Fifteen summers ago, Ann Manov was spending 15 hours a week in a neurology lab, sorting fruit flies under a microscope, freezing them in liquid nitrogen, and pureeing their sliced-off heads, but the only thing that made her want to get out of bed in the morning was a class on the Russian short story that was taught by a nervous Russian woman:
I remember only a few things about that class, but among them is Venedikt Yerofeyev’s observation that much of Soviet literature collapsed remarkably quickly with the disappearance of censorship—the work of not just those who wrote in support of socialism, but of those who had opposed it too. Once they were no longer censored, they ceased to have a subject, a raison d’être.
In Poland, a similar phenomenon appeared with respect to comedy: the quality of comedy shows fell in the first few years, because previously a lot of comedy was based on innuendos and clever allusions, hinting on something which people supposed not to know or were not supposed to think or say. Once those things could be said in the open, comedians kept depending on old tricks and it was just not fun anymore.
Szopen, is that what happened to Krokodil and Szpilki? Or were they too establishment?
I was too young to ever read them, and in fact I only learned about them after the fall of Communism. I was only 13 when the first semi-free elections were held. I mostly remember hearing old jokes with my parents laughing and explaining why it was funny — and then slowly they stopped laughing.