For young Marek Hlasko, 26, most gifted writer of Poland's restless postwar generation, life in West Berlin was a succession of binges. Ever since he refused to return to his Communist homeland (TIME, Oct. 20), he had been lionized in Berlin's literary salons. His blond good looks and his unpredictable James Dean moods made girls eager to comfort him. In a surge of euphoria, Hlasko would cry: "Writing is a wonderful occupation, almost as good as drinking!" Or, cryptically: "I can't dream about immortal fireflies, but I can fight for human freedom." Then depression would...
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