On the Right

Warsaw, June 2—A cosmopolitan observed over a century ago that there is no joy to match that of leaving Russia—however much you may be drawn to it; however resigned you may be to returning there. The sensation endures. It might be argued that in the age of Gogol the sensation was a slur on Mother Russia. In the age of Pravda, it is as undeniable as hunger and sex. No man physically or psychically normal can fail to experience the sense of liberation. Even if only to land in Poland.

Poland has simply given up on the matter of achieving any kind of independence as a result of its own exertions. To the west of it is East Germany, still dominated by Ulbricht, the Stalin-lover. Even further away is Czechoslovakia, the light that failed. To the southeast, to be sure, is Rumania, with its extraordinary defiance of Russia (Rumania was the only satellite to dare to denounce the invasion of Czechoslovakia). But Poland, where it sits, hasn’t got a chance. There is a fatalistic acceptance here of her national impotence. It was back before the flowering of Napoleon that she became an object for the satisfaction of the polygamous appetites of her neighbors. It was only for a period as brief as the vision of Wilson that she resumed self-government, which she has not seen since Molotov and Ribbentrop met to sign the pact that showed the world, however briefly, how much in common were the worlds of Lenin and the worlds of Hitler.

About the Author

William F. Buckley Jr.

William F. Buckley Jr. founded National Review magazine in 1955.

Featured Tags

Warsaw, June 2—A cosmopolitan observed over a century ago that there is no joy to match that of leaving Russia—however much you may be drawn to it; however resigned you may be to returning there. The sensation endures. It might be argued that in the age of Gogol the sensation was a slur on Mother Russia. In the age of Pravda, it is as undeniable as hunger and sex. No man physically or psychically normal can fail to experience the sense of liberation. Even if only to land in Poland.

Poland has simply given up on the matter of achieving any kind of independence as a result of its own exertions. To the west of it is East Germany, still dominated by Ulbricht, the Stalin-lover. Even further away is Czechoslovakia, the light that failed. To the southeast, to be sure, is Rumania, with its extraordinary defiance of Russia (Rumania was the only satellite to dare to denounce the invasion of Czechoslovakia). But Poland, where it sits, hasn’t got a chance. There is a fatalistic acceptance here of her national impotence. It was back before the flowering of Napoleon that she became an object for the satisfaction of the polygamous appetites of her neighbors. It was only for a period as brief as the vision of Wilson that she resumed self-government, which she has not seen since Molotov and Ribbentrop met to sign the pact that showed the world, however briefly, how much in common were the worlds of Lenin and the worlds of Hitler.