You are connected to Ukraine through your family roots. Some of your books are set in Ukraine, and you have often spoken warmly about the country. Could the novel you are currently working on be about Ukraine and our war?
My new book, which is due to be published in Poland this autumn, is not about recent history. The story takes place after the Second World War and explores the post-war displacement of peoples and migration. It focuses primarily on Lower Silesia, although some of the characters come from Galicia. So yes, in a sense, you could say the novel is also about Ukraine.
You mentioned that you use AI to some extent while working on your texts. How does that work? What kinds of prompts do you give it?
No, no, I do not use artificial intelligence to write my texts. And I would not want anyone to suggest otherwise. I use AI in much the same way that I use dictionaries or encyclopaedias — as a tool for finding information. AI cannot write stories.
Are we overestimating it?
Absolutely.
All in all, we live in an age of post-truth, online hate and artificial intelligence. You yourself faced online abuse and even death threats following the publication of The Books of Jacob. What do you find most alarming about the world today? What frightens you in general?
What frightens me is that the worst things happen when people stop using their own minds to assess reality and instead rely on the internet to do it for them. This is how what I call “crowd psychology” emerges.
That is why it is so important to remain connected to tradition and to classical literature, so that people understand what our ancestors created and what they left behind. It is important that this connection with their legacy is not severed by the opportunities offered by the internet and by artificial intelligence. I am concerned that people may lose the ability to engage with high culture.
Do Poles still possess that ability?
It is difficult to answer that question without referring to specific research, and I do not have such data. However, I can say that two separate film adaptations of Bolesław Prus’s The Doll are currently being produced in Poland. Many regard this novel as perhaps the greatest work in Polish literature.
This reflects a broader discussion currently taking place in Poland about how we should interpret our history and culture, and how we should understand the legacy of previous generations. Yet it may also be a largely academic debate that does not necessarily resonate with the average reader — particularly with younger Poles.
You called on writers from all over the world to come to Ukraine to show their solidarity with us. Bernard-Henri Lévy, Timothy Snyder and Jonathan Littell came… Hardly any fiction writers; mostly historians and those documenting war crimes. Can we say that your call was heard?
Yes, I do feel that the call was heard. I remember saying this a year ago when I was in Ukraine, and then repeating these words in Poland. And I repeated them again and again. I’m not ready to say how effective the support provided by such visits is. But I know that I was heard after all.
How would you describe the mood among Poles regarding Ukrainians? Which is more prevalent now — sympathy, as in the first months of the war, or irritation, which has clearly begun to build up as the conflict has dragged on?
Yes, there isn’t the same enthusiasm now as there was at the start of the war. Back then, all my friends and even people I knew only casually were getting involved in helping Ukrainians, in one campaign or another. Of course, after four years of war, fatigue is setting in. But I want to assure you: our support remains; it hasn’t gone anywhere.
I’m not drawing on any sociological studies on this matter, but I’m speaking from my own experience. In Wrocław, where I live, this support is significant and strong. We’ve grown very close to Ukrainians — there are many of your compatriots here, they work in Poland, and thanks to the war, there’s been a certain mixing of our peoples.
But is there anything we might not understand about Poles, and vice versa — things Poles don’t understand when it comes to Ukrainians?
That’s a tricky question. I’ll have to think about it (smiles).
All right, but has our cultural interaction become deeper and more meaningful, or is it the other way round?
Yes. And it’s not just cultural interaction. We’ve become much closer to one another in general. Because we share both a common history and a similar culture. Poles and Ukrainians have, on the whole, grown so close that sometimes they’re reluctant to admit it even to themselves.
When you’re in Ukraine, you often meet our readers. What changes do you observe in them?
These changes are reflected in the increasingly profound questions Ukrainian readers ask me. I noticed this a year ago, when the seriousness of such questions genuinely struck me. And I understand where this reflection comes from in Ukrainian readers — you are experiencing too much war-related stress, and so thinking about life and its transience, thinking ultimately about death, is entirely natural for you.
The very role of literature in a situation of existential threat is growing significantly. And it is nothing like how we read in peaceful, calm times… The perception of art during war becomes very acute.
On the existential threat. Is the fact that Ukrainians continue to take an interest in books amidst the sound of incoming missiles a sign of strength of spirit or an escape from reality?
Definitely strength. You Ukrainians have a strong backbone. And it is precisely in your example that we see how literature, in times of trial, encourages deeper and more profound reflection.
The First World War — unlike the Second, incidentally — gave rise to a considerable body of anti-war literature. What works will be written once the Russian-Ukrainian war is over?
That is an interesting question. One would like to think that after the war there will be attempts to depict a new, better world. For at present, Russia is trying to preserve the old world. And the entire war it has unleashed stems from this desire and its imperial ambitions. Yet there are no rational, objective grounds for this. For the world craves change, whilst Russia seeks to prevent it from changing.
At the same time, however, the world has reached a breaking point on many issues. For example, on environmental issues. Or on issues of inequality, because never before in history has there been such a colossal gap between the rich and the poor. That is why here too, people will have to develop a new perspective to see the prospects for their development and what their world will look like in the future.
A quote of yours from a few years ago: “Processes are underway in Poland that we can observe all over the world. A conservative revolution is taking place here too.” Is this conservative revolution still ongoing, and how is it reflected in art?
No, I think that attempts to revive conservative values in Poland are a thing of the past. Because the forces that embodied such a movement had, in fact, nothing to offer their audience. They had no cultural foundation… And this is not surprising, as artists usually align themselves not with conservatives, but with the liberal camp.
Thirty years ago you wrote a novel, and it was after that, in fact, that people started talking about Olga Tokarczuk. I’m referring to Primeval and Other Times. What does this, without exaggeration, landmark text mean to you now?
For me, it’s part of my archive (smiles). I remember that such a novel existed, I remember writing it, but I move on from my works too quickly — I don’t maintain a deep connection with them. Besides, 30 years ago I was a completely different person — now I am no longer the author of Primeval that I once was.
Another quote, this time from your A Sensitive Narrator: “Once the world was vast, and the imagination could not encompass it — now we no longer need the imagination; we have everything within arm’s reach of our smartphone.” What can a writer offer a world that has become so small?
The world hasn’t become small. That’s the deception or distortion that the smartphone is feeding us. In reality, the world is vast, but also incredibly complex. Think back to the Middle Ages — life is by no means easier for us now, because in the space of a single day, a modern person can face far more stimuli or challenges than any peasant of old did in their entire lifetime.
But to answer your question: a writer can still offer a great deal to their readers. For ever since humanity learnt to read, it has discovered the pleasure of transforming the images in a book into its own experience, into something that is uniquely its own. Therefore, as long as books exist, people will immerse themselves in this pleasure time and time again.
A little more about the world. Your compatriot Henryk Sienkiewicz wrote the novel Quo Vadis, and I’d like to put the question posed in the title to you. Where is our world heading?
You’re taking a risk by asking a writer this question, because I could paint two completely different pictures. A brutal and cruel reality, as well as one that is gentle and pleasant for humanity. And as you understand, the realisation of both scenarios will be equally plausible and possible. And, surely, this is the task of literature — to show the probable paths for humanity, which will be the consequences of its own actions.
In fact, that very same Sienkiewicz claimed that with his novel he gave humanity ‘a lesson in mercy, for there must be more mercy in literature than in real life’. So does literature serve not only as a visionary, showing where the world might end up, but also as a catalyst for empathy? Do you agree with his assessment?
Yes, I do. But the main feature of literature is not visionary insight, but intuition. And this is something that does not become outdated or fade with time. Through reading, we understand others better, because we identify with one character or another, mirroring them. And this is the uniquely special experience that reading and literature in general give us.
