Mr Cogito Advises

Back in Kraków. En route to Jesse’s funeral, I passed my hours flipping around in Zbigniew Herbert, from Elegy on the Departure and Epilogue to a Storm to Mr Cogito, who, reflecting on suffering, advises that “All attempts to avert/the so-called cup of bitterness—/by mental effort/… let you down.”  So, “drink [the] extract of bitter herbs/but not to the dregs/be careful to leave/a few gulps for the future”. A poet who suffered no shortage of horror, emotional distress, and physical pain, his alter ego, Mr Cogito’s voice is hardly a balm. “You have to consent,” he says, “gently bow your head/not wring your hands/ use suffering mildly with moderation.” Practically, “accept it/but at the same time/isolate it in yourself/and if it is possible/make from the stuff of suffering/a thing or a person/play/with it/of course/play/…with silly tricks/a wan/smile.” I think the operative notion here is “if possible.” We won’t be playing anytime soon. But already we smile wanly. (279)

Tough as his counsel reads, I do prefer it to the social conventions and the moist politesse of communal grieving—grieving from which there is no escape and for which no satisfactory language has been invented. Not even music. Not even silence. As bad as the worst in opening my mouth at all, I trust that the roar of grief in their ears engulfed any words I managed to utter and that only one’s simple presence will be remembered.

Such heartbreak always makes us wonder what we’re doing, why we are here. If home is nowhere other than that place where brothers gather to eat and drink, watch the Bucs and Penguin hockey, and mourn the loss of sons and nephews, what am I doing in Poland? Well, I suppose, we have to gather from somewhere.