In a recent interview, we explored the intriguing themes of Olga Tokarczuk’s The Empusium, a novel that offers a unique take on Thomas Mann’s iconic work, The Magic Mountain. Tokarczuk describes her book as a “retelling” set in the haunting Silesian settlement of Görbersdorf, which serves as the inspiration for Mann’s sanatorium in Davos. The story follows Mieczysław Wojnicz, a 24-year-old sanitation engineer with a mild case of tuberculosis. However, it soon becomes clear that he grapples with a more obscure medical dilemma that has shadowed him throughout his life.
Unlike Mann’s protagonist, Hans Castorp, who arrives for a brief holiday and ends up staying for seven years, Mieczysław’s stay at Görbersdorf is succinct. Perhaps Tokarczuk, having already penned a lengthy epic in The Books of Jacob, opted for brevity this time. Yet, The Empusium, expertly translated from Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones, is rich with familiar references from The Magic Mountain, including its playful narrator, vivid culinary descriptions, homoerotic undercurrents, and the ominous backdrop of early 20th-century European culture poised on the brink of the First World War.
As the narrative unfolds, it morphs beyond a mere retelling into a uniquely surreal experience. Reflecting its subtitle, A Health Resort Horror Story, The Empusium delves into familiar tropes: eerie old women, unsettling local residents, bizarre conduct at Mieczysław’s guesthouse, and mysterious noises emanating from the attic that allude to the unsettling truth that not everyone at the sanatorium is merely suffering from illness.
Intriguingly, local folklore describes the forests around Görbersdorf as being haunted by insane women who have a penchant for violence. This ties back to the book’s title, with empousa — demons from Greek mythology — who appear in female forms and prey on young men. Mieczysław’s fellow guests, August August and Longin Lukas, echo Mann’s characters Settembrini and Naphta; they engage in endless philosophical debates, yet their conversations inevitably converge on their shared disdain for women. An afterword in the novel connects their viewpoints to the works of several great European thinkers, including Plato and Nietzsche.
Throughout the novel, striking imagery prevails — from a toad perched on a mound of potatoes to life-size female puppets known as tuntschi scattered in the woods, crafted by charcoal burners. These puppets are eerily constructed from natural materials, hauntingly resembling a disembodied female form that invites a closer, albeit unsettling look.
However, while The Empusium presents horror elements, it diverges from the standard genre expectations by not providing the usual narrative closure. The scenes sometimes feel abrupt, and key details surface in a disjointed manner. For instance, the whimsical character Mister Jig, a figment of Mieczysław’s childhood imagination, is introduced early on but is not fully explained until much later, adding to the novel’s unconventional structure.
Tokarczuk seems to intentionally weave these layers of narrative disorder, hinting at a larger message about the complexity of human experience. A conversation between Mieczysław and his friend Thilo underscores this sentiment, suggesting that the confusion they encounter reflects a broader truth about memory and alliances. Later in the story, a character boldly challenges Mieczysław to reject simplistic categorizations of right and wrong, reinforcing the idea that reality exists in myriad shades of nuance.
In essence, The Empusium invites readers into a thought-provoking exploration of perception and identity, echoing Thilo’s assertion that one can sink into a “strange state of mind” within Görbersdorf — a fitting description for Tokarczuk’s captivating work. Would you say that’s an appropriate encapsulation of The Empusium’s themes and narrative style? The Empusium by Olga Tokarczuk, translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones, is published by Fitzcarraldo.
