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Paweł Daniel Zalewski was born in Cracow. The small trickle of sand is slowly slipping through his fingers but with ever increasing speed. Ever since he was born he has been persecuted by final verdicts. He started writing late, at a time when the worst of all demons is facing him. So he has to get going.

He is a synesthete, which means that he perceives the world by mixing the senses. He was brought up at home where surrealistic shapes and scrambled colours were confused. It is probable that for this reason that he ridicules colourlessness and stereotypes. He perceives the porous surface of life. He fishes out sounds which other people cannot hear. He is fascinated by the dirty aspects of human existence. In Cuba he visits the poorest homesteads, hidden in tobacco or banana leaves, displaying the faded portrait of Fidel on the cane walls. In Bucharest he attempts to shoot a film in a canal full of children whose home is the street. Then they ask him to sniff glue and he loses his camera forever and regains consciousness in a shabby-looking police station. In Sri Lanka he manages to lead astray some clever conmen. He beats the “beach boys” with their own weapons and becomes respected by all. He becomes the honorary guest at their family celebrations. In his presence on the beach fraudsters stop pestering the tourists, whilst the importunate “commission boys” keep away from him just in case. In Rio de Janeiro he ventures into a favela with his camera, not caring that he is surrounded by an area occupied by notorious criminals. On the Czech border, mistaken for a German sex tourist he is badly beaten up by Gypsy and paedophile procurers. In Tunisia he was officially invited to a sumptuous meal given in the house of a former Minister of Finance, together with his wife and daughter and… thanks to them… because the ceremony had taken place in honour of Slavonic beauty. In Cairo he drinks sweet tea on the tombstone of an ancient grave; he is welcomed by a family of six which has resided at the cemetery for years. In Romania, during a long night he got all the men of a poor Transylvanian village drunk – the offering of one hundred bottles of moonshine was tantamount to unattainable luxury for them and an exotic adventure for him.

Searching for the roots of his exiled grandfather he sets out for the Siberia. He dreams of an exhibition to the Mongolian steppes where he will eat a marmot roasted on an open fire; of travelling to Kenyan villages – in one of them his acquaintance has got a rattan house with black servants and a mosquito net for the guest bed; of travelling to the City of Guatemala, where each night lorries gather up the bodies of those who had died during the day; and finally he will travel to Lhasa, where maybe his inner eye will be opened or he will be healed by… asceticism. He has to get these places as time is running out.

Pisces tells him to constantly maintain himself, like a castaway, on a wave which is hurled to and fro by the forces of contrary emotions, running in two different directions. The rising tide and the ebb tide only seem to be at variance with one another. They create a cohesive world. The artistic lack of realism and the serene atmosphere of family life have released in him a predatory life-giving resourcefulness. A teacher by heart, a graduate of English through education and a businessman through commonsense. Unexpectedly, even for himself, he has made great friends with the computer. He spends hours surfing the web, looking for curious places and forgotten records, and during the night, sitting next to his laptop he writes his own stories and novels. He does all this wearing headphones. He searches for performers of underground music and niche alternative rock artists. In recent times he has been delving into the ethnic music of the countries he visits. Music has always been his companion – maybe because his innate synaesthesia permits him to experience his favourite sounds with a number of senses at once. He prefers reading academic literature for the general public such as psychology, medicine and the biographies of people who refuse to humble themselves. His favourite fictional writer is William Somerset Maugham, whom he prefers to read in the original.

As the numerological number one in the company which he runs he is guided by precision, reason and realism. For almost twenty years he has been the co-owner of an international educational company. That means he is a practical manager. And that’s just to surprise himself.

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