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260 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1966
Marxism doesn’t help man to become wise; Marxist dialectics doesn’t teach one to think – it teaches one the way one must think.
If you don’t mind in February 1958, I disembarked at Orly Airport from an airplane that had taken off in Warsaw. I had eight dollars on me. I was twentyfour years old. I was the author of a published volume of short stories and two books that had been refused publication. I was also the recipient of the Publishers’ Prize, which I’d received a few weeks before my departure from Warsaw. And one more thing: I was known as a finished man, and it was taken as a given, beyond any doubt, that I’d never write anything again.
Sure, it would be best to live like Felix Dzerzhinsky. But you can only live like Dzerzhinsky on the backs of the working class, and that’s not always possible. A person understands this sad truth only after he has requested political asylum, and when his sole personal property is an oilcloth suitcase containing gifts from the American people to refugees from behind the Iron Curtain: a toothbrush, a towel, and soap.
Ми, поляки, взагалі маємо небагато шансів. Будь-яка російська книжка, хоч би й найслабша, завжди пам'ятатиме в тисячу разів більшого успіху, ніж хороша польська