Before Dorota Masłowska, Polish novels full of street slang, curse words, and open and abundant references to sex and drugs weren’t all that common, let alone celebrated. But now all that’s changed.

Presented by Amy Drozdowska

In 2002 at the age of 19, Dorota Masłowska made her debut into Polish literary circles just as she was preparing her high-school exit exams. She not only passed her exams with flying colors, but she also published a book that gave her nearly instant star status – maybe as much for its shock value as its literary prowess.

Masłowska’s first novel “Wojna polska-ruska pod flagą biało-czerwoną” is translated into English variously as either “Polish-Russian War Under a Red-White Flag,” or “Snow White and Russian Red.” The novel’s language shifts between slang, obscenity, and forced formality. The pace is frenetic. It’s both incredibly funny and deeply disturbing.

The novel depicts a world of cynical, foul-mouthed teenagers in tracksuits. They’re searching for meaning and identity in a country torn between East and West and in an age awash with too much information. Its narrator and protagonist – Andrzej ‘Nails’ Robakowski – starts to unravel after his girlfriend Magda dumps him. His street name in Polish – “Silny” – means strong. Yet he vacillates between inventing paranoid conspiracy theories about the Polish economy, disorienting himself with drugs, obsessing over unreliable women, and generally falling apart.

The story is set in a small Polish city before the “Day without Russkies.” This is a day designated to declare a kind of war on the Russian traders in town. The Polish inhabitants aren’t happy they’re there – they see them as unwelcome competition. In this excerpt, translated by Benjamin Paloff, we step midstream into Nails’ ongoing monologue. He finds his ex-girlfriend Magda in a state of crisis – and falls into the whirlwind of emotions and events that follow:

Magda comes in, but without Eric. She looks like something’s happened, like she’s been shattered into little pieces, her hair this way, her handbag that way, her dress to the left, her earrings to the right. Her panty hose all muddy on the left. Her face on the right, black tears flowing from her eyes. Like she’d been fighting in the Polish-Russki war, like the whole Polish-Russki army had trampled her, running through the park. All my feelings come back to life within me. The whole situation. Social and economic in the country. It’s the whole her, it’s all of her. She’s drunk, she’s ruined. She’s hopped up on speed, she’s stoned. She’s never been so ugly. Black tears are running down her chin, because her heart is as black as coal. Her womb is black and tattered. A tear is running through her whole womb. From that womb she’ll give birth to some Negro kid, black. Angela, with a rotten face, a tail. She won’t get far with that kind of kid. They won’t let her into a taxi, they won’t sell her white milk. She’ll lie down on the black earth of vacant lots. She’ll live in greenhouses. Eaten by grubs, eaten by worms. She’ll feed that kid black milk from her black breasts. She’ll feed it garden soil. But it’ll die sooner or later anyway.

Then I go to the john, because Arleta’s calling me, she’s all smoked out, she’s smoking two menthols at once, LMs at that, she’s holding both in one corner of her mouth, and with her other hand she’s holding Magda up. I’m a bit uneasy, because I know that Magda hurt me, that she f***ed me up. So I ask what happened. She says it’s a cramp. I say that maybe it’s the speed, that it’s too much speed. Arleta says that she’ll leave us alone then and closes the door from the outside. So I’m waiting. Magda has a cramp in her calf and is sitting on the toilet. She’s holding on to her calf with her left hand, at the same time crying, at the same time being hysterical. Now I don’t even know whether she’s beautiful or ugly, and actually it’s hard for me to say. One thing’s for sure: she’s pretty in general, but currently in bad shape, if it’s a question of her looks, since her black tears are everywhere, and her mascara is gushing like from a rainspout, her panty hose are torn down to the skin, as though they were way too large anyway, and her face is pretty tenderized—it reminds me, not to be unpleasant, of a red fire engine. Thus I’m mulling over whether I still love her when she moans pretty loudly, not even looking me in the eye or saying a single word to me. But then I almost can’t stand it anymore.

Your name is pretty, Magda, just like your face. Your hands are pretty, your fingers, your nails, can’t we stay together? If you want, I’ll take you away from here to anyplace you want. Maybe even to the hospital, if that’s absolutely necessary. You’re asking yourself if I’ve been drinking, well, so I’ve been drinking, but it’s nobody’s f***ng business if I’ve been drinking or not. If we’re going, let’s get in the car and go, I’ll take you everywhere, even if ten thousand Russkies want to give us drug and alcohol tests….

So then we leave and I put Magda into the first taxi, then I get in myself, she says we’re going to the hospital, and he, whether something has happened. I say, Is this an interview for the newspaper or is this a taxi, and is this a confession of sins and an absolution, are you driving us, because otherwise I’m getting out and Magda’s coming with me, no fare and on top of that a rock through the windshield, and maybe he shouldn’t show himself in town. He says nothing for a moment, and then puts in that lately we’re supposedly fighting the Russkies under a white-and-red flag. I say, Surely, though we’re not really so very radical on that issue. Magda says that she’s really against the Russkies. Now I get pissed off, I say: And how do you know you’re against them, exactly? The radio’s on, the news is on, various songs. She says that’s just what she thinks. I say that she’s on speed and laying down a big judgment, laying down big opinions, how does she know she really thinks that way and not some other way? She’s a little afraid. I tell her to leave me alone, not to piss me off. She moans, because her cramp hasn’t gone away.

She says she has this premonition, this impulse almost inside her that she’ll die soon, that it’s already her time. The kid in her is killing her, Magda says so, it has a prematurely developed set of teeth that makes it gnaw her from the inside, eat through her stomach and then her liver. She says it’s already curtains for her, and the sign of this, like stigmata, is that cramped leg, which means the kid is already pulling her strings from the inside. It’s destroying her internally, mentally as well, it’s simply devastating her, destruction, decomposition. It hurts me, since I probably have a share in this kid as well, and it makes me really sorry for this girl that it’s turned out this way, that it’s developed inside her. I see how much she suffers ….

I ask her where she got that speed from, since on her face and in her look in general she’s really flushed, unhealthy, to tell the truth, she looks like she just gave birth to the kid, only she lost it somewhere and is currently looking for it around the station. She tells me I’d rather not know, because it’s from Vargas. I tell her it’s bad s***, impure, cut. She says it’s f***ng great. I tell her not to get on my nerves, not because it’s bad, but that it’s s***, and not speed. She says I’m f***ng her s*** up. I say that it’s good how she wants to get f***ed up off of Vargas, it’s a free country, that bathroom cleaning powder is now hers forever, but if that kid is born a monster, one leg longer, the other shorter, and congenitally hairless, I wouldn’t have any hand in that. To that she answers, Good, have it your way, we’ll see. And … indeed she takes a circular from the Hit Market and cuts me a line.

And now when I wake up, I remember this well, because I could say every word I was thinking, but when I wake up, Magda’s no longer here, though maybe she’s not here yet or she’s not here at all. I get up from the ground, which at this time of night is cold, and I shake off my jeans, I shake off my layers. Magda’s not here and I notice it right away, right away I get pissed off, though upon further consideration it turns out that I have both my wallet, which is crucial, as well as my documents. I also don’t really know what was going on when my vision of economic nature had already vanished for a time, when I was doing something, before I woke up here. It’s worse, more than—forgive the phrase—blacking out. I see all the sand, which I take for economic squander, which, I must confirm with regret, totally pisses me off. Just gives me a raging case of f***off-itis. So when I’m walking and I find a plastic bag, without a moment’s hesitation I fill it with sand. After which I twist it shut and keep it, since in case I’m out of cash, in case the bottom falls out of the market, it could turn out to be a valuable thing, or rather an asset. Then I find two bags from the Hit Market, which also makes my heart ache, this lack of any kind of economy in a country where perfectly good bags are tossed to the ground and left to waste. And first of all to the mercy of the lumpenproletariat. So that after a solemn promise that Magda will certainly come, since hypothetically she just went to take a leak, I go to get sand. I figure it’s necessary to collect it all as quickly as possible. Because if it doesn’t end up in our hands, that’s it. It will all be snatched up by the traitors.

With “Polish-Russian War Under a Red-White Flag,” Masłowska made an audacious entrance into the Polish literary scene. But she isn’t for everyone. Journalist Artur Gorski is among those who remain shocked at Masłowska’s success.

I think Dorota Maslowska literature is a disaster for Polish literature, disaster for Polish culture. It’s for me, it’s not a literature, it’s a jabber, a gibber pretending literature.

Masłowska’s second work ‘Paw Królowej’, published in 2005, received Poland’s prestigious literary honor the Nike Award. The book’s title is a play on words that translates as both “The Queen’s Peacock” and “The Queen’s Puke.”

This is a novel about, well, about nothing, which was created only from a so-called street language. Language very vulgar, and full of, in fact full of hate and malignancy. But is in fact laughable and very naïve and immature. Nike is a very important prize, but now it has lost it’s virginity. I’m sorry, but it’s my opinion. It was awarded to a book that deserved it least.

But the jury members of the Nike Awards – as well as other critics – feel differently from Gorski. Jury members praised ‘Paw Krolowej’ for displaying not just a certain virtuosity, but also - despite its youthful impudence - maturity. One of them, critic and longtime editor of the monthly ‘Twórczość’ Henryk Bereza, marvels at Masłowska’s way with words.

Absolutnie jestem zachwycony, najbardziej zachwycony tym, że ona ma taką zadziwiającą władzę nad językiem, że to jest potęga po prostu i to nie prawda, że to jest taki język zewnętrzny, społeczny, podsłuchany, ten język ma absolutnie indywidualny charakter.

Absolutely I am enthralled, most enthralled by the fact that she has such an amazing control over the language, that it’s a great power and it’s not true that this language is simply overheard from the outside world, from society, this language has an absolutely individual character.

Being at the center of heated debates about the state of contemporary Polish literature can’t be comfortable. Since all this started, Masłowska became a mother, switched from Gdansk to studies at the University of Warsaw, and continued to write: she has contributed to a number of magazines, including Przekrój, Wyskokie Obcasy, and the monthly Lampa. She reacts to the news of the Nike award - and the renewed flood of attention - with a conflicting mix of emotions:

No, jestem trochę wstrząśnięta, ale zmieszana nigdy, ja muszę ochłonąć, ja muszę się stąd wyprowadzić w ogóle, ja muszę wyjechać, nie wiem co zrobię, jestem przerażona, wyrzucę telefon… znowu.

Well, I am a bit shaken, but never confused, I need to cool down, I need to move out of here, go out of town, I don’t know what I will do, I am terrified, I’m going to get rid of my telephone… again.

Being uncomfortably caught between enthusiastic praise and cutting criticism served as rich material for Masłowska’s award-winning work. Described as “a prose-poem” as well as a “rap song,” ‘Paw Królowej’ scathingly satirizes media-makers, pop stars, as well as its author’s own success. Its self-consciously rhythmic writing style switches quickly between registers, voices, and characters.

We now present to you an excerpt from Dorota Masłowska’s ‘Paw Królowej’ – “The Queen’s Peacock.” Here, an opportunistic publicist pursues a shot-down star from the Polish literary scene for his next money-making scheme. A cacophony of voices follow, cutting the young, Masłowska-like writer down to size.

This excerpt was translated from the Polish by Benjamin Paloff:

“Hello, is this Dorota Masłowska I am speaking with?” “Yes, it is very much she.” On your end, then, you’ve certainly heard something of me, Szymon Rybaczko, media expert in medial matters, with a certain proposition, though I frankly haven’t read a one of your books, maybe a look at a couple of columns in Section, a real sensation, elation and frankness, splendid reading, Dostoevsky, Beckett, Musil, or even Roman Bratny, just the thing our project needs, because we’re all about the authenticity, all about the truth of time, you wouldn’t even especially have to write anything, but so it’d be from you for real, the text’s outline’s a near-done deal, at most you’ll add some rhymes that ring, for it’s a sort of hip-hop thing, I’ll explain it all, fictitious the case at hand, an ugly girl kicked around by everybody, you understand, pelted with mackerel skins by kids on the grounds, and in the background Poland ‘C,’ capitalism and hard realities, consumption in all the As&Ps, reality’s general rat race, so you know how to present this there lyrically for certain, since it should be a manifesto of truth there should be a little cursing, but not too vulgar, so as the audience not to scare, and no one in the story a cigarette-smoker, because otherwise it won’t go over, so now I think that you’re on board?
I’ll tell you up front, you’ll be very well paid, with this you are sure to have most of it made, it seems that that book had popularly sold, but let’s be realistic, now you’re no longer in a famous position, no propositions, maybe because no follow-up’s written? Right, as your big break is coming next, a great opportunity not even for writing the text for us but just so you’re the one it’s coming from. You symbolize the authentic, an apartment in the projects, just the right kind to make the hip-hop stick, but say it yourself, you’re maybe not entirely pretty, and with that in life you surely haven’t had it so easy, right, so maybe a bit of autobiographism goes in, you could make use of a couple personal reflections.
But then I’ll yet explain it all, because it’s just this ugly girl, there’s this affair, she and this guy, right, you know this guy, that singer, Stanisław Retro? Right, so I’ll tell you off the record and on the down-low that lately his sales have taken a blow, so you can imagine, since it’s maybe not far from your own situation, somebody’s a star, a star, and then one day wakes up to find himself not famous or nothing, from personal experience you know this, and how, surely you’re sitting at your place right now, such are the realities of media, right, so always help a friend in need, admittedly from another trade, but as I see it to save a boy is ever our moral obligation, because he’ll slash himself in the end, so that this Patricia, because you understand that hip-hopette we’re making into a star is named Patricia, sang about romance with Stan, metatextuality, two birds with one stone, and for this you’ll be very well paid, very well really, given your state, and then there’s a little addendum, that this here Stan’s a homosexual, that’s really quite crucial, because you’ll have to work that in in a fictional way, that here’s a romance with a babe, but it so happens that he’s totally disengaged, so from this there’ll be bank and you’ll manage for sure, so that’s all there is and I think you’re on board.”
“I’m not really sure,” she thinks it over a moment longer. “So now you want to bargain, then? We can settle everything, I’ll put it to you honestly: I’d planned to pay you three hundred zlotys, and to be honest that’s nothing to poo-poo, but since we have so much riding on you, in this case I’ll have to pay up: I’m prepared to add another two hundred, so now I think we’re all agreed, but a few more things before we’ve signed, so can you leave your kid behind? I know how it goes, I have a kid myself, couldn’t your tot go play by itself, but leave your fear behind for now, I’ll be right over, now it’s time to pay up, North Praga? Oh, yes, I know it, those slums across the bridge, are you saying that that’s where you live? Sure, such are the ups and downs of this saga, first you’re a star, then you end up in Praga, I know how it goes. Eleven-dash-twelve, so I’ll be there before long, so for now, so long. I’m glad that we understand each other, miss.”
Hey y’all, we’re screwed, looks like now she’s writing something new, oh God, we have to stop it, we won’t allow it, we don’t want it, not again, we won’t be led, give that fame to Lem instead, Miłosz is worthy, Gombrowicz is, and other authors from the provinces, all those oh-so-talented literary youth of the blogging “breed,” but no, not she, how will Europe let us in, with her we’re more likely to go Russian, dig ourselves into potato- and nettle-cultivation, so why won’t anyone say anything, ladies and gentlemen, the happy times are over, y’all, but after all you can’t just stand there, s***in hand and take your aim, leave nothing unspent, don’t save for later or repent, never mind how it will unmesh, it won’t be this, it will be fresh, one two three five eight, anyway, what does she know about hip-hop, don’t make me laugh, first she was pretending to be a track-suit ruffian, because back then those track suits were in, now she’s trying to play the hip-hop cat, we’ve had quite enough of that, have to do something about this yet, go ready set, now concentrate please, is everyone ready and don’t repent, don’t repent, it’s getting unmeshed, it will be fresh. Now, fire!

That was an excerpt from Dorota Masłowska’s “Paw Królowej” or “The Queen’s Peacock.”

And that’s all for this edition of Bookworm from Peter Gentle, Hannah Harvester, and me Amy Drozdowska. We’ll be back again to bring you more Polish literature. Goodbye.