In Lucky Me, Golebiewski takes up the mantle of Hłasko while also entering the broader company of writers like Knausgaard, Lerner, and Cusk: he uses fiction not to explain his life but to stage it, blurring the line between memory and invention. The result invites readers to inhabit the ambiguity, to decode what might be confession or performance.

And yet the book stands wholly on its own. It can be read simply as a lucid, darkly ironic novel of historical rupture, exile, and ambition—an unsentimental reckoning with the gap between the stories we tell and the lives we live.