By Witold Gombrowicz

Just sooner than the outbreak of worldwide warfare II, younger Witold Gombrowicz left his domestic in Poland and set sail for South the USA. In 1953, nonetheless residing as an expatriate in Argentina, he all started his Diary with one in every of literature's so much memorable openings:
"Monday
Me.
Tuesday
Me.
Wednesday
Me.
Thursday
Me."

Gombrowicz's Diary became an enormous number of essays, brief notes, polemics, and confessions on myriad matters starting from political events to literature to the knowledge of dying. no longer a conventional magazine, Diary is as an alternative the observation of a super and stressed brain. largely considered as a masterpiece, this wonderful paintings pressured Gombrowicz's consciousness for a decade and a part until eventually he penned his ultimate access in France, almost immediately ahead of his dying in 1969.

Long out of print in English, Diary is now provided in a handy unmarried quantity that includes a brand new preface through Rita Gombrowicz, the author's widow and literary executor. This version additionally comprises ten formerly unpublished pages from the 1969 section of the diary.

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Artwork will repair your capability for flight and gear in order that humans won't say of you, in Shakespeare’s phrases: ‘Tis risky while the baser nature comes among the move and fell incensed issues Of powerful opposites. seventy four quantity 1 1954 VII Friday I seemed at this dancing occasion (this was once on New Year’s Day) at a. m. having ate up, as well as a turkey, quite a lot of vodka and wine. I had prepared to fulfill with neighbors yet they weren’t there and so I wandered in the course of the numerous rooms until eventually I sat down within the backyard the place, all at once, a crowd broke up into pairs and began dancing. This occurred due to the track, which used to be slightly audible from the place I sat and reached me purely throughout the uninteresting echo of the percussion tools or within the few tones of a full of life disappearing melody that hardly gave an indication of lifestyles. To the heavenly summons of the performed fragments, which seemed regularly, constantly prepared round a few type of inaccessible word, replied the playful and violent, witty and insistent rhythm of our bodies, dancing to the bursting element, extra tangible, extra genuine than that far away phantasm till it appeared that it was once now not the tune that was once eliciting the dance, however the dance that was once drawing forth the track. definite, one had the impact that the rhythm the following, on the backside, now too overpowering, was once tearing out the description of the confirming sound there, on the most sensible. What dancing! The dance of bellies, gyrating bald heads, wilted faces, the dance of overworked, usual everydayness, kicking up its vacation heels, the dance of drabness and deformity. which doesn't suggest that those humans have been worse than any others, it was once simply that those have been normally older humans and, eventually, those have been usual humans including their very own inevitable poverty, a poverty that paraded itself shamelessly in convulsions, which, while disadvantaged of track, have been anything blasphemously outrageous, terrifyingly pagan, and wildly promiscuous. It appeared as though they have been made up our minds to beat and own attractiveness, seventy five Wit, attractiveness, and Gaiety by means of strength and so in freeing their defects, they at the same time created a dance, an amused shape to which that they had no correct, a sort that used to be a usurpation of shape. but this mad clamoring for grace, which reached the top pitch, unexpectedly tore that signal of existence clear of the melody, clear of these few satisfied tones which, whilst washing over the dance, sanctified it for one second— and then, there seemed once more that wild, darkish, distant, godless operating of frenzied our bodies, over excited with themselves. The dance, for this reason, created the song, the dance conquered the melody with its violence and this even with its imperfection! on the flash of this notion i used to be so deeply moved that of all of the suggestions on the planet, it used to be that person who used to be crucial to us, this day, the only closest to us, certain, this revelation crouched at the back of that curtain in Valéry’s poem (in Lechon’s ´ translation, I think), which I had so fervently recited: The heavy unfinished gate of sleep The slowly emerging curtain of rubies .

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