All around, autumn was already very much in evidence. The air felt crisp that October morning and smelled of dying leaves, which blanketed the entire boulevard. The chestnut trees along the riverbank stood in a bluish mist, motionless and straight, looking somewhat like an artificial flower arrangement in red, bright yellow, and fading green.
The dew still glittered along the green slopes below St. Ann's Church, and a fragile mist hovered in the air. Perhaps, because of that mist, the statue of King Sigismund, solitary against the far-reaching sky, the walls of the church, and the old town houses behind it, appeared to be more distant and higher than usual. Even the bridges seemed farther away, with the trolleys trudging over it slowly; they looked like enormous red June bugs. It all made an impression as though the entire scenery had struggled to leap up, but was suddenly stopped in the attempt, suspended in mid-air.
Yes, we did have dreams, and not just in our childhood, but didn't we pay for them dearly? It's better not to give our past as an example for our children to follow. Nowadays they must learn from the beginning to think and feel as does the rest of their society. You know it yourself. What'll be the fate of a man who insists on thinking differently from the rest? Just because we ourselves got used to often saying what we don't think, will our children also have to lie?
Memorable Quotations: Polish Writers
Polish Writers of the Past (Kindle Book)