Rody

,

September 5th.

I was sitting quietly in my apartment today, not thinking of bothering anyone. My typewriter was gathering dust. Ha! I had a few ideas for enlightened pieces – a column was smouldering, a sarcastic review was laughing at me, showing its sharp fangs, but there was no point. A cuckoo jumped out of the wall clock and told me it was already 5 p.m.

"So what?" I asked the cuckoo.

"I thought you might be interested in..." the little bird began to explain vociferously.

"Don't think, just cuckoo," I reprimanded her.

"While I'm cuckooing..."

The truth of this statement left no room for misinterpretation. The cuckoo cuckooed, and quite radically. I was furious. The first symptoms of going to the dogs are losing arguments with a piece of wood on a spring.

I continued sitting. The light of the descending sun streamed through the window, illuminating my machine in some mystical way. Or maybe it did?

As I pondered, they knocked. It didn't really surprise me. They had to knock sooner or later, after all. I'm stupid. While writing this and that, I was fully aware that this wouldn't be liked. And then they'd come, the powerful ones. Sometimes, right as I'm writing the next word, I know perfectly well—this word won't fit, this word won't please—but I do. And what! And then I have it. Then they knock.

I got up and went to open it. I could have left it open; they wouldn't have forced the door open. But why not open it? Why be comfortable? "I'll open the door, let the monster in! Ha!" I thought.

They stood there, serious, silent. They had a stick. Oh, that stick would hurt! They came in, told me to hand over my keys and sit on the couch. When they weren't looking, I tucked my notebook under my shirt and a pen in my pants—thanks to that, I'm writing this journal. They pushed all my equipment against the walls, knocked some over, carried some into the hallway, and ate the fish. They unpacked their belongings, pulled a multitude of metal rods from a long cover, and began assembling it. Soon, a new, magnificent, shiny cage stood in the middle of my room. I won't lie, it wasn't quite decent. Not very big—about 2 x 2 meters—but it could have been worse. I was even a little grateful it was so pretty. They could punish brutally, but they punished like gentlemen, like a loving mother. They told me to come in and locked it. I sat down, leaning against the bars. They gave me some food. Dinner—excellent—how kind of them!

They gathered their equipment and left without saying a word. I heard them lock the door.

I'm sitting here like an idiot, lying to myself. Since I have nothing in my pen but a notebook and a pen, I haven't generated many sophisticated activities. So I think! Would you believe it? I think! But how I think! What a laugh! Well, I'm pondering the meaning of my existence—yes! That's spectacular! I've never been good at thinking like that, so I'll practice a bit during this confinement. I'll give my head a workout, so what! Without bragging, more than one original thought has occurred to me, I swear. Not that I understood them or believed in their meaning, but they sounded quite brilliant. For example, I deduced such a chain of successive thoughts that I arrived at a surprising conclusion: a potato is the only being whose existence is immaculate. Someday, we'll sit down, if you want (what "you" are they, exactly? That's bad – I'm writing to myself, addressing some "you" who aren't there, because no one's going to read my diary, right?), over a beer, maybe two, and I'll try to explain it to you (again, "you"?).

I've come up with various games for imagination and clarity of mind. I like the idea game the most. It's done like this: the first noun that comes to mind is the subject, the first verb is the predicate, then you put together an object, and that's how a sentence, or a thought, is created. And then it's pure improvisation. You have to figure out what you meant. It's really no different from interpreting a piece in Polish class.

It's probably late. I don't know which one, because it's dark and I can't see, and the cuckoo is closed, that is, locked inside itself and its clock.

It's even later. I'm bored with thinking. I've created a new philosophical movement and about three religious systems. Sucks. Truth be told, I'd gladly trade this for a sensible political and economic system, or a pack of TiP breadsticks.

I'm going to bed. We'll see what the new day brings. Actually, it probably won't bring anything. But I hope they bring – breakfast, or something. Good night, my dear diary.

September 6th.

I don't know what time I slept until, and I don't know what time it is now. The cuckoo posted a sign saying, "I'm gone, there's no time, there's nothing left." Everything's great, except it obscured the clock face with this manifesto. The cuckoo on my wall clock is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Oh, the horror!

So I can only estimate the time. So I estimate it's now 1 p.m., and my breakfast was brought to me around 10 a.m. Cold toast and cream cheese with chives. Not so bad. In fact, I tried to explain to the gentleman in the gray suit, who was kind enough to provide me with the necessary calories, that there were a few quite tasty morsels in my fridge and it would really cost him nothing to bring me something, but he said nothing and just looked at me as if he didn't understand at all.

Some of the bars are chrome-plated. I came up with a great game with these. I haven't cut my nails in about a week, so they've already grown quite a bit. You have no idea what a wonderful pastime it is – filing your nails against the bars. I really recommend it. A great way to beat boredom! I'm now down to my ring finger on my right hand

, and I still have all of my left hand left! Hey! This is crazy fun! Let the broader-shouldered and stronger-minded people drink to their health! He just brought me some more food. I assume it's dinner – supper. I've already filed all my nails, so I'm bored again. Whoever invented time has really ensnared us. Let someone try to get through one day without checking their watch or asking what time it is. Well, they'll succeed. But how nerve-racking it will be!

It's already nighttime. I'm writing this blindly. Tomorrow we'll see if anything shows up. However, my dear diary, I must share with you a certain fear that has gripped me and the decision I have made in response. It's only now that I've realized that my pen might run out. Yes, it's the most honest truth! Therefore, I know what I must do! I have to get out of here. I have to get out at all costs!

That earlier was a joke. There's always a reason to write. I'm addicted to words. I've only realized it now, when the threat of running out of ink has become real, perhaps even imminent. Sometimes it's easiest to clarify certain things when reason should no longer be clear. Ha! I clearly hear the call! It's the call of pens and notebooks, notebooks and pens, notebooks and pencils, typewriters and sheets of paper! Hey, I need to get to work on this, and preferably starting tomorrow!

Hey, words, I'm coming to you!

And goodnight to you, my dear diary.

September 7th.

I must have woken up early. At least that's what I gather from the angle the sunlight is falling into the room. It's late afternoon now. Listen, my dear diary, what happened today?

Breakfast arrived, just like yesterday, or so I guess. I didn't say anything because it wasn't time yet. I got exactly the same thing—cold toast and cottage cheese. So breakfast became another inanimate object giving me the strength to get out of here. The notes waiting for words are calling from outside, and here the toast is persuading me quite convincingly to leave this place as soon as possible.

After breakfast, I took a nap. I'm starting to practice hospital conditioning, meaning I sleep a lot so that time doesn't constantly poke me in the ribs, unasked, reminding me of its delay as if it were praiseworthy, or at least decent.

I woke up with a clear and precise plan. It was simple, I won't deny it, but it seemed brilliant, and considering our circumstances, downright foolproof.

You arrived in a gray suit with dinner. I got straight to the point.

"Sir?"

He didn't say anything, but he looked at me, a little surprised and somehow strangely gentle, which was irrefutable proof that he knew I was addressing him. "

I'll put it bluntly: I'm a writer and a columnist."—know, my dear diary, that's the first and last time I've ever called myself that. I felt terribly embarrassed about it, but I knew that if I wanted to achieve the desired effect, I had to use precisely those words. "I have money—a lot. If you happened to pick up a file from your desk and accidentally drop it so it fell between the bars, I wouldn't be indebted as soon as I got out of here. And of course, not a peep! They supposedly had a file with me when they locked me up. What! Can't you have a file? Oh, look, even my fingernails are filed! Everything fits together. It would be attributed to their oversight...

" "It's right that you're sitting here," was his only response! He caught me off guard and confused. I swear! How can you say that—correct? What's the point? After that, he didn't even look at me again. I thought he was gathering his thoughts, considering that his silence was just a stage effect to heighten the tension, but nothing! He handed me the bowls of food, looked around the room as if he wanted to search it, and left. He locked the door behind him and saw it from behind!

Well, that complicated matters a bit. I hadn't expected that. I'd expected some hesitation, that he might say he'd change his mind, or that he'd suggest something even more credible. And here's your cake! He answered so bluntly that I couldn't even see what it meant, but I was able to interpret his words well enough to be certain there was no corruption involved. Fate has a questionable sense of humor—it corrupts everyone except those who could free the prophets from their bonds. This fact angered me a bit. Actually, this situation was sick. A slang term (I'm reading my diary now that it's all over. I'll admit – "slang" is probably some slip of the tongue, the result of frantic wordplay. I don't know what it means or what I meant by it, but it's funny, so I'm not crossing it out)? No...it couldn't fit in at all.

A lot of thoughts started swirling in my head, but that's actually good – at least something to do for the afternoon. I even generated another amusing golden thought based on these experiences, that true literature is such a noble lady that even the universe won't let her sin, even though she tries, and therefore she will never be consumed by defilement. It's utter nonsense, but you could write quite a good treatise on it for fools...

I'm writing in the dark again. You probably think, little diary, that I'll say something like "it's the middle of the night" or "it's late"? Oh my! It's 1:34 a.m.!

So, what happened?

I took a nap in the afternoon. When I woke up, the room was in semi-darkness. The thing about semi-darkness is that it somehow makes it impossible to estimate the current time. I became nervous. I suddenly felt an irresistible need to know time. Enough with the torment. I want that most noble of the damned frames and limitations we've created for ourselves! Time is merciless and restrictive. Time isn't the slightest bit flexible; it's a despot. It's also an abstraction. No one will convince me there's something beyond time. It enslaves, but it's impossible to even fathom what it would be like if we managed to free ourselves from its omnipresence, inevitability, and undeniability. I prefer not to think about it... let time be as it always has been. Always—always has been—a prime example of time's enslavement, because in this case, it both defines time itself and speaks of time. Time, time, time...

I walked over to the bars and stared at the clock and the note hanging on it. Like it?... Of course!

I grabbed a bowl of potatoes from the Gastronomic Corner. I chose the first one that came along and threw it. Missed! A slap on the face. It didn't matter! The first attempt is always either a complete failure or a triumph of triumphs. In my case, it's usually the first one. Another throw. Ha! A perfect shot! Unfortunately, the note was only smeared with melted butter, but it stuck where it was – tirelessly. Another throw. The same thing. Oh, that cuckoo wasn't foolish, she'd mounted the note in a rather sloppy way. I took more radical measures. I chose a larger potato, took a swing, and threw it. It shattered on the bars, scattering into a million crumbs. My cage was all covered in grime, and I wasn't far behind. Next throw – go for it! The same! My cage – a complete pigsty. I have nothing left to lose, I throw them one by one. Suddenly, a cuckoo emerges from inside, tearing off a piece of paper in the process. First, I read the time from the clock face, then I started communicating.

"What's going on, sir?" the bird asked.

"I wanted to talk to you and see what time it was.

" "Ahem... You could have called me..."

A blow to the head. A blow to the head! I looked at my hands, at my clothes covered in potatoes. I looked myself up and down. I must have looked foolish. I looked around the cage and its surroundings. Oh, horror, vanitas vanitatum. I stood humiliated by the wood on the spring and the overcooked potatoes. I stood, defeated. My smallness swelled to its limits. Amid the potatoes, I collapsed and wept.

Then, once again, demonstrating its superiority—this time in the area of ​​mercy—the cuckoo came to my aid.

"What did you want to talk about?"

I pulled myself together.

"About time. And generally...

" "Ah..."

I decided to start honestly right away. I heard my own stammering voice. Good heavens, I was embarrassed in front of the cuckoo clock.

"Are you still...angry...at me?"

"No... I have nothing to be angry about... it was just a temporary, cuckoo-like meltdown...

" "But is everything okay now?

" "Yes, it's back to normal..."

"I'm glad.

" "Me too, because I prefer to be normal, cuckoo-like. These moods... these states, they're for people. You've been watching TV a lot lately, and somehow it's rubbed off on me...

" "I'm sorry... so it's my fault...

" "Don't say that... I'm a fool, I've heard too much, and now sometimes I feel like I need to break down, to love again, to hate again. Everyone there said that, so I thought maybe it's the right thing...

" "It's not a matter of 'you have to or you don't have to.' You know... people have it in them... they don't learn it—that's just how they are." "

Where do they get it from?

Spring-loaded sticks, annoying tenants, nice people—that's what can irritate a person to the point of madness. Or embarrass them."

"Well... they have...

" "Are you sure they have?

" "They have..."

Then there was a long silence, until finally—for some unknown reason—a question occurred to me.

"Listen, what's it like to be a cuckoo clock?"

She was silent for a moment. I don't know if she was wondering what to answer, or if the very fact of such a question troubled her. And it came from me! Finally, she replied.

"You know... she's cuckoo."

We didn't say anything more. She hid in the clock, and I'm sitting. So—my dear diary—I'll slowly get ready for bed. Good night.

September 8th .

My dear diary, there's a scandal! A corpse is strewn across my room! Death and horror are playing unholy games around my playpen. Well, listen to what happened today!

This morning, the man in gray woke me up by his appearance in the apartment. He brought breakfast, the same as usual. Then he left. I was left alone again. The cuckoo sat in the clock, the spiders in their dark corners. Since my mind was clear, my stomach was full, and only my taste buds were feeling a bit weak, I began to devise plots from scratch that would help me escape my imprisonment. I had more than one plan, some of them quite realistic and decent, but something still felt off, there was an inconsistency, a lack of logical progression, a lack of justification.

So I approached the matter analytically and logically. Sometimes scientific solutions are the simplest. I summarized the facts: I was in captivity. This captivity was caused by writing. This writing was wise in a foolish way.

Now all I had to do was turn my shirt inside out. I had chosen my goals, outlined my means: I wanted to be free. Similarly, freedom must be the result of writing. All that remained was to reverse the proportions: writing must be foolish in a wise way.

I already had a theory. I wrote down my final conclusion, "stupid in a smart way," on a torn-out piece of paper, underlined it, and swallowed it. Later I realized it wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done, nor could its rationale be clear, but there was no time for such hesitation.

12 o'clock. The cuckoo popped out, already in full force. "Cuckoo-cuckoo!" it announced. It's cuckooing... Yes, so it should be... What?... It's cuckooing... It's cuckooing? It's cuckooing! It's cuckooing! It's cuckooing! Ha! It's cuckooing! It's cuckooing! It's cuckooing! Oh, how it's cuckooing! It ...

I tore another shred of flesh from your body, my dear diary, and wrote the following:

If I could ever ask a cuckoo in a clock what it's like to be a cuckoo in a clock, it would probably reply, "It's cuckooing."

Excellent! I sat there with a piece of paper in my hand and a sly smile on my face, waiting for triumph. Oh, I could go on like this forever, victorious even before the battle. It's like paying someone to skew the outcome of a match and waiting only until the final whistle, imagining the bookmakers' faces fading before their televisions.

Finally, I heard a key turning in the lock. A gray man entered with bowls. I took the food from him and—as he was about to leave—I said, seemingly casually, handing him the paper:

"Perhaps you would deign to just look... perhaps you could pass it on to them..." He approached the bars warily, at arm's length, and with a short, restless movement, took the paper from me.

He read it. He looked somewhat indifferently at my face, which was smoldering with a wicked smile. He narrowed his eyes. He stared at the paper again. It was obvious he had scanned the text again, then stared blankly at it. At one point, his eyes widened considerably, as if something had just struck him. In this amazement, he began a hilarious maneuver: he lifted the paper with a stiff, slow movement, and when it reached the level of his face, he began to pull his whole body down, allowing the paper to tower over him, until finally he fell to his knees, holding the text high. He stared at it reverently the entire time. He seemed to have stopped blinking altogether.

Only then did the miracles begin to happen! That's how I imagine revelations. His eyeballs rolled back disgustingly, leaving only the whites visible. He turned completely pale, his mouth gaped open like a carp, and he began to tremble. Full of pathos.

But soon the epiphany turned into something far worse. The tremors gave way to convulsions, and his body was thrown onto its back, as if dragged there by his escaping pupils. "Egrrrhh," he choked once. "Egggghh," he choked again. "Y'eeereee," he spat blood. For a split second, he jumped to his knees again, only to be thrown to the side. "Uyyhryyyy"—another splash of blood, and who knows what else on my floor. "Aaaa! Y—y—y! AaaAaaa!" he screamed. He began pounding the floor with his open hand. "Yyyy! Yyyyy! Aaa!" he screamed again. Suddenly, he stopped writhing. For a moment, he lay still and silent, panting silently. Then the tremors began again, his whole body trembling, worse and worse. His teeth were chattering. Finally, he stopped all this. After a moment, I realized he was gone.

It wasn't quite the effect I wanted, I admit. A corpse in the room. Well, if only it were just a corpse, but that blood... It definitely wasn't meant to be. But no matter. They'll come soon, because they'll be looking for him if he doesn't come back. And he definitely won't. It's just as certain that they'll visit me first. All I can do is wait. I must also admit, dear diary, that this isn't the most comfortable situation I've found myself in. Maybe I'm childish, but I'd prefer they cleared this corpse before nightfall. Besides, clearing it will equal freedom. It has to.

It's almost dark. They didn't come. The corpse lies with its tongue hanging out. A good corpse here, because its eyes are closed, like any decent corpse. If it were shining with those whites of its eyes, it would be much worse. But despite everything, I don't want to fall asleep tonight. It's not a reasonable fear, but it's so real! If only it were tomorrow!

September 9th.

My dear diary, it was no ordinary night!

When I finished writing yesterday, I squeezed into one of the corners of the cage and wrapped my arms around my knees. I was sitting in the "autistic child" position, rocking slightly back and forth.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on the wood. Knock—knock, knock—knock. A shiver ran through me. I began to search, with what little clear reason I had, for the reason for the sounds. Another knock. Then I heard a muffled voice:

"Sir..."—I began to lose my mind! I was terrified. "Sir..."—the voice came again. "Sir!"—oh! What a Dardanelles donkey I am! That last one wasn't muffled. It was a cuckoo peeking out of the clock for a second and then disappearing back into its ravine.

"Come here... what did you want?" I hissed, almost in a whisper.

"I'm not going out there." There's a corpse...

- Oh, well, okay. So what's the point?

- It's just... it's midnight... - oh, my cuckoo wasn't a master of tact. Telling the person sitting in the room with the dead that the witching hour has just struck - not a very good idea - don't you think, my dear diary?

And suddenly something creaked, something rustled. I heard a step, another. I glanced toward the door. A man stood there. True, I saw only a very faint outline, but I had no doubt who, or perhaps what, this apparition was.

GHOST OF THE GREY LORD (entering)

Do not be frightened, sir, by my appearance here,

for I am not a spitted-out coal from the depths of hell,

but merely a reflection of the future, for my insight into it is

quite convenient, and since you have taken a liking to me, a distinguished sage,

I wish to present its apparitions to you here.

I

...

GHOST OF THE GREY LORD

To let a demon into raspberries

is to lay ambushes for yourself.

Your enlightened mind is not made for tricks,

and though you ensnare the devil himself, you will desire demons

and earlier apparitions, for they will be more pleasing to them than the riches of the East

or the smell of your own gases in a warm duvet.

ME

Oh, oh...

THE GHOST OF THE GREY LORD

You will meet your destiny,

and the path to it will be,

When you look at it as an outside observer,

Like a thoughtlessly drawn circle.

You, however, will discover the deepest meaning in it,

Because sometimes, to restore one element to working order,

the entire mechanism must first be dismantled.

Now it's time for me to leave.

I said what I said, so that later

you would not be able to bring claims against me

For concealing known truths.

I know that nothing will stop you now,

But you will remember my words:

You will miss those bars.

I am already going into oblivion.

(disappears)

ME (aside)

I haven't spoken to him yet,

I can't let him go.

Not a single word is clear to me,

And each subsequent word

only obscures the whole thing even more.

I must stop him!

(I scream) Lord ghost...?

GHOST OF THE GREY MASTER (echo, as if from afar)

You'll miss those bars...

That's the story of my night, diary. I still haven't interpreted the ghost's words. I don't know what to think of this apparition, either, because it's true she swore she had nothing to do with Satan's doings, but since when does the devil hand out his calling cards? How can I trust her? Where can I find wisdom?

One thing is certain—these are interesting times.

And yet, I'm still waiting. In the morning, when I was certain I couldn't count on the ghost's return visit, I went to bed. It's almost 12 now. No one was there, but I have a strange feeling they'll come today...

They came. It's evening, and I'm sitting at the Ritz, in the most expensive suite. Not that people like me could afford it. They treated me to it. In general, I don't really know what's going on, but I can tell you, my dear diary, what happened today.

Around 4 p.m., they finally came. They looked at the corpse, then at me, crouched in the corner of the cage. Back at the corpse, back at me. They were hilarious. They made these movements simultaneously, at regular intervals, like spectators at a tennis match, frowning comically. Finally, they saw the note. They picked it up, read it. They looked at each other, and nodded in understanding. A pair of eyes—wisdom—was written on their faces. They stepped over the corpse and opened the cage. One moved the corpse aside, the other lay down on the bloodstain so I wouldn't get it on my way out.

They put me in a car and drove straight here. They rented me a suite and asked if I wanted to go somewhere interesting tonight, but I declined. It's the Ritz, and there's a home theater in the suites! Where am I going to hang out when I have a 1:1 Salma Hayek here!

September 10th.

I woke up around 9:00. Around 11:00, the phone rang. It was them. They said they were taking me somewhere and that I'd like it. Damn it—they were so nice yesterday, so I guess they didn't mean me any harm today. I assumed they weren't using some sneaky Lady Macbeth system.

A real Lincoln was waiting outside the hotel! Something went wrong, and I decided to tighten the string even more to test its strength. I said I wouldn't get in unless they rolled out the red carpet. They did. I ordered it to be shaken out. They did. Then I could get in. Was this some kind of trap? I still hadn't quite grasped it, but at the time I was completely disoriented.

It turned out they were taking me to the publishing house. The president greeted me with a deep bow before entering.

I was ushered into his office, handed some papers, given a gold pen, and asked to sign. I signed. The contract covered the publication of my new book. It was titled "Aphorism," and its content was to be my golden thought from the aforementioned note. The contract included, among other things, 10 złoty net per copy sold and the possibility of publishing my next book under the same conditions.

They then took me to a photo shoot, as "Aphorism" was to be accompanied by a series of professional photographs. They photographed me with children, alone, with dogs, with famous people, with the Pope skiing, and even my nudes. It took a while, but I had a great time.

Then they told me the president would like to speak with me, but I said I wanted to speak with him by phone. They connected me immediately. I told him I'd prefer to postpone it until next week. He agreed without hesitation.

Then I gave a few interviews at the hotel restaurant, because even though it was very inconvenient, I knew I had to promote "Aphorism" somehow. Just three hours later, the boys appeared in town, flying around with special evening editions of the most widely read dailies in the country, all of them mainly about me and the premiere of "Aphorism."

I finally managed to go to my apartment. "What the fuck was that?" I asked myself somewhat rhetorically, slamming the door. My head was pounding, so I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep immediately.

I woke up about two hours later and immediately rushed to tell you all about it, my dear diary. Hmm... I won't lie – it's all tiring, but my vanity has been pleasantly tickled all day today. Play that game!

September 11th.

They woke me up themselves. It was still very early – 6 a.m.! "What's that, not that!" I thought, rolling over. They tugged me again. I sat down on the bed and was about to scold them when I noticed they had a stick with them. Oh, I felt uncomfortable, as if someone had been clumsily playing with a knife in my presence. I didn't want to straighten myself up. I quickly gathered myself and went out into the hallway. They were waiting there. They took me to the Lincoln (I couldn't bear to think about the carpets) and drove me to the airport.

By 8:30 we were on the plane. I didn't know where or why we were going, but that stick... I didn't like it.

The flight was incredibly long. When we landed, a helicopter was waiting at the airport. I felt nauseous at the thought of another flight, but they reassured me that it was only half an hour away. They also discreetly, seemingly casually, waved the stick.

As promised, after a half-hour flight, we landed. I quickly realized I was on some kind of farm. Pigs, goats, and sheep were running around happily. Suddenly, an unidentified object shattered the helicopter's windshield. We peered back inside. A golf ball.

They led me to a large villa and, within, to a dressing room. My suit was fitted and my nose powdered. I still didn't know where I was, or more importantly, why I was there. Then I was told to go into an office and sit next to a man behind a desk. Cameras were set up in front of us. The light was so bright that I couldn't immediately make out the man I was sitting next to among the black blurs.

He started talking. He kept talking. He was actually reading from a screen placed under one of the cameras. The text ended, and the words "OK, STOP, NOW COMMERCIALS" appeared. He read that too without missing a beat. Either he was a good actor or he hadn't realized his blunder at all. He sat there, smiling like an idiot, waiting for the credits to start rolling again.

They started after a few minutes, this time on a screen under a different camera, one that seemed more focused on both of us. Then President Bush read, as if addressing me: "

I have taken the liberty of inviting a distinguished Polish writer to appear in my exposé. His new book, "Amory," a decisive manifesto of our world against the axis of evil, will soon be published in an English translation. Friend, I give you the floor.

" The caption "POLAK, TY MÓWISZ:" appeared on the screen, so I read:

"If I could ever ask a cuckoo from a clock what it's like to be a cuckoo from a clock, it would probably reply: "Się cuka."

The caption appeared: "GOOD WORK, AND NOW YOU, GOERGE, ARE DOING GREAT FOR NOW!" "

Thank you." You have no idea how much these words mean to me and to the entire American Nation, on whose behalf I feel authorized to speak.

The caption "GRABY." We shook hands. They called me off-camera to leave, which I did.

They put me on a helicopter, then a plane, and that was it for my American adventure. I'm on the plane now. They fell asleep, so I could easily write this note. Oh, I'm not sure they'd be happy to hear about you, my dear diary.

I think I'll get some sleep too. Goodnight.

September 12th

. The publishing house is tense. "Aphorism" hits bookstores today. I don't know how I planned today, but I'm sure I won't be idle.

Oh, they're knocking...

I've been signing copies at Empik all day. My right hand is shaking, but it's giving me the will to write. Goodnight, it was NOT a good day.

September 14th.

My hand feels better now. "Aphorism" is at the top of all the bestseller lists, and I'm being introduced to the "community." I meet this and that, exchange pleasantries, accept invitations here and there. My two novels and probably a thousand newspaper articles haven't given me even a hundredth of what "Aphorism" has. It's strange. Lately, I've been wondering if I'm not a complete ass. Maybe this one sentence truly has a profound and true meaning, and I'm the only one who can't grasp it? Actually, I'm ashamed. Yes, I'm ashamed that I don't fall to my knees before the aphorism contained in "Aphorism." If all the people of culture and art have agreed that it's a unique and timeless idea, then it must be so. It simply must. One day I'd like to crow in honor of "Aphorism," and if that doesn't happen, at least ruffle my peacock feathers when someone talks about it, because—damn it—it's mine! Whatever it is, mine! Yes—I realize this each time with greater surprise, if not amusement—I uttered words that are destined to change the world! Socrates, Caesar, Shakespeare, Armstrong, Rokita, and many others, and among them, and at the forefront: "I." I write "I" because I don't know if I have the right, as a being, to this kind of honor. After all, since this thought is so universal, it probably arrived here through millions of light-years of starry galaxies, and I relate to all of it only like a transport protein to the external and internal environment of a cell. But enough. Apparently, since everyone around me is kicking me with such honors, it means I deserve it, so what! I've toiled at my machine for years, and I'm finally getting paid. And that it was for something else—that's not a detail worth mentioning.

Of course, not everything is rosy. I already have ardent opponents. Special militias have even been formed to sabotage my speeches and hinder book purchases. A multitude of websites have sprung up about me. Some are praising me, others are calling for a boycott. I even received a threatening letter.

An amendment passed the Sejm by a landslide, making the purchase of "Aphorism" and all merchandise related to it and me, such as T-shirts, bookmarks, mugs, whistles, and hats, tax-deductible.

Oh! I almost forgot the most important thing, my dear diary! I met two very interesting people. One is Mr. Maciej – a painter. A true nonconformist and freethinker. We talked about various things for about three hours straight! He's a great friend, I swear. I hope to become better acquainted with him.

The other is Miss Róża. Ha! An exceptionally charming person, the daughter of a nouveau riche, in other words, a neo-Eagle. We also had a lovely chat with her, and similarly, I hope for a more intimacy. Oh, those curls, my dear diary, oh, those curls! These are interesting times, diary, these are interesting times!

September 17th

Well, this and that has been happening in recent days, diary! What's most intriguing is that an open assault has been launched on "Aphorism"! Can you imagine?! On September 15th, I learned that a certain Leszek Kołakowski was publishing his six-volume work, titled unambiguously "A Polemic on >Aphorism<." Ha! What a rascal! I immediately called the Minister of Culture and Art, who had already taken the necessary steps, and the next day a letter from the Ministry was sent to all bookstores, ordering the withdrawal of the latest work and—as a precaution—all of Kołakowski's books from sale. What a nerve! He's going to argue with me here, the scoundrel! It all irritated me, but I'm somehow recovering.

Miss Róża—I won't deny it—helps me maintain my good humor. Hmmm... Diary, diary... if you could touch those curls... I spent a very pleasant evening with the young lady yesterday. Oh, this is life!

What's more, Mr. Maciej offered to design the cover and a series of illustrations for the reissue of "Aphorism." The artist is first-rate and extraordinary, so I agreed.

Diary, diary: love, friendship, hatred – all this is called life! How one lives, how one lives! Wonderful, wonderful! Wonderful times are ahead, diary, wonderful!

September 25th.

I'm sorry, diary, that I haven't written for so long, but I AM BUSY WITH WEDDING PREPARATIONS! Yes! I proposed to Miss Róża, and she accepted! Isn't it all fabulous? I'm flying on the wings of love, diary! Rejoice with me! I've chosen Mr. Maciej as my best man. He agreed with tears in his eyes. We embraced. Nothing is more beautiful than true male friendship! But life has turned out well for me! Ha!

As for "Aphorism," it's still selling very well, but I can focus on my private life because it doesn't need to be advertised anymore. It's like advertising taxes – you don't have to, and people will still pay!

They said they'd take care of everything, organize the whole wedding for me because I deserve it, because I've brought them to the top and everything... I'm sorry for writing so chaotically, but I'm so excited...

I called Zanussi – he's coming to cover the wedding – personally with his team! Ha – and I was in the town of Myslowitz, inviting the best poets to play under the wine!

Oh! And one more thing – Kołakowski wrote a lament titled "A Humble Pleading for Forgiveness, or Nothing More Than "Aphorism." Now it's stuck on with a red ribbon with the words "Polityka Recommends" as a bonus to "Aphorism."

Nothing more than "Aphorism," nothing more than love, nothing more than life! Amen!

October 2nd

Yesterday was the wedding. I stood with Róża at the altar. The Pope asked if I said yes. I said yes, and she said yes, too. Mr. Maciej handed us the rings and patted me on the shoulder.

Then we went to a huge and lavish venue, where the raucous celebration began. However, the moment I stepped through the door, all the joy and all the beautiful feelings vanished. Don't ask, little diary (luckily, you don't know), what happened. Well, nothing, absolutely nothing. I accepted everyone's congratulations, cut the cake, opened the first bottle, and danced, but that was just a distraction. Then I sat down, knocked back half a liter myself. I tucked another shot of vodka into my breast pocket, and—before it got completely dark—I left. No one noticed. After all, all the wedding guests, including the bride and groom, sometimes go out for some fresh air.

But I went out and never came back. It wasn't an escape, a slip, or desertion. Simply put, I left the premises. I went to the tram. An ordinary, rickety, shabby tram. I rode a few stops. When I emerged, the first person I saw was a bum towing a cart full of scrap metal.

I discreetly followed him, analyzing the cart's contents. Excellent! I stopped him and offered him a bottle of 0.70 for the cart and its contents. He agreed.

I dragged the junk and scrap metal inside to my old apartment. It wasn't easy climbing the stairs, but somehow I managed.

I entered the room. A cuckoo emerged from the clock to check what the noise was.

"I thought you wouldn't be back..."

"Me too," I replied. She understood I didn't feel like talking.

I dumped everything in the cart onto the carpet and began assembling it. Soon, in the middle of the room, a cage stood. It was quite decent, perhaps a little more dilapidated than the previous one, but I figured it would do.

I went inside, locked it, and padlocked it. I called the cuckoo, threw it the key, and told it not to give it to anyone under any circumstances. I curled up in a corner and fell asleep.

Now I'm watching the autumn sun play between the bars. How sweet those bars. How mine