![]() Sounds have curled up inside themselves, withdrawn their snail’s eyes the orchestra of the world has departed, vanishing into the park. The dimming light takes the air with it-there’s nothing left to breathe. The contours of the buildings against the backdrop of the sky stretch out into infinity, slowly lose their sharp angles, corners, edges. Nothing happens-the march of darkness halts at the door to the house, and all the clamor of fading falls silent, makes a thick skin like on hot milk cooling. The worst part is the stillness, visible, dense-a chilly dusk and the sodium-vapor lamps’ frail light already mired in darkness just a few feet from its source. Darkness spreads softly from the sky, settling on everything like black dew. Considering that the I loved the stellar Flights and her ‘light’ novel Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, I was eager to see why this hefty 912 page tome has gathered so many accolades. ![]() ![]() There’s no one else here they’ve left, they’re gone, though you can still hear their voices dying down, that shuffling, the echoes of their footsteps, some distant laughter. The Books of Jacob is considered to be Nobel prize winning author, Olga Tokarczuk’s masterpiece. It’s dark in the house, and the air in the rooms slowly cools, dims. I’m sitting on the windowsill, surrounded by strewn toys and toppled-over block towers and dolls with bulging eyes. ![]()
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