The first photograph I saw in my conscious experience was of my mother. I was not born then. Unfortunately the photograph is black and white. Much of the image has been blurred. As a result, the image has just turned gray. The picture shows that the light has become very soft. It seems to be raining. Like the light of spring. Just like the light coming through the window. As a result, the look of the room has been retained in an understandable aura. Mom is sitting next to our old radio. The radio has a blue eye and two dials: one to control the volume, another to find the station. This radio later became my childhood great companion. It is through this radio that I learn about the existence of the outer universe. The soft knob of the antenna was moved by turning the hard knob of the ebony. Warsaw, London, Luxembourg and Paris — all kinds of stations were covered. Anyway, sometimes the sound was breaking as if the antennae between Prague and New York or between Moscow and Madrid were stumbling into the black hole. Whenever this happened, my spine would tremble. It seemed to me that various solar systems and galaxies were sending important information to me via the radio, constantly making loud noises and vibrating tunes. But I can't save the money.
When I looked at the picture at a very young age, I felt sure that my mother was looking for me while turning on the radio. Like a sensitive radar, he is entering the infinite world of the universe, trying to find out when I will come, where I will come from. Her haircut and dress make it clear when the photo was taken. I mean in the early sixties. Looking beyond the frame, the woman is leaning forward a little and looking at the picture, but no one is going to understand what she is looking at next. As a child, I used to imagine that my mother was watching over time. Nothing is actually happening in the film. The image captures a static state, not an ongoing subject. He seems to be drowning in sorrow, lost in thought, lost somewhere.
Later I asked my mother many times about her sad face. I have received the same response every time: My mother says that the reason for her sadness is that I was not born then. Yet he misses me. I asked my mother, I was not born then. So how do you miss me? I knew we would miss the one we lost. That longing is the result of losing someone. Mom says it could be another way. Missing someone means he is somewhere else.
In the late sixties, there were small exchanges between my mother and me in the countryside of West Poland. At that time I was just a little girl of his. But that experience has stayed with me all my life, giving me the strength to survive. He has no shortage of energy. For that power has lifted up my existence; Out of the ordinary material things of the world, out of coincidences, out of causation and beyond the limits of the formula of probability. Mother has placed my existence near the sweetness of timelessness beyond time. In my childhood, I realized that there was more to me than I could ever have imagined. Even if I had to say, ‘I’m lost,’ I would start saying the most important and weirdest thing in the world again, ‘I’m here.’My mother was never righteous. But at a very young age he gave me something that was once known as the Spirit. That’s how he made me one of the most gentle narrators in the world.
Our world is a piece of clothing; We are constantly weaving this fabric with information, discussions, movies, books, rumors, small incidents etc. Today the scope of these weaving is huge. Thanks to the internet, almost everyone can participate in this weaving process, with or without responsibility, in any situation, good or bad, whether they like it or not. When this story changes, so does the world. In this sense, the world is made up of words. Perhaps more importantly, how we think about the world, how we create the narrative of the world — these are the things that matter. If something happens, but no one is told about it, then it no longer exists, it disappears. This fact is not only well-known to historians, but probably to all kinds of politicians and dictators as a whole. It is the responsibility of the person who does the weaving of the story.
It seems that we have no ready-made narrative, not only for the future, but also for the exact present, for the rapidly changing present world; The problem is here. We have shortages; We have weaknesses in our vision; We lack metaphors, myths and new legends. Yet we see that rusty chronological narratives are being exploited; However, trying to connect the future with the imaginary subject of the future is not possible in this way.
No doubt, here's a guess: the old "something" is better than the new "nothing". In other words, we are trying to exploit our limited horizons in this way. In short, we do not have enough new ways to tell the story of our world.
We are living in the reality of a polysyllabic first-person narrative. We have to deal with polyphonic sounds coming from all directions. By first-person I mean a story that revolves very closely around the narrator's personality; The narrator writes about himself more or less through himself. I have come to the firm conclusion that such a person-transformed point of view, even if one refrains from a larger point of view, means that the voice that comes from within one's own being is the most natural, humane and honest. The first-person narrative found in this way is a work of weaving a completely unique pattern, which has no resemblance to any other pattern. It includes a sense of autonomy as an individual — that is, an awareness of oneself and one's destiny. Yet this feeling means creating a contrast between oneself and the world. And these contradictions can sometimes create isolation.
I think the first-person narrative is a feature of recent vision; There the individual plays a role as the personal center of the world. Western civilization is very much founded and depends on this discovery of the individual and that is what constitutes one of the ideals of reality. People play a major role here and his judgment is always considered serious even though his judgment is one of his other judgments. The first-person story seems to be the greatest discovery of human civilization. Such stories are read with full confidence and with dignity. In such a story we see the world through the eyes of an entity different from others. Such stories create a special bond between us and the narrator. The narrator urges his audience to place him in a special place.
There is nothing to exaggerate the contribution of first-person statements to literature and to human civilization. The stories of such statements have completely re-arranged the story of the world. As a result, the story is no longer just a place to show the deeds of heroes and goddesses over whom we have no power to influence. Rather the story is now the place of people like us; Here is the history of the person. It’s easy to find our similarities with people like us.
As a result, a new variety of emotional understanding is created between the narrator of the story and the reader or listener based on a sense of oneness. And naturally this understanding unites the two and blurs the boundaries between them; It is easy to get lost in a novel that has a boundary between the narrator's essence and the reader's essence; And the so-called ‘assimilation’ novel relies on removing that boundary, relying on the reader so that the reader also becomes a narrator for a while due to the feeling of oneness. In this way, literature has become a field of exchange of experiences, a free space where everyone can talk about their own destiny, or express their inner self. So literature has become the place of democracy. Anyone here can talk. Everyone can create a voice to speak for themselves. Never before in human history have so many people been writers and storytellers.
Whenever I try to go to a book fair, I see how many books are being published in today's world to create such a writer entity. The tendency to express oneself can be as strong as the instincts that protect our lives. And this instinct can be fully highlighted in the industry. We want to catch the eye of others. We want to be exceptional. ‘I’m going to tell you my story’, or ‘I’m going to tell you my family story’, or ‘I’m going to tell you a story about the place where I was before,’ are the most popular literary genres today. The range of literature is also much larger now. Because today we can enter the world of writing globally and many have acquired the ability to express themselves in words and stories.
In the past this power was limited to a small number of people. Conversely, this situation is similar to that of the leading singers of a unified religious music composed of solo music performers: everyone's voices try to outdo each other's voices in order to attract attention, even trying to drown out each other in the same way. We can know everything we need to know about them, we can express our solidarity with them and capture their lives in our experiences as if their lives are our lives. Yet remarkably often the reader-friendly experience is incomplete and frustrating, as in this experience, the author does not guarantee the universality of the entity. What we miss is the dimension of the story, the metaphor. Because the protagonist of the metaphor is on the one hand a person within certain historical and geographical conditions, and at the same time he goes beyond those realities, becoming almost every human being in every place.
When following someone's story written in a novel, the reader can reconcile himself with the character described, treating his situation as his own; On the other hand, in a metaphor, he has to give up his unique identity and become a human being everywhere. In such a strong psychological flow of events, the allegory makes our experience universal in the process of finding a common divider for different destinies. One proof of our current helplessness is that we have lost much of our metaphor. In order not to be overwhelmed by the excess of titles and last names, we divided the vast body of literature into different branches; We think of these branches as different parts of sports. And I think the writers are trained players in each branch.
The general commercialization of the literary market has created divisions among the various branches. Nowadays there are fairs and festivals of such and such literature. Completely isolated from one another. It creates a kind of reader-buyer; They seek refuge in criminal stories, myths or sci-fi. A notable feature of such a situation, which was supposed to help booksellers and librarians to decorate their shelves with a huge amount of published books, and to introduce readers to this huge book gift, became an abstract class. Literary works published earlier were included in these categories and writers also started writing according to these categories. Increasingly, branch-based work is like a cake mold that produces similar results. The foreshadowing of these is considered quality, and the triviality is considered achievement. The reader knows what can be expected from there and gets what he wanted earlier.
