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JERZY KOS INSKI I A STUDY OP HIS NOVELS
David J. Lipani
A Dissertation
Submitted to the Graduate School of Bowling Green State University in partial fulfillment of
the requirements for the degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
August 1973
BOWLING GREEN STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
556843 ii
Vo. ABSTRACT
The Introduction examined relevant aspects of Kosinski’s life in an attempt to establish a relationship between his past experiences and the major themes of his fiction. It was discovered that the author’s exposure to diverse forms of authoritarian control constituted the source of his bias against any external force operating counter to the self’s freedom.
The four novels comprising the Kosinski canon were analyzed in detail, especially as they were directed toward the quest for a viable self in a contemporary world threatening to submerge the individual consciousness. Each protagonist was shown struggling with some variant of social repression» the boy in The Painted Bird faced hostile peasants who, swayed by Nazist ideology, viewed him as a menace to their own safety» the narrator in Steps fled the socialist bloc because there he had no control of his destiny, nor was his being acknowledged as an entity separate from the masses» Chance, in Being There, was subjected to a more insidious totalitarianism--the television medium, whose false representation of reality effectively kneads the individual into an easily manipulated, mindless soul» and Jonathan Whalen, in The Devil Tree, fell victim to the Protestant Ethic, the demands of which left him unable to see himself as something other than an image occasioned by wealth and status.
It was concluded that Kosinski's theme throughout was the elusiveness of self and the self’s efforts to achieve an identity amidst collective societies whose influences upon behavior made such identification difficult, if not impossible. It was determined, furthermore, thatL the author’s attention to characters desiring autonomy of self spoke to the need to expand and define the self, to make the self more aware of its essence and its potential.
iii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PageINTRODUCTION .................................................. '. ... ........................ 1
THE PAINTED BIRD........................................................................... 37
STEPS........................ 79
BEING THERE .......................................................... 131
THE DEVIL TREE.......................................................... 185
CONCLUSION......................... ..................................................... .... . 236
BIBLIOGRAPHY.......................................................... 258
CHAPTER I» INTRODUCTION
“Non-fiction is outdated by reality. Fiction amplifies reality."
Jerzy Kosinski
2
Perhaps as intriguing as the novels he has written is
the life he has led and the relationship of that life to his
fiction. Certainly the protagonist of his first novel, The
Painted Bird, seems but a thinly disguised Jerzy Kosinski,
and that of the second, Steps, a more literary but still
factually-based version of the same man. Many of the scenes,
incidents, and characters in both works appear to have had
their origin in the author's actual experience.
Yet Kosinski is vehement in his denial of these sup
positions! he cannot be found in his fictions, he claims.
The denial is a common one among artists, but whereas many
would offer it as a camouflage for their lack of inventive
ness, it is with Kosinski a significant aspect of his artis
tic vision. The form and content of his first two novels
depend directly upon his having separated the artist in him
self from the rest of his being! had he not been able to do
so, his literary efforts would have been too personal, too
subjective to find adequate expression.The reality of
his past had to be transformed into metaphor and symbol
before weaving itself into his fiction.
The bare facts of that past are fascinating in
^This separation of the artist "from the rest of his being" is alluded to in Notes of the Author (p. 11) and more extensively in the note on page Ij" of this chapter (Prom No Third Path) and the remarks following.
3
themselvesi they form a body of material which strikes one
as being the very essence of fiction, so filled is it with
struggle, pain, determination, victory at times and defeat
quite often.
One can assume that until Kosinski was five or six
years old he had a normal, happy childhood. Born on June
14, 1933# be was the only child of Mieczyslaw and Elzbieta
Kosinski. Both parents were educated» his mother was
graduated from Moscow Conservatory and was a pianist (she
was never allowed to perform in public)» Mr, Kosinski had
attended Petersburg University and, among other accomplish
ments, spoke fluent Latin, as does his son. (When he was
studying in Moscow in 1957» Kosinski would telephone his
father and the two would quickly exchange political gossip
in Latin before the Soviets had time enough to provide a
Latin censor.) Of his father Kosinski has said«
He was born in Russia. He saw the Revolution of 1905» then World War I, then he escaped from Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution, and then he lived through the Second World War. So if anyone had a reason to be fed up, he had. And he withdrew from the twentieth century altogether. He studied ancient Greece, and the origin of the European languages.It was his escape device.
Jerzy Kosinski did not withdraw from the twentieth century,
though he, too, suffered a similar and perhaps more horrify
ing fate» instead, he studied that century and discovered
^Cleveland Amory, "Trade Winds,” (Interview), Saturday Review. 17 April 1971» P. 16.
4
his own means of escape in so doing.
When Poland was invaded in 1939» his parents believed
that their son would stand a better chance of surviving the
Nazi terror if he were placed with friends» the young Kosin
ski was dark-haired and dark-eyed—unmistakably Jewish.
Thus he spent the war years as a largely independent waif,
much like the several million other children left homeless
and orphaned in the wake of the German holocaust. Thrust
upon his own resources, cast amidst the genocidal mania of
the Nazis on the one hand, the communists on the other, and
a treacherous peasantry in-between, he fought a perpetual
battle simply to sustain himself. No doubt he had to endure
a number of trials for the duration of the war, and, no
doubt, that which he heard and saw those six years has
forged the basis not only for his first novel but for his
entipe outlook on life» "By the age of eight, in terms of
character ... I was already completely formed.
He was eventually reunited with his family following
the war's end and resumed his formal education. An adept
student, he received an M.A. (in history) from the University
of Lodz in 1953 and another (in political science) in 1955.
Kosinski then studied photo-chemistry at the Polish Academy
of Sciences in Warsaw from 1955 to 1957» and later in that
year embarked upon social research at Lomonosov University,
3Amory, p. 16.
5
Moscow. His experiences in the Russian capital were later
captured in two non-fiction works, The Future Is Ours, Com
rade and No Third Path, both written under the pseudonym
Joseph Novak and both highly regarded as perceptive social
texts.
The author frequently refers to what he rightly calls
a momentous decision made in the winter of ‘57. By that
time he had become thoroughly disillusioned with the commu
nist system and desperately wanted to flee its grasp. He
had plotted his escape carefully over a two year period,
establishing himself as a financially successful photographer
so as to avoid rousing the authorities* suspicion when at
last he asked permission to leave the country, He claimed
to have a Chase Manhattan Bank Foundation Scholarship which
would allow him to carry on his studies in the United States.
No such scholarship or foundation ever existed. But Kosin
ski obtained a passport, flew into Western Europe, and
thence to America, a free man.
Free in more than one sense. He had slipped away
from the totalitarian rule that had literally crushed his
independent spirit, a spirit fostered in him by his youthful
experiences. Free, too, though only figuratively, from that
past which had formed his character.
When I came /to America/, I did not want to do anything that I had done before. I thought it would be dragging a part of my past into an entirely different place, and one of the reasons I came here was
6
not to drag anything from the past. It was not really a matter of leaving Poland» it was leaving myself in the Polish context. I was so much a part of that context, and I did not like myself. I thought that if I changed the frame of reference, it would also change me into something else. It was, therefore, entirely a literary decision.^
The total significance of this decision will be discussed
more fully in a moment. It is important to note here, how
ever, that Kosinski had reached a crisis, probably the most
crucial turning point in his life, and one that would inevi
tably shape his destiny. Had he failed in his attempted
flight, he would have faced an extended prison sentence and
perhaps worse. "But I had rejected that life to the point
where I really could not care less what happened to me, and
if I had been caught, I would have removed myself, one way
or another.Indeed, he carried a cyanide capsule in his
pocket throughout the journey westward.
He arrived in the U.S, with very little money and
almost no knowledge of English, The story he tells of
learning the language must rank amongst the finest anec
dotes in literary history. Soon after settling in New York
City he surrounded himself with dictionaries and books and
saw several movies daily. Once he had attained a reason
able familiarity with his new language, he sought to try it
^Douglas Mount, "Authors and Editors," (Interview), Publishers* Weekly, 2o April 1971, p. 14.
5Ibid.
7
out. But with whom? His job offered little opportunity
for conversation and he happened to be located in one of the
most immense and impersonal cities in the world. His solu
tion was so obvious as to be ingenious. He simply picked
up his apartment phone in the small hours of the morning
and dialed "0!" When the operator answered, Kosinski
explained that he was a foreigner trying to learn good Eng
lish. Would she listen while he read her a paragraph he
had composed? Would she tell him if any words or phrases
were not good English? Not a single operator refused his
requests and in fact some even offered to call him back
when the switchboard wasn’t busy in order to hear more of
his writings. In this way Kosinski*s initial forays into a
difficult language were gently criticized and amended.
And this about an author whose literary style has
drawn accolades even from his severest critics; Pew
reviewers fail to single out for special comment Kosinski’s
marvelous command of the English language. Like Conrad,
another Pole who wrote only in English and was an acknow
ledged master of it, Kosinski’s prose has been acclaimed
as among the finest extant. "Intensely visual," "economi
cal and precise," "lucid as a gem," "direct, unforced"»
these are but a few examples of the kinds of praise he has
garnered since publishing The Painted Bird.
An assortment of jobs, from paint scraper on excur
sion-line boats to truck driver and photographer, occupied
8
his time until he enrolled at Columbia University in 1958.
It was while working there on his Ph.D. in sociology that
Kosinski produced his non-fiction volumes, The Future Is
Ours. Comrade in i960—less than three years after he had
come to this country as a non-English speaking immigrant—
and No Third Path two years later. During the decade since,
he has married (Mary Hayward Weir, whom he later divorced),
has taught a variety of writing courses at Yale, Wesleyan,
and Princeton, has travelled extensively, lectured at a
number of universities, and has received several awards for
his fictional achievements, including a National Book Award
for Steps (1969).
Such is the bare outline of Jerzy Kosinski’s per
sonal and professional life. Hidden between the lines are
the psychological factors which must be held accountable
for his development as an artist. Some of these factors
have been mentioned briefly above» the following is a
closer look at the most poignant aspects of his existence
which have contributed to that development.
The years spent during the Polish occupation were
traumatic ones, so much so that Kosinski rarely comments
upon them directly. As if the circumstances of a war-torn
nation were not enough, Kosinski had to confront additional
burdens» he was Jewish, he was very young, and he was alone.
His Jewishness was evident in his features and thus he was
9an easy target for the Nazi invaders and their sympathizers.
He was also prey to the Polish peasantry for the same rea
son» they feared German reprisals for harboring Jewish
refugees and were therefore frequently willing to report
or arrest persons believed to be Jewish.
This "fact" has been argued violently in the Polish
press which rightly insists that thousands of Jews were
aided by members of the Polish resistance and by the common
people. In their reaction to The Painted Bird, which docu
ments the atrocities acted upon Jews primarily by Poland’s
rural inhabitants, Polish spokesmen deny that their country
men were eager to surrender Jews to the enemy and that
Kosinski, like Leon Uris, Michael Elkins, and others, had
joined the legion of writers who have falsely accused
Poland of anti-Semitism. Such authors, they say, have been
caught up in their maniacal vengeance and have blindly
lashed out at all available quarry. The resulting fiction
is just that—fiction.
Kosinski was disturbed by the extreme reaction of
his former countrymen to their mention in his first novel.
(It is interesting to note that in subsequent editions of
The Painted Bird the author deleted "Poland," "Polish," or
any other words indicative of specific places or persons
in that country.) He explained in Notes of the Author
that he did not condemn the peasantry nor judge them
unjustifiably» his object was not to damn an entire race
10
or region.
The names used in The Painted Bird are fictional and cannot with any justification whatsoever be ascribed to any particular national group. The area is only vaguely defined, since the border regions, continually torn by strife, had no unity of nationality or faith. Thus no ethnic nor religious group has cause to believe itself to be represented, and no chauvinistic feelings need be set on edge. (p. 14)
Moreover, in these notes, which sometimes read more like a
defense of his treatment of the peasant folk than as an
apologia of his artistic purposes (and which first appeared
as an Appendix to the German-language edition, purportedly
in response to anticipated objections from Polish readers),
Kosinski actually defends peasant actions during the war.
Their actions, he says, were instinctive and "their cruelty
/was7 extremely defensive, elemental, sanctioned by tradi
tion, by faith and superstition, by centuries of poverty,
exploitation, disease, and by the ceaseless depredations
of stronger neighbors.It was a matter of endurance,
and for this reason they might be excused from guilt.
Yet not completely, at least insofar as they exer
cised their prejudices. Hideous, criminal practices were
common, and if the population at large took little part in
the persecution of Jews, certain individuals within it
made life difficult, not to say miserable, for "misfits."
It must have been especially arduous for a homeless,
¿Notes of the Author. 1965), P. 23.
(New York* Scientia-Faetum,
11
wandering youth such as the boy in Painted Bird, many of whose experiences were probably similar to Kosinski’s own.?
A pre-teen could hardly be expected to fare well independ
ently in any environment, much less in one characterized by
starvation, plague, and military uprisings. But to those
readers who raise precisely this objection to the "truth"
of The Painted Bird the author hastens to point out that
the human animal, even a very young one, quickly learns to
adapt himself to a given situation, employing those instincts
and natural abilities which will ensure his survival.
Children are rarely given credit for their potential» they
are pampered and kept child-like until some initiation rites
have been performed and they are finally allowed to be
adults. Left to his own devices, however, a child matures
rapidly and is quite able to fend for himself» he becomes a
man in all but physical stature.
Parted from friends and family, Kosinski had to
assume responsibility for his well being. His efforts proved
successful in two respects» he survived, and he evolved into s
a fully independent personality. Both facts are fundamental
to an understanding of the man and his works. They begin to
explain his fierce individuality, the unwavering intensity
?In a number of published interviews and particularly in an address to students at Bowling Green State University (1970), Kosinski has made it clear that events depicted in his first two novels either happened to him, were witnessed by him, or were of a sort likely to have occurred at that time and place.
A
12
of his character, and his perpetual battle to save himself
from victimization. A feasible result of years spent alone-
formative years—he is a loner now, a man who values his
privacy and mobility. At present, he speaks of his "move- V
ment," defined as "the single-minded struggle to avoid
restrictions, limits, regimentation." Such resolve is a
natural outgrowth of his youthful experiences and was further
promoted by the tightly organized, prohibitive communist
system under which he labored for more than a decade. Hav
ing lived as a "free" spirit for a half dozen years despite
the almost constant threat of death or imprisonment, Kosin
ski could not easily accept the restraints placed upon the
individual by the communist complex. The escape from his
birthplace was an escape from totalitarianism. He sought
in America a spontaneousness that had been denied him
throughout his adult life. The United States offered him
the opportunity to regain that autonomy he had enjoyed as
a child» it would allow him to lead the unbothered, form
less life he craved. In addition, he might be able to
unravel the contradictory threads of his being—his child
hood "liberty" versus the strictly governed environment
of his young manhood—and uncover his true identity,
I wanted to find out what was within me, what was the force that prompted me to do whatever. In Poland, you see, I did not have to provide the frame of
®Mount, p. 14.
13
reference» it was provided from outside. If anything, I had to counteract it. Half of my life was spent fending off influences from outside, and so not defining myself.9
The temptation to see KosinskPs writings as the
working out of that identity is a great one» indeed, some
of his published statements encourage this view. The
Future Is Ours. Comrade and No Third Path analyze in depth
the nature of collective and individual behavior of Soviet
citizens. Both volumes focus upon the dynamics of collec
tivity in as objective a manner as is possible for one who
lived so closely with his subject, but in the concluding
chapter of the latter work the author speaks directly to
his private dilemma»
When, finally, the outsider reaches such a degree of cohesion and identification with his new environment that he attains an understanding of it, and in addition, when he becomes able to view himself according to the criteria of that environment, it may be found that he will not succeed in the long run in continuing to accept this new version of himself which he has to maintain in order to continue to live and coexist with the others. This is just what this author has experienced» as suddenly it became clear that his acclimatization was relative and not absolute» that somewhere "in the wall of his soul" lay, still alive, a desire for something other than could be supplied to him by that collectivized new world.His subconscious came into conflict with his conscious self, his former self rebelled against his new self.He began to view his surroundings with a suspicious eye—and perceive suspicion in the eyes of his friends. He attempted intensively to "separate himself from his own ego" and to work out a method of becoming,"a detached observer of himself." of observing himself in the most objective and critical manner, in the same manner in which he observed those whom he distrusted.
^Mount, p. 14.
14
As a consequence he ceased to live in harmony with himself, and this in turn made it more difficult for him to retain his self-control and self-possession in his relations with others, and diminished his self-confidence. At some moment during that process he understood that, instead of becoming a good citizen and a creative member of the socialist community, he became a bad—because playing unconvincingly— actor who, moreover, was incapable of believing, even for a little while, in the authenticity and relevance of his role and lost with every new moment his sense of unity with the vigilantly watching audience ....
As a result of a closer and broader familiarity with the mechanism of the collectivized society, the writer’s conflict with that society, with its theory and practice, its goals and programs, its propaganda and tenets, became still further magnified. This was no longer merely the personal revolt of an individual who could not find a place for himself in the collective snare but also an intellectual-moral revolt, external and superior to personal considerations . • • .
At such a time there comes a moment of reflection when, as Camus says, it is possible to have the courage to lose one’s own life when so needed. But to look on while the meaning of that life evaporates, while our raison d’ etre disappears—that is unbearable J
The publication of this book is precisely the expression of such a reflection, the rejection of a choice which has proved unbearable, (pp. 357-59)/italics
<. The last reference is to Kosinski’s decision to
leave the communist bloc. Clearly, he had reached a water
shed in his career! his concept of self, deeply ingrained,
was threatened by the oppressive forces of totalitarian
society. He had to choose between self-expression and con
formity! the child Kosinski had been—his former self—and
the individualism synonymous with it, won out. Or rather,
there was no real choice involved, for the specter of the
socialized man—manipulated, a mere puppet of the state—
was the very antithesis of everything he held sacred. For
15
a while he had attempted to adapt himself to his socialist
environment and its manifold restraints, but this "pre
tender soul," to borrow from Saul Bellow, gave way to his
"true soul"i in the battle of selves, the Kosinski who
valued his essential nature most highly emerged victorious.
His immediate response to the predicament at hand
was flight, yet his recent past was not so easily dismissed.
The time behind the iron curtain had had its effect» the
accumulated weight of years spent under the Soviet aegis
left a strong imprint upon his consciousness. He needed to
break totally free of it. Flight alone was inadequate to
separate himself from what he had become as a participant
in the socialist dream.
America proferred hope. It provided him with con
crete advantages in his quest, not the least of which was
the freedom to be what he wanted to be. A more important
advantage, however, was the English language itself, since
it "disconnects you, and requires from you—because you do not know all the cliches yet—some of your own."^° It is
the very means by which one can externalize feelings, treat
symbolically what would otherwise be incommunicable. "One
is removed from one’s Pavlovian restraints, so to speak.
The new language has brought for you a new evocative power»
it can evoke your imaginary states but not your traumatic
10Mount, p. 15
16ones."11
Which is to say that English enabled Kosinski to
escape figuratively from what he had already departed liter
ally. So closely associated is the Polish language to the
author’s memories that to hear or to use it is for him a
traumatic experience. He has confided that whenever
addressed in Polish or Russian, or whenever required to
speak or write them, his "whole manner changes. I get more
rigid, my neck is stiffer, I am more European. My tongue
is even more rigid, my hands are not as mobile. I am much
more manipulative because I am frightened to say something 1?that is not exactly what I want to say." The mother-
tongue, then, is psychologically linked to Kosinki’s Euro
pean experiences, experiences which he considers traumatic
and which he would sooner cast from his awareness. He
cannot employ it when he wishes to convey the import of
that first quarter-century of his life» it is insufficient
to capture the exact meaning those twenty-five years have
for him.
English became his literary language because with
it he felt unafraid» he had confidence that he could express
himself accurately and unaffectedly. He mastered the
written word faster than the verbal and so began the * 12
^Mount, p. 15.
12Ibid.
17
transformation of his actual life into a literary one
shortly after his admission to Columbia University. The
transformation was a necessity, a part of his plan to
eradicate the stultifying influence of the past, thus open
ing new paths and new directions for his psyche to follow.
The introductory step in this metamorphosis was the
production of The Future Is Ours. Comrade (i960). It is
largely a series of dialogues between the author and a
host of acquaintances met during his stay in the U.S.S.R.,
organized under such headings as "The Street and the Citi
zen," "The Soviet Socialist Army," and "In the Hospital,"
each one surrendered to exhaustive investigation. The
whole is unified by a running narrative, usually devoid of
subjective comment but occasionally betrayed by the author's
pity, regret, anger, or abhorrence. There are also a few
statistical charts based on public-opinion polls and ques
tionnaires examining a range from "What article of daily
use, not counting furniture, would you consider most essen
tial in the present U.S.S.R. apartment?" to "In your opin
ion, will a war between capitalism and socialism take place?"
Kosinski's Russian visit was prompted, of course, by
his sociological interests» he was curious to know the
Soviet man's likes and dislikes, his dreams and fears, his
perceptions of the world and his own relationship to it.
To lend authenticity to his research, Kosinski settled upon
18
a scientific approach that would force him to suspend his
critical judgment. He simply asked pertinent questions and
faithfully registered his subjects* observations in their
own words. Thus he composed an impartial portrait of com
munal life, the principal features of which--"mutual toler
ance, a sense of reciprocity, a tendency to conformity, and general resignation"^^—rubbed against the grain of his
character. For one nearly self-reared, it was difficult to
accept that, total subordination of the individual to the
group which typifies Soviet society. The notion of a
group’s right to interfere in a man’s intimate life and the
idea that he cannot recognize his own innate being—"Remem
ber, a man knows himself the least. Other people know thelit
most about him. It can’t be otherwise" —ran counter to
Kosinski*s highly individualistic, private nature. He
could not bear the fanatic social/governmental controls
which circumscribed and monitored his every movement» "The
feeling that I was never alone grew ever stronger in my mind."15 The Future Is Ours. Comrade is a record of the
author’s accelerated desire to free himself from totalitar
ian chains.
No Third Path is a sequel, published just two years
^Jerzy Kosinski (pseudonym Joseph Novak), The Future Is Ours. Comrade (Garden City, New York» Doubleday, 19o0),P. 19?“
1/1 Ibid., p. 75.
15Ibid.. p. 152.
19
after the first volume appeared. It, too, is a social
expose' and is written along similar lines. The same indirect
castigation of collective behavior emanates from it, yet the
book is somehow more personal than its predecessor, perhaps
because Kosinski gives more space to his own portion of the
dialogues and, on another level, because he grants his
readers a closer view of his intimate friendships and roman
tic engagements. One such encounter, with a man identified
only as K, yielded the following confession from the author*
"I would like to depend on nobody. You know, to tailor my
life to my own yardstick, and not to rifle around in ready
made-clothes stores . . .And Zina, a Party candidate
who befriended Kosinski, says*
. . . you are a little egoist, wrapped up in yourself.’ . . . Your naturalistic remembrances of childhood and the war, your hatred of village life and primitive conditions , . « all this causes the world of today to reach you in a distorted image. You refract it, as it were, in a prism. That most human and humanist institution which is the Soviet collective and our meetings, you consider as contrary to the nature of the "free mani" (pp. 58-59)
Both comments are overt references to Kosinski*s state of
mind» they show his growing discontent with emotional,
spiritual, and mental bonds inflicted upon him, his pre
occupation with childhood memories and their implications,
^¿Jerzy Kosinski (pseudonym Joseph Novak), No Third Path (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1962), p. 53»
20
and they hint at a developing, if not already formulated,
philosophy of human nature. They point as well in the direc
tion Kosinski was to take—a third path, so to speak, toward
a kind of "qualified" solipsism wherein both halves of a
split personality could reside in harmony, one half filter
ing all experience through the self and therefore subjective,
the other existing outside the self, observing objectively.
The whole personality, then, would see simultaneously the
reality and the illusion of events, concepts, etc., and
assimilate them in their respective compartments—self and
"not-self." Figuratively speaking (or perhaps literally),
Kosinski*s self could react normally to his environment
while his not-self collected images of reality later to find
expression in his literature.
As No Third Path makes clear, the political side of
Kosinski*s character realized that such things as freedom
and behavior were relative. Neither democratic nor social
ist systems make room for true freedom» rather, freedom
is a state of mind and is therefore a matter of attitude.
Behavior is not determined finally by a set of rules
imposed from without» it is a matter of conscience, dictated
by the inner being. Kosinski*s journey to America, then,
When asked what role writing played in his "movement," Kosinski replied that it "provides a sort of split, in the sense that once in a while you observe yourself, a certain part of yourself is set apart, permanently, almost as a kind of image collector. I notice this very often. I am struck by something, but it is not I who is struck by it, it is my new novel which is struck." (Mount, p. 14.)
21
can be seen as a retreat from all formal institutions into
a private world where the self reigns supreme.
That segment of his self which had accumulated impres
sions since childhood, however, including those that repre
sented conflicts between individual and collective modes of
behavior, needed exorcism. He began "translating" these
impressions, first into non-fiction, then into fiction. To
do so, he had to disconnect himself from his self (the quote
on page 13 addresses this point) and view his past as a
detached, objective witness might. The Future Is Ours. Com
rade and No Third Path were written with this intent. They
were a means of "removing myself from the past by making a
non-fiction out of the conditions of my life ... It was
an attempt to turn a major aspect of my growing up into a- ip
literary experience . . . ."
With a secure grip on the English language, Kosinski
had successfully converted his real experiences into liter
ary ones through the non-fiction medium. Yet there remained
a quantity of experiences which still beckoned for expres
sion» these were the events—and the emotions prompted by
them—which had so forcefully embedded themselves in the
author*s sensibility. They demanded a special outlet.
Non-fiction had adequately summoned at least the surface
tensions vexing Kosinski, but beneath them lay an entire
^®Mount, p. 14.
22
complex of impressions acquired over nearly three decades.
These necessitated fictive treatment.
Once more, Kosinski's method was to sever himself
from the reality he proposed to portray. "The most essen
tial stage of the writing process," states Kosinski in
Notes of the Author.
is the process whereby the writer comes to stand outside the experience he intends to mirror in his book. The chief element of this "alienation" is the conscious desire to examine oneself and the experience from "without," from a standpoint at which both the writer himself and his surroundings lose their concrete features, and separate themselves from everyday reality after a long period of struggle and uncertainty to enter a fluid and less rigidly limited dimension. This "new dimension" exists only in the writer's consciousness» within it the elements of reality no longer obey the earthbound laws of gravitation» the minutiae of time and place cease to be important.
Between external reality and his own imagination the writer constructs one curtain after another.(P. 9)
What this means, of course, is that while the content of
The Future Is Ours. Comrade and No Third Path may be
regarded cautiously as autobiographical, Kosinski*s fiction
cannot. Fiction creates something timeless and immutable
within its own world» it resists infusions of fact. The
Painted Bird and Steps, often considered by critics to be
autobiographical, tender material which is at least thrice
removed from reality» the printed word is not reality, nor
are the characters, settings, and happenings because, as
recollected entities (not to say completely invented ones)
23they "lack the hard edge of total fact."^9
The remembered event becomes a fiction, a structure made to accommodate certain feelings. If there were not these structures, art would be too personal for the artist to create, much less for the audience to grasp. There is no art which is reality» rather art is the using of symbols by which an otherwise unstate- able subjective reality is made manifest, (p. IT)
Furthermore, the artist, even when drawing explicitly upon
his actual experiences, selects only fragments from them»
he either understates or exaggerates particular ingredients
of the event abstracted, depending upon the effect he is
after. Thus, he distorts whatever reality his subject
matter may once have possessed.
Such is Jerzy Kosinski*s procedure» to stand aside
from himself in order to view what and where he had been,
thence to manipulate reality with an admixture of imagina
tion. The results have been gratifying for the author.
His first two novels must betoken, at the minimum, a tempo
rary release from the pressures of his past. Having
brought his history to the forefront of consciousness, he
has no doubt been better able to understand it and perhaps
to soften its grosser aspects. This is not to suggest that
that past has been altogether obliterated—uprooted cer
tainly, scrutinized unquestionably. It does suggest, how
ever, despite Kosinski*s protestations to the contrary, an
examination of the meaning his life has had through an
^Notes. p. 11.
24
imaginative depiction of it.
From another point of view, The Painted Bird and
Steps offer "visions" of the author’s past» metaphorical
fashionings of unconscious states. It is safer to regard
these works in this perspective, especially since Kosinski
is adamant about it. Surely both novels are the product of
fact and fancy molded to a symbolic whole, or as Kosinski
puts it with respect to Painted Bird, "the result of the
slow unfreezing of a mind long gripped by fear, of isolated 20facts that have become interwoven into a tapestry,"
There is no contradiction to seeing either fictional
piece as both a "fabulous" search for the significance of a
real past and as an effort to arrest the crippling conse
quences of it. Though Kosinski’s first and second novels
may not rightly deserve to be labeled autobiography, they
nonetheless exhume the skeletons of his past in an attempt
to set that past apart from the author’s present and thereby
permit him to function freely.
They have had just this effect. Kosinski is delighted
with his profession because it fits so well into his scheme—
the "movement" alluded to earlier. Fiction writing is rela
tively immune to limitations» it "requires no place ...
no paraphernalia," and is
freer than any force around you. There is no situation, no setup, that can duplicate the human
2QNotes. p. 14.A
25
imagination. If a writer confronts this aspect of himself . . . then he is able to transcend every single human aspect of existence. He can transcend himself, he can refashion the world around him, carry it into the most hidden part of his own private universe, which no one else has any access to ... It is an incredible freedom the writer has.It is the freedom to be the maker of the world.No one else has that freedom.21
Encumbered by years of slavery to one or another form of
suppression, Kosinski at last found a proper medium for his
selfAs voice. A tool with which to expand reality, fiction
outdistanced non-fiction. It opened avenues of exploration
long curtailed in an old self, hidden and frightened behind
a socialist guise. What had lain dormant—a vividly remem
bered body of experience and a creative genius—was ready
to blossom. Non-fiction had carried him part way out of
the past» fiction would finish the job. All that his
earliest work could not collar—the emotional highs and
lows, the "strangeness" of his experience—would be couched
in an idiom specifically designed to capture subtleties and
largenesses alike. Kosinski had waited "to peel the gloss
off the world, to view life without the comfortable conceits
with which we embellish perceptible reality." With the
germ of The Painted Bird firmly rooted in his mind, the
time had come.
21Mount, p. 14.
22 Notes, p.,19.
26
Kosinski*s non-fiction volumes supply some obvious
links to his fiction. Most prominent, perhaps, are the
themes common to both. Actually, only one major theme
emerges from all of Kosinski*s writings, but so broad are
its implications that it encompasses nearly every worthwhile
idea and ideal available to man. The evolution and the
machinations of self, the endeavor to ascertain and estab
lish one’s identity, the individual conscience in conflict
with mass norms» this is the core of the Kosinski canon.
What strikes the reader of The Future Is Ours. Comrade and
No Third Path most trenchantly is the depiction of a com
munal society wherein the individual counts for naught» the
state is all-powerful, deserving of men’s self-effacement
and perpetual sacrifice» there is no room for independence,
for ego, for deviation from prescribed behavior» the goals
of the mass are the goals of the single units within it.
Cogs in a wheel» such are the persons encountered in
either work in the midst of whom wanders one soul whose
individual cast will not fit the mold.
Prey to the whims of the socialist monolith, an
already victimized Kosinski—recall the harrowing ventures
of his childhood—sought an unfettered existence. He found
it, in part at least, on American soil. From the distance
of years and miles, and with a first-hand knowledge of what
it means to be oppressed, he set about uncovering the rami
fications of self. In his fiction Kosinski probes the
21victim/oppressor relationship, the power of love, hate, fear,
vengeance, and the workings of power itself» he dramatizes
the sense of alienation, the failure of institutions to
guide conduct and faith» he studies fierce individuality,
the innate desire for freedom and survival, and the almost
magical ability to metamorphize for self-preservation. Self
is the focus here, and that absorption with self issues
clearly from the incidents related to Kosinski*s non-fiction.
Less obvious is the matter of style. The language
of The Future Is Ours. Comrade and No Third Path is con
versational while that of The Painted Bird and Steps is
anything but “chatty," Yet all four works exhibit an objec
tive attitude or tone. This is evident in the non-fiction
where Kosinski enacts the role of a data processor» in The
Painted Bird and Steps, however, it is shown in the detached,
unemotional nature of the narrative. It is as if their
respective protagonists were striving to remain aloof from
their narratives, to conserve or withhold their feelings,
and to maintain control over their material. The language
of both novels is highly imagistic but not colorful» even
the most sensational episodes in each are presented matter-
of-factly and this dry impassivity never waivers. The
effect is an odd one, for though scenes are recounted
impersonally, the emotions elicited are potent.
Finally, there are passages in the non-fiction (pre
dominantly in No Third Path) which connect Kosinski*s
28
factual past with his fiction. Aside from reminiscences
and general accounts of Soviet life, there exist two char
acters and one anecdote which play significant roles in his
creative literature. Varia relates the story of a sparrow
she and her young companion caught in a trap. They painted
him purple, then let him rejoin his flock only to see him
plummet from the sky moments afterward, pecked to death by his own kind because he was suddenly different.2^ This, of
course, is the heart of The Painted Bird. And Gavrila, who
with Mitka the Cuckoo educates the boy in Marxist-Leninist
doctrine at the close of that novel, appears here as a man
still convinced "that the only true way for a man to develop 24his versatile talents is in and through the collective."
And K speaks of underground men’s rooms where one can be
completely alone, free to do as he pleases, "like a Greek godi"2-> He is seen in Steps as "The Philosopher," an
unwilling member of the socialist system who eventually com
mits suicide in a lavatory to escape it.
Themes, characters, happenings, stylistic tones
These are carried over from his social texts to his fiction.
The experiences reflected in those texts, in conjunction
with his childhood memories, furnish the basis for The
23No Third Path, pp. 106-107.24Ibid.. p. 70.
25Ibid.. p. 54.
29
Painted Bird and Steps» their literary embodiments combine
to form a network of symbols without which the artist Kosin
ski could not have functioned. To convey the immensity,
the overwhelming impact of his youthful experiences, he
needed that unique perspective evolved from twin selves,
one viewing objectively what the other felt internally.
Thus, the locale of these novels became a metaphorical set
ting against which characters (themselves archetypes)
acted out representative elements of the author’s life.
By stepping back from himself, Kosinski was able to drama
tize the sensations and experiences which had the greatest
effect upon him.
In Notes of the Author Kosinski explains his use of
memory as both content and framing device. Though Notes
makes reference only to The Painted Bird, what is said
there with respect to the author’s method applies equally
well to Steps. Both novels are episodic, ’’with the links
largely omitted, as is the case with memory.’’ (The
"little dramas" of The Painted Bird are organized chrono
logically whereas those in Steps—with the exception of a
few consecutive pieces—are not.) "The extremity of the
situations, through heightened action and imagery, repro
duces also the action of our thoughts and our dreams. The
symbolic quality of the characters and details of the
2^Notes. p. 12.
30situation . . • serve as a method of conserving and under-
2?lining something else, as a concretization of a feeling.”
Each novel blends fictionalized fact with symbolic render
ings of general feelings entertained and harbored for years»
stored emotions which could not be reproduced or re-lived in
any but a literary way, and prior encounters whose impress
was unshakable, lent substance and structure to Kosinski’s
first novels.
Of his third novel, Being There, nothing has been
said thus far because it departs radically from the format
employed in his earlier productions. Except in the broad
est sense, Being There has little tangible connection to»
Kosinski’s background, particularly with respect to his
European experience. In fact, although Kosinski is hailed
as an American writer, less than forty pages of his fiction
pertained to things distinctly American until Being There
appeared in the spring of 1971, better than thirteen years
after his arrival in this country. The Painted Bird and
Steps dealt almost exclusively with the author’s turbulent
years in Poland and Russia» the protagonist in each bore
some resemblance to Kosinski himself and therefore warranted,
however tentatively, biographical comparisons. Being There
unfolds wholly on American soil and its "hero" is not at all
^Notes. pp. 12-13.
31like his creator. Chance, an idiot, is television’s child,
28literally the product of the TV set. His misadventures
in high society are related comically, but the novel's
parable form belies a serious message. The social and poli
tical realms into which Chance is thrust are a composite of
the dreams and illusions fed upon daily by millions of tele
vision viewers. Politicians, businessmen, and party-goers
alike are all frauds, fearful that the platitudes and com
plaisances upon which they depend might be stripped from
them by the truth. They are a conglomeration of mass media
freaks, supersaturated with false images of themselves and
their environment, easily persuaded by the superficialities
of the "boob tube.”
Foolish creatures these, subservient to the omni
present, one-dimensional picture tube which casts back the
favorable images of themselves they are intent to see.
Chance, in his mindless splendor, subsumes this very func
tion—like a television set, he reflects only what others
want to see in him» his being is theirs to manipulate. He
is what they expect him to be» he speaks the words they
want to hear. They tune him in for those shallow, inane
bits of "wisdom" only an idiot could provide—and only
idiots could believe in.
Kosinski quips about a reviewer who asked, "Would this book, like your other two books, be autobiographical?" (Amory, p. 16.)
With Being There Kosinski has abandoned the past
fully in favor of the present and future. The sociologist’s
concern with his own immediate surroundings is evident in
the author’s analysis and eventual castigation of contempor
ary man, whom he envisions as little more than a malleable,
unthinking automaton» subject to media propaganda, he loses
a sense of himself in the morass of a stagnant, inhibiting,
conforming universe, seemingly content in his oblivion.
No character in Being There rises above this mire, unless
it be Chance, who might be excused for legitimate biological
reasons. Yet not even Chance, for Kosinski suggests—and
here he acts as prophet—that the Chances of this world are
multiplying rapidly, victims not of birth defects but of
exposure to network programing. Their numbers are growing
and soon our population will be replete with witless human
animals incapable of independent thought. American bureau
cracy will then have uncontested control of its populace»
those few remaining artists or intellectuals fortunate
enough to have escaped the media’s poison will be isolated
or liquidated.
Extravagant as it may sound, Kosinski is resolute
in his stance. He steadfastly believes that American
society (and all other societies adopting American habits)
is running downhill toward the ultimate wasteland, carry
ing with it centuries of cultural advancement. Paramount
in his catastrophic vision is the demise of the free-thinker,
33
the creative soul who must suecumb to the might of a mechan
ized, dehumanized system.
I am basically very depressed about the twentieth century. It is a totalitarian century. This century,I am convinced, will totally and totalitarianly get rid of the liberal mind, the Renaissance man. This is the first time when there is a perfect match between crude political ideas and the complex technology that makes those ideas acceptable.29
The system, a technological Establishment that under
mines individualism and promulgates adoration of the collec
tive societal body, receives its most direct and vicious
assault in The Devil Tree. This novel (released in Febru
ary, 1973) attacks what Kosinski believes is the source of
our current product- and profit-minded Corporate State—the
Protestant Ethic. It is the goals and attitudes implicit
in that ethic—so well ingrained in the American conscious
ness—which have caused Jonathan James Whalen, the novel’s
protagonist, to flounder between the expectations his family
and society have of him and his personal desire to define
himself internally. Elements external to his self—wealth,
status, connections, et al.—have always determined his
identity» these are the elements that signal the “chosen”
in contemporary America as much as they did several hundred
years ago and are therefore the aims of every "sensible“
American. Jonathan, however, perceives that money and rank
and family history are false measures of the self and that,
29Amory, p. 17
furthermore, they should not be the driving force behind an
individual’s search for fulfillment. He tries unsuccessfully
to elude the traps set by his environment, but they are too
strong» in the end, he relinquishes his quest for self and
accepts his heritage with all that it implies.
Once more Kosinski has tilled American soil for his
subject and unearthed the roots of a pervasive spirit gov
erning its development. He has done so through a framework
reminiscent of Steps* episodic structure» in generally
brief scenes he combs the past and present circumstances of
his hero to detect precisely the causes of Jonathan’s prob
lem, Yet while many episodes are written from the detached
point of view emblematic of Steps, several others are quite
personal and explicit in their revelation of Jonathan’s
character. By so blatantly analyzing his central figure
for his readers, Kosinski departs markedly from former
efforts—unwisely, it seems, since a large part of Steps*
magnetism lay in the doubts it raises about the narrator’s
psyche.
Another anomaly, unexpected of a stylistic wizard,
detracts from the book’s impact—style in The Devil Tree
comes dangerously close to the cliche-ridden banalities
of pulp fiction. More than one critic has suggested that
this linguistic lapse is indicative of an artist who is
too deeply involved with his topic. Perhaps this is so,
but more than likely it isn’t» rather, Kosinski is spreading
35his wings, experimenting with his literary capabilities,
feeling his way about in a language to which he has become
far more accustomed. And, too, his European past is at a
further distance from his mind than it was fifteen years
ago» America has assumed a substantial role in his life,
enough so that he is justified in treating his American
experience with as much acumen as he displayed in earlier
works. Though the novel bears only an incidental relation
ship to his,recent biography, it is nonetheless a distilla
tion of his views with respect to the propensities he has
witnessed first-hand in his adopted country. Prom the
dark theater of his youth he has moved easily and swiftly
to a new forum equally abundant in fictive material.
Seen in this light, Being There and The Devil Tree
are not so different from their predecessors. True, the
setting has changed as has the fictional structure some
what, but the root of all four novels is the same« a
totalitarian force—call it the Third Reich, the Soviet
State, the American Bureaucracy, or the Protestant Ethic-
squelches individuality, molds personality to a common
stamp, and dictates every aspect of human endeavor. The
narrator of Steps, the boy in The Painted Bird. Chance in
Being There and The Devil Tree’s Jonathan are in their
separate ways victims of its power. Sometimes hidden but
more often glaring from the pages of these fairy tales—
and they are that« bizarre, inverted fairy tales perhaps,
36
yet fairy tales nonetheless—is the cry for freedom, for the
inception or re-establishment of a sane society wherein a
man might discover his identity and nurture the self within
him.
CHAPTER II» THE PAINTED BIRD
"When I was a little girl ... I wanted to learn all I could about the behavior of various animals. I remember how once a group of us kids caught a sparrow in a trap. He struggled with all his might—tiny heart thumping desperately—but I held on tight. We then painted him purple and I must admit he actually looked much better—more proud and unusual. After the paint had dried we let him go to rejoin his flock ... We thought he would be admired for his beautiful and unusual coloring, become a model to all the gray sparrows in the vicinity, and they would make him their king. He rose high and was quickly surrounded by his companions. For a few moments their chirping grew much louder and then— a small object began plummeting earthward. We ran to the place where it fell. In a mud puddle lay our purple sparrow—dead. His blood mingling with the paint . . . The water was rapidly turning a brownish-red. He had been killed by the other sparrows, by their hate for color and their instinct of belonging to a gray flock. Then, for the first time, I understood ..."
Varvara, in No Third Path
38
In the first weeks of World War II, in the fall of 1939, a six-year-old boy from a large city in Eastern Europe was sent by his parents, like thousands of other children, to the shelter of a distant village • . . In sending their child away the parents believed that it was the best means of assuring his survival through the war.
So begins the story of a child who is never named
and whose adventures unfold in places likewise nameless.
It is at once a simple and a complex tale, horrible in the
barbarisms described, more horrible in its implications.
Events are narrated quietly, calmly, sequentially, but
despite their seeming reality and the effortlessness with
which that reality is posed, they strike one as nightmares,
dark and surrealistic, suggestive of feelings vaguely
remembered and always repressed. Straightforward narrative
it may be, yet the emotions it calls forth are trouble
some—one has the uneasy feeling that he has been here
before.
The Painted Bird's narrative simplicity is disarming
and misleading. A reader will find himself caught in the
web of Kosinski*s prose and will feel himself struggling
vainly against the novel's seductive episodes. Try as he
might to dismiss the author's portrait of crude, primitive
behavior, he cannot keep from turning the page. This is
not to say that Kosinski offers "sensational” material
along the lines popular in pulp magazines» on the contrary,
his subject matter, though violent and brutal in the
39
extreme, is handled in an artistic manner with an intent to
force some identification with it. A reader is expected
to see in the boy’s reactions to his surroundings some hint
of his own conscious fears, however unrelated the boy’s
specific experiences to the reader's, that reader is
prompted to identify in them certain characteristics common
to his own experience. The boy’s growing hatred toward his
oppressors, for example, is comparable to anyone's resent
ment of suppression and constant harassment. Thus, when
confronted with KosinskPs lurid tales, one is drawn to
consider them in light of one’s individual psyche. The
result may be a shock of recognition, for the possibility
of containing within one’s self that same enmity inflicted
upon the boy and returned to him in kind, may be present
in each of us.
The novel’s artlessness is also misleading in that
it appears at first glance to be nothing more than another
war story, given a slight twist because told from a child’s
point of view. This might be true if it weren't for the
fact that Kosinski is out for bigger game than is sought
in run-of-the-mill World War II fiction. Kosinski's sights
are higher, he wishes to probe the motivations governing
all human behavior. The anonymity of both boy and environ
ment lifts the narrative above the level of the personal
and specific into the universal. Indeed, The Painted Bird
is not limited to one man's narrow view of isolated
40
happenings unique only to him, nor does it particularize one
war or one group of persons or one set of circumstances» it
is, rather, a novel which delves into the very nature of
this twentieth century and of those who people it. It is
a work unscrupulous in its examination of a world community
* gone mad, of values turned inside out and institutions
toppled, of a contagious moral degeneracy that has spread
far and wide in the last thirty years or more.
A plot resume* would do an injustice to the novel’s
finer points» moreover, so full is it with action—every
episode compact—that it defies summary. Suffice to say,
then, that the boy wanders from village to village seeking
only to outlast his tormentors. Sometimes he is befriended,
but more often abused. A succession of marvelous characters,
from the witch-like Marta to the sorceress Olga to mad
Garbos and Stupid Ludmila, act upon the boy's sensibilities
as he steadily wends his way toward survival. In the end,
having seen and felt much, he is restored to his family.
On the surface an uninvolved tale, yet The PaintedI
Bird deals with themes of immense import. The boy's odyssey
is an excursion through what most typifies contemporary
life, and that which is held up to inspection, nearly all
of it dismal and disillusioning, forecasts the continuation
of this same bleakness for centuries to come. Essentially,
his journey is a discovery of self, an increasing sense of
41
the relation between self and non-self, and a growing aware
ness of his capacities to function successfully in an
antagonistic world.
The journey commences when the boy takes residence
in Marta's hut where he attends to household chores and
aids in the concoction of spells and potions. Marta is a
haggard old woman with bony hands "like garden rakes" and a
withered, trembling body. She would serve handsomely as a
witch» indeed, she is absorbed in the supernatural, perpetu
ally on the watch for evil spirits, busily brewing special
medicines to ward them off. It is she who first makes known
to the boy the powers of the nether world, who introduces
him to the multitudinous superstitions rampant in that
desolate backwoods area, and through her he learns of his
own incantatory faculties—his Gypsy eyes "could bring
crippling illness, plague, or death." Innocent of these
faculties, the boy heeds Marta's warning not to look into
her eyes or the eyes of the farm animals, for to do so
would mean certain death. Nor can he count her teeth, for
each one counted would subtract a year from her life» out
of respect for her age, when "every year was precious,"
he refrains from regarding her too closely.
Marta keeps a snake in her garden since the skin
it shed regularly could be used in one of her magical
drafts. When the snake molts, it sinks into immobility,
then emerges from its wrinkled skin "looking suddenly
42
thinner and younger." At the conclusion of this chapter
Marta, who "sometimes looked like an old green-gray puff
ball, rotten through and waiting for a last gust of wind to
blow out the black dry dust from inside," dies while sitting
in her rocking chair. The boy, unable to arouse her and
unfamiliar with death, assumes she is undergoing the same
molting process he had witnessed with the snake, and
patiently awaits her rebirth.
The parallel drawn between Marta and the snake is
not accidental, it is significant on several levels. First,
the episode underscores the boy's naivete*, he does not yet
understand even the most common of life's mysteries. As the
novel progresses, this ingenuousness will be replaced by a
knowledge born of misery. Second, the metamorphosis motif
is begun here. The snake's transformation indicates to
the boy the possibility of changing himself to suit a given
situation. Had he the power to alter his appearance as the
snake had done, he could avoid those dilemmas, stemming from
his differentness. In the chapters to follow he dons a
variety of disguises in order to meet the challenges put
upon him, most often he adopts the habits of animals, but
his alterations are mental as well as physical—that is, he
will visualize himself as an animal, imitate its behavior,
and sometimes assume its perspective (e.g. a squirrel's
tree-top view of the scene below), or he will assimilate
and mirror the qualities of an imposing figure (e.g. the
43
Nazi officer who interrogates him). In either instance his
metamorphosis represents an attempt to cope with immediate
danger, and furthermore it is a process through which the
boy achieves an increasing knowledge of his innate abili
ties, The molting process is also analogous to the boy’s
swift separation from his past» bereft of his family, his
background, his history, the boy must nakedly confront the
violent world about to assault him» he must face it armed
only with his instincts and his will to live. Finally, the
snake image is but the first of a series of animal images
employed by Kosinski to forecast human actions. Just as
the snake’s molting anticipates Marta’s death, so too does
the behavior of cats, rabbits, and birds prophesy corres- %
ponding human behavior.
One such animal is the red squirrel the boy
befriends in a field adjacent to Marta’s dwelling. It is
his only playmate. Some village boys catch the squirrel
one day, soak it with a flammable liquid, then ignite it
while the boy watches helpless from a distance. They
laugh boisterously, prodding the tiny, smoldering body till
it lays motionless. The scene is only one of innumerable
depictions of senseless treachery encountered in the novel,
but beyond that it dramatizes succinctly the boy’s position
in an alien environment. He, too, will be the victim of
unreasonable, brutal acts» like his little friend, he will
find himself repeatedly at the mercy of callous individuals
44
bent on his destruction.
Another animal, this time a "lonely” pigeon, lands
amidst Marta's chickens and begins to court them. His amor
ous intentions prove fruitless, however, for the flock dis
dains his presence. While consorting with the hens and
chicks, a black shape swoops upon them» they scurry for
protection—all but the pigeon who "had no place to hide."
He is plucked by a hawk and carried off. The pigeon's
demise illustrates a notion central to the novel. The
pigeon is a "painted bird," different from the rest» as
such, he is shunned as an unwelcome intruder. Easily
spotted, marked by his coloration and isolated because of
it, he becomes the predator's prey. Similarly, the boy's
black hair and eyes and his aquiline features single him
out from his fair-complexioned neighbors» he cannot evade
the notice of those peasants who wish him ill. In effect
Kosinski is saying via natural imagery that anyone who
differs from the norm and who is, therefore, unfortunately
prominent, must suffer the consequences of his uniqueness,
for it is the nature of man and animal alike to detest
whatever cannot fit into the fold.
Freshly initiated into this foreign world, the boy
does not comprehend the reasons for the village lads*
cruelty nor the hawk's choice of victim. He is newly
separated from the security of loving parents and comfort
ing environs, not yet capable of accepting phenomena peculiar
to him. He is, in fact, in constant expectation of his
mother and father, who will assuredly "come for me any day,
any hour." They don't, though, and the boy is left to
entertain only memories of his mother at the piano and of
his father's broad smile. His reveries transport him to
bappy days when he played with a teddy bear, a fire engine,
and other toys. "But this past of mine was rapidly turning
into an illusion like one of my old nanny's incredible
fables." The luxury of memory is denied him, for the
safety of the past is no defense against an overpowering
present. In the face of daily trials where his very exist-
ance hangs in the balance, he cannot afford to rest his
chances with backward glances to sheltered times, his former
life becomes gradually more meaningless and useless. None
theless, he clings to it for awhile believing, as he flees
Marta's home (which he has inadvertently set afire), that
he'll meet his family in the ravine. When he doesn't, he
asks: "What were parents for if not to be with their children
in times of danger?" Thus begins his rapid recognition of
the fact that he is alone, unaided, totally dependent upon
his own resources.
Rescue is not forthcoming. The boy realizes this in
stages until he surrenders all hope. Before a year is out
the boy will have abandoned any notions of reunion with his
family, and in the novel's concluding chapters when he is
at last reunited with them, he struggles to free himself of
46
their claims upon him. The boy’s progress, then, is from
dependence to independence» he learns to do without the help
of others, choosing instead to place his confidence in
himself.
Still, at this early point in his story, the boy
needs assistance if he is to survive. Despite Marta’s warn
ings about the villagers, whom she said would drown him
’’like a mangy kitten" if given the opportunity, he decides
to search for people. Unsuspecting of their perfidy, he
imagines they will welcome him.
Lonely and terrified, he enters a village and is
greeted immediately by chained dogs straining to reach him.
A crowd soon gathers, eyeing him suspiciously before advanc
ing.
A stone struck me. I lay down, face to the earth, not wishing to know what might happen next. My head was being bombarded with dried cow dung, moldy potatoes, apple cores, handfuls of earth, and small stones. I covered my face with my hands and screamed into the road dust.
Someone yanked me up from the ground. A tall redheaded peasant held me by the hair and dragged me toward him, twisting my ear with his other hand. I resisted desperately. The crowd shrieked with laughter. The man pushed me, kicking me with his wood-soled shoe. The mob roared, the men clasped their bellies, shaking with laughter, and the dogs struggled closer toward me.
A peasant with a burlap sack pushed his way through the crowd. He grabbed me by the neck and slipped the sack over my head. Then he threw me to the ground and tried to knead the rest of my body into the stinking black soil.
I lashed out with my feet and hands, I bit and scratched. But a blow on the back of my neck quickly made me lose consciousness.
47
This passage serves as an example—a relatively mild
one—of the kind of treatment the boy is to receive at the
hands of his oppressors. Wherever he travels he is: met by
men, women, and children who relish the chance to exercise
their prejudices. Their sadism is never carried too far,
however» they always stop short of murder since the boy,
though a "Gypsy bastard" and therefore a menace to their
well-being, might also be a savior of some sort. A primi
tive culture such as theirs, steeped in superstition and
not very far removed from the traditions of their ancient
ancestors, makes plausible the possibility that a "special"
child may have been sent by the powers that be to test
their faith. Thus, they are torn between the inclination
to destroy what is hateful and perilous, and the instinct to preserve what might be sacred,1
Several anxious days pass during which the boy is
subjected to further ridicule and maltreatment. Then
Olga the Wise One, much respected in the community, arrives
and inspects the boy. She "buys" him and takes him away
to her dugout, "full of piles of dried grasses, leaves,
and shrubs, small oddly shaped colored stones, frogs,
moles, and pots of wriggling lizards and worms. In the
center of the hut burned a fire, over which cauldrons were
kosinski argues this point at some length in Notes of the Author (pages 21-25).
48
suspended.“ Olga is equivalent to a witch-doctor and the
boy's job is to care for her dwelling and to aid her in the
administration of "medicines." He accompanies her on visits
to the sick where he is required to stare at a wound or
some other painful spot on the patient's body. Because he
is bewitched, as Olga informs him, he can displace evil
spirits, drive away pain-causing phantoms and restore good
health. He is tremendously valuable to her and obedient to
her every wish, for these reasons they get along well.
Olga affects a mother's role, she cares for her ward
diligently. It is she who first enlightens the boy of his
mystical qualities. She calls him the Black One, for he Is
possessed by an evil spirit of whose presence he is unaware.
With it he can cast spells, good or bad. But the boy is
innocent of his strengths, he employs them only at her com
mand. Nonetheless, he becomes cognizant of the fact that
others believe him to hold potent forces which he might
direct upon them at will* The seed of control has been
planted in him and later he will nurture it.
The winter passes uneventfully, but warm weather
brings plague with it and the village is paralyzed. Olga
and the boy do their best to combat its dissemination, but
are ineffectual. Eventually the boy is afflicted. Olga
buries him to his neck in a remote clearing where, "like
an abandoned head of cabbage, I became part of the great
field." She brings him cool drinks periodically "which
49
seemed to drain right through my body into the earth." As
night falls he feels "as though I were a plant straining
toward the sun • . • that my head had acquired a life of
its own," and he imagines insect armies scurrying to build
nests in his hair and to "eat out my thoughts, one after
another, until I would become as empty as the shell of a
pumpkin. ..." With morning, a flock of ravens alights
nearby and begin to stalk the hapless boy. He tries to cry
out but, so much a part of the earth now, his voice "seeped
back into the soil without reaching the hut where Olga lay."
The birds grow more daring, unfrightened by the boy’s
shouts, and begin pecking at his head. Drawn of energy and
steadily losing consciousness, he hallucinates» "I was
myself now a bird. I was trying to free my chilled wings
from the earth. Stretching ray limbs, I joined the flock of
ravens." Olga liberates him shortly afterward and he
regains his health.
The incident is significant on at least two counts.
The child is disposed to identify closely with the natural
world—he fuses with the earth, "becomes" a plant, then a
bird. He regards himself as an amorphous entity which can
take any shape. Commensurate with this protean spirit is
the lack of self-identity» the boy does not know what or
who he is and as a result molds himself into whatever form
he believes will best meet the situation. Without an
awareness of his human potential or its limits, he readily
accepts that role, animal or vegetable, which he presumes
will elicit the least amount of hostility from his assail
ants. In his subsequent adventures the boy will continue to
alter his being for purposes of survival until he reaches a
point when he no longer needs anything or anyone to sustain
himself. Conscious of his own nature and confident of his
inherent endowments, he will forge his way as an independent
fully realized personality.
The raven scene offers yet another view of a painted
bird. Like the pigeon among Marta's chickens and like Olga'
precious black hen (a rare fowl hungrily watched by an
albino cat), the boy is chosen as victim. His coloration
and his presence in alien territory mark him an outcast.
When he imagines himself a raven—one of their number and
therefore meriting acceptance—he tricks himself into believ
ing that they will admit him to the flock. As the novel
makes dolorously clear, the painted bird can never find a
haven.
Chapter two ends the way most of them do, with the
boy fleeing from malicious pursuers. This time he is the
brunt of a spiteful joke. On a riverbank some peasants
disembowel a catfish and extract its air bladder, then toss
it into the water. They grab the boy and throw him upon
it, hurling rocks as he floats downstream hugging the
flimsy bladder. He drifts for hours and miles, unable to
swim and hence leashed to the bladder and its meandering»
when it is pierced by a reed, he finds himself, luckily,
51
touching bottom. Cold and aching, severed from Olga’s safe
guarding, he seeks food and warmth.
These initial chapters do more than introduce the
protagonist and his predicament, they establish an assort
ment of patterns which are woven throughout the novel’s
course, patterns that embody Kosinski’s major themes.
Animal imagery abounds in the novel, for Kosinski
means to demonstrate the close correlation between human and
animal behavior. This is why he makes some characters
identifiable by the animals they keep—Garbos and his dog,
Lekh and his birds—and also why "human action is either2first enacted or subsequently repeated in animal images."
There are many instances of the latter, from Marta and the
snake to Rainbow’s rape of a Jewish girl, which is preceded
by the coital seizure of two dogs.
Paralleling animal with human actions is an appropri
ate means by which to illustrate the boy’s maturation.
Like an animal, he has only his instincts to guide him, and
like so many of the animals delineated in the novel, he is
an outsider, untrusted and unwanted. A "natural" child,
cut off from normal channels of socialization, he "perceives
through and learns from the same symbols as did the prehis
toric tribes—for example, animal imagery and instinctual
association with the natural.In tracing the evolution
2Notes, p. 17. 3Ibid.. p. 16.
52
of the boy’s mind Kosinski can reconstruct the development
of man’s basic tendencies. What he discovers in the child's
steady movement from innocence to "sophistication” might be
applicable to mankind’s development in general. And since
the boy's virtues are quickly supplemented by vices under
the onslaught of perverse individuals (who are themselves
"natural" in behavior), Kosinski’s prognosis is anything
but optimistic» man, in this perspective, emerges principally
as a creature limitlessly pliable and "brutalizeable."
The boy cannot control his environment nor, there
fore, his "education." He must gain whatever he can from
observing the phenomena around him and employ the knowledge
acquired thereby to contend with day-to-day existence. He
survives because he cannot do otherwise, because he is a total incarnation of the urge for self- realization and self-preservation. He possesses no ability to limit himself, or to prevent the full force of his potential from developing. Rather he is equipped only with those powers of nature and instinct which further his ability to survive.4
Survival is particularly difficult for a painted
bird, which the protagonist quite obviously is—Kosinski
stresses the point through constant repetition of the
image. Unacquainted with peasant dialect, the boy suffers
an additional burden. He cannot communicate his wants or
fears, nor can he talk his way out of trouble» consequently,
he is further dissociated from the community. In lieu of
4Ibid., p. 16.
53
speech, he rests entirely upon actions, but these are fre
quently insufficient for his purposes or else they are mis
understood. Yet the unavailability of language does furnish
an advantage. Since the boy is forced to act in order to
make headway in an antagonistic society, he cannot dilute
experience by verbalizing it» he must confront experience
directly, not vicariously, and in doing so he defines him
self. Actions—his and others’—literally speak louder
than words and more truthfully. His own behavior is moti
vated from within—he expresses exactly what his nature
dictates. Without the corrupting influence of language,
the boy is free to heed his conscience and cultivate his
inner being.
Again, without recourse to speech, the boy falls
back upon observation, and this he does brilliantly. His
eyes survey keenly and he records impressions minutely.
Having witnessed the miller, with whom he stayed briefly,
gouge but the ploughboy’s eyes with a spoon, the boy
wonders . . •
whether the loss of one’s sight would deprive a person also of the memory of everything that he had seen before ... I made a promise to myself to remember everything I saw» if someone should pluck out my eyes, then I would retain the memory of all that I had seen for as long as I lived.
The novel owes its graphic detail to the boy's acute per
ception and, of course, the novel's form simulates the
workings of memory, but more importantly his silent perusal
of adult conduct gives him clues as to how he should behave
&
to gain his own ends. He quickly discerns, for example,
that peasants will go to great lengths for vengeance and so
he, too, becomes vengeful: or that they have an all-consum
ing greed—the boy averts certain death by luring a car
penter to buried treasure, then shoving him into a rat-
infested well.
Animal images institute and affirm the boy’s primal
qualities and his relationship to nature, but natural
imagery is equally important in connection with the meta
morphosis motif, discussed earlier in brief. As mentioned
there, metamorphosis follows two overlapping paths, one
emphasizing the boy's manner of survival, the other accentua
ting his quest (primarily unconscious) for self-identity.
From the beginning the boy senses his estrangement, but
while he must eventually formulate a sound self-concept to
combat it, he has first to surmount a succession of crises.
"I was myself now a bird," thinks the boy, having surren
dered to the attacks of ravens—he wishes to grow wings,
thereby escaping torment. As he dozes on the way to his
execution at the hands of partisans he dreams he is a
squirrel "crouching in a dark tree hole and watching with
irony the world below": he then becomes a grasshopper cap
able of leaps "across great tracts of land" to freedom.
Again, when he learns of salvation through prayer, the boy
vows to change from what he had been, "a small bug that
anyone might squash," to an "unapproachable bull."
These mental metamorphoses suggest the boy’s will
55ingness to don an appropriate mask so that he might evade
punishment. This last image particularly intimates as well
not only his adaptability but his growing self-esteem» the
progression from bird to bull indicates a strengthening of
his sense of self—his self as a powerful, generating force.
This developing sense of self is borne out by the fact that
the remaining metamorphic images are human-centered. The
transition from animal to human metaphors is evident when
the boy dreams of inventing "a fuse for the human body
which . . . would change old skin for new and alter the
color of the eyes and hair." The metaphor blends the snake-
molting image with the images of the specially-endowed man
which are to follow. "In my dreams I turned into a tall,
handsome man, fair-skinned, blue-eyed, with hair like pale
autumn leaves. I became a German officer ..." marks the
boy’s initial conception of himself as a man and underscores
his passion to be a leader rather than a victim. Just prior
to his announcement the boy had seen a German officer who
struck him as superhuman. His "polished skin," "bright
golden hair," and "pure metal eyes" made him a magnificent
being deserving of respect and obedience» "I felt like a
squashed caterpillar oozing in the dust, a creature that
could not harm anyone yet aroused loathing and disgust. In
the presence of such a resplendent being ... I was genu
inely ashamed of my appearance." If he had possession of
the magieal fuse, he might join this master race and leave
56
the ranks of the oppressed.
Although the boy does not possess the magic fuse,
he does possess marvelous Gypsy eyes which, according to
the superstitious peasants, lend him supernatural powers.
His gift makes him useful to Olga, with whom the boy's
^powers" are employed beneficially, but once the boy leaves
her he uses his eyes to inflict pain. Though no actual harm
comes to the victim of his piercing stare, the boy intends
injury» he willfully employs his eyes to inflict damage on
his persecutors (e.g. the elderly soldier who gazes dis
passionately at the bound, captive boy). Similarly, he
takes advantage of the superstitious beliefs inculcated in
him» to spring free of Garbos, who for no ostensible reason
beat him at will, the boy captures a moth with death's-head
markings which will bring a swift end to his malevolent host.
His movement from oppressed to oppressor is further
demonstrated in the increasingly violent nature of his acts.
On his own, following separation from Olga, the boy desper
ately needs a comet, an instrument without which one would
have difficulty surviving. To obtain one he strikes a shep
herd and steals his comet. Sometime afterward, surrounded
by belligerent village boys, he smashes a heavy stone into
the largest boy's face. Still later he pokes out an eye
with his skate. His actions become progressively barbarous
until, at length, he aids in the derailment of a train bear
ing many passengers. From individual encounters he moves to
5?
mass mutilation: his motivation alters from the desire to
survive to the desire for vengeance.
Self-preservation is indeed the initial stimulus for
the boy’s actions and attitudes, but as time passes that
stimulus becomes hatred. A normal, loving son at the out
set, he constantly meets cruel, deceitful, odious charac
ters whose near-inhumanity speedily wears down the boy’s
Christian virtues: his simple morals and his innocence can
not withstand the perverse influences of his peasant cap-
tors. Indifference replaces involvement. Soon after the
boy brushes with injustices, his heart begins to harden,
his humanistic inclinations decay. Having shown mercy and
sympathy for an injured horse, he helps skin the animal
moments after watching it brutally killed. A succession of
events follow wherein the boy, at first caring and compas
sionate, becomes oblivious to the destruction of the very
object of his concern. A small child thrown from a train
bearing Jewish families to death camps is regarded empa-
thetically, but when he dies the boy feels relieved because
this "intruder,’’ sought by the Nazis, posed a threat to his
own safety: after Mitka slays four villagers in retribution
for their bestial attack upon his comrades, the boy asks
that Mitka shoot a harmless dog: abiding in an orphanage at
the war’s conclusion (a fact the boy regretted since war
was his teacher), he refuses to study his mother-tongue and
falsely accuses his instructors of anti-Soviet sentiments:
58
insulted by a box-office attendant over a minor incident, he
assaults him with bricks. Ultimately, the reunion with his
parents, which should have been the most joyous occasion of
his young life, is met coldly and with disdain.
Furthermore, his only relationships that might be
called "loving" end distastefully. Ewka, young and attrac
tive, engages the boy in sex. While he excitedly attends
to her sensual desires, eagerly heeding her pleas for
kisses and caresses, she strokes him gently and whispers
fervently. But he discovers her one day in the company of
Makar, her father, and Quail, her brother, and watches with
them as she couples with a goat, lavishing upon it those
undulating motions and soft cries he had thought were
reserved only for him. His education is completed during
his stay with Labina, a sumptuous woman whose amorous pre
dilections are extended nightly to village men. Her love-
making, carried on in the boy’s presence, is wild and temp-
testuous in comparison to Ewka’s tenderness. The boy looks
upon these affairs "with disappointment and disgust."
So that’s what love was» savage as a bull prodded with a spike» brutal, smelly, sweaty. This love was like a brawl in which man and woman wrested pleasures from each other, fighting, incapable of thought, half stunned, panting, less than human.
Love, he learns, is a crude, valueless emotion which must
be avoided, for if he were to succumb "to emotions of love,
friendship, and compassion, he would immediately become
weaker and his own life would have to absorb the suffering
59
and defeats that he spared others."
Not even the church, which was once a source of good
ness and salvation to him, can inspire the boy with healthy
ideals—it, too, proves to be fraudulent. A priest who
quartered him with the sadistic Garbos tutors the boy in
Christian philosophy and informs him of special prayers that
can gain him "days of indulgence." Anxious to acquire such
favor and believing that armed with a quantity of indul
gences he could escape Garbos’ torture, the boy prays
assiduously. But to no avail. On Corpus Christi he serves
as altar boy for the mass. He does his best in this new
situation to express his devotion, yet when he drops the
heavy missal entrusted to him, he is called a Gypsy bastard
and is dragged from the church, then tossed into a pit
filled with excrement. He manages to save himself, but the
experience has caused him to lose his voice and, far more
importantly, his faith.
And so the boy, having striven to find goodness in
his fellow man, having searched for the proper mode of
behavior to suit his precarious situation and failing in
the effort, accepts the Evil Ones as his mentors and moves
to become their disciple* to do so he must "build up a
potential for hatred that would force me to action."
What mattered was that a man should consciously promote evil, find pleasure in harming others, persecuting and using the diabolical powers granted by the Evil Ones in a manner calculated to cause as much misery and suffering around him as possible.
Only those with a sufficiently powerful passion for hatred, greed, revenge, or torture to obtain
60
some objective seemed to make a good bargain with the powers of Evil. Others, confused, uncertain of their aim, lost between curses and prayers, the tavern and the church, struggled through life alone, without help from either God or the Devil.
So far I had been one of those. I felt annoyed with myself for not having understood sooner the real rules of this world. The Evil Ones surely picked only those who had already displayed a sufficient supply of inner hatred and maliciousness.
The transfer from passive receptor of fate to active agent
of wickedness is relatively easy. Over the years he had
suffered greatly in the clutches of unscrupulous men and
women whose only service was to add their names to a list
of tyrants and imposters.
How many times had I dreamed of the time when I would be strong enough to return, set their settlements on fire, poison their children and cattle, lure them into deadly swamps. In a sense I had
; already been recruited by the powers of Evil and had made a pact with them. What I needed now was their assistance for spreading evil.
The way had been prepared: "To train me in hatred they
had first separated me from my parents, then taken away
Marta and Olga, delivered me into the hands of the car
penter, robbed me of my speech, then given Ewka to the
he-goat."
Now I would join those who were helped by the Evil Ones. I had not yet made any real contribution to their work, but in time I could become as prominent as any of the leading Germans. I could expect distinction and prizes, as well as additional powers enabling me to destroy others in the subtlest ways. People who had contact with me would likewise become infected with evil. They would carry on the task of destruction, and every one of their successes would earn new powers for me.
61
In the months to come the boy's faith in evil is con
firmed. First he witnesses the strength of the Kalmuks,
who are dark like himself—like them, he can be the object
of fear. Then he meets Gavrila who teaches him individual
worth—a man determines what his life is to be» he is the
only master of his destiny. From Mitka the Cuckoo he
learns the concept of individual justice—a man must take
upon himself the duties of both judge and jury to preserve
his honor or to correct an injustice to his friends. And
in the Silent One he recognizes the power of the man who
decides "the fate of many people whom one did not even
know . . . ."
By adapting their traits to his own character, the
boy changes radically. In the beginning he was a passive,
helpless victim who escaped death because he was a useful
"tool," but during the course of six years he becomes
increasingly cognizant of the outsider he is and conse
quently cultivates a truculent independence. His exile
teaches him the heartless ways of the world and he learns
not only how to survive in that world but how to conquer it.
He discovers what it is to be a man and discovers as well
that a man is essentially alone.
Every one of us stood alone, and the sooner a man realized that all Gavrilas, Mitkas, and Silent Ones were expendable, the better for him. It mattered little if one was mute» people did not understand one another anyway. They collided with or charmed one another, hugged or trampled one another, but everyone thought only of himself. His emotions, memory, and senses divided him from others as effectively as thick reeds screen the mainstream from the muddy bank.
62
It is with justification, then, that he says at the conclu
sion of his trials» "I would much prefer to be alone again,
wandering from one village to the next, from one town to
another, never knowing what might happen." In this respect
he is much like Huck Finn, who also saw mankind’s depravity
but who desired to be free of it. The boy, however, has
suffered too greatly to dismiss the immediate past» he has
survived man’s cruelty and has identified himself in rela
tion to it.. For him the pattern is set. He will become an
oppressor as the Germans and the peasants were for him» it
is his fate to inherit and to pass on the curse of hatred.
Several narrative threads have been discussed thus
far» the extensive use of animal metaphor, the metamorphosis
motif, the unrelenting progression from passive acceptance to
active aggression and its corollaries—the development of
increasingly violent behavior and the urgent need for revenge,
and the conversion of love and caring to hate and indiffer
ence. Other threads or patterns, merely hinted at above,
demand further attention.
Chief among these,; perhaps, is the procession of
"governing principles" that parade across the novel’s pages.
Soon after The Painted Bird begins the boy accepts the
wealth of peasant lore as the basis for life. There is a
superstition to regulate every habit and a fable to explain
every natural phenomenon» all one need do to exist
63
comfortably is integrate these strange beliefs and practices
and abide by them. The Christian Church intervenes, how
ever, and the boy is re-introduced to God and his mysteri
ous ways. Especially enlightening are the "days of indul
gence" one is granted when he prays? the more he prays, the
better his life will be, while fewer prayers meant greater
hardships.
Suddenly the ruling pattern of the world was revealed to me with beautiful clarity. I understood why some people were strong and others weak, some free and others enslaved, some rich and some poor, some well and others sick.
The Corpus Christi incident burst this bubble. One miscue
and the church patrons, so devoutly Christian, leave him
to wallow in filth. "Some greater force," he thinks,
"with which I had not yet managed to communicate, commanded
my destiny. I began to doubt that it could be God or one
of His saints."
For a time, Ewka's attentions take precedence and
the boy’s love for her seems to be the panacea he has
sought. With Ewka he feels a pervading sense of calm and
fulfillment: he is at peace with the world, turning his
thoughts only upon her to the exclusion of calamities. Her
sexual engagement with the he-goat shatters this tranquil
ity and once again the somber reality of a base, absurd,
deceitful universe is obvious to him. His reaction is
predictable—unable to see purpose in goodness, he welcomes
the Evil Ones who alone offer some meaning, some direction
6b
to existence.
Not long after his first sexual escapade with Ewka
the boy imagines himself a German officer because the one
he had met impressed him as rightfully supreme, somehow
superhuman.
In a world of men with harrowed faces, with smashed eyes, bloody, bruised and disfigured limbs, among the fetid, broken human bodies of which I had already seen so many, he seemed an example of neat perfection that could not be sullied. . . •Every movement of his body seemed propelled by some tremendous internal force. The granite sound of his language was ideally suited to order the death of inferior, forlorn creatures.
So awe-struck is he by the majesty of this officer that the
boy gladly yields his fate to him no matter what his deci
sion» god-like, he could do no wrong and the boy gracefully
submits to him. It is his coloration which gives the SS
officer his power» small wonder that the German race—immacu
late, precise, "beautiful"—was bending "black fleas"
like himself to their knees. Yet when the rapacious,
swarthy Kalmuks ravage a village where the boy resides, he
feels proud of the blackness he shares with them. The
Kalmuks are ferocious, untamed, and feared, their dark
color is in keeping with the destruction they wrought, and
the boy is pleased that these stygian souls wield such
formidable power. His pleasure is short-lived, however,
for the horsemen are vulgar, merciless nomads bent on
senseless murder and pillage. Sickened and frightened by
the scene of slaughter before him, he hides in the bush.
65
Now I understood everything. I realized why God would not listen to my prayers, why I was hung on a hook, why Garbos beat me, why I lost ray speech. I was black. My hair and eyes were as black as these Kalmuks•. Evidently I belonged with them in another world. There could be no mercy for such as me.Some dreadful devil had sentenced me to have black hair and eyes in common with this horde of savages.
The black ones, of which he was a member, were indeed to be
despised for their horrible acts and deserved condemnation.
Fate had made the boy destined to be hated» God meant to
punish him by holding love and security beyond his reach.
Evil predominates in his character until he is
tutored by Gavrila in the mechanics of socialism. There; he
learns of yet another order to the world that has nothing
to do with God (who was invented by "cunning priests . . .
so they could trick stupid, superstitious people") or
demons of any sort. Natural order stemmed from individuals
who, through an awareness of their in-born proclivities,
"determined the course of their lives and were the only
masters of their destinies." All supernatural creations,
including God and the Evil Ones, are cast aside leaving the
Self as sole arbiter of personal fortune. Unhappily, there
is a hitch to this argument which the boy soon surmises.
Gavrila explains that from time to time a great man appears
who knows the wants of his comrades and who leads them
accordingly to their goals. Such a man is Stalin, a wise
and gifted leader to whom the masses owe allegiance because
he can devine the proper path of mankind. Aiding in this
cause are Party members, a select number who understand
66
history and its ultimate intention. Together they define
each man’s orbit, the bearing best suited to him and his
fellows. ,
In the Soviet world a man was rated according to others’ opinion of him, not according to his own.Only the group, which they called "the collective," was qualified to determine a man’s worth and importance ... He himself became the conglomerate of everything others said about him ...
At every moment he was measured by yardsticks of professional proficiency, family origin, collective or Party success, and compared with other men who might replace him at any time or who might be replaced by him. The Party looked at a man simultaneously through lenses of different focus, but unvarying precision: no one knew what final image would emerge.
It is this multi-complex system of checks and cross
checks, this maze of "human aspirations and expectations,"
that worries the boy, for he is uncertain of his inner
core and cannot be sure, therefore, of his acceptance in
such a scheme. He cannot know what the "others" will see
in him and he seems to have no means of being what he thinks
the Party would like him to be. Having no choices, not
deciding for oneself what one will become, being judged and
"graded" by men who may have no knowledge of one’s self—
these factors of the communist system upset the boy even as
he faithfully assimilates Gavrila’s lessons. Eminent in
the boy’s mind is the perception, fostered during countless
trials, that a man must face life essentially alone, depend
ing solely upon his own wiles and physical prowess, and
that no one but him can fashion his character or delimit
his worth.
6l
Mitka "the Cuckoo," by word and example, drives home
the latter point. Though he is loyal to the Party and sub
ject to its regulations, he maintains a strong sense of
his individuality. To Mitka, every real man contains
within himself a judge and jury which metes out justice to
those who offend him. Because a man "lives mainly with
himself," he must do whatever is necessary "to preserve his
own image of himself." So it is that Mitka, deeply hurt
and angered by his personal loss, wreaks his vengeance upon
the villagers who slayed his good friends, and thus regains
peace with himself. The boy shares Mitka*s experience and
discovers through it that there is an alternative to the
communal "way" to success, an individual can act separate
from his fellow men and still reach the heights—"a differ
ent summit, apart from the march of the working masses,"
Where Gavrila put emphasis on the group and the
individual’s obligation to merge his identity with it,
Mitka accents a man’s self-image as the key to existence.
Self-respect and a healthy notion of one’s worth are essen
tial to survive, without them one might give way to external
forces, lose grasp of some meaning in life. Although the
boy sincerely wants to take Gavrila's words to heart, it is
Mitka’s words which affect him more potently. As the novel
draws to a close, the boy attains complete control of him
self and is cognizant of his uniqueness as an individual.
He will become a part of the socialist system surrounding him,
68
the epilogue discloses, but having tasted freedom, he will
eventually need to escape and define himself once more.
The concept of freedom is developed carefully and
simultaneously with the boy’s discovery of "ruling prin
ciples." At the novel’s outset he is relatively unencum
bered, in part because his senses are not yet corrupted,
but also because Marta and Olga protect him from adversity.
His childish nature is open to the wonders of field and
forest, which he explores with relish. This communion with
his natural surroundings is an on-going process interrupted
only by the incursion of those brutish neighbors who wish
him ill. Whenever he is unbothered by such exigencies, he
partakes whole-heartedly of nature’s marvels and feels at
one with them. Like the flora and fauna he inspects daily,
he regards himself a free spirit destined to grow unmolested.
His fate is otherwise, however, for he is set upon
by egregious characters soon after leaving Olga. Macabre
interludes with the miller and the carpenter are capped
with his capture by a German patrol. He is sentenced to die,
but the soldier who leads him to a remote area where the
execution is to take place lays his rifle aside and allows
the boy to run. In the winter months that follow the boy
enjoys the greatest freedom allotted him during his six
year exile. Since no one can afford to house him in the
bleak, leaden winter season, he roams the countryside alone,
warmed by his comet in which he bakes potatoes and scraps
69
of food, sleeping in burrows fashioned in snow drifts. Food
is easy to come by because it is stored in barns or sheds
some distance from the family dwellings themselves and is
thus accessible under cover of night. Even by day the boy
is safe since bitter cold and deep snows preclude attack
from man or dog.
These few months of liberty are the boy’s happiest.
He will look back upon them—and, in fact, upon the entire
duration of his odyssey—as his finest, freest moments.
Reunited with his parents subsequent to numerous trials, he
fondly recalls the freedom he had while wandering from vil
lage to village. Facing an imminent, unlonged-for return
to "civilization," he reflects:
My world was becoming cramped like an attic on a peasant’s shed. At all times a man risked falling into the snares of those who hated and wanted to persecute him, or into the arms of those who loved and wished to protect him.
Either is bad, for both make demands and consequently curb
freedom. Yet the boy had mastered the fickleness or
ferocity of peasant, partisan, and Nazi alike and knew how
to endure them. A "normal" world dealt with under the aus
pices of parents, however, is totally foreign.
I could not readily accept the idea of suddenly becoming someone’s real son, of being caressed and cared for, of having to obey people ... a boy of my age should be free from any compulsion. He should be able to choose for himself the people whom he wished to follow and learn from. Yet I could not decide to run away . . . some inner force restrained me and forbade me to fly off. I suddenly felt like Lekh’s painted bird, which some instinctive force was pulling toward his kind.
70
It would seem that only now does the boy recognize
his role as a painted bird. Ironically, he had passed
nearly unscathed through an inferno and emerged apparently
unconscious of that role. On the other hand, this lack of
awareness is understandable when seen from the boy’s point
of view. Was he not at liberty to make choices? Had he
not existed independently for long stretches of time? And
didn’t Gavrila, Mitka, and The Silent One reinforce his
individual streak? The boy had survived largely on his own
and as a result of his cunning, a fact he did not share
with thousands of other orphaned children. Small wonder
that he saw himself as a distinct and distinctive creature,
self-reliant and unneedful of assistance from his own kind—
who were not "his kind" any longer.
Listening to his mother’s pleas and feeling trapped,
the boy remembers a wild hare Makar once caught which
seemed the esence of freedom. The hare struggled to regain
its liberty but was soon tamed. The cage door was left
open one day by a drunken Makar and the hare jumped out
toward the meadow. The boy watched, anticipating the
hare’s escape» instead, it just sat and listened to sounds
from the field. Unsuccessful in his attempts to make the
hare realize its freedom, the boy sadly understands. He
sees it hop back into its prison.
I closed the door, though it was unnecessary.He now carried the cage in himself» it bound his brain and heart and paralyzed his muscles. Freedom, which had set him apart from other resigned, drowsy
71
rabbits, left him like the wind-driven fragrance evaporating from crushed, dried clover.
Just as the hare had tasted freedom then forgotten
it when its keeper provided all life’s essentials, so the
boy sees his parents as an omen of impending confinement
wherein he will be denied full latitude. Nevertheless, he
is restored to his mother and father, and they find lodgings
in a large city. Almost immediately he takes to sleeping
by day and prowling by night, for he quickly discovers that
while the world was peaceful in daylight, "the war con
tinued at night." Darkness and the "night people" with
whom he associates—a band of thieves, murderers, and
prostitutes—are his natural element. Only at night among
these people does he feel free and at ease, it is the
situation which most closely approximates his years of
travail.
Eventually he is sent to the mountains in custody
of an -old ski instructor. There he recovers his voice when
answering a phone call from some unidentified source. The
novel ends on this note, and it is an ambiguous one. Per
haps Kosinski implies that with his new-found speech the
way is open to the boy once more for normal social develop
ment—he will learn to communicate verbally rather than
physically and thereby re-integrate himself with the
socialization process. Perhaps speech will grant the boy
an added, valuable instrument of power. Or maybe Kosinski
is simply making it possible for the boy to one day tell
72
his story—as the nameless urchin of The Painted Bird or as
the narrator of Steps.
This latter suggestion is not without promise. An
italicized epilogue published only in the original volume
continues the boy’s saga. It explains how the boy had
indeed been better off in the countryside despite his
ghastly experiences, for had he remained in the city he
would have been earmarked instantly for death. Then it
speaks of his gradual absorption into the post-war socialist
milieu, slowly losing "the feeling of isolation and defensive
ness which had previously so dominated him.”
This was not to last. Involvement in collective society became more and more forced. Coercive measures trimmed away the vestigial edges of personal freedom. Relentless supervision curtailed every individual action. This placed a double burden on the youth. During the war years his powers of self- dependence had increased enormously, and the maintenance of personal freedom had been the goal to which he had given all his intelligence and energy.
Previously, while living in the forest villages, the boy had been set apart from others by his physical dissimilarity? now, as a young man in collective society, he was set apart by differences of his way of thinking. The experiences of the war years made him unable to conform to the patterns of thought and behavior demanded by collective society. Again he was the outsider, the Painted Bird. Trapped thus in the unyielding meshes of this rigid way of life, the young man realized, paradoxically, that he had been virtually free within the forests and villages, that within the limits of his own determination and skill he could escape from situations that threatened to curtail or end his independence. In his new environment the very means of altering the circumstances were the subject of the strictest controls. The only escape from such pressure and limitation was flight, a journey across an ocean and beyond the confines of a continent where no wings could be spread. In this flight the Painted Bird again became himself.
73
The quote reads like a page from Kosinski*s unwritten
autobiography and is strikingly similar,to material from
No Third Path quoted earlier, but more relevant is the fact
that the author has here furnished a connection between The
Painted Bird and Steps. The narrator of Steps recalls epi
sodes from his childhood remarkably like those found in The
Painted Bird; he also revives memories of his adolescent
and post-adolescent years under socialist authority, his
escape to America, and his adventures in that country which
either expressed his character or helped to establish it.
All of this can be inferred from the epilogue. Therefore
it can be said, without undue risk, that The Painted Bird and Steps are of a piece,3 and furthermore that the second
novel’s protagonist is none other than the boy grown to
maturity. The fact that all of Kosinski's themes are
repeated and expanded in the second novel, and that the
tone and "vision" of both novels are identical, is added
reason to see them as one unit.
3There is a risk, of course. Kosinski’s reason(s) for eliminating the epilogue from subsequent editions is problematic. Robert Coles, in Harvard Educational Review, proposes that the epilogue is too politically oriented and that nothing in the novel prepares one for the sudden shift in subject; Kosinski, realizing this, withdrew the final section. However, it is certainly possible, in light of Kosinski*s artistic precepts, that he wanted the novels in question to be regarded separately so as to discourage autobiographical readings, or, indeed, because the characters and incidents involved in each are unique to themselves.
74
What are the themes of The Painted Bird? What does
the novel say to its readers? Most obvious is the notion
that anyone who differs from his contemporaries is singled
out and may be shirked, ridiculed, persecuted, ostracized
or even murdered depending upon the degree of different
ness. Though the novel centers upon one individual and his
uniqueness, it clearly indicates that all men are painted
birds, at least potentially so. Indisputably, that person
whose physical features or mannerisms or personal philosophy
stand out from the crowd is subject to scorn, but even the
"common" man may find himself at odds with his peers over a
political, social, or private issue and will thus become a
victim of their animosity. There always have been and
always will be aggressors, they need not be Hitlers or
Eftissolinis or Stalins, but simple men like the peasants in
this tale or like the citizens of any town or nation. At
any moment they may rise to quell an individual spirit,
suppress a minority movement, or liquidate an entire race.
Once the gesture is made the aggressors leave in the wake
of their attack a body of victims who in turn seek vengeance,
these victims dream of becoming oppressors who, in retribu
tion for past sins against them, will slay their former
oppressors. A cycle begins and it is kept alive forever by
the fires of hatred.
Surely the idea that hate is everlasting—the "gift"
of each generation to the next—is crucial to Kosinski*s
75
outlook.
... no death is granted to hate» virulent and as vital as life itself, it follows in the wake of life, and as the tail is part of the comet, so is hate a part of life itself.®
It is a gloomy outlook but one with which few thinking con
temporaries would disagree, for the world is indeed a frene
tic place which seems almost to encourage it own dissolu
tion. Embroiled in wars and disputes major or minor, nations
balance precariously above the abyss, their peoples seem
ingly oblivious to the extinction they face and foster,
interested only in the satisfaction that comes of redress.
From such a world there is no escape unless it be
into the confines of self. Kosinski*s examination of self
is a continuing process—with each publication he adds
deeper insights to this central theme—but preliminary
statements of the self’s evolution are plentiful in The
Painted Bird. That novel sets the groundwork for the
author’s future observations by establishing a context
through which the self can be analyzed. The boy at first
embodies the unformed self which, unconscious of its
strength, is subject wholly to external forces, he is
tossed about gratuitously, apparently in the grips of some
predestined, unscrupulous fate. Chance governs his actions
and his growth until he becomes aware of the potential
within him. At some point in his odyssey and after many
¿Notes, p.29.
76
fruitless attempts to locate the source or sources of power,
he recognizes those energies natural to him and begins
asserting his will. The boy discovers the meaning and
value of freedom, the behavior necessary to ensure survival,
and the knowledge of humankind that is prerequisite to both.
As the novel concludes the boy feels what Kosinski so
finely understands» that the universe is unresponsive,
destructive and unswerving in its propagation of hatred,
that violence is the order of the day, that "man is the
only perverted animal and the only one capable of perverting himself."'7
The self alone, the final outpost, the last frontier
of existence» so Kosinski views the boy and the human pre
dicament. Amidst totalitarian structures of one sort or
another freedom is abated, individuality stifled; one is
pressed into conformity under penalty of death. The dyna
mics of totalitarianism necessitates a debasement of human
ity to its lowest common denominator, thereby encouraging
man’s inhumanity to man. Ignorance and fear repress humane
instincts and collective human degradation results. What
remains is the individual—adrift, isolated.
This lost sense of community is subtly proposed,
yet in conjunction with the theme of self it is Kosinski*s
?Guy Davenport, Rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, National Review. 8 February 1966, p. 122.
77
major statement in the novel. Clearly the boy is dissoci
ated from his peasant captors, but his separateness merely
serves to point up the need for community. Just as the
boy’s interrupted communion with nature lent him a sense
of belonging, so too an acceptance by the peasantry would
have provided him a place, a secure feeling of relationship.
Such was denied him, however, and he was thrust upon his
own ingenuity: perhaps Kosinski meant the boy’s speechless
ness to symbolize his divorce from the community.
At any rate, the boy represents contemporary man
obliged to find his own way in the morass of civilization,
a civilization itself reduced to the lowest level under the
stress of war and international tension. Without recourse
to cultural norms, driven instead to a point far distant
from mutual relatedness, the boy must become a world unto
himself. In his attempts to meet with the situation he is
transformed into a moral abstraction, one whose experiences
denote the moral dilemma common to twentieth century man
kind. Through his eyes is seen the wasteland in all its
ugliness and sterility: through him we witness the complexi
ties of evil and its gradual augmentation to its fullest
dimensions: and in his story we see not the struggle between
good and evil, but the victory evil has already won.
The Painted Bird is not simply a collection of
bizarre tales: it is a vision.
The book is not literal, but it is almost all literal incidents, shown in a way not literal, improved, cut-up, fitted into a pattern. I have
78
used the stones of my life to build a new wall. I took the literal and turned it into something symbolic. 8
Grotesque characters and events are the objects and instru
ments of that vision. Together they form a none-too-optira-
istic picture of modern man made all the more horrible
because it is based largely on real experience. That
"reality" has been transfigured by imagination to produce
a dark, forboding message: that without some sense of being
(self) and belonging (community), one cannot expect to sur
vive or, at least, to live happily ever after.
There is no happy ending to the novel. Its hero
has been warped. He has lived an inverted fairytale wherein
the witches and goblins and monsters survive to haunt the
future. What will happen to this boy and others like him?
How will he meet life from this point forward? What ele
ments of his personality will dominate? Steps provides
an answer in the person of yet another nameless self.
oDick Schaap, Rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy
Kosinski, New York Herald Tribune Book Week. 14 Nov. 1965, P. 6.
CHAPTER lili STEPS
"Steps is a fiction reflecting the chaos and moral disarray of Twentieth Century Europe, a work which shows the terrify ing violence always present beneath the crust of civilization. The distinction of the book is that it deals with disorder through a literary structure that is fiercely ordered, the indiscipline of modern experience through the craft of serious discipline. Mr, Kosinski has been a resident of the United States for little more than a decade, but he is already close to being a master of English prosei he writes with brilliant lucidity and vividness. At a time when our culture is plagued with exhibitionism and wanton display, Mr. Kosinski recalls the tradition of high art as a mode of imaginative order."
—Citation of the Judges National Book Award
80
Kosinski’s second novel, Steps, presents two enormous
challenges. Its form, if not altogether unique, at least
ranks among the most experimental since Joyce's Ulysses, and
its narrator certainly rates comparison to the most complex,
elusive fictive creations in contemporary literature. Com
pounding the problem of analysis is the peculiar relation
ship between the narrator and the fictional structure from
which he emerges.
While The Painted Bird followed a chronological
order, identified its characters by name (except for the
boy), and traced a plot to its conclusion, Steps offers no
such comforts» it is plotless, placeless, timeless. Yet
by accepting the invitation to traverse its labyrinthine
course, not only do we explore the depths of the narrator’s
character and glimpse a modern dilemma through his eyes,
but—and this is the novel's chief attraction, its special
fascination—we discover ourselves, particularly those por
tions of our selves which we would most like to suppress or
deny. Steps is disturbing for this reason as much as it is
for the gruesome events it catalogs. Despite the grotesque
qualities of the novel’s episodes, a reader finds himself
drawn to them, susceptible to their implications even though
repulsed by them. It is precisely this tension between the
reader and the book, between the novel's "intimacy" and the
reader’s rejection of it, that constitutes the conflict in
81
Steps, for the story-line, if it can he called such, is
otherwise lacking in conventional conflict. The predator/
prey relationship predominant in The Painted Bird is here
transformed into the struggle between reader and printed
page; at every turn the reader is literally dared to con
tinue or else to step out of the narrative—he is the
novel's victim.
Given the reader's experiences (in daily life they constitute the reader's armor in any encounter with a stranger), the reader may perceive the work in a form of his own devising, automatically filling in its intentionally loose construction with his own formulated experiences and fantasies. The reader's gain in each incident of Steps is the result of his own sifting through and refining of much of the novel's imagery. The reader leaves each episode with a hint or recognition, an intimation—no more.l
Thus the reader becomes part of the creative process; it is
his task, if he accepts it, to determine whatever meaning
the novel possesses, or more accurately, what significance
the novel's "message" has for him. He is aided in this
effort by the union of "action, memory and emotion," which
"captivate the mind and compel the reader ... to feel the
need to read on."
The notes to Steps testify to Kosinski's artistic
intentions; he has deliberately composed his fiction in a
manner which approximates our perception of reality. We
Ijerzy Kosinski, The Art of the Self» Essays & Propos Steps (New York» Scientia-Factum, 1968), p. 13.
2Ibid.. p. 14.
82
perceive reality in episodes, he explains, "in groups of
organized 'acknowledgements.Memory (the novel is largely
made up of the narrator’s memories) is a storehouse of epi
sodes which carry meaning and guide our paths when we
encounter a new situation. Modern art attempts to destroy
these conceits
... in order to create a reality of pure perception, reality before it is formed into episodes. It objects to the imposing on the present a form of the past, an episode, since it claims that original perception .precedes all forms.4
Perception is freed from the influence of the past so that
responses are always fresh, not predetermined by knowledge
gained from previous perceptions.
Consistent with this vision, the episodes in Steps
are arranged in a seemingly haphazard fashion and, moreover,
the narrator struggles to evade the impelling force of his
past upon his present so as to act instinctively. The net
result is a novel which appears to have been written "from
the inside" as though events were taking place while we
read of them rather than as incidents occuring in the past.
There is an illusion of no control, of an observer simply
watching events as they happen. A consciousness does per
vade the work, however, in the same manner as in a dream,
which is to say that there is a controlling consciousness
-^Essays, p. 16.4Ibid.
83
(the dreamer) who nonetheless acts unconsciously according
to the dictates of the self. A reader, caught in the flux,
assumes the role of wanderer just as the narrator does» he
sees what the narrator sees, and by the very nature of thec
novel’s structure, he is made conscious of how he perceives.
The burden of interpretation quite obviously rests
upon the reader’s shoulders. Kosinski proffers some aids
to interpretation, but just as many stumbling-blocks. He
hints, for example, that perhaps many narrators are involved
in his tale, or at best, that the speaker in the dialogue
sections is someone other than the main figure in the epi
sodes themselves. The convolution of plot—or rather the
absence of plot in an Aristotelian sense—is yet another
hindrance to comprehension. The rapid shift from scene to
scene, the lack of chronological order, the inconclusiveness
of many episodes, the sudden incursion of a first-person
voice, the odd juxtaposition of incidents—all of this dis
rupts one’s sense of progression, of direction, leads him
to believe he is lost in a maze of unfathomable entities.
Irving Howe, in an insightful commentary, addresses
these problems. He ponders whether or not a reader—even a
sophisticated reader—can accept an orderless fiction. The
amorphous quality of Steps is certainly provocative, but
mightn't human nature be such that it insists upon straight
^Essays, p. 18.
BOWLING GREEN STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
84
and narrow roads, symmetry, uniformity—in short, upon a
recognizable order to fiction? Is "the Aristotelian prin
ciple of sequence, accumulation, and resolution . . . just
’another’ convention," or is it rather "a principle conforming to a need of our rainds?"^
. . . stripped though the book is of ordinary personality or character and thereby of individual psychology, and indifferent as it appears to be to precise denotations of significance, Steps arouses an intense eagerness, indeed an accumulating anxiety, for the reestablishment of traditional order: that is, for.taking the panels of incident and arranging them in one’s mind as the coherent "Aristotelian" action Kosinski has declared inappropriate to his material.7
Howe concludes that a reader will not "be content to leave
each episode, let alone the entire work, ’with a tingle
of recognition, an intimation—no more,’" and that
Whatever degree of unconscious activity may go into the composition of a novel, it must be read and evaluated through a rational consciousness. No matter how recalcitrant or obscure a work may be, one must try to discover in it principles of structural order and implications of moral life.8
But how does one grasp the order and meaning of
Steps? The title itself is ambiguous: steps to what or
where? Howe writes that "steps signify some kind of
journey . • . The narrator’s journey comes to seem a
gradual stripping or destruction of social personality as
¿Irving Howe, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper’s. March 1969, p. 104.
7Ibid.
8Ibid.
85it is enforced by the pressures of social experience «9
Other reviewers have grappled with the possibilities. Hugh
Kenner suggests that "the steps trace a circle," pointing
out that the story begins and ends on a journey and that in
both the first arid final episodes the narrator abandons a
girl in favor of further travels. Every episode, he con
tinues, is a memory, and "like keys arrayed on a ring, his
/narrator’¿7 recollections imply sequence but not begin
ning." There is an inner circle as well»
His memories are what he knows, implying three categories» cruelty, ritual, restless love , . . love is restless because ritualized by cruelty; ritual is cruel because loveless; cruelty is the mode of love because the rituals confine experience.One can't say where such a process commences, and it doesn't end. One keeps moving, and there's all the earth to move around on.l°
Thus, the steps are conceived as patterned, restricted
advances leading nowhere or, at best, to the repetition of
fruitless experiences.
The implication, however, is not that these steps
are functionless, the random musings of a "lost" character.
As several critics, Howe among them, hasten to point out.
the narrator's journey is one toward self-discovery and,
simultaneously, a reflection of man's estrangement from the
world about him. Daniel Stern speaks of the American
^Howe, p. 104.
10Hugh Kenner, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 20 Oct. 19o8, p. 5.
86
author’s expanded awareness: where Hemingway, Faulkner, and
Fitzgerald were rooted in the American experience, the post-
World War II "new breed," "who have been to Auschwitz, Hiroshima: the land of zero,"^ can no longer be provincial.
Old World evils, personified in the atrocities of Nazis,
Soviets, and Japanese imperialists, have penetrated the con
sciousnesses of men, made them accomplices, albeit unwill
ingly, to mankind’s collective guilt, and have forged each
man’s potential for heinous action. Victims of prejudice,
humiliation, and slaughter cradle within their souls an
overwhelming hatred, a consuming desire for revenge, and
concurrently, an alienation so extreme that it forces them
to view their surroundings through hostile eyes. Their
venom is intact, distorting their vision:
Kosinski is telling us that something new, arbitrary and deadly is the legacy from the first half of the 20th Century to the second. He tells us, too, what we’ve suspected: that its focus has moved from the Old World to ours.
Many who had seen and suffered much at the hands of
their oppressors have migrated to the United States. These
transplanted men have memories akin to the narrator's, and
so one might safely say that the narrator speaks for per
haps millions of disenchanted, deeply troubled individuals.
As such he represents that "personality in crisis" or
^Daniel Stern, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski,Life. 6 Dec. 1948, p. 24.
8?
self-searching being who dominates contemporary writing. He
is a man who acts as he must, impulsively, not according to
social norms. Yet Kosinski's protagonist seems also cog
nizant of a self in operation» he does not know that self
completely, but he is intent upon watching it work. His
reminiscences, then, may be seen as an attempt to unfold the
layers of self developed over better than a quarter-century,
as an examination of those past influences which shaped his
character, or they may be an exercise through which the
narrator pushes his self or selves to the limit. All of
these are possibilities» it is important to note here,
simply, that the novel’s episodes can be regarded as steps
toward the discovery or potentiality of self.
In a lecture on Steps. Marc Rosenberg supports the
notion that the narrator perpetually "discovers and re
discovers his self,that he has no real self, but rather
adopts a different mask to suit each aspect of his self.
Rosenberg proposes a diamond metaphor to signify the multi
faceted nature of the narrator's being, every facet reflect
ing a perspective distinguishable from any other. This
many-sided self is correlated with the novel’s structure,
itself a conglomeration of brief tales revealing numerous
elements of the narrator's character. The multiplicity of
perspectives thus acquired are counted as steps toward and
away from the narrator's self. A cinematic effect is
^Marc Rosenberg, Lecture on Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski. Audio Cassette (Deland, Florida: Everett/Edwards, Inc., 1971)
88
achieved wherein the "camera" first scans the scene, then
moves in for a close-up, then out again.
Kosinski offers much the same rationale in The Art
of the Self: Essays a propos Steps. There he uses the
cinematic reference to explain how the novel might be seen
and felt: as in a modern motion picture, images are
flashed before the audience and these images, though inde
pendently ambiguous, take on meaning when absorbed as a
whole, the collective images produce an emotional response
antecedent to an intellectual one, Episodes or images,
themselves presented unemotionally, yield a montage which,
when viewed as an entity, elicits an emotional reaction.
Meaning stems from pattern, from repetition of images and 14the developing point of view. This organizational prin
ciple, this blend of seemingly unrelated incidents, cor
responds to.»the narrator’s means of knowing himself, to
his method of self-discovery.
Everything and the only thing that the protagonist of Steps is aware of, is his self, and that is ephemeral. He knows himself by hints, by allusions, he approaches and steps away from himself, he looks for himself in others, hoping that every new situation would bring forth a new "I."15
Undoubtedly, then, the steps of the title wind
around the narrator’s being, his odyssey is one toward
self-awareness and self-expression. He is urged "to pursue
l4Essays. pp. 15-16.
15Ibid., p. 16.
89one experience (self-exposure) after another"^ in an attempt
to lay bare his true self. Yet he has no true self. All of
his roles—he appears as archeological assistant, photog
rapher, soldier, student, deaf-mute, vagrant, businessman,
laborer—are manifestations of several legitimate selves,
each an integral part of his whole self. But no matter what
role he might be acting out at a given moment, there exist
certain constant elements of behavior or persuasion, an
abiding attitude toward his self and other selves, and it
is this consistency which argues best for there being only
one narrator throughout the novel.
To understand Steps one must understand the narrator
as much as that is possible; to do so is to inquire after
those consistent aspects of his nature« his desire for the
unpredictable, his suppression of imagination and consequent
reverence for reality, his need to shed his past and to
dominate in every relationship, his obsession with control,
and his craving for acknowledgement of self.
Before beginning this analysis, some important
assumptions must be made« first, that the man who narrates
the episodes and who participates or observes (or both) in
them is the same figure who speaks in the intermittent
dialogue sections—there is no concrete proof of
^•^Essavs. p. 14.
90
this,yet, as noted above, the male "character(s)" appear
ing in the episodes and the dialogues exhibit remarkably
similar traitsj second, that the ’’women" in these dialogues
are one and the same woman (for the same reason), and that
she is the narrator's current mistress; third, that the
dialogues take place in the present while the episodes
entail events having occured in the past—this supposition
is substantiated by the fact that all of the episodes are
related in past tense, but the dialogues are uniformly
present tense. Perhaps the "theory" Mr. Howe propounds is
exercising its powers here; we search for a thread with
which to tie together the novel's errant parts, and, surely,
if we accept the propositions above, such a thread (threads,
actually) is found. Consider the following scheme.
The narrator has met a woman with whom he has an
affair. They speak of their relationship (in the dialogues)
and the narrator, particularly, recalls his past for her
(the episodes). What he remembers aloud has bearing on
some facet of their relationship (specific connections
between the narrator's tales and their reflection uponhis
17 In his Essays. Kosinski comments« "These fragments of conversations may be viewed simply as one more example of the protagonist's past, as his recall of verbalized intimacies. Or they may be considered another self's reactions to what the narrator said in the book. In either case they indicate why the narrator-memorist selects certain incidents from his life, and what impact he expects to achieve—or has already achieved—as a result of telling his story." (p. 19)
91
present association with this woman will be discussed later)
many of his reminiscences, for example, are sexually
oriented, which seems a propos since the two always converse
either just before or just after sexual intercourse. When
wes first meet the mistress, she has, to judge from her ques
tions and innocent comments, only recently involved herself
with the narrator, but as the novel progresses, as she
hears more and more of her lover's enthusiasms, she learns
the soiled truth about him and about the use he had made of
her. For it becomes evident that the narrator has manipu
lated her like a pawn for his own selfish purposes. In the
end, of no further value, he casts her aside.
If the novel has a plot, that is its outline. But
as Kosinski warns, there is no guarantee that this or any
other interpretation is accurate» his fiction has much to
say without imposing a definite logic to its organization.
Nevertheless, keeping this "plot" in mind will aid in draw
ing out the author's thematic statements.
As mentioned earlier, the narrator "looks for him
self in others, hoping that every new situation would bring
forth a new 'I'." "Thus," adds Kosinski, "he seeks unfore
seen situations to take the place of his predictable imagina-to
tion." Imagination is limited by one's previous experi
ences» put another way, one's experiential foundation—his
Assays. p. 16.
92
remembered past, knowledge acquired, etc.—greatly deter
mines the scope or inventiveness of one’s imagination since
one learns and "fancies" metaphorically (or by analogy).
Kosinski would say (with his protagonist) that imagination
is therefore predictable and restricted, it leaves little
room for self-expansion, for growth, for investigation of
one's potential.
A single route is open to the narrator. Because
imagination is linked with the past, he must do his utmost
to slice away that past, leaving him free to confront the
present unimpeded. His object is to establish a "priority IQof reality over imagination," Reality is now, it is what
he can see, hear, touch, it is, furthermore, his sole means
of disclosing his self (selves) as it is, for whatever he
was or might have been is no longer useful to him and is,
in fact, a hindrance to the full extension of his being.
Steps' narrator knows himself through others' reac
tions to him, another’s words and actions—his pure response
to the narrator—is the solitary guage with which the narra
tor measures his self in a given situation as well as the
self of that other. He rejects his imaginings, says Rosen- 20berg, so as to avoid the temptation to react to others
based upon what he imagines them to mean or intend by their
19Essays. p. 17.20Rosenberg. These statements are a paraphrase of
Rosenberg’s observations.
93actions. He understands the impossibility of slipping into
another's mind to determine his motives, so he confines
himself to observable phenomena. A case in point is the
meeting between a salesman and the narrator and his mistress.
While adjusting the collar of a coat the woman is trying on,
the salesman places his hand on her neck. Immediately, the
narrator removes his hand. Later, she asks him why he did
this: "He certainly didn't mean to be personal."
"I don't know what he meant and you don’t either.I was thinking about what you might be feeling when he touched you."
"To kill your thought you actually had to remove his hand from my neck?"
"Yes."
The narrator refuses to assume the salesman's intentions»
instead, he acts in a manner that stifles his temptation
to discover either the salesman's or his mistress's feelings.
Endeavors to quell imagination are sometimes success
ful, sometimes not. In one episode, the narrator is
approached by a man who offers to introduce him to show
girls for an evening's entertainment. He agrees and visits
the man's home for the appointed assignation. He finds,
however, that his eagerly anticipated tryst is nothing more
than a room covered "with hundreds of photographs of the
same woman, all apparently taken throughout her stage career."
No reality here, he cannot function sexually as his host had
obviously hoped.
More often, imagination surfaces to interfere with
or displace reality altogether. While at a zoo watching a
94
much-publicized octopus consume its own tentacles (a meta
phor, perhaps, for the narrator's obsession with self), the
narrator notices "a young woman staring at the octopus with
out any apparent reaction." He is intrigued by her, makes
advances, is invited to a gathering at her home, and
eventually arranges to meet her at a hotel.
During the next few days I thought of her constantly, recalling every moment I had spent near her. I speculated about the other men at the party, about which of them might have been her lovers, and about various situations in which she had made love. The more I meditated about her, the more concerned I became about our first encounter.
His imagination is irrepressible in this instance; he cannot
keep from visualizing her and their imminent rendezvous.
... We were both naked. There was nothing I wanted so much as to be at ease with her. But the very thought of what she might expect from me made me less aroused. It was almost as though my thinking had to subside before my body could perform.
It doesn't and he can't. The narrator proves inadequate
because he was relating to this woman through images rather
than in reality; his thoughts confounded his physical reac
tions such that only in his fantasies could he be successful.
By fantasizing earlier, the narrator had created a wall, a
barrier to free action; the images he had conceived were
beautiful and perfect, but reality could not equal that
perfection.
Later in the novel the narrator becomes enamored of
a girl working in his office. She pays him no notice, however.
95In his obsession to possess her, he plots with a friend who
is to make this girl his mistress, then force her to submit
to a stranger (the narrator) as proof of her love. The
friend succeeds, the girl falls in love, becomes "his
instrument," and is willing to engage in sex with the
stranger while blindfolded, never knowing who he might be.
When the moment arrives, the narrator gazes at the naked
body of his long sought-after paramour and realizes suddenly
"that to her I was no more than a whim of the man she loved,
a mere extension of his body, his touch, his love, his
contempt,"
I felt my craving grow as I stood over her, but the consciousness of my role prevailed over my desire to possess her. To overcome this I tried to recall those images of her which had so often aroused me in the office ....
Again the narrator's thoughts intervene and threaten to cur
tail his normal functions, his image of the girl was
fashioned in brilliant hues—he saw her as she was ideally,
a perfectly imagined creature wholly desirous—but the
reality of her nakedness and the reality of his actual rela
tionship to her is something else entirely. To forestall -
failure, he closes his eyes "to shut out her nakedness" and
to preserve his mental image of her, only thus is he able
to perform successfully. At home afterwards, he is troubled
by a split image of the girl, part of her is "the woman in
the office, clothed, indifferent," the other is "the naked
blindfolded girl, giving herself at another man's command."
96
These images at first "refused to merge," but finally he is
"unable to recall the shape or movement of her body," yet
remembers "the smallest details of her clothes." Imagina
tion has won out, reality is once more a sorry disappoint
ment.
Both episodes underscore the trap set by imagination»
it leads one to anticipate pleasures greater than can be
achieved in real situations--one behaves unnaturally as if
his actions were predetermined in a dream. But imagination
also "saves" the narrator as it did in the encounter with
his office mate. By retreating to it, he can fulfill his
objectives. Two related incidents will further illustrate
this operation of imagination,
A child during the war, the narrator "was everybody’s
victimj" the peasant folk used him repeatedly as the object
of cruel games and beat him for the fun of it. One day he
is whipped brutally by his master for a relatively minor
offense. In revenge, the child kneads "fishhooks and
crushed glass into balls of fresh bread," then feeds them to
one of his master’s children knowing she will suffer tre
mendous agony and die a slow death. As she swallowed the
round, wet balls, the boy "looked away from her face, forc
ing myself to think only of the burning of her father’s whip."
The reality of his deed was too great, too atrocious to face
squarely, in the act of murder he had to set aside the actual
moment and withdraw mentally to a previous time and place
97
when he was victim.
Toward the close of the novel the narrator sets off
to a country in the thick of revolution. Unexpectedly, he
soon finds himself behind a prisoner whom he is required to
behead.
What I was about to do was inescapable, yet so unreal that it became senseless« I had to believe I was not myself any more and that whatever happened would be imaginary. I saw myself as someone else who felt nothing, who stood calm and composed, determined enough to stiffen his arms, to grasp and raise the weapon, to cut down the obstacle in his path.
He simply imagines he is felling a tree.
Toward this prisoner and farmer’s daughter earlier
the narrator cannot be his own man. His self in these
instances will not tolerate the horror before it. Frozen
by the unspeakable evil of real actions forthcoming, immo
bilized by the actuality of what he feels compelled to do,
he turns his back on reality and flees to an imagined self
acting elsewhere at a time far removed from the present.
Imagination fails him in all these circumstances.
Much as he tries to deny it access to his consciousness, it
nearly always seeps in, a puissant force. In fact, the
narrator sometimes seems to employ his imagination deliber
ately despite his castigation of it. He fantasizes contin
ually and desires, apparently, to make his fantasies come
true, to realize them in reality. Thus he often creates
situations—creates realities—to correspond to his cerebral
inventions. When he lusted after the woman met at the zoo
98
or the girl in his office, he foresaw their future union,
pictured their wanton behavior with him, and worked fever
ishly to make his illusions real. He does the same with a
female acrobat whose astonishing flexibility gives rise to
reveries of unnatural love-makingi again, with a girl
friend whose pliant nature allows the narrator to experiment
willfully in somewhat bizarre sexual practices, all geared
to satiate his appetite for the new and unusual. In every
instance, the narrator explores his self, lured by the pos
sibility that each encounter with the unpredictable will
yield another form of his self.
Correlative to seeking out new, unpredicted experi
ences is the narrator’s wish to dominate. (One is particu
larly tempted here to see the narrator as the boy in The
Painted Bird grown to maturity. Regardless, the episode
involving the youthful narrator’s use of fishhooks in
retaliation for offenses against his person provides sub
stantial reason for the narrator’s abhorrence of victimiza
tion.) He longs for the novel, especially in intimate
affiliations, but he fears vulnerability in these matters
because it would leave him open to pain and subjugation.
A loving relationship—in which one is surely vulnerable—
necessitates a merging of selves into one self and, there
fore, the individual self loses its independence. The
narrator dreads such a predicament because, above all, he
values the autonomy of his self and protects it steadfastly.
99
Any encroachment upon his self is regarded as an attack, a
menace to his self-control. He views relationships, then,
as a conqueror might» the enemy exists to be defeated. His
arsenal consists of his past, the entire body of experiences
which have made him what he is, to be used like a bludgeon
to render his foe helpless.
From the viewpoint of the protagonist of Steps, the only truly satisfying relationship ... is one of growing domination, one in which his experience— a certain form of the past-can be projected onto the other person.21
"Until this hold is gained," Kosinski continues, "the ’prey’
maintains some superiority over the protagonist and remains his rival."* 22
Two examples will suffice to demonstrate the narra
tor’s penchant for tyranny. In an early episode the narra
tor and his girl are accosted in a park and she is raped by
several men. Their relationship changes as a result because
the narrator "couldn't think of her except as a body to
make love to»" she has been "polluted," possessed by others,
and is no longer his alone. She becomes an object and
nothing more,, as such he manipulates her, forcing one sexual
experiment upon her after another. She surrenders to his
callousness, totally submissive, and eventually takes up
drinking. Her alcoholic consumption is not discouraged since
it makes her someone different—"Now her passiveness kept me
Essays, p. 20.22Ibid
100
actively preoccupied with her." The girl has a new per
sonality under alcoholic influence and is thus a fresh chal
lenge, a being to prey upon. Ultimately, he "gives" her to
the guests at a party after she offers herself to every
available man there; her provocativeness suggests that she
is anyone's for the taking, much as she was the plaything
of those who raped her. Averse to accepting the cuckold’s
role, indisposed to admit she is not his property alone, he
abandons her with a "gracious" gesture, his self-esteem
intact.
One of the last dialogues is taken up with the narra
tor’s account of an adventure with a woman who lived in his
apartment building. The building was still under construc
tion when he moved in. On an impulse he installed micro
phones in several adjacent apartments- and listened in on
their occupants as they were filled. One woman catches his
fancy. He monitors her apartment and discovers much about
her, then begins dating her. After a while he stops seeing
and spying on her.
I felt like a scientist who has completed his study« the specimen he has observed and recorded and analyzed for such a long time has ceased to be a mystery. Now I could manipulate her« she was in love with me.
The narrator has "absorbed something essentially hers, her own past,"23 and that very past was her sole claim to
23Essays, p. 21.
101
independence» without it she is his puppet.
All of his relations with the opposite sex follow this
pattern. He is incapable of love because he cannot acknow
ledge another’s self, another's freedom to exist independent
of his influence. His mania for control dictates that he
must overpower the identity of his consort, and once he has
accomplished this feat—made her an object, an instrument
of his will—he leaves her and searches for a new conquest*
indifference has replaced challenge. He has won the battle
of selves. He has proven himself dominant.
Kosinski also explains the narrator’s movement "from
threat to conquest, from love to indifference," in terms of
the narrator’s attempts to project his past onto some
other being.
When the narrator has become so intimately involved with this woman that he has succeeded in unburdening himself and grafting his past onto her, when the relationship no longer has any valid function, then he no longer needs her, since the forms of his past and his effort to discard them were the basis of his need.
Not only is the woman no longer needed, she is also no longer wanted. She is now his past, and that he has discarded. Since his past has transferred to another being, he assumes that its cancerous action will continue in the other person.It was a necessary act because his past was crippling him, preventing him from acting fully in the present.2*
0/1.Essays, p. 21. Presumably, Kosinski is referring
mainly to the woman in the dialogues who listens while the narrator recollects his past, but the narrator's habit is extended to several other mistresses. His projections, Kosinski adds,
. . . serve also an opposite function* that of a mutual shield thrust out to prevent the admission of
102
The concept is difficult to grasp because shedding one’s
past seems impossible, no one can obliterate his past. In
this sense the narrator is doomed to fail his objective just
as he failed to efface imagination. But perhaps Kosinski
means "grafting his past" in a simpler sense—as an effort
to relieve the pressures of prior experience. The crushing
weight of a spurious past doubtlessly impedes the narrator’s
freedom, its effects might be lessened if he brings his
troubled conscience to the surface. Rehearsing events
from the past is, of course, a method of self-analysis
aimed at freeing an individual from its adverse influences,
and this may be the narrator's goal, in which case he is
at least partially successful.
Mastery of a woman entails that woman’s acknowledge
ment of the narrator’s self—an acknowledgement he insists
upon. Unacknowledged, he is powerless. The office girl
who capitulates to her lover’s "test" does not recognize
the narrator’s being, only his presence. Cognizant of this
fact, the narrator is impotent until he can visualize her
and their relationship in an ideal manner, the girl as his
mistress. Similarly, he declines sexual congress with a
woman in a cage (held prisoner by lusty peasants) not
the present and to perpetuate and intensify shared memories.
The hostility discernible in his relationships indicates an occasional recognition of the deception, of the fact that they serve solely as a defense against spontaneity of the present moment, (pp. 21-22)
103
because she is odious and demented, but because she was
incapable of acknowledging him. Again, the narrator is
disturbed by a nurse he meets while on a photographic
assignment in a rest home. She is aloof, paying him little
attention.
Her complacency irritated me. I began to resent the fact that my presence made no difference to her. ... To her, perhaps, there was nothing different or unusual about me.
Her detachment spurs him on since she is an enticement, a
potential conquest, a rival still in possession of herself.
His quest ends in calamity; she never succumbs to his amor
ous advances, but more than that, he finds her one evening
making love to "a creature with a human head, paw-like
hands, and the short, barrel-chested trunk of an ape."
On other occasions the narrator proves heedless of
another’s self. He and his mistress discuss prostitutes
in one of their dialogues.
"When you are with a prostitute, whatever she does or says is pretense; she wants your money, not you."
"Money extends my potency; without it I couldn't be what I am. ... I wouldn't be living the way I do, nor could I afford the experiences I require."
"Still, whatever a prostitute does with you she also does with others, doesn't she? Doesn't that make you jealous?"
"It doesn't concern mei the knowledge that other men have her is not disturbing in her case. So many others possess her that they do not amount to rivals. . . . Since no man is excluded from having her, she appears to be not so much a woman as a desire that all men share in common."
"But after you leave her, she isn't even aware that you exist."
"When I leave her, the awareness of what has happened leaves with me» that awareness is mine, not hers."
104
The narrator makes the prostitute an abstraction, an object
to toy with for his own gratification. She has no identity
but exists solely for his pleasure» he does not acknowledge
her being. Thus his self is permitted to function without
recognizing the prostitute's self» in this instance he
requires no acknowledgement because he considers the prosti
tute as nothing more than a concept while his self is real
and operative.
When a young man, the narrator makes love to his
high school sweetheart «dille talking on the telephone. After
he hangs up, she berates him.
It upset her, she said, that I could have an erection purely through an act of will .... she stressed the idea of spontaneity, claiming I should have a sense of wanting, of sudden desire.I told her it didn't matter, but she insisted it did, claiming that if I made a conscious decision to have an erection, it would reduce the act of making love to something very mechanical and ordinary.
The girl feels that it is not her he is making love to but
just a female. She believes he must think only of her so
that her self is acknowledged, he must be desirous and
spontaneous, acting naturally rather than in a planned,
machine-like fashion. The narrator, however, thinks differ
ently. His self is perfectly capable of acting without
recognizing her self as a specific entity.
Steps* protagonist, then, is a man completely alone,
totally wrapped within the bounds of self. His every action
and thought is directed toward self-enhancement. His past
and his imagination obstruct his wish to function liberally,
105
so he does his best to quash both, he cannot tolerate vie-
timization, so he strives to dominate, his self is supreme,
so he is not mindful of other selves. A solipcist through
and through, the narrator perpetually wages war against any
thing or anyone that might assault his self. And to pre
serve the sanctum of self, he feels driven to maintain con
trol at all times. This monomaniacal compulsion to control
is the commanding feature of his psyche.
We have witnessed numerous occasions in which the
narrator has been preoccupied with control, he has been
obsessed with manipulating others and reality itself. Two
of these occasions warrant closer inspection.
When the narrator was a boy subject to the tortures
of his peasant masters—"a target for everyone"—he brooded
over his humiliated state and sought to escape it. He
attends a child’s funeral one day and watches her parents
mourn, lost in their grief. "It became clear to me that
the peasant’s love for their children was • . . uncontrol
lable." He has discovered a means with which to strike
back against his oppressors, for by carefully observing
them he has detected a weakness—their unsubdued passion
for their children. Shortly afterward he avenges his
master’s punishment by feeding concealed fishhooks to his
daughter, knowing it will cause him the greatest anguish.
From then on I gazed boldly into my persecutor’s eyes, provoking their assault and maltreatment. I felt no pain. For each lash I received ay tormentors were condemned to pain a hundred times
106
greater than mine. Now I was no longer their victim;I had become their judge and executioner.
He identifies in uncontrollability the source of debilita
tion and resolves never to be vulnerable again.
Herein lies the origin of the narrator's perverse
reverence for control. He exercises It incessantly. It
becomes an integral part of his approach such that he is
unable to act free of its spell. He takes on the attri
butes of a scientist calmly preparing an experiment, then
watching it run its course. Like a scientist he steps back
to perceive and note, distancing himself from the object
observed, but in him this objectivity, this studious regard,
appears callous and cold, unfeeling and even cruel. There
is no emotion, no sympathy, no attempt to give of himself
except as a spectator. It is as a voyeur, as an investiga
tor, that he undertakes his dalliance with the girl in his
building whose apartment he has ’’bugged." He admits to
his mistress, in telling her this story, that the girl was
for him merely a "specimen" to be scrutinized, and when he
had had enough, he "felt like a scientist who has completed
his study."
The style employed throughout Steps approximates
that in a scientific journal and thereby accentuates the
narrator's insensitivity and rigidity. Kosinski remarks
that the novel "Is written in intentionally non-figurative
language since its narrator censors and suppresses any act
10?stemming from his imagination."2^ While the narrator is not
altogether successful in this venture, he is enough so that
his reflections hear the hard-edge of cold fact. Episode
after episode is reported concisely, matter-of-factly,
barren of any superfluous details or hints of emotion, and
even the dialogues, in which the narrator would assumedly *
be most intimate, are dry and impassive. To depict the pre
cise attitude of his central figure, to mirror his pro
tagonist's regimented character, Kosinski has himself strait
jacketed his prose.
The net result is a creature repellent to most
readers, but one must sympathize with the narrator's motives.
Given the fact of the narrator's arduous childhood and an
adolescence spent under totalitarian government, one can
understand his propensity for self-control—it is a matter
of preservation. The way to survive, he believes, is to
maintain the upper hand, and to accomplish this he must be
aggressive and controlled. He cannot afford the luxury of
repose nor the relaxation of his grip on reality, for one
lapse would leave him exposed. Instead, he has always to
be guarded, calculating.
Spontaneity is therefore anathema to the narrator,
one has no control when acting impulsively—extremes of
behavior are possible then, and one is open to defeat.
^¿Essays, p. 18,
108
Likewise, predictability renders one assailable; if one’s
actions or reactions are predictable, his opponent has an
advantage. The narrator endeavors to be unpredictable so
as to attain that advantage, and searches out the unpre
dictable experience. When he locates it (or creates it),
his instinct is to triumph over it. There is no contra
diction here. Though the narrator would appear, in his
unpredictability, to respond spontaneously to the unpre
dictable, his actions are actually governed. His ’•spontan
eity” in confronting an untried situation is itself a
reflex on the order of a Pavlovian response. There is
intention in his acts; he knows what he wants to accomplish.
A different but related contradiction does exist,
however. The narrator pursues the novel, the unusual, and
he strains to supplant his past in order to meet experi
ence afresh. Yet he is vexed by the need to restrain him
self, to exert control. His credo seems synonymous with
that proposed in the novel’s motto, an excerpt from the
Bhagavadgita»
For the uncontrolled there is no wisdom, nor for the uncontrolled is there the power of concentration; and for him without concentration there is no peace. And for the unpeaceful, how can there be happiness?
Steps refutes this philosophy. Kosinski*s intricate tale clearly demonstrates that "control can become a disease."2^
2^H. M. Harper, Jr., Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Contemporary Literature. 12 (Spring, 1971)» p. 213.
109
The narrator’s obsession rules out the chance of peace and
happiness. If he gains wisdom at all, it is in the know
ledge-obtained at the expense of others—that he has many
selves. At novel’s end he embarks on yet another adventure,
destined to repeat himself.
All that has been said thus far about the narrator’s
character may be seen in the development of his relation
ship with his mistress. The dialogues act as a sounding
board for the episodes, they parallel them in several
respects. What is spoken of in the dialogues is elucidated
in the episodes or vice versa, and they are, then, commen
taries upon one another. The narrator’s story of his one
time girl friend who is raped and who subsequently becomes
a receptacle for his sexual profligacy is followed by the
dialogue concerning his affairs with prostitutes. Three
consecutive episodes deal with the male sexual organ, they
are succeeded by a dialogue in which the mistress asks
about circumcision. In yet another dialogue the two dis
cuss an architect friend who designed a concentration camp,
■this is ensued by the marvelous tale of a cemetery care
taker who had once been held prisoner in a Nazi camp.
As recollections flow from the narrator’s memory,
his mistress espies much about his character, but for quite
a while she is unaware of his real motives for revealing so
much of himself. Their relationship carries on normally
110
until she begins to grasp her lover’s intent. Up to that
time she has made a good accounting of herself, feels con
fident of her identity and her position with respect to him.
She has not yet discerned the fact that she has given wholly
of herself while her lover has tendered only a portion of
himself, she does not see that she has lost her uniqueness,
her self, that she has been manipulated, dominated, become
an object. But the mistress gets an inkling of her actual
status when the narrator relates his chronicle of the
"apartment woman." Whatever doubts or suspicions she may
have had are brought to focus when he tells her*
It occurred to me then that if I introduced her /the woman in the apartment/ to drugs of a certain kind, and if she became addicted, she might free herself from what she had been. She might emerge as a very different woman, and though I retained possession of her, my knowledge of what she had been would have no more value. A new relationship would begin.
Her addiction might regenerate all that had become flabby and moribund in her and at the same time break down what was stiff and rigid, she would acquire new desires and new habits and liberate herself from what she thought of me, from what she felt for me. Like a polyp she would expand and develop in unpredictable directions.
It must have struck the mistress at this point that
something had run afoul in their relationship, for in the
attending dialogue she verbalizes her despair. They have
made love, but she objects afterward to his demand that
she caress herself during the act. He counters by stating
that in doing so she was more stimulated and excited, to
which she agrees.
Ill
"Then simply give yourself up to what you feel, enjoy that awareness. Lovers are not snails, they don’t have to protrude from their shells and meet each other halfway. Meet me within your own self,"
"I never thought of it as you see it, that would not come naturally to me. But you, what do you feel?"
"I want you, you alone. But beyond you and me together, I see myself in our love-making. It is this vision of myself as your lover I wish to retain and make more real."
"But you do want me for what I am, apart from you, don’t you?"
"I don’t know you apart from myself. When I am alone, when you are not here, you are no longer real, then, it’s only imagining again."
"Then, all you need me for is to provide a stage on which you can project and view yourself, and see how your discarded experiences become alive again when they affect me. Am I right? You don't want me to love you, all you want is for me to abandon myself to the dreams and fantasies which you inspire in me. All you want is to prolong this impulse, this moment."
The wish to make real his "vision," to project his
past upon her while holding his self at a distance, is
suddenly and devastatingly clear. She realizes that like
the apartment woman she has been used as a "specimen," and
furthermore that her time has run out. Yet her love for
the narrator is apparently great enough and her desire to
prolong their association strong enough, that she allows
herself to follow her predecessor’s path, in the next
dialogue, a dealer brings them drugs.
The moment is a crucial one for the narrator, too.
He has been troubled all along by the urges of a powerful
ego, a relentless, driving self. Earlier he had reached
a crisis. Having spent a quarter-century in Russia and
Eastern Europe (one surmises), he felt his life had been a
112
waste. In the strictly governed, tightly regimented environ
ment of a totalitarian state, his world had become claustro
phobic, predictable. Escape was tantamount to survival, and
so he boards a plane bound for America.
Had it been possible for me to fix the plane permanently in the sky, to defy the winds and clouds and all the forces pushing it upward and pulling it earthward, I would have willingly done so. I would have stayed in my seat with my eyes closed, all strength and passion gone, my mind as quiescent as a coat rack under a forgotten hat, and I would have remained there, timeless, unmeasured, unjudged, bothering no one, suspended forever between my past and my future.
Rosenberg rightly suggests that during this suspended
moment the narrator has a sense of pure self, of self alone,
inactive, freed from constraints of time and the judgments of others.2? It is a magic but all too transient moment,
for the self cannot be inert. There is no way to erase the
past, forestall tomorrow, or protract the immediate; destiny
awaits the narrator and he must rush to meet it. Nonethe
less, the episode exemplifies the narrator’s torment, sig
nifying especially his ambition to expunge his past self
and solicit some new self or selves in a virgin land.
He fails, of course, just as he did before. His
American experiences do not provide an ultimate self nor,
in dealing with his new country, does he behave in an
original manner. In fact he soon detects another sort of
totalitarianism in America, one which is equally stifling.
2?Rosenberg, (Lecture on Steps).
113Americans are creatures of habit, chained to the dream of
success, wealth, and power. They are greedy, materialistic,
frightened by the slightest threat to their security. Con
niving, eovetous, in constant search for the pot of gold,
convinced of the rightness of private enterprise no matter
how ruthless its means, America is no better setting for
peace and contentment than was Europe. The narrator catches
on to the dog-eat-dpg game and masters it quickly. He
repeats his past performances, most appallingly, perhaps,
in his "romance" with his mistress.
They have completed the cycle. It began when he
offered her adventure much as he did in the first episode
with a young peasant girl who was fascinated by his credit
cards and their promise. They went through the motions of
love, but those gestures were empty on his part. Now her
usefulness is at an end, she must be tossed aside.
And yet the narrator is not entirely aloof from the
situation. Immediately after the dialogue quoted is an
episode describing the narrator’s walk through a deprived
area of a city. In regarding its depraved inhabitants he
undergoes an experience similar to that on the airplane.
Far from revulsed by the black man’s sickness and poverty,
he finds himself envious of "those who lived here and seemed
so free, having nothing to regret and nothing to look for
ward to," as if suspended indefinitely. "They live
unattached," he thinks, "each of them aware only of himself."
114
If I could magically speak their language and change the shade of my skin, the shape of my skull, the texture of my hair, I would transform myself into one of them. This way I would drive away from me the image of what I once had been and what I might become, would drive away the fear of the law which I had learned, the idea of what failure meant, the yardstick of success, would banish the dream of possession, of things to be owned, used, and consumed, and the symbols of ownership—credentials, diplomas, deeds. This change would give me no other choice but to remain alive.¿8
Obviously the narrator is once again perplexed, his dilemma
is the same that existed years before. Trapped in the
whirlpool of polluting smokestacks, streams of automobiles
and highways, unending rows of carbon copy suburban homes,
harried workers, computers, and all else composing the
social complex, he yearns for a new self, but instead of
desiring that self to hang in the balance between past and
future, he imagines it lashing out to destroy its keepers.
In a bitter, vehement outpouring of his self in that
instant, he dreams of assaulting everything the city and
modern life represent—its sterility, servility, and stag
nation.
A low point, indeed. And the narrator is quite
serious. The very brief dialogue (actually, a monologue)
which proceeds directly from this vituperative passage
indicates the road he will take»
"If I could become one of them, if I could only part with my language, my manner, my belongings."
2ftNote the transformation theme here, the magic fuse in The Painted Bird.
which recalls
115
We find him next in a foreign country where he assumes the
role of a deaf-mute, later expanding it to include spastic
movements. Thus, he has abdicated language, manner, and
belongings, and is very careful to conceal his true identity
It is his way of fulfilling the zeal for anonymity, and an
attempt to metamorphose his being into one complete self.
Shrugging off the common denominators of identity—one’s
style, conduct, possessions—he believes he can create an
autonomous self. "The abandonment of linguistic expression,
Kosinski adds, "signifies his desire to rely on the power 29of gesture; his destiny is thus made and not expressed."
Words cannot define him nor can he employ them to manipulate
reality; actions will determine his fate and, in part at
least, he will be a vassal to reality’s whims.
He rapidly discovers, however, that to lack identity
altogether is hazardous. When a man is murdered in a bar
the narrator visits, he realizes he will be a prime suspect:
"There could be no explanation for my dress, my acts, or my
presence .... I would be accused of this crime, the sense
less act of a defective. My mask would trap me . . . ." He
evades arrest through a clever ploy: still in character,
he picks up "a tray of dirty coffee cups" and disappears
into the kitchen.
Not long afterward he is hired by a woman to care
2^Essays, p. 19.
116
for her apartment occasionally. On one of his visits she
leads him to the bedroom and the two make love. In this
instance, however, she is in command and uses the narrator
who is to her but an object essential for her ecstasy. It
is a reversal of the narrator’s normal practice, but because
he has no identity, no reality for her except as an instru
ment, he can only capitulate to her wild passions. The
scene is the antithesis of all those previous episodes in
which the narrator refused to acknowledge his partner's self.
His trials are not over. When he hears rumors of a
revolution in another country, he journeys to it since it
promises a novel experience—"I had never seen or been
involved in a revolution, all I had ever done was read about
them or watch them on television newsreels." The reality
of a bona fide revolution beckons him. He arrives, joins
one of the warring parties, and commences his deaf-mute
eharade once more, and once more it places him in a pre
carious position. Unable to talk his way out of an unfore
seen dilemma, he is required to assasinate a prisoner.
Though the novel continues for a page or two, our
contact with the narrator concludes here. What has happened
in the last few episodes? First, the narrator has deserted
his mistress. Their relationship traced the lines of his
previous encounters with the opposite sex. His repudiation
of, or inability to, acknowledge her self as a separate,
estimable entity, and his need to dominate and manipulate
117
her for his own selfish ends, combined to ravage their union.
Ironically, he is destined to endure the same fate at the
hands of an hysterical woman. It seems an apt finale for
one so sadistic; perhaps Kosinski meant it as a punishment
for his heartless protagonist, and perhaps we are to assume
that the narrator has been shown the error of his ways.
Certainly we are left with the impression that the narrator’s
methods have been cruel, that such fanatic self-control is
base and ruinous—this, unquestionably, is one of Steps*
major statements.
Second, we are shown (it cannot be determined whether
or not the narrator "sees") that a self cannot exist happily
in isolation, that to bar one’s self from communion with
other selves is to be forever restless, unsatisfied, in
ceaseless pursuit of something spiritual or tangible to fill
the void left by a reclusive "soul." And the quest for
one’s whole being, the limits of its possibilities, though
admirable if handled in moderation and guided by healthy
intentions, may become a sickness which affects not only
the individual but those with whom he comes in contact. The
mania for control and the frenzy with which the narrator
extends his self into many selves cause him to lose control,
to be injurious to himself and others. He is a man dis
tinct, but terribly alone in his distinction, tormented by
an obsession grown too large, haunted by memories, doomed
to wander in fruitless search for an answer which does
118
not exist.
For the narrator, control is both a reality and an
illusion. He knows the reality, he is aware of his behavior,
of his actions which seem to adhere to a script. Yet he
does not sense that he is incapable of checking his mechani
cal responses, he is apparently oblivious to the fact that
he is a slave to his obsession. Even his conscious effort
to cancel out his past is am illusion, in the final
italicized comment, his mistress taunts him,
“When I’m gone, I’ll be for you just another memory descending upon you uninvited, stirring up your thoughts, confusing your feelings. And then you’ll recognize yourself in this woman."
It is as if to say, See what you have done, what you have
made me. You cannot flit in and out of one’s life without
leaving your mark. I have absorbed you, you have become a
part of me. And I have become a part of you, eternally
and indestructably. I am a portion of your past, a reflec
tion of your being, and you shall not be rid of me. You
have not won, you have not escaped your past, but merely
added a memory, another obstacle to your course.
Surely this is one of Kosinski’s purposes in writing
Steps, to demonstrate the unfeasibility of erasing memory,
of denying all those experiences which have established
one’s self. It is simply impossible to begin anew, to wipe
clean the mind’s tablet and start from a naive self to
explore the universe. We are what our experiences have
made us.
119
The quote above reminds us, too, of another purpose
Kosinski no doubt had in mind. For its readers Steps has
had an overwhelming impact, it has become a memory not
easily forgotten, stirring our thoughts, confounding our
feelings. We see in the narrator something of ourselves
though we try to dismiss it. Perhaps it is first and fore»
most the need to unearth our "true" identities, or the often
subtle, unconscious wish to be more than we are or what we
have not yet been. Most of us can sympathize as well with
an alienated individual warped by his experience,
beleaguered by inner and outer pressures. A sensitive man
recognizes the contradictory forces at work in the con
temporary world, knows that what one was taught to believe
in is nowhere found in reality. And we also strive to
return to that kind of innocence which precedes exposure to
corruption, ugliness, bestiality, to locate some meaning in
human behavior. Finally we realize that each man’s past
influences, if not determines outright, his present, that
a bleak, traumatic past presages a twisted personality.
The narrator incorporates all of this and so he speaks to
us all, forcing us to view ourselves through his actions
and philosophy, to uncover the depths of our own selves through those fantasies he stimulates in us.^°
Yet we struggle with the book, refusing to identify
3°Katherine Jackson, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper's. Nov. 1968, p. 160.
120
with it. Its horrors are too gross, implications too
threatening. The depiction of cruelty, deceit, impersonality,
degradation, futility—these, we say, don’t apply to our
lives. They belong out there in a separate universe,
vaguely perceived, from which we are sheltered. Further
more, though such base creatures and crass acts are known
to exist, we have been so saturated with reports of them
that we are presently immune to their import. We tend to
react toward them numbly, assume it is all as it should be—
the way things are. Kosinski, who "sees his protagonist as
the sum total of Western culture, ’trauma perceived as a
normal condition,'" says that "this is how we come to terms with what oppresses us. We assume it’s normal."3^
It isn't quite, of course. Normal in the sense of
"common," yes; our world is permeated by violence and preju
dice and blasphemy. Ethics seem to have disintegrated on a
wide scale, values transformed or lost, faith diminished or
replaced by indifference. But that such chaos can be
accepted as a normal condition, the natural offspring of
mankind—this is what Kosinski asks us to consider. More
than that, he begs us first to actually see the atrocities
around us rather than to turn our backs on them.
The events in Steps, and the characters who make them happen—students, soldiers, peasants, government officials, prostitutes, workers, gangsters,
^William Kennedy, "Who Here Doesn’t Know How Good Kosinski Is?" Look. 20 April 1971» p. 12.
121
priests, city folk and villagers, citizens and outcasts—are those we know very well exist around us but shrink from recognizing for what they are. We take great pains not to see evil close to us, we do not wish to see evil in our very selves. We try as hard as we can to make evil unreal, to deny its existence in reality, in our reality, by passing it off as abstraction. But evil is real. Real and around us and not in the abstract.
Everywhere, says the narrator of this novel, evil has face, heart, voice, mind. Everywhere evil has the power to destroy love and even the willingness to risk loving. Steps is the story of the narrator’s struggle for love and of his struggle against the many terrors that beset him (and humanity), including the terror of anonymity, a reflection of what the evil experienced early in his life has done to him.One of the central problems of the novel is the narrator’s battle to pick from the confounding echo- chamber of existence the particular voice which is really his own.
Nightmares? Yes. But they are nightmares of men awake and not those of men asleep. These are the scenes of living reality that we are all too anxious to turn our eyes from, the truths that we are all too eager to deny the existence of, the horrors we rush to say could not possibly be.32
Mr. Zeldis* remarks are as apt a summary of the
novel's significance and effect as could be hoped for. One
might humbly add that Kosinski displays the extremes of
behavior to which the human species is prone under stress
either internal or external, that via the narrator human
potentiality is charted, that those values and traditions
generally left immune to criticism—the various myths of
religion, success, etc.—are here questioned, severely
challenged. Once again, the reader inherits the task of
evaluation and choice.
32Chayym Zeldis, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Book Reporter. Oct. 19o8, p. 7.
122
In the quote above, Chayym Zeldis hits upon two fac
tors deserving of amplification. He notes the "terror of
anonymity" preponderant in the narrator's consciousness.
Indeed, the narrator dreads being unacknowledged, is intoler
ant of anyone who obscures his self. Kosinski writes*
"Today, the basis of horror is often the theft of the self, the fear of having one's identity overshadowed."33 One's
only defense is to maintain control, never allowing the self
to be victimized, submerged beneath a self more potent.
Thus, the narrator’s impulse toward domination and self-
possession is explained. The violent behavior stemming
from this obsession can be justified as well if one honors
the author's definition of sin—"any act which prevents the
self from functioning freely . . "Protective agencies"
are the culprits here* religion, law, society en masse are
restrictive forces serving primarily to mold individuals,
coercing them into conformity and thereby negating their
unique personalities. Under these circumstances destruc
tiveness and perversion may be viewed as creative acts, the
single means by which one can counteract oppression, assert one’s self.35 The narrator's violation of standard moral
and social codes is therefore his way of claiming independ
ence, freedom, individuality.
3ssays, p. 29.^Ibid.. p. 22.
35ibid.
123
His attitudes are definitely "a reflection of what
the evil experienced early in his life has done to him."He is one "schooled by atrocities,"* 3^ the victim of war,
prejudice, heartlessness, totalitarianism. Small wonder
that he has shielded himself from adversity, from the very
source of adversity—his past. There should be no astonished
reaction to his habits for he is the progeny of a world gone
mad. Sanity hangs in the balance and the narrator simply
yearns to preserve his own.
The enemy is any collective that denies individuality and thereby encourages death of the self: a brutal peasantry perhaps, a totalitarian bureaucracy . . . even the cancerous accumulations of a man’s past, which might erode his ability to survive the present. The key survival words are Endure, Manipulate. The aim is subversion of the enemy.37
Abominable experiences constitute this man’s history and
that of millions like him; they are also largely our own
and we must face them. Kosinski makes it a prerequisite
to an understanding of his work.
How are we to judge the narrator? Neither he nor Kosinski pass judgment in the novel,3® so they yield us
3^Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Time. 18 Oct. 1968, p. 114.
3?Kennedy, p. 12.
3®Except in one or two instances, notably in the lengthy episode concerning the caged, demented woman.There the narrator accosts a local priest who knew of the woman’s existence and what was done to her, but who did not put an end to her brutalization. The narrator chastises this priest, pointing out his fraudulence, un-Christian conduct, and miscarriage of duty.
124
no guidelines directly and perhaps even discourage us from
the attempt. Yet just as we are impelled to find order in
the novel, so too do we seek a verdict upon its narrator
and creator. The suggestion throughout this analysis has
been that while we may sympathize with the narrator’s plight
and his efforts to overcome it, he is nonetheless a cold,
intimidating, loathsome figure, and a failure as well. But
this evaluation should be offset by another. Chayym Zeldis,
once more, speaks best for the affirmative point of view.
Kosinski shows how much of what is complacently termed "self” is actually societal, how much of it is defined and even created by profound and pervasive societal pressure. And he finds that until that fact is recognized and dealt with by a person, there is no real opportunity to discover individuality, to draw strength and sustenance from it.
In Kosinski’s society violence, brutality and perversion—potentials in the self—are in the very thick of everyday life, they are far from being the sensational rarities people are always trying to persuade themselves and others they are. His narrator comes face to face with this brutal fact and with another central issue of human destiny, the conflict between the weight of a man’s past and his wish to fashion a future out of the reach of the deadliness arid poison within that past. Will the fearsome past destroy him? Or will he find enough strength to will the future in another, better way?
And, as in The Painted Bird, the narrator is not defeated by what he sees, though what he sees is the very depths of the abyss. For one man alone and for society as a whole to really live means to admit the possibility of and to take the risk of extinction by looking into the abyss. The author of Steps knows this fact very well. As writer and thinker he takes the risk, and in doing so he achieves a triumph of the will and spirit and an act of love, an act in which is enshrined all that is transcendent in humanity.39
39Zeldis, (Steps), p. 8
125There is actually little discrepancy between Zeldis*
observations and those presented earlier. Both see Kosinski
as a genius to be applauded for his forthright inquiry into
the modern condition, and both admit that the portrait of
his nameless central character is brilliant and disturbing,
disturbing because the narrator is a soul possessed, driven
to the outer reaches of human potential. The difference
lies in Mr. Zeldis* view—implied, not stated—that the
narrator is somehow a champion, the Grail Knight in search
of Truth or Reality or Absolutes. This writer, however,
feels that Steps* protagonist is too self-absorbed, ego
tistical, and compassionless to quest for anything bene
ficial to all mankind. Rather, the credit goes entirely
to Kosinski who, despite whatever weaknesses or drawbacks
his narrator may have, is himself a seeker and a seer. He
has done us a good turn by exposing the actualities of our
planet and by asking the right philosophical questions.
Answers there may not be, but the accolades are his for
bringing us eye to eye with the quandaries which give rise
to them.
Some final comments, Marc Rosenberg remarks that
Steps is structurally and thematically a contemporary novel,
noting especially that its form is a perfect vehicle for
its content and meaning since the novel's disjointedness is
an accurate reflection of modern disorder and dissociation.
126
The cinematic technique is relatively new to fiction and its
undertaking is still a hazardous one, in the hands of a
lesser artist the juggling of time and place might be dis
astrous—a mere hodgepodge that corresponds to its creator's
mind and talents. But while reading Steps one senses the
presence of a gifted, knowledgeable craftsman in complete
command of his prose and his intentions, of a guiding
intelligence leading each reader through the barely compre
hensible distortions of self and society. A master is at
work here, that we know, and we are in awe both of his
willingness to confront the darker side of life and his
ability to make it lucid.
Patterns are seen weaving in and out of the narra
tive mosaic, these, hopefully, have been made evident. At
their center rests a subject highly relevant to our con
temporary scene—transactional relationships. Rosenberg,
again, makes much of the fact that today's psychologists
lean more and more heavily toward the definition of self
attained through that self's interrelationships—"the
individual comes into being only in relation to environment 40and to others." This mode of analysis contradicts the
Freudian approach to personality which emphasizes the study
of an internal and unobservable ego. Kosinski*s method
suggests that the individual psyche (assuming such an
4°Rosenberg, (Lecture on Steps).
127
entity exists) might be measurable quantitatively. As his
novel illustrates, the self is an extremely complex, versa
tile, ever-changing entity whose mysteries, if they are at
all explicable, exist solely as potentials that can be dis
covered only as they come into being via the self’s rela
tionships with nature and other selves.
Sex, quite evidently a hallmark of much contemporary
literature, is a mainstay of Kosinski*s fiction as well.
Several critics have sought for the roots of the author’s
preoccupation with sexual matters. Some have offered the
obvious, that sex, being a natural biological function,
must necessarily be a factor in any realistic portrayal of
life, or that because the taboos have been lifted from sex,
writers are free to revel in what they have long repressed
in their work. More to the point, however, is Stanley
Kauffmann’s intimation that for European Jews during the
war (Kosinski is Jewish) sex was often a means of survival,
if not directly in the sense that sexual competency might
gain them favor among their Nazi captors and thus prolonged
life, then in the sense that sex was the only possession
not taken from them—it was the solitary reminder that they
were, indeed, still human.As such, sexuality was proof
that one existed, had an identity. Steps’ narrator might
easily be seen as one who requires sex as an indicator of
^Stanley Kauffmann, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Republic, 2o Oct. 1968, p. 22.
128
his humanity, as conformation of his existence. Without
doubt, the acknowledgement of self he craves is predicated
upon the acknowledgement of his sexual prowess.
Daniel Stern suggests that the narrator's extravagant,
outrageous sexual performances stem from his wartime experi
ences. Those traumatic experiences alienated him from
conventional norms and he was pushed to behavioral extremes;
the turmoil of perpetual conflict instilled a belief in
and acceptance of violent action as the normal human condi
tion—". . . sexual experience becomes what the experience
of the war was, a battlefield on which is tested one's
endurance, one's imagination and perhaps most of all, one’s 42detachment from the accepted norms."
Both views have validity; each points to the narra
tor's inner compulsion to express his self outwardly. Sex
is but another instrument with which the narrator can
manipulate his victims as if in revenge for past offenses;
his wantonness is itself a manifestation of his desire to
dominate. Yet neither Stern nor Kauffmann emphasize enough
the futility of the narrator's sexual escapades. He is
repeatedly frustrated, forever unsatiated. His sexual
appetite is enormous, but his efforts to quell his hunger
leave him empty and unfulfilled. Far from bringing him
closer to his self and others, sex isolates him further;
^2Stern, (Steps), p. 24.
129
as an act of reciprocal communion, it falters and leaves him
miserable, even as a deliberately cruel act, it affords him
only temporary satisfaction.
Perhaps, on a smaller scale, Kosinski is hinting at
something which looms larger on the horizon. His narra
tor’s sexual ambivalence is allied to a condition frequently
elaborated upon in recent fictions, particularly those
authored by Americans. Many heroes of the fifties and
sixties have been similarly obsessed by sex and beset by
the same contradictions posed to Steps'narrator. The rea-
sons for this are manifold, but one of them may be that
there is something in the American experience which negates
the possibilities for wholesome, gratifying, meaningful sex.
The narrator's childhood and adolescence in Europe is doubt
less the source of his problem, but his exposure to the
American way of life did not alleviate it, in fact, he dis
covered in his new country societal pressures which rein
forced his attitudes. The Protestant ethic, the lure of
wealth, the myth of success—these and other symbols of
America propel one toward materialistic pursuits to the
denegation of compassion and love. Sex becomes an impersonal
goal, an object free of emotional strings. In this wasteland
Kosinski's protagonist roams, but he is not alone. J
43-'The Devil Tree examines more closely and fully the implications here. In that novel the influences of the American Dream upon one's sexual outlook is granted a central position.
130
Sexual aridity and the ramifications of self are not
themes peculiar to the twentieth century alone, but they
are the focus of much contemporary deliberation and they
are seen now in the light of current events which are unique
to this generation, Kosinski braves these themes in a
form suitable to their evocation, one that captures their
modern flavor and mirrors their complexity. Steps, then,
is undeniably a contemporary achievement thematically and
structurally, and it deserves recognition as one of the
finest examples of experimental fiction in our day.
CHAPTER IV« BEING THERE
We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless
Alasi
T. S. Eliot
132
At first glance, Being There seems a drastic depar
ture from Kosinski's initial works, yet the differences
between it and either The Painted Bird or Steps are largely
superficial. Beneath its simplistic exterior and readily
accessible surface movements lie those same intricate,
involved themes which wound throughout his earlier fiction,
seen here from a new perspective but no less tellingly.
It is a slight tale, hardly long enough to qualify
as a novel, and its structure is less that of a novel than
of a fable or parable. In essence, this third book is the
story of a young man who in one week literally drifts from
obscurity to vice presidential candidacy. His name is
Chance, a name acquired because he was born by accident to
parents who are never identified. All that is known of his
mother is that her mind was damaged and as a result, Chance,
too, is mentally defective. A wealthy recluse referred to
only as the Old Man gives Chance a room in his house and
access to the walled-in garden, but restricts him to these
quarters, not allowing him to wander outside the premises.
The wall effectively shuts out the street, and though Chance
from time to time enters the main rooms of his guardian's
home, the windows are heavily curtained, thus closing off
the real world entirely. In these cloistered confines
Chance has been since childhood sheltered from the environ
ment without his room and garden.
133
But Chance has had a color television set for several
years which he watches whenever he isn't tending flowers,
bushes, and trees. He spends hours each day watching one
program after another, having no books to read nor company
to keep beyond occasional brief conversations with the Old
Man and his maid. Everything Chance knows stems solely
from his exposure to television and to his garden. As a
consequence, whenever confronted by real experience (after
his expulsion from the Old Man’s residence) he either
retreats to the language of the garden or searches his
feeble mind for a television program which most closely
approximates his new experience, gearing his actions accord
ing to those he has seen performed by television personali
ties.
When the Old Man dies and his estate is settled,
Chance must move from the only place he has ever known, for
there are no records of his existence. He cannot prove that
he has lived all his life as a gardener in this home since
his name does not appear in the Old Man’s will, nor is
Chance's signature found on any legal documents, there is
no accounting for his presence there and no evidence what
ever of his being. Equipped with a suitcase and attired in
an expensively tailored suit from his master's wardrobe,
Chance is forced to step into actuality.
Almost immediately he is struck by a car, injuring
his leg. The driver of the limousine and the woman for whom
1>
he is chauffeur persuade Chance to accompany them to her
mansion where he can be cared for and amends might be made.
She is Elizabeth Eve Rand, called EE, wife of Benjamin Rand,
an aging, extremely wealthy, influential financier. On the
way, Chance is asked his name, he replies, "I am Chance . . .
the gardener." EE mistakenly hears "Chauncey Gardiner" and
from that point on Chance has a new name. They arrive, a
doctor administers to him, and he meets Mr. Rand, who fancies
him instantly. In their encounter Chance responds to Rand’s
complicated questions on big business affairs in the only
idiom with which he is familiar—garden terminology. His
ingenuous statements are taken at their metaphorical value
and he is assumed to be an insightful connoisseur of the
national economy. As such, he is invited to remain the
Rand’s houseguest.
Soon thereafter the President of the United States
visits them and he, too, misinterprets Chance’s innocuous
comments, seeing in Chance’s talk of plant growth and seasons
an analogy for the Gross National Product. In the vegetable
world there are droughts and poor yields, but these are
followed by fertile periods when produce is abundant, like
wise, the nation’s economy suffers intermittently, yet
always bounces back better than ever. Chance’s naive senti
ments buoy the President’s faltering spirits, he has been
under attack from critics worried about the current reces-’
sion and who have demanded positive action to counter a
135
slumping market. Buttressed by Chance's inspiration, he
delivers an optimistic speech to the Financial Institute,
borrowing Chance's garden metaphor and mentioning him by
name. The speech is a success and everyone, especially
reporters and newscasters, wonder who Chauncey Gardiner is.
He is presumed to be an advisor-in-the-know, a prominent
businessman, and "a strong candidate for one of the vacant
seats on the board of the First American Financial Corpora
tion."
A snowball effect results. Chance is swarmed upon
by a host of journalists and government officials anxious
to pick his brain. They seek to discover what secret plans
he and the President have devised to bolster the economy.
They implore him for his memoirs, beseech him to tell all
to an eager television audience, plead with him to divulge
his sources and his prophesies. Within a day's time, he is
catapulted to fame, his name on everyone's lips, his face a
front page mainstay in newspapers throughout the country,
his televised image the subject of admiring, inquisitive
millions. Soon he is courted by foreign ambassadors, pub
lishers, society women, and even by EE, who like countless
thousands of hero worshippers, has fallen in love with him.
Chance becomes an overnight celebrity as can happen
only to one captured by the media, but in the wake of his
meteoric rise floats a packet of unanswered queries. Who,
indeed, is Chauncey Gardiner? What is he and where did he
136
come from? Attempts to uncover even the most common fact of
his existence prove fruitless. He has no birth certificate,
driver’s license, bankbook, credit cards—nothing at all to
define him. Oddly, it is just this absence of personal
history that makes him the unanimous choice as the Presi
dent’s running-mate in the upcoming election. Others con
sidered for the post had to be disqualified because some
thing in their backgrounds was considered censurable, but
Chance has no discernible past and therefore couldn’t be
faulted. We leave Chance as he steps out of a grand ball
room, crowded with admirers and sycophants, into an adjoin
ing garden, he is bewildered, lost, thoughtless.
A slender plot, certainly, and its credulity is
stretched to the limits. Yet, despite Being There * s
exaggerated framework and nondescript characters, its
readers have found in it more than an idle half-hour's
fancy. Compact, suggestive, open-ended, the novel invites
a variety of interpretations, and though some of them may
border on the frivolous, each contains the germ of themes
far more profound.
Several critics see in its mythic qualities an up
dated version of Genesis, heralding the birth of a new man
and a new world—"TV man" in the electronic age. In some
respects this vision is edifying. By the countless anony
mous millions who view him on the screen, Chance is
ascribed those traits Americans hold most dear. Like
137
Beowulf, Achilles, and Aeneas before him, he embodies the
best features of his countrymen, their greatest strengths,
their finest values, their fondest hopes. Blessed with
certain natural assets—he is tall, handsome, full-voiced—
his projected image rounds him out. People see behind his
reticence a thoughtful, cautious individual, his shy facade
hides an engaging personality, his measured diction speaks
to their level and belies an erudite thinker, a philosopher-
physician who taps the nation’s pulse. They witness in
Chance the attributes which most closely define the ideal
American* he is direct, forceful, all-knowing—a leader
among men.
The irony here is superb, for Chance’s IQ, were it
known, would relegate him to an institution for the mentally
retarded. His mind is no more developed than a six-year
old’s, yet he is thought to be a genius because a populace
eager “for a hero and susceptible to media propaganda are
easily fooled. They are gullible, the brainwashed residue
from two decades of media mania. They have been trained to
see with a camera eye and with no greater intellection than
a camera possesses, what’s more, they readily accept any
thing offered them, especially if neatly packaged. Thus,
from a confused, trusting audience, super-saturated with
network persuasion, Chance emerges as a modern culture hero.
Negative aspects intoned by this irony are borne out
by alternative interpretations of Being There. Daniel
138
Stern suggests, with a touch of sarcasm, that Chance is the
Jesus of computer technology ensconced in the TV Bible,
"hailed as a saviour of hope by a desperate world.
Indeed, he is looked upon as the Messiah come to guide the
faithful out of financial doldrums. His pithy remarks—
actually the mumblings of a vacuous intellect—are seized
as inspired aphorisms and as harbingers of an affluent
heaven on earth.
In a,more serious vein, Anatole Broyard describes
the novel as an allegory equating Chance’s odyssey to
Adam’s fall.
The Old Man is God? Chance is pre-existential man. TV is his mythology. A strict and narrow life was the price he paid for sanity ana security.The lawyers, the architects of the secularized world, are the angels who expel him from paradise into "democracy." In his new life, Chance has no identification papers, no history. He is no longer the servant of God; he must start from scratch.
Elizabeth Eve "takes him home to tempt him with the for
bidden fruits of popularity and power," and so Chance’s
(Adam’s) downward arc begins. The moral«
After our first expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Kosinski suggests, we lived a mindless plant or vegetable life. Our thinking was still done for
. us by God, the Old Man. We were still fundamentally innocent. Then existential awareness, the terrible two-edged sword of selfhood, came to cleave our consciousness and threaten us with a crippling ambivalence toward our possibilities. Given a chance (or Chance), Americans do not choose ontological maturity, but conformity. Nostalgic for
■^Daniel Stern, Rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Life, 30 April 1971, p. 14.
139
our long-lost natural state, we allow ourselves to be seduced into false paradises, tricked out by technology.2
It is doubtful that Kosinski had quite so rigorous
a parallel in mind when he penned Being There, yet Broyard’s
analysis, whether or not tongue-in-cheek, has much to
recommend it. Chance is unquestionably an Adamic figure,
naive as a modern soul can be, and he falls victim to the
idiosyncrasies of our day. His origin is the garden, and
like the flowers and shrubs tended there, he grows without
any sense of purpose, unworried about phenomena larger than
himself. The garden sustains him, it is his sanctuary, the
only haven he knows, and peace is his within its bounds.
Prior to banishment, this isolated ground was Chance’s
single source of reality, the only context within which he
could function. Though the biological operations of
vegetable life remained a mystery to him, he at least/understood the natural cycle of growth and decay, and knew,
too, what sort of nourishment was necessary to protract life
Beyond this elementary knowledge, this slight contact
with real entities, Chance had little. Television advanced
a series of pleasing pictures, hypnotic in effect but hav
ing no meaning for Chance, who had no basis for comprehend
ing them. Chance saw only images on a tiny screen, they
had no more reality than dreams and passed as easily from
2Anatole Broyard, Rev, of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times. 21 April 1971, P. 45.
140
consciousness. These images soothed him, yet their sense
was lost on him, he retained only the memory of shapes and
sounds, floating on the television’s surface.
Chance was unprepared for his date with reality, but
Kosinski makes it clear that "Chauncey's” new-found
acquaintances weren’t prepared either. They, too, have
been victimized by television, newspaper headlines, and
pulp magazines. It is their ignorance and trustful nature
which has propelled Chance to implausible heights, for
their willingness to evade actuality and approve a gilded
concept of themselves has divorced them completely from
reality. Witless and insecure, from Rand and Eve to Mrs.
Franklin and the President himself, they are all lost
sheep in search of a shepherd. Media talents make Chance
accessible to the herd and he is quickly snatched up in
their haste to discover a miracle worker since only he, it
seems, can give them guidance. Kosinski aims his most
potent weapons at these incompetents, through his imbecilic
protagonist and that comic/tragic figure's preposterous
rise to eminence, he excoriates that which has become this
nation’s distinguishing feature* mindlessness. Mindless
ness and a staunch refusal to see reality for what it is.
Still, some reviewers have criticized both the
brevity and banality of the novel’s content claiming that
while Being There was diverting, it would have fared better
as a short story cleaved of verbal excesses and superfluous
141
details. Perhaps, Kosinski might well have condensed his
fiction to a three or four page parable, have made his point
and been the happier, but to do so would have been to
eliminate the marvelous ironies which permeate this work,
to cast out its nuances and its suggestibilities. It is
an absurd story, but not nearly so absurd as it might first
appear. There are beneath the wrappings a number of perti
nent observations concerning the nature of our media-
oriented culture, some undeniable truths about our habits
of mind, and a serious warning that the events recounted
in Being There, humorous and ludicrous though they appear,
may indeed be an accurate forecast of our future. The
extent to which Kosinski has gone in terms of page length
and imaginativeness is justified by the weight of his
monition. He accuses his readers of the same sort of mind
lessness depicted by his characters and cautions that unless
reality is restored to us, unless we become more aware of
ourselves and our actual environment, we may indeed allow
bona fide idiots to govern us while we obliviously sink
deeper into idiocy.
This is not to suggest that Being There is restricted
to the political forum. Kosinski is anxious about our
choice of elected officials, no doubt, but he is interested
more in the method of our choosing, and more generally, in
our perceptions of reality which inform all our choices of
every kind. He sees in this country a propensity for
142
conformity despite our flag-waving assertions of individual
ism, a mad rush to discover what’s "in" and what’s "out"
as if to console ourselves in the safety of numbers* what
the group does, so do I. There is security on the band
wagon, but the cost of boarding it is extreme. One loses j
one’s identity, one’s sense of self, in following the ! random fads and fetishes which characterize our society. (
A thoughtlessness predominates, a willing suspension of
judgment and a headless, headlong leap into dilettantism.
We are so much at the sway of Madison Avenue and network
chairmen that we do little or no thinking, instead, we give
ourselves over, beg to be led like sheep, and ask only to
be entertained. We don’t question, we absorb. We don’t
reflect, we simply catch reflections fleetingly and let
them vanish in a commercial. Tragically, we see only what
we want to see, nothing else exists.
So it is with those who view Chance. They regard
him as they would a television set or as someone appearing
in a broadcast. It isn’t him they see but an image manu
factured to satisfy their expectations. To each individual
whom Chance meets he is nothing more nor less than what
that individual wills him to be, a fabrication propagated
by wishful thinking. Tabula rasa par excellence, or as
Skrapinov calls him (believing it to be a code name),
"blank page," Chance is the unwitting receptor of everyone
else’s presumptions about him. In this sense he is the
143
clean sheet "upon which others can print whatever they suppose him to be,"* 3 but he is as well, in a related sense,
"a blank page upon which has been written the secondhand
knowledge of the world gained by TV viewing,"4 "a palimpsest upon which television writes, erases, and writes anew."3
The fantastic amount of information channeled
through the tube and the innumerable diviners of this
enlightenment combine merely to confuse the public. Under
the onslaught of fact upon fact, little attention is paid
their accuracy, nor, in the long run, their import. Over-
communication effects stupefaction, and worse, no one cares
or even realizes it. Reality has been subverted, twisted
and edited into orderly, consumable episodes; it is this '
"oddly distorted secondhand view of reality which mass
media package and sell as the real thing.
No surprise, then, that Chance is swept along on the
tide of ignorance. Devoid of character, he is nonetheless
granted qualities that could not be his simply because the
multitudinous television watchers glued to their sets day
and night assume too much. Bombarded daily with a steady
^ev, of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Time3 Literary Supplement. 11 June 1971, P. 667.
\tbid.
3Geoffrey Wolff, Rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Newsweek. 26 April 1971, p. 95A.
^Times Literary Supplement, p. 667.
144
diet of cinema kings and queens, commentators, analyzers,
fact-finders and such, they naturally suppose Mr. Gardiner
to he "one of them," a somehow gifted man who warrants
exposure to the masses. Why else would he be on television?
What other reason could exist for his being there?
Being there is the problem. Chance’s being survives
only when he is displayed on the media or while his acquain
tances react to him on the basis of his media-created image.
The "difference between ’being there’ in a video image and •living here’ in the real world"? is shadowed for those who
view Chance, they cannot separate the man from his image,
indicative of their common inability to distinguish reality
from illusion. For them, Chance is the matinee idol who
graces the late-night screen, the chiselled front-page pro
file, the handsome, mysterious stranger in their daydreams.
He is nothing if not the product of others’ imagination, an
entity nonexistent except when scrutinized by those others.
Chance himself innocently remarks on this propensity«
As long as one didn’t look at people, they did not exist. They began to exist, as on TV, when one turned one’s eyes upon them. Only then could they stay in one’s mind before being erased by new images.The same was true of him. By looking at him, others could make him be clear, could open him up and unfold him, not to be seen was to blur and to fade out.
Visual sensation is thus the sole determinant of reality, of
?Jerzy Kosinski, from a televised interview with Robert Cromie on PBS's "Book Beat," 18 June 1971.
145
existence, and Chance, sensing this, is eager to be
"created," made real, he therefore rushes to meet the world
outside his garden, to literally come into existence.
Successful in one light—Chance does attain promi
nence—he is nevertheless a fraud, an empty shell filled by
the caprices of gullible, misguided Americans. As such,
Chance’s existence is tenuous. At any moment he might dis
solve Into the void from which he came. It is this notion
of unsubstantiality, of rarefied being, to which the title
refers.
Kosinski apparently borrowed Heidegger's concept of
"dasein" ("being there") to illustrate a contemporary
dilemma he believes is solidly entrenched in this country.
"Being there" . . .
refers to the way man is "placed" in life and the world. He differs from animals and plants in being aware of himself, in having his existence at least partly under his own conscious control. But he is also ontologically insecure, Heidegger says, he is always in danger of losing his being to "das Verfallen," a falling away into the nothingness of everydayness. He can easily disappear, unless he i3 careful, into his contingencies.8
Chance beautifully embodies this idea on every count.
Kosinski begins his story by noting that
Plants were like people, they needed care to live, to survive their diseases, and to die peacefully.
Yet plants were different from people. No plant is able to think about itself or able to know itself, there is no mirror in which the plant can recognize its face, no plant can do anything intentionally, it
8Broyard, p. 45
146
cannot help growing, and its growth has no meaning, since a plant cannot reason or dream.
Chance is like a plant, and his entire world, initially, is
encompassed by the garden where he fits in well with those
of his kind. He is repeatedly compared to the vegetable
life around him« "He would be as one of them, quiet, open-
hearted in the sunshine and heavy when it rained"»
• .. the soft soil of his brain, the ground from which
all his thoughts shot up"« "his freshly pressed dark suit
fitted his body as bark covers a tree"« "He felt that the
roots of his thoughts had been suddenly yanked out of their
wet earth and thrust, tangled, into the unfriendly air."
The garden image is an apt one, too, for Chance’s limited
knowledge of passing years; he measures time in terms of
growth periods and seasons, remembers when bushes and trees
were planted and judges the time since by how much they
have grown. When Mr. Franklin, a lawyer handling the Old
Man’s-estate, questions Chance's employment at that resi
dence, Chance replies»
I have worked in the garden in back of the house all my life. As long as I can remember. I was a little boy when I began. The trees were small, and there were practically no hedges. Look at the garden now.
Parallels drawn between Chance and his garden serve
to emphasize his uniqueness. He is unlike the rest of
humanity, or at best, he exemplifies what man was in pre
mass communication days, man only slightly familiar with
his potential, uncorrupted, guided by the laws of nature.
147
But Chance finds himself in a modern setting and in it he
cannot function normally. A stranger there, unaware of
reality, his actions are circumscribed by his narrow
experience. As it happens, his homely allusions to the
garden protect him and, in fact, make more of him than he
is capable of being, yet beyond his quaint knowledge of
plants and animals Chance is well out of his depth. His
only other source of information—the television set in
his room—is insufficient to lift him above the level of
inadequacy, on the contrary, television is responsible for
his warped perceptions.
From the beginning Chance was enthralled with TV.
It fascinated him.
The set created its own light, its own color, its own time. It did not follow the law of gravity that forever bent all plants downward. Everything on TV was tangled and mixed and yet smoothed outs night and day, big and small, tough and brittle, soft and rough, hot and cold, far and near. In this colored world of television, gardening was the white cane of a blind man.
A world unto itself, brilliant and neatly organized, Chance
was drawn to its flickering images, trying to absorb the
events he saw there, which were much more varied than those
in his garden. And no matter how complex or confused, the
TV universe would straighten itself out—a magnificent,
self-sufficient, balanced world, worthy of Chance’s esteem.
He stared at it perpetually, marveling at its magic.
By changing the channel he could change himself.He could go through phases, as garden plants went through phases, but he could change as rapidly as
148
he wished by twisting the dial backward and forward.In some cases he could spread out into the screen without stopping, just as on TV people spread out into the screen. By turning the dial, Chance could bring others inside his eyelids. Thus he came to believe that it was he, Chance, and no one else, who made himself be.
Several things are particularly striking in this pas
sage. Chance's mistaken notion that he could transform him
self is an illusion stemming partly from his seeming con
trol of the viewing situation; a mere turn of the wrist and
his situation is altered. God-like, he commands the TV to
transport him, change his surroundings and his identity.
He deludes himself, feeling that he is master of his fate,
able to define himself, give himself being—an understand
able error given the fact that saturation with vicarious
experience could lead one to believe that the world was his
creation, subject to his whim. The illusion originates as
well from his belief that television images were exchange
able with his own corpus« in a later episode, Chance is
invited to appear on a television broadcast and immediately
ponders the consequences.
He wanted to see himself reduced to the size of the screen; he wanted to become an image, to dwell inside the set ....
He wondered whether a person changed before or after appearing on the screen. Would he be changed forever or only during the time of his appearance?What part of himself would he leave behind when he finished the program? Would there be two Chances after the show» one Chance who watched TV and another who appeared on it?
Chance, obviously, has a perceptual problem. He believes
the tiny creatures on his television set are real, that they
149
have actually been reduced in size to accommodate the small
screen, and he imagines he, too, will be transformed into a
diminutive human being when he steps before the cameras.
To his eye and mind physical objects and persons can be
miniaturized for television broadcasting, and furthermore
the resultant image can be made to expand or contract or
vanish altogether. Such confusion contributes greatly to
Chance’s misconception of his own powers and of the reality
behind electronic gadgetry.
Television’s influence on Chance is therefore extra
ordinary. Lacking knowledge, he submits to the unreality
which is reality to him.
He sank into the screen. Like sunlight and fresh air and mild rain, the world from outside the garden entered Chance, and Chance, like a TV image, floated into the world, buoyed up by a force he did not see and could not name.
He succumbs to television reality, identifies with it, takes
it as his own. When he switches off the set, his mind goes
as blank as the picture tube and reality dies.
The process of watching is his prime mode of engaging reality and reality exists for him only as long a3 images remain before his eyes on the screen. When the set is turned off, images die, and with them the people, places and events they represent.9
But while it casts its sounds and colors he is engrossed in
a make-believe world he assumes is real. It isn’t, however,
9 John. Aldridge, Rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review, 24 April 1971, P. 2?,
150
as Chance discovers upon leaving the Rand home. Walking on
the street he sees and hears cars, people, buildings, all
of them "images already burned into his memory," but images
only, not concrete substances. Though Chance believes he
is familiar with the tangible entities he first encounters—
"So far, everything outside the gate resembled what he had
seen on TV"—he betrays his defect, the outcome of so many
hours in front of a tiny screen—"if anything, objects and
people were bigger, yet slower, simpler and more cumber
some." The well-rehearsed, diagrammed movements and
patterned speeches of actors and actresses are not there,
men and women fumble, stop and start, gesture awkwardly,
move at random paces. Certainly their actions are not the
tailored ones of edited film, yet this is what Chance had
counted upon.
For real life, Chance thinks, follows TV life, and
so he plays it. Literally. Out among strangers and strange
places, he behaves as if a performer in a television series,
governing his conduct according to that he has witnessed in
others on various programs. When, for example, EE talks to
him about complicated family matters, he gets lost in her
words, completely befuddled, but knowing he should evidence
interest, he resorts "to repeating to her parts of her own
sentences, a practice he had observed on TV." Asked to
join the Rand’s for dinner, Chance, "deciding how to
behave , . . chose the TV program of a young businessman
151
who often dined with his boss and the boss's daughter."
Again, when required to read a letter—he cannot read or
write—Chance estimates the amount of time necessary to
accomplish the feat, remembering similar occurrences on
television.
Numerous occasions such as these arise and repeatedly
Chance retreats to network fare in order to meet them.
Most often his enactments are successful; his behavior is
even misconstrued in his favor. His quiet nature, reserve,
secretiveness, and apparent self-assurance—all the product
of his feeble mind and others' blindness—-endear him to
everyone. Indeed, he is enviedJ Yet at times Chance is
unable to elicit aid from his video background, especially
where genuine feeling is called for. He does not know, for
instance, how to register fear when the doctor prepares a
syringe to numb his wounded leg, though he searches through
"all the TV incidents in which he had seen injections being
given." Later, EE seduces him—or rather, tries to—but
her feminine wiles are insufficient to arouse Chance. He
has never experienced sexual feelings. In their encounter
he imitates the ardor of romantic lovers, but stops short
where television does—at the moment of physical love.
Since television morality precludes the display of sexual
acts, much less overt eroticism, Chance is stymied beyond
the point of kissing and petting. He doesn't know what
to do because he has no model to mimic and, devoid of true
152
emotion, whatever limited feelings he manages to educe are
counterfeit.
Chance’s reliance upon TV and his consummate belief
in the images reflected there are further demonstrated by
his attitude toward the future. He trusts that each suc
cessive moment is the right one, that somehow every event
is planned in advance, very nicely worked out to everyone’s
satisfaction—just as it is on TV. He therefore passively
awaits the next occurrence as if watching himself and his
circumstances on television. A case in point is that in
which Chance suspects he may be asked to leave the Rand
household after his leg has healed. The prospect does not
bother him.
... he knew that eventually he would have to go but that, as on TV, what would follow next was hidden, he knew the actors on the new program were unknown. He did not have to be afraid, for everything that happened had its sequel, and the best that he could do was to wait patiently for his own forthcoming appearance.
There is a scheme working itself out and Chance indifferently
watches it unfold. He waits for incidents to take place,
imagining they must do so of necessity, as part of the
"script,” himself a helpless bystander caught by surprise
in an unperceived drama manipulated by an author likewise
undisclosed,
ing something
remembers her
scene, 1« • • ♦
Thus he says to Mr. Rand, "I was just expect-
to happen when I had the accident." EE later
first impression of Chance at the accident
he did not seem surprised, his face was
153without expression, his manner calm and detached. He
behaved as if he had expected the accident, the pain, and
even her appearance."
Emotionless, without passion or natural, deep-felt
response, Chance's feelings were never fully evolved, for
he was not allowed to brave experience directly, and as a
oonsequence of his secondary acquaintance with real life,
he cannot be receptive to anyone’s entreaties or acknowledge
ments, nor can he react from the heart. Attentions paid him
are unfathomable to his weak mind except insofar as they
correspond to those paid others on television, then he may
relate to them and find appropriate means of counteraction.
Unless he locates in memory some situations parallel to
those arising from his stay with the Rands, he is impotent,
insouciant. Nothing stimulates or excites him unless it
be the anticipation of approaching events, and even these
are met with neutrality.
Television has been mother and teacher to Chance,
nurturing him on pallid images, fraudulent renditions of
actuality, false realities of every sort, and instructing
him adversely in the means with which to face the external
world. Formed but unfilled by paltry network offerings,
Chance is TV man incarnate—hollow, unthinking, unfeeling,
a will-o’-the-wisp commandeered by printed circuits. His
total being mirrors the television set even to the last
detail of speech and mannerism. Gestures are affected, in
154
imitation of what he has seen on TV, and his language pat
terns are nondescript; intensely investigated by the Soviets,
who are in a frenzy to unearth Chance’s governmental affilia
tions, he escapes detection for "it proved impossible to
determine in any way whatsoever his ethnic background or to
ascribe his accent to any single community in the entire
United States." Chance has been standardized by TV where
dialects and localisms tend to vanish into "common" American
English,
In addition, television has made Chance an observer,
the "ultimate spectator." Rather than act or react, he
simply watches. It has become his custom, the singular
behavior he has known and practiced. He enjoys staring,
mesmerized, as people flit past his view. This bent extends
to activities large and small, but is best typified in two
episodes where sex, once again, is involved. In the first,
a homosexual engages Chance at a social gathering, hoping
for an illicit, fervent tryst, but Chance, not understanding
his intentions and fearing entrapment in a situation with
which he could not cope, offers merely to watch the man per
form. "I like to watch very much," he says, and does so
in the ensuing, wildly comical scene. Later that same even
ing, EE steps into Chance’s bedroom and confers herself
upon him, making overt her desire and her willingness to
surrender propriety for his love. She caresses him,
literally accosts his flesh in her zealousness; Chance, in
155
turn, "extended his hand and let it slide over her neck and
breasts and belly," but "he did not know what else to do
and so he withdrew his hand."
He wanted to tell her how much he preferred to look at her, that only by watching could he memorize her and take her and possess her. He did not know how to explain to her that he could not touch better or more fully with his hands than he could with his eyes. Seeing encompassed all at once, a touch was limited to one spot at a time. EE should no more have wanted to be touched by him than should the TV screen have wanted it.
Again Chance offers to watch and proceeds to do so through
out EE’s autoerotic debauch.
This scene underscores the fact that, for Chance,
visual perception is everything. Vision, to him, encom-
passes all because the visual aspect of his awareness con- '
stitutes the total extent of his consciousness. The "TV j
man" is capable only of watching and obtains pleasure and
security solely through the visual act—all else is meaning
less or foreign. Chance’s eyes, therefore, are the only
truly living organs in his body. They, like TV cameras,
wish merely to record, and the images assimilated, like
those on the television screen itself, should not want to \
be touched, just viewed. The set makes no other demands, I
nor should EE or anyone else. The image alone counts, not /
the reality it reproduces. /
Obviously Chance is a queer fish, and out of water
at that. His own element, where he felt safe, found mean
ing and function, has been denied him. Adrift in a sea of
new faces and peculiar actions, he no longer has control of
156
his person. In this alien environment, Chance lives up to
his name, for him, every movement is at the mercy of fate.
He is pampered, cajoled, enticed, beseeched, constantly
manipulated by forces he cannot conceive. Ruled exclu
sively by chance, he is tossed about like a toy, risking
injury and, worse, annihilation, for should his deception
be discovered, he will certainly be condemned to obscurity,
to "everydayness." Thus, Broyard’s definition of modern
man holds true for Chance, he is uncertain, subject to
accident, in danger of "losing his being to ’das Verfallen.’"
Yet Chance is not Kosinski’s primary target except
in the prophetic vein—future Americans, he foresees, may
well become what Chance is through over-exposure to vicari-
out experience. Chance is future man brought backward to
the contemporary scene, an example of the dire consequences
of too much imagined participation and too little involve
ment in real affairs. Already his fellow men are trapped
by the media, television especially, which blurts out of
bedrooms, basements, and bars, in department stores,
restaurants, camp trailers (where people "get away from it
all"), and even automobiles. Everyone is watching, eyes
affixed to little shapes prancing about, gesticulating,
uttering sounds sometimes heard, frequently ignored. Too
many are like the Old Man’s foreign-born maid who spends
hours before the set though she doesn’t understand very
much of what is happening there—as if the set’s radiant
157light vzas its prime justification for being and its major
delight. There is something spellbinding about the fusion
of light and sound which lures them to it almost in spite
of the program’s content. Such bondage is staggering, dis
turbing, and ultimately contemptible.
Its influence is as extraordinary as its magnetism.
Television has an astounding impact upon its devotees who,
like Chance, assimilate vast quantities of half-truths or
untruths and think them legitimate. One result of this
credulity is nation-wide discomfiture, a confusion over
mixed fact, rumor, and platitude. Where is reality to be
found? Television, certainly, doesn’t proffer an answer;
indeed, it prompts more questions than solutions, estab
lishes more and more curtains between the self and reality.
One begins to "worship images, forms without content"in
lieu of real objects and people, "taking the medium’s mes
sage not as a substitute for experience, but as a versionof it."10 11 2 Kosinski believes that "people tune out reality
12when they turn on TV sets," happy to escape life’s pres
sures and content to wallow, instead, in the mire of washed-
out, hackneyed accounts of their world.
They are all too eager to bow before a pleasant image
10Barton Midwood, Rev. of Being There. by Jerzy Kosin ski» Esquire. Oct, 1971, p. 63.
^Times Literary Supplement, p. 667.
l2Jerzy Kosinski, (Interview on "Book Beat").
158
and will even go to great lengths to make an image more
wholesome. Most are "creatures who perceive life wholly in
terms of images offered them on TV and who therefore create 13personages they see on TV in the image of their hopes." J
"A person is what he appears to be and he can be made to
appear as almost anything his sponsors or public wish him to be."* 14 Chance falls into this category, he Is mechanically
fashioned to suit the requirements of a hero-hungry audience,
a total fabrication whose real character is unknown. His
actual being is not important to the myriads who view him,
nor is Chance particularly concerned about them—neither he
nor they have a reality.
The. people who watched him on their sets did not know who actually faced them, how could they, if they had never met him? Television reflected only people’s surfaces, it also kept peeling their images from their bodies until they were sucked into the caverns of their viewers* eyes, forever beyond retrieval, to disappear. Facing the cameras with their unsensing triple lenses pointed at him like snouts, Chance became only an image for millions of real people. They would never know how real he was, since his thinking could not be televised. And to him, the viewers existed only as projections of his own thought, as images. He would never know how real they were, since he had never met them and did not know what they thought.
Chance becomes a property of his viewing public, his unique
ness and independence lost because his reality has been
submerged in an image. No feeling is interchanged, no
^Aldridge, p. 26.
14Ibid.. p. 27.
159
communication effected: the entire experience is impersonal,
de-humanized. "He feeds the expectations of a people nour
ished by stock responses, condensed books, the language of
telegrams, spectator sports, shorthand and speed reading.
The audience that views Chance is stalked by illiteracy, by
the death of sensation.No one cares to delve deeper
into the reality supporting the facade, no one responds
naturally to the man within the image.
Chance's identity is defined through externals, by
accidents and circumstances. Since he has no papers nor
other means to lend himself an identity, he is free to be
whatever others* wish him to be, and that is precisely
what befalls him—on him is grafted a composite of every
thing ideal in human nature, none of it applicable to the
real Chance, who does not even have a sense of his own
self. He passively accepts his new roles, never considering
the power bestowed upon him.
But Kosinski is aware of Chance’s power. "The fatal
power of the media is to confer instant celebrity upon
anyone simply through exposure and through that celebrity
comes the ability to influence, to control the thoughts and
actions of millions .... Extend this power and you have
horror and absurdity.Here, again, is one of Kosinski’s
^Newsweek, p. 95A.
^Aldridge, p. 27.
160
major themes—the existence or threat of totalitarianism.
It was paramount in his non-fiction and lurked in the
shadows of the earlier novels; in Being There it is allotted
its fullest fictive treatment. Chance is the modern demi
god, but unlike his predecessors Hitler and Stalin, who
parlayed their strong voices, forceful natures and ambi
tious designs upon a volatile crowd, he slips into the
political foreground quite by accident, wrenched from
obscurity by an easily pacified audience. Lacking Hitler’s
fierceness and Stalin’s persuasion, he is nonetheless thrust
into prominence because he has access to a medium the others
did not and because his viewers, nurtured on commercial
tripe, are no longer able to think for themselves. Tele
vision has converted the American public to a spineless,
manipulable mass, ready victims for an electronically con
trived leader. "Chauncey Gardiner" is Kosinski’s ironic
offering here, but as the novel vigorously suggests, it
could be anyone in our contemporary milieu. Even a modest
campaign over the air waves might effortlessly elevate one
such as Chance to a position of power, and what would
happen then?
The question goes unanswered, yet Kosinski obviously
intended his readers to pursue it. His own response can
be substantially documented; in several articles Kosinski
addresses the contemporary scene in terms of predilections
currently active in this country.
161
He launches his attack on the visual media by assert
ing that they are "destroying the abstract . . . that the
culture increasingly tends to ’shift to the external,’bringing reality ’into our homes as nonreality.'"17 18 "If it
is unedited, like life," he continues, "it is not reality,1 o
it is a bore." The real event is unnerving, threatening,
and must consequently be avoided so as not to disrupt the
tranquility of vicarious experience. "The direction of
modern society is to externalize events, to make man a pas
sive spectator of his own condition, and therefore he is manipulated.”19 20 "The progress of mankind," Kosinski adds,
"is toward making the human being ’easier,’ making him a
composite of external forces, rather than a bastion of
human resources . . . ." Pushing man to define himself
according to what is outside rather than inside his self,
making him "easier" to control, is a means of rendering
him submissive as effective as that employed by Hitlerite
or communist propaganda. Man is reduced to the level of a
loyal dog, subservient, anxious to please his master. His
master in this case is subtle, television and motion pic
ture screens most often eschew the lies and corruption
l7"The Conscience of the Writer," Publishers* Weekly. 22 March 1971, P. 27.
18Ibid.
19Ibid.
20Ibid.. p, 16.
162
veiled behind everyday political and social deeds, emphasiz
ing instead the very best of collective behavior. Honesty,
trust, patriotism and the like are held out as the national
coat of arms, concealing the squalid reality beneath.
"We face a mechanized society that seeks to enforce
its own collective values" by blasting us electronically
with ideal images of ourselves, rarely asking us to doubt,
to question. The visual media rely upon their capacity to
soothe, to smooth over the rough spots: they are aided by
the fact that pictures please and call for little scrutiny
beyond the superficial.
Today, people are absorbed in the most common denominator, the visual. It requires no education to watch TV. It knows no age limit. Your infant child can watch the same program you do ... . Television is everywhere. It has the immediacy which the evocative medium of language doesn’t.Language requires some inner triggering: television doesn’t. The image is ultimately accessible, i.e,, extremely attractive. And, I think, ultimately deadly, because it turns the viewer into a bystander.Of course, that’s a situation we have always dreamt of . . . the ultimate hope of religion was that it would release us from trauma. Television actually does so. It "proves" that you can always be an observer of the tragedies of others. The fact that one day you will die in front of the live show is irrelevant—you are reminded about it no more than you are reminded about real weather existing outside the TV weather program. You’re not told to open your window and take a look: television will never say that. It says, instead, "The weather today is . . ." and so forth. The weatherman never says, "If you don’t believe me, go find out."
From way back, our major development as a race of frightened beings has been towards how to avoid *
21Peter Prescott, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Newsweek. 19 Feb. 1973, P« ¡56?
163
facing the discomfort of our existence, primarily the possibility of an accident, immediate death, ugliness, and the ultimate departure. In terms of all this, television is a very pleasing medium« one is always the observer. The life of discomfort is always accorded to others and even this is disqualified since one program immediately disqualifies the preceding one.22
"Television is my ultimate enemy,"23 24 states Kosinski.
He turned toward literature to counteract in himself what
he saw happening to others—their refusal to face life
squarely, to see the evils and ugliness there as well as
the splendor. The printed page requires involvement,
necessitates participation in the conflict with reality,
gross as it may be. A conscientious author does not shirk
the mundane, the carnal, the grotesque if he is serious in
his attempt to reach below the surface to the actuality
underneath. He engages himself and the reader in a quest
for real feeling, honest sensation« together they travel
a road that asks each to share awareness and acute percep
tion. "When you read about a man who dies, part of you
dies with him because you have to recreate his dying inside
your head." The same does not take place on television « . .
because he dies on the screen in front ofyou and at any time you can turn it off or select another program. The evocative power is torpedoed by the fact that this is smother man« your eye somehow perceives him as a visual object .... The very
22George Plimpton and R. Landesman, "Jerzy Kosinski," (Interview), Paris Review, 14 (Summer 1972), pp. 204-205.
23Ibid,. p. 205.24Ibid.
164
fact that it is happening on the screen tells the viewer two things« one, it is not about him, and two, it is not real. It is already there, it is artificial, it is about someone else.25
Thus is television’s impact on the masses. One ele
ment of those masses has evinced Kosinski*s especial con
cern—young people, particularly his students. To them he
once declared, "I am merely trying to save myself from what 26has happened to you," implying their isolation from
reality and from one another, their reliance on secondary
or group experience. During an interview on NBC’s Comment,
he was more explicit in his condemnation of youthful
"scholars"»
I am appalled by what I think emerges as the dominant trait of the students of today--their short span of attention, their inability to know or believe anything for more than half an hour,I feel it was television which turned them into spectators, since by comparison with the world of television, their own lives are slow and uneventful. When they first believed that what they saw on TV was real, they overreacted, only to feel cheated when the next program demanded a new emotion. Later, they felt simply manipulated by whatever drama they witnessed. By now, they have become hostile, and so they either refuse to watch the TV altogether or they dissect the medium and throw out all that upsets them.
It was from the daily log of TV that they accepted the world as single-faceted and never complex. After all, if it was accessible to TV cameras, it couldn’t possibly be otherwise. It was digestible and motionlessly marching in front of them. From TV's comic cartoons they first deducted /sic/ that death is not final, since their hero, no matter how dead, would rise. It
25paris Review, p. 205. 26Amory, p. 17.
165
was TV that taught them that they need not be experienced but avoid it ... .
... As a professor of prose I am constantly reminded of television's legacy. The students don't describe. They announce, as if an everpresent screen orchestrated their meaning for everyone. In hundreds of essays, none of them approached killing, illness, passion. All this was dismissed by shorthand, mutilated, suffered, feeling bad. A lover throbs innocence. The recipient sweats sweetness.
During their scholarly and leisure pursuits, they switch with exactly the same intensity and staying power from subject to subject, as if changing TV channels. Fifteen minutes is all a teacher can hope for .... Whether discussing Vietnam or what’s for lunch or a film, they seem incapable of reflecting.2?
Some few young persons have apparently wakened to
the dangers of television, specifically with respect to
its influence upon the political system. In an interview
for The Paris Review Kosinski comments,
As for Being There, the reaction from younger audiences concerns their relationship to Chauncey Gardiner, they're afraid they're being turned into Chauncey Gardiners, that their parents have already elected him—a Reagan, the impact of the Nixon-Kennedy debate, the value of image making. They're upset by the findings of one candidate whose private poll showed that only 50 of those who voted for him knew his views, while the remaining voters claimed they liked him because he came across well on television. There’s more and more preoccupation with the visual aspects of American, political life. Think of the priorities given to the looks of our candidates. They all come across well on TV. Do we have a hunchback? A man with a missing jaw? A man with a nervous tic? No, he simply wouldn’t make it.28
2?Jerzy Kosinski, "Children of TV," (Remarks made on NBC’s Comment) in Destination Tomorrow, Jack Carpenter, ed., (Dubuque, Wm. C. Brown, 1973)» PP* 227-28.
2^Paris Review 202
166
Nonetheless, the majority of Americans, young and old,
thinks Kosinski, are under the sway of the television mon
ster. Its method touches more than the political arena,
reaching out to every facet of life, public and private.
Our discussion of Being There has thus far hit upon several
of them—the passivity of viewers, their ’’voyeurism,'* the
displacement of reality by images, the confusion and even
tual disinterest stemming from superabundant information.
Some other effects attributable to television are worthy
of brief notice« they are either overtly demonstrated in
the novel or broadly hinted at.
First, as the characters in Being There prove, there
is no real communication among people. They are each con
tent to remain separate from one another even in crowded
places, preferring to ogle a TV screen rather than to con
verse« Chance is not alone in opting to watch. They are
intent upon surfaces, not depths of character, anxious to
promote an idealized front and equally desirous to accept
only the facade of others. Their conversations are blinds
to their actual personalities«
When one was addressed and viewed, by others, one was safe. Whatever one did would then be interpreted by others in the same way that one interpreted what they did. They could never know more about one than one knew about them.
The television habit has committed them to thoughtless
observation, trained them to see people as objects, and
since they have constructed false concepts of themselves
16?
based on images, they judge themselves and their contempo
raries on externals. No attempt is made to search a man’s
mind, pluck at his emotions and philosophy, as if to do so
were to risk unpleasantries, shatter the calm. Instead,
one surmises a good deal from the cut of his suit, the tone
of his voice, the length of his hair, and thereby neglects
the real person beneath. Such facile practices lead to
misinterpretation and a dearth of communion.
Second, a growing absence of individualism has crept
steadily into our culture. Television, once more, is at
least partially responsible for this. The vast quantity of
inferior television productions has tended to function as
efficiently as propaganda toward the destruction of unique
selves. Young and old are molded to fit a standard of
behavior approved by the general public. Freedom of expres
sion is frowned upon wherever it contradicts the norm, and
self-assertion is eyed with suspicion. Conformity is the
password of the age.
In view of Kosinski’s previous works, both fiction
and non-fiction, it is readily understood why he paints so
devastating a canvas of American life. Having matured
under the dictatorship first of the Nazis and later the
Soviets, he has a built-in abhorrence of authoritarian
rule. Anything which smacks of restriction is repellent
to him. America, he had hoped, would provide the landscape
of freedom within which he might rediscover and cultivate
his self. Regrettably, he found on these shores a
168
totalitarianism as pervasive and smothering as he had
endured earlier. In the unseen nuances of pulp magazines,
dime store novels, and television lay the instruments of
mind control. From them develops a mass psychology suffi
cient to frustrate attempts at independence, more than
adequate to squelch personal freedom.
Who are the perpetrators of this assault against
individuality? The Painted Bird began to expose the social
doctrines of Germans and Russians which were motivated,
however wrong-headedly, by humanitarian concerns, yet these
served only to crush the individual self. Though the com
parison wasn’t made in that novel, the American government
is likewise fostering a prohibitive code of behavior and it,
too, is corrosive. In the latter sections of Steps. Kosin
ski points an accusative finger at materialists who, in
their greed for wealth, think solely of worldly possessions
to the exclusion of their fellow man. Certainly the profit
motive looms large in the divorce of self from self, but
larger still is the widespread indifference born of too
little contemplation, too much submission to powers outside
the self. The habits of mind punctuated in Being There are
the symptoms of this malaise« the causes are many. Tele
vision is but the symbol Kosinski has chosen to illustrate
the breakdown of personal values and independent, uncoerced
judgment. Through it he portrays the slack-jawed inepti
tude of those who surrender thought to entertainment,
169
exchange labor for peripheral, inconsequential pursuits,
and who pass decisions to invisible "experts." Television
is merely one means of converting action to inaction,
distancing reality until it loses meaning. Its effect is
subtle but dangerous: it deadens sensibilities, enslaves
the will, forces one to drop his hold on reality and eradi
cates the skepticism needed to maintain balance in a world
gradually losing all semblance of unity.tv man, of
whom Chance is surely not the only example, has sacrificed
nearly everything which makes him human for a few moments
of peace.
Self, quite clearly, is again at the center of
Kosinski’s interest. As in the first two novels selfhood
is closely scrutinized. Attention focuses on Chance whose
being wildly diverges from that of the boy or the narrator,
yet whose experiences nevertheless exhibit anew the pres
sures foisted upon the individual. Resemblances between
Chance and the boy of Painted Bird are few—both share an
innocence and a willingness to step forward into experience.
The similarity ends there. Steps* protagonist is far too
complex a character to warrant comparison with Chauncey
Gardiner, yet Being There, oddly, sounds more echoes from
Steps than from the earlier novel. It grapples with pre
cisely the same quandaries which agonized the narrator,
¿^Aldridge, p. 26.
170
but «fliere the offices of self worked for the narrator in
Steps, they operate against Chance as if he were the inverse
of his predecessor.
Chance begins in the state Steps' narrator strives
to reach. Within his contracted environment he has control,
he is king in his garden and his room and commands the
television set to do his bidding. Peace and happiness are
his because, untroubled by the world outside his domain,
he leads a seemingly complete, uncluttered life. Even dur
ing his excursion to reality he is regarded as a beautifully
balanced, natural, "truly peaceful man." Wisdom is accorded
him as well, and so he epitomizes the ideal man commended
in the Bhagavad Gita excerpt.
His contentedness, of course, is an outgrowth of
ignorant bliss. Steps' motto implies a man conscious of
his desires, knowledgeable of human foibles, which Chance
isn't. Armed only with secondary experience, Chance pro
tects himself against the incursions of unfamiliar events
by adopting a reserved attitude. Fortunately (or unfortu
nately?) for him, his diffident air is interpreted as
savoir-faire and his reticence to speak of worldly affairs
(he couldn’t) is seen as a measure of his self-sufficiency.
Thus EE can remark that "she could not remember encounter
ing anyone who relied more on his own self"—as inaccurate
a statement as can be imagined.
The mystique surrounding Chance gives rise to
171
fantasies of many sorts. Diplomats woo, society matrons
adulate, image-gatherers dream, all believing Chance to
possess charms which aren't really his. He quietly accepts
this flattery. The narrator would have used it to advantage,
employing such eminence as one more instrument of control.
Chance, however, is oblivious of his powers. Unknown to him,
his modest nature instills covetousness in others who seek
to steal or tap his hidden reservoir of talents. He has no
control over this "gift," nor can he prevent those others
from desiring him. Chance is therefore a victim to what
should have been a tool of assertion.
His fatal attractiveness is most evident in his rela
tionship with Elizabeth Eve, a relationship that is the
obverse of the narrator's typical situation. She is well
aware of the emotions he kindles in her, aware of the
"innumerable selves that he evoked in her."
The thought of seducing him, of making him lose his composure, excited her. The more withdrawn he was, the more she wanted him to look at her and to acknowledge her desire, to recognize her as a willing mistress. She saw herself making love to him— abandoned, wanton, without reticence or reserve.
EE has switched roles with the narrator. She is on the
attack, she fantasizes, she manipulates, and her prime
motive, like the narrator’s, is to be acknowledged, to
have her self accepted for itself. She fails because
Chance is impotent and because he is more interested in
watching television than in playing parlor games. She
saves face, though, by assuming that Chance simply doesn’t
172
want to exploit her body,
. . . you want to conquer the woman from within her very own self . . . you want to infuse in her the need and the desire and the longing for your love.
The words are almost verbatim from Steps.
She tries again the next day, a determined lady, but
meets with a more ambivalent Chance. This time he declines
contact altogether and implores her to let him watch her
love-making. He does so with the objective, scientific,
unemotional coldness reminiscent of Steps' dispassionate
narrator. Following her performance, EE says,
I am so free with you. Up until the time I met you, every man I knew barely acknowledged me. I was a vessel that he could take hold of, pierce, and pollute. I was merely an aspect of somebody’s love-making .... You make me free. I reveal myself to myself and I am drenched and purged.
Again, this reads much like a page from Steps, but here
Chance approximates the narrator’s role of voyeur without
the latter's selfish intentions. EE, meanwhile, sounds
like the narrator’s mistress after her discovery of his
real interest in her. She has been used as an object and
was responded to only as an essential part of someone
else's fantasy. Her reality was not acknowledged, she was
not seen as an individual entity, as a complete self. With
Chance, she claims (as did the mistress early in their
affair), her self is recognized and bhe therefore reacts
openly. In the process, she allows her natural feelings
to flow, finding uncharted selves while purging her self
173
of all it contains.
Footfalls from Steps accent Kosinski’s continued
examination of selfhood. With Being There he has created a
self at the opposite pole from the narrator, particularly in
two aspects« 1) Chance has no crippling past, and 2) he has
no control over himself or circumstances. It is as if
Kosinski has set out to show that neither extreme personality
can hope to secure fulfillment in our age, that neither an
egoistic nor an ego-less individual is likely to find happi
ness. Indirectly, he hints that the perfect medium lies
somewhere between the two, despite the "failure" of his
protagonists, Kosinski implies, through the fictional under
taking itself, that a "best life" is attainable—limited,
less than ideal, but one granting the individual his broad
est scope. A correlative implication» the self’s freedom
is relative to the total milieu within which it operates
and to the degree to which it recognizes the potency of
that milieu. Two of Kosinski’s protagonists thus far have
consciously sought a course of action that could feasibly
lead to peace and happiness, their quests involved an aware
ness of their social situations and a sense of their capaci
ties to thrive in them. Chance begins at a disadvantage,
as a non-self, he forfeits his right to purposeful conduct
and never gains a notion of his potentialities or society’s.
The fact that none of these "heroes" attains lasting freedom
insinuates that an individual cannot have or be issued free
174
will—to live among men is to preclude such a possibility.
But Kosinski’s novels do suggest that the individual can
achieve more freedom than most of his fellows if he expands
his understanding of the social complex affecting him and
defines his relationship to it. By measuring the dictates
of his own being against the demands society must place upon
him, he is better able to gauge the bounds within which he
can function« he can reconsider his personal values as they
concur or conflict with community values, amending them in
such a way as to minimize dissension with himself or that
community. More knowing of his essence and more conscious
of the factors acting upon its expression, he might find
the best means by which not only to endure but to exercise
his self fully.
Certainly the narrator has gone too far with the
knowledge of self and others he has gained, and just as
certainly Chance and his associates have not gone far
enough, if they have made the attempt at all« neither lead
ing character wins peace or happiness or wisdom. In his
fourth novel, The Devil Tree, the author offers still
another lost soul whose self is likewise buffetted by cir
cumstance and who also tries to cope with its burden« in
that novel Kosinski is more concrete in his depiction of
the causes of discord in the self, but, as we shall see,
his latest protagonist cannot overcome the pressures
besetting him« though he identifies the core of his dilemma,
175
he is not strong enough to counteract it—the wholly inte
grated self, therefore, has not yet materialized in Kosin-
ski's art.
At the outset of this chapter it was noted that
Being There seemed an anomaly amidst the author’s remaining
works, yet in fact its thematic concerns are exactly the
same as those found in The Painted Bird and Steps. I trust
these relationships have been demonstrated satisfactorily.
Its form and its special content, however, do differ remark
ably from that of the earlier volumes and a few words on
these matters are therefore warranted.
With respect to content, several years ago, Anne
Halley wrote an engaging piece on the fairy tale qualities
of The Painted Bird. In her article she pointed out numer
ous examples of folk motifs ranging from the foundling
child "restored by means of the traditional identifying
birthmark to his parents," to the huntsman performing a
ritual killing, to the enspirited enterprises of witches,
enchanted animals, and so onj but always, she said, they
were presented "with that ’realistic’ twist, or reversal,
which shows that there is neither justice, nor reason, nor
black or white magic to help one in extremity. Only chance."3° Halley’s observations are pertinent because in
^Anne Halley, Rev. of The Painted Bird. Nation.19 Nov. 1965, P. 425.
176
The Painted Bird Kosinski has consciously adapted mythopoeic
characters and situations and, by distorting them, has
forced us to examine their meaning in a new light. Tempted
to suspend ourselves in a familiar land of little boys and
forest nymphs, of giants and potions and Camelots we all
read about or listened to as youths, our expectations are
repeatedly frustrated instead, the frog (or colored bird)
we know will turn into a prince at story's end never sheds
his tattered garments. It is as if Kosinski were coaxing
us down a well-known path only to close it off ahead and
behind in order to shake our complacency. The comforting
fictions we cling to—which separate us from actual experi
ence—are suddenly shattered and we are left to contemplate
reality. It is a method aimed at cutting down the space
between vicarious existence and felt life we normally fill
with illusions.
Steps, too, offers strange creatures and stranger
events, and it also strikes one finally as an enormous bad
dream. Though Being There is more lighthearted—a blithe,
comic interlude between two weighty novels—it is both
nightmare and tainted fairy tale, but a fairy tale we know
"is not a realistic description of life, but ... a
frighteningly real symbolic abstraction of life.Which
is to say that Kosinski has taken a particular aspect of
3^Aldridge, p. 27.
w
our culture—a dependence upon images as accurate reflectors
of reality—and extended it to its logical conclusion.
Something he finds basic to the American way of life is
satirized so as to point up its fallacies and the inevitable
harm it will wrought. The sketch he draws of a populace
duped by sophisticated propaganda is not very far from the
truth« an abstraction it may be, yet it is grounded in a
painfully obvious reality, and while satire is his mode of
attack, he is less interested in satire per se than in
"understanding the nature and meaning of the human condi
tion, the relation ... of human values to the terms of
existence in an essentially amoral and surely anarchistic universe."32
The intent of all three fictions is thus the same«
in each (and in the forthcoming Devil Tree) the quality of
life is examined with special attention paid to the self’s
relationships to itself and the environment bounding it,
and to the moral implications arising from their conflicts.
Each novel likewise suppresses authorial comment so that a
reader must on his own cull from the sparse material
volunteered those themes and inferences Kosinski merely
hints at. An encounter between reader and book or reader
and writer is the result, with discovery (or awareness) the
objective. Although most fictional works offer this
32Aldridge, p. 25.
178
challenge, few require as great a reliance upon self-
knowledge and quick, accurate perception as do Kosinski’s.
Yet Being There represents something new for Kosin
ski. Except for a few pages in his second novel, both The
Painted Bird and Steps are restricted to a European setting:
both refrain from exact denotations of time and place and
therefore speak on a universal level—their common themes
are evident without necessitating on the reader’s part a
knowledge of specific historical, geographical, or philo
sophical data: both pertain primarily to past actions and
their influence upon their respective protagonists. Being
There addresses matters peculiarly American, the whole
evolving in the present or near future. One wonders why
the author chose to narrow his focus from cosmic to finite.
The answer is two-fold. First, Kosinski is com
mitted to the novel as an art form. His two critical works
which accompany The Painted Bird and Steps testify to this
fact, and elsewhere he directs his observations to the
function of literature: in one interview after another, an
opportunity to expound on the place of art in human thought
and development is seldom missed. Eventually his comments
wend their way toward a comparison of fiction with other
media. Fiction always emerges with the laurels because
more than any other popular medium it demands an audience’s
imaginative involvement: where visual media are confined
by actual physical presences, literature allows the mind
179
to concoct faces, voices, scenes and actions according to
the individual consciousness—it permits us to exercise all
our faculties and reintegrates our biased perceptions of
the world with the reality of that world.
. . . the novel must remain an abstract medium ... it /Is7 being seriously threatened by media "that insist that events must be externalized, grounded in the external, like television and biography, which explains why biography is so popular in this country. . . .You are neither a participant nor an observer, you have nothing whatsoever to do with the event” . . . the conscience of the writer must compel him "to be defensive, to. insist again and again, no matter how few read it, on explaining why you get up, why you exist at all, and to do it by means of the imagination, the abstract medium. The writer is no more than the reverse of the reader. ... He and his readers are the arms of the same clock, but the hour is late."33
A warning and an incitement. Unless we take measures to
halt our steady march toward an extraneous definition of
ourselves and our surroundings, we will join the growing
legions of men and women insensitive to the intricacies
of reality, the novelist’s duty is to restore our sense
of self as an active sharer of experience, a distinct
entity which nonetheless belongs. He accomplishes this
feat best by expanding the novel as a form of communication,
extending the novel's boundaries, he can find fresh means
with which to startle a reader into a recognition of his
plight. Kosinski has selected the ancient parable form,
made it stand as both a metaphorical mirror of our modern
33Publishers' Weekly. p. 26.
180
crisis and a prophetic proclamation of impending doom, infus
ing the whole with material easily identified and therefore
relevant to this generation. Restricting his subject in
Being There to things typically American, he prompts his
readers’ association with well-known American practices«
having captured their interest, he then challenges their
habitual perceptions with his own shrewd insights, which
are anything but the formula rationale of pulp fiction.
If you do not ask yourself the existential questions
(what meaning exists? why not commit suicide? etc.), says
Kosinski, "you are still a being, but you are not a being here any more« you are a being there."3^ Kosinski has all
along asked these questions of himself and his readers, but
nowhere are they more evident than in Being There. This
"fairy tale" explores our immediate condition and the role
chance plays in it while it simultaneously penetrates the
forces which make us more susceptible to fortune, good or
bad. His object is to describe a present situation as he
sees it, underscoring our lack of being, our pointlessness,
thereby waking us to a state of awareness. In doing so he
executes the novelist’s task» "The pursuit of writing is
the pursuit of one’s own condition. ... It is very egoist and very social» very personal and very missionary."* 33
J Mount, p. 15.33Publishers* Weekly, p. 27.
181
This brings us to a second reason why Kosinski has
tapered his concentration to fit a smaller stage. There
has been in his overall production a progression from non
fiction—which factually reported literal events—to fictive
rendering of past occurrences—occurrences of which, we
assume, the author partook—to a fanciful (yet grave) inter
pretation of contemporary affairs. Such steady movement
suggests that Kosinski had stridden beyond an examination
of his past when he set about composing Being There. Hav
ing exorcized the demons of that past, he was ready to do
battle with new contingencies—those which had presented
themselves since his arrival in America. Much has happened
to Kosinski in the last fifteen years: he has witnessed
many changes in American culture. In Being There he deals
with these changes because they affect him,
I am confronted with a changing society. I think the point is to notice them and yet not allow yourself to be seduced by them.36
Again he addresses what is closest to him, seeking to
clarify his vision in literary terms; and, as with The
Painted Bird and Steps, he writes for his personal satis
faction in concert with a "missionary" zeal.
I must now amend a statement made, earlier, Being
There does represent a narrowing of focus, but only in the
sense that it directs its beams upon one specific area
that demands remedy. Yet even here Kosinski cannot be said
^Mount, p. 16.
182
to have shifted from the cosmic to the finite, for the
implications stemming from his attack on television are far-
reaching. Nothing less than the question of free will lies
at its heart. Kosinski speculates about the future of free
will* can it survive the onslaught of propaganda and the
numbing effects of sophomoric media? can the self ever
determine its course amidst a world incrementally falling
victim to random accident? These queries surely deserve
\ ranking amongst the most significant dealt with in litera
ture and are comparable to the questions Kosinski has asked
in his two previous novels.
The structures within which Kosinski has carried on
his inquiries have altered from book to book. They are
consistent, however, in that each is equipped to manipulate
ideas rather than actions, in other words, they are vehicles
for philosophical expression, not for simple adventure or
escapism. In this respect, Kosinski is a European novelist
whose
greatest teachers have evidently been Kafka, Camus, Sartre, and perhaps Dostoevsky, men who have possessed not only unusual creative power but the ability to deal directly with concepts of being— in the largest sense, with ideas—and to use them in their fiction as concrete modes of dramatic action. This has always been the central strength of the later European novel« that in it ideas are as important as physical sensations and may even be experienced with all the force and acuteness of physical sensations. And this also is a quality the American novel has almost completely lacked, if only because it is part of our frontier mythology to believe that ideas belong to one sphere of perception and sensations to another—ideas to pallid and passive thought, sensations to the life of real
r
18337men in the real world of robust action.
John Aldridge speaks here« he goes on to note reasons for
the American antipathy toward ideas, then adds»
As a European Kosinski is fortunately free of this kind of grass-roots anti-intellectualism.Not only does he deal explicitly with ideas in his fiction« he is fully conscious of the extent to which they determine the cast and content of his creative vision. . . . Kosinski reminds us of a truth which most American novelists, just because of their abiding distrust of ideas, would much prefer us to forgett that in the most accomplished literary artists vigor of execution is finally inseparable from vigor of conception. The quality of the work can be determined only by the extent to which the work provides a powerful imaginative rendering of a powerful idea.38
Kosinski has, in every instance, employed a form
suitable for the presentation of significant human prin
ciples. The episodic architecture of The Painted Bird
drew attention to the boy’s (or the author’s) reconstruc
tion of his past, placing emphasis on the evolution of his
mind, the development of his attitudes« Steps original
arrangement of "scenes” perfectly embodied the associational
means with which we confront experience while delineating
the relativity of the narrator’s self« Being There assumes
the form that is most natural for the novelist of ideas, the form of parable, the metaphorical and analogical statement of an idea—in this case, one that happens not only to be powerful in itself but to have the widest conceivable relevance to the condition of society at the present time. Once again, as in The Painted Bird, he is concerned with the innocent and helpless victim—there a
37Aldridge, p. 26.
3®Ibid.
184
lost child, here a man with the mind of a child— who Is destined to become the object of what Henry James saw as the worst human atrocity, the usurpation by others of the privacy and integrity of the individual self.
The Painted Bird was primarily a parable of demonic totalitarianism of that form of Nazi bestiality which is not a politics but a violence of the soul and blood. Being There has to do with a totalitarianism of a much subtler and even more fearful kind, the kind that arises when the higher sensibilities of a people have become not so much brutalized as benumbed, when they have lost both skepticism and all hold on the real, and so fall victim to those agencies of propaganda which manipulate their thinking to accept whatever the state finds it expedient for them to accept. This fascistic enslavement of the will, the corruption by others of the power of individual choice, is implied in Sartre’s famous remark that "Hell is other people," and is explicitly characterized by Kosinski in The Art of the Self when he speaks of "the inability to escape from others who prove and prove again to you that you are as they see you"—or that they are as they wish you to see them.39
Although the form and certain aspects of content in
Being There do contrast with what is found in the earlier
novels, this third volume assuredly bears the Kosinski
stamp.. It follows the line of inventive, intelligent,
provocative, unquieting fictions that have become the hall
mark of this man’s genius. The Devil Tree, its successor,
once again demonstrates the author's versatility and his
inclination to elucidate complex matters of self. We turn
to it with a moment’s hesitation, for, as with Being There,
we are struck initially with its seeming deviation from the
Kosinski norm.
^Aldridge, p. 26.
CHAPTER V, THE DEVIL TREE
This is the tragedy of Jonathan, that he’s born into the society which in some way is promiscuous enough within its Protestant tolerance to allow him to consider himself an event, without any mercy given to the pursuit of one’s self as a meaningful event.
—Kosinski
186
Jonathan James Whalen is a young man who should have
brilliant prospects. He is handsome, intelligent, diversely
experienced, and best of all, he is heir to an enormous
family fortune acquired through the genius of his father,
an industrial magnate. The finest life has to offer is his
for the buying« for years he has travelled extensively
around the globe, making do on a $25»000 per month allow
ance, visiting the world’s capitals, spending freely and
none too cautiously.
But Jonathan is unhappy. Neither his expensive
habits, his erotic girlfriends, nor the opulent accouter
ments of his station afford him more than passing pleasure.
He wanders about aimlessly, accumulating experiences that
would make a James Bond envious—unless he would look closely
at the emptiness of Jonathan’s experience. For Jonathan,
poor little rich boy, has suffered greatly from the inatten
tion of his mother and the indifference of his father such
that no experience has any valid impact upon him. No quan
tity of fast cars, fast girls, and jet-set adventures is
sufficient to rouse him from the lethargy underlying his
existence« none can replace the love and affection denied
him as a child.
So Jonathan searches alone for an identity, for some
meaning in a life that seems wholly purposeless. Having
tried drugs, encounter groups, and all the pseudo
187
psychological paraphernalia available to him, he decides
upon one last path to the source of his dilemma« an investi
gation of his roots. He gathers information from family
friends, household servants, his father's business associ
ates, doctors, nurses, and the like. What he learns is
confided to Karen, an equally young and misguided society
child, yet Karen is more headache than help, she is just
another detour on the road to self-discovery. Alas, in the
end poor Whalen takes sick, spiritually crippled by the fact
that he is misunderstood, baseless, deprived of the means to
assert his uniqueness as an individual.
If this sounds like a familiar soap opera or B-movie
script, it is all the more puzzling that Kosinski used this
character and format As the basis for his fourth novel, The
Devil Tree. After the carefully measured, cleverly struc
tured Painted Bird and Steps, both composed of vividly real
ized episodes and striking, singular personalities, and
even Being There, likewise evidencing skillful management
of word and scene despite the fantastic nature of its plot,
it is something of a letdown to confront the banalities of
Kosinski’s latest effort. Not only is the plot overworked,
but the writing itself is below the caliber evinced in the
earlier novels. Where the sentences were clear, precise,
shorn of superficial details and occasionally poetic in the
initial fictional works, those of The Devil Tree are some
times embarrassing in their transparency. Dialogue and
188exposition in scattered instances are riddled with cliche's
and pop-cult jargon, barely rising above pulp-fiction level.
There is an occasional flatness in the prose and a flabbi
ness of expression one wouldn’t expect from a proven master
of the language.
It might be wise to consider the style of The Devil
Tree before pursuing its thematic content because Kosinski’s
choice of expressive mode may indicate one of his artistic
purposes. Possibly Kosinski intentionally used an inflated
diction for its ironic effect, hoping to emphasize through
it a major point. The alternatives, certainly, are not
complimentary to the author: either Kosinski has become
thoroughly Americanized to the degree that he has warped
his fine sense of lucid prose, or he has sold out to best-
seller-itis, or he has lost his touch altogether. In light
of the exquisite idiom displayed throughout the first three
novels, Kosinski merits a benefit of the doubt.
The Devil Tree is structurally akin to Steps. Like
its predecessor, it is arranged in generally brief epi
sodes, some of them presented as successive events, others
representing flashbacks in random array, but where Steps
resisted chronological ordering, the action of The Devil
Tree can be roughly determined sequentially. Most of the
narrative is delivered by Jonathan in the present tense,
with third person passages, past and present, interspersed.
Backward and forward leaps in time and a mixture of points
189
of view produce a montage effect reminiscent of Steps and
is therefore in keeping with the author’s motion-picture-
frame method of plot and character development. Finally,
"the dispassionate calm of an observer recording what he sees"1 applies equally well to Jonathan and the narrator.
Yet The Devil Tree is not nearly as powerful a work
as Steps. It somehow lacks the driving energy of the
former novel and gives rise to the suspicion that its author
might not be totally in control of his technique.
At intervals in this short novel there are brief reminders of the Kosinski of his sometimes striking first two novels—a certain power of evocation—of mystery, of starkness, of cruelty, of void« but these fragments appear fleetingly in the book’s vacuum only to disappear without a trace« flicker and go out.2
The sustained high level of image-creating incidents and
spare, terse diction are missing, as is an intense central
figure—Jonathan, more recognizable, more readily access
ible, seems to be an inferior substitute for the awe
inspiring, troubling, savagely complex narrator. There are,
however, moments when Jonathan commands the attention and
deference so easily accorded the narrator, and moments, too,
when an episode grips us completely—an extended tale of
Jonathan and Barbara in Rangoon wherein he leads her to
^ohn Barkham, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Toledo Blade. 18 Feb. 1973» P» 5»
¿Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Republic. 10 March 1973, p.' 3^.
190
believe he has murdered their hostess, and another of his
revenge upon a belligerent police officer come to mind—
and these are perhaps sufficient to warrant Stanley Kauff
mann’ s remark that the novel "is a mosaic of fiercely
charged molecules, in continually unpredictable and continually gratifying patterns,"3 that "in its almost pain
fully insistent distillation, in the way it agonizes a4thematic order out of the seemingly banal and chaotic"
it is a masterpiece of its kind.
In an informative, perceptive analysis of The Devil
Tree Kauffmann lavishes praise upon Kosinski’s latest
effort. When he says
Again as in Steps. Kosinski cannot dissociate his fresh vision of his themes from a fresh way of stating them. His manner of seeing is, as usual with good artists, itself part of what he sees. His method might be called recrystallization. He dissolves masses of experience and observation, discards the superfluous, then solidifies the rest into new, sharp crystals, arranged in a new order so that the patterns burn coldly.5
he speaks truthfully about Kosinski’s procedure, but he
does neglect to mention that the edge has been taken off
slightly in The Devil Tree. The composite episodes add
up to something below the standard set in Steps, and with
^Stanley Kauffmann, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, World. 27 Feb. 1973, P. 42.
4Ibld.
5lbid.. p. 46.
191
respect to style and structure, The Devil Tree is less
satisfying than the earlier novel.
Though not entirely alone in his adulation, Kauff
mann has few supporters. Some say that the novel isz 7
"satisfyingly readable," "precise and economical, but
the majority of reviewers are unanimous in condemning The
Devil Tree. So vehement are their charges that it becomes
a sport to determine who among them is most derogatory.Q
"No control," "arbitrary," "pointless," "kaleidoscopic,"
says one. "Too abstract: the violence and cruel sex is
introduced too mechanically, as if the author had been programmed to produce it,"^ intones Ronald De Feo, who adds
that the episodes are often implausible and that "the
fractured narrative scheme is diverting for a while ....
But eventually the intellectualized pornography, the shallow
ness and pseudo-toughness of the entire performance get to us."^° Robert Alter agrees with De Feo in noting that "the
use of a pulp formula even produces an inadvertently comic
^Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Publisher’s Weekly. lT Dec. 1972, p. 33.
?Prescott, p. 86.pElliot Anderson, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy
Kosinski, Chicago Tribune Book World. 4 March 1973. p. 5»^Ronald De Feo, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy
Kosinski, National Review. 16 March 1973» P. 322.10Ibid.. p. 323»
192effect."11 12 3 He continues»
Kosinski’s latest novel unfortunately demonstrates • . . the thinness and abstraction with which he conceives both humanity in general and fictional characters, his imagination here slips again and again into unpleasant self-indulgence or sheer slackness. . . ,
. , . from beginning to end it is a loose web of stylistic and cultural cliche's, Kosinski’s prose, with its series of short sentences occasionally embellished by an elaborate simile, runs readily to the characteristic vice of "simple" styles, which is to fall into the hackneyed formulas of mass journalism and pulp fiction. . . .
... He /Jonathan/ constantly mouths the most worn therapeutic formulas about acceptance, insecurity, sense of unworthiness, exposing of real self . . . and he is not above the most barbaric therapoid jargon. . . .12
Alter*s assessment is acid enough, but my own choice
for top honors goes to Pearl Bell, the reviewer for The
New Leader who begins almost gently by comparison.
The Devil Tree reads as though it had been written by a tape recorder, or a Xerox machine, or an unprogrammed computer—in fact, by almost anything except a writer.13
11Robert Alter, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 11 Feb. 1973» P» 2.
12Ibid., p. 3.
l3There is an irony of sorts in this comment, for Kosinski did in fact dictate the majority of the novel.In an interview with Paris Review, he explains that, his eyesight endangered, he began dictating his novel to a tape recorder, "I noticed I developed a new kind of freedom—the tape recorder prose seems to be looser, less controlled than the typewriter prose of Steps. . . . Afraid that I would lose my sight any minute, I prevented myself from editing, all I wanted to do was to develop the ability to be articulate while dictating." (p. 195) Apparently Kosinski did not revise his new text as stringently as he had the first three volumes.
193
then warms up»
Kosinski’s prose is so doggedly flaccid that he reduces everything to a state of trivial inertia.
The icing on the cake» "a lumpy bundle of mindless blather."14
Obviously, this fourth novel was not well received
in the main. No doubt the critics cited above exaggerate
the novel’s faults to some extent, yet a ring of genuine
disappointment or disbelief runs throughout most reviews,
and even those more receptive are generally guarded in
their appraisal. There is a hesitancy to accept The Devil
Tree for what it appears to be—a poorly written fictional
piece by an author who should have known (and done) better.
Christopher Lehmann-Haupt’s title, "Bad By Design? Or Just
Bad?" capsulizes the undercurrent of surprise and chagrin
common to all but a handful of critical estimates. I quote
Mr. Lehmann-Haupt at length below since the attitude voiced
in his article and the questions he intones are identical
to my own when I first read The Devil Tree, and because he
suggests—without fully believing them himself—two
approaches to the novel’s style and content which might
ultimately redeem it.
... I tried to convince myself that the stupefying effect of The Devil Tree was intentional on Mr. Kosinski’s part. X kept telling myself that his hero, Jonathan James Whalen . . •
ih.Pearl Bell, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy
Kosinski, New Leader. 19 Feb. 1973» P* 17.
t
194
was meant to be a cliche' . . . that Mr. Kosinski intended his prose to be as deadly as it seems."When Karen mocks and attacks me," the novel's hero reports, "she unlocks the child within me."Then later in the book, he tells us, "I still suffer from my father’s rejection and my mother’s indifference," And elsewhere, "Why do I always choose women who cannot give of themselves, whose concept of love is based on repression and undeclared competition?" "The barriers that exist between Karen and me derive from her resistance to commitment."
As my head began to nod over sentences like these, I kept arguing that it was not because I was reading old copies of True Romance, or an anthology of dime-store psychology. . . .15
. • . but rather, because Kosinski deliberately tried to
capture the flavor of such popular dribble in an attempt
to satirize and reprove this sort of trash and the ignor
ant reading public which swallows it whole. Somewhere,
the critic surmises, a link exists between this sophomoric
twaddle and all the talk of roots and branches in the
baobab tree (from which the title derives).
It was all connected somehow, the rootlessness of the devil trees and the rootlessness of the novel’s language: the sterility of the trees and the lifelessness of the novel’s form; the curse of the baobab and the curse of America: the death of the young ones: the upside-downness of everything: the devil in the works.
Yet Lehmann-Haupt cannot discover that connection, nor can
he combat the dulling effect of Kosinski’s narcotic prose
long enough to find anything more inspiring than a second
er third-rate rehash of threadbare aphorisms.
^Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times, 13 Feb. 1973» P» 39.
195The kindest thing I can think of saying is
this» Assuming for the sake of argument that Mr. Kosinski has not simply written incompetently (and this is not an assumption on which I’d now be willing to wager a fortune), assuming instead that the banality and hollowness of the book were meant by the author to imitate the novel’s subject—namely, the banality and hollowness of America, then Mr. Kosinski has committed what academic estheticians of the nineteen-fifties called The Fallacy of Imitative Form. . . .Instead of art, The Devil Tree ends up being another product of the very culture that it is attempting to anatomize. Instead of a prognosis of the disease, it ends up being a symptom.Instead of a healing surgical slice, it ends up being an overdose of ether.1®
The gist of Mr. Lehmann-Haupt*s essay is that Kosin
ski may have consciously adopted the semi-literary cant of
newsstand magazines in order to beat American illiteracy
and mindlessness over the head with its own weapon, but in
doing so he lost all claim to artistry. This latter
indictment may be inescapable, particularly if one agrees
that a structure imitative of its subject matter is in all
cases a perversion of art. Let us consider for the moment,
however, the first part of this critic’s imputation since
it should illuminate the second.
Shortly after the publication of Being There, which
concerned itself largely with the harmful influence of
television upon viewers, Kosinski became a frequent visitor
to late-night talk shows, and in at least two of his appear
ances he came armed with a folder full of excerpts from
16Lehmann-Haupt, p. 39.
196
True Confessions. Modern Romances. Man's Magazine. and the
like. In each instance he read selections which typified
the stock characters and situations, hyperbolic language,
and formula writing conventional in one and all. His point
was that these confessional stories bore no resemblance to
reality and merely reinforced popular myths of male and
female relationships while leaving unchallenged the reader's
imagination, perception of actuality, and knowledge of self.
He elaborated on his findings in an article titled
"Packaged Passion," published in the spring issue (1973) of
American Scholar. There Kosinski stated more succinctly
than in his brief television stints those elements of pulp
fiction he thought most objectionable. Chief among them
were the accusations that magazine writers and editors
"have created a model so basic, so crude, that it denies
the complexities of modern existence and pretends to offer
an easy alternative to a confusing reality:" f that the
believing, trusting reader is insulated from the real world
since his experience, like any given protagonist's, "leads
to no enlightenment about the world or the self, which 18might be applied to future experience:" that the events
and behavior recounted, no matter how bizarre or unnatural,
are presented as normal so as to reassure the reader that
^?Jerzy Kosinski, "Packaged Passion," American Scholar. (Spring, 1973)» P. 196.
18Ibid.
197his own digressions from morality are not uncommon. Further
more, an "emotional monotone" runs throughout such litera
ture effecting a detachment of reader from material, one
need not be overly concerned with the trials and trauma of
fictional figures since their troubles are ultimately
resolved in a neat, manipulated happy ending,
The reader is never required to be involved beyond his simplest feelings and perceptions.The dramatic situation is encoded in order to reinforce in the audience a sense of predictability, or normalcy. . . . the stories always end with a palliative vision, some measure of order and balance is always restored. The reader returns to the emotional kindergarten while his psyche slips back into the troublefree sleep.15
After Kosinski uttered remarks like these to millions
of television viewers, he received, to his amazement, count
less letters which "revealed that the majority of readers
considered the magazines accurate in their reflection of
’real events* and accepted the stories uncritically, as vivid slices of contemporary life."* 20 From this he concludes
that there i3 a demand for bad art, an art chosen to remove the reader from his own condition, and by doing so to abstract him from the human condition in general. Ironically, since the reader continually isolates himself from others by reading stories that demand nothing of him and never extend him beyond the most prosaic emotions, he becomes a victim, impoverished by his own unexpanded, underdeveloped self. ... As they resign themselves to the imaginative vacuum of the stories, the readers admit to a double bankruptcy, if in their vicarious lives they settle for the fraud
^"Packaged Passion," pp. 196-97.
20Ibid.. p. 204.
198
implicit in these magazines, one can only speculate on the experience component of their actual lives. Although it may be assumed that man’s natural instinct is to avoid experience, to prevent the possible failure and consequent knowledge of the self as an ultimate loser, it is significant that in a society that is continually tending toward the individual's isolation, there is so little awareness of this trend. In fact, there seems to be an increasing desire on the part of mass audiences to reinforce social divisions and barriers, and to ensure individual isolation. As the primary exponents of this sterile self-protection, the confession magazines cannot be dismissed as just another stream of popular trash, as the epitome of preferred bad art. They reveal a significant popular need for yet another soporific» a literature that can defuse the imagination, dismiss emotion, and ultimately leave the reader disarmed, unable to face his very self or to cope with the unknown~his own existence.21
Much like his attack upon the television medium, this
blast at cheap magazine fare is geared to the subversive
elements common to both. A reader of trashy literature
(some of the "better" pulp magazines command a monthly
readership in excess of ten million) is guaranteed no more
than a flowery rendition of reality, laden with false con
cepts of human nature and societal maneuverings leading to
expectations which could not likely be fulfilled. There
is a dearth of honest, authentic insight, little understand
ing of what it is to be human, as with poor television
programs, one’s mind is not expanded nor refined, nor are
perceptions sharpened, but rather one is drawn further
away from the real world, further away from oneself as an
21 Packaged Passion," p. 204.
199
active participant in life. This is Kosinski*s point—that
the media are removing us all from first-hand experience,
retarding our growth as independent, thinking persons.
Through exposure to this kind of media—low forms of what
could be elevating, enlightening—an individual has little
opportunity to discover truth and develop his sensibilities»
instead, he becomes an "impoverished" self, divorced from
reality, less responsive to it, and therefore the victim
of a vacuous existence.
Media power, acting subtly but in a nonetheless
authoritarian manner, is again Kosinski’s subject, yet while
his argument is clear in the article quoted, and though with
respect to his earlier novels it is of a piece with his
repeated assaults on totalitarianism and mindless collective
behavior, it is debatable whether or not he intended The
Devil Tree to represent an ironic thrust at the written
medium’s vacuousness. Certainly the majority of his critics
fail to perceive any such intent» there is, however, an
argument favoring this possibility. A reader's tendency,
given stock language and synthetic events, is to deem
Jonathan and his story as simply another bit of froth, but
Kosinski may have formulated his novel in such a way as to
counteract precisely this tendency. In other words, just
as he consciously used different fictional forms in The
Painted Bird. Steps, and Being There respectively to shock
us into awareness, he may have deliberately employed pulp
200
fiction techniques which make The Devil Tree appear super
ficial while actually providing insightful comments oh
pertinent issues. In his previous performances Kosinski has
chosen forms which belied his real purposes» The Painted
Bird appears to be a chronicle or diary similar to hundreds
of others that do little more than recount memoirs, yet its
design digs deep into a reality we often deny. Steps strikes
one as unstructured until, absorbed by the repetition of
images, he becomes aware of patterns—patterns that embody
the novel’s principal statements, Being There seems but a
simplistic parable, yet the cogent ideas it conveys are
fostered by that very form, the cool, detached prose of all
three novels precipitates a reader’s imaginative involvement,
thereby luring him into a profound consideration of his own
self. In short, the novels invariably appear to be some
thing they are not, their architectures and language thus
echo one of Kosinski’s themes—that people and events and
ideologies are not always what they seem to be.
It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that the pulp
elements of The Devil Tree are merely a screen to the
author’s artistic purposes. In the past Kosinski has made
a point of challenging his readers, he takes delight in
teasing them into awareness, baiting them with the appar
ently obvious, then exposing the real configuration
beneath to those who accept the invitation. Since it is
unlikely that Kosinski has abandoned this habit, may we not
201
view The Devil Tree * a trappings as a mask to serious inten
tions? Perhaps the novel is an ironic testament to the
American penchant for shallow pastimes, ironic in that the
book itself is a parody of pulp fare and also in that, by
fleshing out a familiar confessional magazine story with
real complexities and honest responses, it contradicts the
"easy alternatives" of sensational literature. And perhaps
the peculiar blend of the commonplace and the complicated
is the means through which Kosinski "fills old bottles with
new wine" or, to change the metaphor, forges untrodden paths
through well-worn territory.
Surely with regard to the handling of characters and
scenes, Kosinski’s novel differs substantially from the
pulp fiction norm. The following examination of The Devil
Tree's parts should make this clear, but some preliminary
comments are in order. To begin with, while Jonathan is
the rational, sexually-oriented male typical of magazine
heroes, and though his problems with women and business
interests are likewise typical, he finds no ready-made,
facile solutions to his dilemma, nor are the causes of his
plight presented in homely terms. The sources of his
anxiety are rooted in his discordant past and in the Ameri
can experience, both highly intricate and puzzling. Rather
than summon elementary explanations of Jonathan's enigmatic
situation, Kosinski scrutinizes the American milieu seeking
clues to the national character» his investigation thus
202
sheds light not only on his protagonist but on those social
and historical aspects of culture that fashion all con-
temporary Americans. In doing so his readers look past
the artificial surface rendering of personality and environ
ment with which a lesser writer would have been content to
the essential nature of that personality and environment.
Secondly, where the language of popular fiction
appeals to the lowest levels of one's understanding, calling
solely for conventional responses, the répertoriai diction
most often evident in Thé Devil Tree elicits a reader's emo
tional participation in the drama unfolding. The sub-
literary declamatory practices Kosinski imitates are actu
ally far less plentiful than his critics claim, most of his
prose is akin to that manifested in his earlier works. This
intimates that the author occasionally planted a rhetorical
flourish to remind us of his parodic aims, only to pull us
back into the reality of his own momentous observations.
Most often his dry, unruffled voice has an effect opposite
to the bathetic claptrap of pulp melodrama, it draws us
inward to an emotional association with the protagonist?’d
cosmic predicament.
22It might be instructive to measure the similarities and dissimilarities between Jonathan and Chance. Both men are handsome, persuasive in their separate ways, and each cuts a dashing figure. Ironically, Chance, who has neither intellect nor ambition, becomes a success (albeit a hollow one) while Jonathan, mentally alert and purposeful, fails in the only realm he cares about—the establishment of a true self. Each man, however, appears to have reached
f\
203
What this means is that Kosinski has once again
cleverly manipulated his literary style and form in a man
ner that catches us off guard. He has thrown us out of
kilter by offering a seemingly artless fiction which actu
ally harbors a veritable treasure of relevant insights to
humanity. His first three novels proposed persons and
settings beyond the ken of most Americans, yet they
revealed significant intimations of mankind’s estate which
too frequently go unrecognized or unacknowledged, The Devil
Tree entertains figures and affairs closer to our own
experience, but ones we are inclined to overlook in depth
because we’ve been saturated with inane accounts of them.
The Devil Tree corrects this propensity. It parlays the
customary aspects of pulp fiction into a brilliant vision
of what it is to be an American, it transforms standard
formulae into a vehicle for the expression of salient ideas.
This novel, then, cannot be said to signal a loss of
artistry (as Lehmann-Haupt believes), quite the contrary, it
the heights, the summit of the American Dream—Chance as a political power, Jonathan as a wealthy materialist. Since neither accomplishment is pictured as a genuine achievement, Kosinski may be suggesting that something exists in the American way of life which negates the possibility of success on any level. This is especially promising when one recognizes that The Painted Bird and Steps treated the hopelessness of self-aggrandizement in Nazist/socialist countries, while Being There and The Devil Tree address an equally insuperable oppression of the self’s freedom in America.
204
proves anew that Kosinski is a resourceful artist capable
of lifting the ordinary to the extraordinary.
One of his central ideas here is the fraudulent use
of stratagems whose effect is similar to that of magazine
fiction. Jonathan Whalen, like so many youths confounded
by a knotty, contradictory world they did not create,
searches for a safety valve, a means either of fleeing or
surmounting obstacles to sound health. For the masses,
television and escapist literature provide a way out of
troublesome, real circumstances} Jonathan and his peers
reach further—toward drugs, encounter groups, meandering
travel, expensive toys, or free sex.
Jonathan tries them all. His monied position allows
him to ride a helicopter above Manhattan where his wealth
is stored, to drive a Ford powered by a thunderous twelve-
cylinder Italian engine, to fly his own glider, to hunt
African game, or to hire an Olympic champion to teach him
skiing. Material possessions and extravagant enterprises,
however, are no cure for the emptiness Jonathan feels.
Nor do journeys to far countries fill the hollowness of his
existence» Jonathan's roots, which he searches out, are
American,, not to be found in foreign soil.
Drugs provide temporary relief, "but the inner peace
I sought was not to be had so easily." Opium promised to
work magic on his tightly controlled sensibilities, open
205
new avenues of expression, and increase his awareness, yet
even this effectual drug failed its purpose. "My predilec
tion for self-repression, not liberation, was heightened,"
he says. "It seems that vzhat I really want is a drug that
will increase ray consciousness of others, not of myself."
Indeed, Jonathan admits a need to communicate, to
step closer to other selves despite his penchant for
secretiveness and detachment. He recognizes that he has
many selves, each battling for precedence at a given moment,
and furthermore that two portions of his personality domin
ate—"the manipulative, malevolent adult who deceives and
destroys, and the child who craves acceptance and love."
For most of his life the treacherous half of his character
has held sway, causing him to become estranged, separate,
inflexible, constantly defensive of his private self,
aggressive as a public individual. In his own words, he
is a "master of concealment," a man self-controlled to an
extreme. He realizes, too, that this tough inner and outer
shell has prevented him from fully acting, he hasn't given
of himself any more than he has accepted from friends and
family. What's left is a sense of unfulfillment, a lack
of reason for existence, and a horrible disorientation.
At last he knows "that I have really tried to conceal the
child at the expense of the adult," and sets about to mend
his ways.
Regrettably, his initial movement toward redemption
206is a mistaken one, mistaken because he confuses love with
sex. In the past Jonathan had always had his way with
women. He alludes to several of his conquests, usually
derogatorily-—their affairs concluded quickly, dispassion
ately. None of these women accepted his self fully except
Anne, who tolerated his abuse and loved him all the more,
oddly, her complacency and willingness to surrender her
being unquestioningly finally drove him away. As he con
fessed later, girls who proffered no challenge to his
tyranny could not maintain his interest (one of his fondest
memories is of an intractable prostitute who rebuffed his
every advance). He had no use for easy victories, despised
those who took him at face value.
In each of his liaisons sex did not perform the
miracle Jonathan anticipated. Rather than foster communion
of souls, it severed them. Sex, Alan Hislop points out, is always an isolating act in Kosinski’s fiction.23 it is so
in Jonathan’s relationship with Karen, his current mistress.
Try as he does to make the sexual act a bridge to total
commitment between himself and Karen, their association dis
integrates in a mire of distrust and misconstrued motives.
Though Karen "unlocks the child" within him, thus seeming a
perfect instrument of rehabilitation, a kind of psycho-
therapist-lover, and in spite of Jonathan's earnest endeavor
^Alan Hislop, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review of the Arts. March 1973» P. 71»
207to surrender his closeted emotions, his impulse toward
repression wins out. The sexual act for them is never a
consummation of love but an exercise in futility: far too
much responsibility is laid to sexual performance and it
becomes a mere cover-up for emotional inadequacy.
As a final measure of Jonathan's sincere desire to
expand his awareness and make himself more approachable,
he joins an encounter group, hoping to uncover some hidden
facets of his subconscious. His first attempt at participa
tion fails miserably, he decides to play several roles,
never giving in to his real emotions, sustaining a strict
self-control. One member resents his ability to "act out
a tragedy one minute and a burlesque the next," thereby
presenting as truth a false image of his real self, "She
said that I would always resist my impulses and remain
detached."
He discusses his encounter group experiences with
Karen and agrees with her that its entire principle is a
forgery. After two days of meetings he notes,
... we are still strangers, anxious to return to our individual existence, and all the tears and hugs and screams and anger seem vacuous and unreal.This concept of instant intimacy annoys me more than anything else about the encounter group. It breaks down resistances and makes people feel good by allowing them to think that they are really getting to know one another. Yet in the end nothing has happened: we know no more about ourselves and the others than we would after a cocktail party.
An encounter group is supposed to make easy the admission
of guilts and fears» within its bounds one gradually casts
208
off restraints and lets his inner being flow freely. In
brief, one makes his self accessible. Underlying this con
frontation method is the theory that "secrets" shared with
one’s oonoerned comrades can ultimately be placed in a
rational context as if every individual's peculiar psyche
fits a universal pattern well known to the group's psycholo
gist-leader, and that through exposure of guarded aspects
of personality one's self can be defined. Jonathan knows
from the start that he and the rest are raulti-selved per
sons, and any one self or combination of selves may emerge
at a given time only to be replaced by a new self. If his
session-mates were to evaluate his character on the basis
of one of his selves, surely they would misinterpret him,
their "rational" schématisation of his character would be
founded on partial truth.
Not even that. It is nearly impossible for one to
identify all of his various selves so that the whole person
is rarely, if ever, capable of disclosure. Certainly a
conglomeration of people lacking knowledge of psychological
refinements could not be expected to piece together a uni
fied self from scraps. Profound understanding is required
to do so, and as Jonathan remarks, understanding "takes
years to develop and occurs only when people feel free to
expose themselves to one another." Such freedom is absent
from this assemblage. "No one understands anybody else.
We are wandering around in dark caves, holding our little
209
private candles, hoping for some great illumination" which
doesn’t come.
In addition, absolute honesty with respect to one’s
innermost being is inordinately difficult. How does one
surmount so-called defense mechanisms, sentries to painful «
memories and unacceptable impulses which have been accumula
ting and rigidifying for years? Normally, one projects an
image of himself suitable for the moment, reflects a state
of mind, perhaps, which fits the immediate situation.
Amidst a crowd, one is inescapably an actor presenting a
version of himself. Needless to say, his behavior is a
deception.
Jonathan perceives this and knows as well that at
least one more hindrance to self-evocation exists. Lan
guage itself acts as a deterrent to veracity. On one hand,
words are simply inadequate to convey emotions or abstrac
tions of any sort. More importantly to Jonathan, "language
pronounces judgments ... it has the power to confine mean- 24ings, reduces and cripples us." It has lost its capacity
to impart the spontaneous because words carry specific
denotative value. One chooses them carefully when desiring
to make his meaning clear, but since individual emotions
are unique, inexpressible in the language available, one is
forced to borrow words which he hopes will approximate his
24Daniel Cahill, "The Devil Tree« An Interview with Jerzy Kosinski,” North American Review. 258 (Spring 1973)» p. 60.
210
feelings. He keeps in mind the fact that his listeners may
take his words explicitly, thus classifying him according
to their comprehension of what his words mean—and their
comprehension may be faulty, in which case he will seem to
be what he is not. Jonathan, aware of this ambiguity in
language, distrusts its use. Though language "is the only
way to make himself accessible to himself? as well as to
others—the only way he can bare his emotions and thereby
gain acceptance—he rejects itj in doing so, he "pronounces
a verdict, a tragic verdict, upon himself." He declines "to
formalize a whole hazy body of feelings that are underneath,
because to formalize them is to define them and be the thing
they say." Jonathan's feelings are not so easily collared,
and because he desires honest representation of them, he
refrains from speaking outrightly—or at all.
I suspect that whenever I articulate ay thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden. Instead of expressing myself, I produce a neatly ordered document about someone else's state of mind.
Jonathan Whalen, then, has given several potential
panaceas a chance to operate in an unsuccessful bid to step
outside his well-fortressed self. Some of them have been
sideward steps calculated to dismiss the oppressive facts
of his existence, but his relationship with Karen and his
flirtation with the encounter group signify a sincere desire
^Cahill, (Interview), p. 61
211
to brave the depths of his identity. We meet Jonathan at
a point when he faces what may rightly be termed an iden
tity crisis. Upon his return to America (the novel begins
with his arrival) Jonathan is urged from within to discover
who he is. Having spent years abroad, he is about to
inherit a massive fortune, and with it the decision to
remain what he has been, accept the role of responsible
millionaire, or become something else entirely. To »Bake a
proper decision, he must first ascertain who the real
Jonathan James Whalen is or might be.
He commences his investigation by realizing that he
has always been defined externally. Three factors, par
ticularly, have functioned as constrictors of his character—
money, parents, and the Company.
The Devil Tree opens with Jonathan asking to board
a helicopter for a half hour ride over New York City.
Because he is shabbily dressed and unshaven, his request is
not taken seriously until he unfolds a thick packet of bills;
even then he must submit to frisking before takeoff. Upon
his return he is apprehended by police who demand identifica
tion papers which Jonathan does not have. They believe he
is a vagrant or thief or both and are on the verge of
arresting him when Jonathan suggests they call his banker.
He is quickly cleared and apologized to, but Jonathan learns
from this experience that his physical appearance and lack
of identifying credit cards and their like have caused him
212
unexpected trouble. He has been judged not according to 26his self, but only with respect to superficial details.
Money saves him, it speaks a language everyone understands.
Money has been and continues to be a liability for
Jonathan. Women are attracted to him because of it—or
rather to jit, not him—and con-artists as well. One such
shady character wants Jonathan to be a partner with him in
a swindle involving travellers checks, and another sees in
Jonathan an excellent means of acquiring the names of
wealthy individuals who might not mind parting with their
riches. Beyond this, money serves almost as a name tag
for Jonathan, people literally see it on his lapel and it
blinds them to the figure beneath. To these people,
Jonathan is money and they regard him as such, nothing
more. When they look at him, they envision yachts, rou
lette tables, beautiful girls, expensive cars. Thus, by
way of example, the members of his encounter group dis
criminate against him because of his privileged status.
They "see exactly what they want to see, and what they want
to see is a spoiled rich boy, dissatisfied with life."
The empire Whalen Sr. built has a vested interest
in Jonathan's well being. As the conglomerate's figurehead
and one of its major stockholders now that his father is
2 ¿In this case, he escapes unscathed. By contrast, an old, poorly attired Negro Jonathan sees on the subway is mercilessly accosted by two policemen who regard him as one of the penniless, shiftless dregs of society. The man has no money nor any connections (i.e. no identity) and is therefore without hope.
213dead, Jonathan's vulnerability is a principal concern of
company executives. His potential for decision-making is
unimportant: his legal value to the business, however, is
cardinal, and therefore he must be protected. Knowing
Jonathan's risky habits, Mr. Macauley, a Company (as it is
reverently referred to) official, has him tailed by a team
of detectives to ensure his security. Jonathan resents
this because the Company cares only for his image or
symbolic worth, not for his worth as a human being. He
has become, inadvertently, a product of the Company, a
treasured object: his self has been defined according to
Company profits, investments, etc.
Finally, Jonathan's father has had a detrimental
influence on his development as a fully-realized individual.
From the beginning, young Whalen was acknowledged as his
father's son and treated correspondingly. This oversight
of his own unique being might have been accepted gracefully
were it not for Mr. Whalen's phlegmatic attitude toward his
only offspring. The two rarely spent time together so
their bond, which should have been a close, carefully cul
tivated one, never materialized as a normal father-son
relationship. Predictably, Jonathan grew to hate his father
and felt guilty about it.
The psychological impact of this loveless association
follows classic patterns. Examples are plentiful in the
novel. As a child, Jonathan revels in biographies of great
214
leaders because the heroes’ parents are infrequently men
tioned.
These men seemed to have been born without fathers; no wonder they had always been strong and powerful, able to mete out punishment whenever they pleased. They were born fathers.
Clearly, Jonathan views his father as an authoritarian
figure too mighty and high-minded to deal with petty per- 27sonal matters like a little boy's needs. No doubt
Jonathan's later life style was chosen in part to imitate
his father's power'and partly as a defense against his
father's indifference. Leading the drifter's life was a
means of flaunting independence while debunking the goals
and aspirations a successful businessman's son was supposed
to cherish. By countering the image of an up-standing,
responsible adult, Jonathan attacks the very foundation of
his father's values.
Feelings of guilt are sometimes the result. In one
instance, Jonathan deliberately terminates an affair with
Maria, "creating an artificial system of guilt from which
there was no escape." He recognizes afterward
that I was concerned less with leaving Maria than with losing contact with her father. I was setting myself up to be judged and condemned by a man whom I respected and to whom I felt curiously close.
27Later Jonathan comments that Whalen Sr. felt his duty was to provide for the thousand laborers who depended upon the Company; this was a finer ideal than heeding the wants of a single child.
215The illustration is self-explanatory» Jonathan craves a
real father, one solicitous enough to worry over his son's
actions—and he wants those actions judged. Still, Whhlen's
foremost motivation seems to be revenge upon his father's
apathy. He does whatever he can to insult his father,
eventually murdering Mr. Howmet, his father's business
associate and a kind of father-surrogate.
In short, Jonathan has struggled for self-esteem
against near insurmountable odds. His entire upbringing
amidst an environment ill-conducive to healthy psychological
maturation has estranged him from himself and others. He
has steadily acquired a complex set of contradictory
impulses which pull him in opposite directions simultaneously.
When he becomes aware of his intricate situation, his
unsettled state of mind, he begins taking measures to solve
the puzzle of his existence. First he wonders whether or
not to destroy his real self—which he believes is intensely
private and malicious—or to contain it, or set it loose,
then decides to face his contradictions squarely in order
to gain perspective. Love and hate, power and vulnerability,
past and future all conspire to retard Jonathan's quest for
a whole self.
The spectre of conformity looms above Jonathan, its
antithesis, freedom, is what he seeks, but at every turn
some aspect of his past emerges to curb freedom. Family,
status, and the all-pervasive Company have repeatedly
216
influenced his behavior in such ways as to countermand his
affirmative instincts. Because of them his earnest desire
to "connect" has been stultified—every movement toward
communion has met with a stronger impulse to fend off close
ties. All his attempts to expose the estimable self within
liim have ended in a retreat to his former inscrutable nature.
And though he tries to act beneficently, he inevitably
reverts to some callous gesturej at one point, Jonathan
animatedly argues that Skid Row bums should receive finan
cial aid, especially since the Company once donated two
hundred thousand dollars to the Evidence of Human Soul
Society, yet he is perpetually ruthless toward his mis
tresses and friends. Furthermore, he detests his parents’
indulgences while he is indulgent to an extreme, and he
abhors power even as he uses it—two contradictions which
betoken his divided self.
Jonathan attaches himself to Karen in a desperate
move to find harmony in his chaotic existence. She appears
initially to be a wise choice of confidante. He gives his
notes to her (apparently he has kept a journal or else
wrote his thoughts and memories shortly before coming back
to the U.S.--at any rate, his observations may constitute
some of the novel’s episodes) because he wishes "to show
her something tangible from ray past to make her understand
it"—an obvious mark of his intent to share portions of
himself previously masked and thereby to offer his self
217completely. With her he feels no compulsion to hide the
ugly or bizarre, but with others he had feared "that some
incident from /his7 past /would/ destroy other people's
affection" for him. Something about Karen lures Jonathan
to full expression*
My impulse is not to speak or write, but to remain elusive, to present Karen with cartoons of my fears and sexual desires rather than my real ones. But her own elusiveness makes this impossible* she intimidates me into talking frankly.
This "elusiveness" is similar to Jonathan's; like
him, Karen yearns to be conquered on one hand while on the
other she insists upon a dominant role in their relationship.
Her fluctuation and Jonathan's prevent the two from loving
one another. In the beginning the prospects for love looked
promising; he experiences a freedom with Karen that he had
felt only once before and is therefore excited about the
possibility of intimacy with her.
I begin to feel that I could be loved for whatever I am, not for my actions or my appearance.Everything about me would be acceptable; everything would be a reflection of my central self.I'm sure there are aspects of my personality buried within me that will surface as soon as I know I am completely loved.
Their affair is doomed, however. Karen is too competitive;
she wants Jonathan to love her in order to give herself
power over him, yet she relentlessly beats down her own
inclination to love him in return. Love is what Jonathan
needs and he wants proof of Karen's devotion, but she
resists commitment. He tries to convince her that neither
218
fate nor time nor money nor the past controls them, that
they are free to be and do as they wish. It isn’t true, of
course. Karen has her own tormented past and a design for
the future that doesn't include Jonathan, Jonathan cannot
shake his history either. Star-crossed lovers they are not.
Resemblances between the two are remarkable, the
nature of their similarities explains why they cannot
achieve union. Jonathan notes» "I could never love some
one who despised herself, nor could I respect anyone who
didn't share my perception of myself." Karen fits both
categories, She refuses to accept Jonathan on his own
terms, yet she cannot dismiss him outright because for a
while he challenges her self-concept.
Karen always chooses men with the power to destroy her, unless she feels threatened, she becomes so bored that she leaves. She vacillates between seeing herself as the predator and as the prey.
Like Jonathan, she hopes in part to be subdued by her part
ner, in part to defeat him. She alternatingly flirts with
and repulses him, when she is responsive, Jonathan takes
the initiative only to trigger an opposite reaction—she
turns cold and her resistance "sets off explosions" in
Jonathan such that he feels "totally vulnerable." They
never meet on a happy middle ground.
Karen claims that Jonathan's "biggest hang-ups" are
his "lack of spontaneity," "steadiness," and "unyielding
self-control," "as though she weren't the most self-
219
controlled woman I had ever met." Indeed, he recognizes
that Karen "had no spontaneity, no imagination. She seemed
imperturbable, as if she existed in a vacuum," and further
more, "she had infected me. I had already begun to exist
with the same deadness, the same unwillingness to react."
Clearly, Jonathan's confidence in Karen had been misplaced:
instead of allowing his whole being to shine through, she
served only to close him up more tightly.
For Jonathan, Karen represented a path to freedom
never made manifest, but he knew beforehand the perils of
the journey. Earlier he admitted he felt free "only when
completely independent." This meant independence from
others, an almost automatic distancing especially of those
who assumed familiarity with him because of his social
renown: "when people claim to know who I am, I can no longer
act freely." Members of his encounter group did this—judg
ing him solely by his appearance—and Anthony, formerly his
father's valet, does much the same. Anthony tells Jonathan
that he envies the latter's freedom—"meaning money"—and
Jonathan quickly explains,
. • . the freedom I have always desired has nothing to do with being able to travel or with surrendering responsibility: it means not being afraid, not disguising myself and not performing, not structuring my feelings to gain another’s approval.
The road to true freedom is thus blocked by men and
women who can't see past Jonathan's exterior and, more
specifically, by the heritage that has given him that
220exterior. His roots are planted in monied soil, money
breeds power and power, in Jonathan’s case at least, neces
sitates a loss of freedom. The industrial state which gave
birth to Jonathan has a strangle hold on him, he can’t flee
or deny it, and as a consequence his future is severely
limited. This conflict between a disordered past and pros
pects for the future is actually the central dilemma in
Jonathan's life. All that the past encompasses—insensible
parents, failed romances, shiftless wandering, aborted
flings with drugs and sex, obligations to the Company—
block the way to an uncomplicated, self-fulfilling life.
Kosinski explains the problem by saying that
Jonathan fails to see himself as an "event"—which trans
lates roughly to "individual." He has no individuality
because his being has been defined by things outside him
self and he cannot shake them. The environment surrounding
him—his roots—is meaningless to him, without a meaningful
source from which to branch out, he is condemned to fail at
every gesture toward self definition, and
. . . because of the absence of knowing exactly who he is, because of the inability to know who the others are, because of being incapable of creating a lasting and meaningful relationship of any kind, either with his own past, or with his future. . .28
he resorts to game playing. Such games are postponements
or blinds to the development of a sound sense of self.
28Cahill, (Interview), p. 60.
221Ultimately Jonathan abandons his potential eventfulness
altogether and accepts the image imposed upon him.
James Hutchinson locates the instant of capitulation
in the scene where Jonathan is arrested at the deserted
family mansion in Pittsburgh. Jonathan had picked up a
Negress in a bar and took her to the house. There he sifts
through old letters, some of them written to him by his
father, others to the senior Whalen from various notables
(including the President of the United States); he wanders
about the rooms, taking in the now unused furniture and the
wall hangings, all of them bringing back memories of his
childhood; a yearbook and a photograph album recall the
days before his disillusionment. Obviously, this nostalgic
trip was meant as an effort, perhaps a final one, to reclaim
his origins.. It is interrupted by the police who arrest him
and the girl for trespassing. They are about to take them
away when Jonathan threatens to phone the mayor, & family
friend. "At this crucial moment," says Hutchinson, Jon
athan "gives up his quest of the self. He gives in to the 'trust* of his father."2? This means, in essence, that
Jonathan has used his father's influence (which is his
inheritance) to escape a difficult situation. Rather than
rely upon his self, he chooses the easier method—he
exercises the power granted him by his name. In other
29james Hutchinson, "Authentic Existence and the Puritan Ethic," University of Denver Quarterly, 19 (April 1973), P.TW;
222words, though Jonathan wished to deny his birthright, he
turned to it naturally when put to the test.
When one succumbs to external forces, admits to being
a mere number in an impersonal world, he becomes a victim of
that world, but he also becomes an aggressor and is there
fore dangerous. Vengeance upon those familial and societal
instruments which have hindered self-discovery, upon the
Establishment that has made such discovery insuperable, is30the only possible act "in the service of authentic being.
Thus, Jonathan seeks revenge against his father, the Company,
and all else that has prevented him from being his own event.
He selects the Howraets, old family friends closely linked
with the Company, as his target. He escorts them to a
remote coastal region off the Indian Ocean, then to a sandbar
well off shore where they will presumably picnic. After see
ing to their comfort, he dons skin diving equipment, sets
their boat adrift, and leaves them to the mercy of an incom
ing tide. In murdering them he vicariously kills his father,
his roots, and everything the Howmet's symbolize. Shortly
thereafter, Jonathan takes illi the novel concludes with
him recuperating (or dying?) in a Geneva clinic. It is as
3°Hutchinson, "Authentic Existence and the Puritan Ethic," p. 104-.
223
though he has finally relinquished himself to his destiny. 31
The significance of The Devil Tree is tied to the
symbolic meaning of the tree itself, but just what the
baobab tree connotes is ambiguous—it appears to have
several plausible meanings. Its only reference in the novel
is a brief one. While Jonathan and Mr. Howmet eat breakfast
before their fateful trip to the sandbar, Jonathan points to
a baobab in the garden.
The native calls the baobab "the devil tree" because he claims that the devil, getting tangled in its branches, punished the tree by reversing it. To the native, the roots are branches now, and the branches are roots. To ensure that there would be no more baobabs, the devil destroyed all the young ones. That's why, the native says, there are only full-grown baobab trees left.
Nothing more is said of the baobab, but coming as it does
just prior to Jonathan's murderous action suggests that
Jonathan finds it a token a propos of his own private hell.
Jonathan, too, is entangled in roots and branches.
Like a painted bird, he expects (or should have expected)
sustenance from his own kind, his privileged circumstances
^Hutchinson, again, interprets Jonathan's sickness as "mythological"»
"A culture's myths impose archetypal limitations upon the authenticity of self. Stultified by the collective consciousness, man longs for self-identification, a measure of dignity, a definition for 'me.' Such a longing becomes the 'prelude to recovery.' Why then, one ponders, does the hope of change 'tire' man? The weight of myth perhaps has become too overpowering as it settles on his chest« he is exhausted by his efforts to discover authenticity amidst the unauthentic conditions of culture.
224
offer him the chance to spread his wings. But these roots
actually work to cut him off from growth; they are twisted
and become noxious. Jonathan’s world turns topsy-turvy
until all his anticipations are thwarted. He finds himself
adrift and alone in a chaotic place, incompatible with his culture and with authentic existence.32 Success, which was
his by reason of birth, proves hollow; power, he discerns,
contains the seeds of its own corruption; the values with
which he was raised are shown to be distorted; and the
American Dream gets muddled and dark as a nightmare.
By implication, many young people have faced and
will face the same shock. They, too, will become aware of
a sterility they hadn’t foreseen and a standard they cannot
live up to nor emulate. Their fathers, who constructed an
industrial society they felt was the epitome of human
achievement, expect their children to push forward toward
greater heights; the new generations, however, feel they
are incapable of advancing a society that has already been
created and which has begun to come apart at the seams.
And this is another predicament of the societal devil tree. How does a child fulfill the trust of the parents if the periods are separated by profound changes in society in which the very notion of the trust is changed? I mean trust morally speaking, even. And in a protestant society particularly, how does a child match the vested energy of the parents who went very often into the empty countryside and populated the countryside with chimneys and skyscrapers and businesses, when the
32Hutchinson, p. 113.
225child is already born into this jungle? The very idea that the child is supposed to do better than the parent can be metaphysically and sociologically a tragic idea. It implies somehow a cumulative power which grows with generations, while one could argue that it is the very opposite. Such power diminishes, it gets diluted in a large collective process in which the individual matters less and less and less.33
The youth of America have not been given the opportunity to
contribute to society's making: rather, they have been held
at a distance from the reality of the social network.
The young person is growing into society, yet he is kept really outside of the society into which he is growing. ... He is kept within a peculiar dimension in which his roots are not really brought into practice. The schools are not emphasizing tradition, history, heritage or family origins. As if they are not important and may be safely discarded. At the same time schools are not moving into another dimension of values. So there's a strange and a very curious way in which young people are emotionally retarded. They may be intellectually trained, but they are ill equipped emotionally to confront the turbulence of modern society. They are removed from the source of emotional turmoil which is functioning within the industrial society. . . .To me, this is one of the reasons why so many young people turned to drugs, to reinforce themselves, to create some sort of stimulus from within in order to make up for their inability to function from without. They felt that they were not equipped emotionally, and therefore they needed an injection of strength: and some of them took to drugs to provide this misleading reinforcing element.34
Jonathan is one of these floundering youths. He can
not "engage . . . complex issues" nor "confront his own
self." He is "a wealthy American who rejects the history
imposed on him—that is, the life of responsible action in
^•^Cahill, (Interview), p. 58.
^Ibid.. p. 63.
226
the whole corporate web of social reality." He "cannot
embrace heavy industry as the spiritual origin of /his7 development,"33 and therefore finds it infeasible to locate
some basis for his existence, some aim for his life. Like
other young people, Jonathan has not acquired the knowledge
nor the tools with which to understand a world so fantas
tically convoluted that it defies comprehension, a world so
packed with social, economic, and political stresses that
one is dispossessed of purpose, of direction.
Jonathan Whalen functions in a highly schizoid environment, an increasing pressure we all feel.Life loses meaning. It neither terrifies us nor pleases us. We are in a strange limbo of growing indifference not because of ideological reasons— because simply it would take too much energy to understand the chaos of our times.3o
The Company—to one reviewer, at least, the villain
of the piece—is an apt metaphor for the jumbled complexi
ties of modern life. It is too vast for any one man to
comprehend. So large and complicated is it, in fact, that
it has lost sight of its own center; it has gotten out of
hand, broken contacts with its origins, disenfranchised its
supporters. The devil is in its works, so to speak»
frustration, alienation, and suppression are its products.
From here it is a short step to reach the Marxist
conclusion that capitalism is under indictment in The Devil
33Cahill, p. 63.36Ibld., p. 62.
227
Tree. Thomas Edwards, in support of this thesis, proposes
that the novel is "about the materials of contemporary
'alienation,* the stuff our culture offers to replace an authentic sense of self."^7 Jonathan, he says, exploits
these materials but they "give him no pleasure. As a
capitalist, he recognizes the world as his product and finds
it dreadful."
Presumably Kosinski is thinking about how the "legitimate" political-economic order, founded on aggression, declines into the petty violence of postcapitalist reality, where the heirs, bored by the indulgences of material freedom, re-enact the acquisitive experience in more visibly and literally destructive ways, all in the name of "self- realization. "3°
The Devil Tree does depict many evils in the American
culture, but though capitalist society may be suspect in
Kosinski’s view, his novel is not a diatribe in the Marxist
manner. However, Kosinski plainly indicates that something
in the American experience has backfired in the twentieth
century. That something he identifies as the Protestant
Ethic.
Throughout The Devil Tree Kosinski alludes to those
qualities that are reputedly the special property of Ameri-
Ciins. Since its inception, the story goes, America has bred
a tough strain of men who could overcome adversity with
inventiveness and determination. Always skillful and clever,
37Thomas Edwards, Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Review of Books. 22 March 1973, P« 29«
38lbid.
228
they harnessed energy and brought nature to its knees
through honest labor and God’s good graces. No American
could resist the challenge of the New World nor the tempta
tion to strive on toward more illustrious conquests. Ambi
tion, fortitude, a strong shoulder, a glorious destiny—
these have been the traits governing the American character.
It is a marvelous myth that has remained intact to the
present day. It is essentially an outgrowth of the Puritan
spirit, a spirit so infused in this country that it has
become "the American way" and will not likely be replaced.
As might be expected, Kosinski has a jaundiced view
of this heritage: he’s suspicious of its long-range effects,
recognizes its fallacies, and, with beautiful irony, points
up its most ludicrous results. Fair cities with gold-paved
streets are seen here as masses of concrete and steel,
populated by impersonal if not brutal citizens, all of them
fixated by profit margins. The novel is studded with
industrious characters, not the least of whom is Mr.
Macauley, a man intensely proud of his office with all its
sophisticated electronic equipment—so sophisticated, in
fact, it seems inhuman, frightening. Mr. Whalen himself
epitomizes the rags-to-riches urchin who, with the most
admirable intentions and the sweat of his brow (and quite
a bit of cash) makes good in true Horatio Alger fashion.
Even Mrs. Whalen is shown to be the product of an hier
archical society oriented to the perpetuation of big business.
229In a brilliant, all-too-brief vignette, Kosinski satirizes
the typical sentiments of upper class snobs: during his
visit to the Pittsburgh mansion, Jonathan unearths his
mother’s yearbook from the Samuel Tewk Upper School for Girls.39 Behind the yearbook he finds a prize-winning essay
Mrs. Whalen wrote prior to graduation. A portion of it
reads:
Searching for a stage on which to enact the drama of free enterprise, American industry has evolved an architecture unique in the history of mankind: these magnificent towers of glass are the very soul of Homo Amerioanus. Yet once he has erected such noble structures, he still perseveres, never satisfied, never stopping to enjoy the fruits of his labors. These buildings are America’s greatest contribution to art, a monument to its restless energy.
"Never satisfied, never stopping to enjoy the fruits of his
labor" perhaps best describes the folly or the sickness of
Americans. The struggle for survival or enhancement of
one’s position is a valid, commendable effort, but never to
rest from labors, never to relish one’s accomplishments, is
3^The real Samuel Tewk was an early nineteenth century reformer who altered the existing treatment of the mentally ill. Disturbed persons were beaten and handled callously because the evil spirits in them had to be expelled.
"But what we need to do, Tewk believed, is to make the afflicted people function socially in an acceptable way so that they will not upset those who are not mentally ill. And therefore he was hailed as a very humane philosopher, since he did away with the cruelty. Now the mentally afflicted were to be trained how to behave at tea parties» and they were taken to church, and then dressed the way everyone else was dressed, so no one would recognize them as being mentally ill. Of course the pain they suffered, and the anguish of the mentally ill remained their private
230foolish, wasteful, ridiculous, it cannot help but drive a
man to an early grave. And for what? What does he gain
from his enterprises?
Jonathan realizes that the Homo Americanus his mother
venerates is an imprisoned animal trapped by his own tire
less energy. When speaking to a Company representative, he
is informed that of the candidates "interviewed for an
important executive spot". . .
More than forty percent complained of heart palpitation, tension, breathing difficulties or headaches. We established that close to ninety percent of these otherwise outstanding businessmen had psychic complaints which included anxiety, insomnia, depression, forgetfulness, sweating and ulcers.
Jonathan suggests the Company hire Peruvian Indians» "They
never develop ulcers."
"Peruvian Indians?""Yes. But, apparently they lack ambition,
don’t compete, and don’t plan ahead.""Jonathan, it’s too bad but we have people
like that right here in this country. All on welfare."
property, so to speak. We, presumably the healthy ones, were not supposed to be disturbed by the presence of those whose universe was so different from ours."
(Cahill, pp. 62-63.)Tewk’s method is significant in that it parallels society's determination to force conformity upon the masses even if the coercive measures taken to accomplish this feat are cruel and misguided. Moreover, it suggests that nonconformists—the Jonathan Whalens of the world—must be brought into line with agreed-upon national goals, codes.of behavior, and the like. Finally, Mrs. Whalen in an example of the kind of person so saturated with heady ideals that she mechanically mouths the platitudes passed on to her by her parents, her teachers, and history books. Eventually, Jonathan, too, falls victim to this "madness." If a single
231Yet Jonathan, despite his awareness and his rejection
of Homo Americanus values, is condemned to be one of their
number. Having fought the Establishment and lost, he finally
submits to it—at least, with half a heart. In an agoniz
ing formal ceremony, Jonathan is inducted into the Brother
hood of an unnamed professional Order.
Whalen was acutely aware that he had let himself get caught in an irreversible process. Only now did he understand what Susan once said to Karen,"Of all mammals, only a human being can say ’no,*A cow cannot imagine itself apart from the herd.That’s why one cow is like any other. To say ’yes* is to follow the mass, to do what is commonly expected. To say ’no’ is to deny the crowd, to be set apart, to reaffirm yourself."
The Secretary reached the lecturn, caught his breath, and then in a trembling voice intoned,
"Every association of men with common objectives should set itself certain goals which its members hope to attain through the strength of their mutual sympathy and fellowship. We have declared the following to be the aims of this Order: to foster the high ideals of manly character and achievement, to improve our character through intellectual pursuits, and to unite ourselves in lasting friendship and loyalty.
"But in the enthusiasm of our striving we must not forget that the individual comes first along with his virtues, honorable ambition, fair speech, pure thoughts, and straightforward action."
The stated goals are in direct contrast to the actual per
formances of the Brotherhood’s members and they surely do
reason for this submission need be chosen, it might be, as Stanley Kauffmann recommends, that Jonathan, in spite of his ambivalence toward power, is unwilling to forsake it.
"For Whalen, psychic isolation is complicated by, caused by, the fact that he is not merely rich, he is a world master who has not earned his mastery, who has only contempt for the systems that produced his power, who is not absolutely certain that he likes his power, but is absolutely certain that he would not give it up." (p. 437
232
not conform to Jonathan's personal values, yet he rises and
makes
i; covenant with the Brothers of this Order present and absent to obey the constitution, traditions and bylaws of this Order and to forward in every way within my power the objectives and aims for which it exists. So help me God.
He then proceeds to murder Mr. and Mrs. Howmet.
The baobab can be seen as Kosinski*s image for a contradictory modern condition» the Protestant ethic, once the source of both material impulse and spiritual assurance, has been turned upside down. The branches (the fortunes that have been acquired) are now buried treasure, no longer flaunted, the roots, the moral-divine justification for having acquired the treasure, are now waving in the air, unnourished. Whalen, the heir of the high Protestant ages, has inherited wealth but no conviction of its sanctity, the money without the assurance of moral worth that once went with it.40
Within the Protestant ethos, because of the constant stress on action and on societal aspects, the element of individual expression is always questionable. To what degree is an individual experience a valid experience? Hence our constant stress on autobiography, our attempt to dismiss the imagination and to ground the experience as narrated, as having actually taken place in a specific environment, to ground it in an acceptable mode of events. Therefore, Whalen's conflict begins when he begins to see himself as an event. His father would never say that, his father would say "I consider an event what affects thousands of people. When it affects me it is of no importance, therefore, my own son is not an event to me. The events are the children of my workers, of people who are not even my workers." This is the tragedy of Jonathan, that he's born into the society which in some way is promiscuous enough within its Protestant tolerance to allow him to consider himself an event, without any mercy given to the pursuit of one's self as a meaningful event.211 * 4
4¿Kauffmann, (World), p. 43,
4lCahill, (Interview), p. 60.
233
Jonathan’s pursuit of his own self is eventually abandoned
because he has not been allowed to define himself in his
own fashion. Neither his actions nor his words have been
taken a.s designations of his private, distinct being»
instead, they have been interpreted within his total social
context, as expressions of the collective which gave him
birth. His "imagination has never been allowed to emerge 42as a meaningful way of communicating." Thus, "the only
avenue left to the definition of the self, and the only43avenue left to self expression has been really blocked." J
Not only Jonathan but the entire society—the tree,
as it were—will suffer from this closed-mindedness, this
cramped freedom.
It is the society on which a terrible punishment is being inflicted, because the society needs—we all do—we need Whalens. ... If the society is going to destroy the young ones, and only the full- grown Baobabs will be left, then we are in trouble, because then we, very much like Whalen, are at the mercy of forces which are not of "today." Then we would be strangled by the roots of the past which have nothing to do with our branching out into the contemporary society.44
We began this investigation of The Devil Tree with
an implicit query« does this novel signal a loss of Kosin
ski's powers as an author? The answer, I trust, is clear.
^Cahill, (Interview), p. 61.
^Ibid.
^Ibid., p. 64.
i : 234No, Kosinski has not lost contact with the relevant themes
which typified his earlier works. If he strayed somewhat
from the inventive, careful, tersely worded language of his
original fictional creations, he has not, at least, abdi
cated his position as one of this country’s foremost inter
preters of the human condition. The novel is abundant with
the kinds of people and the kinds of problems well known to
us all, but seen here in a new light, perhaps even for the
first time. By that I mean that although we know these
creatures and dilemmas exist, we are not truly aware of them
until they are presented in such a way as to force our real
perception of them. Unlike the confession magazine approach
to life’s mysteries, which clouds them over or solves them
simplistically, Kosinski delves to the roots of the predica
ment and invites us to join him in the search for meaningful
answers—or, at the minimum, for an understanding of the
actual causes and effects of contemporary quandaries.
Therefore The Devil Tree takes its place alongside
The Painted Bird. Steps, and Being There as a response to
that popular brand of fiction which cheats us of insight to
ourselves, to others, and to our environment. It offers
not the paltry entertainments of an aimless hour, nor the
pleasantries that separate us from real experience, but
plunges us headlong into our deepest selves, there to dis
cover our own relationship to ourselves and to the world
about us. Less gripping than The Painted Bird, not as
235technically sound as Steps nor as imaginative, perhaps, as
Being There, it is nonetheless an intelligent work replete
with examples of the genius that typifies all of Kosinski's
writings. Certain episodes lack the dramatic power and con
cision of, say, the best scenes in The Painted Bird, and
unlike the Kosinski of Steps, the author here exposes the
underpinnings of his protagonist’s psyche, thereby making
him far more accessible than the narrator, whom he resembles
in numerous respects. Literary style in The Devil Tree is
also less impressive than in the earlier volumes, but it is
not nearly as monumental a disappointment as some reviewers
would have us believe. Despite its flaws, with his fourth
novel Kosinski has again done a service to serious readers,
and again proven that he has much to say of consequence.
In these terms, The Devil Tree is assuredly a success.
CHAPTER VI, CONCLUSION
"A man who is more aware of himself and of his environment is by the very nature of the awareness more human. The more human he is, the better for all of us . , . . The more I understand myself . . • the more at peace I am with myself .... And I think this is the ultimate belief, that the act of awareness, the act of experienc ing oneself in a process in which one can state certain things about oneself and one’s connection with reality is a profoundly human process.”
Jerzy Kosinski
257
One would be ill-advised to estimate Jerzy Kosinski’s
worth as a contemporary novelist without first considering
major aspects of his biography. No attempt will be made
here to repeat in full the significant biographical informa
tion addressed above, but it must be remembered that the
author’s childhood experiences in Nazi-occupied Poland, his
eventual involvement in the Soviet bloc, and later his
encounters on American soil have all had a marked influence
upon his fictional performances. It is expected, of course,
that a writer’s personal history will surface in his liter
ary pursuits, but in Kosinski’s case the ties between biog
raphy and fiction are uncommonly close. Events from his
youth not only appear, imaginatively transformed, in the
pages of at least two of his novels, but they also inform
his adult philosophical outlook, several years under com
munist rule led to an analysis of the Soviet state in two
non-fiction works, both of which accented the author’s
growing concern for man’s place in an environment he found
rapidly deteriorating to a condition antithetical to normal,
healthy human development—these volumes established Kosin
ski’s vision, his later fictional style, and his principal
themes, exposure to American culture fostered the double
view insinuated into his last two novels particularly—the
view of a foreigner trained in Marxism and European thought
who becomes an American by choice, acquaints himself with
238
its life style, and thus attains a relatively rare perspec
tive on habits of mind and practice dominating this con
tinent.
It is important to recall Kosinski’s background
when estimating the worth of his achievement as an artist
not simply because it explains the origin of his themes
and attitudes, but because he has had the strength to sur
vive tremendous difficulties, the courage to face the
ugliest realities our world has had to offer, and the moral
fortitude necessary to see some hope for the future amidst
a portentous present. Perhaps in a hierarchy of critical
values these facts of Kosinski’s spirit are his greatest
claim to literary eminence. Pew authors have suffered as
deeply as has Kosinski and of them far fewer have mustered
the power to see beyond life’s sordidness to the prospect
’of an improved human condition. This fundamental optimism,
given the circumstances of his history, is indeed unusual
and is a tribute both to the man and to his artistry.
At first glance Kosinski's novels seem anything but
optimistic. They exhibit man at his cruelest and societies
at their lowest ebb; they are saturated with violent acts
of every imaginable sort and do not blink from the grossest
psychological torments. Like Kafka, Kosinski risks .the
abyss of absurdity, and like Conrad, he intrudes upon the
heart of darkness, yet throughout each novel there is an
implicit revulsion against the immoralities and obscenities,
239
the coarse actions related. In the themes and motifs which
appear consistently from novel to novel, and in the language
employed, likewise essentially of the same cut in all four
works, Kosinski searches for a voice with which to awaken
his readers, and always his message emerges clearly from
the depths, the need for "visibility" and understanding.
The Painted Bird serves as an excellent starting
point for a review of Kosinski’s thematic predilections
since, as his initial fictive creation, it introduces or at
least hints at every major concern with which he deals in
subsequent efforts. Of prime importance is the painted bird
image itself. That image effectively stresses the dilemma
confronting all of the author’s protagonists, whether to
assert one’s independence at the risk of isolation, or to
conform to flock specifications in order to gain acceptance
and security and love. There is little opportunity for
choice on the boy’s part because of his coloring: in the
earliest days of his adventures he feverishly desires com
munion with his fellow villagers, but his physical features
mark him an outcast and as such he remains. Literally forced
upon his own reserves for survival, he naturally develops a
keen sense of self as well as a severe umbrage toward his
persecutors. He gradually reacts with increased ferocity
to successive violations of his person, yet even while
describing the boy’s and the peasants’ most savage acts,
Kosinski decries the necessity for them: such barbarous,
240
inhuman behavior should not be the response between man and
man, no matter what their differences.
How, exactly, can we surmise that Kosinski’s depic
tion here of cruelty and humiliation is ultimately meant to
portray something inherently good in human nature? I defer
on this topic to Chayym Zeldis’ eloquent defense of the author’s altruistic intentions.1 Mr. Zeldis begins by
noting Kosinski’s
profound regard for the truth of life as it happens and as it is experienced. With awesome courage, the author describes events not only as they were but as the child-hero felt them to be.Nothing of the truth is spared, neither truth of the outer world nor truth of the mind.
Indeed, the novelist does not blench from reporting the
crudest details of human degradation, his novel is laden
with scenes of torture, defilement, sexual violation and
perversion, all of which signify a world polluted by wicked
ness, unsuitable for life, and one that, seemingly, neces
sitates mankind’s perpetual "sliding back into the slime of
brutish nature."
Yet it is a novel of the triumph of the human spirit over the bestial, the blind, the absurd.The thunder of its evil is counterbalanced at every point by the magnificent human music of the author’s soul.
How so? Because Kosinski’s small boy is able
to bear his suffering. It is not that he accepts it, that is, that he accepts the fact
1In the following paragraphs Mr. Zeldis* remarks.are paraphrased, expanded, or quoted directly. Chayym Zeldis, Rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Jewish Frontier. 6 March 19^7, pp.22-26.
241
that the suffering must be—for he is always trying to find an explanation for it, a way out of it, an end to it—but that he accepts the fact that it is. His strength goes, therefore, not into denying it but into carrying its terrible weight.
From start to finish the boy is beset by a multitude
of tragedies, but as each presents itself he attempts first
to put it into a rational scheme so as to justify its
existence; thus he adopts the tenets of superstition to
explain the peculiar attitude his peasant neighbors reserve
for him, honors the inherent supremacy of the Aryan race
and accepts his own foul blackness, believes the Evil Ones
have bought his soul and made him despicable. Failing
explanation, he seeks escape. Often this takes the form
of a mental metamorphosis in which he fancies himself a
grasshopper or squirrel or bull capable of flight. And,
too, the boy wishes he did not have to behold the atrocities
committed both upon others and himself; the very tone of his
description of Ludmila’s murder, the Kalmuk’s pillage, and
his own maltreatment by Garbos speak to a genuine anxiety,
an appeal for the return of normalcy.
He knows he does not want and does not deserve the pain and the suffering that are his lot; nor does he want others to incur them. His views— staggering in their nakedness and simplicity—of the ghastly scenes he witnesses are a profound testimony to his compassion and sorrow.
These ghastly scenes, as horrifying in their explicit
ness as any in the entire corpus of literature, leave their
mark upon the boy, yet though they warp his assessment of
242
mankind, he struggles to understand their cause: "pos
sessed of fantastic strength and awareness," he "questions—
as did Job. Why should it be? He questions—and in the
questioning is the revolt." Time and again the boy ponders
why he has been singled out for abuse, why he is seldom
comforted, why dark-haired people are scorned, and at one
point he believes he might be able to cure all the world's
ills as he knew them—by inventing a magic fuse that would
transform all dark-colored races to the purer fair-skinned,
blue-eyed ones. Some powerful inner force obviously works
to combat what would ordinarily crush a lesser being: a
vigorous will, perhaps, infuses this "supremely tried human
spirit which does not surrender, neither to death, nor to
insanity, nor to the evil that stalks it every inch of the
way."
The same must be said about Kosinski, for the boy's
story is, in essence, Kosinski’s own. Like his fictive
creation, he has seen and endured much, and to face his
ordeals squarely, to be honest with himself, to keep alive
his sanity, he has had to picture minutely the reality of
his experience. The scene he draws in The Painted Bird and
elsewhere is a landscape of horror, and we, as readers, are
compelled to view it along with him. Together we are
repulsed by what we see and strive to deny it, but if ever
we are to cope with the nether side of humankind, we must
first recognize what we are, admit to the bestial in us,
243
then do our best to understand and ultimately, we hope, to
correct our faults. This confrontation with the worst our
selves contain, that part of our selves we often insist is
nonexistent, is the most difficult but essential step
toward awareness—and awareness is one of Kosinski’s per
sonal goals as well as the final object of his art.
Before pursuing the subject of awareness, I think it
best to continue a review of patterns and attitudes dis
played in The Painted Bird and to correlate them with their
appearances in the remaining novels. Most prominent of
Kosinski’s concerns are the self—which holds a central
position in all his work—and the analysis of modern society
as a whole, from both of which issue the motifs of meta
morphosis and speechlessness.
An embryonic self—the boy’s—is seen passing
through various stages of development from its initial purity
to its final corrosion. The boy begins as a loving child,
responsive to nature, eager to learn and to please, obedient,
and unsuspecting of the duplicity in others’ hearts. He
soon discovers, however, that his self is perpetually and
unreasonably besieged simply because he has alien features.
It does him no good to plead his innocence: he is indelibly
branded an outcast. Afforded no alternative, he studies,
then imitates, the behavior of his oppressors in order to
survive. To preserve the sanctity of his self, which he
knows is precious, he erects a barrier between it and whatever
244
or whoever assails his being. This barrier is a natural
defense against unwarranted assaults, but it operates as an
offensive weapon as well, from it he strikes back at the
•’predators" who beleaguer him and even those who do not,
thereby evolving into the same sort of hate-filled, blindly
prejudiced soul as that which typifies his enemies. Result*
a self closed off, distrustful, uncommunicative, fearful of
love or any commitment that would render itself vulnerable,
shorn of spiritual vestments, skeptical of traditional
values, steeled by the greed and malignancy he has been
partner to, the boy risks becoming what he mdst detests—an
insulated, unwanted wanderer among men.
Kosinski’s message is transparent. A society of
spineless people, governed by a sovereign force—in this
instance, the Nazi regime and peasant superstition—to a
degree such that humane elements of character are subverted
and replaced by mindless adherence to authority, will never
willingly grant freedom of expression to one of its members
when that individual wishes to assert his uniqueness. The
collective will do its utmost to press everyone into the
mold. In this environment an intelligent being cannot
expand his self or let it develop naturally, instead, that
self must become cunning, deceitful, and eventually danger
ous—for the self which cannot give full vent to its
inclinations, the self constantly harassed by others and
buffeted by circumstance, will finally rebel. At the very
245
least, it will remain at odds with the society surrounding
it, perhaps feel compelled to combat it destructively; at
its worst, it may never reach its potential nor recognize
itself as a singular entity, an "event."
There is, however, an infusion of hope subtly inter
jected through the novel’s course. At all times the author
begs for an understanding of the human predicament; in the
person of his youthful protagonist, he asks that we become
aware of the guilt and hatred harbored in us and passed
along to our progeny, beseeches us to find harmony before
it is too late. The boy illustrates a lesson we might all
heedi that it is possible to find meaning even under
adverse circumstances, and possible, too, to maintain one’s
sanity and dignity. This lesson—the need for balance and
reason and compassion—is embodied directly in every one
of the boy’s experiences, but also symbolically in. his
peculiar relationship to speech. For a while he attempts
communication with man and the powers that be; repulsed in
these efforts, he loses his voice as if signifying defeat.
Yet, reassured by Mitka and Gavrila and later his parents
that some people do care about his welfare, he is reunited
with the mainstream of life. When he regains his speech,
he surmounts the alienation that has plagued him for years
and leaves himself open to a brighter future. If this
interpretation is valid, then surely Kosinski has meant us
to share the boy’s agonies only to emerge confident of our
2b6
own potential to transcend the ignoble in us.
But his examination of the tormented self does not
end with the boy's example. Kosinski pushes forward into
new realms of being, beginning with the portrait of a man
haunted by his obsession with self. Steps' narrator seems
a projection of the boy in Painted Bird. As with his
predecessor, life has dealt him so harsh a blow that he is
impelled to divorce himself from its source. He cannot
love nor give of himself in any way that would lay himself
open to restitution. Instead, he strives for the upper
hand in every relationship, seeking to affirm his dominance
and thereby to protect his self-concept from violation.
In the process, he evolves into a heartless, cruel indi
vidual: because of his insensitivity he is estranged from
everyone he meets and from the societies with which he
comes in contact. XAnother painted bird, of course, and the reasons
for his "differentness" are much the same as the boy's.
His physical features do not work against him, but he is
colored by the brutal realities he has seen—the political
and sexual perversion of people bent upon the accumulation
of power: by the propagandistic measures used in collective
societies to quash individualism: by others' refusal to
acknowledge his being. He finds these sub-human elements
universal: in Soviet Russia and its satellites, a dictator
ial government imposes strictures to free expression of any
2b7
sort, while in America a hidden, unobtrusive control over
the thoughts and opinions of its populace is exerted just
as effectively as that in a military state. Totalitarian
structures such as these do little to enhance one’s notion
of his own essence, rather, they bind the self, limit its
horizons, pound it into a shape suitable for manipulation.
In retaliation the narrator becomes an agent of dis
solution against society en masse and particular individuals
within it—and, ultimately, he himself disintegrates into a
pitiable creature. Blame can only be laid to societal
pressures—their unswerving attempts to eliminate anything
that smack3 of distinctness or deviation from regimented
norms. As he recalls his past (a potent force from which
he seeks deliverance), the origins of his final impotence
surface. In each recollected episode he wears a mask that
bespeaks his desire to try out his numerous selves, this
metamorphosis, like the boy’s, is sometimes geared to help
him escape perilous situations and at other times to cloak
his devious intentions. No matter what his motives, the
donning of disguises makes explicit the narrator’s ambiguous,
tenuous kinship with himself, with friends and mistresses,
and with the community as a whole.
Again Kosinski’s depiction of man and the modern
condition is a gloomy one unless one considers the narrator’s
circumstances in their entirety, the pervasive influence of
his personal history, the decay of community spirit, the
248
increasing separation of man from man, the totalitarian
mechanisms of mind control, the general corruption of tradi
tional values. Small wonder that the narrator or any man
in this age cannot easily locate meaning in the chaos
around him; he cannot call upon religious doctrine for
guidance, does not trust existing governments, and is not
allowed to cultivate his self as he wishes; one's responses
are limited to rebellion, extinction, or surrender to death-
in-life. Quite obviously, Kosinski abhors the situation he
reflects in Steps. It is to his credit that he dares fac
ing the horrors he knows are there, and even more so that,
through his central character, he makes us cognizant of
them, too. Kosinski's purpose, in Steps as in The Painted
Bird, is not to glory in evil but to censure it. While he
admires the fortitude of the boy and empathizes, perhaps,
with the narrator, he wishes that life eould be somehow
gentler, more conducive to varieties of ideas and life
styles so that there need never be persons like the boy
and the narrator. Far better, he says, to grant the co
existence qf unique identities than to pave the way for an
avalanche of personalities akin to his protagonists.
Identity is at least something the boy and narrator
possess; Chance has none whatsoever. He is the strangest
of Kosinski's painted birds because he takes his color,
chameleon-like, from an assortment of television per
formers. By adopting roles familiar to him through constant
249
exposure to network programing, he undergoes metamorphosis
of sorts, but in his case the stimulus to alter his being
is as much external as internal—though he literally changes
character to accommodate a given occasion, he is also made
to be anything others desire him to be. Either way, he has
no control of his self and is thus the antithesis of Kosin
ski’s other protagonists, but in choosing a non-self as
"hero,” Kosinski can train his sights on those aspects of
culture which forge the individual psyche.
Being There, then, focuses upon the overpowering
persuasiveness the television medium wields in this country.
Little is said or done that does not stem from television’symisconceptions or slanted presentations of "truth.’’ More
poignant, however, is the fact that everyone Chance meets
is so addicted to watching images that his perceptions of
reality are clouded. Nothing is seen as it really is.
Therefore, Chance is mistakenly thought to be something he
isn’t and is propelled, in true movie star fashion, to
overnight stardom. His projected image, totally unlike his
actual self, is all that is demanded of him, those who
"view" him are comforted by their spontaneous familiarity
with the "real" Chauncey Gardiner—they need go no further
to discover his self. The self, unacknowledged and power
less to an extreme, is thereby shown to be as frustrated
and misunderstood as the dynamic selves characterizing the
boy and narrator, and just as susceptible to intrusions
250
from without.
Kosinski pursues another, related subject in Being
There that was slightly less noticeable in his earlier fic
tion. I refer here to the concept of dasein—"being there"
in reality, a part of one's environment and an integral
factor of it. One's freedom to be what he is is relative
to his sense of place or sense of belonging. When an unan
ticipated event disturbs known reality, the self is thrown
off keel and finds itself in the midst of absurdity where
it must abandon its normal functions in order to endure.
Precisely this happens to Chance—he resorts to role-playing
to cope with new, befuddling contingencies: the boy fell
back upon his fantasies, Jonathan and the narrator adjusted
their personalities, shifting to alternate selves. The
point implied is that in the twentieth century, when the
unexpected is likely to happen—when authoritarian powers
urge us toward mindlessness and thus leave our selves
unprepared for novel experience—we cannot rely upon our
selves for preservation. Kosinski warns that unless we
shake free of artificial knowledge, unless we question the
reality presented to us, we may forfeit our very beings and
stand victimized by a societal energy which will not respect
nor tolerate individuality.
Such an energy has flourished unimpeded in America
for centuries—the so-called Protestant Ethic. Jonathan
Whalen is heir to its tenets? he is the culmination of its
251
objectives. His inheritance, however, is detrimental
because the ethos within which he functions proves sterile.
The money and status synonymous with the American Dream are
hollow entities that circumscribe his self; they encourage
a false image which he is incapable of vanquishing.
Jonathan essays to escape his roots and define himself
according to that essential nature—child-like in its trust
fulness, compassion, and sincerity—he knows lies buried
beneath a tough outer skin. All his attempts to be honest
with himself and others fall short; he simply cannot avoid
slipping into unauthentic roles while dealing with people
who judge him by his appearance, and when he earnestly
endeavors to bare his soul to Karen, she dismisses him.
Failing these efforts, he succumbs to the fraudulent char
acter foisted upon him—the wealthy, patriotic citizen, a
standard-bearer of his community, determined to oil the
business' machine.
The Devil Tree, then, probes still another form of
totalitarianism and its impact upon the individual. As it
"peels the gloss off the world" and its confused, half-
belligerent, half-penitent protagonist, this fourth novel
exposes the symptoms of putrefaction on all sidesi a
nation so absorbed in profits and mass welfare that it no
longer recognizes the single human unit and his wants; a
history of enterprise that has run away with itself, lost
its original justification and associated values; a community
252
that is a community no more, where an individual finds it
excessively onerous to communicate with anyone else and who
is not himself acknowledged as an unique being. To illus
trate his vision, Kosinski calls upon the same fictional
devices employed earlier. Again there is an outsider, a
painted bird divorced from its covey but soliciting read
mittance, one who masquerades in several guises while seek
ing his true self, again there is an exploration of the
past, a quest for causes and answers and understanding,
and once more we are privy to repeated examples of violence,
detachment, and grotesquery, all of them forming a backdrop
against which the tragedy of self is enacted. And here, as
always, Kosinski detests the hideousness he is constrained
to dramatize, he retreats from violence, criticizes those
cultural and societal standards that obscure the self’s
identity, and asks sympathy for the oppressed.
Kosinski’s fiction is uniform in its persistent
championing of the self, this compendium, though incomplete,
verifies that fact. His small but substantial canon is
replete with specimens of very real, identifiable selves
caught in the contemporary flux. The dilemmas he examines
befit an age that appears to have forgotten its foundations,
its former regard for individual rights has lapsed in the
wake of a frenzied chase after some amorphous utopian ideal.
Jonathan, Chance, the boy and the narrator are victims of
253
this frenzy—and so are we all to a degree we may not
realize.
A voice is required to shock us out of our lethargy—
the voice is the boy’s though he loses it, the narrator’s
though he feigns its loss, Chance’s though he can only
mumble idiocies, and Jonathan's though no one hears. It is
Kosinski’s voice to which we listen as he speaks of the
horrors we try to repudiate. In even tones he burrows into
our subconscious, there to expose the fears and ambitions
which somehow restrict us from full comprehension of our
selves and our fate as individuals or as members of a com
munity. His novels do not shirk from disclosing the sign
posts of impending doom, we see with him the growing iso
lation of the individual, one's inability to communicate
on any but the most superficial levels: we are witness to
the most heinous acts of which man is capable, acts that
are repeated with increasing regularity as the century
progresses: and we must watch while Kosinski unmasks one
autocratic institution after another, each of them desperate
for power to the detriment of the self.
The voice that braves such frightening vistas is one we would be wise to heed because the immediate future, *
given a continuance of current trends toward collectivity,
proffers a doleful promise—the annihilation of individual
ism. Kosinski cannot bear its actuality: he has seen the
fruition of communist/socialist doctrine and sees in America
254a comparable movement toward passivity and identification
with the mass consciousness. The unique self is being
steadily supplanted by flesh and blood robots unknowing of
their identities, subservient instead to the Idea of the
State, and cognizant only of their worth as promoters of
group-imposed ideals. This is a sin in Kosinski’s eyes—
the self’s freedom is negated. In defiance he pits his
protagonists against malevolent, tyrannical forces. The
fact that none of them wins out (except in the sense that
they endure) does not herald defeat; on the contrary, it
re-emphasizes man’s innate will to assert his individuality.
Kosinski’s "heroes" may not have been successful as social
reformers, but they did succeed in making themselves—for a
time at least—visible; they averred their respective
natures despite (or because of) pressures to conform. Their
combined efforts in the direction of self-definition and
their inquiry into the principles underlying our motives
and aspirations is a reflection of Kosinski’s entreaty that
we all take steps toward self-awareness; as a consolidated
venture we might not only find peace and fulfillment within
present social structures, but we might also institute a
course that leads forward to a kind of renaissance of
mankind.
This is neither too large nor too cheerful a con
clusion to draw from the author’s novels. Characteristics
255
of The Painted Bird referred to in this chapter---the search
after truth, the confrontation with self and environment,
the desire for joyousness and concord—apply to all of
Kosinski’s works and they point to a consistently hopeful
posture. As a body they address the preeminent affairs of
humanity with an eye toward understanding them and amending
their vulgar aspects,
The moral equipoise which Kosinski seeks is the ascendent step, a direction opposite from that which he fictionalizes, a new world in which the control, peace, and happiness of The Bhagavad Gita is restored to the life of man". 2
Aside from specific details of plot and tone, another
element contributes to the core optimism imbued in Kosinski’s
novels—the literary experience itself. On several occa
sions Kosinski has expounded on the value of literature as
a humanizing tool,
. » . the act of connecting the imagination of the reader with the imagination implicit in the language is . . . an attempt at the self, in this case the self which is reading. Hence any act of reading ... is an act of activating the projecting ability of the self. . . . the very act of perception is already humanizing, since it activates the profoundly human ability to project oneself into another situation. If I were to define the goals of the literary experience, this would be the ultimate goal—to make the man more aware of who he is, and of how eventful he is, since he is event to himself.
pDaniel Cahill, "Jerzy Kosinski, Retreat from Violence," Twentieth Century Literature, 18 (April, 1972), p. 130.
^Cahill, (Interview), pp. 65-66.
256The emphasis is on awareness—how fiction can "bring man
closer to what he is" by breaking down and expanding his
self-knowledge. Of course, the caliber of reading material
determines the level of awareness one might reach: Kosin
ski’s novels, unlike pulp fiction, certainly offer abundant
opportunities for soul-searching. In their offer of valid
insights to what is most human in us, they support his
"contention that life is the pursuit of awareness, that
men have a desperate need to understand one another and the
universe they inhabit."We all should find out what is
the source of what oppresses us, or what is the source of
what gives us joy, and confront it directly" so as to
come to terras more fully with our essences and the nature
of the world in which we function.
... a man more aware of himself is less of an animal. A lion or a mouse are not aware of who they are. A man who is more aware of himself and of his environment is by the very nature of the awareness more human. The more human he is, the better for all of us. The more human I am, the better for me. The more I understand myself,I think, the more at peace I am with myself, with my ultimate plight, the unfortunate death which somehow no author can escape, nor for that matter a reader. And I think this is the ultimate belief, that the act of awareness, the act of experiencing oneself in a process in which one can state certain things about oneself and one’s connection with reality is a profoundly human process. I remarked
Il .Paris Review, p. 206.^John RIcAleer, Rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski,
Best Sellers. 1 Nov. 1968, p. 316.^Cahill, (Interview), p. 57.
257
somewhere in the past that the animals react even to music but they do not react to the printed word. The principle of literature is a sublimely human principle. It activates the brain, and of course it utilizes the brain, and only the brain. And because of this,
literature carries "an implicit moral statement."' It pro
vides us a mirror to life and implores that we judge its
viability. Is it as good as it might be and are we effect
ing our potential for goodness?
The Painted Bird. Steps, Being There, and The Devil
Tree ask these questions and beseech us to answer them.
They furnish readers a graphic context with which they can
associate and a set of standards against which they might
test their own conceptions; they postulate not an absurd
world where nothing has purpose, but one which has an
order and meaning worthy of our continued quest for them.
In the end we owe a debt of gratitude to Kosinski for
sharpening our senses and leading us along the path to
recognition of our total existence. And finally, I believe,
we must join William Kennedy in this query and its implied
conclusion« "Who Here Doesn’t Know How Good Kosinski Is?"
7Cahill, (Interview), p. 59
260
A SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
I, Works by Kosinski
The Art of the Self« essays a propos Steps. New York« Scientia-Factum, I968.
Being There. New York« Harcourt, 1971«
"Children of TV," in Destination Tomorrow. Jack Carpenter, ed., Dubuque« Wm. C. Brown, 1973, PP. 327-328.
The Devil Tree. New York« Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973»
The Future is Ours, Comrade. Garden City, N.Y.» Doubleday, i960, published under pseudonym Joseph Novak/
"The Lone Wolf," American Scholar. (Autumn, 1972), pp. 513- 514, 516-519.
No Third Path. Garden City, N.Y.« Doubleday, 1962. published under pseudonym Joseph Novak/
Notes of the Author. New York« Scientia-Factum, 1965.
"Packaged Passion," American Scholar. (Spring, 1973), PP» 193-204.
The Painted Bird. Boston» Houghton Mifflin, 196$,
Steps. New York: Random House, 1968.
II. Articles. Reviews. Biography and Criticism
"Album From Auschwitz," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Times Literary Supplement. 8 May 1969, p. 481.
Aldridge, John W. "The Fabrication of a Culture Hero," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review,24 Apr. 1971, pp. 25-27.
Alter, Robert., rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 11 Feb. 1973, PP. 2-3.
iz Amory, Cleveland. "Trade Winds," Saturday Review, 17 Apr. 1971, PP. 16-17.
261
Anderson, Elliot, rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Chicago Tribune Book World."4 Mar. 1973, P. 5»
\/ Ascherson, Neal. "Chronicles of the Holocaust," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Review of Books, 1 June 19§7, PP. 23, 25.
Bailey, Paul. "’Stuff’ and Nonsense," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, London Magazine. May 1969, p. 112.
Barkham, John. "A Modern Morality Tale on Sterility of Hedonism," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Toledo Blade. 18 Feb. 1973» P. 5*
Bauke, Joseph P. "No Awakening From Nightmare," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review,13 Nov. 1965, p. 64.
Bell, Pearl K., rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Leader. 19 Feb. 1973, P» 17»
"Bird of Prey," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Time.18 Oct. 1968, p. 114.
Blumenfeld, F. Yorick. "Dark Dreams," rev, of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Newsweek. 21 Oct. 1968, pp.~l.04, 108.
Boyers, Robert. "Language and Reality in Kosinski’s Steps." Centennial Review, io (Winter 1972), pp. 41-61.
Broyard, Anatole. "The High Price of Profundity," rev. in Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times, 21 Apr, 1971, p7^5.
Cahill, Daniel. "The Devil Tree« An Interview with Jerzy Kosinski," North American Review. 258 (Spring 1973)» pp. 56-60.
______"Jerzy Kosinski« Retreat From Violence," Twentieth Century Literature. 18 (Apr. 1972), pp. 121-132.
Capitanchik, Maurice. "Private Lives," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Spectator. 9 May 1968, p. 621.
"Chance Encounters," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Times Literary Supplement. 11 June, 1971» p. 067.
Coale, Samuel. "The Quest for the Elusive Self« the Fiction of Jerzy Kosinski," Critique. 14 (1973)» PP* 25-37«
7 Coles, Robert. Harvard Educational Review. 37 (Summer 1967), , pp. 493-496.
262Compton, Neil. "Dream of Violence," rev. of The Painted
Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Commentary. June 1966?“pp. 92- 95.
J "The Conscience of the Writer," Publishers* Weekly, 22 Mar.( 1971. PP. 26-28.
Cooke, Michael. Yale Review. 61 (Summer 1972), pp. 603-604.
Davenport, Guy, rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, National Review. 8 Feb. 1966, pp. 119-120, 122.
De Feo, Ronald. "Two Disappointments, One Failure," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, National Review.16 Mar. 1973, PP. 322-323.
Delaney, Paul, rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 25 Apr. 1971» PP. 7» 58-59.
The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Publishers* Weekly. 11 Dec. 1972, p. 33.
Edwards, Thomas. "Jonathan, Benny, and Solitude," rev. in The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Review of Books. 22 Mar. 1973» P. 29.
\/ Evanier, David, rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Commonweal. 1 July 1966, pp. 422-423.
Felheim, Marvin. "The Haunted Edges of Consciousness," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Michigan Daily. 24 Nov. 1968, p. 6.
Field, Andrew. "The Butcher’s Helpers," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Book Week. 1? Oct. 19^5» PP. 2- 3, 26.
Finn, James. "A Rich Parable," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Republic. 26 June 1971» PP. 32-33.
Fremont-Smith, Eliot. "Log of Atrocities," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 21 Oct. I968, p. 45.
Furbank, P. N. "Fiction’s Feelingless Man," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, The Listener. 8 May 1969» P. 655»
Gardner, Marilyn, "a lifelong nobody and a would-be somey body," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Christian Science Monitor, 2? May 1971» P. 11.
263Garmel, Marion S. "Is Mr. Kosinski’s Hero a Savior With
Bluff?" rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, National Observer. 1? May 1971, p. 19.
Glaser, Alice. "Making It," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Book World, 3 Nov. 1968, p. 6.
Glassgold, Peter. "Taking a Bad Chance," rev. of BeingThere, by Jerzy Kosinski, Nation. 31 May 1971, PP. 699- 700.
Golden, Robert. "Violence and Art in Postwar AmericanLiterature» A Study of O’Connor, Kosinski, Hawkes, and P^nchon," Dissertation University of Rochester 1972. /Dissertation Abstracts International, 33 (1972), 3HA/
Gosling, Ray, rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, The Times (London), 20 May 1971, P. 7.
Halley, Anne. "Poor Boy Spreads His Wings," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Nation. 19 Nov. 19 ¿>5, pp. 424-426.
Harper, H. M. Jr, Contemporary Literature. 12 (Spring, 1971), PP. 213-2147'
Hicks, Granville. "Sadism and Light Hearts," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review. 19 Oct. 1968, p. 29.
Hislop, Alan, "Company Men," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Saturday Review of the Arts. Mar. 1973, pp. 70-71.
Howe, Irving. "From the Other Side of the Moon," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper * s„ Mar. 1969, pp. 102- 105.
. rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper’s. July 1971, p. 89.
Howes, Victor. "Under the Microscope» a Novel in Bits and Pieces," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Christian Science Monitor. 18 Apr. 1973» P. 11.
Hutchinson, James. "Authentic Existence and the PuritanEthic," University of Denver Quarterly. 19 (April 1973), pp. 106-114.
Ivsky, Oleg, rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Library Journal. 1 Oct. 1965, PP. 4109-4110.
Jackson, Katherine G., rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper’s. Nov. 1968, p. 160.
26b
\J "Jerzy Kosinski (Nikodem), 1933“»" Contemporary Authors.Vol..17-18. Detroit« Gale Research, 1967» PP« 2o9-270.
Jones, D. A. N. "Lean Creatures," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Review of Books. 27 Feb. 1969» pp. 16-18.
Jordan, Clive, rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Statesman. 9 May 1969, p. 666.
Kauffmann, Stanley. "A Double View," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, World, 27 Feb. 1973» PP. 42- 4JT46.
. "Out of the Fires," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Republic. 26 Oct. 1968, pp, 22, 41.
L/ Kennedy, William. "Who Here Doesn’t Know How Good Kosinski Is?" Look. 20 Apr. 1971» p. 12.
Kenner, Hugh. "Keys on a Ring," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 20 Oct. 1968,P. 5.
Kluger, Richard. "A Scapegoat in Need," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Harper’s. Oct. 1965» pp. 126, 12IP130.
Laie, Meta and J. Williams. "The Narrator of The Painted Bird« A Case Study," Renascence. 24 (Summer 1972), pp. 198-206.
Lehmann-Haupt, Christopher. "Bad By Design? Or Just Bad?" rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times. 13 Feb. 1973» p. 39.
McAleer, John, rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Best- Sellers. 1 Nov. 1968, p. 3I0.
Midwood, Barton, rev. of Being There. by Jerzy Kosinski, Esquire. Oct. 1971» P. ¿3.
Morgan, Edwin. "President Chance," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Listener. 10 June 1971» P. 760.
\/ Mount, Douglas N, "Authors and Editors," Publishers’Weekly. 26 Apr. 1971» PP. 13-16.
Mudrick, Marvin, rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Hudson Review. 21 (Winter 1968/l9o9)» P. 7o0.
265Rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Republic.
10 Mar. 1973, PP. 33-34.
Nichols, Lewis, rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. 31 Oct. 1965, P. 8.
Plimpton, George and R. Landesman. eds. "Jerzy Kosinski," Paris Review. 14 (Summer 1972), pp. 183-207. /interview/
Poore, Charles. "Things Like These Happen to People WeKnow," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review. l6 Oct. 1965, p. 25.
Prescott, Peter. "The Basis of Hoi'ror," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Newsweek. 19 Feb. 1973, PP« 5>86.
Pritchett, V. S. "Clowns," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Review of Books, 1 July 1971, P« 15«
Rayraont, Henry. "National Book Awards« The Winners," New York Times Book Review. 11 Mar. 1969, P. 42.
Richey, Clarence. "’Being There* and Dasein« A Note on the k Philosophical Presupposition Underlying the Novels of
Jerzy Kosinski," Notes on Contemporary Literature, 2 (Sept. 1972), pp. 13-15.
Rosenberg, Marc. Steps. Audio Cassette, Deland, Florida» Everett/Edwards, 1971.
Schaap, Dick. "Stepmother Tongue," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Herald Tribune Book Week,14 Nov. 1965, p. 6.
Sheppard, R. Z. "Playing It By Eye," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Time. 26 Apr. 1971, p. 73«
Skow, John. "Strike It Rich," rev. of The Devil Tree, by Jerzy Kosinski, Time. 19 Feb. 1973, P« 887
Stern, Daniel. "An Old World Evil Moves Westward," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Life. 6 Dec. 1968, p. 24.
_______ , "Candide in the Electronic Age," rev. of BeingThere, by Jerzy Kosinski, Life. 30 Apr. 1971, p. 14.
Tucker, Martin. "A Moralist’s Journey Into the Heart ofDarkness," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Commonweal. 29 Nov. 1968, pp. 319-320.
_______ , rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Commonweal.7 May 1971, PP« 221-223«
Updike, John. "Bombs Made Out of Leftovers," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, New Yorker, 25 Sept. 1971» pp. 132-134.
Waugh, Auberon, rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Spectator. 22 May 1971» p. 703.
Weales, Gerald. "Jerzy Kosinski« The Painted Bird and Other Disguises," Hollins Critic. 9 (Oct. 1972J» PP« 1-12.
Wedde, Ian, rev. of Being There. by Jerzy Kosinski, London Magazine. Oct./Nov. 1971» PP. 150-151.
Weinstein, Sharon R. "Comedy and Nightmare» The Fiction of John Hawkes, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Jerzy Kosinski, and Ralph Ellison," Dissertation Utah 1971. /Dissertation Abstracts International, 32 (1971)» 3336A_/
West, Paul. "Portrait of a Man Mooning," rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Book World. 3 Nov. 1968, p. 18.
Wiesel, Elie, "Everybody’s Victim," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, New York Times Book Review,31 Oct. 1965, PP. 5» 46.
Wolff, Geoffrey. "The Life of Chance," rev. of Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, Newsweek. 26 Apr. 1971, PP» 94-958.
Zeldis, Chayym, rev. of Steps, by Jerzy Kosinski, Book Reporter, Oct. 1968, pp, 7-8.
. "Job, the Child," rev. of The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski, Jewish Frontier. 0 Mar. 19o7, PP» 22-26,