Julia Child, 1912–2004
Cartier-Bresson, 1908–2004 — photographer of the decisive moment

Czeslaw Milosz, 1911–2004

Photo by Mikhail Lemkhin (all rights reserved)

Czeslaw Milosz died in Kraków on 14 August, aged 93. He was a great writer, his work encompassing both poetry and novels, essays and philosophical, theological reflections of considerable power and eclectic range. His witness to the terrors and inhumanity of the twentieth century did not prevent him from witnessing simultaneously to the enduring human love for the sensual and spiritual. The obituaries in The Daily Telegraph and The Times are worth reading.

Two poems, by way of introduction and memorial:

    A Confession (1985)

    My Lord, I loved strawberry jam
    And the dark sweetness of a woman’s body.
    Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil,
    Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves.
    So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spirit
    Have visited such a man? Many others
    Were justly called, and trustworthy.
    Who would have trusted me? For they saw
    How I empty glasses, throw myself on food,
    And glance greedily at the waitress’s neck.
    Flawed and aware of it. Desiring greatness,
    Able to recognise greatness wherever it is,
    And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant,
    I knew what was left for smaller men like me:
    A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud,
    A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.

    Preparation (1986)

    Still one more year of preparation.
    Tomorrow at the latest I'll start working on a great book
    In which my century will appear as it really was.
    The sun will rise over the righteous and the wicked.
    Springs and autumns will unerringly return,
    In a wet thicket a thrush will build his nest lined with clay
    And foxes will learn their foxy natures.

    And that will be the subject, with addenda. Thus: armies
    Running across frozen plains, shouting a curse
    In a many-voiced chorus; the cannon of a tank
    Growing immense at the corner of a street; the ride at dusk
    Into a camp with watchtowers and barbed wire.

    No, it won't happen tomorrow. In five or ten years.
    I still think too much about the mothers
    And ask what is man born of woman.
    He curls himself up and protects his head
    While he is kicked by heavy boots; on fire and running,
    He burns with bright flame; a bulldozer sweeps him into a clay pit.
    Her child. Embracing a teddy bear. Conceived in ecstasy.

    I haven't learned yet to speak as I should, calmly.