So far the events celebrating the Czesław Miłosz centenary have been marked by a special warmth and conviviality, almost like a family reunion – but nowhere was that impression more pronounced than at last Wednesday’s event at Wheeler Hall at the University of California, Berkeley. No surprise. Berkeley was the poet’s home for four decades.
Thanks to the notorious Berkeley parking — a university parking lot meter that would not take cards, not take bills, and, once I got about three dozen quarters, wouldn’t take those either (nor return them) – I arrived about 45 minutes late.
Adam Zagajewski was saying “Has he grasped the totality? … Well, yes.”
“It’s in ruins, because totality is in ruins, but it’s still a totality.” I wasn’t quite sure what the “it” was – the world? the Nobel laureate’s oeuvre? — nor did I get more than the gist of what he was trying to say, having missed the context, but it was vintage Zagajewski, so I pass it on.
“The world does not belong to any single poet,” said Adam.
Robert Hass was the emcee for the event, and commented on Miłosz’s stunning memory, and also on the unusual and sometimes dark connections it made. A singing of “happy birthday” would remind Miłosz of the crematoria at Auschwitz, and crematoria might remind him of strawberry jam.
Berkeley is also the home of the poet’s son, Anthony (or Antoni) Milosz. I met him once before, several years ago at the San Francisco memorial organized by poet Jane Hirshfield, but the resemblance to his father did not strike me nearly so forcefully then. On Wednesday evening, it gobsmacked me.
Toni has translated his father’s last poems (Wiersze ostatnie was published by Znak in 2006), to be published with the paperback selected this fall as Selected and Last Poems.
The younger Miłosz said that he was aiming at “sound translation,” and felt too often translations of his father’s poems “intellectual content dominates.”
He noted the rhythm of his father’s work, and that, among musical instruments, Miłosz favored the bass and drum – “though he claimed to like the harpsichord and more refined instruments.”
“My father’s poetry is immensely direct,” he said, adding that directness pits it against current trends.
He read his father’s late poem “In Honor of Father Baka,” which he described as “funky, short-lined” poems in the baroque manner. It’s wry and mysterious – and I am looking forward to the November 15 publication.
Peter Dale Scott reiterated the claim that Czesław Miłosz was “perhaps the greatest poet of our time,” and called him “a poet of radical hope” in a way “not seen since Schiller and Mickiewicz.” Miłosz saw poetry as “a home for incorrigible hope” — another feature of his work that was “in marked contrast to the times.”
Peter ranked Miłosz with poets from Dante to Blake, the poets who were “enlarging human consciousness.” He discussed Miłosz’s poem, “Dante,” which concludes:
“The inborn and the perpetual desire
Del deiformo regno – for a God-like domain,
A realm or a kingdom. There is my home.
I cannot help it. I pray for light,
For the inside of the eternal pearl, L’eterna margarita.”
Miłosz, said Peter, was “obsessed with the need to reach the ‘second space’ – the world of paradise and perfection beyond this world we inhabit.”
Peter called Miłosz a “leading visionary of his time, looking into the open space ahead.”
Jane Hirshfield noted that for Miłosz, “everything was I and Thou, everything was personal.”
Most of the evenings speakers at the front of the room arrived via literature, said journalist Mark Danner. “I come here through real estate.” (That’s not quite true; he was Miłosz’s friend for several years before he bought the poet’s house on Grizzly Peak.)
He described the roughstone chimney and the roughstone path of the house that has been compared to a cottage from a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale. He also remembered “Czesław’s deer.” ”The deer populate the place,” even though Miłosz would chase them away from the garden they viewed as a salad bar.
Bingo! (But it's not Żubrówka...but would you notice by the third round?)
One morning he recalled seeing more deer on the lawn than he had ever seen before – over a dozen, as he recalled. Bob Hass’s voice was on his answerphone – “Mark, I don’t want to leave a message on a machine…” Miłosz had died in Krakow.
Mark thumbed through a book Miłosz had inscribed to him, and was startled to read the reference he had apparently forgotten, the inscription “in the name of all generations of deer.”
Bob Hass’s wife, the poet Brenda Hillman, recalled the Monday translation sessions Bob shared with Miłosz — sometimes spending the session working on a single line. Bob recalled Miłosz appearing on their doorstep, with the command, “Vodka, Brenda!” A bottle was always in the freezer, waiting. I hope it was Żubrówka.
Brenda was, for a time, interested in the knotty issues the Gnostics raised, and asking Miłosz, “What is heaven? What is it like?” To which the poet replied:
“Brenda, heaven is the third vodka.”