Jerzy Kosinski was one of the most important and original writers of his time. Passing By serves as his legacy. This collection of essays by the late author features pieces about polo and skiing, levitation, the streets of New York, present-day Poland, the Cannes film festival, celebrities, and more. The man who emerges here has a passion for sport, a quirky sense of fun, an idiosyncratic range of acquaintances stretching from Pope John Paul II to Warren Beatty, and an abiding love of secrets, conundrums, and fantasies. But first and foremost, as he demonstrates in major essays on his novels The Painted Bird and Steps, Kosinski is a powerful, incomparable literary artist.
“Kosinski’s vibrant, sexy, questioning voice is fully present.” —The Boston Globe
Jerzy Kosinski was one of the most important and original writers of his time. Passing By serves as his legacy. This collection of essays by the late author features pieces about polo and skiing, levitation, the streets of New York, present-day Poland, the Cannes film festival, celebrities, and more. The man who emerges here has a passion for sport, a quirky sense of fun, an idiosyncratic range of acquaintances stretching from Pope John Paul II to Warren Beatty, and an abiding love of secrets, conundrums, and fantasies. But first and foremost, as he demonstrates in major essays on his novels The Painted Bird and Steps, Kosinski is a powerful, incomparable literary artist.
“Kosinski’s vibrant, sexy, questioning voice is fully present.” —The Boston Globe
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Overview
Jerzy Kosinski was one of the most important and original writers of his time. Passing By serves as his legacy. This collection of essays by the late author features pieces about polo and skiing, levitation, the streets of New York, present-day Poland, the Cannes film festival, celebrities, and more. The man who emerges here has a passion for sport, a quirky sense of fun, an idiosyncratic range of acquaintances stretching from Pope John Paul II to Warren Beatty, and an abiding love of secrets, conundrums, and fantasies. But first and foremost, as he demonstrates in major essays on his novels The Painted Bird and Steps, Kosinski is a powerful, incomparable literary artist.
“Kosinski’s vibrant, sexy, questioning voice is fully present.” —The Boston Globe
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802195791 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 11/20/2018 |
| Series: | Kosinski, Jerzy |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 274 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
ALEKSANDER AND ANDRÉ WAT
I dedicated the "Notes of the Author on The Painted Bird" to André Wat. The "Notes" are important in that they originated as my correspondence about the German-language edition of The Painted Bird with my Swiss publisher. As a German-speaking Swiss, he had a complex attitude to them. I used to write to him from Paris, where I would sit with André Wat, talking about World War II.
I first met André Wat casually, while vacationing at Leba, Poland, in 1950, right after my matriculation.
I was passing by the Writers' Association House, a window was open, there was a party in progress. I went in and somebody said, "How are you, André," and introduced me around, saying, "This is the son of Ola and Aleksander Wat." So for the two days I spent in the house I was regarded as André Wat. Then, one day, a young man sat beside me and said, "How are you doing, André? How are the parents?"
"Everything's fine," I said. "Did they come?"
"Not yet, but they are coming soon," he said. "So I will introduce you to your parents, since I am sure you do not know them."
"What do you mean, I do not know my own parents?" I said.
"I do not know what your name is," he said, "but I am André Wat and they are my parents." And that is how we became friends.
André Wat's childhood was very traumatic. So much so that he did not even want to write about it. He left the task to his father, whose works he is restoring and publishing.
One day I told him, "André, I want to write novels, but as your father once told me to. How do I begin?"
André said, "Write a book that is most innocent and most depraved at the same time. Most innocent, because it will be about a child — about yourself, or me — but do it in sexual terms so that it is stirring; it is the only thing that makes a stir. Take a stand outside that process and try not to be alienated from it but, rather, be its presence and its absence at the same time — that is how the creative process happens."
André Wat was capable of summing up the creative process better than anyone else. So I asked, "What would move readers most?"
André said, "A child ... we were all children once. It is a situation nobody can avoid. World War II and all those other facts are optional. But start with the child because, as a writer, you must be faithful to yourself first. Be faithful to your imagination. Think of what you could have seen if you had not seen what you saw. Think of what you saw during your wanderings, no matter where in Poland, and, if you can, turn this into an essential state of a child's endangerment, the greatest threat in history. If you can do it, you will have passed the test. Even if your English is bad and your imagination is all wrong, there will be one thing you will have in common with your readers. You will have written about a child. Everybody was a child."
Childishness is what we see in children. Children have an amazing ability for adaptation. Their adaptability grows out of their enormous imagination, as yet unspoiled and uncensored for its freedom of mental mobility. A child is capable of imagining anything. You can say to a child: Let us play a game. You are an angel and I will be the devil. The child will understand right away. That is something that stays with us. That element of freedom is the element of life. Childishness is a component of imagination. The point is, will that mind allow itself to go wild or won't it?
I have no family, no blood relatives. At this point I have no genealogical family. So I see the world in terms of friends. They are my family. In a sense, André Wat is my closest psychological brother. I think that he would very much want to gouge out the eyes of history, the history that had forbidden him to take his father's imagination to people in the country his father loved more than anything else.
For Aleksander Wat, Poland was the country of the mind. Poland was the country of sensitivity. It was a country suited for any kind of suffering, the burial ground of history our civilization had never experienced before and, at the same time, the site of most enjoyable cafés full of life. There is nothing wrong with cafés. Such cafés are not to be found anywhere else in the world. I speak from experience; after all, I am a café person. The café is a very important element of culture. My intellectual mentor, Professor Jozef Chalasinki, wrote about it. For a poet, for a writer, the café is the place where ideas are exchanged. It is a kind of philosophical Wall Street. Some shares go up, others fall. New stock is offered as intellectual enterprises are born and merge into conglomerates. For André Wat, Poland was a thought workshop; so it was for me too. For André Wat the important issue is whether the eyes of the Polish language will see the poetry of Aleksander Wat. Aleksander Wat is a poet of life and death. The lack of his poetry in the structure of Polish imagination means that the eyes are missing.
Aleksander Wat was constantly dying of psychological cancer. For many years he suffered from the most painful mental state known to man. His poetry was very precise; all unnecessary "stuff' was ironed out. It is the kind of poetry I will not call either difficult or easy, because poetry is like rock-and-roll: you either hear it or you do not. In Wat's poetry the essence of what life should be is crystallized, which is a clear confrontation between the cemetery and the incredible fullness of life. I have a poem which I always carry around to remind myself of what the language, reality, imagination and the consciousness of self are all about. It is called "A Lullaby for the Dying." It was written in Menton, France, in May of 1956. Wat mentioned it to me before I left for the United States.
When I feel like being hugged, when I feel like hugging, that is the instinct of life. One only needs to turn to a writer whose name is Wojtyla (Pope John Paul II), and read what Wojtyla has to say about love and responsibility. It is a very important book, with footnotes as significant as the main body of the text. In The Hermit of 69th Street, I go back to Wojtyla's footnote method. Love is an integral part of the love for the gift of life. The gift of life is unique. Being in love must lead to falling in love with life. The poetry of Aleksander Wat is not eroticized, which I notice because my writing is very erotic. Wat did not allow himself what I let myself enjoy: the sweep of devilish needs.
Aleksander Wat once sent me an essay he wrote about me, entitled "The Birth of a Poet." It was a very important message for me. In his essay, Wat turned his attention to what he never allowed himself: the wild desire to touch life physically. That was lacking in his poetry. There is the touching of the psyche — all his poetry was dedicated to the psychic side of life. Like Polish amber from the Baltic, he was a piece of amber with a special angle of refraction. His amber has a lot of the Baltic Sea in it, but it also has the Mediterranean, which gives it a different kind of light.
In my work it is the dramatic quality given to every single moment of life, including the present. I exist on many levels ... one which involves me intensely; at the same time I am this man watching himself. Can I avoid it? I am very much in touch, I do not let myself be inert. I am very conscious. My alertness is the result of many things. World War II is one factor. This is my poetic part.
But I am also an actor. I do not want to be, because I was always scared of my own image and hated it. But I became an actor when a friend, Warren Beatty, persuaded me to play Zinoviev in the film Reds. And then I learned something incredible about myself, that I could be an actor while I was totally myself. I did not know how to act. Acting is a very serious occupation. You are not born an actor. As my father used to say, you must do a lot of sitting to get a job done right. Concentration is sitting, not talking. Ideas are a different matter. Acting, I learned I could be myself completely, say whatever I felt like saying. Do you know why? Because I do not care. What can be worse than what I remember from the past? So what counts? Only the state of consciousness and the state of being!
When I sat in an apartment where my mother died, I thought: Should I keep looking at her deathbed and at the books she used to read? Am I to regard myself as the victim of memories and tragedies? Or will I look at myself as the author of my own life, and tell myself: Listen, Kosinski. You are one lucky guy ... who knows for how long. You received a very special gift from the country called Poland, in the center of Europe, in the center of culture. Face it. It is not as if I have not seen the world. Do I get bored in those other places? I do! Why? Because they do not have as much history, they were not taken apart as "we" were. That is "we" in the sense of the language. I say this as an American citizen. I am speaking about a psychological situation built around the dilemma: Is it going to be a state of mind based on life, or one immersed in shadows that my memory casts on my soul? Every single moment I face the dilemma: Shall I become like Auschwitz or like Kazimierz? History offers both — an element of life and genius, and one of inertia and death. Aleksander Wat captured yet another element, one that I would not be able to pinpoint: the element of psyche animated by itself. Wat managed to overcome two things, the torture of life and the torture of physical suffering. If monuments were erected to the fullness of poetic life, the monument to Aleksander Wat would be among the most prominent.
I did not and will not go back to visit the villages I saw during the war, because what I have to say to myself and others I have already expressed in metaphors. I am not interested in explicit memory because I do not trust it. In my case memory is always clouded by my desire for inventiveness. I am no camera. I write because this is what makes me want to live. In the morning, as I face the typewriter, I also face myself and the threats of my memory, which tells me: Hey, watch out, or they will not like you. They will criticize you ... they will say you are depraved ... or too exotic ... or you just pretend.
But I do not care, because I have survived and I am in a creative frenzy. Then a second voice tells me: OK, but you also need distance and control. Without control there is no self-knowledge. I gain control over what I do through language, the command of language that is sufficient to send signals to the reader. The language in my books is quite uncomplicated. Verbs and nouns in English are stronger than they are in Slavic languages. Each page I write tells me: Listen, Jerzy, try to see something you have not seen in your life or in the lives of others around you. By talking to myself I also talk to my reader. Look at this. Read this poem by Aleksander Wat, "A Lullaby for the Dying." Aren't we all dying? Remember, the gift of life will not last forever. You also have this other option: "To long, under a bent cross, for what ..."
1989
CHAPTER 2TIME TO SPARE
In our nation of 220 million, over 20 million have barely achieved functional literacy and over 80 million find reading too difficult to term it rewarding. Yet I feel that if those who almost never read for pleasure came to do so, their sense of fulfillment would be overwhelming.
This thought returns to me constantly as I indulge a particular passion, a series of voyages of personal discovery.
In recent years I use some of my free time reserved for walks and wanderings about the city — any city that I happen to be in or passing through — for visiting, usually late at night, a hospital's ward for the incurably ill, a nursing home for the aged, any refuge for those whom the world has discarded.
Once inside, I ask for the doctor in charge, the chief nurse, or the guard on duty. I introduce myself as a man in transit, still healthy, sportsman even, but first and foremost a writer — a novelist, a teller of stories, stories about men and women, children and adults, tales I would read gladly or recount to the one who, at such a late hour, is lonely, or abandoned or ignored — anyone who cannot sleep and might care to listen.
From the pocket of my raincoat I take out the hardcover jacket of my most recent book, the photograph of my face on its inside flap, the only meaningful passport I carry.
My credentials established, I am then escorted through corridors and lobbies to a post between the oxygen tanks, the kidney machines, X-ray units, the grotesque armory of offerings enlisted in the defense of what is least defensible and most vulnerable — life in its evanescence, flesh in decay, beyond healing, a cancer in the innards of time, death having dispatched the pungent scent of mortality, its discreet calling card.
This is the regency of pain, undisputed by knowledge, numbed or stupefied by drugs, the unstoppable tide of television's images — once a transient folly, now no longer a distraction — the mere presence and voice of a visitor a ritual in useless name, one's own imagination the only messenger of consolation.
Intent on the shape before me — a man, a woman, a child — not to be cured, but breathing still, thought alive, I introduce myself as a traveler with time and inclination to spare, eager to meet one who is, like me, still traveling though on a different path. Settling on a chair, I begin to read a story from a novel of my own, or from a book of another author, always careful to keep my own presence in check so as to allow the language to release without hindrance the imagination of my listener.
My story now takes my listener along the trail of life, the trail painful, often surprising, but never as painful or as surprising as life in this room. Our visions unleashed, my listener and I now travel with the freedom unmatched by any spaceship over the mutable landscape of time lived, or left behind, or still to come, of revengeful wars, of nature that freely gave and fiercely took back of man's greed and man's mercy, of the strategies of love and deceit, of joy and despair. The stage is all set for the play of passion for one for whom passion is no longer a play, for whom life has lost fascination and allure, mystery and enigma.
No longer solitary, my listener is now like me, a fugitive, A displaced person in an uncharted landscape, an émigré to the frontier beyond the very scope of life's transit; with life about to end, an inner journey has only begun.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote this article for the thirtieth anniversary of the National Book Award in 1979. His novel Steps won the award for fiction in 1969.
CHAPTER 3DEATH IN CANNES
This story is not a tribute to death. Like birth, death is final; that's quite a tribute already. This story pays tribute to life. By the time it ends, life becomes visible only to the one who's about to die. Take a look at the picture of one such man. He is the one on the right in each picture. He is a man who knows that he will die — not eventually, as everyone does, but in a matter of days. The man on the left in each picture considers the older man his closest friend. He knows his friend is about to die — which, in a language a friend must not speak, means he's about to drop dead. Now that you know what each of them knows, picture them walking together through the busts and bustle of the Cannes Film Festival.
"In Hollywood," jokes the older man, "they would cast me as Conrad's Razumov, Dostoyevsky's Raskolnikov, or Kuprin's Romashov." Saying this, he knows that in Russian razum means "mind," that raskol means "dissent," and that Romashov dies in a senseless duel over a senseless love. Such facts of life are the elements of great literature. They were also the elements of this man's life. But since they cannot be learned from these (or any other) pictures, I'm not at all sure this story should be illustrated by them.
"Still, thanks for the pictures. They say a picture is worth a thousand words."
They say it, but they know this isn't true. They know that in order to be moved by an image (even as pure and commanding as image — the arabesque — is in Islam) you need to treat it with words (even if you're an Arab). They know that you move an image by giving it first a motive (and making it emotive), then by setting this motive in motion (a motion called emotion). And even in Cannes, a town of gamblers, still-life painters, and the Festival itself, they know that every motion picture begins by being treated in words — a treatment (even mistreatment) — in which every word is worth at least a thousand pictures.
To go on with this story, look again at these two pictures. They show two men on a sofa — hardly a still-life picture show. In one of the pictures both men seem to be smiling; in the other they appear to be sad — quite a change of mood, particularly since both pictures were taken within seconds of each other. So what? By themselves, these pictures can't even tell you whether they were taken with photographic art in mind, or a family album; whether they were taken for posterity or for a poster. By themselves they say nothing — not even which picture was taken first.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Passing by"
by .
Copyright © 1992 The Estate of Jerzy Kosinski.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
REFLECTIONS ON LIFE AND DEATH,
Aleksander and André Wat,
Time to Spare,
Death in Cannes,
LIFE AND ART,
On Books,
To Touch Minds,
The Reality Behind Words,
Where an Author Can Be Himself,
Our "Predigested, Prepackaged Pop Culture" — a Novelist's View,
To Hold a Pen,
A Sense of Place,
My Twenty-Minute Performance ...,
On Journalists: Combining Objective Data with Subjective Attitudes,
ARTISTS AND EYE,
On Sculpture: Sculptorids of Rhonda Roland Shearer,
Photography as Art,
On Film and Literature,
THE SPORTY SELF,
How I Learned to Levitate in Water,
Crans-Montana — The Open Resort,
Horses,
A Passion for Polo,
TALK OF NEW YORK,
New York: The Literary Autofocus,
Key to New York,
Time Machine,
Short Takes:,
Manhattan,
A Celebration of Literacy and Learning,
Gotham Book Mart,
New York Is a City of Port and Sport,
Beach Wear,
Being Here,
PEOPLE, PLACES AND ME,
Charisma Camouflages Mortality,
Solzhenitsyn: The Disenchanted Pilgrim,
A Message to the Chamber from Jerzy Kosinski,
A Brave Man, This Beatty. Brave As John Reed ...,
Egypt, Polo and the Perplexed I,
A Plea to Khomeini from an Author Whose Work Also Has Offended,
SELF VS. COLLECTIVE,
Gog and Magog: On Watching TV,
TV as Baby-Sitter,
Against Book Censorship,
Dead Souls on Campus,
The Banned Book as Psychological Drug-A Parody?,
JEWISH PRESENCE,
No Religion Is an Island,
God & ...,
Jews in the Soviet Union,
Hosanna to What?,
Restoring a Polish-Jewish Soul,
Speaking for My Self,
TIME OF LIFE, TIME OF ART,
Afterward: The Painted Bird Tenth Anniversary Edition (1976),
Notes of the Author on The Painted Bird,
Art of the Self: Essays à Propos Steps,
AFTERWORDS,
Disguises,
On Death,
Sources,