Image The more Duszejko’s sanity is called into question, the more relatable her plight becomes.

A letter-writing campaign to the local law enforcement commences: “I wish to appeal to the gentlemen of the Police not to shy away from the idea that the perpetrators of the above-mentioned tragic incidents could be Animals” — which only cements her reputation as a kook. She obsesses over astrological charts. She suffers from mysterious ailments. She could give Elaine Benes a run for her money when it comes to her sex life: “I raised the quilt and invited him to join me, but as I am neither Maudlin nor Sentimental, I shall not dwell on it any further.” Tokarczuk is a vocal feminist writer and it’s no accident that the more Duszejko’s (she signs all her official missives with simply her ungendered surname) sanity is called into question, the more relatable her plight becomes.

[ This book was one of our most anticipated titles of August. See the full list. ]

Authors with Tokarczuk’s vending machine of phrasing (flowers stand “straight and slender, as if they’d been to the gym”) and gimlet eye for human behavior (her tone is reminiscent of Rachel Cusk, with an added penchant for comedy) are rarely also masters of pacing and suspense. But even as Tokarczuk sticks landing after landing (“perhaps there were some angels watching over him; sometimes they turn up on the wrong side”; “it’s a feature of flashlights that they’re only visible in the daytime”; “the best conversations are with yourself. At least there’s no risk of a misunderstanding”), her asides are never desultory or a liability. They are more like little cuts — quick, exacting and purposefully belated in their bleeding. If “Flights,” translated by Jennifer Croft, was built for ambience, Lloyd-Jones’s translation of “Drive Your Plow” was built for speed.

As this thriller quickens, larger theoretical questions about the perception of sanity, the point of suffering and the clarity of anger (“Anger puts things in order and shows you the world in a nutshell”) blanket the plot. Meanwhile, the political commentary becomes more pronounced as the Czech Republic is fetishized as a low-key Shangri-La where people are “capable of discussing things calmly and nobody quarrels with anyone else.”

Only the extended passages on astrology threaten to derail the reader. Lyrical as they are, they could be airlifted out of the novel without causing any structural damage. Tokarczuk successfully aligns these pages with the book’s broader themes, but one can feel that argument being made. Like an insurance policy against skimming. I couldn’t rid myself of the nagging sense that, for all her reverence for nature, Duszejko would no sooner find comfort in the cosmos than she would in an invisible friend.