Some of these riffs, which themselves tend toward the aphoristic, are as short as a couple of sentences. The narrator, an unnamed Polish writer with a hungry eye and an unappeasable need to travel, presents an omnium-gatherum, a big book full of many peculiar parts: there are mini-essays on airports, hotel lobbies, the psychology of travel, guidebooks, the atavistic pleasures of a single Polish word, the aphorisms of E. M. It is intermittently a work of fiction, but it is also an exercise in theory, cultural anthropology, and memoir.
“ Flights,” by the Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk (Riverhead), is exciting in the way that unclassifiable things are exciting-that is to say, at times confoundingly so.
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