Keeping company: On Różewicz

What I must have read as the essential feature of his poetry was its relentless focus on evacuating the world sensorium, which turned the poem into a condensed meditation on the poverty of the human — a condition whose unmistakable topic is the nothingness of life. This was its signatory presence that I track down at each reading, which I search for in each phrase, its basic narrative, in the taste of the poem’s flesh. It is this feature that for me makes him — although formally he is distant to me — the ultimate poet of dissent: he dwelled in the essential discord with the world, life, himself. Criticism, suspicion, bitterness, and irony — these are the four basic vectors of his poetic movements, which he follows invariably. Mostly, he is deprived of the easy solace which he never seeks, albeit incidentally finds at times. Charitable toward life’s by-products, but alert in tracking down their consequences. Always sharply perceptive of man’s continuous falling, a bottomless falling, simultaneously in all directions, an inescapable falling, out of which the only exit is in sobering paradox and saving distillate.

Tadeusz Różewicz’s poetry has kept me company — since I got hooked on poetry at all — on a very irregular basis. We are talking about a peculiar type of keeping company: its continuity is erratic, it assumes changeable dimensionality, its temperature fluctuates. As far as Różewicz’s writing is concerned, I have had two spells that can be called feverish: the first was in my youthful years; the other was directly related to his death. In both cases, Różewicz had a blasting impact — he offered poems like bones nibbled to the marrow. There was power in this austerity, this withdrawal, but there was also an insufficiency — a deliberate one no doubt. So I thought of a Różewicz poem as of a projectile, but one without a casing, thrust right into the bull’s-eye, the target being one’s receptivity to naked content.

Translated by Kacper Bartczak

Różewicz the playwright

Who was Różewicz for me? First, a figure from school — I discussed his poems and this was terribly boring. It was all understood, the War, the Holocaust, the partisans. Not for a fifteen-year-old to digest. His poems were boring. But his plays and prose were an entirely different matter. Oh! It was something. White Marriage (Białe Małzenstwo) and Card Index (Kartoteka) read wonderfully. Only now, in hindsight, I rediscover Różewicz the poet, but still, for me [he is] a playwright. Above all.

Translated by Marit MacArthur

Growing up to Różewicz

It’s not easy to comment in any sort of statement that smacks of literature, in writing, on the person, the writing, and the legacy of Tadeusz Różewicz, as I once shared a nonliterary space with him. These are memories beyond assigned reading from school. They come from living in the town of Gliwice, where he spent many years, and they come from working with him in my role as an editor of his final volumes at the Wrocław publisher Biuro Literackie. This work was like growing up to his poetry, at first received coldly as assigned reading at school, with him now extending a hand, in a tirelessly curious exploration of novel linguistic terrain. We were not given enough time for a personal meeting, though.

Różewicz for me — an important poet who is not a favorite poet. His difficulty abides, despite the multiple formulas with which he has been explicated and explained. He is emotionally moving at some moments, impenetrable at others. There is horror mingled with humor in his poems, darkness with light, intimacy with expansiveness. As a reader, I am frequently helpless, but it’s part of my growing up to these poems. Perhaps there will not be enough time to complete this process, but I am willing to take the risk.

Translated by Kacper Bartczak

Singular Różewicz

When he was still alive, on his ninetieth birthday, I got to thinking: what is the actual status of his writing? Does it really constitute a primary reference point for poets writing today? There used to be a cliché making the rounds in our literary culture, which had it that Różewicz lived to see the greatest number of epigones. Well, maybe. Except that his writing is so very singular that it is entirely nonproductive of followers. In this, it is analogous to the writing of Witold Wirpsza, Miron Białoszewski, or Rafał Wojaczek. It is a universe inhabited by the author’s demons, filled with an almost exhausting consistency of doubt, and ultimately of pain, to which only he has full access. There is also a very intense, private aspect to it, and here lies the greatest paradox of his reception in its current state. The time has become ripe for laughable, nearly academic-programmatic casuistry: if it’s about the war, it must be Różewicz; if it’s Auschwitz, it must be Różewicz; if it’s the culture of exhaustion and waning of grand narratives — Różewicz again. Even beyond those tags: if it’s the general absurdity of existence — it’s definitely Różewicz. In a sense, it’s all true; and yet, can we imagine an anchorite burdened with the duty of bearing witness to all those cataclysms? Różewicz himself was able to beautifully dodge the multiple duties of the Polish poet. His colorless death, a quiet almost unnoticed departure, all pomp, pageantry, and public antics excluded, a death issuing from the pure expiration of being — this death is a great challenge to the Polish poet. It denies him the privilege of the stuffy catechetic classroom, where the nation chants its feverish canonizing incantations. It puts him thereby in a purely novel situation of “the one and only,” in the desert of sense, of nonsense and the silence of the defeated, who are listened to by no one and nothing.

Translated by Kacper Bartczak

Matching Różewicz

In one of his famous poems Tadeusz Różewicz writes about his “homework” — it is the “creation of poetry after Auschwitz.” The poem dates from the 1970s and it is deeply ironic, very much like most of Różewicz’s greatest poems. And just like many other of his monumental statements, the “creation of poetry after Auschwitz” keeps coming up in simpleminded interpretations as a handy emblem of all of Rożewicz’s oeuvre. Apparently, that’s the way it’s going to be. But Różewicz’s true greatness is far from handy — it is ambiguous, aporetic, full of doubt, even doubtful.

Tadeusz Różewicz left a universal and unmistakably contemporary body of work. In it, he reports on the crisis of the Western world (an endless crisis, it seems), and he keeps examining the poem as a means of expression, a communication tool, a work of art, a task and challenge. Adhering to the dysfunctional character of our civilization, Różewicz reached further and deeper, beyond the divisions established by the Cold War’s Iron Curtain separating West from East. In his care for poetry’s status — its potentials and limitations — Różewicz achieved so much — or only so much? — that, when writing poems after Różewicz, one has no other option but to go on and try to match his work. And, I dare say, this may apply not only to Polish poets.

Translated by Kacper Bartczak