Some type of titanic force had twisted his head in such a hellish manner that his eyes had popped out of their sockets and were gazing at his own chest. In the plucked whites, the morning sun played a cruel smile … .
For more than twelve years Wrzesmian had not written a word. After publishing in 1900 the fourth in his series of original, insanely strange works, he became silent and irrevocably removed himself from the public eye. From that time on he didn’t touch his pen, he didn’t even express himself with a trivial verse. He wasn’t wrested from silence by his friends’ urgings, nor was he stirred by the attentive voices of critics who speculated about a forthcoming work of epic proportions. These anticipations passed, and nothing was heard from Wrzesmian.
Slowly an obvious conclusion, as bright and clear as the sun, began to form concerning him: he had exhausted himself prematurely. ‘Yes, yes,’ the heads of the literati sadly nodded, ‘he wrote too much too soon. He didn’t understand the economy of production; he touched on a few too many issues in one work. He actually offended with an overabundance of ideas, which, compressed into dense summaries, weighed down the forceful material. The potion was too strong; it deserved, rather, to be given in smaller, diluted doses. He damaged his own reputation: he ran out of things to say.’
These judgements reached Wrzesmian, but they did not elicit the slightest response. Consequently, his speedy impoverishment was believed in, and the world paid him no heed. Besides, new talents emerged, new figures appeared on the horizon. Finally he was left in peace.
And, indeed, the majority of people were glad with this turn of events. Wrzesmian wasn’t too popular. The works of this strange man, saturated with rampant fantasy and imbued with strong individualism, gave a most unfavourable impression by inverting accepted aesthetic-literary theories and by mocking established pseudo-truths. His output was eventually acknowledged as the product of a sick imagination, the bizarre work of an eccentric, maybe even a madman. Wrzesmian was an inconvenience for a variety of reasons, and he disturbed unnecessarily, stirring peaceful waters. Thus his premature eclipse was received with a secret sigh of relief.
And no one supposed even for a moment that the cause of his withdrawal from the public eye was not the loss of his literary powers. Wrzesmian, however, was utterly indifferent as to what was, or would be, said about him. He considered the whole affair personal and private, and never thought of extricating himself from people’s mistaken opinion.
And why should he? If what he wished for would realize itself, the future would reveal the truth and burst the hardened shell he had been sealed in; but if his dreams did not come true, he would be less than convincing and would expose himself only to ridicule. Thus it was better to wait and be silent.
For Wrzesmian was not lacking in breath and force but was instead seized with new desires. He wanted to attain better means of expression, and he began to aim for something creative that would prove far more significant and authentic. Already the written word was not enough for him: he was searching for something more direct, he was seeking greater artistic material to fulfil his ideas.
The situation was so tied up with this, and his dreams were so impractical, that the path of creation he was treading departed far from the beaten track.
Ultimately most works of art revolve, more or less, in a realistic sphere, reproducing or transforming the sights of life. Events, though fabricated, are only its analogy, intensified, admittedly, through exaltation or pathos, and therefore possible at some moment in time. Similar scenes might have once occurred in reality, they may be realized sometime in the future, nothing prevents a belief in their possibility – reason doesn’t rebel against feasible artistic creations. Even most works of fantasy do not exclude probable realization, unless they show an inclination toward pranks or the heedless smirk of a skilful juggler.
But in Wrzesmian’s case the matter presented itself a little differently. The whole of his strange, enigmatic work was one great fiction. In vain had the pack of critics, as cunning as foxes, laboured in search of so-called ‘literary influences,’ ‘analogies,’ ‘foreign strains’ that would, even if roughly, give a clue to the impenetrable castle of Wrzesmian’s poetry; in vain had shrewd reviewers run for help to learned psychiatric experts, sifted through all manner of writings, immersed themselves in encyclopedias: the writings of Wrzesmian emerged triumphant over successful interpretation, even more mysterious, bewildering and dangerous than before. A gloomy spell exuded from them, an alluring, vertiginous, bone-chilling depth.
Despite their total fantasy, never once touching reality, Wrzesmian’s writings jolted, puzzled and amazed: people never dared to venture past them with just a shrug of the shoulders.
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