COMMON HISTOR.ICAL R.OOTS
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tional. Isn't it likely that nationalist furors will prove
to
be just as old–
fashioned and as maladaptive in the would-be capitalist countries of
Central and Eastern Europe? This suggests, I think, one direction
111
which Konrad's remarks might be developed in our discussion.
Our next speaker is Blaga Dimitrova.
Blaga Dimitrova:
Ladies and gentlemen, I see in the program that my
talk has been titled, "Moving Away from Communism." My remarks are
not precisely on that subject, but I do think that every discussion we
have had at this conference leads away from Communism. (If I dared to
read my essay in my totalitarian English, I'm sure that it would take me a
long time and a great effort to move away from Communism, or maybe
I would not succeed at all. That is why I have asked Marianna Katzarova
to read it for me.) I have given my remarks the title, "The Triumph of
Sisyphus."
"Jl
£aut imaginer Sisyphus heureux," wrote Albert Camus in
Le
My the
de Sisyphe.
Today, fate has thrown a new challenge in Sisyphus's way,
perhaps greater than any other challenge he faced. For dozens of years, as
long as centuries, the dissident Sisyphus kept pushing his big stone uphill
in a desperate effort, short of breath but not short of hope. Treacherous
serpents spied on him and hissed from a distance, careful not to be
squashed by the boulder when it rolled downhill. Wasps stung him
fiercely; hawks drew ominous loops over his head; jackals lay in wait for
him at night when he dropped to the ground, overpowered by fatigue;
those gossips, the bluejays, tried to smear his name before the sovereigns
above. All the while, the destitute people below urged him on from
their hiding places in the caves: "Well done, Sisyphus! A little more!
Hold on, Sisyphus! Don't let us down! Don't give up! We are behind
you, finnly behind you!"
Perhaps Sisyphus was hearing only his own thoughts, but those voices
of encouragement gave him courage anyway, and he strove on, never
lifting his hands from the heavy stone he himself had chosen. The stone
was a fragment of petrified history, a conglomerate of humiliation, strife,
and anguish; tears, blood, and sweat turned into marble, a fossilized na–
tional fate. His palms were bruised by the rough surface of the rock; his
veins bulged and strained; the light of dedication shone in his eyes.
Whenever he stopped to take a deep breath, Sisyphus would carve
proclamations in the stone using his chipped nails and bruised fingers.
Then again he would muster all his strength and push the stone uphill,
step by step, inch by inch. And as he ascended, panting in the rhythm of
his breathless aspiration, he would compose verses, dramas, satires that
were a sweet comfort to him. Cut off as he was from the company of
others, he never for a moment lost his sense of identity. His image was
