It happened when night fell…

It was on that night
when the reality of life,
that heroine of non-divine
whose acting we watched
with a varying degree
of interest,
unveiled her face…


Frightened, I shut
the door of the poor
room of my imagination.
I could not forget
the image
with its gaping void,
like the abysmal pit of the grave.
No trace of life.
Now really


It was not that
splendid La Belle Dame –


What I saw
was a rite
of her official


Today I can recall
a similar scene,
which occurred a few years later:
“From a nylon bag
he took out a dark
earthy-black object.
The earth filled the cavities of
the skull
and there was also some mouldered rag
of a dress.
That was my Mother.
The head. That magnificent
product of nature
and humanism –
a rust-eaten,
mould-caked clod…

I shut myself
in the Poor
Room of my Imagination.
I repeated in despair

I knew
I had to destroy
the gaping hole…
I began to cover it up,
wrap it up, gag it,
board it up…
In desperation,
in fury
with great love
for man’s


Tadeusz Kantor, “Intimate Comments”, 1986-88, typescript in the Cricoteka Archives, p. 37-38.

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