Reading Project 2022- Completed!

This very long and dense book was my book project for 2022. It contains a long and interesting and excentric cast of characters. The writing provides a strong sense of time and place. I enjoyed that aspect. I feel that the author could have told the story in 500 pages instead of 965!
I read the book and also listened to it on audio book. This helped me with some Polish pronunciation that I found challenging. 4 stars! ( )

How can a Goodreads review match up to an almost 1000 page book?

My first thought is that this a relatively breezy read, not adding any obscurity to the already formidable challenge of its length. From a historical point of view, this is a really illuminating book. Thinking of the 18th century (when we do at all) it's easy to gravitate towards the "western" revolutions at the tail end of the period. But here we get a vision of what it was like outside the centers of power, in eastern climes whose modern character I'm hardly familiar with, much less that of almost 300 years ago. It was fascinating to learn about the spiderweb of borders and mish-mashed territories that spread across eastern Europe at time, and the equally convoluted agglomeration of ethnicities and religions of the people who lived there. This was a period in which several conditions of what we now call modernity were right on the brink of bursting from the forehead of history, and as such there is an uncanny resemblance between the ideas of the period and those we are still wrangling with today. Tokarczuk does a wonderful job of highlighting the common points her subjects share with the modern reader, as well as the incredibly alien customs and beliefs and practices of the time, made more foreign by their proximity to modernity. It seems likely that the Frankist movement was the last of its kind that could appear, as everything that took place immediately after forever changed social life in Europe and the Americas.

With most long works of art, being bored sometimes is sort of part of the experience, and that was certainly the case with Jacob. To be honest, I felt like Jacob himself was probably the least interesting character, and maybe that was the point. In the beautiful final sentence of the novel, Tokarczuk sums up the fool's errand of "toiling over matters of Messiahs" and how little concrete knowledge you could attain from such a task. Where as Jacob, constantly describe in terms of his physical and personal charisma, blithely emanates an energy that sets thousands of people in motion, it is those who are tasked with giving this energy shape and coherence who we (non-Messiahs) can actually identify with. We are never given any insight into Jacob's thought processes; instead we watch his followers, his family, and his contemporaries at large as they grapple with the force that he has played a part in releasing. However compelling this might be, as readers we are by nature experiencing the phenomenon that is Jacob at incredible distance, and at point in the book it is hard to avoid the sensation that the plot is only circling the narcissistic void that is this man. At these points, it was difficult for me to maintain my investment in the events being described - fortunately it always seems that at exactly these moments when our Messiah has (temporarily, at least) worn out his welcome, Tokarczuk shifts focus to filling out ancillary characters and circumstances, giving us snatches of beautifully written letters and courtly dramas. Part of the reason why I love long books and films is they give the creator space for these "inconsequential" detours, which despite their tenuous relation to the main plot, allow for moments of inspiration.

Stylistically, I appreciate the books dry tone, a quasi-historical, quasi-scriptural voice that reigns over many years in which the story takes place. Depending on what is being described, this voice can have give a musty scholarly feel, or quickly turn sinister when the circumstances take a dark turn. We are never given an authorial opinion about what we are shown, and so can share in the marvel of Jacob and his acts in the early days, unsure of what to make of this mercurial figure, and as his path twists and turns eventually leading to the privileged lifestyle of the people he had once set himself against, we can feel the confusion and disappointment of his followers. The true tragedy as shown by this book is that very few radical figures and ideas can survive the corruptions of time and personal striving. It seems to me that Tokarczuk's main point here is that life, even when carried out in following and proselytizing for an quickly made obsolete belief, has its own graceless beauty that is present in even the most desperate and unpleasant conditions. Over the two centuries that this book covers, we see all manner of wasted potential, loss of dignity, resignation, and disappointment. But when death comes for its characters, we are able to feel the pain and regret that comes from releasing their hold on this brief period they are granted to carry out their existence amongst the living. Across a lifetime, the good times mingle almost undifferentiated from the bad, and old age and infirmity rush down upon you with astonishing speed. By shining a light on these people that History has mostly forgotten, by untangling the threads of their posterity and following the reverberations of their actions across time, Tokarczuk shows that there exists for every person who has ever lived a personal history that holds as much drama as wars waged and countries conquered. ( )

While this is undoubtedly a major work of fiction I do not recommend it wholeheartedly to everyone. It is, after all, 965 pages long.

Moreover, the bulk of the text is written in five or six different voices, some first person including letters, and some in a third party voice.

Part way through the main characters lose their adorable Yiddish names and adopt unpronounceable Polish names I had difficulty remembering. Imagine for a moment you’re reading a Chaim Potok novel and you’re suddenly thrust into an epic by Leo Tolstoy and you’ll get what I mean.

Lastly, the story advances on the construction of the Hebrew Kabbalah, a form of mystical knowledge or philosophy that today nobody in their right mind would lend any credence to.

That said, the mysteries of physics and cosmology today encourage radical speculation on the ultimate nature of reality, so whose to say the Frankists were an unmitigated bunch of kooks?

This story is based on the historical figure and movement of Jacob Frank, nee Yankele Lebovicz. Frank convinced thousands of 18th century eastern European Jews to leave Judaism, convert to Roman Catholicism, and leave their Jewish habits , culture, and names behind.

Frank fashioned his cult on the foundations of Sabbatai Zevi, a Turkish Jew thought by some to be a messiah. It was on Sabbatism that Frank built the anti-Talmudists. The 18th century also saw the rise of Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, a.k.a Baal Shem Tov or Besht, the founder of Hasidism, and later in the century came the birth of chabadism, a kind of enlightened Hasidic spiritual movement rooted in Jewish mysticism.

Frank’s followers considered him a prophet and some even a messiah. The Polish church leaders ultimately jailed him as a subversive for 13 years.

There are plenty of fascinating illustrations in the book, but if your Hebrew is as bad as mine a lot of them won’t mean much to you.

There are, however, a couple of themes that are eerily modern. For example, this story is about the rise of a charismatic leader in the pre-celebrity era. How this man’s fame grew in so poor an information environment has definite lessons for combating tyranny in the 21st century.

Also, but less surprising is the undercurrent of misogyny in the splinter community. Women are taken almost as a right by the leader of the movement. It’s yet another reason to doubt the purity of his intentions, especially as he pimps his daughter to the heir of an empire.

This indeed is a book about books as well. It has moments of soaring prose — even in translation — and draws some unforgettable characters. It’s evocative of a book from the Old Testament. ( )

Having read more than 300 pages of Olga Tokarczuk’s Books of Jacob, I want to report on my impressions, particularly since I think it unlikely that I will finish the book. I believe that what I have read—a bit over one-third of the text—is substantial enough to offer a fair opinion. Given the widespread (but not unanimous) acclaim for the book, I suppose I should add the obvious: this is one reader’s opinion.
At the end of the 960-page book, Tokarczuk’s “Note on Sources” provides a short overview of the historical materials she consulted in writing the book. This note was of particular interest to me since I have my graduate degrees in history. The book, for those who don’t know, consists of many interrelated stories all of which revolve around Jacob Frank, a self-proclaimed Jewish messiah in the 18th century. With respect to one of the stories that periodically recurs, Tokarczuk wrote, “This trail also led me to conclude, firstly, that so many things remain quietly connected, and secondly, that history is the unceasing attempt to understand what it is that has happened alongside all that might have happened as well or instead.”
Quite honestly, I am astonished that she has—apparently—only recently realized these things in her mid 50s. “…so many things remain quietly connected.” That single sentence explains her approach to the story/stories the book encompasses. Although the central story is that of Jacob Frank, much of the novel is Frank’s story illuminated and embroidered upon through many others’ lives and events and thoughts. (I would also mention that Tokarczuk not only includes many other stories, the book also contains several dozen illustrations, not a single one of which is identified, labeled, or otherwise discussed. Most of the illustrations are such small reproductions that any interest or value they might have added is minimized. They are often more a source of puzzlement than anything else since they are simply dropped into the text with no discussion, explanation, or other indication of their significance. It does not help in the least that many are in Hebrew or Polish, languages that many readers will not understand—yet another reason that their inclusion is very nearly pointless.)
The writing is what one expects of Tokarczuk, no more or less. By that I mean, the text reads easily and occasionally includes a particularly nice turn of phrase or image. The writing never flags and, for the most part, it never drags. Unfortunately, it never soars either. Her gifts, which are undeniable, have never—at least in my reading—included beautiful prose or stunning images. The writing and numerous story lines are relatively easy to follow although she uses a lot of untranslated words that are far too often left unexplained. These words are mostly Yiddish or Hebrew although there are also Polish, and less frequently Latin, Turkish, Romanian, Russian, and other words. Occasionally, the context makes clear the meaning; more often, it does not and if you cannot figure out a particular word’s meaning through the context, you have no choice but to close the book and go find out elsewhere what the word means. Given that the book is close to 1,000 pages long, I understand why the publisher might have been disinclined to permit a glossary but the fairly regular use of words from a variety of languages without explanation is both intrusive and annoying.
The breadth and scope of Tokarczuk’s creativity is impressive. She has imagined a world, filled it with generally believable characters who think and act in fascinating ways. If imaginativeness alone were the measure of a great book, The Books of Jacob would qualify. But I don’t think it is enough. Although creativity may be an element of some masterpieces I do not think that it is sufficient basis by itself to justify the label. Beyond her achievement in imagination, I see little in this book to recommend it. Tokarczuk’s writing is no different from her other works: nothing exceptional. It’s very good but it’s not especially noteworthy. Her themes and thoughts, sadly, are so deeply buried that they simply do not allow themselves to be readily discovered. There is too much information, too many tangents, too frequent digressions. Divining Tokarczuk’s message in the midst of so much stuff is difficult at best.
Over and over I got the sense that this book is so long because Tokarczuk found virtually everything that she learned in researching Jacob Frank and his times to be of such interest that she was unable to leave anything out. Topic after topic, tangent after tangent, whether directly relevant, marginally relevant, or arguably completely irrelevant, is included because Tokarczuk couldn’t bear not to share it. The novel constantly reminded me of something my mentor taught me early on in graduate school: just because you discover something in the course of your research doesn’t mean that you need to include it when you write a paper. Information that you learn can inform your knowledge and your writing without having to be shown off. You don’t have to say, in other words, “Look at how much research I did!” The art of writing is often knowing what to leave out. It’s hard to imagine that Tokarczuk left much out.
One could argue that Tokarczuk is simply constructing a context for her central story. Rather than merely tell the story of Jacob Frank, she wants to place him in his time so that the reader will have a better sense of what that period was like, what the religious and philosophical and economic and social debates and issues were about. My response is simple: I have no objection to that and would agree that doing so can enrich the text. Again: the trick is knowing when to stop. And as I have said, Tokarczuk didn’t know when to stop. Enriching is one thing; flooding is something else. There is a story here, a rich and fascinating story. But when the reader must sort through the masses of characters, stories, philosophies, news, and other countless bits of data, the author is abdicating her responsibility. When everything is important, nothing is important.
To the extent that Tokarczuk is raising or wrestling with deep and significant matters—something I am perfectly happy to concede may be her aim—that wrestling, that engagement with those vital matters gets lost when the reader is constantly challenged to tease out the critical from the trivial. The reader will make mistakes and the more the reader is wrong or even simply unsure, the more the author has failed the reader.
I cannot know what lies ahead in the remaining 600 pages of this book. Judging from the reviews I have seen, what I have already read is probably representative of the novel as a whole. I feel no compulsion or obligation to confirm my suspicions. I don’t care enough about anyone or anything in this book to find out what happens. It’s a shame. I come to the conclusion, reluctantly, that for this work at least, the emperor has no clothes. I certainly don't and won't judge her body of work by this so-called magnum opus alone. The book has received frequent, though far from universal, acclaim. I found it self-indulgent and not up to the standards Tokarczuk has set elsewhere. I cannot recommend the novel. ( )

This book had so much potential, but . . .
I enjoyed the first of the 'books' or sections - wonderfully sets the scene in rural eastern Europe in the 17-hundreds. But the second 'book', which introduces Jacob, fails to deliver. The text meanders, the arcane jargon of the religiously obsessed characters increases exponentially, and I got lost. So, after a quarter of this hefty tome, I've parted ways. Such a shame. ( )