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By Witold Gombrowicz

Just ahead of the outbreak of global struggle II, younger Witold Gombrowicz left his domestic in Poland and set sail for South the USA. In 1953, nonetheless dwelling as an expatriate in Argentina, he all started his Diary with one in every of literature's such a lot memorable openings:
"Monday
Me.
Tuesday
Me.
Wednesday
Me.
Thursday
Me."

Gombrowicz's Diary turned an unlimited number of essays, brief notes, polemics, and confessions on myriad matters starting from political events to literature to the understanding of dying. no longer a conventional magazine, Diary is as an alternative the remark of a super and stressed brain. broadly considered as a masterpiece, this fabulous paintings pressured Gombrowicz's awareness for a decade and a part until eventually he penned his ultimate access in France, almost immediately ahead of his loss of life in 1969.

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 This version additionally contains ten formerly unpublished pages from the 1969 section of the diary.

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I don't intend to offer you a journey of my erotic lifestyles, it really is easily an issue of delineating the bounds of my adventure. If at the beginning, I took safe haven in adolescence from values inaccessible to me, then presently thereafter it seemed to me because the purely, maximum, and absolute worth of existence and its sole attractiveness. That ‘‘value,’’ despite the fact that, had one attribute, most likely devised by way of the satan himself, that, being adolescence, it 1955 163 was consistently whatever underneath price, it used to be in detail attached with degradation, it used to be degradation itself. It used to be most likely in 1942 that I grew to become neighbors with Karol Mastronardi: this was once my first highbrow friendship in Argentina. The few poems Mastronardi had written had guaranteed him a significant position in Argentine paintings. a bit over 40, sophisticated, bespectacled, ironic, sarcastic, airtight, might be a bit like Lechon, ´ this poet from Entre Ríos used to be the provinces, decorated with the main Parisian Europeanism. He was once angelic goodness garbed within the armor of causticity, a mollusk, retaining his oversensitivity. He was once excited about the infrequent, at the moment, instance of an aesthetic ecu in Argentina and we often met at a bar overdue at evening which additionally had the gastronomic significance of his sometimes treating me to ravioli or spaghetti. progressively I printed my literary previous to him. I informed him approximately Ferdydurke and different concerns and all that used to be Slavic in me and assorted from the French, Spanish, and English paintings that he knew him profoundly. He, in flip, brought me to behind the curtain Argentina, a difficult and elusive nation to intellectuals, or even terrifying to them in lots of methods. but the sport used to be even more masked on my half, since it used to be forbidden. i couldn't say every thing. i couldn't exhibit that position in me, smelling of evening, which I referred to as ‘‘Retiro. ’’ I provided Mastronardi the paintings of my derailed mind, which sought ‘‘solutions,’’ with out stating the assets of my concept. He didn't recognize the place this ardour got here from in me, with which I struck in any respect ‘‘old age,’’ and with which I demanded that this present surging from under be made show up in tradition (which is predicated at the supremacy of superiority, the older outdated age, maturity), this present which, in flip, makes outdated age depending on early life, superiority depending on inferiority. I demanded that ‘‘the grownup be subordinated to the more youthful. ’’ I demanded that this striving for our relentless rejuvenation finally be legalized and that early life be famous as a separate and real worth, which alterations our relation to different values. I needed to impose the illusion of reasoning onto that which was once my ardour in fact and this led me into the fathomless constructs, that have been fairly a question of indifference to me . . . yet isn’t this the best way concept is born: as an detached surrogate of blind strivings, wishes, passions, for which we're not able to set up the correct to exist between humans. The exonerating think about this discussion used to be youth, simply because Mastronardi, who was once nearly as infantile as i used to be, fortunately knew the best way to play with me, simply as I performed with him.

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