The Books of Jacob by Olga Tokarczuk is massive, brilliant historical fiction. Tokarczuk won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2019. This is her largest work, and while it took me two months to get through, it never lagged. The novel--broken up into seven "books"--charts the life of Jacob Frank, a Jewish messianic figure from the 1700s. Like Rachel Cusk's Outline trilogy, The Books of Jacob spends much more time on the effect of its protagonist on others, rather than a first- or close-third-person narrative of Frank himself. (This is similar to the first two books of Peter Matheissen's Shadow Country: we only get others' unreliable perspectives.) Jacob Frank--a real person--appears to run a manipulative sex cult. He seems no different than other abusive, false messiahs of history. And yet, in Tokarczuk's hand, the story is a beautiful exploration of places and people. We travel from Turkey to Poland to Austria. Many religions are explored, from esoteric Kabbalist Judaism to mainstream Roman Catholicism. Horrific atrocities are only hinted at--without changing the voice--so there's an unsettling haze over much of the novel. Like W. G. Sebald's work, pictures and diagrams and pamphlets from actual museum archives give the text a lived-in, historic feel. Reading the novel was immersive and satisfying.
From my perspective, a few things stood out. First, I am unfamiliar with 400-year-old Jewish-Polish names. About halfway through, half of the characters actually changed their names when they tricked the Catholic church into "converting" them. This really happened. The Frankists used their fake "Christian" status to gain land, favor, and titles. That said, it made for a confusing read when twenty or so characters went from things like "Srol Mayorkowicz" to"Mikolaj Piotrowski." I confess, I did not track all of the monikers throughout the 960-page text. Secondly, and happily, this was perhaps the most beautiful translated text I've ever read. My boy, Karl Ove Knausgaard, is great, but I've only read translated stuff from the original Norwegian. Often, it's clunky or clichéd (which may be just how he writes). The Books of Jacob, written in Polish and translated by Jennifer Croft, was gorgeous. The imagery was stunning; the poetic asides were dazzling. Every sentence was carefully crafted and useful to the greater effect. Very few original English texts sound this perfect. It's easy to see why Tokarczuk is celebrated in Poland and beyond, and with Croft translating some of her other works, I'm eager to read more.
