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
Marit MacArthur Kacper Bartczak