A review by nathansnook
Flights by Olga Tokarczuk
"Constellations, not sequencing, carries truth."
This isn't the first time I've spent New Year's in another country, in the future tense, awaiting the other side of the world, the past, to greet me into the month of January. But it has always been in solace.
In a sense, I get two New Year's. The one elsewhere, and the one that's garnered in slushes of "hny!!!" that seem mechanical because others have much to say to others.
This time around, this compilation of ideas that come forth, go back, slide in sideways in the way it's chaptered, told me that it's okay to fluctuate between the time zones.
Taking a four hour train ride from having visited my childhood friend, a dear cousin, we spent the whole day reminiscing on why our lives had grown so far apart. Why we lacked presence at recent family gatherings. Why we even bothered at all. And taking this midnight train home, having caffeine meddle with my fatigue without a seat on that crowded train, this was a disorienting yet comforting experience, this novel, this collection of thoughts, this stream of consciousness to weave itself into my own life and what travel means to me.
At the very soul of it, travel is what kneads the heart past its four chambers to be witness to ongoing life, how it existed before you and how it will exist after you, and your relationships to everything around you. It's one of those wellness shots (the ginger, lemon cayenne ones, you know the ones, ghastly!) that shake you up to tell you, "Hey. Flint your eyes from your screen and look around you. Everything is in existence and you are a part of it, too."
A 2019 read that has jumpstarted my 2020 with a riveting shock that I will, or at least try to will myself into making this a damn good year.
This isn't the first time I've spent New Year's in another country, in the future tense, awaiting the other side of the world, the past, to greet me into the month of January. But it has always been in solace.
In a sense, I get two New Year's. The one elsewhere, and the one that's garnered in slushes of "hny!!!" that seem mechanical because others have much to say to others.
This time around, this compilation of ideas that come forth, go back, slide in sideways in the way it's chaptered, told me that it's okay to fluctuate between the time zones.
Taking a four hour train ride from having visited my childhood friend, a dear cousin, we spent the whole day reminiscing on why our lives had grown so far apart. Why we lacked presence at recent family gatherings. Why we even bothered at all. And taking this midnight train home, having caffeine meddle with my fatigue without a seat on that crowded train, this was a disorienting yet comforting experience, this novel, this collection of thoughts, this stream of consciousness to weave itself into my own life and what travel means to me.
At the very soul of it, travel is what kneads the heart past its four chambers to be witness to ongoing life, how it existed before you and how it will exist after you, and your relationships to everything around you. It's one of those wellness shots (the ginger, lemon cayenne ones, you know the ones, ghastly!) that shake you up to tell you, "Hey. Flint your eyes from your screen and look around you. Everything is in existence and you are a part of it, too."
A 2019 read that has jumpstarted my 2020 with a riveting shock that I will, or at least try to will myself into making this a damn good year.