| About the book
Since the envoys had brought news of the arrival of the Emperor, Bolesław’s kingdom had been overwhelmed by an all-encompassing state of commotion. Aside from the settlers living deep within the deepest forests, there was probably no one who did not, in some way or other, (...)
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| | About the book
8
The phones are always going wrong, so my parents aren’t upset when there’s no dialling tone. They’re at the fortieth birthday party of a female friend from their class at high school. They say they’re going downstairs to the phone booth for a (...)
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Christian SkrzyposzekMoira
Translating Christian Skrzyposzek's Moirawas an interesting adventure for me, and not only because of the beautiful language of the novel. The author recounts a journey into the depths of the self, into the secret nooks of the soul that are the hiding placers of the desire for pure love, the harmony of body and soul, and the penalty for betraying this divine secret.
Moira is an authentic and honest book that contains many autobiographical elements. It recounts the tale of a man who takes advantage of the love of a woman he calls "a saint," in order to cure himself. He pays for this love as if it were a service, and then rejects the beloved without any explanation. The "saint" turns her therapeutic powers to magical practices and exacts a ruthless vengeance by sentencing the man to a slow death, in agony. This is a fascinating novel: an extraordinary story of false love and true doubt. The reader will surely find it fascinating to try to understand the characters and the motives behind their actions
Moira
I died on the afternoon of August 19, 1992, having almost made it to the age of 48. I ended my unhappy life in the same way that I had spent it: flopping around like an animal caught in a trap, without a shred of comprehension... The doctors did everything they could to relieve the torments of my death throes, but not even the highest admissible dose of morphine was capable of deadening the pain with which the last twenty-four hours of my life was filled. The blood-curdling screams and groans that I let out must have been such a serious threat to the mental health of the patients in the rooms next door that, in the end, my bed was moved to a provisionally outfitted isolation ward in the basement levels of the hospital. The doctors told the trembling nurses that the morphine they had introduced into my bloodstream by way of the intravenous drip over the last week was sufficient for me to be unaware that I was suffering. They said that I was unconscious, and unaware of the tortures that I was experiencing. The preposterousness of such illusions is one more proof of the philosophical helplessness with which the contemporary physician approaches the phenomenon of life. I spent the last eleven hours before my death howling in pain, and not one face appeared at my bedside to diminish the solitude of my agony by even a tiny bit...
No - don't wake up your wife! Don't panic, and stop acting hysterical. ... And don't turn on that tape recorder! I am speaking to your "inner" hearing, and no tape is sensitive enough to record me. If you insist on having some proof of the veracity of our contact, then turn on the computer. As you know, I bought one of those amusing devices a few months before my demise, and learned how to use it well enough. It would be no trouble for me to write down every word that you are hearing. On a typewriter, it would be out of the question. I do not have enough physical energy to push the keys down. But a computer keyboard is sensitive to the lightest breath of wind, so I should be able to manage...
Excellent. I can see that you've got a grip on yourself and have even stopped shaking. When I decided to visit you, the thing I feared most was that you wouldn't have the mental toughness to endure the experience. After all, your mind had never dared to cross the barrier of narrow rationalism. That is why phenomena that don't fit well into rational conceptions could upset your spiritual equilibrium. I was really afraid of that... No, don't sit down in front of the computer. All you have to do is turn it on.
Translated by William Brand
Christian SKRZYPOSZEK (1943 - 1999) - prosaist, dramaturg, pianist. Born to a mixed Polish-German family. A legendary figure on the warsaw literary scene in the 1960s. After the events of March, 1968, Skrzyposzek was prohibited from publishing. From 1969 on, he lived in Berlin. He spent twelve years working on his novel Free Tribune. Committed suicide May 10, 1999.
Polish edition by Wydawnictwo W.A.B.
Christian Skrzyposzek Mojra
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