By Kapuściński, Ryszard; Glowczewska, Klara
From the popular journalist comes this intimate account of his years within the box, touring for the 1st time past the Iron Curtain to India, China, Ethiopia, and different unique locales.
In the Nineteen Fifties, Ryszard Kapuscinski entire college in Poland and have become a overseas correspondent, hoping to move out of the country -- possibly to Czechoslovakia. as a substitute, he was once despatched to India -- the 1st cease on a decades-long journey of the area that took Kapuscinski from Iran to El Salvador, from Angola to Armenia. Revisiting his thoughts of touring the globe with a duplicate of Herodotus' Histories in tow, Kapuscinski describes his awakening to the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of latest environments, and the way the phrases of the Greek historiographer assisted in shaping his personal view of an more and more globalized international. Written with splendid eloquence and a relentless eye to the worldwide undercurrents that experience formed the final half-century, Travels with Herodotus is a phenomenal chronicle of one...
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From the popular journalist comes this intimate account of his years within the box, touring for the 1st time past the Iron Curtain to India, China, Ethiopia, and different unique locales. within the Nineteen Fifties, Ryszard Kapuscinski complete collage in Poland and have become a international correspondent, hoping to head overseas -- maybe to Czechoslovakia.
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Extra info for Travels with Herodotus
Yes. ” I walked around the city, copying down signboards, the names of goods in stores, words overheard at bus stops. In movie theaters I scribbled blindly, in darkness, the words on the screen, and noted the slogans on banners carried by demonstrators in the streets. I approached India not through images, sounds, and smells, but through words; furthermore, words not of the indigenous Hindi, but of a foreign, imposed tongue, which by then had so fully taken root here that it was for me an indispensable key to this country, almost identical with it.
In a whole day of walking I would sell none—or maybe a single bar. Once I sold three and returned home bright red with happiness. After pressing the buzzer I would start to pray fervently: God, please have them buy something, have them buy at least one! I was actually engaged in a form of begging, trying to arouse pity. I would enter an apartment and say: Please, madam, buy a soap from me. It costs only one złoty, winter is coming and I have no shoes. This worked sometimes, but not always, because there were many other children also trying to get over somehow—by stealing something, swindling someone, trafficking in this or that.
On the front, stamped in gold letters, was Herodotus, THE HISTORIES. It was an old twin-engine DC-3, well-worn from wartime forays along the front lines, its wings blackened by exhaust fumes and patches on its fuselage. But it flew, and headed, with only a few passengers, almost empty, to Rome. I sat by the window, excitedly looking out to see the world from a bird’s-eye view for the first time. Until then I hadn’t even been to the mountains. Beneath us slowly passed multicolored chessboards, motley patchwork quilts, gray-green tapestries, as if stretched out on the ground to dry in the sun.