Monday: Me
Gombrowicz in Rosario, Argentina, ca. 1954. Among literature’s famous first lines, we must include this one: “Monday. Me. Tuesday. Me. Wednesday. Me. Thursday. Me.” It comes from Witold Gombrowicz’s...
View ArticleTuesday: Me
Gombrowicz in Malosyce, 1909. Zygmunt Grocholski’s vernissage in Galatea. Portfolios full of engravings on the table. Large surfaces soaked in color on the walls. Compositions frozen in proud...
View ArticleWednesday: Me
A page from Gombrowicz's diary. Yesterday at the Polish Club, I dropped by right at the end of the steamrollering of my soul and works. The paper that was positive about me was the work of Karol...
View ArticleThursday: Me
Witold and Rita Gombrowicz with their dog Psina in Vence, France, 1967. Should I tell or not? A year ago, more or less, the following happened to me. I stopped in a café on Callao Street to use the...
View ArticleFriday: Me
Gombrowicz in 1965. We told each other our dreams. Nothing in art, even the most inspired mysteries of music, can equal dreams. The artistic perfection of dreams! How many lessons this nocturnal...
View ArticleMonday: Me
Gombrowicz in Rosario, Argentina, ca. 1954. Among literature’s famous first lines, we must include this one: “Monday. Me. Tuesday. Me. Wednesday. Me. Thursday. Me.” It comes from Witold Gombrowicz’s...
View ArticleTuesday: Me
Gombrowicz in Malosyce, 1909. Zygmunt Grocholski’s vernissage in Galatea. Portfolios full of engravings on the table. Large surfaces soaked in color on the walls. Compositions frozen in proud...
View ArticleWednesday: Me
A page from Gombrowicz's diary. Yesterday at the Polish Club, I dropped by right at the end of the steamrollering of my soul and works. The paper that was positive about me was the work of Karol...
View ArticleThursday: Me
Witold and Rita Gombrowicz with their dog Psina in Vence, France, 1967. Should I tell or not? A year ago, more or less, the following happened to me. I stopped in a café on Callao Street to use the...
View ArticleFriday: Me
Gombrowicz in 1965. We told each other our dreams. Nothing in art, even the most inspired mysteries of music, can equal dreams. The artistic perfection of dreams! How many lessons this nocturnal...
View Article
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