The Polish Complex

by Tadeusz Konwicki, Richard Lourie (Translator)

The Polish Complex takes place on Christmas Eve, from early morning until late in the evening, as a line of people (including the narrator, whose name is Konwicki) stand and wait in front of a jewelry store in Warsaw. Through the narrator we are told of what happens among those standing in line outside this store, what happens as the narrator's mind thinks and rants about the current state of Poland, and what happens as he imagines the failed Polish rebellion of 1863. The novel's form allows Konwicki (both character and author) to roam around and through Poland's past and present, and to range freely through whatever comes to his attention. By turns comic, lyrical, despairing, and liberating, The Polish Complex stands as one of the most important novels to have come out of Poland since World War II.

Genres: Fiction, Poland, Polish Literature, Novels, Literature, Literary Fiction, 20th Century

211 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1989

About the author

Prose writer, screenwriter and film director. Founder of the 'cinema d'auteur' in Poland and author of 20 books. Born in 1926 in Nowa Wilejka, near Vilnius (today Naujoji Vilnia, Lithuania), died on January 7th in Warsaw at 88 years old.

Konwicki was educated at the Universities of Cracow and Warsaw and began writing for newspapers and periodicals. He served on the editorial boards of leading literary magazines and followed the official Communist Party line. His first work, Przy budowie (1950; “At the Construction Site”), won the State Prize for Literature. He began a career as a filmmaker and scriptwriter in 1956; his film Ostatni dzień lata (“The Last Day of Summer”) won the Venice Film Festival Grand Prix in 1958. By the late 1960s he had quit the Communist Party, lost his job in the official film industry, and become active in the opposition movement.

Konwicki’s work is suffused with guilt and anxiety, coloured by his wartime experiences and a sense of helplessness in confronting a corrupt and repressive society. Chief among his novels are Rojsty (1956; “The Marshes”) and Sennik wspóczesny (1963; A Dreambook for Our Time), a book that writer and critic Czesław Miłosz called “one of the most terrifying novels of postwar Polish literature.” His other works of that period are Wniebowsta̦pienie (1967; “Ascension”) and Zwierzoczłekoupiór (1969; The Anthropos-Spectre-Beast). His later books—including Kompleks polski (1977; The Polish Complex), the bitterly mocking Mała apokalipsa (1979; A Minor Apocalypse), and the lyrical Bohiń (1987; Bohin Manor)—confront Poland’s social cataclysms of the late 1970s and the ’80s. The autobiographical Wschody i zachody ksie̦życa (1981; Moonrise, Moonset) recounts some of Konwicki’s experiences during the period of martial law in Poland.

Reviews

[Nate D · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tadeusz Konwicki is fantastic, and no one is reading him these days. To the point where his works that have never been translated out of Polish seem to far out-number those that have. I've written about a few others here (the hit) and here (my favorite) and here (the ostensible-but-not-really kids adventure story).

This one, notoriously, is about waiting in line all day for a shipment to a government jewelry store which may or may not ever arrive. Even so, it's an odysssey of sorts through modern Poland and Konwicki's obsessions -- Konwicki, playing himself as in A Minor Apocalypse, finds time for his usual ranted resignation and ultra-dry observation, but seems this time to be addressing ghosts and aliens, and finds opportunity for historical drama, romance, letters from lost friends, brushes with death. And even the most mundane bits become suffused with Knowicki's sense of the surreal, of the sheer strangeness of a modern landscape which seems to turn all its occupants into refugees and prisoners just by context.

I'm giving it three stars cause they can't all get 4 and 5, but jeez, he's not really made any missteps in these significant four I've read.

...

Incidentally, here's a list of still-untranslated Konwicki novels from the era since his falling out with the state-mandated socialist-realist writing (ie his first, the almost parodically socialist-realist-sounding Construction Site which even characters within this book complain about being bored to tears by in school and Konwicki himself renounces):

Ascension (1967): "a grim, poignant, menacing, surreal image of the metropolitan reality. The protagonist of the novel finds himself under a tram viaduct, most likely the victim of some accident, with a large hole the back of the head, and his hair is stuck together with blood. Unable to remember anything, haunting nocturnal Warsaw, meeting people from the margins: pimps, drunks, prostitutes and swindlers, visiting mysterious premises, taking part in a bank robbery, etc."

Nothing or Never (1971): still looking for an intelligible synopsis for this, but it sounds like it might concern WWII partisans and maybe vampires?!

Chronicles of Love (1974): First love and nostalgia in the 1939 Lithuania of Konwicki's youth.

Underground River or maybe "Underground river, underground birds" (1984): Seems to be another novel based on war recollections.

Czytadło (1992)

[Dov Zeller · Rating 4 out of 5]

"The Polish Complex" is the kind of existential comedy I aspire to write. A teaspoon of Beckett here, a pinch of Kafka there, an inexact and mesmerizing touch of Lispector.

The book reads in many way like a play. I felt like I was reading or watching a play through much of the book, and at the same time, it really did transport me to a certain time and place so that I, too, was outside in the cold, and then inside, and then outside again. And then there were those strange interludes, one about Zygmunt Mineyko and one Romuald Traugutt, both fighters in the January Uprising, 1863.

This is also one of those novels that verges on sly and questionable autobiography. It is something of an essay, something of a philosophical text, something of a rant against not just one nation's insidious, toxic, destructive regime-in-power, but against a world of people becoming accustomed to oppressive and controlling governments and less and less willing to fight for liberty.

But then again, what the hell is liberty? The Konwicki who narrates this novel doesn't know, and to some degree he doesn't care, because humans are mostly self-serving scoundrels anyway (though at least in the past there were some noble souls who risked their lives for justice, no? There were heroes in those good old days! Weren't there? Or maybe they were just idiots hastening the inevitable and for what?) And so unfolds the comedy and the tragedy of this novel, with a narrator who is something of a shlemeil, or at least self-deprecating in his humor, and also, of course, an aging writer who gets to sleep with a young beautiful woman (he is not wholly un-Rothian, this Konwicki) directly after having a heart attack. Or so it seems. But I do wonder, even within the context of the story, how much of this is fantasy, or even a touch of magical realism.

The basic premise of this novel? Well, there are people standing in line to buy things on Christmas eve day (afternoon, evening). They want to buy gifts I suppose. Though Konwicki wants to buy gold rings as a way to sort of invest his money "safely." He has a bunch of money in his pocket. At least in the beginning of the novel he does. (Plot spoiler: there is no plot. But the money does disappear.)

In watching the slow activity of this line of folks trying to get into a store that has not yet received its shipment of goods, we see unfold the drama of life in Poland in the 1970s. Moreover, we see something perhaps equally absurd and at least a little more surreal than the troubles of Soviet-dominated Poland. Konwicki of the novel happens to be in line next to the guy who had, in the 1950s, been given the job of assassinating him (though clearly he didn't succeed). And, tagging along with the would-be assassin, Kojran, is the police officer, Duszek, who tortured Kojran after his arrest and now follows him around, yearning for absolution.

Below is a quote from the NYRB review of this book, written in '82 by Richard Lourie:

"As the people [in line] gradually reveal their life stories—with Konwicki as their medium, their confessor, as well as an offstage commenting voice—it becomes clear that their failures and frustrations have deeper roots than the everyday hardships and humiliations of postwar Polish life. Most of them, like the narrator, Konwicki himself, are tormented by a real or irrational sense of guilt, by feelings of utter degradation and the wish for death.

“Listen to what happened to me, Konwa,” says Kojran. “I was once the boy from the fairy tale. I was Janek the musician, the sorcerer’s apprentice, a young Byron. How did I hit the skids? What was the mix-up that left me a primitive old codger? Must have been a lack of training. My consciousness, my perception system, my sensibility, the tendons of my soul, the lenses of my clairvoyance, they all remained dormant. I never practiced or perfected or encouraged any of it. And that’s why it withered away and died in me before I was even dead myself. I condemned myself to an animal existence. Or could that have been fate?”

Something went wrong in the lives of these people—a long time ago or just recently—something involving not only individuals but the Polish community. An act of betrayal was committed—Konwicki muses—yet no one wanted to be a betrayer. A destiny was sabotaged, yet no one was clear what the destiny was. What, then, is the real source of the agony of Konwicki’s characters?

The answer can be found in the historical sections of the novel, as well as in the author’s personal reflections which occur throughout the book in a seemingly random way."

So yes, the people in this novel struggle to feel that their lives matter, that their souls are indeed transcendent and resplendent, that their suffering happens for a reason, that they belong to a culture, can make claims to cultural richness, that there is some rich cultural cloth that they can wrap themselves in, that will hold them in their humanity and in their desire for a purpose beyond a kind of coarse and plain animal survival.

But is there anything more than this animal life for any of us?

The truth is a perhaps a worrisome thing. But the insistence of these people in line, their forming a community even as they wait, near abjection, in the cold, for goods that will never arrive, even as they lose all hope that whatever might have arrived at the store could save them from the something that is leaving them with a sense of material or spiritual unfulfillment, their creation of a sort of holy space in all of this misery is what makes this book sweet and strange and interesting. On one hand they wait for a providence that will not arrive. On the other hand, they create a providence of sacred, unholy connection.

One of my favorite parts of this novel (which I loved. I really loved this novel though it is very flawed) was a letter written to Konwicki by his friend Seweryn P. It goes on for about ten pages, and the voice is very similar to Konwicki's, but Seweryn is writing from a medical facility where he is being treated by a renowned, "non-party proctologist", who helps deliver Seweryn's letter into the world (when a proctologist becomes a kind of literary midwife to a letter from the narrator's ass-troubled doppelgänger...) It's too long to post here, and I can't find an excerpt I want to post, but look out for it! And if you've read it, I'd be very curious to hear your thoughts on it.

The element of magical realism is this novel is hard for me to put my finger on, but I did think of The Trial. I wondered at times whether this line of people was really outside of an earthly store, or whether they were all waiting for entrance to a more magical or heavenly kingdom. Like Josef K., they never do arrive. But the ending is differently bleak.

I am not sure how to end this review. So, for now I will end it here. I will try to add some quotes in the next few days.

[[P] · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dear aliens,

It is Christmas day, and I write this while at my parents’ house. A few moments ago, I was sitting by the window, which I had opened in an effort to tempt a Bengal kitten into joining the forces of evil, when above me I saw a bright light, and I thought of you. Or should I say, I thought of you in the hope that you would think of me. Which means that I, and this is typical of our species, acknowledged your potential existence only in so much as I would like you to acknowledge my actual existence. In short, I wondered what you would make of me, of us, down here. Normally, I write these reviews for my fellow human beings, and it is often the case that I will start with an anecdote, one that relates to me and my life or past life; and I think that more often than not I give the impression of being haunted by the experiences I relive. Which is not really the case. I am simply trying to understand myself.

When I was a kid I did not identify myself as working class, or northern, or even English. I was, I thought, a child of the world, not of one small part of it. I considered myself wonderfully cosmopolitan. And then I moved away from the north, away from a true working class environment, first to university and then into various jobs, and I realised that I am absolutely, terminally all those things that I thought I was not. Let me provide you with an example. While I was at college I won an award for something I wrote, a little piece, and the award was to be presented to me by some semi-famous poet. But I didn’t go. And the reason I didn’t go, although I wasn’t consciously aware of it at the time, is because people like me don’t pick up awards, they don’t go schmoozing and smiling at award ceremonies.

And the thing is, no one really understands that, unless they too are one of my kind; they don’t see how it would have been impossible to go. How silly! I hear that a lot. You are being silly. Usually, it is my girlfriends who say this to me, lovely lighthearted, upper middle-class women. They cannot comprehend why I find it uncomfortable to sit around a table for family meals, either. Or why if someone buys me something, or pays for something for me, I can barely speak for shame. My being is as alien to them as it probably is to you, my intergalactic peeping toms.

I’ve written before that one of the joys of reading literature is that it makes the world seem simultaneously smaller and larger. This is another reason why I share my experiences, in order to be part of this phenomena. Anyway, I recently read The Polish Complex by Tadeusz Konwicki, and I was again so pleasantly surprised that I was able to find myself in a book that, one would think, would have nothing to do with me, for it is ostensibly about Poland and being Polish. Yes, the action takes place on Christmas Eve, in line at a jewellery store, and, sure, there are many people who can relate to an experience like that. But that isn’t what I am referring to. What I found surprising, and engaging, about The Polish Complex is what the narrator, who is essentially Konwicki [the narrator is called Tadeusz Konwicki and shares many biographical details with the author], says about the way that he is perceived.

Konwicki states that he always attempted to steer himself towards universalities in his work, that he would actively avoid criticising other nations. And, yet, despite this approach, this literary liberalism, he found that he was always described as a Polish writer, as, in fact, the most Polish of Polish writers. He found, like I have done, that he cannot escape who he is, that it infects everything he does, even when he believes himself to be turning away from it and opening his arms to humanity-at-large. Moreover, it is telling that he, as I am also doing here, is writing for aliens, for you. He claims that this is because he is bored with ‘communication with my fellow men’, and that might be true, but what is at the heart of this boredom is that he considers himself to be, or others consider him to be, incomprehensible to them. They – readers, critics, etc. – cannot understand him unless they have had his experiences, unless, specifically, they are Polish. Indeed, Konwicki shares an anecdote too, about being in New York and meeting there a ‘sickly old man with heartbreaking eyes’, a Polish man, who was unable to die at home in Long Island, because he was ‘constantly thinking of his distant Poland’ and the war in which the author also participated.

“I no longer strive to be understood. I no longer depend on your approval, your sympathy. Now I write only because I must. I do not believe that anyone will read what I write and understand it as fully as I did while struggling with the resistant, constricted, ephemeral words. I write because some strange sense of duty impels me to this paper, which in ten years will turn to dust. I write because in my subconscious there stirs a spark of hope that there is something, that something endures somewhere, that, in my last instant, Great Meaning will take notice of me and save me from a universe without meaning.”

So, The Polish Complex is about identity and communication, about the essential, regrettable differences between people, between nations. Yes, most countries have their own language, which makes communication problematic, but for Konwicki it goes deeper than that, it is about the difficulty of communicating ‘in the sphere of experience and the consciousness that comes from experience.’ In this way, writing the book for aliens is a kind of grim joke. If the majority of his fellow men and women don’t or can’t understand Konwicki, then of course you, my goggle-eyed, grey-skinned friends, sure won’t be able to. Indeed, it is amusing, and ironic, that almost every review of The Polish Complex that I have read has stated how alienating parts of it are, how these parts won’t mean anything to a potential reader unless they are Polish themselves or are a scholar or expert on Polish history. Yet, it is necessary to point out that the author is lamenting all this, this distance between us; he wants to be part of a brotherhood of man, so to speak, he wants us to commune with each other, to be able to relate to each other appropriately and fully.

In terms of communication it is, of course, significant that Konwicki is a writer. I am sure that people write for many reasons, quite often for money it seems, but certainly when I think about the act of writing what it suggests to me is a desire to communicate, to reach out to people. Therefore, the book itself is almost another joke, one Konwicki played upon himself, i.e. he is attempting to communicate with a world that he knows, in the main, finds him incomprehensible. Throughout The Polish Complex the narrator references his work, or other characters do, and on each occasion these comments are critical. His writing, he is told by Kojran, is ‘more poison than passion.’ It is bitter, defeatist, sad, sarcastic. Kojran also asks why Konwicki doesn’t write something to give the Polish people strength, rather than make them sadder than they already are. Kojran is an interesting character because he is, in a sense, Konwicki’s conscience, in fact, most of the characters play this role in the text. Their function is to allow the author to explore his feelings, and what he thinks are the public’s feelings, about his books. Of course, you might label this rather self-indulgent or egotistical, but it is clear to me that Konwicki took his responsibility, as someone for whom the rest of the world might view as representative of Poles-in-general, seriously.


[A queue in Poland, a common sight in the shortage economy in the 1970s and 1980s]

The Polish coat of arms features a white eagle on a red background. Apparently, this is because the founder of the country saw a white eagle’s nest and decided to settle in that place. However, the eagle is or has become also representative of freedom, and certainly this, the notion of freedom, plays an important role in the book and, in fact, in the history of Poland. First of all, when Konwicki states that he no longer wishes to be understood he is appealing to just that, the freedom to do as he likes and not worry about other people’s reactions; to be creative one has to feel free. More importantly, Poland was for a long time under the control of Russia. There were, during this period, attempts to gain independence, including The January Uprising of 1863, to which Konwicki devotes around forty pages of The Polish Complex. After WW2 Poland was forced to join the Eastern Bloc, to become a kind of Soviet satellite state, under the control of Joseph Stalin. It wasn’t until 1989, years after this book was published, that Soviet control over Poland ceased. Therefore, it is no surprise that, as previously mentioned, Konwicki gives over so many pages of his book to The January Uprising, because the fight, or the desire, for freedom or independence is, of course, part of the Polish identity, or was in 1977 at least. It is also no surprise that he takes frequent, and not so subtle, digs at the Russians, or the Russian presence in Poland, most notably when, instead of jewellery, it is samovars that are delivered to the store. Indeed, one lucky person wins a trip to Russia with his purchase.

As with many novels written by earth men of a certain generation, the worst aspect of The Polish Complex is the ludicrous sex scene that takes place between the narrator and a much younger [they are always much younger!] woman. I don’t know how you would feel about it, my space pals, but I had a hard time getting on board with the inter-generational nookie. It just seemed incongruous, or out of place, in a novel so impassioned and intelligent. I do not want an author to be making my chest beat with sardonic rants about national identity one moment, and then waffling on about nipples the next. This is not to say, however, that this scene cannot be justified. One must bear in mind that Konwicki the narrator is old, very ill, and eager to die, and that he has admitted to feeling a kind of sentimentality for his homeland and for his youth. So, this young woman is, in a sense, a kind of memory, a living memory, is a last taste of his own youth or of the purest joys that life can throw up. Moreover, as noted, the action takes place on Christmas Eve, a time of miracles [Konwicki openly declares that he is looking for a miracle], and, taking that into account, one might even doubt whether the liaison is even meant to have actually taken place; or, if it did, then the author is at least acknowledging that it is a unlikely, miraculous event.

And…well, that’s it. Oh sure, I could write more, it is always possible to write more, but I feel as though it is unnecessary. I am done. I hope this has been instructional, or entertaining, my bulb-headed amigos. Certainly, I feel better. Because, that’s the thing, even if someone doesn’t understand you, it is still good to get things off your chest, to at least try to make sense of yourself and to at least try to make a connection, no matter how tenuous or doomed to failure it is.

Yours sincerely,

[P]

P.s.

Merry Christmas. Or Alienmas. Or whatever.

[Jonfaith · Rating 4 out of 5]

Wicked powerful. There is nothing brittle nor forced about this bolt from the blue. The queue and the empty shelf have become symbols of something, but not the archaic. Our relative surfeit doesn't obscure the ghosts of our misdeeds.

Konwicki glances sidelong at the prism of identity. Somewhere Fernand Braudel sighs.

[João Reis · Rating 2 out of 5]

Painfully dull and at the same time cringy. Quite a feat

[Richard Newton · Rating 4 out of 5]

I rather enjoyed this odd little book, which plays around and you can never be 100% sure what is fiction and what is autobiographical as the main character often uses the author's own name. First published in 1977 and set in the Poland of that time the main story centres on a group of Poles queuing for gifts from a jewelery store whilst they wait for a delivery of what they hope will be what they want. Although it is set after WWII, there are hints of it all the time.

Queuing was a typical scene in the Poland of the communist era and it paints it with bizarre touches and humour. But interwoven in this are two historical parts about failed uprisings against Russian rule in the 19th century. It captures something of the Polish mindset, at least of that time. Communism fell in 1989, over 30 years ago, so it is a reflection of that time, not modern Poland. But it captures that sense of bravery, humour, fatalism, hope and hopelessness of those decades.

[zuzanka · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5⭐️
„Czy mógłby pan łaskawie pierdolnąć we mnie z tego kulomiotu?” XXDDD

[J.M. Hushour · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ham-fisted, heavy-handed and as unsubtle as a pick-up truck with one of those stupid smog-wreaking giant phallic tailpipes being driven up your anus.
This one was a little disappointing, coming chronologically as it does between the two other Konwicki novels I've read, both of which were great. "Complex" lacks much of black humor and pathos and subtlety that made the other novels such successes. "Complex" is very much in the tradition of the Iron Curtain novels of the 70s and early 80s, bemoaning Soviet rule and one's constant failure to rise up against it, but lacks any of Konwicki's hallmark ingenuity in making light out of the dark and dark out of the possible light.

[Rytas Sakas · Rating 5 out of 5]

‘They haven’t lost their appetite for Poland. They’re waiting their turn in line.’

[jul · Rating 2 out of 5]

wolałabym jej nie przeczytać, żeby konwicki pozostał mitycznym idolem mojej siostry
książka miała swoje momenty, które podbiły do dwóch gwiazdek, ale at the end of the day he is still an old man who wants to fuck 18 year olds

„Mizerna istota z rozedmą duszy.
Istota rozumna z rakiem świadomości istnienia.” pls he’s so annoying, absolutnie nie dla mnie to:/

[Jennifer · Rating 4 out of 5]

A complex story, very brave for its day, sexist and dark in places, loved the descriptions of the forest and the tragic farce of the 1863 Uprising which was a taboo subsject when Konwicki wrote his book. Also appreciated the awful dilemna that people from the Polish Borderlands, the Kresy went throughwhen they were obliged to settle in what was for them a foreign country with a repressive and oppressive regime, another taboo subject then and not much touched on now.

[Mieczyslaw Kasprzyk · Rating 4 out of 5]

There are parts of this book that are so essentially black and white, grainy film. The Communist era is so well-caught.... Excellent!
By the way, I object to its being called "American Literature" - this is a Polish book!

[Ola · Rating 4 out of 5]

Strasznie dziwna jest to książka. Nawet bardzo. Ma swoje plusy i minusy (sceny erotyczne?¿ Po co one?¿). Ale ważna, warto ją przeczytać.
Nie mogłam sobie życzyć chyba lepszego początku i zakończenia (nie będę mówić o środku, jest najsłabszy). Bardzo podobało mi się ukazanie perspektyw Zygmunta Mineyko i Romualda Traugutta, a wraz z fragmentami o historii, wolności, polskich powstaniach i niewoli, nie mówiąc już o humorze Konwickiego, wszystko stanowiło zgraną całość, a może i nawet pewną – krótką, bo krótką – "diagnozę historii".

[Shawn · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read this when I was in college, and it really blew my socks off. It came in a boxed set with Kundera (Laughable Loves) and Bruno Schultz (This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen). Not only did it (and the other two) open up to me a whole world of (and way of) writing under censorship, but also literally a whole world (the Soviet satellites) and a whole history that was more or less dry and side-barred in school. This was also my introduction to Tadeusz Konwicki who is now a staple of my reading.

[Adam · Rating 3 out of 5]

Trudnawe, trochę rozrzucone, ale ciekawe

[Marcel Krzanowski · Rating 3 out of 5]

Alternatywny tytuł: „Dociekania o problemie polskim - perspektywa polska”.

[Clarence]

Ciekawa pozycja, ale nie dla mnie.

[Miszor · Rating 2 out of 5]

bardzo pseudointelektualna i grafomańska

[Jim Fonseca · Rating 3 out of 5]

There's a lot going on in this story translated from Polish and primarily taking place when Poland was under Russian domination along with other Eastern European countries. The main setting of the story is in line with a group of folks waiting to get into a jewelry store on the day before Christmas. The entire current story takes place on that day.

As suggested by the title, one of the main themes is the Polish ‘national character.’ As a professional geographer I'm not even sure that such a thing exists. I could write a half dozen things about, let’s say, ‘English national character’ and you would leave me a comment saying “That's all ridiculous, Jim. My best friend grew up in England and she doesn't have a single one of those supposed traits.’ Then I would have to agree with you.

In addition the author attempts to treat or describe Poland’s dilemma as if the nation were a person. I guess that would be called anthropomorphizing. The best way to think of Poland is this way (this is me talking now): like a nice kid who grew up surrounded by neighborhood bullies who not only ate his lunch every day but even killed him off for more than a century from about 1800 to WW I. Poland disappeared from the map. The bullies - Germany, Russia, Austro-Hungary - each took a piece.

The main character wonders why Poland is so ill-fated. Why do all kinds of bad things performed by neighbors (Germany, Russia) lead to good outcomes for those nations, while all of the good things the Polish people do lead to bad outcomes for their nation? (The author is writing in 1977, before Poland got out from under Russian domination.)

There's a theme about the indomitable Polish spirit fighting for freedom even when they know the outcome is futile. So there is an extended story about one of several Polish rebellions, this one in 1863. This takes up a good portion of the early part of the book. This section had me a bit confused because it was written with references to “you and I.” We assume the ‘you’ refers to the rebel in 1863 but who is this ‘I’? Maybe it's the modern-day rebel reincarnated as the historical rebel?



Near the book's end is a brief story of another Polish rebel, who knows he will be leading another futile attempt at independence, this time against communist control. The Polish rebel secretly meets with his wife in a hotel room for one last night, knowing he is going to certain death tomorrow because he knows full well his group planning a rebellion is infiltrated by Soviet informers. The common theme in the action of both rebels is futility --- but let's get up and do it.

There are a bunch of interesting characters who interact in the line. An old peasant lady; a well-off young woman who is pretending to be an old peasant lady trying to work her way toward the front of the line; a young man who is a Polish student; a foreign student who is an anarchist; a construction worker.

Also in line are two male characters who are sidekicks. One of them reveals to the main character (who is also the author) that some years ago he was a would-be assassin. He followed the author for months with the charge to assassinate him because of his anti-government writings - but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Meanwhile, he needles the author about his books with left-handed compliments. He tells him, in effect, ‘your books you're pretty good but they're not the type of books that will be remembered after you're gone.’ And “Write something that will lift our spirits, goddammit.”

The sidekick of the would-be assassin is there to provide us with running commentary on the ‘Polish character.’ “When evening comes, a Pole starts reminiscing.” “Drink makes a Pole merry…”, “A Pole loses his temper when he has to wait...” “Poland was always a country of fine women and useless men.”

We also have a continuous stream of references to shoddy communist-made goods and the poor urban conditions. For a time the power goes out in the store. The inventory fails to arrive. Water drips down walls and the hallways smell of urine. You have to strike at least three state monopoly matches to light your cigarette. Men leave the line to push a stranded tram.

The last third or so of the book gets into what I will call fantasy realism. During hours in line, the men have been making remarks about a beautiful young woman working in the store. Mainly her job seems to be standing near the window. Otherwise, she does nothing. When we get into the fantasy part we have a scene where the main character, the author, collapses on the sidewalk from his heart condition. He’s taken into a backroom of the jewelry store where the young woman comes in to attend to him and has sex with him. (Not exactly the prescribed cure for a fifty-ish guy who just had a heart attack.) In any case we get the impression this is intended to be fantasy when he asks her ‘Where am I?’ and she replies ‘Where do you want it to be - in my apartment or in the back room of the jewelry store?”

This fantasy realism I would say continues through the end of the book where all these characters continue their discussions in the freezing cold of the building entryway (after the jewelry store has closed) sitting on the stairs instead of going back home to their families on Christmas Eve.

We also pick up a religious theme toward the end. It’s Christmas eve so there is the distant sound of a children’s choir singing Christmas carols. At one point the writer opens a mysterious side door, wanders into a church and goes in to give his confession to a priest. The student anarchist looks like Christ. There’s even a brilliant UFO object in the sky as a baby is born to a Black man and a Polish woman – a star of Bethlehem?

I kept imagining a lot of the conversation in line and the fantasy realism conversation at the end as a ‘black box’ theater performance. Maybe it would make a good black box production.

The novel didn’t work all that well for me, thus my rating of ‘3.’ A lot of good stuff but the 1863 rebellion story was overly long. The conversation in line got tedious at times. Perhaps there are too many themes being juggled.



The author (1926-2015) was in college when Germany took over his region of Poland in WW II and banned all education for Poles. He joined a rebel guerrilla group fighting the Germans. He wrote more than 20 novels; maybe six or so have been translated into English. He is best known in English for ‘A Minor Apocalypse.’ He also became a filmmaker and directed productions of some of his novels.

Top image: a painting, Farewell to Europe, by Aleksander Sochaczewski. The painting commemorates thousands of Polish rebels in the January Uprising of 1863 who were sent to work in silver mines in Siberia.
The author from facebook.com

[MaZak · Rating 1 out of 5]

Nudne, bez wyrazu, bohaterki traktowane przedmiotowo, do tego w dłuższym fragmencie wkurzająca narracja drugoosobowa. Myślałam, że nie dotrwam do końca. Ogromne rozczarowanie w stosunku do Małej Apokalipsy.

[Sophia · Rating 1 out of 5]

Had to quit about 3/4 in because of this protracted, unspeakably ugly sex scene between the narrator and another character. Konwicki had me for a bit, I'll admit. I enjoyed the narrative, especially the reflective parts that introduce the book and the narrator. That said, that one scene ruined the book and the author for me. To know that a man could come up with such a cringy way to describe sex just completely ruins anything else he may have to say in my eyes.
No, seriously, I'm still at a loss as to what the purpose of that whole segment was. Surely the author didn't except me as the reader to be filled with repulsion, so what was he aiming for?

[Kriegslok · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Ah, Poland, Poland, dreamt of, prayed for, and suffered into being," you sighed. "I can almost see you emerging from the mist, the gloom of night, the cemetery of nations."

Tadeusz Konwicki was an accomplished writer who could be said to have lived a full and complicated life in far from ideal conditions. This novel draws on some of his biographical experiences of Poland's wartime history. Built around a waiting for Godotish queue at a Warsaw jewellery shop one Christmas Eve, where customers are expecting a rare delivery, the book examines the lives of some of those in the queue. It also goes off on several tangents examining Poland's struggles for independence and abortive and otherwise fights to throw off Russian imperialism. All the while returning to the people in the queue as they pass the time waiting.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today's shipment has not yet arrived. It could come in an hour, it could come after the store has closed. I'm cautioning you now so there will be no complaints later. The complaint book is temporarily at the bookbinder's."

It is sad that authors like Tadeusz Konwicki seem to have been allowed to drop into obscurity when the quality and style of his writing alone should make him one of the great European authors of the twentieth century. Add to that his subject matter, the relationship of Poland to its neighbours, remains alive as ever.

".... That battle - the cackle of gunfire, the stink of gunpowder, the oppressive sudden easiness of death. Men would deprive each other of life, that gift from nature or heaven. For a brief moment you were astounded by the finality of the clash, the battle, the killing. You wondered what tomorrow would be like, a year, thirty years from tomorrow. Whether you'd exist at all or whether you'd be swallowed up by a purgatory you dimly understood or by the nothingness you'd always suspected, the black void of non-being."

[MiriamAntoinette · Rating 4 out of 5]

3,5
Dawno nie byłam tak niepewna, czy książka jest dobra, czy nie. Schemat akcji nie jest spoilerowy, a według niego dzielę opinię:
1) kolejka – genialne, jakby Gombrowicz opisywał seriale Barei,
2) powstanie – najpierw wybicie z rytmu (na Ninatece jest świetny audiobook, ale trudno się połapać bez tekstu na kartce), dziwna narracja; później wszystko pasuje, łączy się z tytułem, wspólnota polskości (albo polaczkowości), człowiek się wkręca i znowu...
3) kolejka – najpierw zdziwienie, że to już koniec o powstaniu, ale wraca humor gombrowiczowski, jest super, do czasu,
4) niebiańskie orgazmy – jakie maniany tu się odwaliły, to ja nie wiem, nie rozumiem w ogóle tego fragmentu, dla mnie żenujący i niesmaczny, a list o totalitaryzmie zbyt dosłowny i wprost,
5) kolejka – dziwnie, wszystko jakoś pomieszane, nie wiadomo, kto żyje, a kto nie,
6) powstanie styczniowe – nagle, znikąd, ale dobre i to bardzo,
7) kolejka – pointa idealna, perfekcyjny finał i podsumowanie.

A więc: początek i koniec bardzo dobre, środka nie rozumiem. Opisy seksu narratora i Iwony/Basi tak mnie sfrustrowały, że list przyjęłam już cynicznie. Przyjaciel powieściowego Konwickiego nie powiedział mi nic nowego, nie odkrył nic nowego dotyczącego totalitaryzmu.
Myślałam, że się zakocham i na początku tak było, ale pokonały mnie erotyczne fantazje podstarzałego pisarza. Finał i tak perfekcyjny, dlatego ocena pozostaje pozytywna.

[Stephen Griffith · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this after reading a passage of Simon Schama's Landscape and Memory talking about the hopeless fights for freedom in the 19th century in the old forests of Lithuania/Poland against the Russians, and he quoted the end of the flashback section where Zygmunt had been given up to the Chechens working for the Cossacks. At that point I remembered I had The Polish Complex which I bought sometime in the 80s when I snagged every volume of Penguin's Writers from the Other Europe series, some of which I obviously put aside for later consumption. So I found it and started reading it.

The first two thirds of the book I consumed voraciously but after that, it wasn't so much that I didn't like it as I found it less compelling. It was still an outstanding portrayal of the Polish complex of fighting a well intentioned but ultimately quixotically unwinnable fight against staggering odds. It was good to read a book that grabbed me so much that I only put it down because of sheer fatigued at the time to go to bed. I also have A Dreambook For Our Time which I'll read at a later date but surely sooner rather than later.

[ejs · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very complex but timely. I see it as the rambling of an introspective human trying to figure out who a Pole is...other than a country that is continually shifted from one power hungry country to another. How do you retain your culture? Can you? Who are you in a world where increasingly, the "dictators" of the world get more power hungry and control as many of us as possible. The warning that behind the "democracies" lies a dictator in wait. And aren't we seeing this all over the world - not so secretively of late. It is happening with many people consenting...ignorance of history. Tough book

[K · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Polish Complex is written as an examination of the Polish psyche and the history of its people, told by means describing a group of individuals standing in a queue for a jewelry delivery. I found that mechanism rather dull and lifeless. However, scattered throughout the book are the author's musings on world history and power, which were far more insightful and clever, and were the parts that made this work worth reading.

[Jan Stachowiak · Rating 4 out of 5]

Powieść patriotyczna w wydaniu Konwickiego, czyli de facto dekonstrukcja powieści patriotycznej. Z jednej strony głęboki PRL i stanie w kolejce, z drugiej rozliczenie z powstaniem styczniowym. Kilka na prawdę pięknych cytatów, a nawet pojawiają się fragmenty humorystyczne.

[Aharon · Rating 3 out of 5]

Intermittently brilliant, overwhelmingly foggy.

[Dana Jerman · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book reminds me of a very controlled Dhalgren. It is achingly beautiful and irreverent as a streaker. Launching you with its exquisite imagery of the sacred right back into the human wasteland of the profane. Quotable passages emerge as if from a philosophy text. This book is hard to read, and it isn't. It is a text that is teachable and not talked about enough.

[Adrian Fulneczek · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nie wiem czemu Konwicki nie jest w głównym nurcie tak popularny jak Gombrowicz.

Jego trzeźwe patrzenie na śmieszność bycia Polakiem i styl pisania są równie wyjątkowe.