Literary novel
Wit Szostak
Others’ Words

A story about the fundamental unknowability of the world and of other people

If I had known that you’d be gone so soon, son, I would have loved you differently.

But what does that mean: differently? Better, more wisely, more intensely? More patiently? When you were born, I was certain that I would love you always and above all else. And I tried very hard, but then other things would turn out to be more important. So many times you would walk away disappointed. So many times I would fob you off with “a bit later”, “tomorrow”, “another time” or “go play on your own”. Did I look you in the eye in those moments? Did I see your sorrow? Or maybe I was too busy for that too? I could have done so many things better, I could have held back so many words, controlled so many gestures. Why was I not capable of doing that? After all, son, you were the most important.

Things weren’t bad between us, were they? I never hit you, I listened to you, and I talked with you, though maybe not enough. But we have no shortage of beautiful memories. I remember us walking through meadows in bloom; it’s summer and the grasshoppers are chirping. There are sandwiches in my knapsack and raspberry juice in a heavy glass bottle. We’re walking along a narrow path, and I’m telling you about animals and trees, I’m summarising the adventures of Tom Sawyer and stories from the Bible. I’m telling you about Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Esau. When I think back to those stories now, what I have in front of my eyes is not the desert where they took place but the meadow and you, walking a few steps in front of me in your sandals, your head bent down. I see you crouching down to pick up a stone, a stick, a tarnished coin. And I’m telling you about the bowl of lentil pottage, about Jacob wrestling with the angel, about Joseph’s brothers. I had known those stories for as long as I can remember and felt I could tell them well. I don’t know if you were listening or if you were absorbed in searching for treasures. You used to bring so many of them home. Blown fuses, bottle tops, a knife with a rotten handle. You would pick up this or that and ask if you could bring it home, if Mum wouldn’t be upset, and I would always say it was fine.

How am I supposed to remember you now? Those who didn’t know you for as long surely have an easier time of it. They can quickly think back to your first meeting. So can I. Because of course I remember picking you both up from the maternity ward; I remember the pale blue of the blankets, the smell of the corridor. And you: fragile, defenceless, all bundled up. This is the scene I would like to recall when somebody mentions your name. It would be wonderful if that is what I could remember first.

But another image keeps coming back. For years I have tried to obliterate it, to efface it like a prison tattoo, but in vain. I never asked you about that day, I didn’t have the courage; in general, I asked too few questions and proceeded straight to the answers. I considered myself a wise father who knows everything about his child. And when I did ask about something, it was meaningless. I asked you how things were at school and at the playground, about food and about your classes. Of course these were serious matters – they were the fabric

of your daily life – but my questions were not serious. Because I knew the answers in advance and only expected confirmation. They were questions just for the sake of asking questions, to keep the conversation going, faking contact. You didn’t like them, and I would bristle at your perfunctory answers. But how were you supposed to answer? Give me a detailed account of every lesson and break at school, repeat every word and describe your friends’ every reaction?

I didn’t want answers; I knew that everything was fine at school, everything was fine at the playground, everything was fine everywhere. “School is school,” you would say, and I would take that for impertinence. But that’s exactly how I had answered my own father. Or rather, that’s how I would have answered him if he had asked. He didn’t ask; he’d wait until I got back from school and say, “You’re home? Go bring in some wood.” That was all. So in order not to be like my father, I asked, and I was exactly like him. Uninterested.

Excerpt translated by Eliza Marciniak

Literary novel
Wit Szostak
Others’ Words

A story about the fundamental unknowability of the world and of other people

Publisher: Powergraph, Warszawa 2021
Translation rights: Powergraph,

Wit Szostak has experimented with literary form many times, and he does so again in his new novel, Others’ Words. The author’s way of telling the story of one Benedykt Ryś, once an exceptionally talented philosophy student who abandoned his promising academic career to live life on his own terms, is truly devious. Ryś himself is absent from the book: he has died in a car accident, and the novel consists of the reminiscences of those close to him: his lover and partner, with whom he jointly created a restaurant; his father, who reproaches himself for his coldness; his former professor; fellow students; a close female friend; and, finally, a man whom Ryś knew when they were children. Thus the protagonist is described by others: we see him through the prism of “others’ words”, which are usually full of praise and regret that his life has been left unfinished. Yet this affectionate perspective is ultimately negated. To not give everything away I can only add that Szostak’s book is a story about the fundamental unknowability of the world and of other people, and also about the fact that our knowledge is always mediated by others’ accounts, which might be untruthful or incomplete. Do we live one life or perhaps several different lives? And is a coherent story about any given person possible at all?

Szostak has created a multi-vocal novel: every narrator has his or her own style. Particularly moving (perhaps because they are closest to the author’s own life) are the confessions of the father and the story told by the professor – accounts of two men who have been at times harsh with Benedykt and at times loving, but who above all are surprised by his premature demise and their own transience.

It is worth paying attention to Wit Szostak’s work and the resolute way in which for many years he has been building his literary universe – and seeing our times through the eyes of an artistically talented philosopher, lecturer, gourmet and wanderer.

Marta Kwaśnicka
Translated by Eliza Marciniak

Selected samples

Julita Deluga
Wojtek Wawszczyk, Tomasz Leśniak
Anna Kańtoch
Andrzej Bobkowski
Wisława Szymborska
Zdzisław Kranodębski
Andrzej Nowak
Wiesław Myśliwski
Jarosław Jakubowski
Anna Piwkowska
Roman Honet
Miłosz Biedrzycki
Wojciech Chmielewski
Aleksandra Majdzińska
Tomasz Różycki
Maciej Hen
Jakub Nowak
Elżbieta Cherezińska
歐菈·沃丹斯卡-波欽斯卡(Ola Woldańska-Płocińska)
作者:沃伊切赫·維德瓦克(Wojciech Widłak), 插圖:亞歷珊德拉·克珊諾夫斯卡(Aleksandra Krzanowska)
文字:莫妮卡·烏特尼-斯特魯加瓦(Monika Utnik-Strugała), 概念和插圖:皮歐特·索哈(Piotr Socha)
作者:亞格涅絲卡·斯特爾馬什克(Agnieszka Stelmaszyk)
尤安娜·日斯卡(Joanna Rzyska)、阿嘉妲·杜德克(Agata Dudek)、瑪格熱妲·諾瓦克(Małgorzata Nowak) Druganoga出版社,華沙2021
艾麗莎·皮歐特夫斯卡(Eliza Piotrowska)
米科瓦伊·帕辛斯基(Mikołaj Pasiński)、瑪格熱妲·赫爾巴(Gosia Herba)
歐菈·沃丹斯卡-波欽斯卡(Ola Woldańska-Płocińska)
瑪麗安娜·奧克雷亞克(Marianna Oklejak)
拉法爾·科希克(Rafał Kosik)
亞歷珊德拉·沃丹斯卡-波欽斯卡(Aleksandra Woldańska-Płocińska)
巴托米耶·伊格納邱克(Bartłomiej Ignaciuk), 阿嘉塔·洛特-伊格納邱克(Agata Loth-Ignaciuk)
文字和插圖:皮歐特·卡爾斯基(Piotr Karski)
文字和插圖:皮歐特·卡爾斯基(Piotr Karski)
羅珊娜·延澤耶夫斯卡-弗魯貝爾 (Roksana Jędrzejewska-Wróbel)
作者:普舎米斯瓦夫·維赫特洛維奇(Przemysław Wechterowicz) 插圖:艾米莉·吉烏巴克(Emilia Dziubak)
尤斯提娜·貝納雷(Justyna Bednarek) 插圖:丹尼爾·德拉圖爾(Daniel De Latour)
尤安娜·巴托西克(Joanna Bartosik)
瑪格熱妲·斯文多夫斯卡(Małgorzata Swędrowska)、尤安娜·巴托西克(Joanna Bartosik)
Jan Kochanowski
Jarosław Marek Rymkiewicz
Olga Tokarczuk
Władysław Stanisław Reymont
An Ancient Tale
Stanisław Rembek
Elżbieta Cherezińska
Henryk Sienkiewicz
Maria Dąbrowska
Stefan Żeromski
Bronisław Wildstein
Zbigniew Herbert / Wisława Szymborska
Karol Wojtyła
Wiesław Myśliwski
Czesław Miłosz
Anna Świrszczyńska / Melchior Wańkowicz
Tadeusz Borowski / Gustaw Herling-Grudziński
Wiesław Helak
Góra Tabor
Adriana Szymańska
Paweł Rzewuski
Mariusz Staniszewski
Radek Rak
Urszula Honek
Kazimierz Orłoś
Rafał Wojasiński
Antonina Grzegorzewska
Józef Mackiewicz
Tobiasz Piątkowski, Marek Oleksicki
Daniel Odija
Bronisław Wildstein
Józef Mackiewicz
Józef Mackiewicz
Witold Szabłowski
Andrzej Muszyński
Wiesław Helak
Bartosz Jastrzębski
Dariusz Sośnicki
Łukasz Orbitowski
Jakub Małecki
אנדז'יי ספקובסקי
Elżbieta Cherezińska
Wiesław Myśliwski
Jakub Małecki
Aleksandra Lipczak
Jacek Dukaj
Wit Szostak
Bartosz Biedrzycki
Zyta Rudzka
Maciej Płaza
Wojciech Chmielewski
Paweł Huelle
Przemysław "Trust" Truściński
Angelika Kuźniak
Wojciech Kudyba
Michał Protasiuk
Stanisław Rembek
Krzysztof Karasek
Elżbieta Isakiewicz
Artur Daniel Liskowacki
Jarosław Jakubowski
Zbigniew Stawrowski
Szczepan Twardoch
Wojciech Chmielarz
Robert Małecki
Zygmunt Miłoszewski
Anna Piwkowska
Dominika Słowik
Wojciech Chmielewski
Barbara Banaś
Rafał Mikołajczyk
Jerzy Szymik
Waldemar Bawołek
Julia Fiedorczuk
Jakub Szamałek
Witold Szabłowski
Jacek Dukaj
Grzegorz Górny, Janusz Rosikoń
Paweł Piechnik
Andrzej Strumiłło


Marta Kwaśnicka
Piotr Mitzner
Paweł Sołtys
Wacław Holewiński
Anna Potyra
Wiesław Helak
Urszula Zajączkowska
Marek Stokowski
Hubert Klimko-Dobrzaniecki
Jakub Małecki
Łukasz Orbitowski
Małgorzata Rejmer
Rafał Wojasiński
Wojciech Kudyba
Włodzimierz Bolecki
Jerzy Liebert
Wojciech Zembaty
Wojciech Chmielarz
Bogdan Musiał
Joanna Siedlecka
Krzysztof Tyszka-Drozdowski
Jarosław Marek Rymkiewicz
Marek Bieńczyk
Leszek Elektorowicz
Adrian Sinkowski
Szymon Babuchowski
Lech Majewski
Weronika Murek
Agnieszka Świętek
Stanisław Szukalski
Barbara Klicka
Anna Kamińska

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Ks. Tomasz Stępień

This question is closely related to the next one, namely: if any goal exists, does life lead us to that goal in an orderly manner? In other words, is everything that happens to us just a set of chaotic events that, combined together, do not form a whole? To understand how the concept of providence … Continue reading “Order and Love”

Jakub Małecki
Szczepan Twardoch
Wiesław Helak
Maria Wilczek-Krupa
Anna Kańtoch
Rafał Kosik
Paweł Sołtys
Dorota Masłowska
Wiesław Myśliwski
Martyna Bunda
Olga Tokarczuk
Various authors
Mariola Kruszewska
Waldemar Bawołek
Marek Oleksicki, Tobiasz Piątkowski
Wojciech Tomczyk
Urszula Zajączkowska
Marzanna Bogumiła Kielar
Ks. Robert Skrzypczak
Bronisław Wildstein
Anna Bikont
Magdalena Grzebałkowska
Wojciech Orliński
Klementyna Suchanow
Andrzej Franaszek
Natalia Budzyńska
Marian Sworzeń
Aleksandra Wójcik, Maciej Zdziarski
Józef Łobodowski

The work of Józef Łobodowski (1909-1988) – a remarkable poet, prose writer, and translator, who spent most of his life in exile – is slowly being revived in Poland. Łobodowski’s brilliant three- volume novel, composed on an epic scale, concerns the fate of families and orphans unmoored by the Bolshevik Revolution and civil war and … Continue reading “Ukrainian Trilogy: Thickets, The Settlement, The Way Back”

Piotr Zaremba
Wacław Holewiński
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