Kisiel: The only specified viedek

Writing about a author is simply a Sisif task. Ungrateful, usually, due to the fact that — biased. Especially about a man who for long periods of his life has been banned from publishing his literary works and musical compositions, over whom there is simply a curse of increased censorship.
Truism is the saying that what a author is is simply a personality; sometimes strong, sometimes not. They are steadfast, they have civilian courage, they have established views, and they are settlers, muzzlers and reversaries, they have nasty blunt beliefs, they have views dependent on the winds of history. Stefan Kisielewski is uncompromising and pays a advanced price for it.
Radio 2 presented 1 of his 5 novels (Seen from above). It was given in an excellent explanation of George Stuhr. Divided into 49 episodes, it serves as a feast for haunted ears. However, listening to it, I could not defy the impression that it was created in a different rhythm than the Journals, in shades not so tense and radical, but more contemplative. The author realizes: The game is not governed by haste. What is different is the journal, emotional, brief evidence of facts and insights drawn up under force of the moment, hot, during everyday dealings with organization dummies and forced dating with censorship, and what is different, a fresh where you can afford a wider breath, deeper reflection, descriptive scenery painting, intellectual portrait, expansion of the atmosphere; publications, this summary, romance, is simply a development.
But he prefers to be a publicist. In her, and especially in political columns, she sees the good side of her writing. They make sense. However, he knows that the point of doing public studies is erstwhile it has a receiver and the author can number on resonance. And always since the Gomulk crew was named the dictatorship of the darkies, it has been destroyed with press silence.
He was initially censored by organization gerbils, later joined the pack of oppressive fearsome defenders of the regulation of law from the Weekly Common. So he writes outside the Polish People's Republic, bypassing the political parnas of the valons. Prints in Giedroyć, in the privacy of Parisian culture, after a wall press, in small-scale, emigration newspapers cut from national reality. It is unheard of and even little understood.
With whomever he talks, he is all alone: treated leniently by friends of the opposition, and by enemies of the apparatus—like a dangerous skirmish on furious papers; all strangers due to his persuasion, he speaks and of some, and of another courts sharp, ruthless, arousing passionate opposition.
It is not only about people that he is incorrect about, due to the fact that he is critical about states: with the stubbornness of mania he claims that the West does not realize the East and is fearlessly submissive to it.
His lyrics are never summertime and always controversial. Infused with polemic heat, written with fire, they did not have the expected effect. Though it is sometimes a fire extinguished with overextensive stress; a increasing sense of defeat, unsuccessful speaking to the deaf, writing in muzzles, explaining to the cleft minds of this fact that they are enslaved, devoured with the corrosiveness of memory.
He feels like he's in vain to compose his texts, address them to people who are overwhelmed by self-winding psychosis. surviving in the midst of hypocrisy, perversion, and false history. Creatures reconciled with their selfishness, increasing out of habit to dream calm, satisfying with delusions, minimal stabilization and keying between the candle and the eyepiece.
Then the diary beats the bitterness, the sadness of failure. They are accompanied by a increasing awareness of the passing of the years spent in vain EXPECTION. Waiting for what? Like a average life and social reflection. For example, freedom of expression, deficiency of passport obstructions, and satisfaction of hunger for unfettered journeys.
Convicted of loving isolation, tired of being bullied with dwarf people who depend on the destiny of his publication, eternal frustrate, skeptic, cynic and pessimist in 1 person, he feels painfully wasted time. As a restless, polemic, feisty spirit and moralizer from his vocation, he constantly falls into creative hesitations: he is tired of the confusion about the value of his works. He defends himself against krasomous Hamletism and barren emptiness, and seeing the ridiculousness of his situation is ironic to her; he mocks himself due to the fact that he has the feeling that he is like a scribe without a pen, an incaust and a squid, a musician without proceeding and a veil, in short: a talker sentenced to silence.
He's saving himself from moving off into a nasty gibberish from everyone who framed him for this pâté. Protects behind a screen of ridicule. It drives against fits of rage due to the fact that it sees absurd writing into drawers and compromises, grotesque composing under a pseudonym, the sterileness of addressing prohibited subjects, content from above and from the beginning to the end landing in the basket for truth.
The diary is an inexhaustible mine of cognition about the characters it meets. People representing different areas of culture. Music, prose, poetry, philosophy, publishing. In it he speaks of known and unknown events, quoting facts from the passing era. Just mention a few: Bacewicz, Penderecki, Lutosławski, Miłosz, Kołakowski, Słonimski, Iwaszkiewicz, Putrament, Gombrowicz, Bartoszewski, Gołubiew, Eileen.
As he can, so he writes, and as he knows perfectly well, he writes with vigor, abjectly and brilliantly, with crushing intelligence, without pandering at the choice of words, without shunting colloquialisms, quotes and proverbs, avoiding the equivalent of meanings; consecutive from the bridge. Journals are created in hiding, in notebooks, for a later book, about printing under favorable conditions. And this thought is simply a motor, a driving force for writing. It is besides the only chance to leave behind a certificate fuller than ad hoc, heavy censored scrambling in government newspapers, where it must restrain itself, weigh words, talk in code. Not to offend anyone, but not to close the way for further comments.
On the another hand, in the Journals, which he calls gallbladder, he allows himself to have the freedom of cut wording, gambling on political speculation, intimacy of confessions and unfettered judgments. frequently violent, undeserved, honest to exaggeration, making it hard for people he deals with all day.
He does not even spare his friends, and, despite his unfortunate experiences, he inactive can't aid expressing his opinion. They come from impatience, disappointment, and bitterness. So for him they are a substitute form of existence, a escape from the progressive physical degradation of age, an antidote for a double life with censorship, artistic compensation for individual failures and biological processes.
In them he is liberated from tombak and zingy thoughts. At the same time, these unfair opinions about friends seem to make him happy, because, as a brave being, he likes to be mocked. He likes to read their raging replicas. For example, Tyrmand, who was caught by him, responds to a grumpy description of his character and characterizes him as a drunken slob with a barber's mustache. To which, completely happy Kisiel, speaks of Tyrmand with large tenderness. From which it is concluded that ravens do not get under the tail.
* Oh, my God *
On Journals, he discusses his own fall of life. He returns to this subject very often, even intrusively, which is somewhat amusing given that he speaks of his imminent death and old dementia at the age of fifty-seven, and he is inactive 20 with a large hook.
He besides has frequent moments of doubt: he refuses the talent of his own music and novels, considering them as average. He complains about it and enrages that alternatively of sacrificing himself on public skills, he wastes his energy on pitoling adventures. But despite the low value of his work, his works will survive.