The Goldfinch

I have finished The Goldfinch of Donna Tartt two days ago. I am usually a slow reader, maybe because I read difficult books, rarely novels. I get my brain rest watching feel good repeats on television. Books are meant to teach me something. Lately, I have been making some exceptions though, reading Knausgaard’s My Struggle and more. At the moment I have more books on the go than usually, this is because there were so many temptations in Polish bookstores to which I have succumbed and my reading backlog, as the result, is very impressive. Or overwhelming, if you like. The Goldfinch made me put all the other books aside and I finished it in a record time six or seven days. The book has over 800 pages. Big part of my days and sometimes nights was dedicated to reading. I was totally immersed in the book. Nice feeling, really. I experienced it often in my young years so I felt rejuvenated in spirit. 

Various people classify the book as a bildungsroman, a type of novel concerned with development and maturing of a person. This is a story about Theo who is thirteen years old when the story starts with a very dramatic event of explosion in the Metropolitan Museum. He is in the museum with his mother when the tragedy strikes. His mother is killed in the explosion and the boy escapes from the place with his life, a ring and the small painting of the goldfinch painted by Fabritius  in 1654. I do not intend to write about the story, just my major impressions and observations resulting from reading the book.

I must have seen the painting a long time ago, maybe even twice as I have been twice in the gallery of Mauritshuis in the Hage. That’s where the painting is on display. Mauritshuis is my most favourite gallery in the world. Of course, I have seen rather limited number of galleries, but this one is to me very special. Maybe because I like the Dutch paintings or maybe because it is not too big and one can enjoy the paintings without being overwhelmed. 

                                  

I must confess that there were other paintings in the Maurithuis that made bigger impression on me than The Goldfinch.  I can hardly remember the little painting of the little bird from those times, but there is a vague recollection in me.

                                                   

The story is gripping and this is one of the reasons why it reads so well and captures one’s attention. For me it was much more, though. I have been always pondering over questions: “how to live Prime minister?” or “what it is all about?”. Maybe the book has not given me definite answers but it gave me some pointers. Or maybe it was me who came to my own conclusions? I feel, however, that improved clarity of thought was inspired by the book. This is, I think, one of the many strength of the book. It triggers off readers’ reflection over their own lives.

The book is concerned with love of beauty and particularly with preservation of antique objects or even only their fragments. Antiques have been my interest since many years, so I responded to the book in a particular way. There were times when I thought that I pay too much attention to objects, to “stuff” as I sometimes dismissively called my treasures. The book made me think of attachment to possessions as more noble than I saw it before. I look at it now as a love of beauty rather than possessiveness. Nice feeling.

Friendship, one of my core values, is a very strong part of the book. The friendship that is accepting, understanding, accepting without understanding, blind because it is based on trust that underlines the relationship. Friendship I would like to experience but I am not sure if I could master that much trust as Theo has for Boris. I find Boris’ character absolutely fascinating. He is Russian who is thrown into various countries and he assimilates well there. However, to me deep down he is Russian, he has Russian soul and Russian complexities of the character. It is very difficult to understand the Russian soul.  Donna Tartt does. This is colourful and fascinating part of the book.

If I was rating the book, I would give it 10 out of 10.

The Goldfinch and old buildings

About one month ago, I have been given three books as my name-day’s presents. I must confess that my first reaction was not gracious or positive. I am talking here about my thoughts, not verbalizing my disappointment. The reason for my initial reaction was not that I would have preferred some other presents. It was an issue of feeling obliged to read something I would not have chosen myself. This approach would be an explanation why I still do not belong to any book club even though I like the concept a lot. I obviously do not like much to be told what I should read. Time is precious.

However, I have read two of the given books with some interest and I am now reading the third of them The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. Needless to say that eventually I feel very grateful to my friends for changing my reading plans that I had made before I left Australia for my Polish holidays.  I am particularly grateful for The Goldfinch, 800 pages plus book. I have not finished it yet but the story is fascinating and I read over 100 pages per day. I soon will be done. There is more to the book than just a story, much more, but I need to digest it a bit before I write more about it.

The book got the Pulitzer Prize in 2014 and I believe this is a controversial recognition. There are many layers in the book and many detours that I find interesting. Since the story is riveting it is easy to skim pages and bypass the meandering. I am not one of such readers who skim books to my disadvantage. I feel guilty if I do not read every word in a book. In this case I am rather happy that my habit makes me read all, or almost all.  There are little pearls on each page of the book.

                                                

Donna Tartt’s book has a lot of farewells. People and things are passing away from our lives. Things are fluid, they change and I felt that in the book there is a big dose of regret that it must be so. Such sentiments are obvious when people we love move away from our life. There is more than that though. Like the description of the old building, in which the hero of the book lived in the past, being gutted to make room for a new more modern and exclusive version. Maybe I found it particularly moving because I also have particular sentiment to old, beautiful objects and this includes buildings. I was really upset walking Sydney CBD streets when the old buildings were being destroyed. I almost felt physical pain. Most of facades were left to stay, however some of them collapsed during the demolition. I thought that in such a young country like Australia where there are not too many XIXth century buildings, the existing ones should be treasured. When I come to Poland I check what has happened in my neighbourhood.  I am always a little worried that some of my favourites may have not survived the year. There are many old buildings around and their renovation is sometimes more expensive than a replacement with a new. “Sensible” business decisions erase history too often.

I deviated from the subject of The Goldfinch. This is only the sign that the book wakes up dormant sentiments and emotions. This is part of its attraction and power.

I shall finish the book in a couple of days and I believe that I will feel compelled to write again about the book and my impressions. So stay tune if you are interested in the book. Better still start reading.

European Centre of Solidarity

The last year, with one of my Australian friends, I visited the museum dedicated to the Solidarity movement. The museum was called Roads to Freedom and it was meant to be only a temporary exhibition while the big museum European Centre of Solidarity was being built, next to the historic Gdansk Shipyard. We both were impressed by the exhibition and I was moved by the hard and dramatic times Poland went through and then emerged as a modern country with a great future. Yesterday, I went to the new Solidarity Centre to see the place and the new exhibition. I found the Centre very impressive, very well designed and the new exhibition even more moving.

The building does not meet with everybody’s approval, but I like it a lot. Some call it a rusty heap of scrap and indeed it makes such an impression. It is a very nicely stylized and sophisticated heap of scrap, though. The entrance to the centre is next to the main entrance of the shipyard. One has to pass the monument of the fallen ship yard workers, the workers of Gdansk those who started the end of communism. Approaching the place I get emotional, so much has happened here, I am grateful for the turn of events, grateful to all those who went through the extremely hard times that formed the new Poland while I was working on my personal career in Sydney. I am aware of being somewhat pathetic writing what I just did but this is the Polish part of me talking.

We entered the building and my friend said : barn!. I thought : wow! This is what it looks like, what do you think? A barn or a modern, spacious entrance?

This already inside the building

I never thought I would be that impressed by modern. Me, a lover of Florence!

The building has 6 levels and we decided to start from the top. The sixth floor. It is not really that much of a floor. It is most of all a roof with views over Gdansk.

In some distance from the museum there is another place one can see the 360 panorama of Gdansk. The Basilica of Saint Maries. They are like two brackets defining the Main Town of Gdansk - new and old.

It has been very dry and hot in Gdansk for more than one month. The roof vegetation suffered.

I think that it would be rather nice  to sit at the roof garden in one of the deck chairs having a chat with a friend looking Gdansk or reading a book. I may try it before I go back to Sydney.

There is also a great library I can visit to browse books before I decide to buy something. The book offers are endless in Poland and they are so nicely published that it is a pleasure to handle them. I find it rather easy to get carried away and buy more that I should.

The end of August is this time of when the whole Gdansk ad whole Poland should celebrate the victorious days of Solidarity that happened 35 years ago. There are celebrations and there are also painful manifestations of power and hate showing how divided Poland is these days. It saddens me.

Decency and politics

I am in a particularly pensive mood today and I should perhaps refrain from writing but I made a promise to myself to write once a week. If I do not write today, I am not likely to write for another week. My dear friends are coming for a visit. So, I will give it a go risking that I may start difficult subjects without having my thought organised.

I just listened to a discussion on the subject of decency. The talk was not only about political decency but decency in general. The people who were discussing were themselves, in my opinion, really decent people in the old fashion understanding of the word. This is so sad to think that decency may already be an old fashion way of leading one’s life. I do not want it to be so. At the same time I am exposed to the Polish media when the political games are so crude with oozing falseness that this is embarrassing and painful to watch. And not decent at all. I may in self-defense stop switching my TV to political programs.

Many years ago one of the leading politicians of the Law and Justice party said – we can say anything we want, silly masses will buy it. Most of the moves and declaration of this party are now, before the parliamentary election, directed to silly masses. This time the merchandise is wrapped up nicely. What we see is the new, young  president with his attractive family, smiling when appropriate and raising voice in disapproval on other occasion. Overall good theatrical performance but decency is not meant to be a characteristic of it. Or truthfulness. And the silly masses are buying. I find it disrespectful towards those called ‘silly masses’

Things will happen as they will, I will let go for a while hoping for the best possible future for this country that I started to feel is mine again. Hope I will be able to retain the feeling.

Jews in Poland

I love the new Poland, but I do not like all that I observe. Some things are painful for me to see and difficult to comprehend. Being here and being me, I watch news. It is difficult to escape reallisation that a part of the Polish population, a big part unfortunately, is anti-Semitic. There is history to that and one may find some justification to excuse some anti-Semitic convictions, but I must say that any possible justification is weak. Polish tradition of being a Christian country is very old. Baptism of Poland happened through personal baptism of the first Polish ruler Mieszko the First. It was the year 966 and since then Poland is considered to be a Christian country. 

Jews were considered to be murderers of Christ and as such the major enemies of the Christian religions. That Jesus himself was a Jew somehow has lesser importance in Polish prejudices. It may be my ignorance talking here and if anyone could set me straight I will be obliged. Anyhow long standing Christianity of Poland is an excuse to treat Jews as “they” and justify unfriendly actions and more.

When I meet people of Jewish origin in Australia, I feel uncomfortable about my Polish background. Actually, I even feel ashamed. I sometimes try to say sorry; it was horrible how Poles behaved towards Jews at times. Not like Nazis, of course, and there were none Polish concentration camps as it sometimes is wrongly stated, but there were dark pages in Polish history. In fact this has not changed much. Sure, we behave now with more restrain but I hear very ugly words sometimes. There are even anti Semitic pamphlets available in some churches.  

So what is it about Jews that disturbs Poles? The views are – they are different, they are not US. They are not Polish. This in minds of some people is bad and Jews need to be excluded and can be offended. Not very Christian attitude to me.

My father is a good example of how deeply anti-Semitism is ingrained in Polish psyche. I remember the times when even he expressed anti-Semitic views. He did not stop to think what was wrong about Jews, but he really did not want me to get romantically involved with one. When I introduced my Swedish boyfriend to my parents, my father expressed a relief that at least this one is not likely to be Jewish. This was dictated by his doubts about my previous boyfriend, was he Jewish or one of us? But my father worried in silence and I was not forbidden to continue the relationship. My best girlfriend at school was Jewish. We sat at the same bench through grammar and high school. We went, together with our parents for holidays to the seashore. I am so glad to realize that my father’s prejudices did not translate to personal dislikes of human beings. Remembering his silly comments is not the best memory I have of my father. Thanks God there are so many other memories I cherish.

Then, I studied mathematics and math was a very Jewish faculty. Majority of my fellow students were Jewish. I did not think about who my colleagues were until such time when they started to disappear. The faculty shrunk and Polish mathematics suffered tremendous loss. Israel gained.  Many families left because they did not feel welcome at that time in Poland. I think that the situation is still difficult especially for people who contributed to Polish science and culture and now have to put up with anti-Semitic remarks expressed in private and publicly in media.

On Spirituality and Polish Catholicism

Spirituality has been always important to me. Since I was a little girl churches had a special appeal to me. They still do, even if the reasons are perhaps different now.

It was only natural that being born in Poland, the country that has always been a catholic country, I equated spirituality with being religious in the catholic sense. The liturgy has been so mysterious and beautiful. I loved the way the clergy was dressed and I absolutely loved the aroma of burning incense.  I wonder if the incense is still being burnt during masses. My parents would not take me to church very often, I suspect they were not all that religious. However, while visiting my grand parents in their village, every Sunday my grandmother dressed me in my best dress and I was ceremoniously taken to the church. My grandmother, holding my hand, walked proudly through the main street nodding her hello to the met villagers. She was showing her granddaughter off. Being a dressed up doll was definitely not the part I liked to play. In addition the church in the village was not what I considered a proper church. It did not have stained glass windows and it was too light and sunny. No real atmosphere. But the worse thing was that the Sunday mass with my grandmother was a social exercise rather than a spiritual event.

Later on, when I was a bit older and could decide if and when to go to the church, I rarely selected Sunday mass for a church visit. More often it was a lonely visit to an empty church of my liking. I lived in a rather small town and the choice of churches was not that spectacular, but the main town church fully met all my expectations. It was big, dark, had beautiful stained glass windows, dark frescos through the whole church and many old paintings and sculptures in the aisles. The nave was also very special. The vaulting was painted in navy blue and covered by golden stars. It was like a starry night sky. Two thirds of the way from the main entrance a big cross divided the nave. Behind the cross was another altar, sculpted in silver metal. Knowing the excesses of wealth of the Catholic Church the altar must have been at least silver plated if not solid silver. It was enchanting to me. In those times churches were never locked up. Now they are most of the time.

As a teenager, I visited the church when I had some problems. It may have been problems with a teacher, a friend, or the parents or a boyfriend.  Whatever my problems may have been, I thought of them as serious at the time. Serious enough to walk quite a distance, to sit down in my favourite pew and pray. My payers were really meditations, only I did not know the concept of meditation then. I was sitting in the cool, dark church for a while, looking up at the paintings of  saints, asking for a solution. I always left uplifted having some plans how to resolve my dilemma. At that time I felt a catholic. In fact I was quite a religious girl, observing some religious practices. I needed to feel that it was a power above me. A loving force.

Then, some observations came and brought confusion to the young mind and made me think critically about clergy. The first disappointing surprise came during a sermon on virtue of self-denial and beauty of living in poverty. I knew the preecher and was very surprised that he was saying things that were so different from the way he led his life. Outside the church, he wore elegant suits, drove an exclusive car and liked good food and good wine. I could often see him promenading in his civil cloth waving his beautiful walking stick with a silver handle.  He did not need any help of a cane unless to create this debonair image. He definitely did not practiced what he preached. I could not understand the discrepancies, I but stopped listening to sermons at those rare occasions when I attended a mass. I declared them as false.

Another surprise was to discover that celibacy is too difficult to live by many priests. I saw priests at social occasions in the company of their housekeepers. They looked and behave the same as married couples. I thought it was strange and my mother giggled when I expressed surprise.

When I recall the stories, I am amazed by my naivety and innocence. 

This was going to be a short introduction to write about Catholicism in Poland, but it turned out to be self-indulging reminiscence of my start to spiritual transformation. I will come back to the subject in one of my next posts. Being in Poland one can not stop observing and evaluating church issues. Too much of that shows in news and is present in politics. And this is not pretty.