Prisoner of Time

Were it not written by a Communist, Milovan Djilas’ second American publication, Land Without Justice (Harcourt, $5.75) would appear at first glance to be entirely without objective purpose. On the surface it seems to be little more than the egocentric reminiscings of an outgrown delinquent, with something of a persecution complex, justifying his misdeeds by pointing to his “underprivileged” background.

Considering the detailed accounting of his family history, one might be inclined to credit Djilas with a remarkable memory; but he makes it clear that family legends—as with all history to the Communist mind—are fabricated as necessary to serve the purposes of the fabricator. In concocting his own legend, Djilas calls himself a poet. Since the rhythm of his verse is that of falling heads and dripping blood, there are several things to consider in deducing the purpose of Land Without Justice. The mayhem reminds one of that era in American TV when a program was rated not by count of the listeners, but by the number of “dead bodies” within the show itself. There is also marked resemblance to the Spillane-type novel; though instead of just one “Hammer” beating away at injustice, a great variety of meticulously named yet still anonymous folk engage full-time in lopping off each others’ heads and setting them up on stakes. Apparently Montenegrins of those times had unusually strong hearts. Nary a one of the countless wounded and killed was so commonplace as to simply bleed, or even to limit himself to “oozing.” Rather, they all “spurted”—and the surrounding walls or the countryside was splattered in the process. Thereafter—and ever after—even the grass retained a decisive blood-hue. Such is Djilas’ “poetry.”

DT

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Duane Thorin

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Were it not written by a Communist, Milovan Djilas’ second American publication, Land Without Justice (Harcourt, $5.75) would appear at first glance to be entirely without objective purpose. On the surface it seems to be little more than the egocentric reminiscings of an outgrown delinquent, with something of a persecution complex, justifying his misdeeds by pointing to his “underprivileged” background.

Considering the detailed accounting of his family history, one might be inclined to credit Djilas with a remarkable memory; but he makes it clear that family legends—as with all history to the Communist mind—are fabricated as necessary to serve the purposes of the fabricator. In concocting his own legend, Djilas calls himself a poet. Since the rhythm of his verse is that of falling heads and dripping blood, there are several things to consider in deducing the purpose of Land Without Justice. The mayhem reminds one of that era in American TV when a program was rated not by count of the listeners, but by the number of “dead bodies” within the show itself. There is also marked resemblance to the Spillane-type novel; though instead of just one “Hammer” beating away at injustice, a great variety of meticulously named yet still anonymous folk engage full-time in lopping off each others’ heads and setting them up on stakes. Apparently Montenegrins of those times had unusually strong hearts. Nary a one of the countless wounded and killed was so commonplace as to simply bleed, or even to limit himself to “oozing.” Rather, they all “spurted”—and the surrounding walls or the countryside was splattered in the process. Thereafter—and ever after—even the grass retained a decisive blood-hue. Such is Djilas’ “poetry.”