Czeslaw Milosz at 111
"Instead of the hand through which warm blood flows from the heart to the fingers holding my pen, they would have given me an excellent artificial hand -- the dialectic."
One of those writers I think about every day.
To forestall doubt, the Party fights any tendency to delve into the depths of a human being, especially in literature and art. Whoever reflects on "man" in general, on his inner needs and longings, is accused of bourgeois sentimentality. Nothing must ever go beyond the description of man's behavior as a member of a social group. This is necessary because the Party, treating man exclusively as the byproduct of social forces, believes that he becomes the type of being he pictures himself to be. He is a social monkey. What is not expressed does not exist. Therefore if one forbids men to explore the depths of human nature, one destroys in them the urge to make such explorations; and the depths in themselves slowly become unreal.
...
This way of treating literature (and every art) leads to absolute conformism. Is such conformism favorable to serious artistic work? That is doubtful. The sculptures of Michelangelo are completed acts that endure. There was a time when they did not exist. Between their non-existence and existence lies the creative act, which cannot be understood as a submission to the "wave of the future."... The creative man has no choice but to trust his inner command and place everything at stake in order to express what seems to him to be true.
And
A man may persuade himself, by the most logical reasoning, that he will greatly benefit his health by swallowing live frogs; and, thus rationally convinced, he may swallow a first frog, then a second; but at the third his stomach will revolt. In the same way, the growing influence of the doctrine on my way of thinking came up against the resistance of my whole nature.
From the end of The Captive Mind:
Being on the side of that stammering and mumbling with which human beings try to express themselves in their lonely helplessness, could I have walked on the thick carpet of my apartment, in a neighborhood reserved for privileged people, and savored Shakespeare? Instead of the hand through which warm blood flows from the heart to the fingers holding my pen, they would have given me an excellent artificial hand -- the dialectic. Knowing there is a light in man, I could never have dared seek it; for light is not, I believe, the same as political consciousness, and it can exist in fools, monks, boys who dislike social duties, and kulaks. Knowing there is crime in man, I could never have pointed it out; for I would have had to believe, as does my friend, that crime is a product of history and not of human beings. There are past crimes... But one must learn to forgive. I am concerned with the crimes that are being, and will continue to be, committed. Crimes in the name of the new and radiant man; crimes committed to the sound of orchestras and choruses, to the blare of loudspeakers and the recitation of optimistic poems.
Now I am homeless -- a just punishment. But perhaps I was born so that the "Eternal Slaves" might speak through my lips. Why should I spare myself? Should I renounce what is probably the sole duty of a poet only in order to make sure that my verse would be printed in an anthology edited by the State Publishing House? My friend accepts naked terror, whatever name he may choose to give it. We have parted ways. Whether the side on which I now find myself is the future victor or the future victim is not the issue here. But I know that if my friend tastes the sweet fruits of victory, this planet will be improved according to plan for centuries -- but woe to him who lives to see this happen. All over the world people are now sleeping in their beds, or perhaps they are engaging in some idiotic pastime; and one might easily believe that each in his own way is doing his best to deserve destruction. But that destruction will bring no freedom. Should the power my friend worships turn out not to be historical necessity, the earth will enter a period of terrible wars and bloody revolutions. But the quest will never end, and hope will always remain.
Let Pablo Neruda fight for his people. He is wrong, however, when he believes that all the protesting voices of Central and Eastern Europe are the voices of stubborn nationalisms or the yelps of wronged reaction. Eyes that have seen should not be shut; hands that have touched should not forget when they take up a pen. Let him allow a few writers from Central and Eastern Europe to discuss problems other than those that haunt him.
When, as my friend suggested, I stand before Zeus (whether I die naturally, or under sentence of History) I will repeat all this that I have written as my defense. Many people spend their entire lives collecting stamps or old coins, or growing tulips. I am sure that Zeus will be merciful toward people who have given themselves entirely to these hobbies, even though they are only amusing and pointless diversions. I shall say to him: "It is not my fault that you made me a poet, and that you gave me the gift of seeing simultaneously what was happening in Omaha and Prague, in the Baltic states and on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I felt that if I did not use that gift my poetry would be tasteless to me and fame detestable. Forgive me." And perhaps Zeus, who does not call stamp-collectors and tulip-growers silly, will forgive.
And his poetry.
Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered
the clarity of early morning.
One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.
And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,
ready now to be described better than they were before.
I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget—I kept saying—that we are all children of the King.
For where we come from there is no division
into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.
We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.
Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago—
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef—they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.
I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,
whether they are aware of it or not.
"I am concerned with the crimes that are being, and will continue to be, committed. Crimes in the name of the new and radiant man; crimes committed to the sound of orchestras and choruses, to the blare of loudspeakers and the recitation of optimistic poems." You are like him Eliza, in your deep commitment to word-art and poetry, and to the truth about the crimes being committed today trumpeted through the blare of loudspeakers.
Today, coupled with a devastating and unexpected personal loss, his words make me weep. Yours is the only email I could open today from someone I do not know, because you always have something worthwhile to say. Thank you for all you do, and for the introduction to this writer.
Thankyou, Eliza, for these excerpts. They reminded me of the importance of wide reading, and deep. A few special writers have stayed with me through the years. They have kept my life in balance, warding off the tendency to think the latest popular thoughts are the best. As for poetry, it is second only to religion for me. Sometimes first because it addresses the presence of mystery and transcendence. (Odd, but also ironic and-- for me-- sad, how that last word has become misunderstood and transformed, which you document quite effectively.)