The Institute is an amalgamate of three genres: horror, thriller and a novel of manners. The intrigue presented in it is only a pretext to portray a panorama of a generation of people in their thirties, their unfulfilled aspirations, their attitude towards the surrounding reality, their escape from responsibility and the way they fight social stereotypes. It is also a book about the subconscious divisions into “us” and “them” and about the need to define oneself through finding an enemy.
The action of Pawel Huelle’s newest novel takes place in Gdansk, during a single day, in the indescript, but not too distant future. The city has undergone some substantial changes; a couple of streets have again switched names, mosques have sprung up near churches, the lives of the residents are sporadically paralyzed by mysterious explosions—in which some see the workings of Islamic fundamentalists, others the workings of a madman, while others still suspect sabotage by the producer of Monsignore brand wine...
It is a well-told, modern story of three Polish children who have to overcome many obstacles in order to win back the love of their parents who are engrossed by earning money. The world of Kuki, Tosia and Filip is strongly influenced by the magical world in the form of the red chair, made of the Magic Tree, endowed with many unusual powers. Thrilling and fast-paced, the book is a true page-turner.
Are you quick to adapt to a new environment? Are you in favour of stabilising actions? Have you ever killed a man? Resting his elbows on the table top, Hilt gave his answers composedly, realizing that he had never actually thought about all these things in that way. He never questioned his own life, positioned himself in some coordinate system, yes – no – yes – yes – no, as in the game “connect the dots”… As the interview dragged on, he came to reflect more deeply on the meaning of what he was saying and to feel more and more strongly that it was all some sort of theatre in which he was both the audience and the actor. What did you feel when you saw a dead body for the first time?
The stories gathered in this collection could well make a novel each. The yarn-spinning seems endless, another story always pops up and begs to be told. Anything can get it going, really: an old photograph, a laconic note in a chronicle, a map or even, as in the story of Magdalena, “a carefully handwritten inventory of household goods.” Huelle effortlessly transforms himself into a storytelling medium for whom these traces of the past are enough to go back, uncover the bygone events, unravel the knotted threads of human lives, the farces and the dramas, rekindle the smothered feelings. How much is true and how much is made up – only the storyteller knows. Is Mr Hakagawa as real as Cavafy eagerly waiting for his lover in a café? Did the mysterious vicar P. in fact exchange letters with Thomas Mann? Who is the actual author of the forgotten novel Der Scherz?
Huelle seems to have a soft spot for telling tall tales and doesn’t check himself even while recounting what he himself saw and experienced in Prague, Petersburg or Dublin. Granted, yarn-spinning may be burdensome in life, but in literature it is definitely a virtue.