Andrzej Solecki, Paris, 1977


And my poor shanty. My skinny wife. And my two jabbering daughters. My growing belly. And hair getting scarce. Everything is so helpless. Everything.

Nothing happens here. Sadness and boredom. And quarrelsome neighbours. They know only cursing and wailing. I'm fed up with their bickering. A bunch of failed philosophers. No one to talk to. No place to go to. Everywhere dust and noise. And sand outside the town. Sand and clay.

Town. What a town. Heap of clay huts. I've been told about towns. Puissant. Famous. We're no match for them. They don't give a damn about us. About this bloody province. Who would retain her name. For what is here. The market only. And some educated fools.

No joy. Even at home. Had I a son. But nothing doing. Two daughters. And wife getting ugly. And I'm getting old. Nearly twenty seven. Too late for anything.

And the same over and over. Till the death. Nothing will change here. Swelter and sand. And futile prattling. But it could have been otherwise. I could have left. As the others. Or joined the service. Even at the procurator's. I'd have walked with a weapon. I'd be doing nothing. And later perhaps promotion.

I'd be fine there. This Valerius Gratus is a mild guy. No. What Gratus. The heat mixes up my thoughts. It's soon a year that he left. It's Pontius Pilate now. So what. What's the difference. Pilate or no Pilate. Of no consequence. Everything here is of no consequence.