Stanisław Barszczak, Wesoły katalonski Prater… Miałem samochód, i to nie jeden, a cztery, ale wtedy, jesienia 1979 roku, przeważnie chodziłem do Joylandu piechotą z stosunkowo niedrogiego Pensjonatu pani Elwiry w miasteczku Lloret del Mar. W rzeczy samej to mogło byc Heaven’s Bay na wschodnim wybrzezu Stanów Zjednoczonych. Jakoś czułem, że tak trzeba. A nawet że tylko tak można. Z początkiem września plaza prawie zupełnie opustoszała, co pasowało do mojego nastroju. To była najpiękniejsza jesień w moim życiu. Nawet po upływie czterdziestu lat mogę tak powiedzieć. I nigdy nie byłem bardziej nieszczęśliwy, tak też mogę powiedzieć. Ludzie uważają, że pierwsza miłość jest piękna i nigdy nie jest piękniejsza niż w momencie, kiedy ta pierwsza więź się zrywa. Słyszeliście pewnie z tysiąc piosenek country i popowych, które tego dowodzą; jakiemuś głupcowi złamano serce. A jednak to pierwsze złamane serce zawsze boli najbardziej, goi się najwolniej i pozostawia najbardziej widoczną bliznę. Co w tym pięknego? Posluchajcie. Przez cały wrzesień i w pierwszych dniach października niebo nad Katalonia było bezchmurne, a powietrze ciepłe nawet o siódmej rano, kiedy wychodziłem z mojego mieszkania na piętrze obok schodów zewnętrznych. Jeśli wyruszałem w lekkiej kurtce, to jeszcze przed pokonaniem połowy z pięciu kilometrów dzielących miasto od parku rozrywki zdejmowałem ją i zawiązywałem w pasie. Pierwszy przystanek robiłem w piekarnii u Beaty, gdzie kupowałem dwa jeszcze ciepłe croissanty. Mój cień kroczył ze mną po piasku, długi na co najmniej sześć metrów. Mewy, zwabione zapachem croissantów zawiniętych w woskowany papier, z nadzieją krążyły mi nad głową. A kiedy wracałem, zwykle koło piątej (choć bywało, że zostawałem dłużej – nic nie czekało na mnie w miasteczku, które z końcem lata praktycznie zapadało w sen), mój cień szedł u mojego boku po wodzie. W porze przypływu drżał na jej tafli, jakby tańczył powolne hula. Choć nie mogę być tego całkowicie pewien, myślę, że mezczyzna, kobieta i ich pies byli tam od mojego pierwszego spaceru po tej plaży. Wzdłuż brzegu między miastem a radosnym, rozmigotanym kiczem Joylandu ciągnęły się domy letniskowe bogaczy. Większość po pierwszym weekendzie września była zamknięta na cztery spusty. Ale nie największy z nich, ten, który wyglądał jak zielony drewniany zamek. Chodnik z desek prowadził z jego szerokiego tylnego tarasu w miejsce, gdzie trawa nadmorska przechodziła w drobny biały piasek. Na końcu chodnika stał stół piknikowy osłonięty jaskrawozielonym parasolem plażowym. W jego cieniu siedział mezczyzna na wózku inwalidzkim, w baseballówce na głowie, okryty od pasa w dół kocem nawet późnym popołudniem, kiedy temperatura przekraczała dwadzieścia stopni. Sądziłem, że miał może pięćdziesiat lat, na pewno nie więcej niż szescdziesiat. Pies, terrier, zwykle leżał obok albo czuwał u jego stóp. Kobieta siedziała na ławie przy stole piknikowym i czasem czytała książkę, ale częściej tylko patrzyła na ocean. Była niezwykle piękna. Idąc w jedną i w drugą stronę, zawsze machałem do nich ręką, a pies machał do mnie ogonem. Byłem dwudziestojednoletnim prawiczkiem z literackimi ambicjami. Miałem trzy pary dżinsów, cztery pary majtek, zdezelowanego forda (ze sprawnym radiem), sporadyczne myśli samobójcze i złamane serce. Piękne, co? Serce złamała mi Zosia i nie zasługiwała na mnie. Prawie całe życie mi zajęło, żeby dojść do takiego wniosku, ale znacie to stare powiedzenie: lepiej późno niż wcale. Ona była z Huciska w Przemyskiem; ja z Tarnowskich Gor, miasteczka na Śląsku, w dalekiej Polsce. To znaczyło, że była praktycznie dziewczyną het, het “zza Buga”. Wschodni repartianci byli grupa podejrzana w naszym miasteczku. Zaczęliśmy „chodzić ze sobą” (tak się wtedy mówiło) na pierwszym roku studiów na Uniwersytecie Slaskim – poznaliśmy się na imprezie integracyjnej dla pierwszego roku. Prawda, że to piękne? Jak w niejednej piosence. Przez dwa lata byliśmy nierozłączni, wszędzie chodziliśmy razem, wszystko robiliśmy razem. To znaczy wszystko oprócz „tego”. Oboje odpracowywaliśmy czesne na uczelni, ona w bibliotece, ja w uniwersyteckiej stołówce. Zaproponowano nam, żebyśmy zostali na naszych stanowiskach przez wakacje 1979 roku, i oczywiście się zgodziliśmy. Pieniądze nie były rewelacyjne, za to możliwość bycia razem bezcenna. Sądziłem, że tak samo będzie latem 1982 roku, dopóki Wera nie oznajmiła, że jej koleżanka Renia załatwiła im obu pracę w sklepie z konfekcja w Bielsku Bialej. – A co ze mną? – spytałem. – Możesz przyjechać w odwiedziny – powiedziała. – Będę tęsknić jak szalona, ale szczerze mówiąc, Leszku, trochę odpoczynku od siebie dobrze nam zrobi. To sformułowanie bardzo często jest pierwszym gwoździem do trumny. Możliwe, że wyczytała tę myśl z mojej twarzy, bo wspięła się na palce i mnie pocałowała. – Rozłąka umacnia uczucia. Poza tym, skoro będę miała własny kąt, może będziesz mógł u mnie nocować. Mówiąc to, jednak nie patrzyła na mnie i ostatecznie ani razu u niej nie nocowałem. Za dużo współlokatorów, tłumaczyła. Za mało czasu. Oczywiście, tego rodzaju trudności można przezwyciężyć, ale jakoś nigdy tego nie zrobiliśmy, co powinno było mi coś powiedzieć; dziś, z perspektywy lat, mówi mi to wiele. Kilka razy byliśmy bardzo blisko „tego”, ale „to” nigdy się nie stało. Zawsze się wycofywała, a ja nie naciskałem. Boże drogi, byłem dżentelmenem. Później często się zastanawiałem, co by się zmieniło (na dobre lub na złe), gdybym nim nie był. Teraz wiem tyle, że kobiety rzadko sypiają z młodymi dżentelmenami. Wyszyjcie to na makatce i powieście sobie w kuchni. Perspektywa kolejnego lata spędzonego na myciu mopem podłóg stołówki i ładowaniu brudnych talerzy do starych zmywarek niezbyt mi się uśmiechała, zwłaszcza że Wera miała być o sto kilometrów na południe, w blasku światel polskich gor, ale to była stała praca, której potrzebowałem, a nie miałem dla niej żadnej alternatywy. Aż tu nagle, pod koniec lutego, taka alternatywa dosłownie przyjechała do mnie na taśmociągu z brudnymi naczyniami. Ktoś zostawił pismo na tacy i w ten sposób trafiło do mnie razem z naczyniami. Miałem je wyrzucić do kosza, ale tego nie zrobiłem. Zawsze to coś do poczytania, w dodatku za darmo (musiałem odpracowywać czesne, przypominam). Wsadziłem pismo do tylnej kieszeni i zapomniałem o nim do czasu, kiedy wróciłem do swojego pokoju w akademiku. Tam wypadło na podłogę, otwarte na dziale ogłoszeń, w chwili gdy zmieniałem spodnie. Ktokolwiek czytał ten magazyn, zakreślił kilka ofert pracy… Mój wzrok przyciągnęło ogłoszenie u dołu strony, mimo że nie było zakreślone. Pierwsza, wytłuszczona linijka zachęcała: Pracuj blisko nieba! Jaki student anglistyki po przeczytaniu czegoś takiego nie byłby zaciekawiony? I jaki zdołowany dwudziestojednolatek, dręczony narastającą obawą, że traci swoją dziewczynę, nie byłby skuszony wizją pracy w miejscu o nazwie Joyland, wesołe miasteczko? W Krainie Radości? W ogłoszeniu podany był numer telefonu i pod wpływem impulsu zadzwoniłem tam. Tydzień później w mojej skrzynce pocztowej w akademiku wylądował formularz podania o pracę. W załączonym liście poinformowano mnie, że jeśli chcę się zatrudnić w wakacje na cały etat (a chciałem), będę musiał wykonywać różnego rodzaju prace, głównie porządkowe i konserwacyjne, ale nie tylko. Wymagane było ważne prawo jazdy, poza tym czekała mnie jeszcze rozmowa kwalifikacyjna. Mogłem to załatwić w najbliższe ferie wiosenne, zamiast jechać na tydzień do miejsca dziecinstwa. Tyle że planowałem choć część tego tygodnia spędzić z Wera. Może nawet w końcu zrobilibyśmy „to”. – Jedź na tę rozmowę – poradziła Wera, kiedy jej o tym powiedziałem. Nawet się nie zawahała. – Zawsze to jakaś przygoda. – Być z tobą to byłaby przygoda – powiedziałem. – Będzie na to mnóstwo czasu w przyszłym roku. – Stanęła na palcach i mnie pocałowała (zawsze stawała na palcach). Czy już wtedy spotykała się z tym drugim facetem? Chyba nie, ale założę się, że zwróciła na niego uwagę, bo chodził z nią na zajęcia z socjologii. Renia niewątpliwie wiedziała, jak było, i pewnie powiedziałaby mi, gdybym zapytał – paplanie było specjalnością Renii, na spowiedzi ani chybi zamęczała księdza – ale pewnych rzeczy człowiek nie chce wiedzieć. Na przykład dlaczego dziewczyna, którą kochałeś całym sercem, tobie uparcie odmawiała, ale z tym drugim poszła do łóżka praktycznie przy pierwszej okazji. Nie jestem pewien, czy ktokolwiek w ogóle potrafi do końca wyleczyć się ze swojej pierwszej miłości; we mnie zadra tkwi do dziś. Gdzieś w głębi ducha wciąż się zastanawiam, co ze mną było nie tak. Czego mi brakowało. Jestem pod sześćdziesiątke, mam siwe włosy i przeżyłem raka prostaty, ale wciąż chcę wiedzieć, dlaczego nie byłem wystarczająco dobry dla Wery Karon. Do Lloret del mar w Katalonii polecialem najtanszymi liniami (przygoda żadna, ale tanio), a potem autobusem z Girony do “mojego” wybranego hotelu nad morzem. Rozmowę kwalifikacyjną prowadził średniego wzrostu mezczyzna, który był – między innymi – personalnym Joylandu, wesołego miasteczka. Po piętnastu minutach pytań i odpowiedzi oraz rzucie oka na moje prawo jazdy i wydaną przez Czerwony Krzyż licencję ratownika wręczył mi plastikową plakietkę na smyczy do zawieszenia na szyi. – Idź, pooglądaj, przejedź się na diabelskim mlynie – powiedział pan Jan. – Większość karuzeli jeszcze nie działa, ale ta tak. Powiedz Lukaszowi, że się zgodziłem. To, co ci dałem, to przepustka na cały dzień, ale chcę, żebyś tu wrócił o… – Spojrzał na zegarek. – Dajmy na to o pierwszej. Wtedy powiesz mi, czy chcesz tę pracę. Mam jeszcze pięć wolnych miejsc, wszystkie to mniej więcej ta sama robota: Wesoły Pomocnik. Podziekowalem. Kiwnął głową z uśmiechem. – Nie wiem, jak ci się tu spodoba, ale mnie Joyland w zupełności odpowiada. Jest może stary, może trochę się sypie, lecz to jeszcze dodaje mu uroku, tak przynajmniej sądzę. Nie jest komercyjny, zbyt odpicowany i gładki. Dlatego kilka lat temu wróciłem do Joylandu. Nie żałuję. My działamy tu nieco bardziej spontanicznie, na wyczucie… trochę jak dawne objazdowe lunaparki. Zobacz, co o tym sądzisz. I, co ważniejsze, jak się tu czujesz… Joyland był niezależnym parkiem rozrywki, nie tak wielkim jak Wiedeński Prater, nowoczesny park rozrywki z ponad 250 atrakcjami, które zapewniają adrenalinę, a ktory juz obejrzałem. Ale wystarczająco dużym, by robić wrażenie, zwłaszcza teraz, gdy Joyland Avenue, główna promenada, i pasaż boczny, były prawie puste i wyglądały jak czteropasmowe autostrady. Słyszałem wycie pił mechanicznych i widziałem wielu robotników – największa ekipa roiła się przy jednej z dwóch kolejek górskich – ale klientów nie było, bo lunapark otwierano dopiero piętnastego maja. Mimo to działało kilka punktów gastronomicznych, żeby robotnicy mieli gdzie kupić lunch, a przed wysadzaną gwiazdami budą wróżki stała starsza pani, która przyglądała mi się podejrzliwie. Z jednym wyjątkiem, wszystko było pozamykane na cztery spusty… Diabelski mlyn miał pięćdziesiąt dwa metry wysokości (tego dowiedziałem się później) i bardzo powoli się obracał. Przed nim stał mocno umięśniony facet w spranych dżinsach, łysiejących zamszowych butach umazanych smarem i podkoszulku na ramiączkach. Jego kruczoczarne włosy przykryte były przekrzywionym melonikiem. Za uchem tkwił papieros bez filtra. Gość wyglądał jak jarmarczny naganiacz ze starego komiksu gazetowego. Obok niego na skrzynce po pomarańczach stał otwarty kuferek z narzędziami i duże przenośne radio. Facet trzymał ręce w tylnych kieszeniach, kiwał się w rytm muzyki i kołysał biodrami. Przyszła mi do głowy absurdalna, ale doskonale wyrazista myśl: Jak będę dorosły, chcę wyglądać tak jak on. Wskazał przepustkę. – Pan Jan cię przysłał, co? Powiedział ci, że wszystko inne jest pozamykane, ale że możesz się przejechać na diabelskim młynie. – Tak, proszę pana. – Przejażdżka na diabelskim mlynie to znak, że cię przyjął. Lubi, żeby jego wybrańcy zobaczyli wszystko z lotu ptaka. Weźmiesz tę robotę? – Tak myślę. Wyciągnął rękę. – Jestem Jenaro. Witaj na pokładzie, synu. Uścisnąłem jego dłoń. – Patryk Jaki. – Miło mi. Ruszył w górę pochylni prowadzącej ku niespiesznie obracającej się karuzeli, chwycił długą dźwignię, która wyglądała jak drążek zmiany biegów, i lekko pociągnął ją do siebie. Karuzela powoli znieruchomiała i jeden z barwnie pomalowanych wagoników (na każdym był wizerunek Wesołego Psa Huckelbury) zakołysał się przy miejscu załadunku pasażerów. – Wsiadaj, Patryk. Wyślę cię w przestworza, gdzie ptaki szybują, a widoki czarują. Wgramoliłem się do wagonika i zamknąłem drzwiczki. Jenaro szarpnął nimi, żeby sprawdzić, czy się zatrzasnęły, opuścił poprzeczkę zabezpieczającą, po czym wrócił do swoich prymitywnych sterów. – Gotów do startu, kapitanie? – Tak sądzę. – Siódme niebo czeka. – Mrugnął do mnie i pchnął dźwignię sterowniczą. Wielkie koło ruszyło i nagle zobaczyłem, że Jenaro patrzy na mnie z dołu. Starsza pani przy budzie wróżki też patrzyła. Zadarła głowę i osłaniała oczy dłonią. Pomachałem do niej. Ona do mnie nie. Po chwili znalazłem się ponad wszystkim oprócz wymyślnych zakrętasów, spadków i wzniesień Lloret. Wzbijałem się w chłodne wczesnowiosenne powietrze i czułem się – głupie, ale prawdziwe – jakbym zostawiał wszystkie moje troski i zmartwienia tam, na dole. Joyland nie był tematycznym parkiem rozrywki, dzięki czemu mógł mieć wszystkiego po trochu. Była w nim kolejka górska o nazwie (Kordyliery) i zjeżdżalnia wodna (Szust Kapitana Nemo). Na zachodnim krańcu lunaparku znajdował się specjalny aneks dla małych dzieci, zwany Wioską Pszczolki Mai. Była też sala koncertowa, w której – tego także dowiedziałem się później – występowali głównie mało znani muzycy country albo rockmani, których szczyt sławy przypadł na lata sześćdziesiąte i siedemdziesiate. Jenaro wwiózł mnie na samą górę i zatrzymał karuzelę. Siedziałem w kołyszącym się wagoniku, kurczowo ściskając poprzeczkę zabezpieczającą, i patrzyłem na zupełnie nowy świat. Ku zachodowi rozciągały się równiny Katalonii, niewiarygodnie zielone w oczach małolata z dalekiej Polski, który przywykł myśleć o marcu tylko jak o zimnym, błotnistym zwiastunie prawdziwej wiosny. Na wschodzie był ciemny, metaliczny błękit oceanu rozbijający się beżowymi impulsami o plażę, po której kilka miesięcy później miałem taszczyć moje zmaltretowane serce. Bezpośrednio pode mną widziałem pogodny bezład Joylandu – większe i mniejsze karuzele i kolejki, salę koncertową i budki z jedzeniem, basen, kramiki z pamiątkami oraz Autobus, który woził klientów do pobliskich moteli i, oczywiście, na plażę.Z punktu widokowego wysoko nad lunaparkiem (tam gdzie ptaki szybują, a widoki czarują) miasteczko wyglądało jak przytulne gniazdo z dziecięcych klocków, na którego krańcach odpowiadających czterem głównym stronom świata wznosiły się wieże kościelne. Koło znów ruszyło. Opadając ku ziemi, czułem się jak ten dzieciak z opowiadania Rudyarda Kiplinga, który jechał na trąbie słonia. Jenaro zatrzymał karuzelę, ale nie raczył otworzyć mi drzwiczek wagoniku; bądź co bądź, byłem prawie tutejszym pracownikiem. – Jak się podobało? – Bardzo – odpowiedziałem zadowolony. On tymczasem już ruszył z powrotem do swojej maszynerii i nie odpowiedział. Może zagłuszyło mnie radio, w którym leciał Julio Iglesias i jego Galicia. A może po prostu chciał, żeby moje przyszłe obowiązki jako członka kadry Wesołych Kumpli Joylandu były dla mnie prawdziwa niespodzianką. (na motywach powieści Stevena Kinga, podkreślenie autora)

Stanisław Barszczak, Wesoły katalonski Prater… Miałem samochód, i to nie jeden, a cztery, ale wtedy, jesienia 1979 roku, przeważnie chodziłem do Joylandu piechotą z stosunkowo niedrogiego Pensjonatu pani Elwiry w miasteczku Lloret del Mar. W rzeczy samej to mogło byc Heaven’s Bay na wschodnim wybrzezu Stanów Zjednoczonych. Jakoś czułem, że tak trzeba. A nawet że tylko tak można. Z początkiem września plaza prawie zupełnie opustoszała, co pasowało do mojego nastroju. To była najpiękniejsza jesień w moim życiu. Nawet po upływie czterdziestu lat mogę tak powiedzieć. I nigdy nie byłem bardziej nieszczęśliwy, tak też mogę powiedzieć. Ludzie uważają, że pierwsza miłość jest piękna i nigdy nie jest piękniejsza niż w momencie, kiedy ta pierwsza więź się zrywa. Słyszeliście pewnie z tysiąc piosenek country i popowych, które tego dowodzą; jakiemuś głupcowi złamano serce. A jednak to pierwsze złamane serce zawsze boli najbardziej, goi się najwolniej i pozostawia najbardziej widoczną bliznę. Co w tym pięknego? Posluchajcie. Przez cały wrzesień i w pierwszych dniach października niebo nad Katalonia było bezchmurne, a powietrze ciepłe nawet o siódmej rano, kiedy wychodziłem z mojego mieszkania na piętrze obok schodów zewnętrznych. Jeśli wyruszałem w lekkiej kurtce, to jeszcze przed pokonaniem połowy z pięciu kilometrów dzielących miasto od parku rozrywki zdejmowałem ją i zawiązywałem w pasie. Pierwszy przystanek robiłem w piekarnii u Beaty, gdzie kupowałem dwa jeszcze ciepłe croissanty. Mój cień kroczył ze mną po piasku, długi na co najmniej sześć metrów. Mewy, zwabione zapachem croissantów zawiniętych w woskowany papier, z nadzieją krążyły mi nad głową. A kiedy wracałem, zwykle koło piątej (choć bywało, że zostawałem dłużej – nic nie czekało na mnie w miasteczku, które z końcem lata praktycznie zapadało w sen), mój cień szedł u mojego boku po wodzie. W porze przypływu drżał na jej tafli, jakby tańczył powolne hula. Choć nie mogę być tego całkowicie pewien, myślę, że mezczyzna, kobieta i ich pies byli tam od mojego pierwszego spaceru po tej plaży. Wzdłuż brzegu między miastem a radosnym, rozmigotanym kiczem Joylandu ciągnęły się domy letniskowe bogaczy. Większość po pierwszym weekendzie września była zamknięta na cztery spusty. Ale nie największy z nich, ten, który wyglądał jak zielony drewniany zamek. Chodnik z desek prowadził z jego szerokiego tylnego tarasu w miejsce, gdzie trawa nadmorska przechodziła w drobny biały piasek. Na końcu chodnika stał stół piknikowy osłonięty jaskrawozielonym parasolem plażowym. W jego cieniu siedział mezczyzna na wózku inwalidzkim, w baseballówce na głowie, okryty od pasa w dół kocem nawet późnym popołudniem, kiedy temperatura przekraczała dwadzieścia stopni. Sądziłem, że miał może pięćdziesiat lat, na pewno nie więcej niż szescdziesiat. Pies, terrier, zwykle leżał obok albo czuwał u jego stóp. Kobieta siedziała na ławie przy stole piknikowym i czasem czytała książkę, ale częściej tylko patrzyła na ocean. Była niezwykle piękna. Idąc w jedną i w drugą stronę, zawsze machałem do nich ręką, a pies machał do mnie ogonem. Byłem dwudziestojednoletnim prawiczkiem z literackimi ambicjami. Miałem trzy pary dżinsów, cztery pary majtek, zdezelowanego forda (ze sprawnym radiem), sporadyczne myśli samobójcze i złamane serce. Piękne, co? Serce złamała mi Zosia i nie zasługiwała na mnie. Prawie całe życie mi zajęło, żeby dojść do takiego wniosku, ale znacie to stare powiedzenie: lepiej późno niż wcale. Ona była z Huciska w Przemyskiem; ja z Tarnowskich Gor, miasteczka na Śląsku, w dalekiej Polsce. To znaczyło, że była praktycznie dziewczyną het, het “zza Buga”. Wschodni repartianci byli grupa podejrzana w naszym miasteczku. Zaczęliśmy „chodzić ze sobą” (tak się wtedy mówiło) na pierwszym roku studiów na Uniwersytecie Slaskim – poznaliśmy się na imprezie integracyjnej dla pierwszego roku. Prawda, że to piękne? Jak w niejednej piosence. Przez dwa lata byliśmy nierozłączni, wszędzie chodziliśmy razem, wszystko robiliśmy razem. To znaczy wszystko oprócz „tego”. Oboje odpracowywaliśmy czesne na uczelni, ona w bibliotece, ja w uniwersyteckiej stołówce. Zaproponowano nam, żebyśmy zostali na naszych stanowiskach przez wakacje 1979 roku, i oczywiście się zgodziliśmy. Pieniądze nie były rewelacyjne, za to możliwość bycia razem bezcenna. Sądziłem, że tak samo będzie latem 1982 roku, dopóki Wera nie oznajmiła, że jej koleżanka Renia załatwiła im obu pracę w sklepie z konfekcja w Bielsku Bialej. – A co ze mną? – spytałem. – Możesz przyjechać w odwiedziny – powiedziała. – Będę tęsknić jak szalona, ale szczerze mówiąc, Leszku, trochę odpoczynku od siebie dobrze nam zrobi. To sformułowanie bardzo często jest pierwszym gwoździem do trumny. Możliwe, że wyczytała tę myśl z mojej twarzy, bo wspięła się na palce i mnie pocałowała. – Rozłąka umacnia uczucia. Poza tym, skoro będę miała własny kąt, może będziesz mógł u mnie nocować. Mówiąc to, jednak nie patrzyła na mnie i ostatecznie ani razu u niej nie nocowałem. Za dużo współlokatorów, tłumaczyła. Za mało czasu. Oczywiście, tego rodzaju trudności można przezwyciężyć, ale jakoś nigdy tego nie zrobiliśmy, co powinno było mi coś powiedzieć; dziś, z perspektywy lat, mówi mi to wiele. Kilka razy byliśmy bardzo blisko „tego”, ale „to” nigdy się nie stało. Zawsze się wycofywała, a ja nie naciskałem. Boże drogi, byłem dżentelmenem. Później często się zastanawiałem, co by się zmieniło (na dobre lub na złe), gdybym nim nie był. Teraz wiem tyle, że kobiety rzadko sypiają z młodymi dżentelmenami. Wyszyjcie to na makatce i powieście sobie w kuchni. Perspektywa kolejnego lata spędzonego na myciu mopem podłóg stołówki i ładowaniu brudnych talerzy do starych zmywarek niezbyt mi się uśmiechała, zwłaszcza że Wera miała być o sto kilometrów na południe, w blasku światel polskich gor, ale to była stała praca, której potrzebowałem, a nie miałem dla niej żadnej alternatywy. Aż tu nagle, pod koniec lutego, taka alternatywa dosłownie przyjechała do mnie na taśmociągu z brudnymi naczyniami. Ktoś zostawił pismo na tacy i w ten sposób trafiło do mnie razem z naczyniami. Miałem je wyrzucić do kosza, ale tego nie zrobiłem. Zawsze to coś do poczytania, w dodatku za darmo (musiałem odpracowywać czesne, przypominam). Wsadziłem pismo do tylnej kieszeni i zapomniałem o nim do czasu, kiedy wróciłem do swojego pokoju w akademiku. Tam wypadło na podłogę, otwarte na dziale ogłoszeń, w chwili gdy zmieniałem spodnie. Ktokolwiek czytał ten magazyn, zakreślił kilka ofert pracy… Mój wzrok przyciągnęło ogłoszenie u dołu strony, mimo że nie było zakreślone. Pierwsza, wytłuszczona linijka zachęcała: Pracuj blisko nieba! Jaki student anglistyki po przeczytaniu czegoś takiego nie byłby zaciekawiony? I jaki zdołowany dwudziestojednolatek, dręczony narastającą obawą, że traci swoją dziewczynę, nie byłby skuszony wizją pracy w miejscu o nazwie Joyland, wesołe miasteczko? W Krainie Radości? W ogłoszeniu podany był numer telefonu i pod wpływem impulsu zadzwoniłem tam. Tydzień później w mojej skrzynce pocztowej w akademiku wylądował formularz podania o pracę. W załączonym liście poinformowano mnie, że jeśli chcę się zatrudnić w wakacje na cały etat (a chciałem), będę musiał wykonywać różnego rodzaju prace, głównie porządkowe i konserwacyjne, ale nie tylko. Wymagane było ważne prawo jazdy, poza tym czekała mnie jeszcze rozmowa kwalifikacyjna. Mogłem to załatwić w najbliższe ferie wiosenne, zamiast jechać na tydzień do miejsca dziecinstwa. Tyle że planowałem choć część tego tygodnia spędzić z Wera. Może nawet w końcu zrobilibyśmy „to”. – Jedź na tę rozmowę – poradziła Wera, kiedy jej o tym powiedziałem. Nawet się nie zawahała. – Zawsze to jakaś przygoda. – Być z tobą to byłaby przygoda – powiedziałem. – Będzie na to mnóstwo czasu w przyszłym roku. – Stanęła na palcach i mnie pocałowała (zawsze stawała na palcach). Czy już wtedy spotykała się z tym drugim facetem? Chyba nie, ale założę się, że zwróciła na niego uwagę, bo chodził z nią na zajęcia z socjologii. Renia niewątpliwie wiedziała, jak było, i pewnie powiedziałaby mi, gdybym zapytał – paplanie było specjalnością Renii, na spowiedzi ani chybi zamęczała księdza – ale pewnych rzeczy człowiek nie chce wiedzieć. Na przykład dlaczego dziewczyna, którą kochałeś całym sercem, tobie uparcie odmawiała, ale z tym drugim poszła do łóżka praktycznie przy pierwszej okazji. Nie jestem pewien, czy ktokolwiek w ogóle potrafi do końca wyleczyć się ze swojej pierwszej miłości; we mnie zadra tkwi do dziś. Gdzieś w głębi ducha wciąż się zastanawiam, co ze mną było nie tak. Czego mi brakowało. Jestem pod sześćdziesiątke, mam siwe włosy i przeżyłem raka prostaty, ale wciąż chcę wiedzieć, dlaczego nie byłem wystarczająco dobry dla Wery Karon. Do Lloret del mar w Katalonii polecialem najtanszymi liniami (przygoda żadna, ale tanio), a potem autobusem z Girony do “mojego” wybranego hotelu nad morzem. Rozmowę kwalifikacyjną prowadził średniego wzrostu mezczyzna, który był – między innymi – personalnym Joylandu, wesołego miasteczka. Po piętnastu minutach pytań i odpowiedzi oraz rzucie oka na moje prawo jazdy i wydaną przez Czerwony Krzyż licencję ratownika wręczył mi plastikową plakietkę na smyczy do zawieszenia na szyi. – Idź, pooglądaj, przejedź się na diabelskim mlynie – powiedział pan Jan. – Większość karuzeli jeszcze nie działa, ale ta tak. Powiedz Lukaszowi, że się zgodziłem. To, co ci dałem, to przepustka na cały dzień, ale chcę, żebyś tu wrócił o… – Spojrzał na zegarek. – Dajmy na to o pierwszej. Wtedy powiesz mi, czy chcesz tę pracę. Mam jeszcze pięć wolnych miejsc, wszystkie to mniej więcej ta sama robota: Wesoły Pomocnik. Podziekowalem. Kiwnął głową z uśmiechem. – Nie wiem, jak ci się tu spodoba, ale mnie Joyland w zupełności odpowiada. Jest może stary, może trochę się sypie, lecz to jeszcze dodaje mu uroku, tak przynajmniej sądzę. Nie jest komercyjny, zbyt odpicowany i gładki. Dlatego kilka lat temu wróciłem do Joylandu. Nie żałuję. My działamy tu nieco bardziej spontanicznie, na wyczucie… trochę jak dawne objazdowe lunaparki. Zobacz, co o tym sądzisz. I, co ważniejsze, jak się tu czujesz… Joyland był niezależnym parkiem rozrywki, nie tak wielkim jak Wiedeński Prater, nowoczesny park rozrywki z ponad 250 atrakcjami, które zapewniają adrenalinę, a ktory juz obejrzałem. Ale wystarczająco dużym, by robić wrażenie, zwłaszcza teraz, gdy Joyland Avenue, główna promenada, i pasaż boczny, były prawie puste i wyglądały jak czteropasmowe autostrady. Słyszałem wycie pił mechanicznych i widziałem wielu robotników – największa ekipa roiła się przy jednej z dwóch kolejek górskich – ale klientów nie było, bo lunapark otwierano dopiero piętnastego maja. Mimo to działało kilka punktów gastronomicznych, żeby robotnicy mieli gdzie kupić lunch, a przed wysadzaną gwiazdami budą wróżki stała starsza pani, która przyglądała mi się podejrzliwie. Z jednym wyjątkiem, wszystko było pozamykane na cztery spusty… Diabelski mlyn miał pięćdziesiąt dwa metry wysokości (tego dowiedziałem się później) i bardzo powoli się obracał. Przed nim stał mocno umięśniony facet w spranych dżinsach, łysiejących zamszowych butach umazanych smarem i podkoszulku na ramiączkach. Jego kruczoczarne włosy przykryte były przekrzywionym melonikiem. Za uchem tkwił papieros bez filtra. Gość wyglądał jak jarmarczny naganiacz ze starego komiksu gazetowego. Obok niego na skrzynce po pomarańczach stał otwarty kuferek z narzędziami i duże przenośne radio. Facet trzymał ręce w tylnych kieszeniach, kiwał się w rytm muzyki i kołysał biodrami. Przyszła mi do głowy absurdalna, ale doskonale wyrazista myśl: Jak będę dorosły, chcę wyglądać tak jak on. Wskazał przepustkę. – Pan Jan cię przysłał, co? Powiedział ci, że wszystko inne jest pozamykane, ale że możesz się przejechać na diabelskim młynie. – Tak, proszę pana. – Przejażdżka na diabelskim mlynie to znak, że cię przyjął. Lubi, żeby jego wybrańcy zobaczyli wszystko z lotu ptaka. Weźmiesz tę robotę? – Tak myślę. Wyciągnął rękę. – Jestem Jenaro. Witaj na pokładzie, synu. Uścisnąłem jego dłoń. – Patryk Jaki. – Miło mi. Ruszył w górę pochylni prowadzącej ku niespiesznie obracającej się karuzeli, chwycił długą dźwignię, która wyglądała jak drążek zmiany biegów, i lekko pociągnął ją do siebie. Karuzela powoli znieruchomiała i jeden z barwnie pomalowanych wagoników (na każdym był wizerunek Wesołego Psa Huckelbury) zakołysał się przy miejscu załadunku pasażerów. – Wsiadaj, Patryk. Wyślę cię w przestworza, gdzie ptaki szybują, a widoki czarują. Wgramoliłem się do wagonika i zamknąłem drzwiczki. Jenaro szarpnął nimi, żeby sprawdzić, czy się zatrzasnęły, opuścił poprzeczkę zabezpieczającą, po czym wrócił do swoich prymitywnych sterów. – Gotów do startu, kapitanie? – Tak sądzę. – Siódme niebo czeka. – Mrugnął do mnie i pchnął dźwignię sterowniczą. Wielkie koło ruszyło i nagle zobaczyłem, że Jenaro patrzy na mnie z dołu. Starsza pani przy budzie wróżki też patrzyła. Zadarła głowę i osłaniała oczy dłonią. Pomachałem do niej. Ona do mnie nie. Po chwili znalazłem się ponad wszystkim oprócz wymyślnych zakrętasów, spadków i wzniesień Lloret. Wzbijałem się w chłodne wczesnowiosenne powietrze i czułem się – głupie, ale prawdziwe – jakbym zostawiał wszystkie moje troski i zmartwienia tam, na dole. Joyland nie był tematycznym parkiem rozrywki, dzięki czemu mógł mieć wszystkiego po trochu. Była w nim kolejka górska o nazwie (Kordyliery) i zjeżdżalnia wodna (Szust Kapitana Nemo). Na zachodnim krańcu lunaparku znajdował się specjalny aneks dla małych dzieci, zwany Wioską Pszczolki Mai. Była też sala koncertowa, w której – tego także dowiedziałem się później – występowali głównie mało znani muzycy country albo rockmani, których szczyt sławy przypadł na lata sześćdziesiąte i siedemdziesiate. Jenaro wwiózł mnie na samą górę i zatrzymał karuzelę. Siedziałem w kołyszącym się wagoniku, kurczowo ściskając poprzeczkę zabezpieczającą, i patrzyłem na zupełnie nowy świat. Ku zachodowi rozciągały się równiny Katalonii, niewiarygodnie zielone w oczach małolata z dalekiej Polski, który przywykł myśleć o marcu tylko jak o zimnym, błotnistym zwiastunie prawdziwej wiosny. Na wschodzie był ciemny, metaliczny błękit oceanu rozbijający się beżowymi impulsami o plażę, po której kilka miesięcy później miałem taszczyć moje zmaltretowane serce. Bezpośrednio pode mną widziałem pogodny bezład Joylandu – większe i mniejsze karuzele i kolejki, salę koncertową i budki z jedzeniem, basen, kramiki z pamiątkami oraz Autobus, który woził klientów do pobliskich moteli i, oczywiście, na plażę.Z punktu widokowego wysoko nad lunaparkiem (tam gdzie ptaki szybują, a widoki czarują) miasteczko wyglądało jak przytulne gniazdo z dziecięcych klocków, na którego krańcach odpowiadających czterem głównym stronom świata wznosiły się wieże kościelne. Koło znów ruszyło. Opadając ku ziemi, czułem się jak ten dzieciak z opowiadania Rudyarda Kiplinga, który jechał na trąbie słonia. Jenaro zatrzymał karuzelę, ale nie raczył otworzyć mi drzwiczek wagoniku; bądź co bądź, byłem prawie tutejszym pracownikiem. – Jak się podobało? – Bardzo – odpowiedziałem zadowolony. On tymczasem już ruszył z powrotem do swojej maszynerii i nie odpowiedział. Może zagłuszyło mnie radio, w którym leciał Julio Iglesias i jego Galicia. A może po prostu chciał, żeby moje przyszłe obowiązki jako członka kadry Wesołych Kumpli Joylandu były dla mnie prawdziwa niespodzianką. (na motywach powieści Stevena Kinga, podkreślenie autora)

mai

Stanislaw Barszczak, Brown-haired man in the evening time

He always was entertaining and fantastic. My life teacher. Straight brown hair, green eyes. Indications are male Caucasian. The subject is 175 pounds, 67 inches in height. He stood five food six and loved playing checkers. Professor under fifty, always with a briefcase, maybe a little refined or even outdated. He had very bad hair and 11 personalities. In the chapel at the morning mass he was always sleepy with us. He remained in my memory resistant to all blows of fate, resilient and always funny. He understood us young futureless men like no other, especially when he entered the third grade of our school in the evening time to watch the football match on the television. When we were after the ‘study’, it was obligatory to do homework in our Marian boarding school. It was as if the whole universe had quieted down at one time. So he will never cease to carry his spirit in his heart forever, he will be an “unencrypted talisman” in my days, like a hidden pillar of the wisest world. For with him I had glimpses of the last good of human civilization, the courage of artistic speech about human work. And what people want, you can see on the mass media. However, they do not want to live in fear, I have already learned this as a teenager. They want harmony, beauty and goodness. Regarding this, I only give you some information here. Yes, all politicians are moral. I just want moral feelings to reveal power. I don’t know if I will succeed. I have no solutions, I’m a novelist. It is nothing that writing the truth for certain people, I am ‘losing the lottery’. Because on this occasion I am always comforted by the fact that I am spending money less. With the rest, literature has another important task, namely to open the entire universe. We live in the watched society. What do I want finally you would be! You used this turbulent time to be together! We are going to send people to Mars, but return from this abandoned planet will only be possible with a stop on the moon, an intermediate station between Earth and the red planet. We will probably never live there on the planet Mars, we are too much like a comet in the skies of life. So, why are we not honest about creating structures of just life for humanity? We support some, we mix others with destiny. Institutions for nothing yet. In this respect I would like to be better than myself, I would say. Because bribery, cryptofascism, and the violence of the world are renewed. The religious fight continues. Islam, ISIS etc. I am not a creature at this event, but as a man unconsciously participating in it. However, the real feeling is love, which needs time, strength and courage. We have big technical capabilities. If someone is capable and better, he can’t be stupid etc. Let’s be clear, because without us there would be no great, wonderful side of life – “on such a scale” for the new and colorful human generation. It’s not true that you and I will never be together again, aren’t. Personally, I just wanted to read myself more and see my tone of voice in the stories I wrote. Do the same. You can read yourself more and more. Good luck. There is a strange record in thinking that people see ‘me’ always on a different floor. So, creating a ‘montage of a new essay’, I would like to remain brilliant and faithful to you, then know, I am not interested in the ‘Dreyfus case’ etc. So, nothing is good yet, I would say here. Personally, I couldn’t dance to a better Christmas now – I don’t regret it, which is a shame. As I said, what do you know, a new day, a new life. I may not have to be, but you must be strong! Liebe Landleute. Lovely people. Let a sentence in my texts result in many other better phrases that would continue to win the good in you forever. You would always have applause then. It will be nice meeting you again. Whatever? God will do it anyway.

F Scott Fitzgerald and US president Donald Trump.
Shaun Ley interviews media mogul Christopher Ruddy of Newsmax, who has known Donald Trump well for 20 years (see, bbc hardtalk). He has accused democrats of playing politics with impeachment, while the president himself calls the impeachment inquiry a witch hunt. But after this week, how much trouble is Donald Trump actually in? 
Recently, I watched a program about a famous American writer who was covered in black clouds, at one time, although for another reason, namely alcohol abuse. My voice only wants to show that people do not change. So, I saw a film in which novelist Jay McInerney explores the life and writing of F Scott Fitzgerald, whose masterwork ‘The Great Gatsby’ has just been filmed for the fifth time. Fitzgerald captured the reckless spirit of New York life in the roaring twenties – the flappers, the parties, the bootleg liquor, the inevitable reckoning, and the hangover to come. In Gatsby, he created a character who reinvented himself for love – just as Fitzgerald would, not once, but twice. Fitzgerald never wrote an autobiography. He left us something better – letters. Romantic, arrogant, humble letters; letters to editors, publishers, lovers, or friends. These letters reveal the inner thoughts of a man whose real life was never far from the fiction he wrote. Look, we always make the same mistakes, however bigger or smaller. Nobody is guilty.

Stanislaw Barszczak, By persistence you will save yourself.

What is the modern world like? The problems of our world reflect the problems of the developed society of the first quarter of the twenty-first century. According to scientists, we have time to consider humanity problems until 2135. Then humanity is to die because the 500 meter wide Bennu asteroid is expected to collapse to earth. If it hits the ocean, there will be a wave that will destroy everything, 60 percent of humanity. It is peace that is far from this catastrophe, but you must create all forms of honest saving humanity from destruction. I am also discriminated against, I will say here, that is, unnoticed by the responsible factors of the world, also by the mass media. And yet nobody is a lonely island, we are creating a network of connected vessels together. First we need to act on climate change. Witnessing the effect climate change has had on animals and humans in the Arctic has led writer and explorer Sir Ranulph Fiennes to fully support environmental campaign group Extinction Rebellion. “In the 1970s I was designing man-haul sledges which were a little bit waterproof in case there was a canal. Now we are designing canoes which can be hauled every now and again,” he told BBC Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur, adding that people can now canoe to the Pole instead of man-hauling. Sir Ranulph said that he would not support violent action and it was important for old and young people to come together to push for “sensible carbon behaviour”. Another question is extremism of modernity. Journalist Ronan Farrow, who won a Pulitzer prize for his investigation of Harvey Weinstein, says powerful people use „extreme tactics” to quash stories about them.He told Hardtalk’s Sarah Montague: „Harvey Weinstein hired an Israeli firm called Black Cube which is staffed by former members of the Mossad and other Israeli military and intelligence entities. They deployed agents and sub-contractors using false identities and front companies. This is how far the wealthy and connected can go to bury the truth,” he added. A spokesperson for Weinstein has previously denied that „any individuals were targeted or suppressed at any time”. Though Black Cube has previously told the BBC that it “applies high moral standards to its work, and operates in full compliance with the law of any jurisdiction in which it operates.” And now something about modern economics. The gig economy „is certainly exploitative and a product of the free market system”, the film director Ken Loach has told BBC Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur. His new film, „Sorry We Missed You,” focuses on a family fighting an uphill struggle against debt since the 2008 financial crash, reliant on work in the gig economy. Pope Francis was invited this time to Thailand and Japan. And in this region of the world there are not only economic issues, but problems of authorities, religious matters that the Pope should note. So, for example Malaysia needs a new narrative of Islam. Malaysia’s Minister for Islamic affairs Mujahid Yusof Rawa has said his government is proposing “a new narrative” of „compassionate Islam”. Malaysia has one of Asia’s most vibrant economies and is also a multi-ethnic, multi-religious federation – but the majority ethnic Muslim Malays dominate the country politically.
The minister told Hardtalk’s Zeinab Badawi: „We are now proposing or advocating Islam as a very progressive religion and role that it can play and we have come with a new narrative of Islam in Malaysia with a new government of what we call ‚the compassionate Islam’.” The aim was to „trigger the national unity,” he said. Another protest has been going on in Hong Kong. HK protests: „An inquiry should look at all sides.” Any independent inquiry into the escalation of the Hong Kong protests should investigate all factors, the ex-housing and transport secretary, Prof Anthony Cheung, has said. (see, the University students protests now) “This is the most serious crisis of governance in Hong Kong ever since 1997 and indeed since 1967,” he told BBC Hardtalk. Anti-government protests have been taking place in Hong Kong since June and currently show no sign of slowing down. The protests initially began against proposals to allow extradition to mainland China, but developed into other areas including demands for full democracy and an inquiry into police actions. The extradition bill was withdrawn in September but clashes between activists and police have become increasingly violent. But let’s return to our backyard, to Europe’s homelands. Mrs Gina Miller on abuse she faced over Brexit cases.
Campaigner and businesswoman Gina Miller, who led two legal challenges to the UK government’s Brexit strategy and won on both occasions, has said she never anticipated the toxicity of the abuse she would get. She told Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur: „What is so alarming to me and I didn’t anticipate, is the level at which that abuse is targeted at me because I am a woman of colour and because I supposedly have no right as somebody who has come to the United Kingdom to have a voice.” Mrs Miller successfully brought a legal challenge in 2017 forcing the government to seek Parliament’s approval to trigger Article 50, the legal mechanism taking the UK out of the EU.
Earlier this year she won a second case when the Supreme Court ruled that Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s decision to suspend Parliament was unlawful. US President Donald Trump has some difficulties in his country. But it seems that his solutions often miss the purpose of human desires around the world. In this aspect let’s look at the unsolvable problem of Kurds. Turkey is not afraid of US sanctions threat. Turkey’s Foreign Minister, Mevlut Cavusoglu, has said the country is not afraid of economic sanctions threatened by the US following the cross-border military operation against Kurdish-led forces in northern Syria. The national security concern is the main priority for Turkey and they expected their allies to recognise this, Mr Cavusoglu told BBC Hardtalk’s Zeinab Badawi. Why is Turkey bombing the Kurds in Syria? Tens of thousands of people have fled their homes in northern Syria, as Turkish forces step up their cross-border offensive on Kurdish-held areas. International clamour has increased for Turkey to halt the attack. The social problem in Catalonia has been increasing for some time. There were Manifestations. They want tolerance for their independence aspirations. Catalan Minister Alfred Bosch: We’re not haters. Catalonia needs to have a second referendum to give the region a chance to vote for independence from Spain, the Catalan Minister for Foreign Action has said. His comments come after a week of mass and sometimes violent protests following the sentencing of nine Catalan pro-independence leaders to jail for sedition. „We are asking the Spanish government to move. They are not moving… they are stuck in their position of not accepting anything, denying any kind of prospect for Catalonia or for Spain,” said Alfred Bosch. Catalans wanted a better future and were entitled to it, he said. As you know, it happens that I watch the BBC on television or on the internet. I was living on adrenaline, on television ex-spy Willie Carlin recently said. Former MI5 operative Willie Carlin was an undercover spy within Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, during the height of the Troubles. He was dramatically extracted in 1985 after his cover was blown. Asked what it was like working undercover he told BBC Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur: “I was living on adrenaline. It is the greatest drug ever… “You know there is nothing greater than thinking you are going to get shot and then you get into bed and think ‚I’m not shot’.” Still another problem. The parents of Jack Letts, who left the UK to join the Islamic State group as a teenager, say they believe their son is still being held in a Kurdish prison in north-east Syria but they are not getting any information through official channels. John Letts and Sally Lane said they were dependent on journalists’ reports for any news about their son, dubbed Jihadi Jack in the media. Mr Letts told Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur: „No-one informs us of anything. So the only thing we can rely on is social media or journalists on the ground.” Jack Letts left IS territory in 2017 and has said he did not believe he killed anyone. His parents deny he went to fight and instead say he was motivated by humanitarian reasons…
Katharine Gun worked as a translator for GCHQ, the UK government’s communications headquarters. She was sacked in 2003 after revealing a secret email to a UK newspaper and faced a charge of breaching the Official Secrets Act. She was cleared of the charge when the prosecution offered no evidence. Ms Gun told BBC Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur that she has few regrets about what she did. Her story has now being made into a film, Official Secrets, starring Keira Knightley… In the next future in England there will be a second referendum on Brexit, this is only way to break deadlock. The pro-EU independent MP Heidi Allen has said she is trying to co-ordinate Remain supporters from all parties to come up with an election pact for a future general election. „We are in deadlock. Therefore it has to go back to the British people,” Ms Allen told Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur. Ms Allen quit the Conservative party earlier this year and was interim leader of Change UK until she left the party in June. EU needs a deal more than we do, Stuart Wheeler said. At the last minute the EU will give in and make major concessions in a Brexit deal, the financier and Brexit backer, Stuart Wheeler has said. The EU needs a deal far more than the UK does, Mr Wheeler told BBC Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur earlier this week. The UK’s success has nothing to with being in the EU, he said, adding that the idea that it is to the UK’s advantage to be in the EU is “absolute rubbish.” Boris Johnson has launched the Conservative Party’s election campaign, saying his Brexit deal „delivers everything I campaigned for”. Surrounded by supporters holding signs with messages including „Get Brexit Done”, he told activists he had „no choice” but to hold an election. Parliament is „paralysed” and „blocked”, he said in Birmingham. He said once Brexit was done, a Tory government could get on with „better education” and „better infrastructure”.
Earlier, the prime minister met the Queen at Buckingham Palace, marking the official start of the election period in the run-up to the 12 December poll. We wish the British good luck. in the month of October we had fires in the Amazon. Brazil has done ‚excellent job’ on the Amazon. Brazil’s environment minister has defended his government’s record on protecting the rainforest. Ricardo Salles told Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur that the environment was everyone’s concern: „Brazil has done an excellent job. We have 84 percent of the Amazon preserved as opposed to many other countries that criticise us, they have no forest anymore.” Conservationists have blamed the Brazilian government for turning a blind eye to farmers and loggers clearing land in the Amazon, hastening deforestation… Last question, Al ‚will affect generations to come.’ Brad Smith is President of Microsoft and a long serving tech industry insider. He believes the way in which we develop and regulate Artificial Intelligence will affect the human race for generations to come. He told Hardtalk’s Stephen Sackur: „If we get it wrong, every generation that follows will likely pay a price for our mistakes.” In order to tackle the ethical questions thinking and learning machines will pose for us, Mr Smith believes that not just tech the sector but all areas of human endeavour and thought will need to come together to devise rules and laws around this area of research… Today we want to ask ourselves a question that has been shouted innumerable times into the night sky over the centuries. God, why do not you help me ?! When you realize that your power is not enough, you can read like this. On average, every second marriage breaks down. This is not because of the institution of marriage, but it is a social problem. For us Europeans it is increasingly difficult to live a long-term healthy relationship. There was no party she was absent, one woman said. Fashion and Lifestyle was her specialty. She was on the road as an editor for the Playboy and even started her own agency „World of Venus” to life. But at the age of 32, the collapse came … the beginning of a new era. „I was a playgirl and loved the wild life.” She was overwhelmed by the love she found there and that she got,” she says. She is undergoing radical change. Back in Switzerland, she first works for the social work of Pastor before accepting a position in a book publisher. Also in Switzerland she meets her future husband Samuel. Since summer 2016 the two are married. Samuel Schmidt is the child of two ’68 hippies. He grew up with his mother in a shared apartment, previously living with her in Sardinia and Morocco. When his mother returns to Switzerland with him, she turns from one day to the other from an anti-authoritarian to an authoritarian education. Samuel rebels, learns several professions before discovering and implementing his passion for creative work. The are examples of living the gospel spirit. Beloved Readers of my essays. On november 19, 2019 pope Francis left Rome for his 32nd apostolic journey. In these countries the faithful wait and pray with the Pope. Dear friends of Thailand and Japan, holy father says on tweeter, while waiting to meet, let us pray together so that these days may be full of grace and joy … The Gospel is interwoven with questions that seek to undermine, to shake up and to invite the disciples to set out , to discover that truth capable of giving and generating life. When Christians and Buddhists have the opportunity to recognize and appreciate each other, even in our differences, we offer the world a word of hope capable of encouraging and supporting those who are damaged by the division … Only God will welcome us to Heaven, but even those with whom we have shared, administering it well, what the Lord has put in our hands … To welcome us in Heaven there will be not only God, but also those with whom we have shared, administering well, what the Lord has put into the our hands … How nice if the poor occupy the place in our hearts they have in the heart of God.

Opublikowane przez sbarszczak2009

Jestem księdzem z Częstochowy i autorem kilkunastu książek. Moje częste podróże po świecie znalazły rezonans w rozlicznych esejach zamieszczanych na blogu w dziewięciu językach. Najnowsze wpisy będą tutaj, można je czytać na stronie https://wordpress.com Z życzeniami owocnej lektury przesyłam serdeczne pozdrowienia mojemu czytelnikowi. Stanisław Barszczak To be a “good Shepherd of sheep” in Europe of tomorrow, follow the man most left behind. Europe is a wonderful land of Christians, we are adjacent to the Greeks, Muslims and not only. Here, people walk on the street and look for, they miss the leaders. The people look for the shepherds of democracy in this world. We need to be realistic, sensitive to the feelings of humanism. We are to create a white and a real social relationship. We need stability, new social structures. We do not intend to be guided by corruption in introducing economic reforms in the historic society of the developed West. We do not need oligarchy or brilliant leaders, and also support banking systems. Nobody wants black holes in our secure Europe. Yes, we do not want borders that destroy human entrepreneurship, other embezzlement or economic collapse – but support the democracy of tomorrow. This is my social song. And with each song begins a new dream. And I wish the most beautiful dreams of a Europe of homelands to its inhabitants, “the good shepherds of sheep” on the old continent I want the most. Best wishes Father Stanisław Barszczak View more posts

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Stanisław Barszczak, The Borodino battle.

Dear reader, I open the last letter to you, yesterday’s game it is barely. I was alone. I have been alone many times, I was also alone when I could have a closer look at the Borodin Panorama. The building-museum on the outskirts of Moscow, which resembles Polish ‚Panorama Raclawicka’ of 1794 year, and reflects the feelings of people and nations from the Napoleonic campaign of 1812 during the battle of the Moscow River. Adam Mickiewicz, Polish national poet wrote about this Lady era, „born in captivity, shod in a cloak … I had only one such spring in my life.” When the colorful and multinational corps of the Great Army of the French passed through Lithuania country. The paintings – great epic paintings also show the Fifth Corps of the French Marshal, Polish hero Jozef Poniatowski, we see four great standards of the Polish Army there. It was immediately white and red at this moment. Before the eyes of ours in all its glory „Battle of Borodino”, in France known 7as the battle of the Moscow River, in french Bataille de la Moskova. The battle started just a few dozen kilometers from Moscow, fought on September 5-7, 1812, near Borodino and Mozajsk, between the French army commanded by Napoleon Bonaparte and the Russian army under the commander by Mikhail Kutuzov. As a result, Kutuzov withdrew his troops from the battlefield, thus opening Napoleon’s path to Moscow. Tactical victory of the French, strategic retreat of the Russians. Franco-Russian relations have gradually deteriorated since the conclusion of the peace treaty in Tylza. The main reasons for the approaching war were: the continental blockade imposed by Napoleon, which significantly weakened the Russian economy, based mainly on trade with England; the creation by Napoleon of a dependent seed of the Polish state, which was the Duchy of Warsaw, in particular Napoleon’s plans for the reconstruction of the Polish kingdom; a desire for revenge on the part of the aristocracy and Russian generals who could not overcome the defeats suffered in the last wars with the French, and the Russian victory in the war with Turkey, France’s natural ally; on the other hand, Napoleon’s confidence that the Russian army can be defeated, even on its own territory. On June 22, 1812, Napoleon issued an order to Wyłkowyszki to the Great Army to start the Second Polish War, and two years later he entered the territory of Russia at the head of an army of over half a million soldiers and 1,300 cannons. The Russian army suffered defeats in smaller battles and retreated, but it is still unknown whether it was a planned action – to pull the enemy deep into Russia and destroy him there – or as a result of individual clashes, as a result of which the Napoleonic army was nearby Moscow – the historical capital and one of the most important cities of the empire (the capital was then St. Petersburg). The decisive clash took place only in September, after General Tsar Mikhail Kutuzov took command of the tsarist army, who replaced General Mikhail Barclay de Tolly, who was widely accused (though wrongly) of treason and decided to face the French in the foreground of Moscow. The Russians did not want to allow the French to the former capital without a fight. Kutuzov very carefully chose the area of the battle, which is inherently convenient to defend, allowing only a frontal attack, reinforced by additional numerous field fortifications. Opposite 120,000 French, 135,000 Russians stood. At Borodino, as Clausewitz wrote, „the French army, the best in the world, was cast against the Russian army, which – in terms of organization and training – was probably the worst. However, in this battle there was no trace of finesse or intelligence: it was simply a test of strength and in this sense the two armies were equal.” We stare at the unforgettable battle scenes: the clash of cavalry formation, the Russians in the village of Siemiennowskaja, Bagration wounded at Borodino, counterattack of the Russian lebe-guard regiment, Ney leads an attack on Rajewski’s redoubt. Redoubt of Szewardino became the key to the battle. On the morning of September 5, after the Great Army was moved to the south bank of the Kołocz River, Napoleon tried to break the resistance of the Russians by concentrating all the impact on the left wing of the enemy, where – on hill 233 – there was a fortified pentagonal redoubt, later named (from the name of a nearby village) Reduta Szewardino. According to various sources, 8,000 infantry defended her, 4,000 cavalry and 36 guns from the 27th Division of Prince Andrei Gorczakov, with only 12 guns inside the redoubt, while the rest were to support her from a greater distance. Gorczakow deployed infantry in battalion columns behind the redoubt. The 2nd Division of Cuirassiers stood a bit to the side, between the fortifications and the village of Utica. Three infantry regiments – in loose tyralier formation – were placed in front of the redoubt, at the height of the village of Doronino, and Cossack outposts and a militia on the „old Smolensk road” in front of Utica. Two drone regiments from the Fourth Reserve Cavalry Corps were northeast of the fortifications. The first attack was carried out by the old Corps forces of the Prince Józef Poniatowski. After pushing the barrier made of Cossacks, the 16th infantry division of General Krasiński began to flank the redoubt from the south (the 18th division and cavalry insured it from the south-east), staggering 24 guns on one of the hills. Uhlans and horsemen were guarding the wings. Polish infantry advancing and operating on the hill were buried by an avalanche of Russian artillery fire. Many soldiers were killed or wounded. The head of the brigade Józef Sowiński lost his right leg, but lying on the ground by his departments, he did not stop giving orders to the gunners. Meanwhile, the 5th infantry division of General Compans from Marshal Davout’s First Corps struck from the forehead. The French regiments, coming to attack from three sides, suffered significant losses from artillery fire and during repeated counterattacks of Russian jegrs and dragoons. However, thanks to the close support of its own artillery and the appearance of the Murat cavalry masses on the southern shore, around 17 redoubt was taken. Several guns fell into the hands of the French, and the losses suffered by both sides amounted to about 4,000. (Great Army) and about 6,000 (Russia) Polish V Corps lost 550 people in this initial phase of the battle. September 6, 1812 passed peacefully. Both armies were preparing for the final battle. The French emperor came to the Fifth Polish Corps to visit them. On that day he received unsuccessful news from Spain, where Marmont suffered a defeat at Arapiles, which threatened to lose Madrid. At the same time, the messenger brought him a portrait of the little king of Rome from Paris (see, young Napoleon II). In the Great Army this was considered a good omen. In the evening, illuminated processions on the Russian side were observed from the French camp, religious songs were heard. On the morning of September 7, fanfare was heard in the regiments of the Great Army, and after a moment the imperial order was read to the army: „Soldiers! Before you the battle that you have longed for so much. The victory that we need so much depends on you; will give us plenty of everything and a good winter rest, and then a quick return to our homeland. Get on like you do at Austerlitz, Frydland and Vitebsk. Let your latest descendants remember with pride: they were in this great battle under the walls of Moscow!” Quote end. Kutuzov deployed his forces from the banks of Kołocz and the village of Borodino to the wooded area under the village of Utica. In the north, the First Western Army of Barclay de Tolly with the corps of Baggovut, Osterman, Korf and Uwarow, in the center, based on the so-called Great Reduta, the 2nd Western Army of the Bagration with the corps of Rajewski, Dochturov and Borozdin, in the south of the Bagration ramparts, manned by part of Borozdin’s forces, and then, in the forests, opposite the Polish Fifth Corps, the Tuczków corps, the Moscow Massacre and the Cossacks of the Platak. Kutuzov hoped that the battle would take place on the north wing, and that is why the southern wing was facing the weakest, opposite the V Corps. Here, however, the defender’s ally was nature – dense forests, marshes, uneven, jagged terrain. The Napoleonic plan assumed that Davout, with Murat’s support, would gain Bagration’s ramparts, while Poniatowski would break deep into the enemy’s rear and then hit his wing and rear. The subversive action was to be a frontal strike by Eugene de Beauharnais towards Borodino and then south towards the Great Redoubt. Meanwhile, everything went differently than the emperor had assumed. The Davout Corps failed to get the ramparts. The generals Compans, Rapp and Dessaix were wounded; Davout was also wounded. It was only after striking Michail Ney’s soldiers a success- with huge losses – at around 10 o’clock am. The heavy French cavalry thrown into the center also failed to break the resistance of the Russians. The village of Borodino was conquered in the first strike, but heavy battles were fought with a 200-cannon Rajewski Great Redoubt in the center, which was only captured by the French at 9 am. In fierce fighting, Davout lost his horse, soon he was wounded himself. At around 11 o’clock, the Russians launched a counterattack across the entire front, taking the Great Redoubt. Ney and Murat begged the emperor to throw in the Guard, but Napoleon refused. In return, he pushed the Marchand and Würtemberg division, which with great effort stabilized the situation, halting the impetus of the Russians. At the same time, a frontal attack on lost positions was launched, with more than 400 guns supporting the infantry. The fire was so intense that even the Russian reserve regiments at the back were found under fire. Only 16-year-old then later Decembrist Sergei Muraviov-Apostle remembered this day: the 2nd battalion of the Guard Siemionowski Regiment stood on the right of the 1st battalion, with the battalion adjutant Pierre Olenin on horseback a bit to the side. Around 8 am, the cannonball almost brushed his head, resulting in him falling off the horse immediately, convinced everyone was dead. Prince Trubieckoj, who visited him in the infirmary, assured the elder Olenin that his brother was alive, he was only injured. Olenin was overjoyed. All the officers gathered in front of the battalion’s front asking about the state of the wounded, but in the face of thickening fire of enemy artillery, Colonel Maksym Iwanowicz baron de Damas ordered – Gentlemen, please return to your seats. Nikolai Olenin took his place in front of his company, and Count Tatishchev opposite him, to exchange a few words. At that moment, a cannonball hit Tatishchev in the back, pierced him through, hit Olenin in the chest, also passing through and ripping the leg of the companion behind him. After the 12th and final phase of the battle took place on the 12th. The Russians gathered over 30,000 people in the vicinity of the Redoubt, while the matter of artillery was much worse, a part of the battery which, after running out of ammunition, left the position. The more fierce counterattacks of Russian infantry and cavalry were carried out with admirable contempt of death. For example, the Guard of the Lithuanian Regiment of the V Corps lost 973 of 1740 soldiers and officers that day. In the battle on the ramparts, Bagration suffered a fatal wound. At one point in the fight for the redoubt, Polish lancers allegedly attacked a battery of cannons and began cutting down gunners (according to Russian sources), when the battery commander, General Kosteneckij, an extremely strong man, took a rod and laid several Poles, saving the battery and its defenders. During fierce fighting, General Caulaincourt (see, son of Armand) died, but eventually the Great Redoubt remained – around 15 o’clock – received by the French. The Russians began to give way all along the line. One should notice here Prince Poniatowski, who was fighting on the southern section of the V (Polish) Corps, which was involved up to 13 o’clock pm in an ineffective fight for the fortified and heavily manned artillery Mamelon burial mound near Utica. Lieutenant Roztworowski, sent with a report about taking Utica, the grenade shattered his arm, but fighting the pain he managed to reach the emperor. In the battle for the mound, which passed from hand to hand, Russian General Aleksander Tuczkow fell (his body was never found, General Izydor Krasiński was wounded, the commander of the 15th Infantry Regiment battalion Lieutenant Colonel Maciej Rybiński with the banner in his hand broke through the masses Russian infantry to his own, but lost more than 300. As a result, Prince Józef, impatient with the lack of resolution, caught the Kniaziewicz division and with a shout of Hey boys forward, Hurray! led her to the victorious attack finally. At 17 the Russians were pushed east, but they were not Infantry and artillery, under cover of cavalry and Cossacks, gave way in the best order. At the last moment of this great battle, wounded – leading to the attack of the 2nd Battalion of the 1st Regiment of the Vistula Legion – General Chłopicki, which made a depressing impression on the soldiers Legia, as well as other Polish units, the V Corps lost 1,900 soldiers who were killed or wounded. In total – in all Polish units scattered across the corps of the Great Army – 220 officers were executed, including 3 generals. The fights of the Polish soldier at Borodino were, after 1990 year, commemorated at the Unknown Soldier Tomb in Warsaw with an inscription on one of the boards, „Borodino 5 – 7 September 1812 ″. Napoleon did not allow Ney to cast the Imperial Guard into battle, which at a critical moment of the battle she could have destroyed the Russian army: „I will not allow my Guard to be destroyed. Being 800 miles from France I won’t risk losing my best reserves! „These were the words by Napoleon, who thus proclaimed himself master of his own destiny. So, by the evening the fighting was over. Napoleon Bonaparte did not take the initiative and gave Kutuzov the possibility of retreat. The sight of the battlefield was shocking: „people, horses, living, wounded, killed, lay on top of each other in layers of six and eight …” Losses on both sides were extremely high. The Russians recorded between 45 and 50,000 dead and wounded, the French about 35,000. The heavy losses of the French cavalry and the refusal to cast the Guard prevented the pursuit of the Russian army retreating towards Kaluga. Napoleon took Moscow on September 14, 1812, but the main goal of the campaign, which was to defeat the Russian army in a general battle, was not achieved, which soon contributed to Napoleon’s defeat in Russia. The Tolstoy Epic, novel „War and Peace,” contains a detailed fictional description of the battle. Of the many film adaptations of the novel, two are noteworthy: from 1956 (dir. King Vidor) and from 1967 (dir. Sergei Bondarchuk). In 1880, Russian composer Piotr Tchaikovsky created a concert overture in 1812 to commemorate Moscow’s defense against Napoleon’s army. Karol Kurpiński composed the symphony „The Battle of Możajsk” performed by the orchestra at the National Grand Theater … The battle revealed the repeated interest of mankind in war and peace, the role of countless will in shaping history. „Staring at Napoleon’s eyes, Prince Andrei wondered about the insignificance of grandeur, the insignificance of life that no one understood, and the even greater invalidity of death, whose meaning no one lives. he could understand or explain.” This thought occurs when Prince Andrej is wounded on the battlefield and is „saved” by Napoleon. The considerations of Prince Andrey are important because of questioning Napoleon’s „greatness”, which Tolstoy developed through the novel, and for acknowledging the absurdity of the meaning of life and death in the face of death. „Everything was just like everywhere.” As before. This reference is an example of why Tolstoy’s Vera and Berg are pleased with the results of their evening. Their complacency in compliance indicates those who care only about social acceptance. Piotr Biezuchow about, Count Tolstoj says: „He was unlucky that many people, especially Russians, saw faith in the possibility of goodness and truth and believed, but they saw too clearly the evil and lie of life to be able to take part in life … his activity was connected with evil and deception.” Here you can see an example of Pierre’s growing disappointment in both his life and the hypocrisy of the people around him. Natasha „could not follow the opera, she could not even listen to music: she saw only painted cartons and strangely dressed men and women who moved, talked and sang strangely in the blazing light. She knew what it was all meant, but it was so grotesquely artificial and unnatural that she alternately felt ashamed and amused by the actors.” Quote end. These are the thoughts of Natasha during her visit to the opera and they can be considered a figurative description of her scruples about the insincerity of social life. However, he gradually becomes intoxicated by the performance, as it overwhelms Anatol’s attention and the superficiality of what he represents. „Almost in the middle of this sky, above the Prichistensky boulevard, surrounded by stars from all sides, but distinguished by their proximity to the earth, white light and a long, raised tail, shone a huge, brilliant comet of 1812 – a comet which is said to herald all kinds of horrors and the end of the world.” It is the moment on novel when Pierre looks to the sky after understanding that he loves Natasha. He experiences no fear, only delight. „Every their action, which seems to them to be an act of their own free will, in a historical sense is not free at all, but is connected with the whole course of history and predetermined for all eternity.” This is a encouraging example of how this novel persistently returns to the discussion of the tension between free will and destination. „War is not a polite pastime, but the worst thing in life and we should understand it, not play war.” Prince Andrei tells Pierre full contempt for war and game. Every their action, which seems to them to be an act of their own free will, in a historical sense is not free at all, but is connected with the whole course of history. Prince Andrei says that if war were not treated as a game, there would be less conflict. „The army, like a herd of wild cattle and trampling fodder, which could save her from hunger, fell apart and died every day while she remained in Moscow.” The reasons for the fall and defeat of the French army are summarized here. „Authority is a person’s relationship to other people, in which the more the person expresses the opinions, theories and justifications of collective action, the less his participation in this activity.” It’s already 2019 now. Our civilization ship is still in the Atlantic, flowing from Europe to America, I would like to remind the reader about our existence of today. If everyone waged the war only according to their beliefs, there would be no war, said Prince Andrei Bolkonski. There is nothing I want, there is nothing I would want if only I was there. … There is so much happiness in me and in this sun, but here. . . moans, suffering fear and something vague, this rush. . . They are shouting again and everyone is running somewhere again, and I run with them, and here it is, here is death, above me, around me. . . Wait a minute and I will never see this sun again, this water, this gorge, Nikolai Rostov has spoken. The entire Moscow society, from old women to children, received Pierre like a long-awaited guest, whose place was always ready and empty. For the Moscow society, Pierre was the dearest, kind, intelligent, cheerful and generous eccentric, absent-minded and affectionate Russian „squire” of the old symbol. His purse was always empty because it was open to everyone, Narrator says in novel. Man lives consciously for himself, but serves as an unconscious instrument for achieving historical, universally human goals. Once committed, the action is irrevocable, and its effect, coinciding with millions of people’s actions, acquires historical significance, Narrator says. „We are not one, we are not in agreement, so let them devastate us! We don’t accept your seed, we don’t take it, so we don’t agree on it! ” Peasants Boguchowo are saying it. What Kutuzov said did not come from wonderful, clever considerations, but from the feeling that was in the soul of the commander in chief, as in the soul of every Russian. Most of the people of the day did not pay attention to the general course of things, but were guided solely by the personal interests of the day. And these people were the most useful figures of the time, novel Narrator mentioned. In captivity, in a shed, Pierre learned not with his mind, but with all his being, with his life, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is in him, in satisfying natural human needs and that unhappiness comes not from lack, but from excess, Narrator also noted. A new feature appeared in Pierre, which gained the favor of all people: it was giving each person the opportunity to think, feel and look at things in his own way; recognition of the inability to change a person’s opinion in words, Narrator in novel says. „I loved you the moment I saw you. Can I hope?” I have seen you once. He became clean, smooth, fresh – like from a bathhouse … this is moral by Pierre Biezuchow. And now there is an appeal to the reader by me: I also live your dreams and thoughts, understand them. Look around, it’s too late to be a stranger! Every morning there is a hope that does not pass away, dreams that have to be made. We wanted eternity … You still need to wake up. And this is my new religion to you: understand the signs, see the „statue of freedom” in the full light of human destiny. Every day is poverty is enough… Live in real dreams … You are a Polish army, John Paul II would agree for this title given to his Poles. The burden of the „apparent” man is huge, Hannah Arendt once wrote about it. The banality of evil lies in the fact that it invades the human world because of a seeming, „apparent” man. Therefore, there still is life, there still is happiness and stìll human respect, I believe. However, the last one is often hidden under a glass shade. The writer characterizes this situation in the following way: how good it would be if forgetfulness fell on everything like a big shroud of snow. But our experiences have become part of our, of my being. They are the landscape in which I lived now. So, my life is just a preparation for death, I once thought. And that’s why I intended to describe them once a day … And so you imagine, I’m almost at midnight on the first day of writing my diary … I’m still awake, breaking my resolve to go to bed early – I’m delaying my sleep to delay the inevitable arrival of tomorrow morning. One more attempt to escape … from the world yet. The blow will fall sooner or later, and for now you have to enjoy every little detail, I told myself. Fortunately, it lasted as long as possible … Some people are going through hell on earth, so they will reach salvation after death first. Though, I still know all my life I will be thrashing between different, mutually exclusive desires. And the fight against death is always a beautiful, noble, miraculous and venerable thing, and thus a fight against war, similar to that of Borodino battle etc. But it’s also always hopeless don Quixote thing. Believe me my readers, Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy wrote, there are no stronger than these two warriors: patience and time. So, I tell you: turn all your attention to yourself, put a chain on your senses and look for happiness not in passions, but in your heart. The source of happiness is not outside, but inside us … I go to sleep happy and peaceful thoughts now, God help me to walk your paths: overcome anger with gentleness and slowness … Let the dead bury their dead, and as long as I live, I need to live and be happy – Count Tolstoj still thought like this. Except for God, no hair will fall off his will. And his will is guided by boundless love for us, and therefore, whatever happens to us is for our good. And they all fight and suffer and get tired, Count Tolstoj wrote, they waste their soul, their immortal soul, to achieve prosperity that lasts in a blink. It is not enough that we know it ourselves, but Christ, the Son of God, came down to earth and told us that this life is a momentary life, a trial, and we still stick to it and think that we will find happiness in it. At Borodino battle, the Russians won – not such a victory as what is known as the possession of pieces of matter on spars, called banners, and the space where armies stood and stand, but a moral victory that convinces the opponent of the enemy’s moral superiority and his own powerlessness. My God! Lead me out of this awful situation without a way out! (see, War and peace) In „Steppe Wolf” Hermann Hesse wrote: it’s not a pity that nothing has passed, just a pity of what is now. The steppe wolf’s gaze permeated all our modern times, all preventive bustle, all careerism and vanity, all the superficial play of conceited, shallow spirituality – and unfortunately – went even deeper, not only to the shortcomings and hopelessness of our time, our mentality, our culture, but it penetrated to the heart of humanity, Mr. Hesse noted. „Look what kind of apes we are! Look what a man is like! ” He felt hatred and deadly hostility towards all people and their hypocritical and degenerated manners and customs. Ah, it is difficult to find the trace of God in the life we know … From the moment we are born we are guilty, he noted … I am a madman, I am really a steppe wolf – as I often called myself – I am an animal faded in a strange, incomprehensible world, an animal that can no longer find your lair, your food and will to live. Perhaps all life is just a cruel mistake, some violent and unfortunate, miscarried creature of the grandmother, some wild and terribly missed test of nature … man is perhaps not only a semi-intelligent animal, but also a child of God, destined for immortality. „I’m not the one you love … My youth was one long suicide. Fearing that I would not hurt anyone, I deliberately tried to give the wrong impression.” End of quote. We don’t know what we want, we don’t love what we seem to love, Francois Mauriac has noticed. „I felt, saw my crime, touched her. It was not entirely in this hideous vortex of vipers – hatred of children, thirst for revenge, love of money, but the stubbornness with which I refused through these swirled vipers to break through. Not only that for half a century I knew from myself only what I was not; I also looked at others in the same way. I never realized that you had to tear the mask off other people’s faces, that you had to break through it to reach them. I should have made this discovery when I was thirty or forty. Today I am an old man with a dying heart and I watch as the last autumn of my life rocks the vineyards to sleep, he intoxicates them with mist of fog and rays of the sun.” Quote end. Those whom I should have loved dead; those who could love me have died. And I don’t have the time and strength to meet those who remained to discover them again. Everything in me, even my voice, my movements, my smile, belongs to the monster whom I pushed to fight against the world to whom I gave my name. It was Mauriac … But you will create vain landscapes, silver them with the moon – and radiate dawn. You don’t know that you have to knock down the sky and put it under the windows and call the lake blue. Then divide the lake with the sky in half, by day a curtain of bright mountains, at night by sapphire rocks; you don’t know how to crown your head with the rain of rocks, how to see them in the moon marked with a stick. You don’t know what mountain the gem rises above, the Poet said. In every man there is a beast of anger and a beast down from the chain of lust. Man is guilty of himself, he was given a paradise on earth, and he wanted freedom and stole fire from the heavens, knowing in advance that he was attracting misfortune, so it is not worth regretting. Know that there is nothing better, stronger, healthier and more beneficial for life than a good memory, especially taken from childhood, from the family home. If there are many such memories, then man is saved for life. Beloved readers, I have myself presented you with my battle of Borodino, as you might would have seen it here. And now another picture. Blazej waves his legs, sitting on the wall, thinks about what his mother told him and smiles at the thought that, after all, he is just a child, and all he has to do is … to be a child. A child who likes to lure the world, a child with amazing memory, storing all kinds of fascinating facts, a child curious of the world, a child with a „good heart”, a child who can even talk to ghosts. The adult world in which he moves does not have to understand – he does not need to know why everyone looks like a zombie, his mother died, why his father most of the time behaves like a mentally ill. Probably too late, but during a ripe day he seems to tell the crowd about his crisis of conscience and how he saw all his actions and all the misery he caused, passing him in an unbroken chain and talks about how in the literal sense of the word the Devil possessed him … Announces that from now on intends to go through life with a little more dignity. But above all, he intends to take care of his little son, a little John. At first, crowds come up, buzz at him, hiss and shake fists at him. In the end he manages to convince the crowd to listen to him … and the enraged crowd finally calms down a bit … someone nods somewhere and calls: – Poor man, first I need your help, then I will answer to. Will you find forgiveness in your hearts for me? I discovered that it is difficult to be good in this world – and still as if he were talking – then he closes his eyes and let the air out of his lungs stops. – Oh, dad – a little John whispers. The rain swallows tirelessly, black storm clouds thunder, send lightning bolts all over the sky. The crowd sobs and screams under the dripping umbrellas and under the canvas awning of the cafe on West Boulevard. A little John puts his head on his father’s chest, wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him for the last time … Another time he lived a magician in the world, he wrote from Lublin city: „he pushed others into the mud, and did not see.” But this was what Jasha was. He was still playing some other role. He was a bundle of personality: believer and heretic, good and bad, false and honest. He could love many women at the same time. They were all like locks, each with their own key. Only someone like him, Jasha, could open all souls. He hid a lot, rarely serious, always masked his anxieties. He pretended not to see himself becoming increasingly muddy. Only a weak thread prevented him from falling into a bottomless abyss. He looked into the face of death and debauchery and saw that they were no different. Standing this way and looking, he understood that he was undergoing a change, that he would never be the same Jasha. The last day was unlike any previous day. She summed up his whole previous life, and in doing so put a seal on him. He saw God’s hand. He reached the end of the road … Once afterwards he got into discussions with Shmula. Shmula started: A man without fear would be worse than an animal, and Jasha said: He is worse anyway. Then Shmula: He could be better, it depends on him. Jasha: How? What should we do? Shmula: don’t hurt anyone. Don’t speak ill of anyone. Don’t even have bad thoughts. Jasha: What will help? Szmula: If everyone did that, even our world would be a paradise. Jasha: It will never happen, Shmula: Each of us must do everything we can. (see, Isaac Bashevis Singer) Here is the sky where Julia lives, Shakespeare’s Romeo pronounced it. On the wings of love I have exaggerated this wall lightly, because love knows no boundaries or borders. Romeo: She embarrasses the candles glowing. Julia: Do you think we will see each other again when? Romeo: I don’t doubt it, beloved, and then all our suffering woven with a flower, we will become a canvas for sweet conversations … Illusions can live long enough and be quite happy. It may even be the only way to be happy … It’s all for a while, and then be born again with a fresh supply of strength and continue to bear the weight of the world for some time, until courage runs out. All this ‚stupid’ story will end soon – the poet wrote – and I will be able to come back, and then suddenly realized that he was thinking: I will have to come back; he stood still and looked at the strange and rich desert surrounding him, where peace and hope prevailed and in which the last seven years of his life sank like a handful of small pebbles thrown into the lake, going straight to the bottom and leaving no wrinkles on the surface, and he thought again calmly and with some deep amazement: Yes. I forgot what a good thing to make money. When they let people earn … This time he didn’t get up quickly. He lay flat on his stomach with his arms folded, in a position expressing almost peace, some submissive meditation. He knew that someday he would have to get up, simply because life consists of moments when a man has to get up sooner or later, and then sooner or later he must fall down … I discovered that until now I had no idea about the depths of corruption to which human imagination is capable, and it is always interesting … You remember: the black abyss; all mankind has passed her over and lived on, others will do the same for you, but it doesn’t matter to you because they can’t warn you, tell you what to do to survive. Loneliness, you understand. You have to do it in loneliness, and the loneliness that a man can endure and not die, has limits just like electrical voltage. If you do something, always do it with authority and so on. And yet I am a malicious dilettante, torn apart by irrational and chaotic feelings, passionately inquisitive and and self-condemned … When did I lose my freedom? I do not know. Because I used to be free. I had the option of choosing. I didn’t know my father and I suppose my mother didn’t know him either. The transparent stain that is in me sails through life like a hollow soap bank … Mother and Eve rise like two twin towers in front of me. My mother was still almost from another world, and Ewa was sometimes like a compulsive liar. In the morning I ran out over the gutters and waited for her looking at her door. When the whole world came on, the poet noticed it … I was going to describe you a day longer than a century, then the pain of great losses with the time of the steppe … Mother tormented her bitter thoughts that came back again and again. And there was no one to entrust to them, to relieve sadness, there was nobody to turn to except God Himself. Her son’s body was not found, however, and the horse did not return … And if by some chance he remained alive, then someone was made zen …? Everything is forgotten … After explaining the case (see, case by Abutalipa) I am once more convinced that people will have to long eradicate this terrible character trait – hatred of a man who has personality, the poet wrote. How long – it’s hard to guess. Against all this, I glorify life for the fact that justice on earth is indestructible. Here it triumphed again. Although it was expensive to pay for it, it triumphed. And it will always be so as long as the world lasts. – How is that? Edigej character whispered into the void, still not wanting to understand what happened. – So they really left? He said in amazement and sadness, although it was quite obvious that people had left this house. And he felt unhappy, as unhappy as never before in his entire life. He stood with no idea what to do next, what to do, how to stop the screaming, outward feeling of harm and loss. – Well, suppose you left, but you don’t go anywhere. That you are gone, no one knows where, you won’t escape your misfortune. It will follow you everywhere. No, Edigej, if you are a „Jigit,” here on the spot try to get a grip. To leave – this is not heroism. Everyone can leave. But not everyone can beat themselves … Dear Readers! So the „white weapon” is not enough, because sometimes „we go on the saber” with our brother, and the saber, she „cuts off hands.” For some time I have been doing gymnastics, when you are in despair the „queen of sport” helps us… What else do you want to know? The world has gone too far into crime for anything to stop crazy hands. Today the whole world is a dead home. It is a huge „concentration camp,” so great that you don’t need barbed wires, because you won’t run anywhere, I believe. One can only contemplate the destruction … Maybe when a thousand people remain on this planet, they will learn to live? Today there is no crime that a person could not commit in the name of great fear, I ponder. Great fear releases everything and does everything. And great wounds need to be treated with „great pain.” As for the so-called glory of humanity: more and more people admitted that their brains are irresponsible, unreliable, disgustingly dangerous and completely devoid of a sense of reality – in short they are not a damn good … That’s why people went for war or not? But now it all flashed like a dream – even my passion, which was strong and true, but where is it now? It really comes to my mind now: „would I not go crazy then and stay in the house of the faked all the time.” You see, Thomas had the opinion of the best surgeon in the hospital here etc. So, I lost myself. What am i today, like „zero.” What can I be tomorrow? Tomorrow I can rise from the dead and start living again! I can find a person in myself until he is dead … In every situation you can keep your personal dignity … However, man is a despot by nature and likes to be a tormentor. But God gave man freedom, so we can finally accept that he is not responsible for the evil that man does. The brotherhood of all the people of the world can only be built „on kitsch, the poet said”… The criminal regimes were created not by criminals but by enthusiasts convinced that they had discovered the only way to paradise. They defended her eagerly and therefore killed many people. Then it turned out that there was no paradise and that enthusiasts were murderers. Then everyone began to shout at the communists: you are responsible for the country’s misfortunes (he got poorer and declined), for the loss of his independence (he fell into the hands of Russia etc.), for the murders of the court! Those who were blamed answered: We did not know! We were lied to! Believed! Deep down we are innocent … There are plenty of things worth fighting for, but there is no reason to blindly hate and imagine that Almighty God hates with you. Where’s the evil? It is this considerable part of every man who wants to hate without restrictions, who wants to hate and have God on his side. It’s the part of every person for whom all forms of ugliness are so appealing. It is this „moronized part of each of us” that impels sentences, punishes and strives for war. (see, Kurt Vonnegut). Everyone has a Westerplatte top, I mean ‚Shevardino reduta’ in our lives, some tasks must be taken out in order to deserve death … But death, so recently, has begun to move away slowly, instead of it life did not return, but the subconscious, the state of existence, which is not defined it is not life … Then something other than anger or hatred appeared in me. There was a sense of indifference – I was not afraid of anything. However, it was already setting the evening. A solar eclipse is possible, but not an eternal night. There has never been a tyranny that would persist for a long time … A position that cannot be maintained is given away. This is what a man at war learns … I am still speaking, I have certainly repeated here – because I was not born as a dowry … Is the medal always two sides? We must start again. The past has gone bankrupt. We will not return to it. That life is not just a gift, you have to demand from yourself, not a year, but 360 days, not a day but 1444 minutes – because each has its own separate story. And so „burn” in the constellation of moments, in a strange pendulum of the world … There will be more than one war. But I found my love only in this war … When a man can’t choose … he is no longer human! Self-preservation instinct and fear of physical suffering force him to these grotesque humiliations. Their insincerity is striking. He is no longer a villain. And he is also not a being capable of moral choice. – It’s subtlety – as if the heaven Doctor smiled here. – We are not interested in motivation or higher ethics yet. We only deal with the elimination of crime … Only what is conducive to the safety of thoughts is allowed. (see, Elias Canetti) How can we expect ideal conditions on Earth when our bodies are the graves of murdered animals? As long as there are slaughterhouses, there will be battlefields. Consent to kill is an unavoidable necessity in every state system. But homicide is always homicide, regardless of the motives and circumstances. What amazing madness: to kill people for their good. Count Tolstoj announced the need for a new religion. God is a being we strive for, which we know, but which we cannot comprehend him today and then. There are like ‚criminals’ on the earth, but I don’t think them. Those who kill or prepare for murder are criminals, no matter who they are: judges, generals, kings … To force people to do what seems good to one person means to cause disgust to them … Not only one man he has no right to dispose of many, but to dispose of many. Hence, misunderstood patriotism inevitably leads to war, I believe. Security and welfare only provide society with the morality of its members; and its basis is love that excludes violence. In this era you have met yourself more than ever. Readers of my Borodino story, they watch TV: „see how humble, full of admiration, and servile about yourself you are.” This is still my faith. And just if you free people from the superstition that some can organize the lives of others, the state will become impossible. The gate to the temple of Truth and Good is low. Only those who bow their heads will enter in. If life is good, then death is good and without which there is no life. Let everyone sweep in front of their door and the whole street will be clean. Win with good. Speak only what you understand. It seems to me that on such a beautiful day, which is All Saints’ Day, I personally understood the war the most! At the beginning of November month this is my Battle of Borodino, with its marshals Jozef Poniatowski, Joachim Murat, with the closest collaborator of Napoleon I, Prince Armand-Augustin-Louis de Caulaincourt, and on the opposite side of Borodino settlement – Mikhail Illarionovich Golenishchev-Kutuzov, the pious General Marseilles of Russia Bagration. You imagine, this battle showed tremendous power, the strength of faith of a man, with its new and dramatic face: Napoleon in a depopulated and fiery Moscow, before the Iconostasis in the Kremlin, the return of his Great Army from Moscow rescued by a certain sieger (in Polish, sierzant soldier), crossing Berezyna by two bridges in Studzianka village, the heroism of Michael Ney during the retreat of the French ‚Grand Armee’, this battle showed the new walls of the ellipse of the universe, and the return of a boomerang of human lawsuits and the destiny of mankind, the return of historical truth, a Borodino battle, means that if there was no saving suffering, man would not know his borders, he would not know himself.