ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI
47
races and languages. Dark hair, white teeth, blue or brown eyes. The
enormous eyes of children, widening like desire. It's too bad, but we had
to punish the children as well. I remember this without pleasure, without
particular satisfaction. Great changes cannot satisfy everyone, that is not
why they are brought about. One must realize that great transformations
never transpire on the lyrical plane, so to speak - that is, on the plane of
confession, feeling, longing, lament, which are directly accessible to our
experiencing of them. No, the great metamorphoses have an epic
character. There are few who understand this; we live in times when that
maudlin philosophy existentialism was greeted with a standing ovation.
The wind blows. The wind is whipping up again. Tomorrow the
next parade awaits us. We cannot be satisfied with everything.
In
recent
years we have become the object of unjust attacks. Sometimes I think
that humanity has not matured enough to appreciate these fundamental
transformations, that it wants to stick to its little sins, its indolence.
Humanity with sticky fingers is sneaking into the larder and licking the
sweets earmarked for later, for other holidays. Fat, self-satisfied humanity
sits for hours in front of the television set and purrs with delight. We
imagined man somewhat differently, we assigned him other tasks. Even
our people have changed. They are no longer as youthful; they have be–
gun to look with interest and envy at that enormous human infantry
that has remained behind. I don't know. I don't understand it.
If I
were
younger, I would start all over, just as I did then, with the same
enthusiasm, with the same impartiality . I do not understand what
happened. Flatness, mediocrity, a lack of imagination, ease, dull–
wittedness triumph. Small, limited merchants stand at the head of historic
nations. In their electoral programs there is only butter, bread and
butter, ham and bread, mustard and ham. Himalayas of butter. The
astounding sentimentality of these people: they assess their losses, pretend
to be outraged when one of our prisoners dies. But they are not really
concerned with that. Thoughts are invisible. What has become of the
old Europe, the Europe of combative, tough, brave people for whom
death was not a cowardly, desperate finale? What has become of the
Europe of knights?
Once again an impenetrable, dark, many-headed humanity, a sensual
anthill submitting to no laws or plans, a capricious beast full of urges,
restless, somnolent, vegetative, seeking mysteries where there are none -
in the stars, in the gizzards of sacrificial birds, in the ravings of fortune
tellers, in exclamations of love, in moans of passion. Stupid, dark human–
ity, a zoo, flurry of idiots seeking to sate themselves, goofballs, finding
happiness in driving around a Sicilian town on a scooter or marching
along an Atlantic beach with an enormous boombox playing black mu–
sic. The woolly heads of simpletons. Moronic fish eyes. Others are
