†19 May, 2009

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Brightness everywhere. (Kris Kotarski, Jordan, June 2007) I sometimes joke that I have precisely two things in common with Ryszard Kapuściński. 1. We can both write in the Polish language (although, to be fair, the word “write” in this context is about as malleable as the blanket of “music,” which can sometimes cover both Ludwig Van Beethoven and Ludacris). 2. We travel with our books. One of Kapuściński’s more famous offerings (famous because an editor at Random House deemed it universal enough to merit an English translation) was a beautiful autobiography of a young reporter exploring the world with Herodotus in tow. I chose to link to an excerpt (in the photo caption) because Kapuściński, Herodotus and I stepped into that yellow taxi together and travelled down that dusty Jordanian highway, trying to outrun the dust and the heat on a relantless summer day. I sat in the front seat, while Ryszard and Herodotus sat in the back. Ahmed, our driver, remained unmoved by his illustrious passengers. Rather than dwelling on beauty, history or allegory, he tried to explain the inner-dynamics of his household, focusing in great detail on how his elder wife and his younger wife got on since the birth of his latest son.

Brightness everywhere. (Kris Kotarski, Jordan, June 2007)

I sometimes joke that I have precisely two things in common with Ryszard Kapuściński.

1. We can both write in the Polish language (although, to be fair, the word “write” in this context is about as malleable as the blanket of “music,” which can sometimes cover both Ludwig Van Beethoven and Ludacris).

2. We travel with our books.

One of Kapuściński’s more famous offerings (famous because an editor at Random House deemed it universal enough to merit an English translation) was a beautiful autobiography of a young reporter exploring the world with Herodotus in tow. I chose to link to an excerpt (in the photo caption) because Kapuściński, Herodotus and I stepped into that yellow taxi together and travelled down that dusty Jordanian highway, trying to outrun the dust and the heat on a relantless summer day. I sat in the front seat, while Ryszard and Herodotus sat in the back.

Ahmed, our driver, remained unmoved by his illustrious passengers. Rather than dwelling on beauty, history or allegory, he tried to explain the inner-dynamics of his household, focusing in great detail on how his elder wife and his younger wife got on since the birth of his latest son.