VIEWSrnInvisible but Presentrnby Zbigniew HerbertrnThat Zbigniew Herbert cannot be here with us deserves a fewrnwords of comment. Zbigniew Herbert is 71 years old, and an intellectualrnof that age in the United States is usually perfectly ablernto travel, speak, and enjoy the golden years. Czeslaw Milosz, anotherrnPolish poet and Nobel Prize winner, is 13 years older thanrnHerbert, yet he gives poetry readings and travels around the world.rnBut Czeslaw Milosz spent his life in the United States and in otherrnfree countries, including pre-World War U Poland. ZbigniewrnHerbert spent his life in Soviet-occupied Poland. The last time 1rntalked to him on the phone, he could barely speak. His illness isrnnot so much a function of his age as it is a fruit of many years ofrnprivation. The political system whose center was in Moscow notrnonly wrecked the economies of Soviet-dominated countries, it alsorndestroyed the health of their citizens. As / deplore Zbigniew Herbert’srnabsence here today, I cannot but remember its real causes.rnAnd I am comforted by the realization that The Ingersoll Prizesrnpromote a worldview which, one hopes, will make a repetition ofrnthe Soviet experience all but impossible.rn—Ewa M. ThompsonrnI wish to convey to The Ingersoll Foundation my sincerernthanks for the award, whicli is as prestigious as it is unex-rnZbigniew Herbert received The Ingersoll Poundation’srn1995 T.S. Eliot Award for Creative Writing, for which thisrnwas his acceptance speech. Ewa M. Thompson is a professor ofrnSlavic Studies at Rice University.rnpected. I bow deeply before the memory of the award’s patron.rnI could not, in the brief remarks uttered here, adequately acknowledgernthe greatest poet of the 20th century. An attemptrnto do so would quickly slip into banality. Instead, let me tellrnyou about my encounters with T.S. Eliot. The hrst encounterrndid not take place in the silence of a library but in the midst ofrna raging war, with barbarism let loose. At that time, universities,rnlibraries, museums seemed to belong to the world ofrnmythology and fantasy rather than to everyday reality.rnI was a teenager then, and I lived in an atmosphere of dailyrnand direct danger. One day I stumbled upon a piece of paper,rna page torn out of an anthology containing T.S. Eliot’s early poemrn”La Figlia che Piange.” It would be difficult to imagine arngreater contrast; the world of chaos and fur- that surroundedrnme, and this poem in a soft and elegiac key, so abounding inrndelicacy and tenderness. Since that time, I was drawn to thernqualities which Eliot’s poetry radiates. The tearful girl’s littlernhand led me to Eliot’s great works: Four Quartets, the plays, andrnthe magnificent palimpsest of The Waste Eand. The momentrnI read that poem of Eliot’s, I decided to get acquainted with allrnof his works. But this was not easy. When World War II wasrnoer, in the countries of “real socialism” T.S. Eliot became arnforbidden poet. Such banishment did not hurt him, of course,rnbut it disgraced the Soviet-bred censors and book burners.rnI said that I got acquainted with Eliot’s poem by- chance, butrnon second thought this is not true; in fact, it would be blasphemousrnto say so. Even today, I strongly feel that this first poemrn12/CHRONICLESrnrnrn