And so a bit of a self-portrait. Taken on the very last day while I searched, in vain, for a place selling coffee. It must have been too early in the morning. The New Yorker in me was indignant and honestly I wanted to go back home. But it was painfully obvious that the moment I’ll get on the plane I’ll wish for more time.
The problem of exile.
The exile from fatherland, from faith, from the right to criticize,
to regret, to rebel, to feel bitter.
Exile from yourself.
Homelessness of the heart.
Anna Kamieńska, extract from The Notebook 1965 – 1972