By Witold Gombrowicz
Although Witold Gombrowicz’s specified, idiosyncratic writings comprise a three-volume Diary, this voluminous rfile bargains few evidence approximately his adolescence in Poland earlier than his books have been banned there and he went into voluntary exile. Polish Memories—a sequence of autobiographical sketches Gombrowicz composed for Radio unfastened Europe in the course of his years in Argentina within the overdue 1950s—fills the distance in our knowledge.
Written in a simple manner with no his recognized linguistic innovations, the e-book offers an interesting account of Gombrowicz’s formative years, formative years, literary beginnings, and fellow writers in interwar Poland and divulges how those reviews and participants formed his probably outlandish techniques in regards to the self, tradition, paintings, and society. furthermore, the e-book is helping readers comprehend the various autobiographical allusions in his fiction and brings a brand new point of figuring out and appreciation to his existence and work.
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Extra resources for Polish Memories
Within the fall of that yr I fell in poor health with a lung disorder. basically the higher a part of the lungs was once affected, and that i had only a mild temperature within the night hours, yet my mom was once involved and determined to ship me to the rustic. My brother Janusz had lately married, and his spouse owned a estate in Ilzec province known as Potoczek. The manor residence used to be positioned in woods during which there has been a series of 5 lakes stretching for a number of kilometers so far as the village—a actually Weyssenhoffian panorama. My brother and his spouse have been dwelling at Polish stories 37 Mafoszyce on the time and barely visited Potoczek. It was once made up our minds that I may still spend the complete wintry weather there, in that resin-soaked surroundings. As I trigger I had no concept what to anticipate. a home within the woods is often a bit melancholic. yet a home within the woods the place there isn't any one round, the place nightfall falls undisturbed by means of something, the place evening is admittedly evening in addition to all its frenzy, the determined yapping and howling of dogs... real, i used to be now not on my own. I were left a cook dinner, who fed me magnificently and fattened up my meager bones; I additionally had a tender manservant, Bolek, at my disposal, and also there have been a couple of neighborhood ladies bustling approximately within the kitchen. but i used to be on my own, on their own, for this was once no longer corporation for me. For seen purposes i could not let myself any eccentricities, nor any familiarity. i could not "demoralize" the employees, and that i needed to behave with discretion. The "young grasp" may sit down on the desk, the place there awaited him, for example, fish in jelly; he could drink a tumbler of vodka, alternate a couple of phrases alongside the strains of, "How are you, Bolek; did you spot how a lot snow fell within the evening? ", and within the afternoons he might trigger for the woods with a shotgun. I ate until i assumed i'd burst. It used to be scorching in the home. The servants did what they can for me. I bought bored and ate; ate and rambled concerning the woods; back domestic and ate a few extra; went to mattress and listened to the unexpected hullabaloo of the canines, the anxious sounds of the evening, and the much more scary silence, interspersed with the murmur of the pines. in truth, I did have whatever to do: i used to be writing a paper on team spirit by means of the French sociologist Leon Bourgeois, for a seminar. yet all that sociology bored me, and that i speedy deserted it. What used to be I to do? I felt a deep-seated disquiet, a starting to be feel that anything used to be now not appropriately with me during this manor house—that i used to be staying in mattress too lengthy, that I needed to do whatever to justify my life and positioned an finish to this sybaritism, which was once starting to stifle me. i used to be feverishly looking a manner out—looking to take whatever on, to behave, to purify myself via exertion—but what used to be I 38 Polish stories to do? The snowy quiet of the encircling timber used to be the one reaction. And in spite of everything, exasperated, nearly in depression, and never understanding which method to run or the place to conceal, i started to comic strip out a novel—about a undeniable bookkeeper—and i used to be progressively drawn in and started engaged on it systematically.