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 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. This fragment provides the very impetus to the rest of the movements in the rest of the fragments that create a magical conjuring where the fine line between life and death, happiness and suffering, ego and alter ego, is provocatively marred into a smudged silence of inevitable continuation of life entailed by death.ĭarkness spreads softly from the sky, settling on everything like black dew. In fact, the starting fragment: Here I Am somewhat summarizes her message.
Thus, despite creating such an aura with the opening, she moves on to the next lap, to a different journey, as a marvelous word-trotter.
And since this is no poem, she has to complete the journey she has started. Post these lines, words might seem scanty. Just a silent cry for being placed and treated properly so that the darkness around them does not seem to dissolve into their skins through the pores: What Tokarczuk probably intended was to reveal the kind of those ladies with deep sensibilities, grappling with the eternal crisis to be understood.
Is she living for three hundred years to tell us her feelings? That’s for the reader to ponder. We are seeing it all through the eyes of a lady. This fragment of time is just a sample, a cognizable human history that the present day limits to its past for reference. I think Tokarczuk has chosen the backdrop as the sliver of life between the 17th and the 21st century just to communicate such an eternity. Every human life has to pass through this, over centuries. But this feeling never overrides life and its triumphant austerity over abstraction and its millions of possible courses. But moving through Flights is an experience unlike any, a journey in the practice of reading that reveals a perspective of life with an unmistakable undertone of crude yet textured dark neo-realism with the poignancy of simple, deep macabre. When we read them all, we find a strange connection between the two where feelings suddenly start running up and down the edge of what we call empathy.Īny pentagenerian reader must have come across many travelogues in their lifetime. It is no surprise that every bit of life is a story and the difference between an author of might and her/his readers is that they can conjure one from another. A book published back in 2007 has already seen the thick and thin of appreciation and criticism. It would be futile to list out the many rewards this book has for its name.
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