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CITIZEN OF A LANGUAGE
This year, the often obtuse Nobel jury appears to have showered recognition not merely on a Russian writer who has had but four of his poems published legally in the Soviet Union, and not solely on a survivor of "Gulag University," but on a figure who incarnates the poetic way. "I feel bitter as I leave Russia," Brodsky wrote of his expulsion from his homeland, in an open letter to Leonid Brezhnev. "I belong to the Russian culture. I feel part of it, its component, and no change of place can influence the final consequence of this. A language is a much more ancient and inevitable thing than a state. I belong to the Russian language." This is a statement devoid of grandiloquence; it is simply a recognition of the truth. Brodsky, like every other genuine poet, lives in his language. No commissar, no fuhrer can banish him from there. If the Nobel award to Brodsky represents a slap in the face to the bootlickers of the Soviet literary establishment, so be it. Their respectability was bought with a shameful silence. In service to an ephemeral state, they kept quiet about the disappearance of entire libraries. They pretended to forget all the poets and storytellers who were shot in the head or forced to confess to the crime of literature.
Brodsky himself was convicted of being a "social parasite" and sent to
Siberia as a young man. The judge who sentenced him asked Brodsky who had
authorized him to be a poet. Responding with the impertinence proper to a BERGER;10/23 NIGRO ;10/26,09:19 EBRODSKY
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