Writer’s Anxiety

It was autumn, and a strong south wind was blowing in Buenos Aires.

He was facing the sea, and occupied with a desperate strife to recall his younger self into being, “Proust lies,” he was thinking, “you can never succeed searching for lost time…”

He sort of missed his younger self — the trembling, helpless being who wanted to be a writer, but once got criticized harshly for a novella, and suffered, suffered truly and shamefully, not willing to admit that critique could make him suffer…

All that was left now was an imperfect recollection, and the ability he now had, as a great author, to offer support to that young man he once was. To say, “here I am, you know. You’ve made it.”

But it was imperfect, and the helping thoughts he thought to help the young Witold Gombrowicz got lost to the wind…


And some sixty years later, a young would-be writer was sitting in front of her laptop, rereading the passage describing it from Gombrowicz’s Diary, and then — with caution, with some bashfulness — she started to type.

All along, she was thinking, “we’re in this together. Me, you, and this great author. And you, too. Yes, you.”


I based this on a passage from Witold Gombrowicz’s Diary. The book isn’t available for free on the internet, and all I can offer is a quote in Polish I once shared here. Those of you who can read Polish, and would be interested in what I wrote about this passage as a nineteen, even more bashful writer, can also go here.

Otherwise, just go buy the book. It’s totally worth it.


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I'm an unprofessional writer, reader and translator. I'm also a walking, breathing and listening addict. And I love being all that.

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