Letter from Jan Kott to Czeslaw Milosz

1 January, 1978

Dear Czeslaw,

. . . I came back a few weeks ago from dissident Venice—melancholic at this time of year, wrapped in fog and with San Marco under water during the high tide. There weren't many Poles: Gustaw, ¹ who did not speak at all, Pomianole, ² who spoke too much, Mrozek, who passed like a shadow, and who seemed to accomplish exactly what he wanted, that is, simultaneously to be and not to be, and a few young people from the country, who laughed a lot when Czech philosophers stuttered about the human face of socialist realism. ³ The Biennale was in fact completely dominated by Russkies and it seemed to me at times as if they were participating in one of the former gatherings of peace pigeons. ⁴ My contact with the Russians was difficult; the ones from Paris spoke only Russian and when the good-hearted Italians threw them a party they abandoned their hosts after five minutes to drink vodka among themselves. They are the anti-Soviet Soviets, very different from Hungarians and Rumanians, who, like Poles, are instantly and naturally "Western," as if they have never left Paris. Perhaps it is our weakness and I am being unjust toward the Russians, but I just can't communicate with them. The ones who emigrated to America, perhaps because of the stronger pressure of civilization and loneliness, do speak English and don't isolate themselves in their own ghetto. Brodsky does have a lot of charm. Many believe that aside from Mandelstam he is the only great poet.

Stephen Spender was also there. He is writing a diary which he said he'll call "The Splendors and Miseries of the Courtesan." ⁵ Susan Sontag was also present, surprisingly nice and sensible. Personally, the most interesting thing for me was a transformation—in this strange conclave—of what used to be called the intellectual Left. It was probably more interesting to me than it should have been, as I am attached to this term, though I am not sure myself what it means anymore. But for our generation (and the one following us) these gatherings are always the same; only the names of the roundups are changing. The Left of the arrogant pea-brain and presumptuous faith in recipes for general patience has metamorphosed into the Left of sensitivity to the price of these "recipes" and of understanding suffering. It has became the Left of mistrust, suspicion, and skepticism. Some of these thoughts, expressed in different terms, I find in your "Caesar and the Eccentrics." ⁶ It is a beautiful collection. I congratulate you heartily, and thank you for the book.

I am thinking of writing something about Watt, ⁷ or rather, on account of writing about Watt I am thinking of writing my own reflections on a generation which came to reflect on suffering, and which more than any other generation—given the rate of change—has seen everything in which it participated changed into its opposite.

That's enough of these witticisms for the first day of the New Year. I would be only so happy to talk to you all night . . .

Janek

—Translated by Magda Romanska