CULTURE

Sclerosis is the last rose of my life

Curious, that the older one gets, the more often the past seems better than the present. And the younger one is, the more the reverse is true. Older people see the past as something warm, alluring, noble, and characterised by idealism. For the young, it is something decrepit, alien and, in many respects, amusing. What is moving to some is humorous to others. And thus through generations, eras and ages ... proving mainly one truth - that not only does history teach us nothing of life, but that it teaches that, until now, it had taught nothing to anybody.

At least since the Renaissance - and undoubtedly even earlier - people somewhat advanced in years have maintained that things were better before. For the radical Jean-Jacques Rousseau, this 'before' meant the trifling matter of the original state of savagery, for many romantics - the Middle Ages - and for Mickiewicz, a vaguely indeterminate antiquity, since "God, our Father, in his youth, our ancestors created, and begat us poor wretches when already aged". The Austrian aristocrat, Clary Aldringen, although writing his memoirs in the inter-war years, was a man of the XIX century. In the XX century, everything seemed to him uglier, more asinine, and worse. Even the granddaughters of former beauties he considered to be unsightly. Just the same, for that matter, as twentieth-century women in general, who had lost all distinction of manners, delicacy of comportment, and subtlety of character. Everything had become "proletarianised". Cheapness had prevailed.

"Who, nowadays, still knows how to wear a tail-coat?", asked, shortly before the Second World War, Jan Bobrzyński, who gave out the following note of warning on printed invitations to a "political tea": "Jacket order required". Jacket order, after the era of the tail-coat! O tempora, o mores!

The post-war university professor had a complex about his pre-war counterpart, who in turn opined that the professor from before the First World War was considerably more illustrious. The generation of the end of the XIX century had a complex about the generation of Mickiewicz, and Mickiewicz himself - as mentioned a moment ago - was less than enchanted with his own generation.

Today, Poland is traversed by PRL-nostalgia. Poles aged thirty and upwards regret the era of Gomułka and Gierek. They are moved by "Koliber" radios on decorous displays, "Bambino" record-players and "Frania" washing machines. Youngsters see this all like Biskupin, and not infrequently do not know whether that Gomułka was before the war or after. Then they hear that he was at the time when The Beatles and Czerwony Gitary were giving concerts, and that those were beautiful times. Every Saturday at the hop. No-one had to worry about work. Everyone had their share, and everyone, in fact, went away on holiday.

Sclerosis is a terrible disease. And - as we know - incurable (die letzte Rose meines Lebens heisst Sklerose - runs the German proverb).

A certain Frenchman once, when asked which king of France he considered the most outstanding, replied "Louis Philippe". "Louis Philippe? How d'you make that out?" his questioner exclaimed, "He was a completely colourless king. No success and no talent". "That's true", confirmed the former, "but, you see, he was ruler when I was 18. And that's the only thing that counts".

Waldemar Łazuga