PERCHANCE TO DREAM: TRANSCENDING GENDER IN OLGA TOKARCZUK’S HOUSE OF DAY, HOUSE OF NIGHT

Stephanie Mielcarek

The University of Chicago

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INTRODUCTION

Olga Tokarczuk’s novel House of Day, House of Night (Dom dzienny, dom nocny) outlines the narrator’s experiences near Nowa Ruda, a town in Silesian Poland, to which she has recently moved. She intersperses reflections on her surroundings and neighbors with dreams, poisonous mushroom recipes, and stories about the people who have lived in, visited, or in some other way been connected with the area. Many of these tales deal with sex and gender relations. These stories are shaped by their characters’ gender; their deepest problems are rooted in this singular aspect of their identity. However, though the narrator acknowledges the inherent disparity of men and women in society, as evidenced in language itself and the stereotypes it perpetuates, she herself has somehow managed to bypass this stumbling block. Jack Hutchens has suggested that House of Day, House of Night can be read in conjunction with Judith Butler’s theory that gender is inherently unstable, “capable of constant change, forever in a state of ‘becoming’ instead of ‘being.’”1 Today, I will argue that Tokarczuk’s novel takes this theory one step further, suggesting that one can move past gender identity entirely, transcending these categories in order to attain a higher state of being. In House of Day, House of Night, it is apparent that gender differences, whether culturally created or biologically inherent, are inescapable. However, the novel ultimately offers an escape route: If we withdraw from this conventional existence to live in the larger, language-less and non-gendered “houses” of our dreams, a deeper understanding of human nature and consciousness is possible, even if this dream-world is inherently fleeting. Tokarczuk hints at this when she opens her novel with the following quote from Kahlil Gibran:

Your house is your larger body. It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

Twój dom jest twoim większym ciałem. Rośnie w słoocu; śpi w ciszy nocy. Miewa sny. Czyż twój dom nie śpi, a więc nie opuszcza miasta, by znaleźd się w gaju lub na szczycie wzgórza?

A house is an apparently neutral, genderless entity; though an extension of one’s body, it is not subject to limitations imposed by sex or gender. As such, it is a fitting metaphor for an existence outside the constraints of gender.

OF LANGUAGE AND DREAMS: THE NARRATOR'S IDENTITY

The neutrality of the narrator’s gender is not immediately apparent to the reader. Although there are virtually no textual markers to prove his or her gender, she is depicted on certain editions of the book’s cover and in the back page summary as female, and Tokarczuk herself is a woman. These external clues lead the reader at first glance to assume the narrator’s femininity. However, it is soon apparent that the narrator is as neutrally gendered as is possible. The narrator uses the first-person, non-gendered “I” to describe personal actions, and at no point in the novel self-references as a woman Mielcarek 3 or man, a wife or a husband, or refers to gender-specific body parts or processes. It must be noted that this statement becomes complicated if we read the text in the original Polish, in which the past tense makes clear that the speaker is female. However, reading the novel in the English translation, in which tenses do not imply gender, merely highlights the fact that the narrator uses no other gender-identifying phrases, except in one brief chapter. This essentially gender-less form of narration is also emphasized by the frequent usage of the second-person “you” or the Polish impersonal verb “było,” which, as in Gibran’s The Prophet, shifts importance away from a nondescript, desexualized author, and towards a similarly non-gendered reader.2 The narrator’s apparent lack of a gendered identity, as well as how this lack is actually beneficial, is evident from the novel’s beginning. In the opening segment, “Dreams,” she begins, “The first night I had a dream. I dreamed I was pure light, without body or mass. ... I could see everything.”3 (“Pierwszej nocy miałam nieruchomy sen. Śniło mi się, że jestem czystym patrzeniem, czystym wzrokiem i nie mam ciała ani imienia . . . widzę wszystko lub prawie wszystko.”4) This statement suggests that to exist purely as awareness, without the problems a body poses, is ideal. Located at the book’s beginning as it is, this comment also sets the tone for the rest of the novel; the narrator has told her reader that she has found a way—even if only in dreams—to escape her body in pursuit of a higher truth. As Hutchens has pointed out, her use of the neutral past form “było” in this section—an impossible Polish grammatical construction for a human—instead of the feminine “była” further emphasizes that this escape is particularly from gender.5 The narrator continues to tell of her dream-world surroundings, commenting on the apparent motionlessness of the world and the people in it. However, “Their stillness, too, was only superficial—their hearts were beating gently, their blood was rippling in their veins, I could even see their dreams, fragments of images flashing inside their heads.” (“…ich bezruch także jest pozorny— delikatnie pulsują w nich serca, szemrze krew, nawet ich sny nie są rzeczywiste, potrafię bowiem ujrzed, czym one są: pulsującymi kawałkami obrazów.”6) Her description of the “superficiality” of these sleepers’ unmoving bodies implies that they are flawed or somehow limited. She does not disapprove of all that is inside, though—their thoughts and dreams as well as their hearts and lungs. In noting the superficiality of bodies, she makes a distinction between universal, internal bodily organs and visible, differentiating ones. Thus, the narrator off-handedly suggests that these bodies’ imperfection or stagnancy is due to their external bodies—in particular, their differentiating sex and how they display it to the world as gender. The narrator, too, wishes to move past her own gendered body.

SEX AND STEREOTYPES: KRYSIA AND A. MOS

This idea of individuals as imperfect because of their physical sex continues in the next segment of the novel that deals, this time explicitly, with gender relations: “Amos.” “Amos” tells the story of a woman who hears a loving voice in her ear, and goes off in search of it. Krysia Popłoch is described as a stereotypical contemporary female, overly concerned with her looks:

Krysia was the most elegant girl at the bank. She had a fashionable hairstyle—a well- shaped blonde perm with carefully dyed roots. The fluorescent lighting brought out its highlights. Her mascara-coated lashes cast subtle shadows on her smooth cheeks. Her pearly lipstick discreetly emphasized the shape of her mouth. As she grew older, she wore more and more makeup.

Była najelegantszą osobą w Banku. Modna fryzura—starannie ułożona blond trwała, odrosty ufarbowane. Jarzeniowe światło wydobywało z włosów lalkowo-brylantowe refleksy. Jej lepkie od tuszu rzęsy rzucały delikatne cienie na gładkie polickzi. Perłowa szminka dyskretnie podkreślała kształt ust. Im była starsza, tym bardziej się malowała.7 Mielcarek 4

This description of Krysia is notable not only for its imagery, but for its thoroughness. By commenting on each of her intentional physical improvements, the narrator makes the reader well aware of how much each of these fashionable elements mean to Krysia, and of how shallow she is. This superficiality is also emphasized when the narrator tells of Krysia’s home life: “Krysia was quite important; she earned money and did the shopping, carrying it home in bags her mother had made. She had her own room in the attic, with a sofa-bed and a wardrobe. But only at the bank did she really start to come into her own.” (“W swoim domu Krysia była wystarczająco ważna, zarabiała przecież pieniądze, robiła zakupy, które dźwigała w uszytych przez matkę torbach. Miała swój pokój na poddaszu, z wersalką i szafą na ubrania, ale dopiero w Banku stawała się kimś.”8) This suggests that the only reality that matters to this woman is her outward appearance; working at the bank is worthwhile for her not because she particularly enjoys her job, but because it is where her “elegant” style is most appreciated. Though she is the bread-winner in her family—a typically male position—she is notable not for her work but for the image it allows her to create for herself. Thus, the narrator portrays Krysia as a cliché, ultimately caught in a stereotypically female role and seemingly bound by cultural conventions dictating how women are supposed to behave. Krysia’s clichéd mode of thought continues when she discovers Amos’ exceptional love for her via her dreams. “On that unusual day Krysia Popłoch, head of the credit division, realized for the first time in her life that she was wholly and unconditionally loved.” (“I tego niezwykłego dnia Krysia Popłoch, szefowa działu kredytów, zrozumiała, że po raz pierwszy w życiu jest totalnie, wszechmocnie i bezwarunkowo kochana.”9) This realization is quite shocking for her, and again her reactions are quite stereotypically weak and feminine. She begins her search for Amos with an expectant hope, but soon settles, seemingly out of desperation, for a man with the last name Mos, first initial A.—“A. Mos”— found in a phonebook in Częstochowa. Her world, based so much on a web of fragile self esteem, comes crashing down on her after her encounter with the false Amos, who is as much a stereotype of masculinity as she is of femininity. Though A. Mos is confused by her sudden appearance at his apartment and sends her away, he later retrieves her from the train station bar and proceeds to have dispassionate sex with her. The sex, too, is as usual initiated by the rough male figure:

She could no longer break free. It was too late. He was pinning her down with the whole weight of his body, touching her, penetrating her, piercing her. But somehow she knew that this had to happen, that she had to give Amos his due first, before she’d be able to take him away with her and plant him in front of her home like a huge tree.

Już nie mogła uwolnid. Było za póżno. Przygniatał ją całym ciężarem ciała, dopadł ją, penetrował, przebijał. Ale skądś wiedziała, że tak właśnie musi byd, że najpierw trzeba dad Amosowi to, co mu się należy, żeby potem jego samego moc zabrad ze sobą i posadzid przed domem jak roślinę, jak wielkie drzewo.”10

Here, Krysia tells herself that in order to truly gain much-needed esteem—by showing off Amos’ love— she simply must sleep with this man, no matter her misgivings. Her desire to bring him home is not the result of affection or any other connection, but of the desire to possess him as a sort of fashion accessory. We see too, the stereotypical portrayal of the male partner as overly aggressive and unaffectionate. Both partake of sex not as a means of furthering a relationship, or even for the pleasure of intimacy, but simply as a means of meeting their own goals—for her, the ultimate status symbol of a captured male, for him, orgasm. Krysia’s failure to achieve her goal is crushing. The narrator states that after the trip, “nothing was the same. ... The varnish began to peel off Krysia’s nails, the roots of her peroxide hair grew dark and the fair ends worked their way down to her shoulders. ... It was a pleasure Mielcarek 5 to leave work.” (“...nic już nie było takie samo … . Schodził lakier z paznokci, u nasady tlenionych włosów pojawiły się ciemne odrosty i popychały jasne koocówki ku ramionom. ... Wychodziło się z pracy z przyjemnością.”11) Once again, we see an emphasis on Krysia’s outward appearance, her feminine vanity and her desire to achieve personal betterment through stereotypical gender roles. She has failed at these roles in not being able to bring A. Mos home to display alongside her beautiful body as a marker of successful femininity. Her futility goes unrecognized—it seems that she does not know of any other life path to take. Despite these negative portrayals of a floozy, formulaic sort of woman and a rough, unfeeling sort of man, the reader finds out later in the novel that the “real” Amos—or a man like him—has been looking for Krysia—or a woman like her—as well. This suggests that women are not the only creatures to go gallivanting around searching for miraculous loves, and that all men are not like A. Mos. However, the tale still leaves the impression that Krysia, a female heavily influenced by her physical body, has somehow failed the voice of Amos in her head, as she gave up searching for him too easily, in favor of what seemed to be a quick route to others’ admiration and personal pleasure. The story “Amos” paints an all-too-typical picture of male/female relations based on sex, power and desire, and suggests that the two-dimensional nature of these interactions is inevitable.

IMPERFECT BODIES: KUMMERNIS AND PASCHALIS

The interwoven stories of the saint Kummernis and “the one who wrote the life of the saint,” Paschalis, are anything but typical. However, they too show the harsh reality of the difficulties gender causes. Unlike Krysia, though, the individuals in this tale find their gender roles problematic precisely because they do not fit into societal conventions. The reader is first confronted with “The Life of Kummernis” as a book within a book, which the narrator finds in a souvenir shop and inserts into the novel. This pamphlet, written by the monk Paschalis during his extended stay at a convent, tells the tale of Kummernis, a girl who wishes to be a nun. Her cruel father insists she marry, and when she refuses, he locks her in a barren room in an attempt to force her to come to her senses and follow his orders. However, she spends the entirety of this time praying, until the Lord sends a sign: Kummernis, once a beautiful girl, now bears the face of Christ as her own, and is proclaimed a freak. 12 The story suggests that the girl’s problems are a direct result of her physical beauty; her mature, feminine appearance is what invokes her father’s interest in her as an object to barter away in marriage. God’s solution seems to be to dramatically alter her gender—but it is unclear what His purpose in doing so is, or whether His point is made, as Kummernis becomes an object of scorn and ridicule. In addition, she is arguably not fit for the convent anymore, as she now bears masculine features. The complexity of the apparently heavenly-induced hermaphroditism in this tale is further convoluted by its writer’s own life. When the narrator finishes reading Kummernis’ story, her neighbor Marta has a single question for her: “Who was the person who wrote the life of the saint, and how did he know it all?” (“Kim był ten ktoś, kto napisał żywot świętej i skąd to wszystko wiedział.”)13 We find in the later course of the novel that Paschalis has a rather confused gender identity, and wishes to be a woman; he dreams of wearing a flowing dress and “having a woman’s body, with that secret hole between your legs” (“żeby mied ciało kobiety, z tą sekretą dziurą między nogami”14), but fantasizes about lying atop a woman as well.15 Upon going back and reading “The Life of Kummernis,” it seems apparent that Paschalis has spliced his own personal feelings and experiences into those of the saint. He writes, “In giving her to Wolfram von Pannewitz in marriage, in a manner he would be giving her to himself, that is to the male sex, to which through God’s will he belonged, to possess and command the Lord’s creation.” (“Wydając ją za Wolframa von Pannewicz, wydałby ją niejako sobie, to znaczy rodzajowi męskiemu, w którym przez Boga miał udział, aby władad i mądrze rozporządzad stworzeniem Mielcarek 6

Pana.”16) Statements such as these, scattered throughout Paschalis' text, are inherently biased towards his personal views on gender, as the facts themselves are entirely unknowable—in large part because St. Kummernis, also known as St. Wilgefortis or Uncumber, arguably never existed.17 The Mother Superior who has assigned Paschalis to write Kummernis’ story is shocked by how much personal detail is in his writing. The narrator writes, “How did he know it? He didn't know how. Such knowledge comes from under closed eyelids, from prayer, from dreams, from looking around, from everywhere.” (“Skąd wiedział? Nie wiedział, skąd wie. Taka wiedza bierze się spod zamkniętych powiek, z modliwy, ze snu, z patrzenia wokół, zewsząd.”18) This suggests that Paschalis has reached a holy place, in which he has become attuned to his surroundings, as well as his own body, so similar to Kummernis’ altered form. Eventually, then, Paschalis seems to have transcended gender differences in order to become the person he truly feels himself to be. Once again, however, this desire to be a different gender is still incomplete, as it is still based upon the physical body and the particular privileges it grants. He finds that different senses are awakened at the convent than at the monastery; things are “softer” and “warmer,” and make him more comfortable despite his abhorred male body.19 However, because of this body, he must stay apart from the nuns themselves, and is not free to stay at the convent indefinitely. Upon seeing the painting of Kummernis, which highlights both her feminine and masculine outward features, he realizes that he has discovered “a creature like himself” (“istota jemu podoba”20). It seems here that in finding another ambiguously gendered individual—and one revered as a patron saint, no less— Paschalis has discovered happiness and a path to acceptance. However, it is soon evidenced that this is not the case; Paschalis’ happiness is short-lived. He embarks upon a trip to Glatz to petition the bishop there to accept Kummernis' story and beginning proceedings to canonize her. When he arrives, though, the bishop and his assistant mock Kummernis and reject Paschalis' story of her life as worthy of sainthood. Though she combines the two well- respected Christian traits of purity and Christ's visage, the untraditional combination of the two— feminine virginity plus the masculine features of God's only son—is preposterous and unacceptable. Even finding eventual release for his physical needs leaves Paschalis ultimately disappointed. After his unfruitful meeting with the bishop, Paschalis visits a prostitute, where he finds a certain contentment in cross-dressing—adopting an outwardly female gender while performing the most masculine act of all—“pinning” (“przybijąc”) a woman to the ground in sex.21 However, he does not truly achieve fulfillment, for he is still empty, viewing himself as simply a differently gendered body— outwardly feminine and biologically male—rather than overcoming the limitations of gender entirely. Still searching for comfort, Paschalis leaves the prostitute in Glatz. He soon comes upon the cult of the Cutlers, whose mournful attitudes toward life seem the opposite of traditional monotheists, and has an epiphany of sorts:

If God wants us to find peace... if He wants us to withdraw from the world and to elevate our souls to a spiritual, rather than a material plane, if He opens the gates of eternal life before us, if He allowed his Son to die and found sense in it, and if death is the perfect peace, then indeed it must be the most divine of all God’s creations.

Jeżeli Bog chce od nas naszego spokoju, chce od nas wycofania ze świata, wzniesienia duszy do spraw duchowych, nie materialnych, jeżeli chce od nas powrotu do siebie i zaopatrzył nas w appetitus naturalis, wrodzoną tęsknotę do Niego, jeżeli nas przywołuje, jeżeli otwiera przed nami bramy wiecznego życia, a w tym doczesnym pozwala na zło, jeżeli pozwolił umrzed swojemu Synowi i znalazł w tym sens, i jeżeli śmierd jest najdoskonalszym spokojem, to właśnie ona jest najbardziej boska ze wszystkich rzeczy stworzonych przez Boga.22

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Despite his wish to be physically different, then, Paschalis realizes that in order to be truly happy, one must be without any body at all—and it seems here that the only option, then, is death. Both versions of Paschalis’ end are sorrowful; he either hangs himself or wanders around Europe preaching Kummernis’ and the Cutlers’ story. These options suggest that the near attainment of one’s desired outward, physical gender is simply not enough to lead a fulfilled life.

MASCULINE STRENGTH, FEMININE WEAKNESS, AND HUMAN FOIBLES: “A SHE AND A HE”

Similarly, gender identity plays a large part in two other characters' lack of fulfillment later in the novel, in the segments entitled “A she and a he” and “A he and a she.” These two stories tie in so well to each other as to become one. On the surface, they seem to demonstrate that despite physical differences, there truly exists little emotional distinction between genders, as the man and woman of this story share strikingly similar, if not identical, behaviors and feelings. As their marriage starts to dissolve from the perfect, romantic affair it once was, both find a mysterious lover while the other is out of town. “Agni” is an androgynous character; for the wife he is boyish, while for the husband she has a “smooth, childlike complexion” (“gładką, dziecinną cerę”) and wears “ridiculous” (“śmieszne”), manly trousers.23 This, along with the unchanging name, suggests that he/she is the same generic figure for both the wife and husband—simply a different, younger body to love. Similarly, they both harbor ill wishes towards each other, and search futilely for Agni after the wife returns from her last hospital visit, when he/she ceases to return. “Time doesn’t dare to disturb images as sacred as Agni’s,” the narrator writes. (“Czas nie śmie ruszyd tak świętych obrazów jak Agni.”24) Both the husband and wife hold their lost lover in a higher esteem than their spouse, and in doing so each diminishes the importance and vitality of their shared marriage. The phenomenon of a loss of love for an aging spouse—combined with the hope of another love that is truer, younger, somehow more real—thus appears universal and genderless. The male partner, here, is no more likely to cheat—or desire to do so—than the female, and vice versa. It seems, then, that men and women are emotionally indistinguishable. Despite the inclinations that “he and she” share, however, by its end their story suggests that in actuality, physical differences do account for an intrinsic disparity between the sexes. While both the husband and wife dress in new, fashionable clothes, he is described as masculine, possessing a “manly chest with the scars she never asked about” (“piersi z bliznami, o które nigdy nie pytała”25). Meanwhile, the wife, like Krysia, is defined as feminine by her body and its ornaments. Outwardly, she is described as having “slender, well-groomed hands,” (“smukłe wypielęgnowane ręce”26) and she spends her free time perusing fashion magazines.27 However, it is her inner, reproductive body, linked to the sexual act, that ultimately contributes to her unhappiness, with a lump on her ovary leading to the removal of her organs, thus leaving her an empty husk. It is the onset of her sickness that precedes Agni's arrival in their lives, which suggests that it is the inadequacy of the female body that leads to the fissures in their relationship. When he/she does enter the scene, it is the man who takes action; both the husband and the male Agni initiate the physical affair, while the women simply acquiesce without resistance.28 Despite her complicity in the affair, then, each woman seems to lack physical autonomy. In this tale, a lack of power is inherent in the female form, as evidenced by the opposing strength of the male body. Although neither the wife nor the husband previously wished to have children, when faced with the failure of her own sex organs, the wife thinks “...about having a child, and felt that she would actually like to have one” (“...pomyślała o dziecku. Że jednak chciałaby mied dziecku”29). So too, she thinks, could the strong young Agni have provided her with a child; despite the void in her belly, his virility could compensate. Upon entering the hospital, she bitterly comments to her husband, “They ought to cut your balls off, too.” (“Powinni ci obciąd jaja.”30) In this and in her feelings toward her own body, she suggests that the male body is somehow less prone to hurt than the female. Mielcarek 8

Hers is “a soft, fragile thing” (“kruchy, miękki przedmiot”) while the bodies of her husband and lover are free from pain and wholly functional.31 This inequity is reflected in their outward, personal lives as well as in the bitterness they both feel toward her broken female form. She thinks of dying or killing herself, and he also wishes that she would die. Neither, however, wishes for his death; the thought simply never occurs to either of them. Only she is disposable. However, both husband and wife ultimately end up in the same situation, pining for Agni and unable to gain satisfaction from or find love in each other. Thus, though the husband is of the evidently stronger body, his gender alone is not enough to rediscover contentment.

WOMEN, LETTERS AND SILENCE: THE PROBLEMATIC POLISH LANGUAGE The narrator of House of Day, House of Night deals explicitly with her own experience of gender for the only time in a chapter entitled “Listy” or “Letters.” Though this segment was omitted in Antonia Lloyd-Jones’ translation, apparently due to the difficulty of describing a selection of word differences obvious in Polish but not so inherent in English, it has tremendous bearing on the novel’s treatment of gender.32 Like “A she and a he,” this chapter details the inequity of a dual-gendered world. In the first part of this chapter, the narrator lists the things that women do:

When you don't take into account television, the whole world at once appears to be entirely female. Women sell food in shops, organize meetings, go shopping with children, fill buses to Nowa Ruda and back, cut hair, make arrangements for the evening, kiss on both cheeks, scent, try on second-hand clothes in shops, hand out tokens at the post office, deliver letters written by women, which women read.

Kiedy nie ogląda się telewizji, cały świat widziany z tego miejsca wydaje się zupełnie kobiecy. Kobiety sprzedają żywnośd w sklepach, organizują spotkania, chodzą po zakupy z dziedmi, wypełniają autobusy do Nowej Rudy i z powrotem, strzygą włosy, umawiają się na wieczór, całują w oba policzki, pachną, przymierzają ciuchy w sklepach, podają żetony na poczcie, rozwożą listy pisane przez kobiety, które czytają kobiety.33

Women, of course, do other things than the narrator enumerates here; her own life seems to involve working at the computer, and her neighbor Marta makes wigs and kills chickens with her own hands.34 However, she lists the above actions as the ones that are seen when one goes out into the world; women are soft, affectionate, helpful, and they smell nice. One does not see Marta killing chickens, and when one sees Krysia working at the bank, she notices her done-up hair and manicured nails, rather than the type or quality of the work she does. Most significantly, the women one sees live dull lives, centered around children, shopping, self-presentation, and other women. They seem to fill the world, but they only interact with it in prescribed ways, going from one set place or task to another. Even the animals in this world—“the bitches and the nanny goat”—are female.35 To be female, then, is to be banal, commonplace. So where are the men in the narrator's world? If the entire world appears to be female, it is because the men are hidden; in two storylines I have not discussed here, we see typical male behavior. Like Agnieszka’s husband, men work in the fields and drink, or like Marek Marek, they accost women, drink, and eventually die.36 In this world, it isn't ideal to be either male or female, and both are wholly separate, if equally problematic. Only R., who lives with the narrator, is an exception to this rule—and he, as the narrator writes, “only underscores this ubiquitous femininity” (“…jego obecnośd podkreśla tę wszechobecną żeoskośd.”37) The male gender does have the de facto upper hand, however, in at least one realm—that of language. In the second part of “Letters,” the narrator delves into a discussion on the problematically Mielcarek 9 gendered nature of a handful of Polish words. “What is the female equivalent of the word męstwo?” she asks. “Żeostwo?” (“Co jest żeoskim odpowiednikiem słowa ‘męstwo’? ‘Żeostwo?’”38) Męstwo, in English, translates into something like “manliness,” or “courage.” In Polish, too, the inclusion of maleness in the word is inherent. The narrator's hypothetical word żeostwo, found in no Polish dictionary, has no appropriate English equivalent, either. While the word “womanliness” exists, it carries quite different connotations than those that “manliness” possesses; it has no synonym with “courage.” In meaning simply “the quality of being like a woman,” womanliness evinces something like the narrator's list of women's activities: having affection for children, for each other, having the ability to plan activities related to the home and to socializing. In both languages, comparing manliness and womanliness, męstwo and żeostwo, is a cruelly ironic joke. This disparity reaches back to biblical language as well—a fact the narrator is alarmed by. Again, the translation to English is necessarily inexact: “But the word ‘usynowic’ most bothers me, because ‘ucórzenie’ doesn't exist. God took man as his son.” (Ale najbardziej niepokoi mnie słowo ‘usynowid,’ bo nie istnieje ‘ucórzenie.’ Bóg usynowił człowieka.”39) Usynowid means to adopt; to take as one's son. Syn, son, is an irremovable part of the verb. Ucórzenie would be "the act of taking one as a daughter." In the words of Christianity, such a vital part of traditional Polish identity, one finds the male gender superior to the female. In the lack of even a word for an alternative situation, the female is not just silenced, but entirely non-existent. Thus, the Polish language—and, as we have seen, the English as well—conspires to further complicate the nature of gender, creating and perpetuating one gender's superiority over the other. Significantly, “Letters” is the only chapter of the book to deal explicitly with the narrator's own gender; it is as if speaking of the problems that language produces, she exacerbates them. Thus, the narrator and R. often co-exist without language—a fact that puts them on equal footing with each other. In a segment entitled “Silence” she asks, “When we haven't any visitors, each day is the same as the last; why on earth make trouble by speaking, why shatter this crystalline order?” („Kiedy nikt nie przyjeżdżał, każdy dzieo wyglądał tak samo; po co jeszcze mówid i robid zamieszanie, burzyd ten porządek.”)40 Words are a destructive element, causing the sense of self she has built up to crumble and become inferior. The narrator does, however, note their ability to create and perpetuate meaning: “But then words and things do form a symbiotic relationship, like mushrooms and birch trees. Words grow on things, and only then are they ripe in meaning, ready to be spoken aloud.” (“A przecież słowa i rzeczy tworzą przestrzenie symbiotyczne, jak grzyby i brzozy. Słowa wyrastają na rzeczach i dopiero wtedy są dojrzale w sens, gotowe do wypowiedzenia, gdy rosną w krajobrazie.”)41 Not only do words stem from things, they shape them. As we have seen, this power, when it comes to creating and reinforcing gender stereotypes, is destructive to an individual’s sense of a fully autonomous self. However, it is impossible to function in society without words—and when the narrator does return to speaking, it is to that pre- determined language with its gendered inequalities and limitations.

THE POSSIBILITY OF MOVING ON

The conflicting images of gender we have seen in House of Day, House of Night all lead us back to the narrator’s own identity, which she seems to strive to make as gender-less as she can. Is escape possible? The house metaphor at the novel's beginning seems to suggest that it should be—that men and women should be able to throw off the outer trappings of gender and function purely as conscious beings. However, both the stories the narrator relays and her own life seem to suggest that it is not. She tries to rid herself of the difficulties of gender by turning inward in order to face the world—but the method by which she does this is inherently unsustainable. She tells of a vision she has, stating, “I don’t try to look for weakness or power in myself. It’s an extraordinary feeling—to imagine that somewhere deep inside, you are someone completely different from the person you always thought you were.” Mielcarek 10

(“...nie śmiem w sobie szukad tej słabości czy tej potęgi. To jest niezwykłe uczucie—głęboko, gdzieś pod spodem, byd zupełnie kimś innym, niż się zawsze myślało.”)42 Alone, the narrator finds herself unencumbered by the gendered self she must present in society, which limits the ways in which she can behave. It is only without gender, then, that the narrator finds peace. This concept of a soul within the body differing from one’s outward appearance mirrors Kummernis’ and Paschalis’ story. However, without the binding nature of a gendered identity, it seems less frustrating. She writes, “But it didn’t make me feel anxious, just relieved, finally free of a kind of weariness that used to permeate my life.” (“Ale nie niesie to niepokoju, tylko ulgę. Ustaje jakieś zmęczenie, które tkwiło w każdym momenci życia.”)43 However, this feeling of contentment, of being simultaneously outside and within one’s body, is in all likelihood induced by drugs, as evidenced by explicit references to marijuana and mushrooms elsewhere in the text.44 This suggests that certain drugs offer moments of clarity that cannot otherwise be accessed, in which one exists outside one’s body and society, and thus outside gender. It is in these moments that the narrator comes to striking, lucid realizations about the world around her and her place in it. The illegal, impermanent nature of drugs, though, might indicate that it is too much to ask for a non-gendered world. It seems, then, that the larger house of which the narrator of House of Day, House of Night dreams is just that—a dream or hallucination. Gender differences—and the pain they cause—seem an inherent, irremovable part of the characters’ lives, save for that of the narrator herself when she is dreaming, under the influence of drugs, or silent. However, all is not lost, as the narrator evidences by saving and recollecting stories and dreams for others to take in, absorb, and learn from. After all, if transcendence is not possible, perhaps empathy is—and perhaps, empathy can lead to a societal change more significant than that temporarily offered by hallucinogens. Mielcarek 11

REFERENCES

Hutchens, Jack J. Transgressions: Palimpsest and the Destruction of Gender and National Identity in Tokarczuk’s Dom dzienny, dom nocny. Paper presented at The Effect of Palimpsest: International Slavic Conference, Chicago, January 8-9, 2009. Kubisiowska, Katarzyna. Rozmowa z Olgą Tokarczuk: Sztuka dobrego umierania. Rzeczpospolita. September 4, 2009. http://www.rzeczpospolita.pl/dodatki/ksiazki_040904/ksiazki_a_4.html (accessed December 13, 2009). Sobolewska, Justyna. Rozmowa z Olgą Tokarczuk: Błąd w oprogramowaniu świata. Polityka. November 5, 2009. http://www.polityka.pl/kultura/rozmowy/1500413,1,rozmowa-z-olga-tokarczuk.read (accessed December 13, 2009). Tokarczuk, Olga. Dom dzienny, dom nocny. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 2006 Tokarczuk, Olga. House of Day, House of Night. Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2003. —. Interview with Olga Tokarczuk on Bieguni (‘Runners’) NIKE prizewinner. http://www.polishwriting.net/index.php?id=129 (accessed December 13, 2009).

1 Hutchens, Jack J, “Transgressions: Palimpsest and the Destruction of Gender and National Identity in Tokarczuk’s Dom dzienny, dom nocny” (paper presented at The Effect of Palimpsest: International Slavic Conference, Chicago, January 8-9, 2009). 2 It could be noted that if Tokarczuk wanted to avoid Polish formulations that imply a particular gender, she could have set the entire novel in the present tense. However, this would have made the book’s structure rather stilted, as any chronological distinction between past events and ongoing ones would be lost. Additionally, in using the language in a more natural way, she makes apparent to the reader the gendered linguistics issues she is dealing with—something that would be lost with a contrived usage of tense. 3 Tokarczuk, Olga, House of Day, House of Night, translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2003), 1. 4 Tokarczuk, Olga, Dom dzienny, dom nocny (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 2005), 7. 5 Hutchens, Jack J, “Transgressions: Palimpsest and the Destruction of Gender and National Identity in Tokarczuk’s Dom dzienny, dom nocny” (paper presented at The Effect of Palimpsest: International Slavic Conference, Chicago, January 8-9, 2009). 6 HD, HN, 1; DD, DN, 8. 7 HD, HN, 29; DD, DN 43. 8 HD, HN, 30; DD, DN, 44. 9 HD, HN, 28; DD, DN, 41. 10 HD, HN, 39; DD, DN, 56. 11 HD, HN, 41; DD, DN, 59. 12 HD, HN, 55. 13 HD, HN, 73; DD, DN, 101. 14 HD, HN, 81; DD, DN, 110. 15 HD, HN, 81, 103. 16 HD, HN, 56; DD, DN, 79. 17 Current art historical theory suggests that the saint, whose following dated from the 14th century, was “born” with the arrival of a copy of the Volto Santo di Lucca, an 11th-century Italian crucifix. The crucifix features Christ wearing a long tunic, rather than a short one—which seemed to suggest that the person on the cross was a woman. 18 My translation; DD, DN, 157. 19 HD, HN, 82-3. Mielcarek 12

20 HD, HN, 85; DD, DN, 116. 21 HD, HN, 172; DD, DN 229 22 HD, HN, 227; DD, DN, 300. 23 HD, HN, 261, 263; DD, DN, 346, 349 24 HD, HN, 275; DD, DN, 365. 25 HD, HN, 251; DD, DN, 333. 26 DD, DN, 331. 27 HD, HN, 249, 264. 28 HD, HN, 257, 263. 29 HD, HN, 255; DD, DN, 338. 30 HD, HN, 266; DD, DN, 353. 31 HD, HN, 264; DD, DN, 350. 32 The translations that follow are my own—as are, of course, any errors within them. 33 DD, DN, 143. 34 DD, DN, 7. 35 “Mam jeszcze Martę i suki. Także kozę.” DD, DN, 143. 36 DD, DN, 13, 47. 37 DD, DN, 143. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid., 144. 40 HD, HN, 259; DD, DN, 344. 41 HD, HN, 176; DD, DN, 234. 42 HD, HN, 73; DD, DN, 101. 43 HD, HN, 73; DD, DN, 101. 44 HD, HN, 278