Drive Your Plough Over The Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk

originally published in Polish in 2009; this translation by Antonia Lloyd-Jones published by Fitzcarraldo Editions in 2018

It’s been a little while since my last post. When this happens, it usually comes down to one of the following reasons:

1. I’ve read a book that’s so boring I can’t bring myself to finish it and have no excuse to vent on my phone;

2. I’m in the midst of another mental health crisis;

3. I’m reading a book that’s, like, really really long; or

4. I’m just too busy doing other things (I suppose #2 is more of a subsection of this one).

This time, I’m pleased to report that my reading material is not at fault (a book being, like, really really long is a fault), so the delay is 100% life based.

But, as with the relentless passage of time and the encroaching march towards death, all of the panic attacks and tears in the world can’t stop TriumphOfTheNow.com and my own failure to either graduate out of blogging or to do something meaningful instead of all the meaningless things that take up all my time and energy. Did that make sense? Who knows? I don’t.

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I’ve had a copy of Drive Your Plough Over The Bones of the Dead by (Nobel laureate) Olga Tokarczuk for a long time – evidenced by the fact that my copy was an ARC issued before it was published, which happened like six years ago.

(Yes, there’s a reason why the indie presses don’t send me many free books any more – I doubt whatever the next few hundred words become will boost any sales, so far beyond this book’s freshness.)

I picked it up with the plan to read it many times, however my strange (and otherwise non existent) karmic beliefs tell me that if I pack a book in a bag or a suitcase for a commute or a trip and don’t get round to reading it, then the time for scott manley hadley to read that book is not now, and that this was a sign from the universe that I must wait.

Thus, my copy is more damaged that the mere standard practice of reading would ordinarily cause: this Tokarczuk has been in my bag far more times than necessary to read through its evocative, engaging and deeply, deeply satisfying pages.

(Spoilers ahead… if you haven’t read it yet and – unless you are like a pro-blood sports, pro-police POS – then I recommend you go get hold of a copy instead of reading below. It’s very very good.)

Never have I ever wished so hard in a literary whodunnit (which is partially but far from solely what this is) for the identity of a serial killer to be a particular person.

Never have I felt so connected and in synch with a fictional protagonist who wasn’t a deeply depressed alcoholic.

This may be the first time I’ve ever encountered a genuinely aspirational fictional figure, one who not only dramatises a potential and believable future for a person to potentially have, but is happy (enough), is at peace, lives in a manner that is ultimately principled and with integrity…

This novel’s protagonist – who has a name but doesn’t like it (hard relate) – hangs out in vintage stores and bookstores, has some friends who genuinely seems to like her, has rewarding (if low paid) work sometimes, translates poetry in her free time (the novel’s title is from this William Blake barnstormer), has the occasional pleasant affaire de coeur, isn’t lonely, and – the crucial bit – also begins and sees through (without judicial consequence) a campaign of violent murder against the local hunting dickheads (who include clergy, senior police, business leaders, local politicians, etc), in enlightened and – in my opinion – wholly justified revenge on behalf of the wild animals – and her dogs – that they had all killed together for fun.

As well as this plot, though, there is also great and digressive prose exploring fate, astrology, loneliness, friendship, culture, language, translation, education, travel, landscapes, politics, life, death, ethics, found family, the importance of place, comfort, self-knowledge, integrity, lies, corruption, institutionalisation, industry, pollution, conservation and – at length – beetles. And all this in under 300 pages. Oo-wow-ee. Quite.

So, yes, you could argue it is John Wick meets A la recherche du temps perdu, and it absolutely pulls that off. (And yes I know it pre-dates John Wick, I understand time.)

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Originally, I believe, published episodically in a magazine, this is a gripping mystery, I suppose, but one where (for me at least) the hope that our perfect protagonist is also a serial killer rose and rose and her late novel confession was a transcendental joy to read.

It’s a neat crime novel, but it’s also a psychological character study. It’s a pacy thriller with romance and humour, but it’s also fucking indisputably fucking A grade fiction.

It’s also a roadmap for a perfect potential future. She is one of my favourite fictional characters. She is an inspiration and a beacon to us all.

Thank you, Olga Tokarczuk, for writing a model of a liveable later life.

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I’m not reading as much as I’d like to be at the moment because I’m too busy, but reading a book like this reminds me how fucking important it is to make sure there is space for things in your life that neither make you miserable nor tire you out.

I can’t – and nor should anyone – survive on work and attempts at self improvement and little little else.

Drive Your Plough Over The Bones of the Dead is a fucking excellent novel.

I’m on holiday next week so have a big stack of juicy trashy novels to read, but after this I might fucking sack them all off and instead just pack that absolutely giant Tokarczuk and hope it’s half as good as this. I probably won’t though. But I think I will be digging out my unread copy of Flights sometime soon…

Highly recommended.

Thank you, Fitzcarraldo press team of 2018, for sending me this copy!