Each type of heresy offers an idea to change the world

I consider the absence of women in the version of history that eventually ends up in textbooks to be a feature of a patriarchal mentality that does not see women and does not record their contribution

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O. Tokarchuk, Photo: Shutterstock
O. Tokarchuk, Photo: Shutterstock
Disclaimer: The translations are mostly done through AI translator and might not be 100% accurate.

Published in Poland in 2014, the novel The Book of Jacob is a depiction of the character and work of Jacob Frank, a mystic from the XNUMXth century who claimed to be the messiah and whose heretical teachings the author Olga Tokarchuk saw as a vital part of religious life and learning in general.

How coincidences lead to unexpected consequences in the form of a book

First there is Nowe Ateny (New Athens), by Benedikt Hmelovski, in the wonderful edition of Maria and Jan Lipski, which I read in parts throughout my childhood and youth. Years later, in the fall of 1997, I was somewhere in a bookstore and unearthed a strange publication consisting of two volumes, a large, unwieldy format with a shiny blue cover. It was the book Collection of words of the Lord, lectures by Jacob Frank (although he preferred the word "chat") edited by Jan Doktor.

All winter I read it slowly, paragraph by paragraph, wondering more and more. By Christmas I had collected a whole pile of books. The following spring there was a special bookshelf that would expand over the next few years. I didn't plan to write a book about Frank; this was part of my "private" studies, a long and unwavering fascination with any kind of heterodoxy, anything that doesn't fit into the canon or sticks out of the ordinary, any rebellion or uprising that defies established norms.

The history of Jacob Frank is so astonishing that it is hard to believe that it really happened. In short, it is the story of a large group of 18th-century Jews from Podolia (now part of southwestern Ukraine) who were followers of the teachings of the 17th-century kabbalist, rabbi, and self-proclaimed Messiah Shabetai Zvi, and who became followers of Jacob Frank, a merchant who once practiced Islam, and then ordered the group, with great fanfare, to convert to Catholicism.

Suspected of heresy, Frank was imprisoned for thirteen years in the Jasna Gora fortress, until he was freed by Russian troops during the Bar Confederation (an association of Polish nobles who defended the country from growing Russian influence), and thus took advantage of the chaos in the country to make his way to Brna in Moravia. With the aura of a Jewish mystic, for several years he was a good friend of Emperor Joseph II and a confidant of his mother Maria Theresa. When he lost the emperor's favor, Frank and his entire party moved to Offenbach am Main, where he built a huge castle that served as a religious center. A few years later, he died as a Polish baron. His followers returned to Poland, where they integrated into the growing Polish bourgeoisie and intellectuals.

This is just the surface of Jakov Franko's stormy history, which has several deeper dimensions. Above all, it documents the growth and spread of the greatest and "most sinister and deceptive" heresy within the fold of Judaism, as Gershom Scholem wrote. This eminent scientist made no attempt to conceal his emotions by characterizing Frank as a sinister, malevolent figure pushing a nihilistic doctrine. At the same time, he could not deny that the Collection of the words of the Lord, that "most unique of all the holy gospels", possesses enormous enthusiasm and power of imagination. The history of a group of people inspired by their incredible determination to embark on a dramatic journey, risking their identity and exposing themselves to spiritual as well as political danger, is an absolute sensation. If we also take into account Frank's persistent, though ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to establish his own somewhat independent territory within the borders of the Polish kingdom, we can say that it was a kind of proto-Zionism.

I find it hard to believe that this incredible, unique story was so quickly forgotten, but the efforts of Frank's own descendants to conceal their origins in a hostile, suspicious and often anti-Semitic environment were clearly effective. Apart from Alexander Kraushar's monograph Frank and the Polish Frankists published in 1895, a more serious, comprehensive historical work did not appear for several centuries, until Jan Doktor approached this topic in a scientific way, while Andrzej Žulavski and Kristof Rutkovski dealt with Frank through literary works; the first in the book Molivda (Molivda, 1994) the second in the book Kosciol Swietego Rocha. Przepowiesciach (Church of Saint Roch: Prophecies, 2001).

Later, when I had already written the Books of Jacob, an excellent, fundamental work by Pavle Maciejko appeared, The Mixed Plural. Jakov Frank and the movement, 1755-1816 (2011), which I used a lot. But overall, there isn't much written on the subject, given its importance. The impact of Francoism on Polish culture is enormous and has yet to be fully explored. At this point, it seems indisputable that Frank's doctrine in its rather esoteric form influenced the ideas of Polish romanticism (especially the poetry of Adam Mickiewicz), and thus made a significant contribution to the foundations of the Polish sense of national identity.

I soon noticed that this history occasionally took on a kind of wry but unintentionally absurd comedy, with some surprising plot twists taken straight from an operetta. Endless quid pro quo, role-playing, posing, a multilingual context that easily leads to misunderstandings, vivid characters - all this required a literary framework, an epic storytelling medium. When I got to writing the half-century adventures of Frank and his friends on a long roll of gray paper, I realized how courageous their story was. I also stopped seeing them as dark or ominous sectarians. Instead, I saw a universal story about people in the very heart of a feudal society full of division, stratification and prejudice - a world firmly closed - who instinctively strive for emancipation. Frank and his followers staged a multilateral, multi-layered rebellion and fell out with everyone.

Frank was certainly charismatic, and as such he was also a bit of a psychopath. He had a strong personality, intelligence and charm, with which he conquered people from both high and low classes. It is difficult to understand this personality by reading only his sometimes clumsily written parables and fairy tales, but this was the form in which he usually addressed his followers.

An ambivalent figure emerges from these texts: merciless, but also sensitive, unpredictable, but careful at the same time. Crazy, but also businesslike and pragmatic. He is a trickster - a charmer and a trickster. For a long time I had trouble understanding how such a person works, and unfortunately reading about cult leaders didn't give me much. Finally - forgive me - I began surreptitiously questioning my psychopathic/charismatic friends, a handful of my personal acquaintances of both sexes, trying to understand what was behind the power of their persuasiveness and their ability to create around them an entourage, loyal companions. But this was no help either. I didn't know how to empathize with this personality, I couldn't understand her. That's why I decided to present Jakov Franko through the eyes of other people, not daring to get too close to him, although the longer I was associated with him, the more he aroused my sympathy.

The positive side of heterodoxy or why heresy attracts me

I think that true stories about historical figures follow parallel paths that rarely cross.

I would say that one of these traces is in sight - the one described by the media and history books. This is the official, fully visible reality, carefully considered, which has been agreed upon many times. This is where peace is made, alliances are made, and things are as they seem. At least for a while there are theories that give a perfect explanation of what is what and what it means. God is good and merciful, but infinitely patient with the petty human actions that cause suffering. The world is like a box full of partitions, where everything has its place.

In the second lane there is, inferior and hidden by the consensus, the great historical ignorance, in which lies the suppressed anger and despair, and where the endless dissatisfaction with the world and its systems prevails. Here, human beings constantly defy creation, pointing out its absurdity and meaninglessness. They doubt. They disagree. They ask questions. They rebel. This subdued, radical alternative occasionally comes to light and disturbs the bright side, which is ultimately sure that it is right, and drowns in self-satisfaction and pride. That is where all heterodoxy comes from. There we find a dark mirror in which everything that is generally accepted, official and obvious turns into a grimace, a nightmare, something absurd and grotesque.

Alfred North Whitehead said that religion is the deepest form of devotion to the world. I would add that heresy is the deepest form of protest against it. Every kind of heresy offers an idea for changing the world. The deconstruction of binding faith immediately leads to new ways of life and existence of society, mastering old views of the world and replacing them with new ones. The appearance of heresy is always revolutionary and always terrible. It is the end of the world, so the Last Judgment metaphor often accompanies religious revolutions. The dangerous thing about heresy is not that God is understood in a different way; the danger really has nothing to do with theology. It is rather that changing the perception of the religious order is a way of questioning the entire human order, a way of undermining the obvious nature of the laws that are in force, and that is why it so often leads to rebellion.

The Frankist heresy was deeply rooted in the tradition of Jewish Gnosticism, but it was not alien to Christian elements. Gnosis is older than Christianity, and maybe even Judaism. It is a specific religious state of mind that completely questions the comfortable place of the human being in the world, which shows it to be hostile and inhumane, or at best indifferent. Gnosticism is a powerful, ominous chord that throughout history has been played along with the bright, cheerful flickers of official religions, in which God is good and rewards good deeds.

The heterodox mind is restless and searching, it is bold and eager to experiment. Heterodoxy proves the existence of a healthy mind, a basic metaphysical intelligence that can be given to simple, not necessarily educated people. But heresy appears only where faith is really strong, where it is taken seriously and deeply experienced on an everyday level. That's why I would say the opposite, that any religion that has to contend with religious heterodoxy is lucky. It is grasping, which is not the same as fighting and destroying.

Eradicating heresy is like cutting yourself off from the source of your own strength and throwing it into the ground. In Poland, I always felt the lack of a good, solid heresy, so the unexpected appearance of Jakov Franko and his understanding of the Virgin of Jasna Gora as the incarnation of the Shekhinah made me ready to write.

Life while writing a book

When I started writing Books of Jacob, I already had the main facts and events written down on my roll of gray paper, and I had collected a large amount of material. I spent time in libraries, photocopying unavailable sources and donning white gloves to study ancient books. I went on several expeditions, during which I took thousands of photos.

During the six years I spent writing the book, many things happened to me. I moved several times - some of those moves were very painful and brought chaos into my life, I went through a divorce and got into a new relationship, I traveled a lot, and my son became independent. I wrote a crime novel about murder. I lost a few good friends and gained new ones. In the final stages of editing the book, my father died. Wherever I went, I carried cardboard boxes full of materials and put them in the main place, and wherever I came, the first thing I would do was hang maps, character lists and other useful pictures.

I used to bore my friends with incomplete stories and big or small revelations, fully aware that I would never be able to explain what I was really doing, what I was working on, until I wrote everything down. Thus, I spent six years in a strange state of isolation, where the writer becomes the director of a phantom theater invisible to others, and spends ten or more hours a day in this ghost business, directing a dramatic performance as its only spectator. There will be no coverage of that play in the morning paper, no feedback; no one will applaud while it is being performed, and no one will whistle. Moreover, it occupies your mind outside of working hours, in your sleep and while you are resting, while you are traveling and when you are in meetings.

Life is unsettlingly divided in two, as if two streams of reality that rarely have anything in common are coming together. Finally, the two currents begin to overlap dangerously, then merge and you lose track of where you really are. At that point, it's time to end it.

Mundus adiumens, or how the world lends a helping hand to the writer

I often felt like I was holding onto the end of a thread and following it, believing that whatever I was looking for would suddenly appear in front of me around the corner. And that really happened.

I don't know if it's even possible to describe a phenomenon that I was often aware of as a writer, but never as often or as intensely as when I was working on this book. So maybe it's time to give it a try. It is something that the writer gets spontaneously and subjectively, as if some external, independent force provides access to the history you are writing about, as if some special powers have come together to help. Okay, I know that sounds like “pigeon on a branch”.

But the truth is that many times, while standing with a glass in my hand at someone's party, I've pulled a random book off the shelf and opened it to an equally random page, only to find to my surprise exactly what I needed—a character, an event, some information, a reference or a title I didn't know about.

Many times, just like that, I came across a person who would be the solution to any problem that was bothering me at the time. A harmless trip to a random place would send me on a path I never knew existed.

In situations like this, you first start to look around suspiciously, but then a strange thought arises that for some strange reason the world cares about writing this book. I realize how ridiculous that sounds and what an ambiguous light it puts me in. I do not care?!

My travels and the power of imagination

Of course, my first trip was to Podolia. In the early fall of 2009, we headed east through Lviv, trying to physically feel the boundaries of the world I was already building in my imagination. We went to the Zbruč river in the east and the Dniester in the south. On our map, I marked several dozen places that were mentioned in the sources. As we zigzagged from one to the other, I became more and more gloomy and the sense of loss became more and more palpable. There was nothing here - none of what I expected. There was a world, perhaps interesting, but completely different. Someone else's. We saw many small villages and towns bathed in September sunlight, covered with dust, as if they were transparent. We saw chaotic, ugly post-Soviet markets, ruins of churches and synagogues, overgrown parks, clumsily built modern cultural centers and garden squares covered with asphalt, with grass sprouting from the cracks. Names that I knew from Kraušar, from the Collection of Lord's Words or from family stories, full of so many mental images, turned out to be sad, empty hamlets full of tin and plastic.

In total, I took two big trips to Ukraine, to the former Wallachia and "turecczyzna" - a country occupied by the Turks - as well as to Moravia and German lands up to Offenbach am Main, where the famous Isenburger Schloss (Renaissance Isenburg Castle in Offenbach built in the 16th century , transl.) still in very good condition, which was once the headquarters of the European Francoists, while today it is a first-class design school.

History and cigarettes

Books of Jacob are a historical novel written with the full awareness that the associated historical narrative is something that has been changed and altered again and again. I would never believe, for example, how weak the presence of women is in historical events and how they only appear marginally and have no special significance in the main sources.

Almost everyone has a mother, wife, sister or daughter and knows that it is impossible not to have them in life's events, unless it is a military story or a monastery. I consider the absence of women in the version of history that eventually ends up in textbooks to be a feature of a patriarchal mentality that does not see women and does not record their contribution.

I found a place for them in my history by meticulously collecting every bit of information. I did it with a sense of justice, believing that most of human history should be rewritten from this point of view. I also did my best, as far as was psychologically possible, to reject my own modern sense of morality. I knew I was describing a pre-Victorian world in which other rules of coexistence were in force. To many principled readers, they may seem very loose.

Of course, it is impossible to completely leave out yourself and your time. In this sense, the historical novel does not exist, because its roots are always buried in the author's present. History is simply an endless interpretation of real and fictional events from the past that allows us to see previously unseen meanings in them.

I finished writing Book of Jacob late in the evening on January 30, 2014 and immediately took a pack of cigarettes that I had bought for the occasion. I stood on the balcony in the winter frost and smoked one cigarette after another, until I got sick of it. It was my eccentric, unhealthy reward to myself after all the effort of writing—a phantom theater director's reward, now that the curtain had fallen.

(Glyph portal; source: calvertjournal.com; translation: Danilo Lučić)

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