I got a Christian education as a child. Which was a loss of time for most of the time, of course, but still, there have been some rare glimpses of thought in it. Once a priest tried to explain to me what God must feel when man chooses to sin. Some sort of helpless love.
I'm not sure if I participate in the divine feelings, as my country prepares to vote itself out of the civilised world, once again. For many months, I remained in a state of suspension, between hope and certitude of doom. I became tired of it. And I started to feel that opening Gazeta Wyborcza's site several times a day (such is the rhythm of developments in Polish scandals) is a sort of emotional addiction. I went on intoxicated, wishing I could forget Poland once and for all, stop this emotional teeter-totter. Finally, I've made the salutary decision of cutting down Gazeta Wyborcza, and consult Al-Jazeera instead, keeping The Guardian as an alternative reference. Poland has appeared in those media very rarely these days, which helps to reduce my tragedy to its right proportions. If it appears, it is for rather hilarious news, such as some sort of qui pro quo involving rainbow badges. Not as serious as - let's say - Albania.
Not worth of world's attention. The universal tragedy of suicidal maniacs is exactly this, no one pays attention to them, till it is too late. For how to pay attention to a mere mania, when people die by thousands a day in Ebola outbreaks and wage desperate wars with live ammunition? Even God only feels that sort of helpless love for suicidal maniacs. When men decide - and decide so resolutely, against all the odds - to put collectively an end to themselves, even the divine mercy has no place to act. They make use of their inalienable freedom.
I won't get back, it is clear, and I become progressively aware that it is not for politics' sake that I'm beyond all chances of return. There is something more important than homelands and nations, and this thing is scholarship. My becoming a scholar, my intellectual work, that needs to find its proper place and inscription on the top of the planet.
Meanwhile my brain feels like a sort of candy floss inside my skull. I try to read good books and nothing but good books, but I feel lost. These are years now that I feel lost as I face the top of the planet. In some cases, I personally know those people whose books I read, also the good ones. Many have been friendly and humane to me. I try to think about them as my tribe.
All I know is that I have to remain - here, on the top of the planet. There is no other homeland, nowhere else to go, as if the rest of earth were on fire. To put it shortly, there is nothing triumphal about being on the top of the planet. It is sheer desperation, the last refuge of those who are, as their mental condition, on the side of maniacal self-preservation.