For someone who has worked with, and in, words, Różewicz has always approached language with an uncompromising suspicion. I cannot think of another poet who distrusts words more consistently. After the war, when words seemed compromised, Różewicz made a utopian attempt to rebuild trust in words by returning to simplest phrases and basic truths. “This is a man / this is a tree this is bread” — he would reteach himself, or name things again, as a new Adam, in his early poem with the Dantean title “In the Middle of Life.” Różewicz knew that with no transcendent sanction that would guarantee anything for us, we are left alone in this attempt: “the sky is silent,” so “if you hear a voice / this is a voice of another man.”
Words are mercenaries and turncoats, drifting entities ready to be used and abused, which we are only too ready to take as standing for permanent and thus unquestionable meanings — this is possibly Różewicz’s most important lesson for me. From this he drew conclusions which questioned the sense of poetry and proclaimed the priority of ethics over aesthetics. “Above all I am not concerned with Poetry” — to quote Wilfred Owen, a poet miles apart from Różewicz, but strangely close in his conclusions — “All a poet can do today is warn.” This distrust of words manifested itself in Różewicz’s reticence in isolated lines enveloped by long disturbing silences, but also, on the other hand, in his paradoxical talkativeness, with lines spilling from page to page in an endless uncensored chatting flow. What at first was a response to a deeply felt sense of the post-Holocaust crisis was later followed by the poet’s awareness of another danger: of the world going to the dogs, immersing itself in the banalities of mass culture. Różewicz’s poetry was in fact an act of dismantling poetry which has lost its raison d’être in the modern world. “It’s more difficult to spend a day well than to write a book,” I heard Różewicz at what was possibly his last public appearance, quoting Adam Mickiewicz, another giant of Polish poetry.
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
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
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
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