New World Avenue and Vicinity
Too Loud a Solitude
Helping Verbs of the Heart
Woe betide the writer who finds himself cast as a hero. In the West, where even artists do not take art seriously, we look upon the “dissident” as somehow more authentic than we could ever hope to be, with our word processors and benevolent editors and Guggenheim Foundations. The dissident, of course, is always someone who dissents elsewhere, “over there,” behind the Curtain or the Wall or under Table Mountain. Compared to them, to these brave ones, our rebels seem like noisy children drumming their fists and refusing to be good. How can we be serious, we ask, how can we be truly grown-up, without the burden of political oppression, without a great cause to which we might lend our singing voices? So it is that at times when it was fashionable to be of the soft left, for instance in the Thirties and the Sixties, we paid fealty to figures such as Solzhenitsyn—a brave, perhaps even a great man, but no lover of liberal causes.
And rarely do we wonder what it is like to be regarded always as a dissident—that is, as a dissident first and an artist second. Anyone who has been to any country in what we used to call Eastern Europe1 will have heard that groan of mingled boredom and resentment when the talk turned to the matter of politics and art: I am sick of being a protester, the writer will cry, I want to write and think about the private world, not the public. And why not? As Kierkegaard has pointed out, there is no such thing as an epic theme; Homer was not great because he had for a subject the Trojan War—on the contrary, it is because Homer was great that this local squabble has taken on the proportions of an epic.
Now that the Wall has fallen and the Curtain has been drawn back, perhaps the writer in Eastern Europe will be allowed, along with other freedoms, the freedom to be discontent not because he is politically downtrodden, but because love fails and hope flags and death awaits him—in a word, because he is human.
The books considered here span a geographical arc from the Baltic down into the heart of Mitteleuropa, yet all three share a remarkably similar tone. It is the tone one might detect in the outpatients’ department of a run-down hospital, in the waiting room of some anonymous state bureaucratic institution, in a food queue stretching a hundred meters back from the shop door along a snow-swept pavement. There is despair and desperation in it, an impatience that keeps spilling over into rage, and also a kind of throwaway hilarity that precludes self-pity. These are strong, impressive, sly, and, dare one say it, entertaining voices: there is something wonderfully bracing in the spectacle of a writer indulging in a monumental grouse.
Tadeusz Konwicki is one of Poland’s leading intellectuals (though even as I say it I can hear him emit a derisive snort). He is a novelist, a playwright, and a filmmaker—he has filmed Czeslaw Milosz’s novel, The Issa Valley; a Costa-Gavras film of his own extraordinary 1979 novel, A Minor Apocalypse has been completed. He was born in Wilno, now Vilnius, in Lithuania. After the war he moved to Warsaw, and settled in New World Avenue, where he still lives.
New World is the name of a street in Warsaw. Every old city has a New World. There came a time when it got too tight in the towns that were choked by defensive bastions, and one fine day, life swept over those walls, and across the moats, and into the free spaces of meadows, coppices, and brooks. This is how new worlds arose. Including the new world beyond the ocean.
New World Avenue is an extremely difficult book to classify or describe. It is composed of brief sections that seem to ramble off at will in whatever direction the writer’s fancy takes him. Snatches of autobiography jostle with polemical tirades, mock philosophy, fantastical speculations, fictional asides. I wish I could say that I can detect a form beneath the apparent formlessness, but I cannot. I hasten to emphasize, however, that this failure does not trouble me. The book is hugely stimulating, hugely enjoyable; it is funny.
Clues abound to the author’s methods and intentions (“It is with a heavy heart that I get down to writing yet another book that nobody needs”). He declares at the outset that this time, instead of publishing underground, he will circumvent the state censor by addressing the book directly to him: “Of my own free will I submit to the loving embrace of the noble agency which presides on Mysia Street in Warsaw.” That gentleman of the blue pencil—who passed the book for publication substantially as Konwicki wrote it—must have been startled indeed:
The specter of Communism circles over Europe and over Warsaw, which is at the very center of Europe. The specter of Communism gazes at midnight or before dawn into the window of my dwelling, where I snivel quietly as a mouse (do mice snivel?). A repulsive specter, baring its teeth in a sardonic grin.
This, it should be said, is an uncharacteristic outburst; for the most part Konwicki’s attitude to communism is the weary ruefulness of, I suspect, an apostate.
Konwicki’s novel A Minor Apocalypse2 opens (“Here comes the end of the world”) with a marvelous, bravura passage describing the author’s waking up on a momentous morning (“I woke at the gloomy hour at which autumn’s hopeless days begin,”) and New World Avenue, too, is full of drowsiness, of half-awakenings at dawn, of afternoon torpors, so that the entire book may be read as a kind of hypnogogic fantasy. This allows the author much freedom and the luxury of a broad canvas. The cat Ivan has earlier been in Konwicki’s books, and across these pages he pads again, softly but proprietorially.
The cat lies sprawled on my remains. At times a shudder of something like a spasm runs over him; suddenly he will give a tiny moan, then shake a paw as if to flick off something that has stubbornly stuck to his warm, soft, black little pads. The cat Ivan is dreaming.
Old friends and old enemies are remembered, tributes are paid, scores are settled (the film director Andrzej Wajda comes in yet again for a brief, tight-lipped drubbing). And so it rambles on. However, amid the seeming untidiness the clues that help to explain the fragmented form accumulate:
I don’t write the truth. I write half-truths of a sort, curlicues, periphrases, concealments by silence, utterances of spurious candor, pretended openness. I produce all this fearful literary noise, foam whipped up on the river of facts, a vast fog in which we blunder with outstretched hands.
The point is that I invested considerable effort into making my [books]…uneven. I sweated bullets over the loosely tessellated, nonchalant, if you will, construction of these brochures. What I was looking for was farrago, turmoil, cacophony.
What I haven’t produced for a long time is the kind of writing everybody likes: Let’s have a lot of action, make them love each other, make it all end happily. I understand the reader, I even sympathize with his tastes, but am not in a position to indulge him anymore. I have been demoralized, driven in another direction, where I don’t have to take undue account of the predilections of my benefactors. If I had been pushed at the outset into a naturalistic mode of narration, the “slice of life” business in the true manner of the nineteenth-century novel, who knows but that I might now have palaces and motor yachts waiting the year round for my appearance at the port of the Grand Duchy of Monaco.
Lukacs might not approve of such sentiments, but I do.
In many ways this book is much simpler than would appear from my account of it. There are direct and very moving passages, such as the final, imaginary jumbo-jet trip to Australia, which is at once mundane and celestial, fantastic and realistic: “The plane soars through space like a flying cathedral.” Delayed at Frankfurt, Konwicki watches in dreamy fright as a pair of Gastarbeiter poke with a screwdriver at the innards of one of the engines of the waiting jumbo jet. When the cathedral is airborne at last, the author finds himself seated beside a pretty young actress called Ingrid, who is not at all impressed with this “nobody from Poland” until, like the humble hero in a fairy-tale, he is summoned to the cockpit to sit in the captain’s seat and even take the controls for a while. The captain, of course, like practically everyone else in the book, hails from Konwicki’s native Wilno. The jet sails across the equator and champagne is served; the Southern Cross hoves into view. When Konwicki returns to his seat, Ingrid, who has now become Ingryda, looks at him “the way girls sometimes looked at me years ago.”
I gaze at that girl. Scandinavian or Anglo-American, a little wistfully, for she is paling, fading, as it were, into the grayness of this airplane of dubious reality, while the growl of the engines which those Turks had poked about in with screwdrivers also becomes quieter and more remote. From somewhere in the distance comes the gay jingle of a bell hung from the shaft yoke of a little horse, shaggy with rime, briskly pulling a sleigh along a well-beaten track through stands of thin forest awash in a tremendous flood of moonlight.
The plane, it seems, has turned into a time machine, flying steadily backward through the years to the lost land of childhood.
Konwicki is unashamedly a humanist, firmly on the side of life; such a position is neither as common nor as simple as it may seem. There is a wonderful description of the bringing back to life by a doctor and a team of nurses of a young man who has suffered a terrible heart attack:
I dissolved in tears like an old woman as I gazed at a bar of sunlight on the opposite wall…. I had seen many dreadful things in my life, a good deal of tragedy and death. But this was the first time I had witnessed resurrection.
The force of the emotion in such passages is earned by the tough-mindedness surrounding them. Konwicki is a kind of common-sense existentialist, skeptical, humorous, and doggedly candid. I can pay him no higher compliment than to say that New World Avenue reminded me again and again of the Diary of his great fellow countryman, Witold Gombrowicz.
Incidentally, the book is illustrated by the author’s own childish squiggly drawings, which are charmingly awful.
Once upon a time novelists, especially American novelists, liked to list on the backs of their books the various jobs—lumberjack, soda jerk, chucker-out at a brothel, etc.—they had held in the days before success and creative-writing fellowships came their way. Such a list was the sign of a hard apprenticeship served in the real world, the badge of manliness—of authenticity. Yet when we read on the back flap of Too Loud a Solitude that Bohumil Hrabal, having been conferred with a degree in law, “worked as a stagehand, postman, clerk, and baler of waste paper,” we are fired with indignation.
A Hungarian friend of mine, tired of hearing me use this term with unthinking certitude, asked impatiently: Where, do you think, does Eastern Europe begin?—Moscow? Budapest? Prague? Berlin? Vienna? Paris?↩
A Minor Apocalypse (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983).↩