98
PARTISAN REVIEW
between a very young writer, which is what I was then, and a very young
writer, which Czeslaw always is. We began to work together on translations.
At the time, I did not appreciate the unique opportuni ty to work with a
master in something like the traditional European master-apprentice rela–
tionship. We would sit side by side and argue, working out, line by line, his
poetry and the poetry of Aleksander Wat and others. From the many years
we worked together, I remember Berkeley's smell of eucalyptus and tear
gas and driving up above that smell to 978 Grizzly Peak Boulevard, and
working with Czeslaw. One day we were translating a poem and Czeslaw
looked at it and said, "No, it's too smooth; we'll have to roughen it up." It
came as an absolute revelation that something could be too smooth and
then could be consciously, deliberately, roughened up. I remember becom–
ing three or four degrees more awake when realizing what it meant to have
control over nuterial, to be the master of one's craft. As I got a little better
at translation, Czeslaw looked at me and said, "You know, Richard, you
could make a living at translating."
In
the sixties, it was considered shame–
ful to think about making a living. The word "professional" was bad; the
word "career" was worse; and "success" was absolutely disgusting. And if
you put them together, "professional career success"-i t was moral death
itself. Still, I wasn't entirely stupid and I knew I was going to have to make
a living, and it seemed to me a perfect way until I could get to write my
own works, to essentially have a literary life and keep the electricity on.
Those hundreds of hours of working wi th Czeslaw were the true edu–
cation I received from him. Of course, I profited immensely from his
classes. And even the historical consciousness with which I wrestled–
before I had it and after I did-came through in the classroom. But when
Czeslaw said that I could make a living by translating, he shaped my life: I
translated forty books from Polish and Russian, probably four or five mil–
lion words. A translator has to weigh every word to analyze, feel, taste, and
know it. There were times when I cursed Czeslaw, because the profession
of translator is nei ther profi table nor glorious. The translator doesn't get
fame, power, or the love of women. If he's lucky, he gets a hundred dol–
lars per thousand words, and immortal fame as a fool if he makes one bad
mistake.
When, in 1980, during the strikes in the shi pyards in Gdansk, I spoke
with Walesa and looked at the monument where words of Milosz had been
inscribed, I asked the workers why they had chosen Milosz, who always had
been banned. They said yeah, he was always banl1ed, but we always knew
him. When I came back
to
America, Czeslaw asked me, "What was Poland
like?" This was in the midst of Solidarity. Compressing months of impres–
sions into a single phrase, I said, "There is no alienation there."
Momentarily, the brotherhoood of man had been achieved.
