It was a distressing revelation in September 1913 for a young Polish scholar named Mieczysław Wojnicz, afflicted with tuberculosis, that health spas weren’t always beneficial for one’s well-being. This captivating tale is conveyed in Olga Tokarczuk’s latest intriguing novel, The Empusium (published by Fitzcarraldo, with a total of 324 pages and priced at £12.99), which is translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones.
Nestled in Görbersdorf in Prussian Silesia, now modern-day western Poland, was Wilhelm Opitz’s exclusive lodge for male guests. This sanatorium is home to an array of brazenly outspoken men, who amidst their health sessions and frequent feasting and imbibing, make solemn declarations on the destiny of humankind. In this sombre reinterpretation of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, it becomes evident that when these Gentlemen say ‘humanity’, they are specifically referring to ‘mankind’, demoting women to the scapegoats for societal problems in their view.
The book’s title is sourced from Empusa, a metamorphic creature in Greek myth. The gentleman inhabitants of Opitz’s Guesthouse spend their last days observing the ceaseless shifts in their gender prejudices. Their viewpoints become increasingly unnerving when towards the close of the narrative, it is unveiled that they are inspired by profound statements about females and their societal roles made by esteemed figures from Augustine of Hippo to William Butler Yeats.
Soon after Wojnicz steps foot in Görbersdorf, he stumbles on a harrowing scene—the brutally killed body of Frau Opitz, the sinister owner’s spouse. There are whispers of brutal murders of young male patients occurring annually, and the novel unfolds the gory legacy of these inhumane slaughters. This Nobel Prize laureate author skilfully entwines the pretentious moral supremacy of the sanatorium with the ever-looming and historic traces of brutality.
Tokarczuk is arguably a connoisseur in moving the viewpoints of her narration, being capable of animating even the simplest scenarios, such as a host of hats during a religious service or the assembly of shoes underneath a table. At one juncture, Wojnicz queries Doctor Semperweiss about the nature of existence, to which the medical professional responds with a vague and fluctuating answer, stating the world is dependent on one’s perspective.
In the course of Wojnicz’s journey to understand not only his physical affliction but also the conundrums of gender identity, the student begins to comprehend that the counterpoint to ambiguity is not clarity, rather often it is inflexible dogma. A distinctive emphasis on the subtle complexities of literature in a world shrouded by deadly extremes is eloquently shared in Tokarczuk’s highly regarded novel.
The eminent narratives of adulterous romance in European literature during the 19th century are frequently considered to be Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. However, Theodor Fontane’s Effi Briest, while not as widely acknowledged in the Anglophone world, is also a potent tale of forbidden love in the same era (Pushkin, 353pp, £10.99). This novel, first released in episodic format in 1894-1895, has been deemed as one of the most influential pieces of literature by Thomas Mann. It has been freshly translated by Hugh Rorrison and Helen Chambers and is now accessible to contemporary readers.
Effi von Briest, a vivacious and creative 17-year-old, finds her world contracting dramatically following her marriage to Baron von Instetten, a man considerably older than her. Following their honeymoon, they relocate to Kessin (inspired by the actual town of Swinemünde), a port town in the Baltic. The strict formality of provincial Prussian bureaucracy and the triteness of decent domestic life pushes Effi into the embrace of a charming yet irresponsible military officer, Major Crampas. When her disloyalty is eventually discovered by Instetten, the consequent retaliation is immediate and devastating.
Indeed, Instetten isn’t a classic villain anymore than Effi is a model heroine. Both are casualties of rigid societal codes and immobilising social status worries. Effi’s liaison with Crampas is not the dramatic love affair found in Anna Karenina or the lofty daydreams of Emma Bovary, but rather a basic need for affection and bodily contact. Fontane’s writing disdains the overt, instead favouring subtle hints and suggestions which the translators have splendidly depicted within the lively essence of Fontane’s prose. Pushkin Press deserves accolades for reintroducing this major German author to English-speaking literature enthusiasts.
Constance Debré’s first English venture, Love Me Tender, released in the previous year, was a profoundly moving depiction of separation and the ruthless bias of the French law towards mothers in homosexual relationships. However, Playboy (Tuskar Rock, 172pp, £10.99), translated by Holly James, appears to be a lacklustre follow-up. A collection of diary-style entries recounting various relationships, the book reads more as a rough draft than a polished piece.
The architectural precision of Love Me Tender is missing, and the graded anger of the initial work has degenerated into a somewhat surly, juvenile antagonism (‘It’s a reality that people don’t really ponder. For the vast majority who live pretty comfortable lives, the idea of not waking up one day apparently never dawns on them’).
Her scathing critique of the class privilege she is born with, clashes awkwardly with her presumption that she has the right to readily disregard the intricate realities of people she has little acquaintance with. Conversely, the breakdown of an important relationship with a younger woman underlines the enduring, sharp power of her prose and her legal background adds a desirable dynamic to her courtroom narratives. The demanding nature of autofiction becomes evident when the narrative loses its course and the author becomes a puppet to the unpredictable.
In Jungeun Yun’s Marigold Mind Laundry (Doubleday, 256pp, £12.99), interpreted by Shanna Tan, the crux of the story lies in coincidental happenings. The Korean protagonist, Jieun, is endowed with unique abilities which inadvertently transport her family into nonexistence. In her chronic melancholy and relentless estrangement, she decides to utilise her loss and subsequently, establishes a Mind Laundry in a hamlet named Marigold. Here, deep-rooted and profound despair of people is eradicated permanently.
A continuous stream of heartbroken individuals find their way to the Laundry, involving a cinematographer, a photographer, a digital-era influencer, and two women disappointed by their philandering partners.
The allegorical representation poses obvious challenges. It’s a fine line between having the narrative oversimplified, which often leaves readers feeling patronised, and making it too complicated that it disturbs the audience’s engagement and their acceptance of the narrative’s simplicity.
Despite the complexities, Yun presents a believable array of identifiable characters and possesses a keen understanding of modern-day anxieties. The thin line is however crossed at certain moments where Jieun’s therapeutic declarations are often indistinguishable from the pop psychology often found on fridge magnets. Despite these dips into new-age therapy, Marigold Mind Laundry will surely captivate an audience that appreciates a beautifully articulated redemptive tale.
Contrastingly, forgiveness isn’t usually considered a trait evident in Michel Houellebecq’s work, one of France’s most renowned modern author. Identified as the favourite figure of a faction opposed to political correctness in French cultural society, his work is frequently marked with a streak of sceptical contempt and unfaltering pessimism. Many readers are bound to be taken aback by his book, ‘Annihilation’ (Picador, 525pp, £16.99), interpreted by Shaun Whiteside.
The character at the heart of our tale, Paul Raison, holds a high-ranking administrative role in the French government, working closely with Finance Minister, Bruno Juge. The storyline takes place in a not-too-distant future, in a time when a leader, strikingly similar to Macron is stepping down from presidency. As political successors, including the likes of Juge, compete for this coveted position, Raison’s intelligence service background becomes crucial. He discovers a sequence of harrowing videos showcasing the minister’s decapitation doing the rounds on social media. At the same time, he grapples with his father’s severe illness, who is more or less in a comatose state.
Annihilation, a successful amalgamation of political suspenseful drama, a realistic novel and philosophical allegory, ranks as the most considerable work of Houellebecq to date. The French version of the novel stands at over 700 pages. The storyline features an intriguing character, Prudence, Raison’s wife from whom he is more or less estranged. She plays a central role during the narrative’s pivotal transitions. She challenges her husband’s lightly sexist preconceptions and becomes an important guide as he starts experiencing feelings again and faces the harsh reality of his father’s impending death.
Houellebecq’s satirical commentary on modern societal norms can often be humorously brutal, despite the predictability of his subjects. Despite numerous references to the current French political landscape and the presence of a contemporary cyberterrorism theme, the novel’s true premise lies in another direction. It asks an age-old human question: can the undeniable prospect of annihilation be matched by the uncertain hope of love?
Michael Cronin is a French Professor at Trinity College Dublin.