Poland (mostly) honors Czeslaw Milosz upon his death.
By Agnieszka Tennant | posted 9/01/2004 12:00AM
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But then, in Paris, no one could dream about the Nobel Prize. Milosz honored me with an invitation for dinner. We made an appointment in the Latin District, where it took the poet a long time to find the restaurant. He looked around, he kept losing his way. Finally he found it. It was a small, warm Bulgarian pub. We sat down, Milosz ordered wine, and said: 'This is exactly where I wanted to bring you. I used to come here in the beginning of the '50s every day, and every day I thought I would commit suicide.'
The conversation was long and fascinating. At one pointmore or less after the third bottle of wineI began, without too much stuttering, to recite his poems from memory. I knew quite a few of them. Soon, to my great surprise, I saw that tears were running down Milosz's cheeks. Astonished, I stopped the recitation, and heard the moved voice of the poet: 'I didn't know that young people in Poland knew my poems by heart. I thought I had been cursed.'
He had the right to think that. His writings had been ruthlessly confiscated, as if the communists were out to prove that their vengeance had no end."
Milosz's death is a great loss to the world of literature and to Poland. But there's comfort and guidance in what's he's left behind, including the threat in the poem to those who "harmed a simple man":
The poet remembers. You can kill him a new one will be born to chronicle the deeds and the conversations.
Agnieszka Tennant is an associate editor at Christianity Today.
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