I spent in The 1000 Ton Hall the first decade of June because I was to spend there just ten days.
The first day I was suspicious and careful.
The second day I was horrified.
The third day I wanted to run away.
The fourth day I discovered the reasons of my frustration and weakness, of chaotis running from one wall to another: it happened for the first time that a book I was writing was many times bigger than myself – until then I had always been many times bigger than a book – I could always easily crumple a sheet of paper and throw it away – now I could be crumpled and thrown away and this is what nearly happened -
The fifth and sixth day I was at home to print the impossible words on pages which were to form a streak of light across my head . . . . . . . . . .
The seventh day I was calm, maybe little bit dreamy.
The eighth day I was even delighted that what I was doing was almost ideally needless.
The ninth day nothing special happened, as usually, only the idea of a slide multinovel came to my mind, also absolutely needlessly.
The tenth day I resigned enthusiastically. What I created deserved to be labelled a sketch. I would have to spent in Norblin ten years to create something that would deserve to be considered a work completed to a large extent and made meticulously. Certainly it is not possible now. For various reasons. Mainly because I prefer to spend next ten years of my life somewhere else. Whereas it is highly probably that in next ten months a new book, again many times smaller than myself, will be completed, a book describing not only those ten days that shook nothing and nobody.

   

                 

   

   

                 

   

   

                     

   

   

   

                   

   

   

[photo by Klara Kopcińska and Józef Żuk Piwkowski]


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