Gombrowicz arrived in Argentina aboard the Polish cruiser the Chrobry. War broke out and he decided to stay. He remained there, in great poverty, till 1963. Trans-atlantyk was born from this exile.
Kundera led me to his work first. Writing about Ferdydurke, "Will the man become what others see and treat him as, or will he muster the strength, despite everything and everyone, to salvage his identity."
I've spent nearly all my time, and certainly all my energies, over the last ten years subject to the systematic depredation of the greasy grant pole and the dehumanizing gold card humiliation of County General.
Every day I consider my dignity. Sometimes I feel as if the world hates me. I don't understand this hate. I've read and written in an attempt to free myself from it, but hate is a power I can't control. Dignity is different. I work. Every day I muster the strength, the psychological sturdiness required of dignity.
Death is famliar. I've been intimate these ten long years. I refuse to give myself over, in any way. As it has crept closer, I still refuse. For many years I clung to life simply because I feared death. I've since known I cling to life, because I love life so completely.
There are days I too wonder why more people do not kill themselves. On those days I breathe. There is something in breath that slows me down. Speed an artifact of domestic violence. I learned to navigate a very volatile homelife swiftly disappearing. Death relies on swift decisions. Life steadfast obstinance.
I work. Every day I work. Gombrowicz knows the world's hate. He responded by working. He responded by being true to the craft, his project, and not accepting the conflation of his life with his life's work.
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