Adam Zagajewski Quotes

I drink from a small spring, my thirst exceeds the ocean.

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

Read for yourselves, read for the sake of your inspiration, for the sweet turmoil in your lovely head. But also read against yourselves, read for questioning and impotence, for despair and erudition, read the dry sardonic remarks of cynical philosophers like Cioran or even Carl Schmitt, read newspapers, read those who despise, dismiss or simply ignore poetry and try to understand why they do it. Read your enemies, read those who reinforce your sense of what's evolving in poetry, and also read those whose darkness or malice or madness or greatness you can't understand because only in this way will you grow, outlive yourself, and become what you are.

But I was only a chaotic walker, nobody could stop me; even a totalitarian state was not able to control my daydreams, my poetic fascinations, the pattern of my walking.

Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, You’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth's scars. Praise the mutilated world and the gray feathers a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.

But where do we find what's lasting? Where do the deathless things hide?

Time takes life away and gives us memory...

Only in marriage do love and time, eternal enemies, join forces.

A little rain, a little blood. Black fingernails in August; and going berserk, going bananas. As if entrapped in a tropical heatwave, with dozens of whirlwinds swirling in one’s mind, one thinks of a way out, or a way in: out of the scorching bosom of a volcano, and in – into the centre of a raging hurricane. And tracing the labyrinthine ways of your mind, the haphazard vagaries of your thoughts at ease, the odds and ends of your mental surplus you carelessly throw at the world, one wants to be at a loss, in a maze; amazed, and amazingly unabashed.

In my defense I have only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale among the branches. You forgive it, its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen after another, drops of eternity, grams of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets

I could write a guidebook about this city, this fallen city. Street by street, house by house, church by church. What happened in this building, who was betrayed, and by whom, in this apartment, who waited for whom on this street corner. And why the person never came.

Music heard with you at home or in the car or even while strolling didn’t always sound as pristine as piano tuners might wish— it was sometimes mixed with voices full of fear and pain, and then that music was more than music, it was our living and our dying.

Ходех на дълги разходки, само за едно зажаднял: за светкавица, за промяна, за тебе.

Doubt is more intelligent than poetry, insofar as it tells malicious tales about the world, things we’ve long known but struggled to hide from ourselves. But poetry surpasses doubt, pointing to what we cannot know. Doubt is narcissistic; we look at everything critically, including ourselves, and perhaps that comforts us. Poetry, on the other hand, trusts the world, and rips us from the deep-sea diving suits of our “I”; it believes in the possibility of beauty and its tragedy. Poetry’s argument with doubt has nothing in common with the facile quarrel of optimism and pessimism. The twentieth century’s great drama means that we now deal with two kinds of intellect: the resigned and the seeking, the questing. Doubt is poetry for the resigned. Whereas poetry is searching, endless wandering. Doubt is a tunnel, poetry is a spiral. Doubt prefers to shut, while poetry opens. Poetry laughs and cries, doubt ironizes. Doubt is death’s plenipotentiary, its longest and wittiest shadow; poetry runs toward an unknown goal. Why does one choose poetry while another chooses doubt? We don’t know and we’ll never find out. We don’t know why one is Cioran and the other is Milosz.

IMPOSSIBLE FRIENDSHIPS For example, with someone who no longer is, who exists only in yellowed letters. Or long walks beside a stream, whose depths hold hidden porcelain cups—and the talks about philosophy with a timid student or the postman. A passerby with proud eyes whom you’ll never know. Friendship with this world, ever more perfect (if not for the salty smell of blood). The old man sipping coffee in St.-Lazare, who reminds you of someone. Faces flashing by in local trains— the happy faces of travelers headed perhaps for a splendid ball, or a beheading. And friendship with yourself —since after all you don’t know who you are.

Epithalamium Without silence there would be no music. Life paired is doubtless more difficult than solitary existence - just as a boat on the open sea with outstretched sails is trickier to steer than the same boat drowsing at a dock, but schooners after all are meant for wind and motion, not idleness and impassive quiet. A conversation continued through the years includes hours of anxiety, anger, even hatred, but also compassion, deep feeling. Only in marriage do love and time, eternal enemies, join forces. Only love and time, when reconciled, permit us to see other beings in their enigmatic, complex essence, unfolding slowly and certainly, like a new settlement in a valley, or among green hills. In begins from one day only, from joy and pledges, from the holy day of meeting, which is like a moist grain; then come the years of trial and labor, sometimes despair, fierce revelation, happiness and finally a great tree with rich greenery grows over us, casting its vast shadow. Cares vanish in it.

I can’t write Krakow’s history, even though its people and ideas, trees and walls, cowardice and courage, freedom and rain all involve me. Ideas as well, since they cling to our skin and change us imperceptibly. The Zeitgeist chisels our thoughts and mocks our dreams. I’m intrigued by all kinds of walls; the space we inhabit isn’t neutral, it shapes our existence. Landscapes enter our innermost being, they leave traces not just on our retinas but on the deepest strata of our personalities. Those moments when the sky’s blue-gray suddenly stands revealed after a downpour stay with us, as do moments of quiet snowfall. And ideas may even join forces with the snow, through our senses and our body. They cling to the walls of houses. And later the houses and bodies, the senses and ideas all vanish. But I can’t write Krakow’s history, I can only try to reclaim a few moments, a few places and events; a few people I liked and admired, and a few that I despised.

USPAVANKA Nećeš zaspati danas. Toliko svetlosti u prozoru. Veštačke vatre rastu nad gradom. Nećeš zaspati, previše toga se dogodilo. Nad tobom bdiju knjige postrojene u redove. Dugo ćeš razmišljati o onome što se zbilo i nije se zbilo. Nećeš zaspati danas. Pobuniće se tvoji crveni kapci, oči će ti biti crvene i natečene, a srce naduveno od uspomena. Nećeš zaspati. Otvoriće se enciklopedija i iz nje izaći drevni pesnici, brižno obučeni, zaštićeni od hladnoće. Kao padobran Otvoriće se sećanje, iznenada zašištaće vazduh. Sećanje će se otvoriti i uopšte nećeš zaspati, ljuljaćeš se između oblaka, pokretan i jasan cilj, u svetlosti vatrometa. Više nikada nećeš zaspati, premnogo ti je ispričano, previše se zbilo. Svaka kap krvi mogla bi da napiše svoju skerletnu Ilijadu. Svako svitanje moglo bi da bude autor mračnih uspomena. Nećeš zaspati ispod debelog jorgana krovova, tavana i dimnjaka koji bacaju uvis pregršt pepela. Bele noći tiho plove nebom i šušte vesla, svilene čarape. Izaći ćeš u park i granje će te blagonaklono udarati po ramenima, krizmajući te još jednom, kao da nisu sigurne u tvoju vernost. Nećeš zaspati. Trčaćeš kroz pusti park, postaćeš senka i susretaćeš druge senke. Razmišljaćeš o nekom koga više nema i o nekom ko živi tako intenzivno da se život na obalama pretvara u ljubav. Sve je više svetlosti u sobi. Danas nećeš zaspati.

ZVONA Sklonićemo se u zvona, u raznjihana zvona, u huku, u vazduh, u srce zvonjave. Sklonićemo se u zvona i zaploviti iznad zemlje u teškim vagonima. Iznad zemlje, iznad polja, tamo gde su livade koje nose mladi jasenovi i seoske crkve, u zaklonu jutarnjih magli i šuma koje trče kao stada antilopa; tamo gde potoci tiho pokreću vodenice. Iznad zemlje, iznad livada, iznad bele rade, iznad klupe, na kojoj je ljubav urezala nesavršen znak, iznad vrbe poslušne hladnom vetru, iznad škole u kojoj uveče latinske reči razgovaraju jedne s drugim; iznad dubokog ribnjaka, iznad Morskog Oka, iznad plača i iznad žalosti, iznad lornjona koji se presavija na suncu, iznad kalendara ispunjenih vremenom koji leže na dnu fioke spokojno kao grčke amfore u moru. Iznad granice, iznad tvog budnog pogleda, iznad nečije zenice, iznad zarđalog topa, iznad baštenske kapije koje više nema, iznad oblaka, iznad kiše koja pije rosu, iznad puža koji ne zna uz kakvu se statuu penje, iznad brzog voza, koji ubrzano diše, iznad dečaka koji vezuje kravatu uoči školske priredbe, iznad gradskog parka, u kome još uvek leži nekad izgubljeni švajcarski perorez. Kad padne noć, sklonićemo se u zvona, u lake kočije, u bronzane balone.

In the gray Poland plundered by the Soviet utopia there was no shortage of cunning petty demons on the party payroll out searching for young souls with ballistic tendencies, souls who dreamed of greatness and despised the trifling daily round of worries and pursuits.

Here are people who refused to cheat, who eagerly sought out the truth and shrank from neither poetry nor terror, the two poles of our globe - since poetry does exist in the world, in certain events, at rare moments. And there’s also no shortage of terror.

В музиката намирам сила, слабост и болка - трите стихии, четвъртата няма име. Чета поети, умрели и живи, уча се от тях на издръжливост, вяра, гордост. Опитва да разбера великите философи - най-често успявам да уловя само късове от скъпоценните им мисли.

Това, което ще дойде, ще бъде невидимо и леко. Това, което е, все се люшка между иронията и страха. Това, което оцелее, ще бъде синьо като окото на гилотината.

- Everything's finished. Riders gallop black horses, a tyrant composes a sentence of death with grammatical errors. Youth dissolves in a day; girls' faces freeze into medallions, despair turns to rapture and the hard fruits of stars in the sky ripen like grapes, and beauty endures, shaken, unperturbed, and God is and God dies; night returns to us in the evening, and the dawn is hoary with dew.

Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world and the gray feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. —Adam Zagajewski, from “Try to Praise the Mutilated World,” Without End: New and Selected Poems. (Straus & Giroux, LLC, 2002)

OLD MARX He can’t think. London is damp, in every room someone coughs. He never did like winter. He rewrites past manuscripts time and again, without passion. The yellow paper is fragile as consumption. Why does life race stubbornly toward destruction? But spring returns in dreams, with snow that doesn’t speak in any known tongue. And where does love fit within his system? Where you find blue flowers. He despises anarchists, idealists bore him. He receives reports from Russia, far too detailed. The French grow rich. Poland is common and quiet. America never stops growing. Blood is everywhere, perhaps the wallpaper needs changing. He begins to suspect that poor humankind will always trudge across the old earth like the local lunatic shaking her fists at an unseen God.

POSMATRAM FOTOGRAFIJU Posmatram fotografiju grada u kome sam se rodio, njegove bujne bašte i krivudave ulice, brda, katoličke krovove i kupole pravoslavnih crkava u kojima nedeljom pevaju snažni basovi, od kojih se okolno drveće povija kao da divlja uragan; dugo posmatram tu fotografiju i ne mogu da odvojim pogled sa nje, odjednom počinjem da zamišljam da svi oni i dalje tu žive, kao da se ništa nije dogodilo, da neprestano trče na predavanja, čekaju voz, voze se plavim tramvajem, uznemireno gledaju u kalendar, staju na vagu, slušaju Verdijeve arije i omiljene operete, čitaju novine koje su još bele, žive u žurbi, u strahu, neprekidno kasneći, malčice su besmrtni, ali to ne znaju, neko od njih neuredno plaća kiriju, neko se boji sušice, neko ne može da završi raspravu o Kantovoj filozofiji, ni da shvati šta su stvari same po sebi, moja baka ponovo ide u Bžuhovice noseći tortu na ravnim ramenima koja se ne opuštaju, u apoteci stidljivi mladić traži lek protiv stidljivosti, devojka posmatra svoje male grudi u ogledalu, moj rođak izlazi u park odmah posle kupanja ne sluteći da će uskoro dobiti zapaljenje pluća, ponekad puca oduševljenje, zimi žute lampe stvaraju krug bliskosti, u julu muve bučno svetkuju veliku svetlost leta i pevuše mračne himne, događaju se pogromi, ustanci, deportacije, okrutni Vermaht u elegantnim uniformama, nailazi podli NKVD, crvene petokrake obećavaju prijateljstvo, mada su znak izdaje, ali oni to ne vide, takoreći to ne vide, imaju toliko stvari da obave, treba nabaviti ugalj za zimu, naći dobrog lekara, rastu gomile pisama bez odgovora, bledi mrko mastilo, u sobi svira radio, najnovije parče nameštaja koje će emitovati muziku i loše vesti, ali oni su umorni od običnog života i običnog umiranja, nemaju ni za šta vremena, izvinjavaju se zbog toga, pišu dugačka pisma i lakonske razglednice, stalno kasne, beznadno kasne, kao i mi, baš kao i mi, kao i ja.

Filmművészet persze továbbra is van. De nincsen filmkultúra, s véget ért az, ami „modern filmként” vagy „művészfilmként” egy ideig történelemformáló erővel bírt. A filmművészetet immár nem egy átfogó kultúra tartja fenn és hordozza, hanem elszigetelt nevek, magányos filmrendezők, akik, a filmtörténet korai évtizedeihez hasonlóan nem alkotnak közösséget, hanem a filmipar egyetemes világában magányos bolygók benyomását keltik. Haneke, Almodóvar, Roy Anderson, Jeles András, Terence Davies, Lars von Trier, Zvjagincev, Tarr Béla, Wenders… ezt a névsort is lehetne hosszasan folytatni. Megannyi Don Quijote benyomását keltik: filmjeiket nézve jól érzékelhető, hogy valami ellenében készültek. Mire képes a test? Mi a halál? Mi a spiritualitás? Van-e még szentség? Létezik-e hagyomány? Milyen poklok vannak a lélekben? E rendezők számára is magától értetődőek ezek a kérdések. De az is látszik, hogy csakis az ő számukra azok, s nem tudnak maguk mögött egy széles közösséget, amely a nyelvüket beszélné. E kérdéseknek ugyanis már nincsen kultúrája, és különösen nincsen kultúrateremtő ereje. E rendezők magányosak, abban az értelemben, hogy kizárólag saját magukra tudnak hagyatkozni, ha ébren akarják tartani a metafizika utáni vágyat. Már nem számíthatnak az őket környező kultúrára. A lengyel költő, Adam Zagajewski szavaival: „A metafizikai érzések – valóban eltűntek volna? Nem, természetesen nem. Csakis tőlünk függ, mi történik velük. Valamennyien minden pillanatban döntünk róluk, nem rajtunk kívül léteznek, nem olyanok, mint egy olvadó jéghegy Grönlandon, melynek sorsát őszintén sajnáljuk. Nem képeznek tőlünk független kontinenst, amit az óceán elönt. Mi magunk vagyunk a metafizikai érzések. Már régóta veszélyeztetve vannak, évszázadok óta, de újra meg újra mindig megmenti őket valaki, és továbbra is meg fogja menteni.” Az említett rendezők – az egyre fogyatkozó nézők előtt – mintegy tovább adják egymásnak a stafétabotot, anélkül, hogy számíthatnának egy végső ünnepélyes díjátadásra. A kultúra – pontosabban civilizáció – ugyanis immár nem őket díjazza. A filmipar is kitermelte persze azokat a rendezőket, akik mintegy átlépték a saját árnyékukat: Tarantino vagy David Lynch például vitathatatlanul a nagyok közé tartoznak. De nagyok abban is, hogy miközben a hagyományos filmművészet szellemében észrevehetően metafizikai kérdéseket feszegetnek, ezeket hihetetlen bravúrral rántják vissza a nem-metafizika szférájába és alakítják át egydimenzióssá. S ezzel a filmipar igényeihez igazítják azokat. A Ponyvaregény, a Kutyaszorító, a Kék bársony vagy a Twin Peaks egy pillanatig sem hagy kétséget afelől, hogy alkotóiknak határozott elképzelése van a létezésről, s hogy nem idegenek tőlük a metafizikai problémák. De éppilyen nyilvánvaló az is, hogy ezeket már csak idézőjelben tudják elgondolni. Annak a hatalmas szürke sávnak a képviselői ők, amely a filmművészet és a filmipar között alakult ki: mindkét irányba megfelelni próbálnak, miközben egyikkel sem akarnak igazán azonosulni. Az úgynevezett midcult kultúrája, ami Virginia Woolf szerint a magaskultúra kiárusítása, a filmben is uralkodóvá vált. Ezek a rendezők a világot a puszta felszínre redukálják: csak az van, ami látható, megfogható, ami éppen a néző szeme előtt történik, s még az úgynevezett misztika is ebbe simul bele. És innen nincsen kiút, sugallják, még a felszín alatt is csak újabb felszín húzódik, minden ugyanoda és ugyanabba vezet vissza, ahogyan a Ponyvaregény is ott fejeződik be, ahol elkezdődött. Ez a kizárólagos felszín az, ami napjainkban az egész világ számára követendő minta, és a filmművészetet is e parancs a nevében igyekeznek a filmiparnak kiszolgáltatni.

Con qué tranquilidad avanzamos a través de días y meses, y cantamos en voz baja una negra canción de cuna, cuán fácil los lobos secuestran a nuestros hermanos con qué levedad respira la muerte