This is a uniquely written book that will echo in your consciousness for some time and readily welcome repeated readings.
It's difficult to catagorize this work. It reads like several genres at once. It has the lofty, heady, thought-provoking euphoria of poetry. It is compiled like a collection of quotes or vignettes. Time is not linear in this book. No, the memories recounted herein are written exactly as the flashes of meandering imagist thoughts that memories really are, colored as deeply by emotion and perception as by fact. Ultimately, this is a memoir of the Polish poet's years as a university student in Krakow in the 1960's and '70s.
Zagajewski grew up in Gliwice, next door to an empty, silent, and not yet fully acknowledged Auschwitz. He fully describes the ghetto of Krakow's Kazimierz District- he calls it "the graveyard quarter"- , once the home of the city's Jews who had been systematically murdered by the Nazis and which by then was almost empty and open to the elements and whatever weeds wanted to grow in the cracks of the floors.
He labors under the expectations of an ever-watchful Soviet state. He dwells much on how he managed to teeter on the fence between cooperation with totalitarianism and resistance to it. The colors of this book are dark- grays, browns, blacks, with an occasional wisp of indifferently blue sky. Most of his memories are of winter and heavy, reeking furs. But it is plain he very much loved Krakow. Perhaps his youth is accountable, but he seems to manage a happiness there that evades the rest of the poor and struggling population. It was anathema to throw anything away, even if it had broken, because there might be a time- and often was- when finding some way to force the broken piece to work was necessary for survival. People patched their clothes and bragged about how many decades they wore them. Elevators existed but were seldom operational. Zagajewski paints for us the vivid recollections of youth in a world of old, beaten, disillusioned, or deeply compromised souls- some of whom seemed to have had their souls completely stolen or killed outright. He shows us a people, including himself, who remained religious and frequented the churches and cathedrals as more than tourists. This, it seems, was coldly tolerated by a wearying regime. In fact, places of worship become havens of art as the book progresses, at least in his mind.
He talks about music a great deal. He dwells mostly on classical music and its masters, but he does open a window to the jazz bands that would frequent Krakow in the winter, and brought a completely foriegn but vital breath to the place. He also loves birds, particularly the contrast between swallows and blackbirds.
Woven throughout are excursions into the present: into beautiful, erotic Paris and very briefly to Houston, Texas, U.S.A.. These are the cities Zagajewski splits his time between now. His discussions of Paris are almost mythical in their fantasy. It stands in sharp contrast to the misery of Krakow, which is softened only by his youth and the dominant question of his life:
How to reconcile poetry and philosophy? (Interestingly, in an age when Freud was revered as a god, he did a master's thesis in defense of introspection under a professor who regarded Freud as a fraud of the worst kind. The unusual insight that shows impresses me.)
This book is a necessary read for anyone who loves poetry, is interested in history, remembers what it was like to live in the terrible shadow of the Cold War, and who loves life- the joys and the sorrows. I can't imagine a better book to have spent National Poetry Month 2011 with.
Learn more about Adam Zagajewski.
Buy "Another Beauty" on Amazon.
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