THE TEACHER. AND HIS STUDENTS
93
of what poetry should be. He is trying to carve out of Polish literature a tra–
dition that he can claim as his own: "That which withstands a confrontation
with human, and not only Polish, greatness, that which defines my own indi–
vidual and distinct self." The role of a Ii terary historian of course is different.
Therefore we ask, what is the relationship between Milosz the scholar and
Milosz the poet? To what extent is Milosz a poet and someone with a clear
parti-pris
present in the
History?
How well did he manage to eliminate or
control personal preferences and aversions? How successful is he in adopting
a detached attitude "from the heights of academic knowledge"? He per–
forms an admirable balancing act. Even the writers he dislikes, like
Sienkiewicz or Dlugosz, are treated fairly and with restraint. Thus, the image
of Polish literature that emerges is different from the conventional one found
in Polish textbooks. It is more universal, more European, less provincial, par–
ticular, and self-referential. Milosz devotes, for instance, a considerable space
to the Polish Reformation, something which in most Polish literary histo–
ries is dealt with in a cursory manner. The discussion of the Reformation is
accompanied by a discussion ofJews and Jewish religious movements, and by
frequent references to Lithuanian, 13ielorussian, and Ukrainian elements of
Polish culture. Similarly unorthodox is the picture of Romanticism, the bas–
tion of Polish nationalism and messianism. Milosz's critical distance made
him de-emphasize national issues and search for the trai ts that represent uni–
versal values. Consequently, his picture of Polish literature is complex and
attractive. He once described this book as a tale: "Under the disguise of a
textbook I tried to write a tale of a pathetic, tragic, grotesque, and fantastic
adventure of Latinized Slavs that abounds in the so-called universal human
values." Milosz's tale is not only dramatic and attractive, but very convinc–
ing. I want to thank you, Czeslaw Milosz.
Mimi McKay:
On the day it was announced he'd won the Nobel Prize,
October 9,1980, I waited with the other students in the classroom where
Milosz was holding his course on Dostoyevsky. There were a dozen of us
that semester. We waited, wondering if our professor would show up.
Slightly late, Milosz came to class pursued by reporters. He slammed the
door on them wi th a curt goodbye and a smile, and noted that for
Dostoevsky the minimulll necessary for existence was two, and that, for
Sartre, man is what he is not. Theil he said that the Nobel belonged
to
the
past and that all his life he'd been escaping from the past, always writing
because he is dissatisfied with what he'd written. Now he hoped to do
something better. He continued lecturing on Dostoyevsky's
Notes frol/1
Ulidergrolllu/
about how the underground man believes in nothing,just feels
pain and the need to scream, how with that constant interference from
other voices we can del ude ourselves forever. Domination or humiliation
