Reading still
and underlining often in Długosz, Miłosz, and Herbert, though not so much in
Długosz—it’s a library book. What I make of them, and what they make of me—in
the direction of Polishness—remains to be seen, but every now and then you come
upon a passage that bursts off the page like laughter, a tiny firework, the
memory of a wet, moustachy smooch from a rascal aunt long dead. And you want to
share it for what it is and make nothing more of it, complete in itself.
Once,
a very long time ago, walking down the street in a Polish village, I grew
thoughtful at the sight of ducks splashing about in a miserable puddle. I was
struck because nearby there was a lovely stream flowing through an alder wood.
“Why don’t they go over to the stream?” I asked an old peasant sitting on a
bench in front of his hut. He answered: “Bah, if only they knew!” Miłosz,
To Begin Where I Am, p. 245
