Flights

Book 19 is not really a book. It was a Nobel Prize and Man Booker Award winning “masterpiece.” It was Flights by Olga Tokarczuk. When I first heard of it and its awards and the founts of praise, I was excited. I like travel. I like intelligent discussions on the human condition. I like good books. What could go wrong? Everything. Everything.

Where to begin? You can’t say anything bad about a book that has critical acclaim like this without fear of accusations that you aren’t smart enough to understand. Or that you just didn’t get it. Or your tastes are coarse. Whatever: believe me or don’t. Read the book for yourself or don’t. I’m not here to convince you that I’m qualified to say this, but the emperor has no clothes. Yes, her prose is good. Good enough that it wasn’t distracting like the writing style of many suspense or sci-fi writers. Fine, I’ll give her that. But was it good enough for there to be no plot? No characters we care about? No point? No glue? Not by half. This isn’t Nabokov. It’s not Kazuo Ishiguro. It’s not even Stephen King. It just stays out of my way enough for me to refrain from throwing my Kindle across the room in frustration.

There’s just nothing here to hold the reader’s interest. For example, there is one longer short story about a man searching for his wife and child on a small island where no one can get lost. There are endless descriptions of completely random things that have nothing to do with finding them. Or even with any of the characters. Such as descriptions of ferry passengers. Why? Why waste the reader’s time like that? Infuriating!

However, what this book did give me is inspiration. That’s not a compliment. President Donald Trump gave me inspiration more than any other president. No other president made me believe as truly that anyone, just anyone could be president. Likewise, this book, having won prestigious prizes that much better (more gripping, more interesting, more coherent) books could never come close to winning — that’s brought me hope too. If Tokarczuk can be a Nobel Prize winning author, then anyone, anyone can be an author. I have a set of 100 pointless, disjointed essays. Who wants to publish me?

I’ve reached 35%, and I’m not going to finish. Some tips from me if you want to produce a work like this:

  • Write a bunch of unrelated essays on whatever sparks your fancy at the moment.
  • Be sure to name drop every Greek philosopher  you’ve ever heard of in at least one of them.
  • About 50% of them should be whatever you happen to be thinking or seeing at a random moment in your life. Just set phone alarms for and write down whatever was going through your head, or record what you see people doing wherever you happen to be.
  • Go to anatomy museums and describe what’s on display.
  • If you include stories, don’t write endings. Just spend the entire time setting the scene, introducing the problem, then end the story without explanation.

That, folks, is how you can produce a work like this and perhaps also be a Nobel literature award winning author.

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