How I lovehate Polish literature

I am not a massive fan of Polish literature.

It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if I wasn’t Polish. But I am, thus it seems I am a traitor.

There is just something about Polish literature, this to be precise. A number of Polish authors (and other, common people) buy into the theory that Poland is the Christ of Europe and subject to ‘messianic suffering’ (God, I wish I was joking) and one day the country will return to glory; we just have to sit and wait. But let us not suffer in silence. No! Let everybody know; after all it is the sins of the whole continent we are suffering for. I accept that I am simplifying the concept but that’s the main idea. Therefore, Polish literature is grim, solemn, and full of pathos and self-righteousness. The leitmotif of most newly published books is still World War II and Holocaust. Other tragedies get some publicity as well but nothing gets Polish authors going quite like the German occupation and concentration camps.

Now, that I have completely sold you Polish literature, I would like to invite you to a little series I am planning on doing here. I will pick out the few black sheep of Polish literature that break the mould (and have been translated to English) and present them to you. All in the name of promoting the culture of my homeland, so we can finally return to glory and put that whole self-sacrifice business to rest and move on.


Stay tuned.