about anatomy, about life and death, about the very nature of humankind. Thrilling characters and stories abound: the Russian sect who escape the devil by remaining constantly in motion; the anatomist Verheyen who writes letters to his amputated leg; the story of Chopin's heart as it makes its journey from Paris to Warsaw, stored in a tightly sealed jar beneath his sister's skirt; the quest of a Polish woman who emigrated to New Zealand as a teen but must now return in order to poison her terminally ill high-school sweetheart...

You will never read anything like this extraordinary, utterly original, mind-expanding book. Many consider Tokarczuk to be the most important Polish writer of her generation and Flights is one of those rare books that seems to conjure life itself out of the air.

Flights is a series of imaginative and mesmerising meditations on travel in all its forms, not only the philosophy and meaning of travel, but also fascinating anecdotes that take us out of ourselves, and back to ourselves.Olga Tokarczuk brilliantly connects travel with spellbinding anecdotes about anatomy, about life and death, about the very nature of humankind. Thrilling characters and stories abound- the Russian sect who escape the devil by remaining constantly in motion; the anatomist Verheyen who writes letters to his amputated leg; the story of Chopin's heart as it makes its journey from Paris to Warsaw, stored in a tightly sealed jar beneath his sister's skirt; the quest of a Polish woman who emigrated to New Zealand as a teen but must now return in order to poison her terminally ill high-school sweetheartaYou will never read anything like this extraordinary, utterly original, mind-expanding book. Many consider Tokarczuk to be the most important Polish writer of her generation and Flights is one of those rare books that seems to conjure life itself out of the air.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Here I Am I'm a few years old. I'm sitting on the windowsill, surrounded by strewn toys and toppled-over block towers and dolls with bulging eyes. It's dark in the house, and the air in the rooms slowly cools, dims. There's no one else here; they've left, they're gone, though you can still hear their voices dying down, that shuffling, the echoes of their footsteps, some distant laughter. Out the window the courtyard is empty. Darkness spreads softly from the sky, settling on everything like black dew. The worst part is the stillness, visible, dense-a chilly dusk and the sodium-vapor lamps' frail light already mired in darkness just a few feet from its source. Nothing happens-the march of darkness halts at the door to the house, and all the clamor of fading falls silent, makes a thick skin like on hot milk cooling. The contours of the buildings against the backdrop of the sky stretch out into infinity, slowly lose their sharp angles, corners, edges. The dimming light takes the air with it-there's nothing left to breathe. Now the dark soaks into my skin. Sounds have curled up inside themselves, withdrawn their snail's eyes; the orchestra of the world has departed, vanishing into the park. That evening is the limit of the world, and I've just happened upon it, by accident, while playing, not in search of anything. I've discovered it because I was left unsupervised for a bit. I realize I've fallen into a trap here now, realize I'm stuck. I'm a few years old, I'm sitting on the windowsill, and I'm looking out onto the chilled courtyard. The lights in the school's kitchen are extinguished; everyone has left. All the doors are closed, the hatches down, shades lowered. I'd like to leave, but there's nowhere to go. My own presence is the only thing with a distinct outline now, an outline that quivers and undulates, and in so doing, hurts. And all of a sudden I know: there's nothing for it now, here I am. The World in Your Head The first trip I ever took was across the fields, on foot. It took them a long time to notice I was gone, which meant I was able to make it quite some distance. I covered the whole park and even-going down dirt roads, through the corn and the damp meadows teeming with cowslip flowers, sectioned into squares by ditches-reached the river. Though of course the river was ubiquitous in that valley, soaking up under the ground cover and lapping at the fields. Clambering up onto the embankment, I could see an undulating ribbon, a road that kept flowing outside of the frame, outside of the world. If you were lucky, you might catch sight of a boat there, one of those great flat boats gliding over the river in either direction, oblivious to the shores, to the trees, to the people who stand on the embankment, unreliable landmarks, perhaps, not worth remarking, just an audience to the boats' own motion, so full of grace. I dreamed of working on a boat like that when I grew up-or even better, of becoming one of those boats. It wasn't a big river, only the Oder, but I, too, was little then. It had its place in the hierarchy of rivers, which I later checked on the maps-a minor one, but present, nonetheless, a kind of country viscountess at the court of the Amazon queen. But it was more than enough for me. It seemed enormous. It flowed as it liked, essentially unimpeded, prone to flooding, unpredictable. Occasionally along the banks it would catch on some underwater obstacle, and eddies would develop. But the river flowed on, parading, concerned only with its hidden aims beyond the horizon, somewhere far off to the north. Your eyes couldnÕt keep focused on the water, which pulled your gaze along up past the horizon, so that youÕd lose your balance. To me, of course, the river paid no attention, caring only for itself, those changing, roving waters into which-as I later learned-you can never step twice. Every year it charged a steep price to bear the weight of those boats-because each year someone drowned in the river, whether a child taking a dip on a hot summer's day or some drunk who somehow wound up on the bridge and, in spite of the railing, still fell into the water. The search for the drowned always took place with great pomp and circumstance, with everyone in the vicinity waiting with bated breath. They'd bring in divers and army boats. According to adults' accounts we overheard, the recovered bodies were swollen and pale-the water had rinsed all the life out of them, blurring their facial features to such an extent that their loved ones would have a hard time identifying their corpses. Standing there on the embankment, staring into the current, I realized that-in spite of all the risks involved-a thing in motion will always be better than a thing at rest; that change will always be a nobler thing than permanence; that that which is static will degenerate and decay, turn to ash, while that which is in motion is able to last for all eternity. From then on, the river was like a needle inserted into my formerly safe and stable surroundings, the landscape composed of the park, the greenhouses with their vegetables that grew in sad little rows, and the sidewalk with its concrete slabs where we would go to play hopscotch. This needle went all the way through, marking a vertical third dimension; so pierced, the landscape of my childhood world turned out to be nothing more than a toy made of rubber from which all the air was escaping, with a hiss. My parents were not fully the settling kind. They moved from place to place, time and time again, until finally they paused for longer near a country school, far from any proper road or a train station. Then traveling simply became crossing the unplowed ridge between the furrows, going into the little town nearby, doing the shopping, filing paperwork at the district office. The hairdresser on the main square by the Town Hall was always there in the same apron, washed and bleached in vain because the clientsÕ hair dye left stains like calligraphy, like Chinese characters. My mom would have her hair dyed, and my father would wait for her at the New CafZ, at one of the two little tables set up outside. HeÕd read the local paper, where the most interesting section was always the one with the police reports, gherkins and jam jars stolen out of cellars. And then the vacations, their timid tourism, their koda packed to the gills. Endlessly prepared for, planned in the evenings in the early spring when the snow had all but stopped, though the ground had yet to come back to its senses; you had to wait until it finally gave itself to plow and hoe, when you could plant in it again, and from that moment forward it would take up all their time, from morning to eve. Theirs was the generation of motor homes, of tugging along behind them a whole surrogate household. A gas stove, little folding tables and chairs. A plastic cord to hang laundry up to dry when they stopped and some wooden clothespins. Waterproof tablecloths. A ready-made picnic set: colored plastic plates, utensils, salt and pepper shakers, and glasses. Somewhere along the way, at one of the flea markets that he and my mother particularly loved to visit (since they were not interested, for instance, in having their pictures taken at churches or monuments), my father had purchased an army kettle-a brass device, a vessel with a tube in the middle that you would fill up with tinder you lit on fire. Though you could get electricity at the campsites, he would heat up water in that smoking, spluttering pot. He'd kneel down over the hot kettle, taking no small pride in the gurgle of the boiling water he'd then pour over our tea bags-a true nomad. They'd set up in the designated areas, at campsites where they were always in the company of others just like them, having lively conversations with their neighbors, surrounded by socks drying on tent cords. The itineraries for these trips would be determined with the aid of guidebooks that painstakingly highlighted all the attractions. In the morning a swim in the sea or the lake, and in the afternoon an excursion into the city's history, capped off by dinner, most often out of glass jars: goulash, meatballs in tomato sauce. You just had to cook the pasta or the rice. Costs were always being cut, the Polish zloty was weak-penny of the world. There was the search for a place where you could get electricity and then the reluctant decamping after, although all journeys remained within the same metaphysical orbit of home. They weren't real travelers: they left in order to return. And they were relieved when they got back, with a sense of having fulfilled an obligation. They returned to collect the letters and bills that stacked up on the chest of drawers. To do a big wash. To bore their friends to death by showing pictures as everyone attempted to conceal their yawns. This is us in Carcassonne. Here's my wife with the Acropolis in the background. Then they would lead a settled life for the next year, going back every morning to the same thing they had left in the evening, their clothes permeated by the scent of their own flat, their feet tirelessly wearing down a path in the carpet. That life is not for me. Clearly I did not inherit whatever gene it is that makes it so that when you linger in a place you start to put down roots. I've tried, a number of times, but my roots have always been shallow; the littlest breeze could always blow me right over. I don't know how to germinate, I'm simply not in possession of that vegetable capacity. I can't extract nutrition from the ground, I am the anti-Antaeus. My energy derives from movement-from the shuddering of buses, the rumble of planes, trains' and ferries' rocking. I have a practical build. I'm petite, compact. My stomach is tight, small, undemanding. My lungs and my shoulders are strong. I'm not on any prescriptions-not even the pill-and I don't wear glasses. I cut my hair with clippers, once every three months, and I use almost no makeup. My teeth are healthy, perhaps a bit uneven, but intact, and I have just one old filling, which I believe is located in my lower left canine. My liver function is within the normal range. As is my pancreas. Both my right and left kidneys are in great shape. My abdominal aorta is normal. My bladder works. Hemoglobin 12.7. Leukocytes 4.5. Hematocrit 41.6. Platelets 228. Cholesterol 204. Creatinine 1.0. Bilirubin 4.2. And so on. My IQ-if you put any stock in that kind of thing-is 121; it's passable. My spatial reasoning is particularly advanced, almost eidetic, though my laterality is lousy. Personality unstable, or not entirely reliable. Age all in your mind. Gender grammatical. I actually buy my books in paperback, so that I can leave them without remorse on the platform, for someone else to find. I don't collect anything. I completed my degree, but I never really mastered any trade, which I do regret; my great-grandfather was a weaver, bleaching woven cloth by laying it out along the hillside, baring it to the sun's hot rays. I would have been well suited to the intermingling of warp and weft, but there's no such thing as a portable loom. Weaving is an art of sedentary tribes. When I'm traveling I knit. Sadly, in recent times some airlines have banned the use of knitting needles and crochet hooks on board. I never learned, as I say, any particular line of work, and yet in spite of what my parents always used to tell me, I've been able to get by, working different jobs as I go, staying afloat. When my parents went back to the city after their twenty-year experiment, when they had finally tired of the droughts and the frosts, healthy food that ailed all winter in the cellar, the wool from their own sheep assiduously stuffed inside the gaping mouths of comforters and pillows, they gave me a little bit of money, and I set off on my first trip. I took odd jobs wherever I happened to be. In an international factory on the outskirts of a large metropolis I assembled antennae for high-end yachts. There were a lot of people like me there. We were paid under the table and never questioned about where we came from or what our plans were for the future. Every Friday we got our money, and whoever didn't feel like it anymore simply didn't come back on Monday. There were school graduates taking a break before applying to university. Immigrants still en route to that fair, idyllic country they were sure was somewhere in the West, where people are brothers and sisters, and a strong state plays the role of parent; fugitives from their families-from their wives, their husbands, their parents; the unhappily in love, the confused, the melancholic, those who were always cold. Those running from the law because they couldn't pay off their debts. Wanderers, vagabonds. Crazy people who'd wind up in the hospital the next time they fell ill again, and from there they'd get deported back to their countries of origin on the basis of rules and regulations shrouded in mystery. Just one person worked there permanently, an Indian man who had been there for years, though in reality his situation was no different from ours. He didn't have insurance or paid vacation. He worked in silence, patiently, on an even keel. He was never late. He never found any need to take time off. I tried to talk some people into setting up a trade union-these were the days of Solidarity-if only for him, but he didn't want to. Touched by the interest I'd taken in him, however, he began to share with me the spicy curry he brought in a lunch box every day. I no longer remember what his name was. I was a waitress, a maid in an upscale hotel, and a nanny. I sold books. I sold tickets. I was employed in a small theater for one season to work in wardrobe, making it through that long winter ensconced backstage amidst heavy costumes, satin capes and wigs. Once I'd finished my studies, I also worked as a teacher, as a rehab counselor, and-most recently-in a library. Whenever I managed to save any money, I would be on my way again. Excerpted from Flights by Olga Tokarczuk All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Winner of the 2018 Man Booker International Prize, this work from Polish author Tokarczuk (House of Day, House of Night) delivers a compounded constellation of coevolving concepts in a set of related passages, some with several installments. Among them: the disappearance of Kunicki's wife and children on a Mediterranean island, Josefine -Soliman's three letters to the Emperor of Austria asking for the stuffed body of her father, and the travels of Dr. Blau, who covets the secrets of plastination-the preservation of human body parts. Themes of travel but also escape and flight are pervasive, as is information about bodies dried and stuffed, pickled in preservative, or, in a more modern bent, preserved with plastic polymer. Sprinkled throughout are more brief expostulations; Eryk the absconding ferry driver is notable, as well as the unnamed woman who unceremoniously provides assisted suicide to a dying friend. VERDICT This host of haunting narratives teases the mind and taunts the soul, providing multiple paths of escape in response to questions about existence and the life's struggles. As a preservative solution of severed threads, it relies on readers for assemblage, and the task is exhilarating indeed. [See Prepub Alert, 2/26/18.]-Henry Bankhead, San Rafael P.L., CA © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

Winner of the Man Booker International Prize, this novel from Tokarczuk (House of Day, House of Night) is an indisputable masterpiece of "controlled psychosis," as one of the characters phrases it. Written in a cacophony of voices, the book's themes accumulate not from plot, but rather associations and resonances. It begins in Croatia, where a tourist, Kunicki, is lazily smoking cigarettes beside his car in an island olive grove, waiting for his wife and son to return from a short walk. Except they don't, and Kunicki must frantically search for his lost family in a sun-drenched paradise, 10 kilometers in diameter. The novel then, after some number of pages and disjointed narratives, joins the peculiar anatomist Dr. Blau's journey to the seaside village home of a recently deceased rival. This prompts the retelling of the sad, true tale of Angelo Soliman, born in Nigeria, who had lived as a dignified and respected Viennese courtier, only to be mummified and displayed by Francis I as a racial specimen "wearing only a grass band." This rumination on anatomy brings into the text the anatomist Philip Verheyen, born in 1648 in Flanders, who keeps his amputated leg, preserved in alcohol, on the headboard of his bed. The novel continues in this vein-dipping in and out of submerged stories, truths, and flights of fantasy stitched together by associations. Punctuated by maps and figures, the discursive novel is reminiscent of the work of Sebald. The threads ultimately converge in a remarkable way, making this an extraordinary accomplishment. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

The narrator in renowned Polish writer Tokarczuk's novel is an enigmatic curator, nomad, and storyteller who offers up fragmented vignettes featuring transient portraits. Drifting from one locale to another, including airports, trains, and hotels, the narrator's journeys and layovers are interspersed with ruminations on intention, psychology, and science. In one tale, a husband on vacation with his wife and young son is left with unanswered questions after their sudden disappearance. Another story follows a dispirited mother after she leaves home one seemingly ordinary day and doesn't return. These existential fragments are sharply balanced by a predilection toward physicality. A renowned doctor visits a widow after her husband's sudden death, enraptured by the now-abandoned lab that pioneered a method to plastinate human tissue. Other pieces have a historical bent, such as Chopin after death or anatomist Philip Verheyen and his amputated leg. Characters are drawn to precision, the concept of specimens, and macabre anomalies. Tokarczuk's tales vary in length and are complex and layered, forming an exploration into the impermanence of existence and experience.--Leah Strauss Copyright 2018 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

Thoughts on travel as an existential adventure from one of Poland's most lauded and popular authors.Already a huge commercial and critical success in her native country, Tokarczuk (House of Day, House of Night, 2003) captured the attention of Anglophone readers when this book was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize in 2018. In addition to being a fiction writer, Tokarczuk is also an essayist and a psychologist and an activist knownand sometimes reviledfor her cosmopolitan, anti-nationalist views. Her wide-ranging interests are evident in this volume. It's not a novel exactly. It's not even a collection of intertwined short stories, although there are longer sections featuring recurring characters and well-developed narratives. Overall, though, this is a series of fragments tenuously linked by the idea of travelthrough space and also through timeand a thoughtful, ironic voice. Movement from one place to another, from one thought to another, defines both the preoccupations of this discursive text and its style. One of the extended stories follows a man named Kunicki whose wife and child disappear on vacationand suddenly reappear. A first-person narrator offers a sort of memoir through movement, recalling her own peregrinations bit by bit. There are pilgrims and holidaymakers. Tokarczuk also explores the connection between travel and colonialism with side trips into "exotic" practices and cabinets of curiosity. There are philosophical digressions, like a meditation on the flight from Irkutsk to Moscow that lands at the same time it takes off. None of this is to say that this book is dry or didactic. Tokarczuk has a sly sense of humor. It's impossible not to laugh at the opening line, "I'm reminded of something that Borges was once reminded of." Of course someone interested in maps and territories, of the emotional landscape of travel and the difference between memory and reality would feel an affinity for the Argentine fabulist.A welcome introduction to a major author and a pleasure for fans of contemporary European literature. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.