Born in Kaunas in 1953, Kondrotas studied psychology and philosophy in Vilnius University and earned renown for his novel “Gaze of the Viper,” published in 1981 and translated into a number of languages, as well as for sparking a discussion on swearwords – a thing unheard of in the literary circles of Soviet Lithuania. In autumn 1986, Kondrotas went on a tourist trip to Germany – and never came back.
Kondrotas had agreed to meet with 15min for the occasion of his anniversary, but he remained faithful to his free spirit – and just shrugged off the interview. So the following is an (abridged) interview published in Chicago-based monthly Akiračiai in 1987, right after Kondrotas's defection. Conducted by equally prominent Lithuanian émigrés Vytautas Kavolis and Liūtas Mockūnas (both have passed away since), the piece does not seem to have aged at all in a quarter of a century and only attests to the brilliance and wit of Kondrotas.
On secure future
– Your recent novel “Ir apsiniauks žvelgiantys pro langą” was published in 40 thousand copies and is the first book in the Popular Library series. One can assume, therefore, that you were materially better endowed than an average Soviet citizen. What led you to abandon the fame and material security of a recognized author and opt instead for uncertain future in the West?
– I do not know if it is worthwhile talking about material well-being as it played no role in my final decision. I do not think it would have, even if my material standard had been below the average. Fame, too, is a relative thing.
One can live in the the province, earn fame there and never venture to the city, where no one will probably acknowledge your provincial success. But is such a fame worth accepting paralysis and inability to move forward? A secure future?
Is there a place where one's future is less secure than in the Soviet Union? Especially for artists whose fortunes entirely depend on the moods, whims, policies of the court (Kremlin in this case). And especially for artists who want to pick their own topics and modes of expression instead of obediently executing ideological commissions. No one – and the artists themselves least of all – would give a penny for their “secure future.”
One could live like that – feeding on illusion. One can, for instance, play a martyr, live and draw pleasure from suffering. There is another option, a more popular one: to serve the party, socialism, and at the same time try to convince yourself you are not in fact serving them, but the nation, this idea of absolute good.
A typical example of such an illusion is given in Istvan Szabo's film Mephisto. The main character asserts: “I do not serve the Nazis. I am an actor, I play Shakespeare on stage and I stay away from politics. I serve art.” He refuses to realize – it is more convenient for him – that the stage is in Berlin, the Nazi capital, and by working on that stage he is glorifying fascism.
I did not want to live on such illusions, to serve a totalitarian system which enslaved nations and created so much evil. I am not a saint nor a martyr. I did not have the strength or the courage to utter a loud “No!” while I was still there, within the system. I simply decided to quit the game.
Before it was too late. Before I was bought off with privileges and honours. Before I felt comfortable in that world. This buying off had just started. Essentially, a permit to visit the West was a privilege of this kind, a sign that I was about to be accepted among the chosen ones.
On life in the West
– What are you going to do in the West? Do you expect to go on as a writer?
– I feel that I've answered this question in part – I will live in the West. It is not easy to say more than that, something tangible. I haven't been here long enough. I must learn English, to warm up my feet – and then I'll know what I can do, what kind of a job I am suitable for. Many things are still unclear. When it comes to writing, I have no doubts whatsoever. I believe I will write. As to publishing my writing – that's an entirely different question.
– What are your first impressions in the West? What do you find surprising, gratifying, disappointing?
– The Western world has yet to present me with surprises. Everything is much like I expected it to be. I discovered the world I had hoped to discover – and that is gratifying. True, there is one thing I hadn't foreseen. When I tried imagining my future in emigration, I expected to be relying on myself alone.
I didn't know what awaited me, I couldn't hope that someone would lend me help, solace. I was prepared for that. But things were completely different. I wasn't left alone, unprotected, not for a single moment. Many people I know, of various nationalities, have offered to lend me a hand. Not to mention expatriate Lithuanians. Some of them feel like family to me.
Another thing – I am spotting certain unexpected things within myself. My senses are as sharp as they used to be in childhood. And I'd thought this was irretrievably lost. And more: this special extraordinary feeling of life starting anew. All roads are open, I can be whatever I want to be. I do not mean profession-wise, but the opportunity to recreate myself, my role, to mould a different person.
– Expatriate Lithuanians have this image of a Soviet author who cannot write the way he wants, that his books are censored, that he censors himself. They assume that, should such a writer find himself in the West, he would write differently. If you had time to revise your published novels, what would you change and why?
– Expatriate Lithuanians are right about censorship – both internal and external. That censorship is strict. The path taken by the author can be wider or narrower at times, but he is not allowed to step outside the limits. Many authors themselves think they'd be writing completely differently in the West. It does not always turn out this way if an opportunity presents itself. I do not dare speculate on the reasons, even though I do have a vague sense of why it might be so.
As for my two books, I would not make big alterations. Except for one thing – the time they are set in. Many Soviet authors, including myself, have to transport their plots into the past or other conditional reality in order to talk about certain things. This is the only way to make sure their work sees the light of day. Censors do realize it, but there's not much they can do. You cannot force all authors to write about the present alone. On the other hand, I personally did not find this compromise unbearable – I've always preferred the universal to the concrete.
– You've once said: “I easily give in to external influences; the slightest disturbance in the rhythm of life or an inconvenience can interfere with creative processes indefinitely, halt them – but that is not a question of inspiration but rather one of working conditions.” How will this East to West change influence your creativity?
– When I am sitting at my desk, there is no East, West, North, or South. It begins when I stand up from the table, when I walk, do something, reflect, sense. Therefore a change of life and environment does no harm – on the contrary, it is very welcome. New sights, impressions stir unexpected novel ideas.
I cannot write while on a journey, on the road, when I am in a new alien place, if I know I won't be staying long. A new desk and a chair distract me, a new room prevents me from focusing. But after a month I get used to the room, I stop noticing it – and then I can work. I feel comfortable in the chair and at the table. And these are not then located in the East or in the West – they are always in the centre of my world.
On demands on the man of letters
– You've also said that “the most promising features of contemporary literature will be those that will prevent frightful falsehoods from taking root in it.” Are there such features in contemporary Lithuanian literature? What are the features of Soviet Lithuanian literature that you appreciate and that you don't?
– There are more of those in poetry and fewer in prose. Definitions like “Soviet” and “non-Soviet” do not apply to art. These categories are temporary, political. When communism is a regrettable fact of the past (we might not be around when this happens), literature and art, I believe, will continue without anyone bothering themselves with whether a favourite author lived in the Soviet era or not. Who of us today give a damn about what political regime Petrarca and Shakespeare laboured under?
In general, when my thoughts turn to art and literature, I become very categorical and relentless. My demands for literature are so high, my sieve so thick, than hardly anyone can pass through it into the literary realm. Including me, in fact. I do not use the expression “bad literature.” Only “literature” and “non-literature.”
It has nothing to do with genre, author's beliefs, or some formal things – only with quality and professionalism. Unfortunately, judging by this, there is hardly any literature left in Lithuania, any prose. But, by the same token, there's not much left in the entire world either.
Still, I believe that there's a handful of writers in Lithuania who deserve to call themselves by that name. These are Vilimaitė, Jasukaitytė, Aputis, Granauskas, Kanovičius, young prose writer Kalinauskaitė. I do not agree with all of their opinions, but that is immaterial. Other people can find them very attractive. It is the accomplishment that matters. What's the use if the best of content is rendered in an awkward style, primitive form? These people have an “ear” for literature, they know how to produce it. They are not just amateurs. Alas, there's so much amateurism even among professionals!
On Justinas Marcinkevičius
– We've heard that the most popular author at the moment is Justinas Marcinkevičius. Why? How do other authors of your generation see him?
– Marcinkevičius is very popular indeed, much liked by readers, even worshipped at times. Even people who do not read poetry (including by Marcinkevičius) are well aware that one should admire him. Women in particular love him. Women cry at his poetry readings, they copy his poems into their notebooks and learn them by heart. I think it is because Marcinkevičius is very accessible to readers, almost effortlessly available. Sure, that is not enough for success, but it helps.
Readers are particularly partial to Marcinkevičius's fidelity to traditional values. His love for the Woman, for the Mother, for the Motherland and other values is analogous to what other people feel about these things – things they do not question and believe in without proof.
In these times so inimical to traditional values, people believe that the poet managed to see what's hidden in everyone's heart. People believe that these things are worth putting into verse, worth poetic rendition (also taken in a very traditional sense). And when a poet comes and does just that, he becomes, in their eyes, the Poet.
Marcinkevičius is hardly an avant-garde poet. He represents the tradition of Maironis, but not that of Baudelaire. Other poets are more reserved and ambiguous about his oeuvre than the public. Some authors of my generation reject it, entirely and uncompromisingly, precisely because of this adherence to tradition, they see it as too straightforward and banal. Others, who are less radical, agree that this kind of poetry “has a right” to exist alongside other forms.
I personally believe that Marcinkevičius is one of the greatest poets of the Lithuanian nation. But no more than that... I think that there are now poetry and poets in Lithuania, who, without being acclaimed at home, have all it takes to be admitted into world literary canon. These latter write poetry that is not as accessible to the people; only a relatively limited circle of connoisseurs – experts, if you will – can appreciate and enjoy it. But it is thanks to such experts that the world now has Rilke, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, and other greats who have transformed poetry as such – and, consequently, the world.
On mediocrity
– Last summer, the Kremlin hosted a congress of Soviet authors who discussed ecology and issues of small nations. Lithuanian performance was particularly colourless. Why was that so?
– It is not the fault of Lithuanians in general, only of bad Lithuanian representatives. There are plenty of people in Lithuania who could have not only sensed the prevailing winds but started them, too. Unfortunately, mediocrity reigns in all fields of authority in Lithuania, including among those who appoint representatives to similar congresses.
It has become a “Lithuanian philosophy” of sorts. Don't interfere, it says, wait and see what's happening and then you'll survive. While other people confront things head-on, sometimes perishing in the process, Lithuanians are allegedly better off maintaining caution and considering things first. Ethically, such philosophy is indefensible. Practically, though... who could say what is better: taking risks and dying with a clean conscience, or having it tainted but surviving?
On the thaw
– The appearance of novels like Chinghiz Aitmatov's “The Scaffold” in the Soviet Union attests to a thaw, at least in literature. We also keep hearing about Gorbachev's attempts to radically improve life in the USSR. Is he going to succeed?
– I don't know. It is more likely that, once again, we'll have the “good life” redefined and it will be announced that life is better already. That's how the system works. As for Gorbachev himself, he's already earned a place in history, even if he fails to achieve anything more. What he has already done is a quest of unprecedented magnitude in that country. But universal admiration for Gorbachev should not be allowed to overshadow the essence of the matter. Everything that has been and is done does not come “from bellow,” from the people, but rather from the “brilliant leader.”
Dialectics suggests that all things with a beginning must have an end. Caesar giveth and Caesar taketh away. That's what's most tragic about the situation. Should Gorbachev be removed – as it happened to Khrushchev – all screws could be put back on in a matter of days. One leader or another – the system is still the same. Over its short life, it has demonstrated what it is capable of and so far, nothing has been done to change it.
Much is still to be done: changing political and economic structure of the state, releasing all political prisoners, liberating the press, effectively disassociating it from the state, allowing people to discuss absolutely everything (religion and criticism of the system and the party is still beyond the limits of glastnost), lifting the Iron Curtain, and opening the borders. After all this is done and some fifty years pass, when people have recovered and stopped being afraid, that is when we will be able to judge the true significance of Gorbachev's policies.
– You were a teacher at the Art Institute's Department of Marxism-Leninism. What do you think about the future of Marxism as a philosophic theory?
– Marxism consists of three major strands. Namely, Marxism as a philosophy in the strict, classical sense (with everything that such a philosophy entails); the materialist approach to history; and the so-called theory of scientific communism.
This latter utopia, to my mind, never stood a chance. Historic materialism, scientifically speaking, is already becoming outdated, a fact in history and little more than than. Meanwhile Marxist philosophy – or dialectic materialism as a scientific methodology – is, I believe, still very promising. At least now there are no signs of it losing its position.
– Do literatures of the West and Eastern Europe belong to the same world – or are Eastern Europeans dealing with issues and preserving traditions that Westerners have little idea about?
– I do believe that, after all, Western and Eastern European literatures (and cultures in general) are part of one world. Anyway you look at it, what befell Eastern Europe is a consequence of processes of the Western world. Communism itself is an offspring of this common world, a tumour of the Western civilization born of its womb.
Even now – when it seems that there's a veritable abyss between Eastern Europe and the West, dividing them into two seemingly separate worlds – it is not in fact so. The bond between Eastern Europe and the West is so strong that one cannot be without the other – even though officially the strongest bond between them seems to be mutual hatred.
The world will truly break into pieces (allowing us to speak of self-sufficient and independent cultures) only when peoples are indifferent towards one another, when there's no love nor hatred.
On chronic idiocy
– What is the must urgent thing that Lithuanian literature should be able to say? What problems must it raise, what forms should it take, what language should it use and speak of what?
– I must stress right away that I don't and never did maintain that literature, and art in general, has to solve any problems save for artistic ones. And what Lithuanian literature lacks, I believe, is this very artistic quality.
Having been convinced that literature must solve some social problems – and failing to solve those that are truly urgent to the nation and the society – this literature has locked itself in the petty grey world of Soviet banality and sometimes even finds things to celebrate therein. Only Estonian literature, methinks, and perhaps Georgian has cured itself of this chronic idiocy. Everywhere else, one or two interesting authors notwithstanding, general literary processes are completely anaemic and colourless, downright graphomaniac.
– Is it essential for an author who escaped from Eastern Europe to be involved in politics?
– I do not think it is essential. At least it doesn't give anything to a writer qua writer. It is an issue of human conscience, not writer's, it's everyone's personal choice. What makes a writer a writer is writing. When he is chopping wood, fishing, or engaging in politics, he is doing so as a man.
