‘He started an acrimonious quarrel with a waiter, who on noticing that we were foreigners, decided that he could treat us with contempt,’ recalled Andrzej Bernhardt. ‘Mirek Chojecki invited us to dinner at Brasserie Lipp. We left a lot of food on the plates, so my uncle asked the waiter to wrap up the leftovers the way it was done in America. With a scornful expression, the man threw everything into one bag, so uncle demanded three separate ones – one for the French fries, one for the meat, and one for the salad. The furious waiter finally complied, but he also overcharged us on the bill! This was not, as it may seem, a minor pub squabble. He simply would not let one thing go, he would not let anything pass. He was so sensitive, so thin skinned, that it seemed he had almost no skin at all.’ (…)

His publishing arrangements in France were going badly; finally during his last stay in Paris, he published a volume with Fayard. He did not have a place in the French book market. He was known in Germany, America, Sweden, he received prizes, including in Israel, where he went while already very ill. He did not count on the Nobel Prize, he knew that political correctness reigned and there was no chance for him at all. Would he have even accepted it – alongside Gorbachev? Being in the society of laureates was very important to him. He was chronically short of money, especially since he did not like to ask anyone for it. He bought a lot of books, and not only literature, but, for example, histories of objects – the hammer, the carpenter’s plane, the wristwatch; lives of ants and apes; a history of ancient Egypt. He bought maps, graphics, stamps. He collected crystals, rocks, that always stood on his orderly desk. He loved beautiful objects – and peace and quiet. As time went on, his contacts with people became more and more difficult. They made him more and more upset, distracted, but especially Poles – who were not punctual, unreliable. (…) He received fewer and fewer telephone calls, though sometimes it happened that some people got lucky, and managed to make contact. He did not respond to letters, especially from young poets who sent him their poems for comment. He thought this was embarrassing. One should judge one’s own work.

(…) He did not want to be an emigrant, he always travelled on the so-called temporary stay, but as he turned sixty, he insured himself and paid premiums. This was fortunate because it was then that his illnesses began. His relations with hospitals and doctors grew worse. He could not find a physician who would satisfy him, he demanded too much. He wanted not only to get good treatment, but that the doctor should be intelligent, well-read, know and understand things. He left the house less and less, and finally stopped going out at all. He went to the bookshops on Saint Germain by taxi, because his home was far from the metro. He no longer took advantage of being in Paris, in France, and there was no point in staying there, paying rent, a large sum on which he could live in Poland. He returned home in 1992 and we still corresponded. He asked for books that he most needed in Poland. Recently, he was interested in ancient Egypt, and wanted catalogues from exhibitions on this subject. Although I did not want him to, he always sent money, writing that he was going to kick the bucket shortly and wanted to settle all his accounts.

Excerpt translated by Peter Obst