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PARTISAN REVIEW
and Faulkner it is hard to find a true writer. Beckett and lonesco
created a world of their own. I would add Gombrowicz. We have
mentioned Milosz. Who else? A couple of other ... Borges, for ex–
ample. There are about two thousand registered writers in Poland.
No wonder, then, that they were looking for support in the world of
politics, which gave them awards, medals, paper, seats in the parlia–
ment.
It
created ranks, just as in prerevolutionary Russia. There
were general-workers and colonel-writers, cadets and non-corns.
The financial situation of the majority of members of the Writers'
Union in those days was fantastic. Their careers were brilliant and
fast. Italian, English, German, and French writers are miserably
poor. The great essayist Cioran, for example, is said to dine in some
students' canteen and to be supported by Ionesco. His books bring
him no money. An average writer in the West cannot support him–
self from his writing. He has to work at a university - if he has a
suitable education - or in a bank, like Eliot. Whoever chooses to be–
come a writer takes an immense risk, whereas here they lived in the
lap of luxury, above the average of other professionals. The only risk
was political. One had to know which way the wind blows. The
material and social position of a writer is very important. I keep
harping on this inelegant subject like some kitchen maid. But here
we come to the question of talent.
If
one was a member of the
Writers' Union it was obvious that his books would be published. I
do not know of a single case where a book was turned down because
it was badly written.
I conceive the duty of an intellectual as seeing the facts with
dazzling clarity and - if they are simple - to give them simple
names, to learn to live with despair, to tell oneself that perhaps one
has to write, but one does not necessarily have to publish. Is publish–
ing some kind of obligation?
If
what I've written is worth reading, it
would probably be worth reading also in ten years. Manuscripts can
get lost, but a great subject never really leaves a writer. There is an
exquisite anecdote about Paul Valery and Albert Einstein. Valery, a
true French writer, asked Einstein what he did with his ideas. Did he
write them down on small pieces of paper, or on larger sheets, or
perhaps in a notebook? Albert Einstein answered with the simplicity
of great men: You see, one has one or two ideas in a lifetime, and
one is not likely to forget them. That's how it is.
Let us not hurry. We are approaching the end, so let me con–
fess, I would much prefer to avoid this conversation. I rarely think
about the "period of errors and distortions," and when I do, it fills me
