{"product_id":"flights-isbn-9780525534204","title":"Flights","description":"\u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eWINNER OF THE MAN BOOKER INTERNATIONAL PRIZE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST FOR TRANSLATED LITERATURE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A visionary work of fiction by \"A writer on the level of W. G. Sebald\" (Annie Proulx)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A magnificent writer.\" — Svetlana Alexievich, Nobel Prize-winning author of \u003ci\u003eSecondhand Time\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A beautifully fragmented look at man's longing for permanence.... Ambitious and complex.\" — \u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the incomparably original Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk, \u003ci\u003eFlights\u003c\/i\u003e interweaves reflections on travel with an in-depth exploration of the human body, broaching life, death, motion, and migration. Chopin's heart is carried back to Warsaw in secret by his adoring sister. A woman must return to her native Poland in order to poison her terminally ill high school sweetheart, and a young man slowly descends into madness when his wife and child mysteriously vanish during a vacation and just as suddenly reappear. Through these brilliantly imagined characters and stories, interwoven with haunting, playful, and revelatory meditations, \u003ci\u003eFlights\u003c\/i\u003e explores what it means to be a traveler, a wanderer, a body in motion not only through space but through time. Where are you from? Where are you coming in from? Where are you going? we call to the traveler. Enchanting, unsettling, and wholly original, \u003ci\u003eFlights\u003c\/i\u003e is a master storyteller's answer.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003eFlights\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cu\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What’s in a novel? This Man Booker International Prize winner reads like a rigorous response to that question in the best, most edifying (and maddening) way…Magnificently translated from the Polish by Jennifer Croft, \u003ci\u003eFlights\u003c\/i\u003e has the scattered intimate quality of a personal diary, its magic wedded to its singularity. It’s an unexpected, funny journey into that most elusive of places — the human condition.\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e –Entertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A revelation … \u003ci\u003eFlights\u003c\/i\u003e is a witty, imaginative, hard-to-classify work that is in the broadest sense about travel…. In this risky, restlessly mercurial book, Tokarczuk has found a way of turning…philosophy into writing that doesn't just take flight but soars.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e – \u003cb\u003eNPR’s “Fresh Air”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A beautifully fragmented look at man’s longing for permanence … ambitious and complex.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“It’s a busy, beautiful vexation, this novel, a quiver full of fables of pilgrims and pilgrimages, and the reasons — the hidden, the brave, the foolhardy — we venture forth into the world …In Jennifer Croft’s assured translation, each self-enclosed account is tightly conceived and elegantly modulated, the language balletic, unforced.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A writer on the level of W. G. Sebald.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e –\u003cb\u003eAnnie Proulx\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Tokarczuk’s discerning eye shakes things up, in the same way that her book scrambles conventional forms... Like her characters, our narrator is always on the move, and is always noticing and theorizing, often brilliantly.”\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“There's no better travel companion in these turbulent, fanatical times.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Guardian \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Dive in beyond physical place to the mind of the traveler in this experimental collection of interwoven stories, essays, and musings as delightfully meandering as wanderlust itself.”\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFodor’s Travels\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Flights \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eworks like a dream does: with fragmentary trails that add up to a delightful reimagining of the novel itself.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eMarlon James\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“This hypnotizing new novel about travel, movement, and the complexities of distance deserves a place on every bookshelf.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSouthern Living\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Provides food for thought about what makes us move and what makes us tick.… Travel may broaden the mind, but this travel-themed book stimulates it.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star-Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Take the time to settle into this unconventional narrative that is by turns startling, moving and profound.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eDallas Morning News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“An unclassifiable medley of linked fictions and essays.… Reading it is like being a passenger on a long trip.... It’s amusing, exciting.... It moves... to moments of intense interest and beauty.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A disorienting, intelligent, and unforgettable book.”\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Bustle \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Prescient, provocative, and furiously comic.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New Statesman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An expansive, probing and enigmatic novel of ideas…Chapters range from a few sentences to dozens of pages, creating a kaleidoscope of perspectives on the mutability and movement of humanity.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–amNewYork\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A graceful and philosophic meditation on travel.”\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Newsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“A select few novels possess the wonder of music, and this is one of them. No two readers will experience it exactly the same way. \u003ci\u003eFlights \u003c\/i\u003eis an international, mercurial, and always generous book, to be endlessly revisited. Like a glorious, charmingly impertinent travel companion, it reflects, challenges, and rewards.”\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Los Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An intellectual revelation…\u003ci\u003e Flights \u003c\/i\u003eseeks out bridges between the concepts of cosmopolitanism and cultural hybridity; between discoveries of affection and curiosity toward unknown cultures, and toward the intrinsic multiplicity of one’s own place of origin.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Boston Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“Flights\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eis epic in its scope and mission. … [The novel] reads as a sprawling, surreal meditation on what it is to be alive in an increasingly transient world.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Vox\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“If a strictly linear narrative structure is obligatory to your definition of what makes for a ‘good book,’ I’d encourage you to set that requirement aside for a bit and consider this 2018 Booker Prize winner. … Themes and patterns will begin to emerge of lives and loves and a rocket ship ride through the swirl of stars that is us. An added bonus: Jennifer Croft’s translation (from Polish) is a joy to read and a template for a translation master class.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Millions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Deftly explores, in limpid, captivating vignettes, the spaces we inhabit—bodies, geographies, the expanse of the page—and the loves, fears, and wonder that inhabit us.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Literary Hub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An indisputable masterpiece.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Publishers Weekly, starred review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This host of haunting narratives teases the mind and taunts the soul... exhilarating.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eOlga Tokarczuk\u003c\/b\u003e has won the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Man Book International Prize, among many other honors. She is the author of a dozen works of fiction, two collections of essays, and a children’s book; her work has been translated into fifty languages.Here I Am\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm a few years old. I'm sitting on the windowsill, surrounded by      strewn toys and toppled-over block towers and dolls with bulging      eyes. It's dark in the house, and the air in the rooms slowly      cools, dims. 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. Out the      window the courtyard is empty. Darkness spreads softly from the      sky, settling on everything like black dew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 contours of the buildings      against the backdrop of the sky stretch out into infinity, slowly      lose their sharp angles, corners, edges. The dimming light takes      the air with it-there's nothing left to breathe. Now the dark      soaks into my skin. Sounds have curled up inside themselves,      withdrawn their snail's eyes; the orchestra of the world has      departed, vanishing into the park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That evening is the limit of the world, and I've just happened      upon it, by accident, while playing, not in search of anything.      I've discovered it because I was left unsupervised for a bit. I      realize I've fallen into a trap here now, realize I'm stuck. I'm a      few years old, I'm sitting on the windowsill, and I'm looking out      onto the chilled courtyard. The lights in the school's kitchen are      extinguished; everyone has left. All the doors are closed, the      hatches down, shades lowered. I'd like to leave, but there's      nowhere to go. My own presence is the only thing with a distinct      outline now, an outline that quivers and undulates, and in so      doing, hurts. And all of a sudden I know: there's nothing for it      now, here I am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The World in Your Head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first trip I ever took was across the fields, on foot. It took      them a long time to notice I was gone, which meant I was able to      make it quite some distance. I covered the whole park and      even-going down dirt roads, through the corn and the damp meadows      teeming with cowslip flowers, sectioned into squares by      ditches-reached the river. Though of course the river was      ubiquitous in that valley, soaking up under the ground cover and      lapping at the fields.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Clambering up onto the embankment, I could see an undulating      ribbon, a road that kept flowing outside of the frame, outside of      the world. If you were lucky, you might catch sight of a boat      there, one of those great flat boats gliding over the river in      either direction, oblivious to the shores, to the trees, to the      people who stand on the embankment, unreliable landmarks, perhaps,      not worth remarking, just an audience to the boats' own motion, so      full of grace. I dreamed of working on a boat like that when I      grew up-or even better, of becoming one of those boats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't a big river, only the Oder, but I, too, was little then.      It had its place in the hierarchy of rivers, which I later checked      on the maps-a minor one, but present, nonetheless, a kind of      country viscountess at the court of the Amazon queen. But it was      more than enough for me. It seemed enormous. It flowed as it      liked, essentially unimpeded, prone to flooding, unpredictable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Occasionally along the banks it would catch on some underwater      obstacle, and eddies would develop. But the river flowed on,      parading, concerned only with its hidden aims beyond the horizon,      somewhere far off to the north. Your eyes couldnÕt keep focused on      the water, which pulled your gaze along up past the horizon, so      that youÕd lose your balance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To me, of course, the river paid no attention, caring only for      itself, those changing, roving waters into which-as I later      learned-you can never step twice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every year it charged a steep price to bear the weight of those      boats-because each year someone drowned in the river, whether a      child taking a dip on a hot summer's day or some drunk who somehow      wound up on the bridge and, in spite of the railing, still fell      into the water. The search for the drowned always took place with      great pomp and circumstance, with everyone in the vicinity waiting      with bated breath. They'd bring in divers and army boats.      According to adults' accounts we overheard, the recovered bodies      were swollen and pale-the water had rinsed all the life out of      them, blurring their facial features to such an extent that their      loved ones would have a hard time identifying their corpses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Standing there on the embankment, staring into the current, I      realized that-in spite of all the risks involved-a thing in motion      will always be better than a thing at rest; that change will      always be a nobler thing than permanence; that that which is      static will degenerate and decay, turn to ash, while that which is      in motion is able to last for all eternity. From then on, the      river was like a needle inserted into my formerly safe and stable      surroundings, the landscape composed of the park, the greenhouses      with their vegetables that grew in sad little rows, and the      sidewalk with its concrete slabs where we would go to play      hopscotch. This needle went all the way through, marking a      vertical third dimension; so pierced, the landscape of my      childhood world turned out to be nothing more than a toy made of      rubber from which all the air was escaping, with a hiss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents were not fully the settling kind. They moved from place      to place, time and time again, until finally they paused for      longer near a country school, far from any proper road or a train      station. Then traveling simply became crossing the unplowed ridge      between the furrows, going into the little town nearby, doing the      shopping, filing paperwork at the district office. The hairdresser      on the main square by the Town Hall was always there in the same      apron, washed and bleached in vain because the clientsÕ hair dye      left stains like calligraphy, like Chinese characters. My mom      would have her hair dyed, and my father would wait for her at the      New CafŽ, at one of the two little tables set up outside. HeÕd      read the local paper, where the most interesting section was      always the one with the police reports, gherkins and jam jars      stolen out of cellars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then the vacations, their timid tourism, their koda packed to      the gills. Endlessly prepared for, planned in the evenings in the      early spring when the snow had all but stopped, though the ground      had yet to come back to its senses; you had to wait until it      finally gave itself to plow and hoe, when you could plant in it      again, and from that moment forward it would take up all their      time, from morning to eve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Theirs was the generation of motor homes, of tugging along behind      them a whole surrogate household. A gas stove, little folding      tables and chairs. A plastic cord to hang laundry up to dry when      they stopped and some wooden clothespins. Waterproof tablecloths.      A ready-made picnic set: colored plastic plates, utensils, salt      and pepper shakers, and glasses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Somewhere along the way, at one of the flea markets that he and my      mother particularly loved to visit (since they were not      interested, for instance, in having their pictures taken at      churches or monuments), my father had purchased an army kettle-a      brass device, a vessel with a tube in the middle that you would      fill up with tinder you lit on fire. Though you could get      electricity at the campsites, he would heat up water in that      smoking, spluttering pot. He'd kneel down over the hot kettle,      taking no small pride in the gurgle of the boiling water he'd then      pour over our tea bags-a true nomad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They'd set up in the designated areas, at campsites where they      were always in the company of others just like them, having lively      conversations with their neighbors, surrounded by socks drying on      tent cords. The itineraries for these trips would be determined      with the aid of guidebooks that painstakingly highlighted all the      attractions. In the morning a swim in the sea or the lake, and in      the afternoon an excursion into the city's history, capped off by      dinner, most often out of glass jars: goulash, meatballs in tomato      sauce. You just had to cook the pasta or the rice. Costs were      always being cut, the Polish zloty was weak-penny of the world.      There was the search for a place where you could get electricity      and then the reluctant decamping after, although all journeys      remained within the same metaphysical orbit of home. They weren't      real travelers: they left in order to return. And they were      relieved when they got back, with a sense of having fulfilled an      obligation. They returned to collect the letters and bills that      stacked up on the chest of drawers. To do a big wash. To bore      their friends to death by showing pictures as everyone attempted      to conceal their yawns. This is us in Carcassonne. Here's my wife      with the Acropolis in the background.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then they would lead a settled life for the next year, going back      every morning to the same thing they had left in the evening,      their clothes permeated by the scent of their own flat, their feet      tirelessly wearing down a path in the carpet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That life is not for me. Clearly I did not inherit whatever gene      it is that makes it so that when you linger in a place you start      to put down roots. I've tried, a number of times, but my roots      have always been shallow; the littlest breeze could always blow me      right over. I don't know how to germinate, I'm simply not in      possession of that vegetable capacity. I can't extract nutrition      from the ground, I am the anti-Antaeus. My energy derives from      movement-from the shuddering of buses, the rumble of planes,      trains' and ferries' rocking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have a practical build. I'm petite, compact. My stomach is      tight, small, undemanding. My lungs and my shoulders are strong.      I'm not on any prescriptions-not even the pill-and I don't wear      glasses. I cut my hair with clippers, once every three months, and      I use almost no makeup. My teeth are healthy, perhaps a bit      uneven, but intact, and I have just one old filling, which I      believe is located in my lower left canine. My liver function is      within the normal range. As is my pancreas. Both my right and left      kidneys are in great shape. My abdominal aorta is normal. My      bladder works. Hemoglobin 12.7. Leukocytes 4.5. Hematocrit 41.6.      Platelets 228. Cholesterol 204. Creatinine 1.0. Bilirubin 4.2. And      so on. My IQ-if you put any stock in that kind of thing-is 121;      it's passable. My spatial reasoning is particularly advanced,      almost eidetic, though my laterality is lousy. Personality      unstable, or not entirely reliable. Age all in your mind. Gender      grammatical. I actually buy my books in paperback, so that I can      leave them without remorse on the platform, for someone else to      find. I don't collect anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I completed my degree, but I never really mastered any trade,      which I do regret; my great-grandfather was a weaver, bleaching      woven cloth by laying it out along the hillside, baring it to the      sun's hot rays. I would have been well suited to the intermingling      of warp and weft, but there's no such thing as a portable loom.      Weaving is an art of sedentary tribes. When I'm traveling I knit.      Sadly, in recent times some airlines have banned the use of      knitting needles and crochet hooks on board. I never learned, as I      say, any particular line of work, and yet in spite of what my      parents always used to tell me, I've been able to get by, working      different jobs as I go, staying afloat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When my parents went back to the city after their twenty-year      experiment, when they had finally tired of the droughts and the      frosts, healthy food that ailed all winter in the cellar, the wool      from their own sheep assiduously stuffed inside the gaping mouths      of comforters and pillows, they gave me a little bit of money, and      I set off on my first trip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I took odd jobs wherever I happened to be. In an international      factory on the outskirts of a large metropolis I assembled      antennae for high-end yachts. There were a lot of people like me      there. We were paid under the table and never questioned about      where we came from or what our plans were for the future. Every      Friday we got our money, and whoever didn't feel like it anymore      simply didn't come back on Monday. There were school graduates      taking a break before applying to university. Immigrants still en      route to that fair, idyllic country they were sure was somewhere      in the West, where people are brothers and sisters, and a strong      state plays the role of parent; fugitives from their families-from      their wives, their husbands, their parents; the unhappily in love,      the confused, the melancholic, those who were always cold. Those      running from the law because they couldn't pay off their debts.      Wanderers, vagabonds. Crazy people who'd wind up in the hospital      the next time they fell ill again, and from there they'd get      deported back to their countries of origin on the basis of rules      and regulations shrouded in mystery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just one person worked there permanently, an Indian man who had      been there for years, though in reality his situation was no      different from ours. He didn't have insurance or paid vacation. He      worked in silence, patiently, on an even keel. He was never late.      He never found any need to take time off. I tried to talk some      people into setting up a trade union-these were the days of      Solidarity-if only for him, but he didn't want to. Touched by the      interest I'd taken in him, however, he began to share with me the      spicy curry he brought in a lunch box every day. I no longer      remember what his name was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was a waitress, a maid in an upscale hotel, and a nanny. I sold      books. I sold tickets. I was employed in a small theater for one      season to work in wardrobe, making it through that long winter      ensconced backstage amidst heavy costumes, satin capes and wigs.      Once I'd finished my studies, I also worked as a teacher, as a      rehab counselor, and-most recently-in a library. Whenever I      managed to save any money, I would be on my way again.","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304327991525,"sku":"NP9780525534204","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525534204.jpg?v=1767727460","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/flights-isbn-9780525534204","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}