POET MILOSZ WINS NOBEL PRIZE
EXCERPTS

Author: Date: Friday, October 10, 1980
Page: ?????
Section: RUN OF PAPER

Like many of my generation, I could have wished that my life had been a more simple affair. But the time and place of his birth are matters in which a man has nothing to say. The part of Europe to which I belong has not, in our time, met with good fortune. Not many inhabitants of the Baltic States, of Poland or Czechoslovakia, of Hungary or Romania, could summarize in a few words the story of their existence. Their lives have been complicated by the course of historic events.

It was in my country that the Second World War began. At that time, I was living in Warsaw. I had been through the rather strict education of a Catholic school, had read law in one of the Polish universities, and had continued my studies in Paris. Literature was the real interest of my life. I had published two volumes of avant-garde verse, and some translations from French poetry.

I lived through five years of Nazi occupation. Today, looking back, I do not regret those years in Warsaw, which was, I believe, the most agonizing spot in the whole of terrorized Europe. Had I then chosen emigration, my life would certainly have followed a very different course. But my knowledge of the crimes which Europe has witnessed in the 20th century would be less direct, less concrete than it is.

One afternoon in January 1945 I was standing in the doorway of a peasant's cottage; a few small-caliber shells had just landed in the village street. Then, in the low ground between the snow-covered hills, I saw a file of men slowly advancing. It was the first detachment of the Red Army. It was led by a young woman, felt-booted and carrying a submachine gun. Like all my compatriots, I was thus liberated from the domination of Berlin - in other words, brought under the domination of Moscow.

Hitherto, I had had no strong political affinities, and was only too ready to shut myself off from the realities of life. But reality would never let me remain aloof for long. The state of things in Poland inclined me toward left- wing ideas. My point of view can be defined negatively rather than positively: I disliked the right-wing groups, whose platform consisted chiefly of anti-Semitism. During the Nazi occupation I, like my colleagues, wrote for the clandestine publications, which were especially numerous in Poland. My experiences in those years led me to the conclusion that, after the defeat of Hitler, only men true to a socialist program would be capable of abolishing the injustices of the past, and rebuilding the economy of the countries of Central and Eastern Europe. My feelings for Russia were none too friendly. Pole and Russian have never loved one another, so I was no exception to the general rule. The exceptions were those - and some of my friends were among them - who before or during the war had become disciples of Stalin.

Such, then, was my state of mind as I watched the Russian girl with her submachine gun advance in my direction. To her, I was one of the millions of Europeans who had to be "liberated and educated." Perhaps I was even a member of the bourgeoisie . . . but that could not have seemed likely, since the shabby worker's overall which I was wearing was all I possessed in the world.

A few years later, a cultural attache at the embassy of the Warsaw government in Washington, D.C., was busy organizing concerts and exhibitions of Polish art; it was said he was not a Communist. From 1945 to 1951, I was first a free-lance writer in Poland, and then cultural attache, first in Washington and later in Paris. In the end I broke with the Warsaw government . . . .

The world of today is torn asunder by a great dispute; and not only a dispute, but a ruthless battle for world domination. Many people still refuse to believe that there are only two sides, that the only choice lies between absolute conformity to the one system or absolute conformity to the other.

Call such people impractical, if you will; but it would be wrong to treat their hopes as matter for contempt. Those who thought that they might succeed, while remaining within the Eastern bloc, in keeping clear of total orthodoxy and maintaining some degree of freedom of thought, have been defeated. The peasants' leaders were defeated, Masaryk was defeated, the socialists who tried to collaborate were defeated, Rajk was defeated in Hungary, Gomulka in Poland . . . .

In the end, I found myself driven to the point where a final choice had to be made.This was when "socialist realism" was introduced into Poland . . . .

"Socialist realism" is much more than a matter of taste, of preference for one style or painting or music rather than another. It is concerned with the beliefs which lie at the foundation of human existence. In the field of literature it forbids what has in every age been the writer's essential task - to look at the world from his own independent viewpoint, to tell the truth as he sees it, and so to keep watch and ward in the interest of society as a whole . . . .

Now I am homeless - a just punishment. But perhaps I was born so that the "Eternal Slaves" might speak through my lips. Why should I spare myself? Should I renounce what is probably the sole duty of a poet only in order to make sure that my verse would be printed in an anthology edited by the State Publishing House? My friend accepts naked terror, whatever name he may choose to give it. We have parted ways. Whether the side on which I now find myself is the future victor or the future victim is not the issue here. But I know that if my friend tastes the sweet fruits of victory, this planet will be improved according to plan for centuries - but woe to him who lives to see this happen. All over the world people are now sleeping in their beds, or perhaps they are engaging in some idiotic pastime; and one might easily believe that each in his own way is doing his best to deserve destruction. But what destruction will bring no freedom . . . .

When . . . I stand before Zeus (whether I die naturally, or under sentence of History) I will repeat all this that I have written as my defense. Many people spend their entire lives collecting stamps or old coins, or growing tulips. I am sure that Zeus will be merciful toward people who have given themselves entirely to these hobbies, even though they are only amusing and pointless diversions. I shall say to him: "It is not my fault that you made me a poet, and that you gave me the gift of seeing simultaneously what was happening in Omaha and Prague, in the Baltic states and on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I felt that if I did not use that gift my poetry would be tasteless to me and fame detestable. Forgive me." And perhaps Zeus, who does not call stamp-collectors and tulip-growers silly, will forgive.

From "The Captive Mind," by Csezla

The following are excerpts from the poetry of Czeslaw Milosz:ARS POETICA?I have always aspired to a more spacious formthat would be free from the claims of poetry or proseand would let us understand each other without exposingthe author or reader to sublime agonies.In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung outand stood in the light, lashing his tail.That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,though it's an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,work at changing his destiny for their convenience?It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,and so you may think that I am only jokingor that I've
devised just one more meansof praising Art with the help of irony.There was a time when only wise books were readhelping us to bear our pain and misery.This, after all, is not quite the sameas leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.yet the world is different from what it seems to beand we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.People therefore preserve silent integritythus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.The purpose of poetry is to remind ushow difficult it is to remain just one person,for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,and invisible guests come in and out at will.What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,under unbearable duress and only with the hopethat good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

From "Bells in Winter," by Csezlaw Milosz, translated by the author and Lillian Vallee, COPYRIGHT 1978, The Ecco Press. Reprinted by permission.A TASKIn fear and trembling, I think I would fulfill my lifeOnly if I brought myself to make a public confessionRevealing a sham, my own and of my epoch:We were permitted to shriek in the tongue of dwarfs and demonsBut pure and generous words were forbiddenUnder so stiff a penalty that whoever dared to pronounce oneConsidered himself as a lost man.

From "Selected Poems," 1973, The Seabury Press.SONG OF A CITIZENA stone deep below who has witnessed the seas drying upand a million white fish leaping in agony,I, poor man, see a multitude of white-bellied nationswithout freedom. I see the crab feeding on their flesh.I have seen the fall of States and the perdition of tribes,the flight of kings and emperors, the power of tyrants.I can say now, in this hour,that I - am, while everything expires,that it is better to be a live dog than a dead lionas the Scripture says.A poor man, sitting on a cold chair, pressing my eyelids,I sigh and think of a starry sky,of non-Euclidean space, of amoebas and their pseudopodia,of tall mounds of termites.When walking, I am asleep, when sleeping, I dream reality,I run pursued and covered with sweat.On city squares lifted up by the glaring
dawn,beneath marble remnants of blasted-down gates,I deal in vodka and gold.And yet so often I was near,I reached into the heart of metal, the soul of earth, of fire, of water.And the unknown unveiled its faceas a night reveals itself, serene, mirrored by tide.Lustrous copper-leaved gardens greeted methat disappear as soon as you touch them.And so near, just outside the window - the grenhouse of the worldswhere a tiny beetle and a spider are equal to planets,where a wandering atom flares up like Saturn,and, close by, harvesters drink from a cold jugin scorching summer.This I wanted and nothing more. In my old agelike old Goethe to stand before the face of the earth,and recognize it and reconcile itwith my work built up, a forest citadelon a river of changeable lights and brief shadows.This I wanted and nothing more. So whois guilty? Who deprived meof my youth and my ripe years, who seasonedmy best years with horror? Who,who ever is to blame, who, O God?And I can think only about the starry sky,about the tall mounds of termites.(Warsaw, 1942)

From "Selected Poems."

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