Fables and Understories

Belated loose ends.

2008-12-27T23:50:00.000-08:00

Look!

Many months after it would have done any good...a copy of the original! In a really hard to read format! With a download link hidden behind a registering process.

Still, if anyone cared to have a look, there it is.

Also: I'm doing another one at my main blog. Over here.

-Andrew

Give It Here!

2008-10-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

     It was early in the morning in 1965 or 1966—I no longer remember when—when my friend Ján N.¹ and I arrived at the airport in Bratislava sleep-deprived, fatigued, and quite decimated by the hectic events of the preceding days, with the goal of collecting signatures from our Slovak colleagues for a petition to convene an extra plenary session of the Czechoslovak Writers Union on the subject of several absurd anti-cultural offensives of the current government. (There had to be a session if a third of the members signed, pursuant to the Union’s statutes, but how was this possible? Today it seems like a tale from A Thousand and One Nights, but back then everything was different: the state was really quite terrified about the matter, and was in no way clear on how to see to it that we did not collect that third). I sat with Ján N. in the airport terminal, and we debated who to see in what order and how to actually find them all (as far as I can remember we didn’t have their addresses and didn’t know Bratislava).

     When day broke a bit we went out on the street and a few minutes later a voice rang out behind us: “Where are you going, boys?”² It was Juraj Špitzer, and we told him what we were after, He told us that we were already expected in Bratislava (and we had not decided to fly in until midnight!) because the Central Committee of the KSČ³ had called all of the Slovak writers—party members—to forbid them from signing. We said “Lord!” Špitzer replied: “Never fear, come with me!” We said: “Where?” Špitzer: “Well, we’re having a meeting of the extended Union leadership, where [Vojtech] Mihálik is going to explain one more time why we must not sign.” Us: “And can we go there with you?” Him: “Why not? At least say what you came to say.”

     And so he took us there. There were about twenty people there, some whom we knew a little, others not. We surreptitiously took a few alertness pills⁴ and I succeeded (with the substantial help of Ján N.) to explain, over the course of an hour-long exposé, the cultural, historical, moral, and political importance of our position. Then came the debate, we replied to questions, explained, argued, etc. Mihálik explained at length how our business was a blow below the belt to the Party and therefore to the whole “cultural front,” others said the opposite, time flew, it was already noon, there was no end in sight, but all was well: the longer the went the more of those present were on our side, saying that we were right and there were situations where the truth was more important than the will of the Party. In such deliberations with petitions (and how many have I experienced in my life!) it is always most important to select the proper moment to take the signature sheets out of your briefcase and put them on the table: occasionally there are moments where it is clear you have gotten through to them and they will sign, but it could be the case that they would not a moment earlier or a moment later.

     It happened that the decisive moment came. I looked inquisitively at Ján N., he nodded, so I took them out and put them on the table; at that moment nearly two-thirds of those present had clearly decided to sign. The first of them—they were already standing up—were approaching the papers, I was a little nervous—and then Mihálik suddenly stood and said: “Leave it like it is, the Slovaks must act as one!” Everyone started, a deep silence fell, Mihálik headed for the doors and then everyone—including those standing over the papers, already reaching into their pockets for a pen—started to turn (or should I say squirm)⁵ quietly and a little bashfully for the door and the coathooks where they had their coats, hats, and caps. It was clear to us that we wouldn’t be bringing back many signatures from Slovakia, and I started to furtively stuff the pages back in my briefcase.

     And at that moment something happened, the reason why I’m writing about this ancient history: suddenly a handsome guy with a striking face stood up, though he had said nothing the whole morning, walked up to me and said: “Give it here!” Completely at a loss from all this, I took the signature sheets out of my briefcase again, and put them on the table. This man took out a pen and wrote: Dominík Tatarka, clapped me on the back, and left without looking at anyone or saying anything else. Ján N. and I just stared after him in surprise. I probably don’t even have to tell the rest: the others, already in their coats and hats, returned, lined up quietly, and signed, one after the other. Mihálik slammed the door and vanished, maybe one other person with him, I don’t remember. The Slovaks didn't act as one—almost, though.

Dominík, be well and strong and may you always be the way you are — and as far as I can recall — as you have always been!

--Václav Havel, on Dominík Tatarka’s 70th birthday, February 1983

1 Possibly a real person, though this was written under Communism and Ján N[ovák] is also the Czech equivalent of ‘John Doe’
2 Italicized text is in Slovak in the Czech original.
3 The Communist Party of Czechoslovakia
4 !! I'm guessing these weren't caffeine.
5 A nearly identical match in the original: blížit ‘draw near’ and ‘plížit’ creep

[I think this is a fun story, and I needed a fun little sub-project to get me moving again. From a collection of Hável essays and letters from 1983-1989 I picked up at Moe's in Berkeley Thursday night.]

Closure, of a sort

2008-05-26T14:50:00.000-07:00

The text exists on-line in multiple forms.

a) serially here (no longer the most up-to-date version, rife with problems of various sorts.)
b) Here, at the Internet Archive (free download, uploaded by a courteous reader)
c) At Scribd, which is where I first uploaded it, before I knew you needed to be a member to download things. I will probably remove this soon; I didn't really want to sign up myself.

Typos, I'm sure, are present. We'll see how many of them get teased out.

[original post has been edited repeatedly; I've also gone back and deleted a few wheedling, non-essential posts put up when I was procrastinating on the final release.]

I shall post here at least once more, as there are plans. This is not the end.

Editorial Remarks

2008-03-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

It was Karel Čapek’s wish that these fables and understories, the majority of which came from his later years in journalism, be assembled into a book. He left behind preparatory materials for this volume, consisting of a collection of newspaper clippings and several manuscripts found in his estate. It was possible to fill in the incomplete material from the original clippings until it encompassed the entirety of the intended contents. The author’s original goal was not only fulfilled by assembling all of the understories, (the name that Čapek himself gave to his feuilletons, but also to include all the fables we have of Čapek’s in their various incarnations from 1925 and 1938.

In addition to the newspaper fables, two collections were included directly from manuscripts. The first of these was found on the back of a letter from the poet Jaroslav Seifert, in which he had requested a contribution from Čapek for the “Majový list 1935,” subsequently published by the Central Workers’ Bookstore and Ant. Svěcený Publishing in Prague. Twelve of the twenty-one fables in it were published in the thirteenth section of the fable cycle with the notation that the manuscript was from 1935. One of them (Stone) was published by the author a privately in a collection of Fables, printed in fifty copies in 1936 for Václav Palivec. The second group of fables (XIV) comes from a handwritten octavo manuscript page included by the author in the preliminary material for this book. It has no date, but in all likelihood an origin of 1936 is indicated by its similarity to other extant manuscripts published in that year.

Though the publishers have largely preserved the original chronological progression of the understories, it had to judge between several different possible arrangements for the fables, keeping in mind the exacting sensibilities of the reader. The most attractive of these systems comes from Karel Čapek himself, who, in the aforementioned private edition of 1936, divided his fables into thematic categories whose headings were literature, politics, history, war, and the future. But this possibility, even in light of his collection, eventually gave way to the decision to leave the fables in their original groupings according to their original printing. In this manner they illustrate their timely and extensive effect best of all, their connection to the atmosphere of the times and its events which gave birth to them, quickly transforming into ironic commentary, cutting remarks, aggressive appeals, and sharp commentary on day-to-day events.

In this reprint several minor corrections have been made which the author added to newspaper clippings after their publication, as well as some stylistic corrections originally made by the author during collection into his 1936 collection. In spite of the variant versions in the original texts, we have captured their definitive form in this book.

Prague, 1946

Ten Centavos

2008-03-09T13:24:00.000-07:00

Of course it wasn’t in our country, no papers write like that here, and the voice of society, of the people, of the streets, or however you call it, doesn’t turn a corner so quickly at home. It was in Lisbon during one of their political coups; one regime fell, the government embraced another—you know how it happens in those foreign countries. Senhor Manoel Varga didn’t concern himself too much with it, for politics was not his field; he was just faintly disappointed and sighed sometimes over the disquiet that aroused people’s thoughts and turned them from matters (in his mind) that were more useful and noble. For Don Manoel loved his quiet and his work; he was chair of the Society for Public Education and adamantly believed that higher education opened the gates of the nation to well-being and freedom, that work and learning were our salvation, and so on. That morning, he had just finished attending to some correspondence on the popular astronomy course in Monsaras and a lecture on the health of nursing infants in the town of Moura, when his housekeeper came back from shopping, her eyes streaming and face red.

“Here you have it, sir,” she proclaimed, and tossed a crumpled newspaper onto the table. “And I am quitting this place! I am an honorable woman, and I cannot work in such a place!”

“Come now, come now,” Mr. Varga said in surprise, and looked over his glasses at the newspaper. He froze for a moment; the following headline appeared in bold on the front page: “HANDS OFf, SENHOR MANOEL VARGA!!!” Senhor Varga couldn’t believe his eyes. “Where did you get this, woman?” he sputtered.

From the butcher, supposedly. The butcher had showed it to her, and everyone was talking about it. And everybody was saying something had to be done and such a wretched traitor and dog like Don Varga couldn’t be allowed to live on their street.

“What everybody?” Mr. Varga asked uncomprehendingly.

“Everybody; the maids, the servants, the butcher, the baker— “And I can’t stay,” she managed through furious tears. “People will come here with torches—and they have every right to! It’s right there in the papers, who’s doing what and why…that’s what someone gets for their faithful service!”

“Please, leave me be,” said Don Varga. “And if you want to go, I won’t stop you.”

Now he could read what the newspaper said. “Hands up, Senhor Manoel Varga!” Perhaps it was another Varga, he thought a moment in relief, and read on. No, it was about him. “The public has been taking account of your ‘humanitarian’ actions, Mr. Varga, and you have poisoned the soul of our nation for years and years! We will not stand for your rotten, outlandish education, which only aggravates our moral decay, weakness and internal division; moreover, we will not allow you to spread your subversive opinions among our youth and our simple people under the name of useful education any longer…”

Mr. Manoel Varga set the newspaper down in sorrow. He could not grasp what was subversive in popular astronomy or the hygiene of nurselings, and he didn’t even try. He simply believed in education, and liked people, and that was all. So many people came to his lectures, and now they wrote that people thought them worthless and abhorred them. Mr. Varga shook his head and read on. “If our officials will not intervene with your little arrangement, then our awakened public will have to take matters into its own hand. Until then, be on guard, Mr. Manoel Varga!”

Senhor Manoel Varga carefully folded the newspaper and put in down. So this is the end, he told himself. He could not understand what had changed so abruptly in people that what had been good yesterday was harmful and subversive today; but he understood even less how so much hatred had sprung up between men. God in heaven, there was so much hatred! Old Don Manoel shook his head and looked out at the suburb of Sao Joao. It was lovely and dear as always; you could hear the happy cries of children and barking dogs—Mr. Varga took his glasses off and slowly cleaned them. God, so much hatred! What has happened to everyone! It was as if they had changed overnight. Even the housekeeper; she had been there for so many years…Mr. Varga remembered wistfully that he was a widow. If my poor late wife were alive—would she have changed too?

Senhor Manoel Varga sighed and picked up the telephone. I’ll call my old friend de Souza, he told himself, he’ll advise me—

“Hello, this is Varga.”

A moment of silence. “Souza. What do you want?”

Mr. Varga gulped. “I just wanted…to ask. Have you read the article?”

“I have.”

“Please…what should I do about it?”

A slight hesitation. “Nothing. You must realize, that… that circumstances have changed. See? Well. Get used to it.” Click. Mr. Varga couldn’t even find the cradle for the telephone. That had been his best friend. How could everything have changed so? Get used to it—but how? How could a men get used to being hated? And how could a man get used to hate when he had preached love his whole life?

Well, I must get used to it—at least formally, Don Manoel decided; so he sat down at his desk and carefully drafted a letter, stating he was resigning his post of chair of the Society for Public Education. In light of the changed circumstances, and so on. Mr. Varga sighed and took his hat; he would deliver it himself, to have it done with all the sooner.

He went across town on back streets with the feeling that even the buildings were looking at him differently, almost inimically, perhaps also in the light of the changed circumstances. Perhaps the neighbors were talking about that Varga who poisons our very nation. Someone might have been slowly closing their door as he went by—it wouldn’t be surprising. Mr. Varga walked quickly, also in light of the changed circumstances. I might have to move somewhere else, he thought, sell my summer camp and…well, get used it to, right?

Mr. Varga got onto a tram and sat in a corner. Two or three people were just then reading that very paper. Hands off, Senhor Manoel Varga! What if they knew it was me, Don Manoel thought—that gloomy-looking one might point and say: ‘Do you see him! It is that Varga who spreads his subversive ideas! And he is not ashamed to be out in public!’ I should get off the tram, Mr. Varga thought, feeling unfriendly eyes about him…Christ in heaven, how well people’s eyes could show hate!

“Ticket, sir,” the conductor’s voice boomed over him. Mr. Varga almost took fright, and was taking a handful of change out of his pocket; at this a small coin of ten centavos fell and rolled under a seat.

The conductor looked for it. “Leave it,” Mr. Varga said at once, counting change—he didn’t want to call attention to himself.

The gloomy-loking man set down his paper and bent over, looking under the seat for the coin. “Honestly, sir, it isn’t worth it,” Mr. Varga assured him, quite nervously.

The man grumbled something and crawled under the bench after the coin; the others in the tram watched him in interest and understanding.

“I think it fell here,” a second man mumbled, sitting on his heels to look for it. Mr. Varga was on tenterhooks.

“Thank you…thank you,” he stammered, “but it’s really not necessary—”

“There it is,” the second man proclaimed, his head underneath the bench, “but it fell between the boards, the little devil! Do you have a knife?”

“I don’t,” Mr. Varga apologized, “but please…it’s not worth the effort—”

A third senhor put down his paper and dug in his pockets without a word; he took out a leather case and from it a little silver knife. “Show me,” he told the second man, “I will get it out.”

The whole tram looked on intently, delighting in watching the third man probe the gap between the boards with his blade. “It’s coming along,” he rumbled contentedly, and at that the coin jumped out and rolled merrily along. A fourth man bent over, hunting under the bank.

“Here it is,” he announced triumphantly, and stood up, red with exertion. “There you are, sir,” he wheezed, and handed the coin to Mr. Varga.

“Thank…thank you, sir,” Senhor Manoel Varga babbled, touched. “You were very kind, and the other gentlemen as well,” he added, bowing politely in all directions.

“It was noting,” the third man grumbled.

“Glad to do it,” spoke the second.

“At least you found it,” said the first.

The people on the tram smiled and nodded their heads. At least the coin was found—kudos! Manoel Varga, blushing in embarrassment over attracting so much attention, sat rigidly, watching the third man, the one with the knife, pick up his newspaper once more and begin to read the article: “Hands off, Senhor Varga!”

When Mr. Varga got off, everyone in the tram nodded at him in a friendly way; even the ones reading the newspaper raised their eyes and grumbled: “Adios, senhor!”

LN, 20 November 1938

Interview

2008-03-06T11:47:00.000-08:00

“Interviews,” said the conductor Pilát, shrugging his shoulders. “I wonder if you would believe it, sir. I too have my experiences with interviews, and I tell you simply that when I have to grant one to someone that I would rather not read it later. I would just get angry for nothing. A man should be able to have a chuckle over the things he reads in such an interview, but then he sees how carelessly the journalist has distorted it. You notice slapdash work when you see it, don’t you? Sometimes I marvel how this journalist or that muddled and twisted everything I told him so cruelly, as if he deliberately wrote things the wrong way around—why, I cannot imagine. If I were a politician or a similarly important figure, fine: that’s how it is is politics, and these people have a special interest in putting words into people’s mouths they never said, or to invent whole conversations, that also happens. But me—how to put it—I am a musician, I am nobody, no one has anything against me, especially not here at home, and still not even half of what I really say in the interview ends up in print.
So I’ll tell you so you know how it is. I have to direct a large concert in Liverpool or Paris. When Maestro Pilát is directing, the agency makes a big deal out of it. I haven’t even washed my hands in the hotel room when the desk calls me and says that a man wishes to speak to me. Important business, supposedly. Good God, I say, the newspapers! You know, the newspapers only care about you the first day; the next you are no longer news, and if you want them to mention you again, you have to get run over by an automobile at the least. So, I let the man wait a little while—it seems to suit the whole business; and then ‘yes, please, what can I do for you?’ The man introduces himself, addresses me as ‘Dear Maestro,’ and says such and such a newspaper would like to print a few words about me…

“What, an interview?” I say. “I do not give interviews on principle.”

“No, no,” the young man defends himself. “Just a few words, a completely unforced conversation…”

I give in, resigned. “Well then, sit, let’s get to it!”

The young man takes out a pad and licks his pencil. Right away I can tell that he knows nothing about me, that he does not like music, and that he has no conception of what to talk to me about. He looks at me uncertainly for a moment and then starts: “If would would tell me something about yourself, Maestro.”

That normally rubs me the wrong way. “I know nothing of myself,” I tell him. “But we can talk about music, if it is all the same to you.”

The young man gratefully nods his head, and scribbles furiously. “When did you start to play?” he then asks.

“As a young boy,” I say. “On the piano.”

The young man writes furiously. “Where were you born?”

“In Maršov.”

“Where is that?”

“In Czechoslovakia.”

“Where, please?”

“In Czechoslovakia. In the Krokonoše.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Krkonoše. Riesengebirge,” I explain to him. “Monts Géants. Giant Mountains.

“Aha,” the young man says, writing intently. “Can you tell me something about your childhood? For example…what was your father like?”

“He was a teacher. He played the organ in church. Those were my first musical impressions,” I say, to get the subject back to music. “You know, an old Czech cantor like that, a musician, one with nature—in our country it is a family tradition.” And so on. The young man writes and nods his head, satisfied. That is exactly what his paper needs. Bravo, Maestro!

Finally I show him out and sigh: there, that is over with. I like wandering around foreign cities; no one knows you there… I tell you, sometimes when I am conducting I feel like throwing up my baton when I am struck by horror and revulsion of people watching me. No one who has no sense for comedy should ever get up in public. But that is another story.

So the next morning I get the newspaper. The headline is bold: “A Conversation with Maestro Pilát.” Fine. “Maestro Pilát admitted our correspondent in a luxury suite in the Hotel X.” Hold on, I met the young man in the hotel lobby! “We were accepted with an unusual, ebullient warmth.” Wow, I think. “The exquisite, refined surroundings contrasted sharply with the gigantic, severe figure with the enormous mane of hair, unfettered in appearance.”I barely measure a meter-seventy, as as for the mane—well, let’s leave it at that. “He ran his fingers through his graying mane and his swarthy face became gloomy. ‘My origins,’ he said, ‘are concealed in secrecy; I cannot say much about myself. I was born in Hungary not far from Warsaw, my womb was the wild and enormous mountains. Wind roared over the forests at the place of my birth and the waterfalls thundered like an organ in a cathedral. That was the first musical impression of my life. I can betray to you that my father was an old gypsy. He lived with nature like hundreds and hundreds of our ancestors. Our family traditions are poaching, freedom, and furious cymbal and violin music. To this day I enjoy disappearing into the camps of my countrymen and playing the songs of my childhood on a violin around the fire…”

What can I tell you: I ran down to that newspaper and looked for the chief editor. I think I pounded on his desk a bit or something, but that man just took off his glasses and said in surprise: “But sir, we write for the news, after all! We must print the truth interestingly, don’t you understand? I don’t understand why you’re getting so angry…”

Now I’m not mad about it any more, a man gets used to it… And not only that, but I think there might not be any other way about it: you live your life, but the picture other people have of you is always different; what then when this picture is presented to the public! I can’t even tell you any more if this interview was in Liverpool or Rotterdam or somewhere else, but I am convinced of the following: when I stood in that concert hall at my podium, that the entire audience truly saw me as an enormous, unfettered, wild man with flowing hair, leaping over gypsy fires, violin in hand. The concert was an enormous and fantastic success. So I don’t even know if the young journalist was so wrong, in a way… you see, at least in that there is a private truth and a public one.”

LN 13 November 1938

Anonymous

2008-03-04T20:17:00.000-08:00

“So just imagine,” said Mr. Diviš, “what happened to me. I’ve been receiving these…anonymous letters for years now. They are from—judging from the handwriting, paper, and so on—about three or four people; two type them and two handwrite them; of these one has horribly poor handwriting, rather base in effect, whereas the other writes in calligraphy, with such drawn, painstaking letters — it must be a terrible amount of work. Why these four have chosen me I cannot even tell you; I don’t get involved with politics, except that I occasionally write articles in the newspaper concerning the needs and goals of our dairy and cheese plant. When a man becomes an expert in the smallest thing, it no longer suits him and he is compelled to rouse the nation with his scrap of knowledge, informing the conscientious public and so on. I never thought that my proposals to improve our cheese plants could injure someone’s feelings, but one never knows. One of my faithful anonyms seems to be a butcher or a curer, fighting for the interests of his profession; after each of my articles he sends a typed letter in which he accuses me of befouling our conscientious society with this cheese of mine, and undermining our nation’s strength. The second, writing on an old Remington, notifies me outright that I am, as is commonly known, paid millions in royalties for my idiotic articles by certain interests, and that with my thirty pieces of silver I have already bought three estates. Moreover, I only want to bamboozle our people into swilling down my adulterated and typhoid-riddled milk for their bloody money. Of the handwritten ones the base one writes such shameful things about my wife, well, I cannot even say what, but… it is terrible what people are capable of in rancor and venom. Perhaps it is some well-to-do woman who knows us and who dictates these letters to her maid or washerwoman. Finally, the calligraphic one always threateningly addresses me as “Dear Sir!” and categorically demands that I leave everyone be with my milk; the nation supposedly has other concerns and will faithfully deal with those who deliberately divert its attention to material baseness and destroy its idealism. You shall be the first to hang from the lamp-posts, my calligraphic anonym informs me, when our people see through this web of lies and despicable distractions which your associates and your confederates have woven, and so on. The specifics don’t matter much: you see, these anonymous letters went on in the same vein, as though they had been written by some sort of advice columnist or regular correspondent. I just wondered who was writing them; I thought it was some friend of mine who was looking to vent his private feelings like this or to revenge himself against me in some way—I couldn’t imagine what for; but likely as not it had to be someone I knew or someone I had some sort of contact with. I despise writing letters: for this reason I think I normal man has to have a very strong reason to put pen to paper and write something.

It went on for years: the strange thing is that in these recent troubled times the letters have markedly increased in number and vehemence. The martial butcher or whoever has gotten increasingly personal, writing ‘you bloated pig, the knife for you is already sharpened,’ and such things. The one on the Remington has begun to sign as the Purge League, and advises me to say good-bye to my estates—you know, as far as land goes, I only have a windowbox with geraniums—for the working classes have already passed judgment over parasites like me. The ungrammatical letters about my wife have become recognizably harsher, and my calligraphic anonym now holds me responsible for everything that has happened, and signs off with the words: ‘Flee for the borders, you nothing, it is not too late! Signed: FUROR.’ Of course, there was more, but still in the same energetic style. I think that the excited times increase both people’s tendencies towards writing and their need to display them; I just wondered all the more how a boring businessman like myself could interest someone so passionately. There had to be something horribly personal behind it…maybe I had injured someone or gotten in someone’s way—shows how much one knows about one’s acquaintances! Still, you know, it is a little troubling when one has to look at everyone extending a hand with a bit of insecurity: my friend, is it finally you?

Once the other day I went to roam the streets a bit in the evening; I had cleared my mind and was only looking to see how people lived their lives, as though I were from some other time. I don’t even know what street I was on—a quiet little one, somewhere near Gröbovka. A short man with a cape was limping in front of me. He seemed to have a terrible cold because he kept coughing, spitting, and hunting in his pockets for a handkerchief. During on of his trips into his pocket an envelope fell out, but he didn’t notice it and went on. I picked it up and looked at it to see if it was worth chasing after this little man. My address was on it. And it was written in the same beautiful writing of my fourth anonym.

So I pick up my step and shout: “Hey, sir, isn’t this your letter?”

The man in the cape stopped and looked through his pockets. “Show me?” he said. “Yeah, it’s my letter. A thousand thanks, sir. Reverent thanks.”

I tell you, I stood as still as if I had been struck by lightning. You see, I have a memory for faces, but I had never seen this man before in my life. Here was a nobody for you; horribly stained collar, tattered pants, a crooked knot instead of a collar; well, it was piteous; his Adam’s apple bobbed in his neck, he had streaked eyes, a fatty lump on his face, and on top of it all he had a bad leg—-

“My reverent thanks, good sir,” he said, gravely polite, and doffed his hat in an old-fashioned way. “Greatly obliged.” He waved his hat once more and limped solemnly on.

I tell you, I just stood there and stared after him open-mouthed. So that was my Anonymous! Someone whom I had never met and to whom I had never done anything. And this man writes me and even sends his letters by pneumatic post! For the love of God, how did I come to this—and how did he? I thought about God-knows-what kind of secret enemy and meanwhile—think of the money it was costing the poor man! I wanted to run after him and find out who he was, but somehow I couldn’t; I turned my back on his and ambled on home. I felt such terrible pity. I had thought it was making him feel better. But at least the fool could have left off the postage! I should have said ‘Sir, you can send it to me postage due; it cost you so much writing, and to drop it like that as well—’

In the morning I got the letter by pneumatic post, still smeared from where it had fallen on the wet pavement. There were terrible things in it: throw me up against the wall, string me up in a tree, and I don’t know what else. I just feel so bad about it. You see, he is such a wretch, that man; it must eat away at the poor thing, just imagine what sort of sad and strange life it must be…”

LN, 6 November 1938

On the Flooding of the World

2008-02-29T12:46:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if you remember the last world flood. Probably not, since people forget just punishments quite readily; but it does not matter, I shall remind you. It was probably as simple as the Lord getting angry at human dissipation, partisanship and other sins, and decided He would not let it happen any longer. So He sent a rain which lasted forty days and forty nights; the national meteorological institute claimed, however, that it was an influx of moist air from the ocean caused by an extensive low front over the continent, but when the Vltava reached the Museum, people started to say that it was not a natural occurrence and that it had to be the end of the world. And so it was. Some people sought protection in churches, others made a run on the banks, withdrawing their money at once (what good that would do them when the world ended God only knows) and others lived it up, spending above their means like before; hundreds of them drowned in bars all the same. More reasonable people said that of course something should be done about this world flood, like building levees, and industriously and freely announced their intentions; but the plans for the levees remained in the planning office and haven’t been approved to this day. Finally people set to work themselves and started to build levees where it occurred to them to do so, but what good were levees when the water had already drowned Barrandov, Pankrác, Bohdalec and Střešovice and continued to rise. In other cities in other states with different geographies it wasn’t any better; it was still the end of the world, as it had been written. And no one could even construct an ark, for obvious reasons. Podskálí flooded first, and the people in Vinohrady and Dejvice didn’t even know how to build a raft, let alone an ark. There was nothing to be done. The end of the world is the end of the world.

In these times there lived an elderly man, named Kirchner or Bezdíček or something like that; and as a retiree he took up archeology, and was always looking for prehistoric relics Once he was digging somewhere near Hloubetin and found some potsherds, covered with some sort of nicks or scratches; there were perhaps about twenty of them. Then this Mr. Kirchner (or Bezdíček) got it into his head that these symbols were ancient runes, and he would decipher them. The word “Samo” came out during his decipherment and some other strange words; so he gleefully collected them and composed the book On The Fragments of Samo, in which he demonstrated that these fragments had come from the broken urn of the great ruler Samo, conqueror of the Avars, and that Samo’s life was written on it in the long-extinct Celtic language of the ancient Boii. Naturally, learned archeologists reacted to this discovery with laughter and suggested the runes were simply a poorly-executed linear decoration. From that point on Mr. Bezdíček (or Kirchner) bore a lifelong grudge against “learned archeologists” and produced many pamphlets proving that they were ignoramuses and that his fragments were truly the remnants of Samo’s urn. He set to the study of the Celtic languages and maintained that the words he had deciphered on those fragments had Celtic roots. But you know, try to convince the educated of something they have not discovered themselves! Simply put, science did not accept Mr. Kirchner (or Mr. Bezdíček’s) proofs, and Mr. Bezdíček felt personally insulted by this, continuing his bitter struggle against archeology. Nothing else existed for him except his runic inscriptions and his fight to sweep away our archeology. And just then came the flooding of the world.

Mr. Bezdíček (or Kirchner) lived in Vinohrady close to the reservoir; he did not care that it was pouring buckets outside, because he was sitting at his writing desk and writing a furious polemic against a Professor Ondrejček or whatever the expert on Celtic graves’ name was. He was writing and didn’t care about anything else, and when his maid said that it might be the end of the world, he only grumbled for her to leave him in peace, he didn’t have time for such foolishness; what did he care about some end of the world? ‘I’ll show that Ondrejček,’ he said, ‘I’ll take him apart bit by bit. His graves in Ouholice,’ he said, ‘are not Celtic at all, but ordinary Germanic barrows; and that idiot would lecture me on Samo’s fragments?’ And then he threw the maid out, saying he didn’t have time to talk to her, and kept writing.

Then a neighbor ran up to him, saying that all the building’s tenants had started to build a levee downhill in Kravín against the elements; and Mr. Kirchner should come too and help build. ‘What’s this about levees,’ Mr. Bezdíček said, ‘what concern are they of mine. I’m giving it to this dullard, this psuedo-scientist Ondrejček, such that he’ll never recover. I have to discredit him; it is in the interest of archeology, sir. Such an ignoramus must not be allowed to defile an extinct nation,’ Mr. Kirchner (or Bezdíček) cried. ‘This flood of yours does not interest me; please do not bother me further with it, sir.’ And he sat down and kept writing. At this point the water was halfway up the statue of Svatopluk the Czech.

A third person then came to see Mr. Kirchner, his sister from Flora. She was from a sect that had hidden themselves at the home of a mason in Olšany, devoting themselves to prayers, miracles and prophesy. This cousin informed Mr. Bezdíček that the end of the world and the resurrection of the righteous were nigh, as it had been in the book of Revelations; and that he, Mr. Bezdíček, should join them and await it to the chanting of hymns on the triumph of the righteous. ‘Some righteous you are,’ Mr. Bezdíček proclaimed. You pray, sure, but you do not fight against the false science that this Ondrejček is spreading, not at all. And leave me be with this end of the world of yours. Let the world end ten times, so long as I get this Ondrejček and his so-called Celtic graves.’ And then he locked the door, so no one could interrupt his work.

Then the waters rose higher until they flooded the whole world; humanity was extinguished; justly so was it done.

When the waters receded and only reached to the Vinohrady square, this Mr. Kichner or Bezdíček appeared on the streets, covered in a layer of mud. He was dry as a bone, carrying the manuscript of his polemic against Prof. Ondrejček, terribly angry that he couldn’t find a printer to make a run of his brochure.

When people began to multiply again years later, the new people wondered how Mr. Kirchner or Bezdíček had survived the flooding of the world; but whenever they came out and asked him, his eyes got wide in wonder and he said: “What flood? I don’t know anything about it. I was busy with that idiot Ondrejček. Imagine, that ignoramus had come out against my runic inscriptions!”

We say there is nothing unusual about Mr. Bezdíček’s survival. We’ve known for ages that human rage and fanaticism will survive all disasters and floods; not even the end of the world can touch it.

LN, 5 June 1938

The Man Who Learned To Fly

2008-02-26T12:10:00.000-08:00

Mr. Tomšík walked down the street under the Vinohrady hospital. It was his evening constitutional, for Mr. Tomšík was particular about his health and was a rabid sportsman, in that he attended all the league matches. He walked lightly and quickly in the spring twilight, only meeting a pair of lovers here and there, or someone from Strašnice. I should buy a pedometer, he thought, so I know how many steps I have taken in a day. And suddenly he remembered a dream he had three days before: he was walking down the street, but there was a woman with a child's stroller in his way; he pushed off with his left foot lightly and suddenly rose about three meters in the air, flying over the woman with the stroller and gliding back to the ground. This did not startle him at all in his dream; it struck him as very matter-of-fact and unusually pleasant--it only struck him as slightly odd that no one had ever tried it before. It was so easy: one simply had to wave the feet a bit, as though on a bicycle, and Mr. Tomšík again rose upwards, gliding to a second-story height and lightly regaining the ground. It was enough to push off add fly again as effortlessly as streamers around a maypole; he didn't even have to land again, just move his legs like so and fly on. Mr. Tomšík had to laugh out loud in his dream, that no one had gotten the knack of that yet. It was easier and more natural than walking, after all, Mr. Tomšík realized in his dream, I must try it tomorrow when I am awake.

Three days ago he had had that dream, Mr. Tomšík remembered. What a pleasant dream it was; it was so easy--well, it would be wonderful, if one could fly like that, just by pushing off a bit with the foot. Mr. Tomšík looked around. No one was walking behind him. Mr. Tomšík started running a bit just for fun and pushed off with his left foot, as if he were jumping over a muddy puddle. Right then he rose about three meters in the air and flew, flew in an even arc in the air. This did not surprise him at all; it was really quite natural, a little thrilling, like a ride on a carousel. Mr. Tomšík almost shouted in boyish delight, but he was already nearing the ground thirty meters down the road, and he noticed it was muddy there. He waved his legs as he had in his dream, and immediately rose higher and landed lightly and without injury some fifteen meters on, right behind the man who was walking melancholically towards Strašnice. He looked back suspiciously; clearly he did not enjoy having someone behind him whose footsteps he had not heard. Mr. Tomšík went by him as innocently as possible; he was afraid he might push off with too energetic a step and begin to fly once more.

I have to test this out systematically, Mr. Tomšík said to himself, and started returning home the same way he had come, but as though deliberately he met the same lovers and a railwayman. He crossed the street into an empty lot where they had stored ballast years ago; it was already dark, but Mr. Tomšík feared he might not remember how the next day. He pushed off more firmly this time, but he only flew a little over a meter high and had somewhat of a hard landing.

He tried it again, helping out with his arms, as though he were swimming; now he flew a good eighteen meters high, in a neat semi-circle, and landed as neatly as a dragonfly. He was about to try it a third time, but a ray of light fell on him and a hard voice asked: "What's all this, then?" It was a police officer on patrol.

Mr. Tomšík startled terribly and stammered that he was in training. "Look, move along and train somewhere else," the patrolman snapped, "but not here." Mr. Tomšík didn't understand why he could train somewhere else but not there, but he was a loyal man and so wished the patrolman good night and left immediately, full of fear that he would take off again. That might have been suspicious to the police.

Scarcely had he reached the national institute for health than he again jumped into the air, lightly clearing a wire fence and, with the aid of his hands, he flew over the institutional yard right to the other side, to Korunní avenue, where he landed right in front of a waitress carrying a mug of beer. She cried out and took flight. Mr. Tomšík guessed that flight at two hundred meters; it struck him as an excellent start.

In the following days he trained diligently, of course only at night in lonely places, especially in the vicinity of the Jewish cemetery over in Olsany. He tried various methods, for example starting from a sprint or with a dead jump from one spot; playfully, only waving his legs he attained heights above a hundred meters, but could get no higher. He developed further methods of landing; from a gliding touchdown to a slow vertical landing, which depended on the work of the arms; he also learned to control his speed and change direction in the air, to fly against the wind, to fly with cargo, to rise or fall according to necessity and similar things. It was simple and easy; Mr. Tomšík was all the more astounded that people hadn’t realized it yet; perhaps it was that no one before him had simply tried to push off with one foot and fly. Once he remained in the air for the entirety of seventeen minutes, but then he got caught in some telephone wires and gladly landed. One night he tried to fly on Ruská avenue; he was flying maybe four meters high when he spotted two patrolmen underneath him; he turned at once into the garden of a villa while the shocked whistles of the police sounded behind him. He returned on foot a little while later and saw six patrolmen searching the garden with electric torches, supposedly for a thief who had scaled the fence.

Just then Mr. Tomšík realized that flying offered him unprecedented possibilities, but nothing decent occurred to him. One night he caught sight of an open window on the fourth floor on Jiři z Lobkovic square; Mr. Tomšík rose up with a sharp push-off, sat down on the windowsill and was at a loss how to proceed. He heard someone in a firm and deep sleep, so he crawled into the room. Since he had no intention of stealing, he stood there with the same awkward and embarrassed feeling you get in anyone else's apartment. Mr. Tomšík sighed and crawled back out the window, but to leave some trace of his presence and some sort of proof of his athletic feat, he took a piece of paper out of his picket and wrote on it with a pencil: "I was here! The Avenging X." He put that paper on the sleeper's nightstand and quietly descended from the fourth floor. Once he got home he found that the paper had been an envelope addressed to him, but he didn't have the courage to return for it. He was terribly afraid for several days that the police would come investigating, but surprisingly nothing came of it.

After some time Mr. Tomšík felt that he ought not have to practice flying as a secret and private entertainment; but he did not know how to reveal his discovery to the public. It was just so easy; push off with the foot and help out with the arms, and one could fly like a bird. Maybe it would become a new sport; or certainly it could ease the congestion of the streets, if one could walk through the air. And there wouldn't be any need for elevators. It would have quite a large impact; Mr. Tomšík did not know exactly of what sort, but it would clearly take off on its own. Every great discovery starts off as a simple game.

Mr. Tomšík had a neighbor at home, a fat young man named Vojta, and he did something for the newspapers. Yes, he was editor of the sports edition or something. So Mr. Tomšík visited that Mr. Vojta one day, and after much ado finally managed to say he had something interesting to show him. He was so painfully secret about it, that Mr. Vojta thought "My God," or something like that. Nevertheless he started talking and went with Mr. Tomšík to the Jewish cemetery at about nine o'clock in the evening.

"So have a look, Mr. Vojta," Mr. Tomšík said; he pushed off with his foot and rose to a height of five meters. He went through his routine there, landing, taking off again waving his arms, and even stood motionless in mid-air for a good eight seconds. Mr. Vojta got terribly serious and started looking at how Mr. Tomšík was doing it. Mr. Tomšík showed it to him painstakingly: just push off with the foot, and there you are; no, there's nothing spiritual in it, no, no higher power is necessary to do it, or strength of will, or muscular exertion; just jump up and fly. "Just try it yourself," he suggested, but Mr. Vojta shook his head. There must be some special trick to it, he thought distractedly. But I'll find it, he said. And Mr. Tomšík wasn't to show anyone else in the meanwhile.

Later he made Mr. Tomšík fly in front of him with a five-kilogram brick in his hands; it went more poorly and he only got three meters in the air, but Mr. Vojta was satisfied. After the third flight Mr. Vojta said: "Listen, Mr. Tomšík, I don't want to scare you, but this is very serious business. Flying like this under your own power could have a great impact. For example, defending the state, do you understand? It must be dealt with scientifically. You know, Mr. Tomšík, you will have to hand this over to the experts. I will take care of it."

And so it happened that one day Mr. Tomšík stood in boxer shorts before a panel of four men in the courtyard of the national institute for physical education. He was terribly ashamed of his nakedness, had stage fright and shook with cold, but Mr. Vojta had demanded it: were he not in the boxer shorts they couldn't have seen how it was done. One of the men, big and bald, was himself the university professor of physical education; he looked quite contemptuous; one could see from the way he held his nose that he considered the whole thing nonsense from a scientific standpoint. He looked impatiently at his watch and grumbled.

"So, Mr. Tomšík," Mr. Vojta said excitedly, "show us the running start first."

Mr. Tomšík, startled, ran two steps.

"Wait," the expert interrupted him. "You have terrible starting form. You have to put all your weight on your left foot, do you understand? Once more!"

Mr. Tomšík returned and started to put his weight onto his left foot.

"And your arms, sir," the expert instructed him. "You don't know what to do with your arms. You must hold them so to keep your chest loose. And you held your breath when you started running the last time. Once more!"

Mr. Tomšík was confused: he really didn't know what to do with his hands and how to breathe; he proceeded uncertainly, looking to see where his weight was centered.

"Now!" cried Mr. Vojta.

Mr. Tomšík goggled and ran: he was just about to take off when the expert said: "Poorly done! Once again!"

Mr. Tomšík tried to stop, but he couldn't; he weekly pushed off with his left foot and flew maybe a meter in the air; but since he wanted to comply, he aborted his flight and stayed put on the ground.

"Just awful," the expert shouted. "You have to bend! You have to get on the balls of your feet and bend at the knees! And you have to have your arms forward, do you understand? Your arms transfer momentum, sir; it is a natural movement. Wait," the expert said, "I will show you. Watch carefully how I do it." Therewith he took off his coat and got into starting position. "Notice, sir: my weight is on my left foot; nose straight, body inclined forward; I hold my elbows back to expand my chest. Do it like me!"

Mr. Tomšík did it like him; never in his life had he felt so uncomfortably contorted.

"You have to try it," the expert ordered. "And look at me now! I stick my left leg out first--" the expert did so, ran six steps, pushed off, jumped, describing a beautiful arc with his arms; whereupon he landed elegantly, knees bent, arms forward. "That's how it is done," he said, tugging at his pants. "Do it just like I did."

Mr. Tomšík dubiously and unhappily looked at Mr. Vojta. Did it have to be this way?

"Once more," said Mr. Vojta, and Mr. Tomšík contorted himself as he had been instructed. "Now!"

Mr. Tomšík got his legs mixed up; he ran left foot forward. 'It doesn't matter; if I just bend my knees like this and hold my arms in,' he thought carefully as he ran. He almost forgot to jump; he quickly took off--'got to keep my knees bent', he thought. He leapt a half meter hight and landed a meter and a half away. He at once bent his knees and held his arms forward.

"But Mr. Tomšík," cried Mr. Vojta, "you didn't fly! Once more, please!"

Mr. Tomšík began running once more. He only jumped a meter forty, but fell to his knees and threw up his arms. He was soaked in sweat and felt his heart in his throat. God, just let them leave me alone, he thought in defeat.

He tried twice more that day; then they left him alone.

From that day on Mr. Tomšík could no longer fly.

LN 1 May 1938

Halo

2008-02-25T09:39:00.000-08:00

Mr. Knotek awoke in his bachelor apartment at six forty-five. “I could lay here another quarter of an hour,” he thought in satisfaction, and then a thought loomed up from the previous day. It was terrifying: he had nearly thrown himself into the Vltava! He had been about to write a letter to chief clerk Polický, which the recipient certainly wouldn't be framing. ”No, Mr. Polický, to my dying day I will be upset with how you could so injure a man.” So Mr. Knotek had been sitting at that table long into the night over a blank sheet of paper, paralyzed with indignation and shame at what had happened to him in the bank. “We've never had an idiot like you here,” Mr. Polický had shouted. “You knot-head, I'll see you transferred somewhere else, but God only knows what they'll do with you, you are the least capable force of the last thousand years,” and the like. This had been in front of the other clerks and secretaries. Mr. Knotek had stood red-faced and defeated in the meanwhile, while Mr. Polický raved and tossed the unfortunate statement of accounts at his feet; he had been so overwhelmed he could not even defend himself. “Just so you know, Mr. Polický,” (he could have said) “I didn't prepare that statement, Šembera did; go wag your jaw at Šembera, Mr. Polický, and leave me in peace; I've been at this bank for seventeen years, Mr. Polický, and I've never made a mistake as big as that.” But before Mr. Knotek could say anything, Mr. Polický had slammed his doors, and an uncomfortable silence spread throughout the office. His colleague Šembera had bent over his papers so he didn't have to look him in the eyes, and then Mr. Knotek, his spirit crushed, had taken his hat and left the office. “I won't ever be back here,” he thought woodenly. “This is the end.” He wandered the streets all afternoon, he forgot to eat, and slunk home without dinner, like a thief, to write his final letter; then it would be over, but Mr. Polický would have a man's life on his hands for the rest of his life.

Mr. Knotek stared thoughtfully at the desk he had been sitting at the night before. What had he been going to write? He couldn't remember, try as he might, a single of those lofty and bitter words with which he had intended to burden Mr. Polický's soul. He was so woeful and cold at the table that he suddenly burst into tears of self-pity; then he felt so weak from hunger and sorrow that he crawled into bed had slept like the dead. “I should write the letter now,” Mr. Knotek thought in bed, but he was so warm and snug. “I'll just wait a while,” he thought, “and then I'll write it; a thing like this must be carefully considered.”

Mr. Knotek pulled the covers up to his chin. “What do I write? First off I should say it was Šembera who prepared the statement. But that won't do—” Mr. Knotek recoiled from that thought. “Šembera is a fool, but he has three children and a wife who is sometimes sick; it has scarcely been six weeks since he got a position at the bank--such an employee would go right out the door! ‘There is nothing to be done, Šembera,’ Mr. Polický would say, ‘but we can't have people like you in our bank.’ “But I should at least write that it wasn't me who prepared the account,” Mr. Knotek thought, “but then Polický might investigate who it was who had, and Šembera would still lose his job. Then I'd have the poor man on my conscience,” Mr. Knotek thought pityingly. “I've got to spare Šembera from it somehow. I'll just write Mr. Polický that he has done me wrong and will have me on his conscience—”

Mr. Knotek sat up in bed. “Someone should watch out for that Šembera. I should say: ‘Look, you're my co-worker, it has to be done this way, I'd rather help you—’ But I won't be there any more, that's the thing, and that louse Šembera will lose his job as soon as it comes out. That's a stupid situation,” Mr. Knotek thought, clasping himself around the knees, “I really should stay on--And forgive Mr. Polický for being so cruel to me? -- Yes, forgive Mr. Polický for being so cruel to me. And why not? He may be a hothead but he doesn't actually think that, and in a while he won't even remember why he got upset.” Mr. Knotek found, to his surprise, that he didn't really feel that injured; he felt level-headed, almost pleasant. “I'll forgive Mr. Polický,” he whispered to himself, “and I'll show that Šembera how it's supposed to be done.”

Quarter to eight. Mr. Knotek jumped out of bed and tore to the sink. There wasn't time to shave any more, just to throw some clothes on and run. Mr. Knotek ran down the stairs, unusually light and full of vim, probably because he had it all straightened out for himself. He ran, his hat in his hand and so joyful he almost burst into song. Now he had to get his coffee in the coffeeshop, grab a glance at the newspapers, and he would go to the bank, as if nothing had—

Mr. Knotek reached for his head. Why were people staring so? Maybe he had something on his hat. No, his hat was in his hand. A taxi was going down the street; suddenly, the driver started staring at Mr. Knotek to such an extent that it was a marvel he wasn't driving on the sidewalk. Mr. Knotek shook his head somewhat reproachfully, to indicate that he did not need a taxi. It seemed as though people were stopping and staring after him, so he fumbled about to see if all his buttons were fastened and if he had his tie on. No, praise God, everything was in order, and Mr. Knotek entered his coffeeshop with a clear mind.

The busboy gaped at him.

“Coffee and a paper,” Mr. Knotek ordered, and made himself comfortable at his table. The waiter brought him coffee and stared in surprise over the top of Mr. Knotek's bald head. Several heads popped out of the kitchen doors, looking in surprise at Mr. Knotek.

Mr. Knotek grew uneasy. “What is it?”

The waiter coughed in embarrassment. “Sir, there may be something on your head.”

Mr. Knotek again reached for his head: nothing. It was dry and smooth like always. “What's on my head?” he sputtered.

“It looks like a glow,” the waiter gulped in hesitation. “I keep looking at it—”

Mr. Knotek frowned: clearly they were making fun of his baldness. “Mind your own business,” he said sharply and started his coffee. To be sure, he discreetly looked around and found his reflection in the mirror; he caught sight of his bald head and, around it, something like a golden ring. Mr. Knotek stood up suddenly and went closer to the mirror. The golden ring went with him. Mr. Knotek reached up with both hands, but he could not grasp a thing, his hands going right through the luminous ring—it was entirely intangible, leaving a weak, fine glow on his fingers.

“Where did the gentleman get this?” the witness asked with a compassionate interest.

“I don't know,” Mr. Knotek said helplessly, and suddenly took fright. He couldn't go to the bank like this! What would Mr. Polický say! “Mr. Knotek,” he would say, “leave such things at home; we cannot suffer such things at the bank.” “What can I do?” Mr. Knotek thought in horror. “I can't take it off and I can't hide it under my hat; if I could just get home—” “Please,” he said quickly, “do you have an umbrella here? I'd like to hide it under an umbrella.”

A man running through the streets under an open umbrella on a sunny day is certainly somewhat striking, but not as conspicuous as a man walking down the street with a halo around his head. Mr. Knotek made it home without any incident, until he met the neighbor's maid on the stairs, who greeted him, shrieked in fright and dropped her shopping bag; his nimbus shone especially bright on the darkened stairs. Mr. Knotek locked himself in his apartment and ran to the mirror. Yes, it was around his head, larger than a cymbal, about forty candlepower in brightness; it could not be extinguished even with water from the tap. No movement could disrupt it in any way. “How do I explain this one at the bank?” Mr. Knotek wondered hopelessly, “I have to call in, I can't go in like this.” So he ran to the landlady and shouted through a crack in the door: “Please call the bank and tell them I cannot come in today. I am very sick.” Fortunately no one saw him in the hallway. He locked himself in again at home and tried to eat something, but every few minutes, he got up and went to the mirror. The golden ring about his head shone serenely and clearly.

He started to feel very hungry in the afternoon, but he could not go to the pub for lunch like that. He couldn't even stand to read; he sat motionless, telling himself: “This is the end. I'll never be able to go out among people again. I might as well drown myself.”

Someone rang.

“Who is it?” Mr. Knotek sputtered.

“Doctor Vaňášek. The bank sent me. Would you let me in?”

Mr. Knotek sighed in great relief. Perhaps the doctor could help him, and Dr. Vaňášek was such a wise old practitioner—

“So what do we have?” The old doctor came within the doorway. “What hurts?”

“Have a look at what has happened to me,” sighed Mr. Knotek.

“Where?”

“Here, around my head.”

“My, oh my,” the doctor blinked, and started to examine it. “I must be crazy,” he grumbled. “Where did you get this golden thing, sir?”

“What is it?” Mr. Knotek asked anxiously.

“It looks like a halo,” the old doctor said, as seriously as if he had said “halitosis.” “I've never seen such a thing in my life, my good man. Wait a moment while I examine your patellar reflex— Hmm, and your pupils react normally. And your parents were healthy, my friend? Yes? No religious ecstasies, or something like that? Nothing?” Dr. Vaňášek straightened his glasses studiously. “Listen, this is an unusual case. I'd like to send you to a neurologist, so that they can study this scientifically. They write about electric currents in the brain these days—the devil only knows, perhaps it's some sort of electric radiation. The smell of ozone is strong here. My good sir, this will be quite the scientific triumph!”

“Please, not that,” Mr. Knotek managed gloomily. “They might not like it at the bank if they saw me written up in the newspapers. Please, doctor, couldn't you help me somehow?”

Dr. Vaňášek reconsidered. “It's a difficult business, young man. I could prescribe you a bromide, but—well, I don't know. Listen, as a doctor, I don't believe in these supernatural events. It's probably just something with your nervous system, but—listen, Mr. Knotek, you haven't by chance done anything, how do I put this, holy?”

“Holy? How?”

“Well, something extraordinary. Some virtuous deed or something.”

“I don't know anything about that, doctor,” Mr. Knotek swallowed. “Well, I haven't eaten anything all day.”

“Maybe it will pass after you eat,” the old doctor grumbled. “I will tell the bank you have the flu. Listen, in your place, I would try to blaspheme a little bit.”

“Blaspheme?”

“Yes. Or sin in some way. It can't hurt you, and it's worth trying. Maybe it will go away of its own accord. Well, I'll have a look at you in the morning.”

Mr. Knotek stayed by himself and tried to blaspheme, standing before the mirror. Perhaps he didn't have much of an aptitude for blasphemy or something; the luminous ring about his head did not even waver. Nothing blasphemous occurred to Mr. Knotek at all, so he stuck his tongue out at himself in the mirror and sat down, defeated. He was hungry, and he was so exhausted he almost burst into tears. “Nothing can help me any more,” he thought. “And it's all because I forgave that rat Polický. As though it were my fault: he is a brute of a man, and a careerist as well; something isn't right with him. It's well known he doesn't even open his mouth at the ladies at the bank. I would like to know, Mr. Polický, why you always need dictation from that one red-haired secretary. Not that I would think there was anything going on, Mr. Polický; such an old man as you wouldn't need that any more. It might strike someone as serious, though, Mr. Polický, such a young girl: it must be about money. Then another one of the clerks or the director takes a look at the accounts, and the bank heads for scandal. That's how it goes, Mr. Polický, and how else are we supposed to see it? Someone should tell the proper authorities, so they can warn him. Just ask her where she gets the money for her lipstick and her silk stockings—is that at all appropriate, silk stockings in a bank? Do I wear silk stockings? It's well known that such a young woman only works for a bank to catch an important man; then they just sit there putting makeup on instead of doing their work.” “They are all the same,” Mr. Knotek thought bitterly. “If I were chief clerk, I would turn that right around.”

Or that Šembera," Mr. Knotek thought. "He got his job out of nepotism, and he can't even figure out two plus two. Oh, I'll help you out, just wait and see! Such a nothing who just had to have children. I myself cannot afford a wife or children; how far would I get on my salary? A bank ought not to take such frivolous people into its employ. And if your wife is ailing, Mr. Šembera—well, it's easy to see why. She had to get help; it would make anyone sick to worry about their husband being sent to jail. No, no, and another thing, I won't cover for you anymore when you make mistakes; let every man fend for himself. The bank's not there to help people out. They could ask me: 'Mr. Knotek, do you know what your responsibility is?' 'To watch out for every mistake and not to conceal them.' 'That could spoil your career, Mr. Knotek; mind your own business and keep your nose clean.' 'One who would do otherwise deserves no false compassion. Do chief clerk Polický or the general director have any compassion? Do you understand, Mr. Knotek?'"

Mr. Knotek was reeling in hunger and faintness. “God, if only I could go out!” Full of self-pity, he stood and went to look in the mirror. He only saw a morose human face in it, and nothing else around it. There was not even a trace of a glow. Mr. Knotek almost touched his nose to the glass, but he saw nothing; instead of a golden ring, he could only see the gloom and solitude of his disordered room.

Mr. Knotek sighed, greatly relieved. So he could go back to the bank the next day!

LN, 24 April 1938

When the Diplomats Sit in Judgment

2008-02-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Chairman of the Tribunal: Gentlemen, today we are unfortunately forced to concern ourselves with a very serious case. I have tried to put off these proceedings, but the force of common outrage has incited this tribunal... (leafs through papers) The charges maintain that a robbery and murder were committed in plain daylight. A peaceful pedestrian was attacked in front of several witnesses... In addition, the witnesses' statements agree in their particulars...

...

Chairman of the Tribunal: You are the victim's widow?

Widow: Yes.

Chairman: The court would like to express its deep sympathies to you. You were present at...the unfortunate incident as a witness? Can you tell me how it happened?

Widow: Yes. (Pointing) That murderer did it!

Man With a Wart on His Nose: I protest against this public insult!

Chairman: I remind the witness that she may not point at anyone. So you maintain that an unidentified bystander committed the murder?

Man With a Wart on His Nose: (reaching for his hat) Gentlemen, I cannot sit here any longer if I hear the word murder once more. It was simply a legal act of self-defense.

Chairman: I recognize your definition. So your husband, madam, was walking peacefully down the street--

Man With a Wart on His Nose: Pardon me, that is incorrect. He was not walking peacefully. He had just arrogantly deposited some money at the bank--and he seemed threatening.

Chairman: Threatening? In what way?

Man With a Wart on His Nose: He gave the impression that he was not afraid. It seemed like he was even armed.

Widow: It's not true! He wasn't armed!

Chairman: That was a great carelessness, my dear women. If he had been armed, he could have saved us from this indelicate conversation. This...unfortunate incident (sighs resignedly) could have been avoided. Next witness, please. Sir, you were present at--

Witness: Yes. I was there when the deceased was attacked by a man with a wart on his nose...

Man With a Wart on His Nose: And who was this man? Could you name him?

Witness: No. I'd rather not.

Man With a Wart on His Nose: Right. I wouldn't advise anyone to.

Chairman: It would be better if the witnesses did not identify anyone too directly. This would ensure the court's faithful and just verdict. Next witness, please.

...

Chairman: Gentlemen, with the testimony of all the witnesses it has been documented, that a certain person...not further named...with the goal of transferring to his possession a wallet...discharged a firearm on the street, which as a result ended a human life. In light of the fact...that we have expressed our condolences to an increasing number of such incidents in the recent past, the high court has arrived at the following verdict. In the name of human rights! Without reference to anyone in particular, we would like to proclaim...that in future incidents of this sort we would be forced to again express our condolences...and again, without naming anyone, to describe such incidents as regrettable and contradictory to the common good. That is all.

Man with a Wart on his Nose: This verdict is inimical, of course, and rather threatening. I protest against all verdicts on principle that would decide what is regrettable and what is not "in the name of human rights." In the future I shall not come, gentlemen. I do not have time for this.

Chairman: We are very sorry about this, sir. We would not willingly lose your participation in the maintenance of human rights and order. The court assures you of its particular esteem...

...

Associate Judge: It seems to me, as your colleague, that it might be better if we did not strain ourselves with cases as serious as robbery and murder.

LN 17 November, 1937

Tonda

2008-02-19T09:30:00.000-08:00

    The thing with Tonda went like this. Once our aunt came over, my wife's sister, to ask for my advice. I think it was on account of that horse. She wanted to buy this horse for the farm, and so see says:, "Brother-in-law, you know as many people as a stationmaster, even horse traders who go to market, so what if you looked for some handy horse." I talk about the farm, and this and that, and I see aunt has a bag full of something. That'll be a goose, I reckon. Frantík, you're going to be having goose for Sunday dinner, I think. We finish up talking, but all I can think of is that goose, I could get eight pounds for it, I'm thinking, and even some lard for baking--wise woman, your aunt. And then she says I came here and brought you something for your help, brother-in-law. And she pulls it out of the bag. It starts squealing as I jump back like a scaredycat. A live piglet, as I see it, screaming like it's under the knife. A very nice little pig, I must say. Well, our aunt is a simple person; like a conductor, but a country woman sees the authority in it. A conductor opens his mouth and gets people to go here and there, shouting until he's red in the face, well, with his authority. So our poor aunt thought she had to show it somehow, to show me that it was true and that she liked our children like her own--I tell you, she brought us that pig. "Here you are, brother-in-law, here's a piglet from us."

    You know, when it started to scream, the wife and kids ran over at once--such joy. The boy grabbed it by its tail and couldn't get over how curly it was. Andula took it into her lap and held it like a baby; the pig calmed down, started to grunt happily, and fell asleep, and that girl sat there like a statue, pig wrapped in her apron, and her eyes were suddenly so wide and blessed--I can't understand how a little nipper like that can be so maternal. So I say no problem, kids, we'll just have to clean out the shed and make a little sty for Toníček. I don't know why I called that pig Toníček, but the name stuck as long as he was with us. Only when he was over ten kilos, we started to call him Toník, and then he later that became Tonda. Our Tonda. You wouldn't believe how quickly such a little oinker can grow. When he's seventy kilos, I reckoned, we'll have the sticking; some to eat, some to render for lard, and the rest will cure nicely for the winter. So we fed him and tended him the whole summer, looking forward to the slaughter, and Tonda, he followed us right up to the table and let himself be scratched, I say, everything but talk. No one can tell me that a pig is a stupid animal.

    And so around Christmas I say: "Wife, I should call the butcher soon."

    "Why?" she says.

    "Well, to stick Tonda."

    My wife looked at me so surprised, and I felt that it sounded somewhat strange too. "To kill the pig," I said at once.

    "Tonda?" she says, staring at me so strangely.

    "We raised him for that, right?" I shoot right back.

    "Then we shouldn't have given him a Christian name," she snapped. "I couldn't bring him to my lips. Imagine, Tonda blood sausage. Or eating Tonda's ears. You can't expect that from me. Or the children either. It would seem like cannibalism to people, forgive me."

    You know, man: stupid woman. I told her that too, don't ask me how: but when I thought about it myself, I started to feel odd too. Christ, kill Tonda, quarter Tonda and cure Tonda, that doesn't sound good; I wouldn't want to eat him myself. A man can't be so inhuman, right? If he hasn't got a name, he's a pig like any other, but suddenly if he's Tonda, then you have a new relationship to him. What can I tell you: I sold Tonda to the butcher, and I still feel like a slave trader. The money didn't even do me any good.

    So I get to thinking, people can only kill one another if the other guy doesn't have a name. If they knew the man they were pointing a rifle at was František Novák or Franz Huber or Tonda or Vasily, I think something in their soul would cry out: Don't shoot, that's František Novák! If everyone in the world could address each other with their own first names, I think, a lot would change between them. But people and nations today cannot get at the names. That's the tragedy.

LN, 11 April 1927

The Association of Baron Biháry's Creditors

2008-02-18T11:48:00.000-08:00

    So one of our members has died again: old Pollitzer, you know, the one who sold typewriters (may God grant him eternal glory), true, he was over eighty years old, but he could have lived longer yet; poor fellow, he so liked our little Tuesday meetings. If we had known that he would leave us so soon, we would have invited him to be our chairman--not that he was one of the larger creditors, he only had a few thousand loaned to the baron--but to give the old man some joy.

    What sort of association is this? It's like this: a man lived in Prague, this Baron Biháry, a tall and noble man, hair jet-black and eyes like--well, the women went crazy for him. He had a leased villa in Bubenec, two cars, and as for lovers, according to our accounts there were seven, such vainglory, but he was chivalrous, this baron. He had an estate in Slovakia, a forest preserve somewhere near Jasina, a pulp mill, glassworks, and oil rig somewhere near Antalovec; fantastic property, in short. You have no conception how many tractors, machines, office equipment, checks, typewriters, valuables and flowers it all required. It is true such property involves a lot of overhead, but the baron liked to show off, he liked to do everything on a grand scale--you couldn't take your eyes off of him. Then it came out that there was no pulp mill, no oil, no forest preserve and no estate; just the glassworks, but the baron had sold everything in it long ago. Then it came out that Baron Biháry was no baron at all, but some Chaim Roth from somewhere near Perečin. They were going to bring him up on charges, for fraud and the like, but when a few of the creditors met they realized that they wouldn't get much out of him by prosecuting. No one would take out the few carpets and perfume from the villa, it stands to reason. If they lock up the baron, we'll lose everything, said the creditors, but maybe the poor bastard will come up with some money; he is a rascal, with a fine face. Maybe he'll marry rich for us or something--at least in that case he would be able to pay us something back. We cannot bring him down now or we will never see our money again. So they called off all the investigations and we created the creditors' association. There were about a hundred and seventy of us. We were kind of like the Rotary Club, someone from every profession. Car dealers, headwaiters, bankers, tailors, jewelers, florists, an architect, a horseman, a perfumer, a couturier, a few lawyers, a prostitute and who else, together it was about sixteen or seventeen million. So we met and talked about how to save the baron from going under. We had to keep his head above water so he could try his luck here and there, cautiously, of course, so that he wouldn't get up to anything that would ruin the whole deal. Once we let him out of our sight for a day, and he committed some fraud and we had to quietly straighten things out. Yes, sir, they were exciting times. The baron was addicted to cards, and always cheating and cheating. Or he wanted to be a spy, it was supposed to be wonderful money. One of us always had to be looking after him, but that's overstating it. The baron was a terribly kind companion, he would always treat us fantastically and then tell us: "Pay, and add it to my account." What could we do? We had never lived so well as we did with the Baron. And we got used to it, too, but understood each other deeply--we were just elderly, discreet, experienced people who only wanted to see some of the money we had sunk in the Baron.

    And then the baron disappeared on us. They say he fled to America, to Hollywood or somewhere like that. Well, him, he won't lose his way. It's possible he'll make a lot of money once again--and who knows, he might come back to us in a few years. You know, we creditors, we're really used to that, but we miss the baron terribly, but we would miss it more if we stopped meeting weekly. We always had such lively discussions about economic affairs, you know, the vicissitudes and vexations of life, and nothing reliable in business any more, the way there used to be; we also swapped war stories from our various fields. Where else could one of our members hear about how it is with cars or at a florist's--but among us, in our association, we had every field under one roof, so to speak. And finally we said to hell with our baron. At least we met each other, and we can continue on ourselves. Period. So we keep meeting every Tuesday these last ten years; we always remember how our baron, how he's wandering around America, poor man, but then we talk about how terrible the times are. It really cheers a man up, and you can have a really decent conversation about our various ailments. Twelve of us have even gone to our maker already. We will deeply miss old Mr. Pollitzer. It's a shame you never met Baron Biháry; he was such a charming man, and if you had you could have joined our association.

Kmen Almanac, Spring 1937

Proposal

2008-02-13T12:30:00.000-08:00

Esteemed Minister of Finances:

    I was discharged with my pension two days ago after thirty-five years of faithful and conscientious service as executor of finances. I accumulated great amounts of experience during those years, and can say that I am better in my field than the majority of financial professionals. I have gained, with this experience, the understanding that almost everyone that I have met does not like paying their taxes. They do it unwillingly, even clearly distastefully, which they display quite clearly not only to the financial offices, but also among themselves (e.g. in private conversation, in the pub, in discussions with clients and the like). I have often heard this sentiment reflected aloud, in the sense that a man pays everything he has and does not know what for; or "there goes our money," but never “there isn't enough money to repair the roads in our region”, and so on. So I conclude that the reason the normal taxpayer does not like paying taxes is because he cannot imagine how our glorious treasury is using his hard-earned coin; he doesn't have the proof that it is being used for the common good and towards goals that he himself would agree with.

    According to my experience and after long thought, I have arrived at the idea that this state of affairs would not be difficult to confront. I envision that every taxpayer should receive a statement directly with their tax receipt as to what their taxes will be used for. For example: "Part of your taxes will pay for the wages of Josef Vrabec, schoolteacher in your city, for the months of September, October, and November." "Your collected taxes will be used to repair seven meters of the 451st kilometer of the national highway." "This portion will be paid as a pension to Mr. Adolf Kopecký, mailman in yr. building here and here." "Your taxes will be used to buy searchlights for such and such antiaircraft battalion." And so on.

    The rewards from this new method of assessment would be as follows:

The taxpayer would know what his taxes were going towards, which would calm him and put a stop to his habitual grudge against paying his taxes cheerfully.

It would awake in him a lively interest in the commonwealth, especially in the areas in which his money was to be spent.

    Concretely stated, in the cases that I have outlined above, a normal taxpayer would go have a look at Mr. Josef Vrabec, teacher at the local high school, and see if he were fulfilling his duties: if his hallways were swept, if he came in on time, if he were living above his means, to see if he were conducting himself as would be expected of a schoolteacher, responsible for our youth. The next would go have a look at the 451st kilometer of the national highway, making sure no crime was being committed there and ensuring that everything on his stretch of highway was in perfect order. The next would visit Mr. Adolf Kopecký, postal director, to see if the old man was lacking anything, to make sure he wasn't going to the pub too early and so on; he might even ask him to lunch on Sundays, to establish some sort of personal connection. The next would gain a greater interest in searchlights and military matters in general, which he would consider to be his own personal duty. "Well, our army," he might say, "now they have searchlights! I pay for them, so I know."

    I hope the honorable minister can judge how this simple little solution could increase the taxpayer's faith in what his withholdings were being used for: he could himself oversee the correct usage of his monies; and so too would his interest increase in common welfare, especially if his monies were used for a different purpose each year. Such a taxpayer would already know in advance what his money would be used for that year, and how to check up on it, to make sure if was being used for proper business, and how to follow up, if need be, with the disorderly schoolteacher Josef Vrabec or the highway worker who has not left kilometer 451 as clean as can be. Many people might even accept higher withholdings of their wages than they already had, to support a functionary of a higher rank: it could be a sort of matter of ambition to attain the monkish level of renunciation. Many a young clerk would be invited into the home of his contributors and might even meet their daughters; this would create tight bonds between the offices and the taxpayers, which would be to the gain of both parties. One can even imagine that even the slightest taxpayer would be proud when he understood that his meager change would be used to clean a bank. Or what a pleasant surprise it would be for the administration of the municipal brewery in Plzeň when they are informed that the taxes levied on their brewery would be added to the national prizes for poetry and literature! It cannot even be described how this would enliven taxpaying; instead of a hated duty, it would become fellowship, which would grant the individual taxpayer perpetually new interest and an inexhaustible source of various joys.

    Therefore may the illustrious treasury take into consideration this meager suggestion from its humble and loyal servant, N. N.

LN 21 February, 1937

The First Guest

2008-02-12T09:11:00.000-08:00

    “Sure, they call it high society, but I tell you, it still isn’t well organized. A man can borrow a coat and tails or a smoking jacket, he can hire a sommelier or piano players, even women, as they say, good enough to eat, even in little aprons; you can set up a full dinner for your guests, right down to the last bowlful of rolls, every little thing taken care of. This is all done in the name of a higher social life, but there are always gaps--if I may say, rather striking gaps.
    So say you’re invited for tea somewhere, to a reception or something like that. You ring the doorbell in the best of moods, and in the foyer you suddenly notice that there aren’t any coats or hats hanging up. A horrible feeling, sir. A man would rather run away or say that he forgot his handkerchief at home and will be right back, but that won't do. You marvel aloud (so it doesn’t seem like you’ve been thinking about it already): “So I am the first?” And the girl in the white apron makes a curtsy and giggles, “Yes, sir.” And you’re in already, you have already fallen into the hands of the hosts, and you mumble in embarrassment that perhaps you have come early, that your watch is running ahead or something, Meanwhile they assure you a bit too hurriedly that everything is fine and that someone must be first. Of course, it is the truth, but that doesn’t mean that you had to be that someone, am I not right? Nothing to be done; the first guest always seems a bit stupid and clumsy to himself: as if he had taken the invitation to be too great an honor, as if he had crept in unannounced or something: simply an undignified situation, and the moments crawl by as though preordained before the second guest comes—after which the others, miserable creatures, pour in in a torrent. And so you shuffle before the hosts, not knowing what to say, (because they are distracted and waiting) and you would rather be God-knows-where else. In short, you are somehow…wilted for the day, and cannot in any way reclaim your disrupted self-confidence.
    And now imagine how many of these teas, dinner parties and social events there are in a season, and at each one there is some unlucky sap, who, through no fault of his own, must play the sad part of the first guest. You cannot even count the number of people who are struck down by this every season. And then it occurred to me that someone has to put a stop to this. For example, I would arrange a rental agency for professional first guests. All you would have to do is call in advance, and I would send my man to the right place a quarter of an hour before it started, so he could be the first guest there; for that it would cost twenty crowns and food. It’s a given that he would have the proper clothes, education, and even technical training. For twenty crowns it could be a student or an old, quiet and mild retiree; an athlete would cost more, of course, let’s say fifty crowns; a distinguished foreigner or Russian prince would cost maybe sixty. My professional first guest would be in place sooner than any other first guest could be; he would stay with the hosts until all the other guests had left, at which point he would eat an open-faced sandwich and disappear discreetly. I tell you, anyone at all could make their fortune doing this; he would meet the best people, and you know, when people know someone from society—in short, the thing has a social angle too, sir; it might be arranged without any large investment…just a small office and a telephone…”

LN, 15 November 1936

On Travel

2008-02-11T10:28:00.000-08:00

He: Listen, this year we could go to New Zealand for our vacation.
She: Why?
He: Well, because… Haven’t you ever read The Children of Captain Grant? You know it was my childhood dream to go to new Zealand.
She: Fine, dear. We will go to New Zealand. You don’t even know how much I’m looking forward to it.

He: (studying ocean liners, maps of New Zealand, etc.) Hm. Hm. That’s an awful connection! And here, as far as I can tell, there aren’t even any roads. You have to go by boat. Hm. But maybe there would be a connection…
She: Listen…are you listening?
He: What?
She: Couldn’t we go to Iceland this year?
He: Why?
She: Everyone’s going to Iceland this year.
He: That’s why we’re going to New Zealand.
She: But I wanted to go to Iceland so much! It must be great there!
He: And you only tell me this now when we already have plans for New Zealand?
She: Fine, dear, we’ll go to New Zealand like you want. And we won’t speak about it further, right?

He: (studying ocean liners, maps of Iceland, books about Iceland, the Icelandic sagas etc.) Hmm. Hmmm. Christ, this is a bad connection! You have to go by horse. And here, as far as I can tell, there aren’t even footpaths over the mountains. That’s stupid. Hm. How would one get there? Maybe on a fishing boat?
She: Listen, couldn’t we go to Holland?
He: Why?
She: They say there’s great swimming in Katwijk. Emča told me they went there yesterday—And it’s supposed to be really cheap there.
He: But you wanted to go to Iceland!
She: Me? It never occurred to me! There’s no swimming there.

He: (studying maps of Holland, hotel brochures, etc.). Hm. But it is expensive there! And what if we were to take a side trip to the colonies, since we’d already be in Holland, maybe Suriname or Java! Listen!
She: What?
He: Since we’d already be in Holland, would you want to have a look at Java?
She: Is there swimming there?
He: Yes, fantastic swimming. Beautiful white boats sail there too.
She: Excellent, then, we’ll go to Java! I just got a new white dress with a red belt—you have no idea how much I’m looking forward to Java!

She: We’re going to Java this year.
Friend: Why?
She: For the swimming. There is supposed to be great swimming there.
Friend: Who told you that?
She: Everybody. The water is great there.
Friend: It is, but it’s full of sharks. I wouldn’t go there. Java’s as safe as lava.
She: Where would you go to swim?
Friend: I’ll tell you: if you want to swim, go to the Alps, to Mortarlasee. Lago di Mortarla, you know? I went swimming there once—such bliss!
She: And can you get to Holland from there, to Katwijk?
He: Of course you can.

She: Listen (etc.).
He: (studying maps of the Alps, alpine horticulture, hotel brochures, mountain climbing, etc.)

(After vacation.)

Friend: So where did you go this year?
She: Well, to Dubrovnik!
He: There was great swimming there.
Friend: And since you were in Dubrovnik, did you go see Progir? No? You didn’t see a thing, then. And you didn’t go out to Vis either? If you ask me, you went there for nothing! I could have told you where to go!

She: You see? I told you! We should have gone to Iceland. Everyone was going to Dubrovnik, that was no trip at all—

LN, 6 June 1937

Moving Company

2008-02-10T21:47:00.000-08:00

    "--it's true I still don't know the technical details, but technical details can always be found if the idea is good and guarantees a return. And my idea, sir, will bring in fantastic profit, so long as someone helps me sort out some of the practical considerations to get it up and running perfectly. But it already sells itself, as I have said.
    How do I show you clearly--Look: what if you don't like the street you're living on; maybe there's stench from a chocolate factory there, or it's too crowded and you cannot sleep, or there is scandal everywhere; in short, you say it's not for you. What do you do in that case? You pick out an apartment on another street, call a moving van and move into a new apartment, right? Entirely simple. Every good idea is fundamentally very simple, sir.
    And now you say, that you or someone else doesn't like this century. There are such people, who like peace and quiet; there are people whose stomachs are turned when they read about war in the newspapers, or that someone is being executed somewhere or that a couple of hundred or a couple thousand people slaughtered each other. There are limits, sir, and some people cannot bear it. There are people who do not like as the world grinds on violently each day, and they think how have I come to this, to see this, I who am a civilized and moderate man, a family man, I have children, and I don't want them to grow up in such a wild and dis-- how do I put this, a disrupted and dangerous world, do I? Sir, there are many such people, and when you get right down to it people today have no certainties: not even life or their positions or money, and not even their families; what is the use, there used to be more certainties in the world. In short there are many people who do not want to live in these times; and some of them are so sick of it and unhappy to live in such bad and mean times they would rather not even go out in it. What hope is there, there is nothing to do, but they want to escape their lives.
    And here is where I come in, sir, and place literature about my firm into his hand. Are you unhappy with the 20th century? Then come to me! I will move you into whatever past age in our moving vans, specially designed for this purpose! No mere trips, but complete relocation! Pick the century that would suit your life best, and I will escort you there with our capable staff quickly, cheaply and safely--even the whole family and all of your furnishings! My machines can move you anywhere in a range of three hundred years, but we are preparing machines whose operating radius will easily approach two or three millennia. For each year traveled there will be a freight charge of so much per kilogram and so many crowns per person-
    How much it will cost I don't know yet: I don't even have the machines yet which can move backwards in time; but no worries, they will come, you can just put pencil to paper and add up the money to be made on it. I have the whole organization thought out right up to these stupid vehicles. For example, say a man comes up to me and says that he was like to move out of this damned century of ours; that he's had it up to here, I'm telling you, up to here with these gas attacks, armaments, Bolshevism, fascism and all of this "progress." I'd let him curse himself out, and then I show him: "Come make a selection, sir; here are the prospectuses for the various centuries. Like this one: nineteenth century. An educated time, mild oppression, properly conducted wars of a smaller extent; the well-known flowering of sciences, great opportunities for economic expansion; we especially recommend the so-called Bach era for its profound peace and humane treatment of one's fellow man. Ir the eighteenth century, especially suitable for those interested in religious merit; we recommend it for Enlightened thinkers and intellectuals. Or here, please have a look at the sixth century after Christ; it is true that the Huns were in power then, but it was possible to hide in the depths of the forest; an idyllic life, the smell of fresh air, fishing and other sports. Other than the so-called persecution of Christians, it is quite a civilized era, cozy catacombs, lost of religious and other freedoms, no concentration camps and so on. In short, it would be a marvel if such a 20th-century man didn't choose some other age where life was freer and more humane. People might even say I would gladly move to the Old Stone Age if there were a discount. But I would say: I am sorry, our prices are firm; please have a look at the order form for prehistoric transfer; we take our esteemed clients there in groups and can only accommodate twelve pounds of baggage per person; otherwise we cannot keep up with demand. The first open space we have is in a transport leave for the Old Stone Age on the thirteenth of next March; if you would like, we can reserve you a seat--
    What do you say, sir: it will be a fantastic business; I would probably start with thirty moving vans and six buses for mass transit. My company lacks nothing but the time-traveling machines, and someone will invent them presently; they will be essential for our educated world someday soon!"

LN 25 October, 1936

Let's Get Organized

2008-02-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

    Mr. Lederer ambled through the park, preoccupied by his worries, and there he met the man. There was nothing unusual about him, except that he was feeding sparrows: there was a whole swarm of them around him; it was a wonder they were not climbing into his pockets. Well then, he told himself, there are still good people on this earth. And then the man looked up in fright and quickly departed.
    A while later Mr. Lederer found him sitting on a bench, and since he didn't have anything to do other than worry, he sat down on the bench next to him. The man regarded him with mistrustful eyes and shifted away a bit,
    "So, you like sparrows," Mr. Lederer said after a while.
    "I don't," said the man gloomily.
    "No?"
    "No. And," the man cried out in exasperation, "I can't even stand birds at all. So."
    "I only wondered because you were feeding them," Mr. Lederer ventured.
    "I wasn't feeding them. That...I was just throwing crumbs out of my pockets. You understand, I don't feed birds as a rule. Let them feed themselves, the beasts! What do I care about them?"
    "So," Mr. Lederer grumbled in disappointment, not knowing what to say next.
    Meanwhile the man was scuffing his feet in the sand quietly. "So you're a member of the Sparrow Feeding Society, then?" he suddenly sputtered.
    "I am not," Mr. Lederer parried.
    "So then you're from the Songbird Preservation Society!"
    "Nor that."
    "Sir, what society are you from?"
    "From none," Mr. Lederer said. "That is...well, I'm in one burial society. The Israelite Burial Society."
    "Aha," said the man suspiciously. "But I don't want to be buried. Besides, I'm Catholic, just so you know. And I don't feed birds. And I don't even have a dachshund."
    "I have a griffon at home," Mr. Lederer admitted. "A little hairy beast."
    "Then you have to become a member of the Hairy Dog Breeding Society," the man said decidedly.
    "Why?"
    Well. They come for you and there you are. Once I got a canary and three days later I became a member of the Upper New Town Harz Canary Breeding Society. Supposedly we canary breeders needed to get organized, and there we were. It's done. I had a dachshund six years ago; I gave him away after a moment, but I'm still a member of the Purebred Hunting Dog Breeding Society. Every year they send you a check and membership card. What is a man supposed to do," the man grumbled melancholically. I am in nineteen societies."
    That's a lot," Mr. Lederer warranted.
    It is. One of my friends is in twenty-three, but he is interested in peace and philosophy. Forgive me for thinking you were in some sort of bird aid society. Once I gave a penny to a blind man on the street, for example, and in half a year I became a member of seven charitable societies."
    "'We recognize your charitable soul, join us,'" and so on. But the worst is when you have noble intentions. There are a horrible number of nobly-intentioned societies. And if you're from somewhere, then you already have native societies and regional societies and the Western Bohemia Society and what have you. I have it all written down somewhere which societies I'm in," said the man, looking through his pockets. "I don't know, there has to be a limit. You know, so a man doesn't have to be in all these societies. There should be some protection against this, or a law. For example, that no one can be forced to be in more than twenty societies."
    "That's difficult," Mr. Lederer said. "It might not be possible to arrange such a law, our country has its defenders of freedom, as they are called."
    "Fine freedom this is," the man spoke bitterly. "You cannot do anything without there being some society for it. I say we should get organized somehow. We should get everyone together who has had enough of these societies, and make it so that this societal pressure is reduced. Twenty societies ought to be enough, right? I think we should be organized..."
    "How?"
    "We'd have to hammer out a new society for it," the man spoke, immersed in thought. "I think a lot of people would join. We would just have to get organized... Create some sort of active society or league for it...and create offices for it, to battle for our members burdened with excessive responsibilities of membership. Just found a proper society for it, sir!"

LN 10 May, 1936

Pâté

2008-02-05T10:14:00.000-08:00

    What should I buy today, Mr. Michl pondered carefully; maybe some more sausage...sausage leads to gout, though. What about cheese and bananas? The truth is I had cheese yesterday; such limited nutrition isn't good either. And cheese, you can feel that in your stomach until the morning. God, it's stupid that a man has to eat.
    "The gentleman is ready to order?" the shopkeeper suddenly said from behind the counter, as he wrapped red slices of ham into paper. Mr. Michl startled and gulped. I really have to order something. "Give me some...pâté," he managed, spittle flying from his lips. Pâté, yes, that was it. "Pâté," he repeated decisively.
    "Pâté, of course," the shopkeeper chirped. "Will that be Prague-style, with truffles, liver, fois gras, Strassburger..."
    "Strassburger," decided Mr. Michl.
    "Pickles?"
    "Y-yes, pickles," Mr. Michl agreed. "And a roll." He looked about the shop furtively, as if he were looking to order something else.
    "And what else, please?" The shopkeeper waited. Mr. Michl shook his head, as though to say: No thank you, you have nothing else that I need, kindly do not exert yourself further. "Nothing," he said. "What does it cost?"
    He was startled at the price the shopkeeper quoted him over the little red tin. Lord, that's expensive, he thought on the way home; it may actually be from Strassburg. My word, I've never eaten it before; but what a load of money they wanted for it! Well, nothing to be done; sometimes a man feels like pâté. And besides, I don't have to eat it all at once, Mr. Michl consoled himself. I'll leave some for tomorrow; pâté is heavy on the stomach, after all.
    "Wait and see, Eman," Mr. Michl called out as he opened to door of his house, "what I have brought home for dinner." Eman the cat waved his tail and meowed. "Aha," Mr. Michl said. "You'd like some pâté too, you rascal, eh? No sir, it won't do. Pâté is expensive food, my friend, and I've never even had it myself. Strassburger pâté, my son, and that is only for gourmands; but so you won't reproach me I'll let you have a sniff." Mr. Michl got a plate out and opened the tin of pâté with some difficulty, whereupon he took out his evening newspaper and seated himself for dinner, feeling quite ceremonial. Eman the cat jumped up onto the table, as was his custom, tucked his tail carefully underneath himself and flexed his front claws into the tablecloth in delightful impatience.
    "I'll give you a sniff," Mr. Michl repeated, taking a bit of the pâté onto a fork, "so you know how it smells. There you go." Eman pricked up his whiskers and carefully, mistrustfully sniffed at the pâté. Mr. Michl stared. "What, you don't like it? Such expensive pâté, you fool?" The cat grimaced and sniffed again at the pâté, nose upturned.
    "Mr. Michl grew slightly nervous and smelled the pâté himself. "But it smells good, Eman! Just have a sniff! Fantastic odor, my man." Eman shuffled his paws on the tablecloth. "Do you want a bit?" Mr. Michl asked. The cat twitched its tail nervously and gave a hoarse meow.
    "What? What is it?" sputtered Mr. Michl. "Are you trying to tell me that the pâté is no good?" He sniffed at it carefully himself, but sensed nothing. The devil only knew, maybe the cat had a better nose. Sometimes tinned pâté had botulinum, as it was called. A horrible poison, sir. It didn't stink or have a foul taste, but it could still poison a man. God be praised that I haven't yet put any of the pâté in my mouth. Maybe the cat sensed it by smell or through some insitinct, that something was wrong with it. Better not to eat it, but since it was so expensive--
    "Look, Eman," said Mr. Michl. "I'll give you a taste. It's the finest and most expensive pâté there is, real Strassburger; just so you can eat something better for a change." He took the cat's dish out of the corner and put a bit of the pâté on it. "C'mon, Eman!"
    Eman jumped off the table with a thud and proceeded slowly to his dish, waving his tail. He sat on his haunches and warily sniffed at the pâté. He won't eat it, Mr. Michl thought in horror. It's gone bad.
    Eman the cat swished his tail and began to nibble at the pâté slowly and gravely, as though he despised it. "So you see," Mr. Michl sighed, "that there's nothing wrong with it!"
    The cat finished the pâté and began to clean his whiskers and head with one paw. Mr. Michl looked at him curiously. So you see, he has not poisoned himself, nothing is wrong with him. "Well, how about it," he said patronizingly, "it was good, right? There you go, you rascal!" Sufficicently calmed, he sat down at the table. Of course, such an expensive pâté, it couldn't be bad. He sniffed at it, narrowing his eyes like an epicure. Fantastic aroma. But maybe botulism doesn't appear right away, it suddenly occurred to him. Eman could be seized by convulsions at any moment--
    Mr. Michl pushed his plate away and went to look at B in the dictionary, botulism or allantiasis...it appears from twenty-four to thirty-six hours later (Christ!)...with the following symptoms: paralysis of the ocular muscles, difficulties in vision, dry throat, flushed mucus membranes, a striking lack of saliva (Mr. Michl swallowed involuntarily) hoarseness of throat, lack of urine production and constipation; in severe cases, paralysis, convulsions, and death (thank you very much!). Mr. Michl somehow lost his appetite; he put the pâté away in the cupboard and slowly nibbled at the roll and the pickles. Poor Eman, he told himself, a dumb little animal eats spolied pâté and dies like a dog. Heart full of sorrow, he lifted the cat and placed him on his lap. Eman began to purr heartily, narrowing his eyes in bliss; and and Mr. Michl sat motionless and petted him, worried and sad, staring at his unread newspaper.
    That night he brought Eman to bed with him. He may not be here tomorrow, so let him be comfortable now. And he did not sleep the whole night, sitting up at times to reach out for the cat. No, nothing's wrong with him. And his nose is cold. Eman the cat began to purr noisily every time.
    "So you see," Mr. Michl said in the morning, "the pâté was good, was it not? Just so you know, I'll be eating it myself tonight. Don't think that I'm going to feed you pâté your whole life." Eman the cat opened his mouth with a tender and throaty meow. "You," Mr. Michl said sharply, "are you hoarse? Show me your eyes!" The cat looked at him with motionless golden eyes. Hopefully that's no paralysis of the ocular muscles, Mr. Michl startled.. Hoarseness and dry throat--what fortune that I didn't put any of that pâté to my lips. And it smelled so nice!
    When Mr. Michl returned home in the evening, Eman the cat purred and curled about his legs for a long while. "You," said Mr. Michl, "do you feel badly? Show me your eyes!" Eman waved his tail and showed his gold and black eyes. "You're not through it yet," Mr. Michl pronounced, "Sometimes it doesn't start for thirty-six hours, did you know? So are you constipated?" Eman again twined about his legs and meowed sweetly and heartily. Mr. Michl put the pâté and his evening newspaper on the table. Eman jumped onto the table and stepped closer, digging his claws into the tablecloth.
    Mr. Michl sniffed at the pâté; it smelled good, but the devil only knew--it was slightly different than the day before. "Smell it, Eman," he said, "is the pâté good?" The cat placed his short nose near to the pâté and sniffed it suspiciously. Mr. Michl took fright. Maybe I should throw the pâté out, he said to himself. The cat knows there is something wrong with it. No, I will not eat it. Do I want to poison myself? I'll throw it out, and that is that.
    Mr. Michl leaned out the window to pick a spot to throw the tin. There, in the neighbor's yard, where the acacia stood. Shame about the pâté, Mr. Michl thought, it was so expensive...real Strassburger. I've never eaten it. Maybe it isn't spoiled, but...I will not eat it, but since I spent so much money on it...I wanted to eat it once. At least once in my life. Strassburger pâté, good sir, that's world-class cuisine. God, it's a shame, what a shame, Mr. Michl told himself remorsefully. To just throw it away for nothing...
    Mr. Michl turned. Eman the cat sat on the table and purred. My only friend, thought Mr. Michl, touched. By my soul, I'd hate to lose him. But it would be a shame to throw out the pâté, it cost a sinful amount of money. Real Strassburger, sir: it is written right on it, have a look.
    Eman the cat meowed tenderly.
    Mr. Michl scooped up the red tin and placed it silently on the ground. Do with it what you will, you little beast. Eat it or leave it, but it would be a shame to throw it away. I've never had it myself. But what about me, I can go without such delicacies; give me a piece of bread and I want nothing more. What would I need to eat such expensive pâté for? But to throw it away would be a sin. It cost a horrible amount of money, my friend. It's not to be thrown out.
    Eman the cat jumped down from the table and went to sniff at the pâté. He scrutinized it for a long time and then grudgingly consumed it.
    "So you see," Mr. Michl grumbled. "No cat in the world has it as good as you. Someone is fortunate. You know, I don't even have such good fortune."
    And he got up five times that night to reach for Eman. The cat purred until it drooled.

    From then on Mr. Michl would sometimes turn on his cat angrily. "Beast," he would say reproachfully, "you ate all my pâté!"

LN, 3 May 1936

Devil

2008-02-04T10:25:00.000-08:00

    The third performance of the first reprise of Dvořák's The Devil and Kate was about to begin. The theater lights had been dimmed and the murmurs of the audience quieted, as though they had been switched off. The conductor knocked and raised his baton. Mrs. Malá closed her bag of bonbons in the first row of chairs, and Mrs. Grossmanová sighed: "I do so love this prelude." Mr. Kolman shut his eyes in the seventh row, ready to fully enjoy "his Dvořák," as he was wont to say. And the lissom overture began to course through the orchestra.
    The curtain shimmered on the right side and a little creature slipped onto the stage; it startled to see the dark abyss of the auditorium before it, and looked about in alarm to see where it could hide. But then it caught hold of the lively polka rhythm of the prelude, and the little creature began to tap its feet to the beat.
It could not have been larger than an eight year-old child, but it had a hairy chest and was overgrown from the waist down with thick, lustrous black fur, and little horns poking through its curly hair; it had a little goatish face, pointed; and it tapped with firm, cloves hooves on little goats' legs. The audience stirred with a quiet laughter. The creature on the stage startled and hesitated a bit; it clearly wanted to retreat but was blocked by the curtain; it looked about itself, distressed, but suddenly its hoof began to tap of its own accord and move to the beat. It seemed as though the little creature overcome its stage fright; it opened its mouth joyfully, extending a long red tongue, and gave itself completely to its dance; it jumped about, squatted low to the ground and drummed its hooves with a clear delight. Even its hands added to the dance, flying overhead, fingers wiggling happily; a short, fat tail raised up behind it, swinging to the beat like a metronome. It was no great feat of dancing; in truth, it was only hops, skips and steps, but it displayed excruciating joy from life and movement; it was so natural and charming, like a young goat bounding or a puppy chasing its tail.
    The audience laughed cheerfully and murmured their joy. The conductor was disquieted, sensing the wave of excitement behind him, and waved his baton even more energetically than before; he stared fixedly at the instruments, wondering what sort of strange drumming and tapping was going on, but his eyes met those of the drummer, faithful and attentive, who was still awaiting his moment to begin. The orchestra played strongly, conscientiously; no ones took their eyes from their parts and no one looked at the stage. Tum-ta da ta-ta-tum. "Herr Gott, something isn't right today, thought the conductor, and led the orchestra into forte with sweeping gestures. Why are those people at the back laughing? And to distract attention, the conductor led the orchestra through the prelude, more vehemently, more quickly--
    The little creature on the stage was having a whale of a time; it stamped, swung its feet, shook, jumped about, tossed its head and raised its tail ever qfaster. Tum-ta-da tum-tum ta-ta. Mrs. Malá beamed, cheerfully grinning, hands clasped over her stomach. She had already seen The Devil and Kate once before, but that was fourteen years before. I don't like modern direction, she thought, but this I like. She wanted to share this thought with Mrs. Grossmanová, but she was staring enrapt at the ramp and nodding her head. Mrs. Grossmanová too had a sense of rhythm.
    Mr. Kolman scowled in the seventh row. This was not done, this did not go here. What are these directors fussing about with Dvořák, it's all been done already, he protested. And the prelude had never been played so quickly. This is a dishonor to Dvořák, Mr. Kolman thought angrily. I shall write to the newspapers about it, he decided. I shall call it "Hands off our Dvořák!" or something similar.
    And suddenly the last beats of the prelude. The conductor sighed and wiped his dripping forehead with a handkerchief. (What is it with the audience today?) The curtain twitches and began to rise. The lively figure on the platform took fright, looked about and disappeared under the stage in a frightening jerk just before the curtain lifted. Mrs. Malá started to clap in the first row, but Mr. Kolman hissed sharply from the seventh; as a result of which the attendees gave a start, and scattered and embarrassed applause drifted in. The conductor's back displayed some sort of nervous twitch and a clear dissatisfaction in the shoulders. Maybe I shouldn't have applauded when they were raising the curtain, thought Mrs. Malá, and whispered to Mrs. Grossmanová, "That was nice, wasn't it?"
    "Delightful," sighed Mrs. Grossmanová, and Mrs. Malá opened her sack of bonbons in relief. Maybe no one even noticed I applauded.
    Even Mr. Kolman calmed down. Nothing else interrupted a worthy performance of the opera. I shall write to the newspapers posthaste about this nuisance, he told himself, but then he forgot all about it.
    "Strange audience today," grumbled the conductor, when it was all over. "I'd like to know what they were laughing at."
    "You know, it's Sunday," quoth the first violin. "Sunday audiences are always the worst."
    And that was that.

LN, 26 April 1936

Legal Case

2008-02-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

    --so I'm taking the eighteen towards this curve and I think I've got a clear road ahead, of course that's bull, but I just let off the gas a bit and merrily bang into the turn. And suddenly I look at there's this procession going across the way. A funeral. It's just started over the roadway towards the gates of the cemetery. So I slam on the brakes, and man, what a skid! I only remember that the four men carrying the coffin dropped it and dove for the shoulder, and bam! My car hits the rear end of this coffin and it flies through the gravel on the side and into the field.
  I get out of the car and say to myself, Jesus Christ, if I hit the pastor and the other bereaved, that'll be it! But nothing had happened; the ministrant stood with a cross on one side of the highway and the pastor and the bereaved on the other side; they looked like wax figures, I tell you. Then the pastor started to tremble in fear and angrily sputters: "Sir, sir, have you no respect even for the dead?" And I was just glad that I hadn't killed any of the living! Then the rest of them all recovered themselves; some of them started to curse me out and others ran to help the dead man in the broken coffin; I suppose it was some sort of instinctual response. And suddenly they tore back and starting roaring at me angrily. And then, I swear, a living man climbs out of that pile of boards on his knees, fumbling about on his hands and looking for a place to sit down. "What the..." he says, still trying to sit down.
I was at his feet, as the cobbler said. "Grandfather," I say, "they were about to bury you!" And I help him out of the boards. He's just staring and stammering: "What? What? What?" But he couldn't stand up, I think he had a broken ankle or something because of the collision. To make a long story short, I lay the old man and the pastor down into my car and headed to the house of sorrow, and behind us went the bereaved and the ministrant with his cross. And the band, of course, but they weren't playing, because they didn't know if they were getting paid. "I'll pay for the coffin," I said, "and the doctor too, but other than that you should be thanking me that you didn't bury him alive." And I went off and I was glad, to tell you the truth, that it was all behind me and that nothing worse had happened.
    I thought so, but it was only just beginning. First off the mayor of this old man's town wrote me a nice letter, saying that the family of the man supposed to be dead, one Antonín Bartoš, retired railwayman, were poor; that they had wanted to bury their grandfather respectably with the very last of their savings, and now that he had been awakened from the dead, thanks to my reckless driving, they would have to bury him a second time, which their impecunious circumstances did not permit. If I would be so kind, therefore, to pay for the spoiled funeral and even the pastor, the band, the grave-digger and the wake.
    Then came a letter from a lawyer in the name of this old man: that Bartoš, Antonín, retired railwayman, sought recompense for his ruined shroud; a few hundred more to cure a broken ankle, and five thousand for the pain and suffering that my actions had caused him. It already seemed like idiocy to me.
    Then a new letter: that the old man had drawn a pension as a railwayman; when he breathed his last, of course they stopped his pension, and now the bureau didn't want to start paying him again, because they had a certificate from the regional coroner that he was dead. And it said that the old man was suing me to pay his rent for the rest of his life as compensation for the lost pension.
    Another demand: that the old man had been ailing since I resurrected him and had to be given more nourishing food. I had supposedly been the one who crippled him; that he had risen from the dead didn't matter any more and didn't make a lick of difference. All he was saying was: "I was already done for, and now I have to die again! That doesn't come free, he must repay me for it or I'll take the case all the way to the courts on high. To wound a poor man like this! There should be corporal punishment for that, maybe even the death sentence." And so on.
    The worst thing of all is that my car hadn't been insured and insurance is obligatory. So I don't know. Do you think I'll have to pay?

LN, 5 April 1936

Miracle on the Playing Field

2008-01-30T11:11:00.000-08:00

    It happened in a friendly match between the football club of Žižkov High and the fourth form of the Prague XI gymnasium. In spite of the heroic goalkeeping of Ferda Zapotocký, the Žižkov High team was losing two to nothing at the end of the second half, and their side was battered by sharp attacks. Just then an unstoppable shot had been taken by the fourth-form student Zdeňek Poppr, called Kád'a, when something strange happened: the ball stopped in the air, rotating at an unusual speed, and after a moment's pause flew back like a meteor into the netting of the opponent's goal. There were four minutes left in the second half. No one had gotten a decent look as to how it had happened, and play continued; the fantastic Zdeňek Poppr again took control of the ball, overcame the defense and launched a low shot towards the Žižkov goal from close range. Thirty spectators, on hand to root for their famous gymnasium, had already burst into cheers; but the ball was nowhere to be seen. All the players started to look for it, until the fourth-form goalie from Prague XI himself found the lost ball, resting peacefully in his own goal. Just then, the end of the match was whistled. The fourth-form team protested against the irregular goal, but there was nothing to be done: the result of the match was two to two.
    From that day the Žižkov High team proceeded from victory to victory. They thumped Libeň High three to nothing, destroyed the fifth form of the Holešovice real school four to one; they defeated the sixth form of the Kolín gymnasium two to one on their own field (with two wounded on each side), and, by defeating the reform gymnasium of Prague XIX, the youth team for FC Slavie, the Košíře high school, and the German Realschule of Prague II, they earned the right to play the defending collegiate all-stars. It was an unprecedented success in the annals of the world.
    But no one on the winning team even realized that there had been a quiet spectator at all of Žižkov High's triumphant victories, a student of the first form at Žižkov, Bohumil Smutný. No one even spoke to him, for he was a virtuous and religious sort. No one noticed him at school or on the field of play. Only the previously mentioned Zdeňek Poppr (who out of jealousy and hatred followed the enemy eleven to all of their matches) noticed this devout and humble spectator; he even noticed that Bohumil Smutný would drop down behind the nearest barrier or bush at critical moments and ardently pray, whispering: "Oh Lord, have mercy! Grant that our side score a goal!" And at that moment the ball would stop in mid-air and rush backwards towards the wrong side, or suddenly disappear, to be discovered in the opponents' goal, or it would trundle down the field while the enemy team stumbled and fell, as though an invisible force were hindering their feet. And Zdeňek Poppr, called Kád'a, told his older brother about this, Záviš Poppr, a student at Masaryk University and member of the All-Star team.
    The day before the historical match between Žižkov High and the college all-star team a young man waited outside of the Žižkov school for Bohumil Smutný. He introduced himself as Záviš Poppr, medical student and sportsman, and told him: "I know you are a huge sports fan, Mr. Smutný; our Zdeňek told me that you really like coming to the games. But I think you might not understand the rules enough; my boy, you have to be in command if you want to get anything out of the game! Fortunately I have some spare time, and so I said to myself, why not say something about football, so you know how it's supposed to be played."
    That day Záviš Poppr walked around the streets of Žižkov for three hours with Bohumil Smutný, telling him all about corner kicks, the scoring zone, offside, handballs, offense and defense, extra time, a fair match, an irregular match, penalty kicks, diving saves, unsportsmanlike conduct, coordination and so on. Bohumil Smutný could only nod his head and say: "Yes. Yes, I understand. Yes, I already know that." And finally he politely thanked him, for he was a polite and virtuous boy, and not the sort of rascal that some of today's boys are.
    The next day the match took place between Žižkov High and the collegiate All-Stars. At the start of the second half the All-Stars already led six to nothing. Bohumil Smutný sat among the spectators, sweating in terror, hands clasped together, praying: "Oh Lord, have mercy, and do something....but by the rules...let our team score regular goal...perform a miracle, but a fair one!"
    At the end of the second half, the All-Stars led eleven to nothing, and Záviš Poppr turned and whispered to his brother: "So you see? As long as the rules apply, there can be no miracles."

LN, 22 March 1936

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

2008-01-29T23:53:00.000-08:00

Parliamentary Correspondent's Report

    Last night, to a packed house and unusually great interest, there was a performance of Shakespeare's play Hamlet. Prince Hamlet certainly staked his claim as the general wordsmith of this tragedy, with his renowned loquaciousness, but the focus wholly centered on the anticipation of Polonius' appearances, he being as celebrated a statesman of Denmark as that wordy speechmaker. In truth, his dialog added extraordinary significance to the play, and was given an unusually apreciative ear. A brief synopsis of the whole play follows.
    After the opening formalities with a ghost, the Danish king was the first to speak; after him Hamlet added his famous impractical yammering, and then Polonius stepped up and delivered, to an attentive silence, a speech dazzling in its keen insight and sharp perspective. We excerpt from its end:

"Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!
Even private time to you, and you yourself
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.
Look to't, I charge you. Come your ways."

    Following this, Prince Hamlet attempted to undermine the powerful words of Polonius with his own inane and confused bleatings; he had no success and neither did his companions. Even the ghost of his father, designed for its shock value, certainly did not confuse the discerning audience. After these distasteful scenes Polonius once again began to speak, delivering some remarkable insights into the civil education of young men in conversation with Reynaldo.

"Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make inquire
Of his behaviour.
But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips
As are companions noted and most known
To youth and liberty.
Gambling, ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing. You may go so far.
So, by my former lecture and advice,
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?"

    Turning to Ophelia, he continued.

"How now, Ophelia? What's the matter?
With what, i' th' name of God?
Mad for thy love?
What said he?
Come, go with me. I will go seek the King.
This is the very ecstasy of love.
Come, go we to the King."

    Polonius added a sharp observation to the following conversation, which even included the king and queen.

Th' ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
Are joyfully return'd."

    After that, the evening proceeded to its climactic moment, when Polonius firmly exposed Prince Hamlet's strange behavior. In a manly and remorseless way, well aware of his responsibility, he spoke to an eager audience.

"I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity;
And pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure!
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him then. And now remains
That we find out the cause of this effect-
Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
For this effect defective comes by cause.
Perpend.
I have a daughter
Who in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise."

    To breathless anticipation he read Prince Hamlet's highly compromising letter and continued.

"What might you think? No, I went round to work
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak:
'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.
This must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her,
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,
And he, repulsed, a short tale to make,
Fell into a sadness, thence into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we mourn for.
Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that-
That I have positively said 'Tis so,'
When it prov'd otherwise.?"

    Amidst much excitement, the play proceeded to the sharp argument between Hamlet and Polonius, in which he demolished his bumbling opponent with these sharp and decisive words:

"How does my good Lord Hamlet?
Do you know me, my lord?
Not I, my lord.
Honest, my lord?
That's very true, my lord.
I have, my lord.
What do you read, my lord?
What is the matter, my lord?
Fare you well, my lord.
You go to seek the Lord Hamlet. There he is."

    Hamlet, after his well-deserved defeat by these withering and well-aimed words, embarrassedly babbled something to universal disinterest; he tried to divert the conversation to some actor in his well-known and impractical way, (by making a confused hodgepodge of things), but Polonius, returning in a timely manner from offstage, landed a few more verbal blows.

"My lord, I have news to tell you.
The actors are come hither, my lord.
Upon my honour-
This is too long.
My lord, I will use them according to their desert.
Come, sirs."

    It is no surprise that Hamlet was only capable of delivering a monologue after these memorable words; he clearly feared such a quick opponent.
    After intermission, Polonius, understanding the value of behind-the-scenes observation, added this weighty piece of advice to the play:

"Ophelia, walk you here.- Gracious, so please you,
We will bestow ourselves."

    The private conversation between prince Hamlet and Ophelia followed, after which Polonius concisely said:

"How now, Ophelia?
You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said.
We heard it all."

    Meanwhile, prince Hamlet arranged--of course, in quite an unseemly way--a theatrical production; during this embarrassing episode Polonius rightly expressed:

"O, ho! do you mark that?"

    Another vehement argument arose between Hamlet and Polonius concerning the former's unfortunate enterprise. Blow after blow of Polonius' sharp words fell upon the prince:

My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.
By th' mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed.
It is back'd like a weasel.
Very like a whale.
I will say so."

    The shamefaced Hamlet could not ease himself after such a moral thrashing except by monologue, as was his dubious and cowardly wont.
    Further along in the play another of Polonius' valuable and circumspect advice was given:

"My lord, he's going to his mother's closet.
Behind the arras I'll convey myself
To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home;
And, as you said, and wisely was it said,
'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,
Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear
The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege.
I'll call upon you ere you go to bed
And tell you what I know."

    He then said fittingly to the queen:

"He will come straight. I'll silence me even here.
Pray you be round with him."

    Then Hamlet maliciously impaled him; at this, Polonius added with his characteristic quickness and forthrightness:

"Oh! I am slain!"

    The play should have finished with the death of Polonius; what follows is simply idle chatter without rhyme or reason; Prince Hamlet is an especial burden on the audience with his unsuitable and overly personal monologues as to whether he should be or not. A good half of the play could simply be deleted. The evening would have been wasted were it not for Polonius' fantastic speeches.
    We have described the play Hamlet in as much detail as possible, so the appreciative reader can create his own impression of the entire play. The audience, while attending the powerful words of Polonius with the utmost attention, was clearly disinterested in the end of the play. An insignificant group of unquestioning partisans applauded Hamlet's empty words and demagoguery. The discerning public will of course not be deceived by such a hollow success.

LN 18 January, 1931

Čapek as remixer of Shakespeare, 35 years before Stoppard. -Andrew

ToC error.

2008-01-28T18:37:00.000-08:00

The fourth piece in the first section of the book, Aesop the Gardener, is one of my favorites. When I was ransacking the back posts to compile a local copy (yes, I was that slapdash in putting some..er, most of it up), I found it posted back on the second--and realized it had somehow been left out of the main page ToC.

If you missed it, please have a look.

If you didn't, I'm impressed that you clicked around enough.

The Inventor

2008-01-28T10:09:00.000-08:00

    I tell you, sir: there is a certain method to inventing. You cannot rely upon good fortune or inspiration; you'd never get anywhere that way. You first must know exactly what it is that you want to invent. Most inventors invent something, and only then think about what it's good for, and lastly they give it a name. I've turned this technique on its head, sir: as for me, I invent the name first of all, and then I design a suitable thing for that name; in this manner I have arrived at a completely new source of technical inspiration. From words to things: that is my method.
    Wait a moment, what if I gave you a clear example. For example, people have work rooms, waiting rooms, rooms for lodging, display rooms and places like that. We have waiting rooms, but modern man has no time for waiting: his motto is quickness, speed, tempo. I say, why not therefore set up a hurrying room? A well-furnished hurrying room would of course have a whole array of quickeners and celeritators, thrusters, automatizers, noisemakers and clankers; I already have patents filed for various gnashers, crepitators, interruptors and falterers--new inventions and devices, sir, that no one else has thought of yet. That's it in its entirety: new words must be invented to arrive at new things and new solutions.
    Or take this: we already have chutes and even drop testers: but it hasn't yet occurred to anyone to create a faller--a thing which would constantly fall in all circumstances. Why is it that only vases, statues, and other domestic articles can fall on you? But a faller! It falls, guaranteed! Try it and you'll like it! I'll also throw in these slicers and choppers in various settings, and klaxons in all size, luxuriously appointed. Are your buttons sometimes loose on your shirt? Buy our patented debuttoner soon! It will loosen things for the whole family.
    Parents, buy the Stainamatic for your children! Save them work in soiling their clothes! Stainamatic with a whole box of Stain Stix, only thirty crowns. Our modern overcooker belongs in every modern kitchen. Do you have our tie-tier, our lace-lacer or our wrinkler yet? We recommend our fully automatic Procrastinator for all companies and offices. No modern home can lack our highly efficient Shatterizer and the reliable, precise Nap-Mate! Take naps at every opportunity!
    Do you ever make mistakes? Certainly you do, for to err is human. But why should you have to take the time to make mistakes? Our patented, trademarked errorizer will make mistakes for you! Our new model FV 1303 makes up to 699 mistakes a day! -- Are you preparing for a trip? Don't forget to pack a pocket Wanderer! Cheap, reliable, practical. -- Do you do nothing? If so, buy our "Nothing Doing" machine! Quiet operation, low operating cost. Patented in all counties. -- Give your loved ones their new favorite toy for Christmas, the Dull-Max! A fantastic source of boredom! -- Do you already have our Mangler? Indispensable for schools, offices, large firms and even households. -- The most sensational invention of our time: the standing wheel! A wheel which refuses to turn! New! We recommend it for all factories crippled by strikes! -- No more losses! Our new, inexpensive Vanisher takes care of your greatest problems, or try our nickel-plated Disappearer! For a greater volume, we recommend our mechanical Lose-Max or the highly efficient, self-regulating Auto-Loser, reliably losing even the largest items. -- Buy our universal distractor! It will distract you guaranteed, at home or abroad, at work or in your spare time. --Do you stammer? Buy our Stammer-Be-Gone in powder or pill form. You will stammer without worry. Doctor recommended. Thousands of satisfied customers. --You are nervous. Your nerves are fatigued by the same racket which is the curse of our age. Order one of our new silencers! The silencer is a machine which never makes a single sound. The latest silencer in a beautiful mahogany case, electrically wired, only 1,795 crowns. The last word in radio technology!
    Yes sir, that is how it is done. Find a new word, and then it is rather easy to engineer a reality to suit it. That's what I call scientific progress, sir. I bow to you, sir, but I have no time: right now I'm working on a universal destroyer. I should be able to do fantastic business in that, right?

LN, 15 March 1936

Boing Boinged. (And Language Hatted!)

2008-01-27T11:17:00.000-08:00

Wow. Greetings to anybody who's coming here from Boing Boing or Language Hat.

Oh, where to start? Obviously, this is my page for the unfoldment of Fables and Understories, a posthumous collection of Karel Capek short pieces. I plan on updating it until it's done. I do plan on releasing my work under some sort of CC license and updating the text's accessibility (one file, .pdf, etc); I need to do some research first. Ooo, and prepare footnotes, which are harder to employ in a blog post.

You are humbly invited to come along for the ride.

Please feel free to get in touch with me--mercilessly (if politely!) targeting my weaknesses can only, in fact, make me stronger. I may have tossed some stuff up here without a third or fourth pass, and the more eyes the merrier!

Thanks for your comments. It's obvious that Capek loves his work, and I love the task of trying to convey it to an English-reading audience!

His Final Affairs

2008-01-24T12:06:00.000-08:00

    The tram clanks and rattles its way uphill towards the Olšanský cemetery.
    "Look," a short little man says to a younger chap in a rabbit-fur coat, "Something's being built there; it will be a school or maybe a cinema. You know, I'm really glad I got to see him one last time. 'It's you,' he said. I don't think it really helped him much, but a man must show his friendship. 'I've come again,' I told him, 'but you'll be running off already,' I say, and meanwhile--"
    The young chap in the fur coat nodded his head mournfully.
    "I took the medal with me, so he would be happy," the little man continued, "and he said, 'My God, is it you?' You see, he recognized me. And I told him, 'Jozef, it will pass.' And he says: "Maňička, give me some of those giblets.' So she gave them to him, and he only took two bites, just pecked at them, but he didn't eat a thing. 'Maňička, give me some of those giblets," the man repeated, touched.
    The young man in the rabbit-fur coat dabbed at his nose a bit.
    "Well sure," the little man comforted him, "he was your brother, after all. She said he didn't even know himself any more, but he looked at me like so and said: "Toník, is that you? Wait and see," he came out with, eagerly rubbing his hands together, "what sort of wreaths the poor man will have. I went and asked how much a wreath with a bow cost, and they said it was eighty-five crowns. Then I said no bow, I'll just put my card on it, I wrote 'Sweet dreams, your Toník' on it. It's all the same, right? A man must show his friendship, but I don't need to spend twenty crowns on a bow to do that; besides, someone will just steal it from the cemetery."
    "They told me," the young man in the fur coat said in a weak voice, "that one with a ribbon costs ninety crowns, and I said it costs what it costs, even if it cost a hundred crowns, so long as it's proper."
    "For your brother, sure," the little man said, "and it's wonderful for all the cost. The ribbon has golden that say 'Last farewell, Jenda and Liduška'--well, that's wonderful, I tell you. 'Last farewell, Jenda and Liduška,'" he repeated, savoring every bit of its beauty. "We're not there yet, it's two more stops. It'll get us there just in time for the ceremony, right? He'll have a fine one."
    The young man weakly nodded his head.
    "Don't worry too much about her," the little man advised him.
"What would she have done with him, the poor man; besides, she won't be alone for long. Maybe she'll give you that table of his, and what's left of his clothes. And put your name in for the watch too. I wouldn't leave her a thing, if you ask me. Oh, she has to give you the wardrobe, too--say it's a family heirloom."
    "Aren't we there yet?" the young man asked sorrowfully.
    "One more stop," the man said, "and then a bit further on foot to the chapel. I think Franta will be there, and the other guys, it will be nice. Since he's dead, she doesn't have rights to anything. You'd be crazy if you left anything to her. And no need to pay the doctor; he'll probably forget about it. If you don't need the wardrobe, you can just sell it. But that wreath is fantastic. Take the ribbon home, it would be a shame to leave it there, you can hang it around the mirror like this, you see? And if Ladislav were to die on you, then you'd still have the ribbon to use. At least I got to see him one more time, poor man, it made him so happy--"
    The tram slowed before the gates of the cemetery.
    "Wait, just wait until it stops." He held the young man back, "You could fall out, and you've got such nice clothes on today. It would spoil the whole funeral."
    Therewith the bereaved man headed for the cemetery gates, thoughtfully supporting the young man in the fur coat by the arm.

LN, 12 February 1928

The Libertine

2008-01-23T11:12:00.000-08:00

    "Please," said Mr. Smítek, "what do you ladies know about life? You sit at home in slippers, drink your half-liter of beer, and it's good-night by ten; you pull your blanket up to your chin and just drift off. That's what you call life."
    "So you say, Mr. Smítek," Mr. Rous interrupted, "you live like a king on your wages. But if you had to support a wife and a couple of screaming kids--"
    "Go on with you," Mr. Smítek grumbled distastefully, "on my wages! How could I live at all on my wages? It's barely enough for pocket-money. There are places where you cannot even give the piccolo player fewer than fifty crowns. And for the band? Sirs, you can place a thousand crowns on the table and no one even bats an eye."
    "Don't start with that again, Mr. Smítek," said Mr. Kroll, "I've never heard of a thousand crowns to the musicians; that's hogwash if you give them that much for a bit of fiddling."
    "Listen," Mr. Smítek spoke, "you're still not getting it. Each musician makes like he's just playing his part, but meanwhile he's paying attention to who you are with and what you are doing and what you are talking about, how much is in the pot, and so on. When he makes this motion with his thumb, it means: pay and I'll be quiet. That's the way it is, sir."
    "They are beasts," said Mr. Kroll in wonder.
    "They are. Look, Mr. Rous, today you couldn't get a crown out of me, and this evening I shall spend, on my word, twelve thousand. And you ladies think you have all sorts of troubles when you owe a hundred and twenty to the greengrocer."
    "Twelve thousand?" said Mr. Rous, "sir, I wouldn't like to be in your skin."
    "What of it," Mr. Smítek yawned self-indulgently, "you can't take it with you. Why, yesterday night--oh, what good would it do to tell you! Gentlemen, such is life--"
    "But debts," Mr. Kroll said sharply, "one shouldn't acquire debts; you'll fall into the hands of the usurers and that's it for you. That's how it goes."
    "Debts," Mr. Smítek said unconcernedly, "they don't matter, as long as a man has contacts. A banker once told me that, from Amsterdam--now there were some fantastic women! My God, this one mulatto girl, you have no conception--well, this banker told me: buy Mexican currency, and you will make eighty times your money in a week. You see, a man must have contacts, and you won't find yours at home in bed."
    "And did you buy that currency?" Mr. Rous asked, with interest.
    "Oh, I lost that long ago," Mr. Smítek said evasively. "If it happened once, it can happen again. You see, I just love the excitement. And even if a night like that costs a few thousand, I've experienced a portion of life."
    "But you look it," grumbled Mr. Kroll. "Wait and see how your kidneys or liver will feel in a few years."
    "What of it," Mr. Smítek said with a sinful frivolousness. "So long as I have lived my life."

    That evening Mr. Smítek bought himself a pastry and a hundred grams of Edam, then he went home and made himself tea. His cat Lízinka got a piece of the pastry and the rind of the cheese; then she washed her face with her paw and wanted to go out.
    "You rogue, you frivolous thing," Mr. Smítek petted her, "you want to go out again already? Just sit at home in peace, what are you looking for? You're old enough to know better, you tart," Mr. Smítek said tenderly, lifting Lízinka into his lap; then he brought the receiver to his ear, tuned his crystal to see what was on the radio tonight. Someone was reciting poems; Mr. Smítek tried to keep the beat with his foot, but got bored when the rhythms didn't match, and grabbed Lízinka's tail. Lízinka merely turned briskly and clawed his hand; then for good measure she jumped from his lap and glared at him from under the bed.
    The poems and Lízinka's bad mood ruined Mr. Smítek's evening somewhat; he read through the piece of newspaper he had brought the cheese home in, and was in bed by ten; at ten-thirty Lízinka jumped onto the bed and snuggled onto his foot, but he was already asleep.

    "Aaaaaaah, life." Mr. Smítek yawned the next day, "Guys, what a night what was. Look," he said, showing his hand, "this scratch--now there was a girl for you--a Russian, name of Lízinka--what a wildcat, and what a temper--" Mr. Smítek hopelessly waved his hand. "What good is it to tell you! You old ladies, what do you know about life? Eh, let the courts or death threaten a man, so long as he has known life! But you? Just leave me be with your small-town morality!"

LN, 5 February 1928

An editorial note.

2008-01-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

Snippets 2 (just posted below) was originally published two weeks after the signing of the Munich Agreement. Italy, Germany, France, and Great Britain agreed that Germany should be permitted to occupy the Sudeten territory of the First Czechoslovak Republic

The tone of these fragments follows that pretty well. The optimism of the last statement makes those that come before it all the sadder for me. Not to mention the fact that he would refuse to leave Czechoslovakia and would die just over two months later.

II.

2008-01-22T10:17:00.000-08:00

Don't say it's hate. Call it recognition.

Agreements are for the weaker party to enforce.

Thanks to the efforts of our statesmen world uncertainty has been maintained.

...in the interest of peace, they struck against the invader with all their might

In the name of peace no foreign sacrifice is too great.

There are powers great and small. There are also powerless great and small.

Localizing the conflict: Leaving the victim to his fate. Liquidating the conflict: cutting off his legs.

It's not so bad; if they hadn't sold us they would have given us away for nothing.

...we at least know what we have lost.

At least there is progress in the world: instead of warring aggression we have aggression without war.

Failure: not using opportunity. Success: abusing opportunity.

The old story is true: sometimes the walls can come down with a single shout. But you can't build anything with a shout.

What misery, arousing such sympathy!

At least there is some economy there: being betrayed by yourself.

Even at the pyre there is someone heating up their soup.

The only one who truly believes is the one whose work looks forward.

To build it back up again...it is worth one's life.

Unhappy, maybe, but at least not unimportant!

So you see, there are those people who would themselves give up more than just territory.

The only new people are those that are equal to new challenges.

LN, 16 October 1938

Snippets I

2008-01-21T13:15:00.000-08:00

Why are you looking at that roof?
I'm terrified that the roofer is going to fall, but that miserable man hasn't yet!

Forthrightness: I never gossip about anyone; I just say what I think.

The locust is not an Egyptian plague; locusts are an Egyptian plague, because there are so many of them. It's the same with stupid people.

Nationalist: To hell with the nation; for us it's only about its prestige.

Economist: Today's outlook is horrible; it's because the economy's not being run by my theories.

To hell with the nation; for us it's only about its prestige.

Captain of Industry: I work to earn my living; but what robust work! and what a robust life!

I am one hundred percent convinced...
Sir, couldn't you discount that a bit?

Caiaphas' Thoughts: I would like to know who that Nazarene was paid by, and how much.

My cousin is a bastard, but it's an insult to our family honor if someone else says so.

To criticize is to convince the author that he's not doing it the way I would have done it if I had done it.

One of the greatest horrors of civilization: the educated fool.

Even the revolutionary spirit has its pedantry.

Wise is our speech: it makes a fundamental distinction between "I am convinced" and "I have convinced."

Better to abide the official instead of his platitudes.

Religious fundamentalism: Who is not with me is against me. Political fundamentalism: Who is not with me is rabble.

In the debate: What is it to me what's right if I'm not?

Only a few people struggle for prestige; most of them have it.

The age of machines: replacing purpose with speed.

Imagine the silence if people only said what they knew!

Nature created struggle, but man created hatred.

I'll never change again, said the stump.

LN, 12 February 1933

These Times

2008-01-19T16:37:00.000-08:00

The Advance of Civilization
     We slaughter more efficiently, but we don't call it war any more.

No War
     The proof that we actually do not wish for war: we fight without declaring it.

International Agreements
     ...yes, certainly, but it is our internal affair as to whom we invade.

Bulletin
     We deployed two new division with tanks and planes into battle. The enemy is in retreat, having suffered heavy losses. The peace holds.

Diplomatic Note
To demonstrate our peace-loving nature, we are willing to allow our enemy to surrender unconditionally.

Protest
     We complain to the rest of the civilized world that our barbaric enemy, instead of accepting our conditions, continues to allow our pilots to kill his women and children.

Bulletin
     Our air force has finished its bombardments, achieving a decisive success against the enemy forces. One soldier, seventy women, and one hundred children were killed.

Wolf and Goat
     We have reached an economic arrangement: I won't eat your grass, and you will feed me of your own flesh.

Proof
     To prove our strength, and so we can come to an agreement with the neighboring state, we have begun to bombard his undefended cities.

Bulletin
     The enemy maliciously attempted to shoot at our airplanes, who were peacefully dropping bombs on his city.

Good Intentions
     We are willing to bring our conflict before an international conference--of course on condition that we will be found to be right.

Proverb
     The more the wiser man retreats, the more the smarter man contests every step.

Two Tigers in the Jungle
     We met in the interest of peace. We agreed that we would hunt together.

Peace
     We don't want war. A punitive campaign against the weak is enough.

Fox
     Don't believe all that squawking. Once I'm done, there's always peace in the henhouse.

Gangster
     Sir, if you were to defend yourself, I would be forced to consider it an unfriendly act.

Wolf
     I have eaten my fill. Once again the higher morality has prevailed!

Mugger
     He came after me, while I simply was defending my interest in his wallet.

The Court
     Three hundred arrested? And what do they plead guilty to?

Forty-five of the Executed
     According to their own free confessions, they were attempting to knock the Earth from its orbit.

Death
     So you see, this sort of peace isn't all bad!

LN, 22 November 1937

Fables on Civil War

2008-01-18T16:04:00.000-08:00

Civil War
     Hurrah! We shall exterminate each other in the name of the nation!

Triumph
     Three hundred thousand politics opponents dead? Lord, this is a beautiful national success!

National Success
     Our heroic Foreign Legion has struck at the head of the cowardly hordes that are our domestic enemies.

A Page out of History
     …national honor was defended by foreign soldiers with foreign money.

Self-sufficiency
     Don't spill your blood for foreigners! Wage war at home!

New Map
     Write this over the whole map: Here lie the lowly betrayers of the nation.

Nation
     The nation is those who fight under our command.

Recognition
     Soldiers, you have done all you could for the greatness of our country. You're halfway there.

Before Battle
     Soldiers, fire at your own brothers. Our homeland is watching.

The Conquering Hero
     Let it all be ruined so long as it is mine.

Situational Report
     Our victory is not yet complete. The majority of our citizens have not yet been killed.

News from the Battlefield
     Our cannons have succeeded in leaving our capital city in ruins.

A Question of Law
     The legal government is the one with the artillery advantage.

A Good Shot
     ...succeeded in setting fire to a hospital.

Ordre du Jour
     Hack them! You can hit your own every time.

Military Principle
     To defeat an enemy means to bludgeon him until he is dead.

Appeal to the Besieged
     You fight in vain. We appeal to you to simply let us execute you instead.

The Battle Won
     Our troops have achieved a splendid victory over three hundred executed men.

General
     Praise be to God that no international laws can hinder us now.

Commander
     The laws of human decency? That is interference into our internal affairs!

Satan
     Now this I call war!

Death
     I am entirely satisfied. Here they take no prisoners.

La Muerte
     I work for the nation too.

The Last Volley
     With one well-aimed blow the whole universe has come down on the heads of our domestic enemies.

LN, 22 November 1936

Fables From The Future

2008-01-17T15:15:00.000-08:00

(An engineer wrote that the rocks in the area of Prague should be excavated to construct underground shelters for the city's inhabitants.)

In the Age of Underground Shelters
     To think that the people back then constructed their buildings above ground! What primitive times those were!

Structural Commission
     Your cave is unsanitary. It is connected to the outside air.

Science
     ...It was still taught back then that the Earth's atmosphere was composed of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and other lesser gases.
     Horrible! Such ignorance!

Child
     Mom, what is the "purple mountains' majesty?"

Morality
     Showing the face is indecent. No proper girl should see anyone without her gas mask on.

Mother
     What has your son done?
     The little rascal almost climbed up to the earth's surface!

Reader
     What are you laughing at?
     This old book has all these fantasies about nature.

Landlord
     If you don't pay the rent in a week, I'll throw you out of this subbasement into the sun.

Opulence
     Man, this is luxury! These people have artificial stalactites in their cave!

Moving
     My doctor ordered me to get a change of air. So I'm looking for a cave somewhere in the Permian Period.

Envy
     Oh, him? He got an apartment out of nepotism in the Vinohrady tunnels.

Monument
     What is that shaft for?
     They're going to fill it in to create an underground column for our Leader.

The Ideal Apartment
     And you don't have rats here?
     Of course not! No rats could survive here.

Differences
     Limestone makes the best houses. Granite is too cold and dark.

Young Woman
     And we have set up a little garden underground, where I will raise mold and mushrooms in little pots.

Neighbors
     It's awful. The wind is rising again.

Reminiscence
     It's been exactly a year since we laid our poor father to rest on the surface.

Cavemen
     Look, I have uncovered an ancient firepit.
     Get out! You think people back then had such a high culture that they lived in caves?

In the Sewers
     These stupid people before us made such narrow hallways!

Divers
     Wife, please hand me my diving helmet: I'm going to surface.

Boy
     Dad, what's peace?
     I don't know. Don't ask me such stupid questions.

Myth
     People once lived aboveground? Those are fairy tales. Scientifically speaking, it's nonsense.

In the Year 2200
     Greatest invention of recent times! The rustproof flint!

In the Year 2500
     ...he returned and states that he could breathe entirely well on the surface of the earth.
     Let us grant that he can, but so what?

LN, 20 May 1934

XIV

2008-01-16T12:25:00.000-08:00

Avalanche
     Hooray! We mountains are on the march!

Aphid Eulogy
     He was an upstanding aphid. He had the greatest stench of all.

Writer
     So that's the end of wars. I have just added my signature to the protest against warfare.

International Agreement
     We rabbits have settled an agreement with the chickens that we will not devour each other. Now we shall see what the crane will say to that.

Typhoon
     Fifty cities destroyed! What a sensational success!

Goat
     Well, if we got along with the wolves, there'd be peace on this earth.

Fox in the Henhouse
     Well, that egg gave me such impudent provocation!

Wolk
     That ram had malicious intentions. Trying to hide himself from me.

Flock of Sheep
     If we don't defend ourselves, at least the wolf will eat his fill quicker.

Mouse
     Look, the cat caught a sparrow! Now we mice have nothing to fear any more.

Sparrow
     You know there must be an awful lot of chirping to make it spring.

Undated manuscript

XIII

2008-01-15T11:57:00.000-08:00

Toad
     Shut those damn birds up. Then I'll sing!

Gnat
     Yes, but we are led by a veritable eagle.

Fallen Tree
     I'm just getting my strength up. I'll stand up again.

Stump
     Well, sure, I cannot move, but that means I cannot misstep.

Stone
     There is moss on me? Well, let us grow, let us grow.

Gravestone
     If only people didn't walk all over you like that!

Book
     I can only give the answers I contain.

Fence Post
     Ah, spring... I can feel myself growing.

Basalt
     Don't touch me, I am molten lava.

Undated Manuscript, 1935

XII

2008-01-14T10:43:00.000-08:00

Stink Bug
     Let me stink, so long as they can tell I'm there.

Stick
     If you only knew the roots I have!

Trash Heap
     Here, bring everything right here! Everything on me is part of me.

Puddle
     I am elemental too.

Nettle
     God, these potatoes are growing like weeds.

Carrion
     What do I want? I want everything to smell.

Truncheon
     It is I who am right!

Dung Beetle
     Oh, me? I'm just an organized vulture.

Goat Leader
     I am announcing the Lion paradigm.

Mud
     I am the path, in case you didn't know.

Ant War
     ...yes, but our side is fighting in the name of all ants.

Worm
     Long live war!

The May Gazette, 1935

XI

2008-01-13T13:13:00.000-08:00

Citizen
     Damn that government! My pipe's gone out already!

Complainer
     How can I go out, since I've already had too much to drink?

Baker
     I say raise the price of rolls and lower the price of everything else, and this crisis will pass.

Employer
     ...we work together; we all, you and I, work for my firm.

City Dweller
     Scandalous! What have our poor come to, that they have nothing to eat here but beggars from another district!

The Newspapers
     The truth is only that which is in the interest of our party.

Beggar
     I say that all charitable foundations should be abolished.

The Sated
     All this business about famine is horribly overstated. It's not so bad.

Old Memorial
     I said we were hurtling towards an abyss fifty years ago!

Pensioner
     I see that this world is headed for its end.

Man of Letters
     How is it not enough that I write books?

Journalist
     I have not lived in vain...just think of the hatred I've managed to conjure up!

Anonymous
     A man has his honor. I wouldn't write under my own name.

Reader
     A whole week already and no global catastrophe! What does a man even buy the paper for?

Spokesman
     We protest in the name of professional honor against everything in this world that threatens us.

In the Editor's Office
     Here is news that a cure has been found for the bubonic plague. Do you remember if our party is for plague or against it?

Diplomacy
     Than God the contract is settled; now we just have to think of a way to break it.

International Law
     What one can not do legally can be done for reasons of prestige.

The Leader
     God has decided I must lead my nation, thanks to intensive propaganda.

Diplomat
     International law? That's always what the other guys are breaking.

Funeral Parlor
     Our nation is sinking. We have no great men any more...It's been so long since we had a really glorious funeral!

Patriot
     How would he fight for his country? He doesn't have one!

Gangster
     The first rule: be the one who shoots first.

Regent
     I have given a shining example of love for one's country; I let three hundred thousand people die for it.

LN, 10 January 1937

X

2008-01-12T10:40:00.000-08:00

Pharaoh
     The slaughter of the Israelite firstborn? A mere administrative operation.

Persian News From Thermopylae
     Yesterday the heroic Greek warrior Ephialtes joined our ranks.

Report From Herod's Chief of Staff
     Our units have achieved a splendid victory over the infants of Bethlehem.

Alexander the Great
     My work is done. I have united India with Macedonia for all time.

Among the Ruins
     Peace has now been restored.

Victorious News
     We have overcome and slain twenty thousand enemies and a few traitors.

Attila
     I want peace too, but a Hunnish one.

Khan
     Kill them! I want to proclaim myself their king.

On the Battlefield
     Hey, our nation has grown by negative three thousand enemies!

Conquistador
     These barbarians fight our cannons with bows and arrows!

The Defeated
     I escaped to spare further bloodletting.

Commander
     Only use your weapons against those who are defending themselves, and of course even against those who aren't.

News
     We burned several other towns during out advance. What remained of the population welcomed us heartily.

Colonial War
     You dirty savages, just wait until you are our faithful and happy subjects!

Diplomacy
     We abhor violence, but are willing to supply arms.

Neutral
     Neutrality? That means making money off of someone else's war.

Imperialism
     Equilibrium is when we have the advantage.

Colonization
     And now we shall paternally care for those who remain.

Mars
     A ban on aggressive wars? As long as defensive wars and punitive campaigns remain!

War Memorial
     Here lies the Unknown Packhorse.

News From the Battlefield
     Our heroic gas attack has repelled hordes of cowardly citizens in flight.

Death
     You fools, this is My victory!

Peace
     Now we can peacefully devote ourselves to further armament again.

Progress
     We'll soon civilize these savages; they already understand thermite and mustard gas.

LN, 17 May, 1936

IX

2008-01-11T16:18:00.000-08:00

Planets
     Those poor inferior planets, which revolve around other stars!

Breeze
     You should see, dandelion, the damage we hurricanes wrought on Florida.

Acorn
     It's just a rumor that a thousand year-old oak fell here. It's as if we young oaks weren't even here!

Paper in the Whirlwind
     Hooray! Let's go uproot some trees!

The Letter E
     Abolishing all the other letters and leaving only E: then we'd have some poems!

Molecule in a Flash Flood
     I'll come along.

Weathervane
     So, I've decided upon a new course.

Wave in the Current
     Look at how many of them are behind me!

Dust in a Cyclone
     Make way for me, trees! I'm flying now!

Wet Sheet
     The great Flood? That's just what happened here.

Mouse
     …for example, having antlers on one's head is obvious nonsense.

Small Tortoiseshell Butterfly
     How could anyone be a large tortoiseshell?

Caterpillar
     Nectar? Nectar? That I do not eat on principle.

The Aesthetic Tulip
     Ick! Who was talking about mud!

Pearls Before Swine
     Ew! Look what they've gone and mucked up my slop with!

Mentality of the Flock
     Will we stick together? Not at all. We only stick with our flock.

Weed
     You call that a great tree? Look, one of its branches is dead!

Bacillus
     I am just a silent laborer.

Woodworm
     I made that creak!

Worm in the Grave
     It's only fair that the succession now falls on me.

Excrement
     Terrible conditions, these. One of ours cannot even make a proper stink.

Broken Mug
     I say the times aren't what they used to be.

Crack in the Wall
     What do I want to be? A much larger crack.

Stone in the Path
     Do I obstruct? That is my duty.

A Stone Has Crumbled In the Mountains
     So you see. So you see. The mountains will end up like this too!

LN, 24 June, 1934

VIII

2008-01-10T15:37:00.000-08:00

Fundamental Disagreements
     Driver: That guy on foot is milling around like a sheep.
     Pedestrian: That beastly man drives like a maniac.

Rabbit-Keeper
     I wonder how anyone could keep pigeons.

Pessimist
     Spring is coming? Man, you're an optimist!

National Economy
     Grease Manufacturer: I know why a recession has struck. Not enough people are selling grease.
     Cement Vendor: Not at all. It's because cement has fallen in value.

Philanthropist
     What poverty! I have just given a beggar a penny.

Capitalism
     I don't do it for myself, but for money.

Functionary
     What if it were to happen that someone else wanted to work in the field in which I strive so lovingly and productively!

Testament
     What you cannot accomplish yourself, at least spoil it for the other guy!

Patriotism
     Only our nation honors our great and heroic nation. All the others are just murderers, cowards, sell-outs and villains.

Leader
     Their natural strengths will henceforth be commanded by me. I command everyone over this cliff!

Statesman
     The prosperity of the state? It is either that which helps us, or that which harms another.

Speech to the Troops
     Don't even say those on the other side are people. Call them enemies or criminals instead.

Demagogue
     The ignorant rabble thinks I am leading them, but it is they who lead me.

Authoritarian Government
     I command you to do what I want, but I command you because it is what you want.

Militarist
     War is purely a matter of guts. The purpose of war is for a nation to realize its strength.

Tyrant and Philosophers
     I shall do things and you will find their justifications.

Dervishes
     He was sent from Allah to lead us.

The Mobs
     Why are we shouting his praises? Because his glory is our glory.

Slave
     To obey is to have a share in the power of one's master.

One of the Conformed
     It is such a fabulous feeling, that I am also We.

Looter of the Slain
     Glory! We have won!

Civil War
     Fire away! The law is on the side of he who has cannons.

Benevolent in Victory
     I take no vengeance. As I shot him, I forgave him for defending himself.

Master Executioner
     And no one ever says that I am a hero.

LN, 11 March 1934

VII

2008-01-09T12:37:00.000-08:00

Critic
     Why would I examine the world as it is? It suffices for me to know how it should be.

Soothsayer in February
     We must prepare for a time of winter.

Critical Toad
     I say that the snakes really shouldn't be so disproportionately long.

Flagpole
     This is the highest level of evolution: no roots, no branches, no leaves.

Civilized Rat
     Enough about the villages. They don't even have sewers.

Turtle
     Why don't I hop around like a frog? Out of habit.

Goat on a Leash
     How small the world is!

Fly in the Window
     I know where the limits of reality are.

Mirror
     Man is just a reflection of me.

Broken Mug
     The world is meaningless. Vanity of vanities.

Mayfly
     History? What does that mean?

Spider in the Web
     The waiting is such a drag too.

Tadpole in a Flood
     Hooray, we tadpoles have overrun the world!

Dead Branch
     I've finally done something for myself.

Mud
     We're nicely drenched here, my clouds!

Generation
     Room for us young people! For how long? At least fifty years!

Tree in the City
     I am the vanguard. I am the first of all to turn rusty and flake off.

Pupa
     Hear me, now begins the Age of Pupae!

Leader
     Everyone behind me, and I shall lead you from November into December.

Sheep
     Let them kill me so long as they lead me there.

Slave
     I could do something too, if only someone ordered me to.

Brown Ant
     Freedom for the ants! The whole world for the ants! Of course, so long as they're not black ants.

Wolf
     Peace is when no one is hunting us wolves.

Dictator
     I have given my nation faith. Faith in my flag.

Hyena
     Bah! We lions have no sentimentality.

LN, 5 November 1933

VI

2008-01-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

Enemy
     (Cat): My greatest enemy is the dog.
     (Dog): Mine too.

Predators' Morals
     There are two kinds of creatures: enemies and competitors.

Lion School
     When you go out to eat, might makes right, it is said--it's a question of lionly pride.

Ant
     I'm not waging war. The anthill wages war.

Viper
     Me? I only want my peace and quiet.

Painted Lady
     The nerve! What that mere cabbage white gets away with!

Swift
     Those stinking, miserable, worthless swallows!

Ox
     I always say, what on earth are the deer good for?

Poles in the Field
     Look at those stupid trees: all those branches and no order.

Stake
     Quiet, poles! I am fence material.

Broken Pot in the Flowerbed
     Do I really have to be with all this dirty mud? Young man, I'm too good for that.

Cornerstone
     The sun? What a slacker! Always gadding about aimlessly...no firm position at all.

Stink Bug
     Everyone has their opinion of the world. I think it reeks.

Brick
     I know how things should look best of all. Orthogonal.

Cowpat
     Plop! So, now I have unfolded my personality.

Gutter
     I know I'm no great river. But what inner nature I have!

Mirror
     I have it. The world is merely my reflection. There is nothing outside of me.

Clock
     I don't run poorly--I run ahead. I indicate the future.

The Doomsaying Fly
     The days are getting shorter. Woe is me, the world is ending!

A Sparrow and the World Situation
     Not a horse dropping to be seen...What is the world coming to?

Trash Heap
     Look at me grow! This is the vigor of life, is it not?

Birth of a Mayfly
     Look, look, I have created life!

Boulder
     It's spring? Eh, it'll pass. I've seen lots of springs and none of them were any good.

Today
     Even I will be the hallowed past someday.

LN 24 June, 1933

V

2008-01-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

Thersites
     Hooray, hooray, we Greeks have won!

Ephialtes
     But I showed that good-for-nothing Leonidas!

Neighbor
     He's a coward and a traitor, that Archimedes! An enemy descends upon our city, and he draws his circles!

The Statesman Cato
     What's that? Hunger? Famine? Crop failure? That's nothing. First of all, Carthage must be destroyed.

Ananias
     Sure, he wanted to save the world, why not, but he shouldn't have gotten caught up with those Pharisees.

Nero
     The persecution of Christians is a lie. We are merely arguing against their conception of the world.

Attila
     We too have come to save the world.

Boleslav the Cruel
     ...the thing with that Václav, that was a political necessity.

Genghis Khan
     Burn and slash on! This concerns the grandeur of Tartary.

Muslims
     Yes, but we fight in the name of God.

Dictator
     I have attained unanimity. Everyone must listen.

Tyrant
     You squalid lot, I made a great nation out of you!

After St. Bartholomew's Day
     Oof!...We have recreated spiritual unity in the nation.

Father Konias
     Education? Oh, sir, I've read all about it!

Conquistador
     You know, benevolent God, that inhumanity is alien to me. The Aztecs, of course, are not human.

Commander
     Shut your mouth, my heroes!

Blacks
     We have burned the village of Twi. Our victory is a new page in the history of the world.

Over a Fallen Enemy
     He started it. He couldn't defend himself, and there was peace.

Looter of the Slain
     None of this feeble humanity! War is war.

Report
     Inhabitants slaughtered and city burned by simple calm and discipline.

Leader
     We fight for an exalted idea: for its victory.

Contemporary
     Is Hus correct? I'll tell you one thing: his strategy isn't.

Another Contemporary
     What does that Galileo say? The earth revolves around the sun? Hmm, I have bigger fish to fry!

Yet Another Dictator
     I have taken away their freedom, but in return I have given them self-confidence.

LN, 30 April, 1933

IV

2008-01-06T12:18:00.000-08:00

Log in the Water
     Will that trout tell me how one is supposed to swim? That half-wit! Why, he's going against the current!

Mayfly
     A hundred year-old turtle? How can something be so terribly fossilized?

Grub
     Winter? I survived that a long time ago.

Mouse
     Hm, birds. Such relics! I cannot comprehend how anyone can be a bird.

Sparrow
     Is the lark right? Out of the question. There is only one truth and that is the sparrow's.

Snail
     For example the straight line is unsound, because it is not a spiral.

Hood Ornament
     It's me who's steering the car. I'm driving.

Sedimentary Rock
     We don't recognize the existence of any crystal quartz.

Nettle
     Is this garden abandoned? I wouldn't say so.

Fly
     Do you see those flyspecks on the picture frame? That is my work, sir. I too am a painter.

Carp
     No living thing can survive in the air.

Scrap in the wind
     Up and away! Now we can fly!

The Qualified Caterpillar
     Botany? That's my field.

Gravel
     I've honed myself mentally to attain gravel-hood.

Ass
     Fie! Such serious times--that cherry should be ashamed to bloom so!

One in an Anthill
     I've already got it. The twentieth century demands collectivity.

Flea in a Dog's Fur
     We've paid off the neighbor's dog Vořech, right?

Stink Bug
     Just so you know, I reek in the name of all stink bugs.

Dried Leaf
     The imperative of the times? We know what it is: to rustle in the wind.

Smoke
     You're all slaves to matter. Only I am free. And the clouds.

Laundry on the Line
     I am a banner and I wave! Behind me, men! Into battle!

Droppings
     Am I mineral? Animal? What an existential problem!

Dried Mud
     Only the hard stone will prevail. And I am stone too.

Rot
     I too go with the times.

LN 9 April 1933

III

2008-01-05T23:37:00.001-08:00

Division of Labor
     I shall watch you as you work, and you can look back upon me as I eat.

Envy
     Oh, God, those hot dogs smell so good, and I only have this capon for dinner!

Employer
     What's this, only eight hours of work? You think I only spend money eight hours a day?

Executioner
     You know, our kind have feelings too. I would not do it gratis.

The Boss
     I give the orders, so you should pay me; you pay me, so I get to give the orders.

Psychoanalysis
     This dream reminded me of my dead mother. Please, does this signify incest or necrophilia?

Bedbug
     Oh, I know all about people! The things I could tell you!

Cactus
     Just be well-defended! Look how man recoils from me! He even ends up serving me.

Peacock
     I don't wear this for show. It's on account of the females.

A Philosophical Caterpillar
     Get out of here with your humans! Such relativists! Creatures that eat everything? As far as I am concerned, I only acknowledge the leaves of the buckthorn.

Crane
     That is to say, I am an individualist from principle.

Bee
     Why do I have this stinger? In the name of the hive.

Fly
     Bad times, these. But during the war, girls, there were the most beautiful corpses!

Earthworm in the Flowerpot
     What do you know of solitude? But I, I who am both male and female...Ah, the loneliness!

Match
     Look, I am an eternal flame!

Mycobacterium tuberculosis
     Tuberculosis? What's that?

Caterpillar
     Sex? I'm surprised it comes up so much. In my opinion it's vastly overrated. For instance, I myself have no conception of such foolishness. I'm far too rational for that.

A Digging Mole
     That blue speck on the horizon? That's nothing. They call it Mont Blanc.

Snake on a Branch
     Go any way the wind blows? No, but you have to go with the flow sometimes.

Weathervane
     Today it's blowing from the north-north-east and that is that!

Last Leaf on the Tree
     Long live life!

LN 20 November 1932

II

2008-01-05T11:48:00.000-08:00

An Educated Caterpillar
     Haha--I'll become a butterfly? Old wives' tales, sir. Mere illusions. Fairy tales for children. It has been scientifically determined that there are only innards in us caterpillars, and no wings. No colored wings. One passes and that's the end.

Stink Bug
I, sir, can be happy with my children. They are healthy and talented, they know their way in the world, and finally, they stink. Praise God, you'll never lose one of 'em.

Phone Book
Poems! Such a thin little pamphlet. And this they also call a book? Please!

Old Relic
Oh, well, in my youth, they were different times. Back then, we ashes grew to the sky. And the grass? Back then, the grass grew taller than I am now...Mind you, that was grass. But nowadays!

Dandelion Seed
     I'm flying! I'm soaring! I'm ascending to the clouds! I finally know why I was put on this earth!

Head Louse
     What is underneath us, far down and deep where our probosces do not reach? Nothing. Only stone. Unliving and useless matter.

Beetle
     There is one natural law. One morality. One wisdom: Be firm!

Snail
     Ants are rabble. For example, they don't even believe in the Great Gastropod that created the earth!

Flowerpot
     I'm just a piece of pottery? Me? Look at what I've grown!

Rooster
     It's still not day. I haven't said so yet.

Rusty Nail
     Haha, I got him right in the foot! And he still calls me useless!

Tree
     Good perspective: for that one must grow tall.

Sparrow
     Oh, sure, the nightingale! There's more of us sparrows!

Stump
     And why don't they say "lofty stump" too?

Excrement
     If only I had wings! Then, young man, I'd come across differently!

Fox
     Everything living is divided into three parts: enemies, competition, and prey.

Crane
     What, cruelty? The struggle for existence, sir, is always legal.

Millipede
     Well, I'd just like to know...if there are millipedes on other planets.

Bedbug
     I have not lived in vain... I leave behind me an array of descendants... And all bedbugs! Bedbugs, every one!

Weed
     Lofty tree, bah! Wait and see what will become of me in five hundred years!

Dormouse
     There are three kinds of creatures: dormice, animals, and plants.

Flower
     I smell nice? I attract insects? Ah, you see, I know nothing about this!

Toad
     Progress? Naturally, there is progress. For example, I used to be a mere tadpole.

Important Fly
     Haven't you heard? That's the fly who sat on the crown of a king!

LN 19 June 1932

Fables I

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People
     --It’s a bother, my good fellow. I have to shoo away the boys in a minute so they stop bothering my dog.
     --And I have to shoo away the dogs, so they don’t chase my cat.
     --I have to shoot cats in my garden, so they don’t chase the birds.
     --And I have to shoot the birds, so they don’t eat all my cherries.

Aphid
     Oh, neighbor of mine, is there any justice in the world? Have I held someone back? Do I stand in someone’s way? I sit here quietly under a leaf, you can’t see me, you can’t hear me, I crouch in my little corner like the tiniest shade, I mind my own business, I just lay my little eggs and move from leaf to leaf quiet as can be—I tell you, ma’am, I never push my way to the front or get mixed up in anything, and Man, that brute, that Herod, hates and oppresses me anyway!

Birch
     They say I’m a beautiful white birch. That’s something! Just wait and see how beautiful I am when I am old!

Grasshopper
     I tell you: people plow… they dig… they hoe the earth… they do this just to spite me. They know I don’t like it… They do it on purpose. To bother me.

Factory chimney
     Ha, clouds! A mere party trick! Such weaklings! You should look at my smoke: how thick and dark it is! And the amount! You could cut slices! Young man, that’s what I call a cloud!

Old Pine
     How does one achieve my age and height? It is entirely simple: you must choose dry and sandy soil, with little humus and few nutrients--what, the old beech told advised you the opposite--the richest soil possible? And the willow advised moisture underneath? Don't believe that, those are stupid ideas, heed my words: the best is bare sand that's dry, dry, dry!

Roof
     I know, I know, there's nothing to me, no one looks at me. But how beautiful I am when I glisten in the rain! How I feel at that moment to be a roof!

Slipper
     Unhappy me! To always be with this other one, with this nag, with this stupid old hag. Without her, I could have gotten into a much better pair...

Bee
     They make up sayings about my industriousness! As far as I'm concerned, I take more pride in my sting!

Ant
     So! These idiots put a house right in our way!

Kerosene Lamp
     Light bulb? Oh, sure; but I've learned how to hum.

Flower
     It's not true that I am fading away. I am growing.

LN, 6 December 1932

Aesop the Gardener

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Earwig
     You wretched, worthless, ugly little monster, who nibbles away my tender seedlings and gobbles my scarcely-emerged sprouts, you who work your way into every corner of my house in your aimless and repulsive haste, hide under my blankets and swim in my drinking glass; you wriggling little beast, snapping at me with your pincers, I beg you--what on earth are you good for? What purpose do you serve? What contribution do you make? Is there any creature under the sun more worthless than you?
     "I'm not useless, sir; I have accomplished something immeasurably useful during my lifetime."
     And what exactly have you accomplished, Mr. Earwig?
     "I had lots of children."

Cat in the Garden
     You willed an orderly lawn into shape out of arid wasteland, and bushes up out of bare twigs; you raised a housecat on your lap from a stray and spitting kitten. And now your tomcat glides like a serpent through the high grass and underbrush, its golden eyes shining, joyful tremors running through its glossy coat.
     "Me? I am a wild beast in the forest primeval."

Ownership
     I've long since held an affection for sparrows because they are merry and poor, because they are gray as old rags, disheveled as tramps, carefree as children; chatty, satisfied with life and somehow entirely democratic; for this and other reasons I have always regarded them with affection as they eke out their little lives.
     Begone, you worthless thing, beat it, you miserable sparrow, get lost, you wretched creature! Where is my cat, where is my cane, where is my gun? You mean to tell me, you little bandit, that you took the first cherry off my little tree?

A Statesmanlike Act
     The begonia in the flowerpot wasn't long for this world; in spite of all efforts on its behalf it was rotting underneath and withered on top, so much so that it was terrible to see. The gardener even threw it into the darkest corner of the cellar in a fit of pique. Then he forgot about it altogether, having more important things on his mind than a ruined begonia.
     When he was looking for an empty flowerpot in the cellar fourteen days later, he found the begonia resurrected, once so tall, now thirsty as hell and terribly desperate to live.
     "How our gardener understands his affairs," the other flowers whispered. "What worldly wisdom!"

Flowerpot
     You're staring, right? Look how much I've grown since spring! Look at the foliage I've got! How I smell and bloom!

Grasshopper
     Brrr! Into the earth at once! Must dig into the good, moist soil! Hey, a man picked me up! How disgustingly hot and dry he is! I can't take it, my stomach's coming up! Ughhh!

Child in the Garden
     He is tearing off flower buds and sticking them in the gravel paths.
     "Hey, what are you doing, you little garden-wrecker?"
     "Plantin' flowers."

Cactus
     I stab you and for all that you still brag what marvelous thorns I have?

Weed
     I know, comrade rye: there is a conspiracy against me. When they mow the meadow it is only to wipe me out. They send the hail down on me; they try to burn me with the sun; they hire the moles and locusts to come after me. But I stand my ground. I know why they're after me. Oh, I could tell you a thing or two!

LN, 8 August 1926

Philemon, or On Gardening

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Cabbage
     I was so proud of it; it was full, lightly frosted, and as curly-headed as a younger František Langer; but suddenly out of God knows where came the caterpillars of the white cabbage butterfly, which, if the name were accurate, should have gone and eaten some white cabbage over in Strašnice and left my Savoyards in peace; they devoured everything down to a filigree of veins.
     Before that disaster I had been inclined to reorder my system of values and deem cabbage as the queen of the flowers. Well, it's not true; the queen of the flowers remains the rose, by the obvious fact that it cannot be eaten.
     Presumably man too must be distasteful, if he is to become the king of all creation.

Succulents
     Don't think I have a collection of them. I only have the four clay pots and some hens and chicks; but the vegetation involved suffices to astound me.
     The first little cactus looks like it has a mind to grow itself a piece of raw mutton; it is red tending to violet, fat, and very comparable to a job terribly botched; this wonder of nature is, honestly put, a little loathsome.
     The second cactus decided to adopt a shape that seems to have come out of a tinsmith's fantasy. It must be doing this intentionally; it looks like a some sort of manufactured good.
     The third one is made up of pretty little fat purple and green sabers with a clear eye towards stylization; the whole thing, though, is speckled with some sort of tropical rash that looks like thick, white, mildewy pustules. It seems to not be contagious, at least.
     You should see the fourth monster grow. This hair comes up first, a little star comes out of that, and a green tassel sprouts under the star. Finally the whole thing turns into this horned ball thickly set with prickly stars. I cannot begin to imagine what will happen next.
     The strangest of all, though, are the ordinary hens and chicks. I set the first one down and ignored it; let it show me what it could do. Well, it does something interesting; wherever the fancy strikes it--in its armpit, round the back, on its head--it throws out a green leafy head. This breaks open, rolls into the clay, sends out a rootlet and grows like crazy.
     I can't even imagine what I would do if a child started to grow in my armpit or on my breast or on the back of my neck. Some hens have twenty chicks on themselves; that's an outbreak of fertility; it is motherhood completely unleashed.

Weeds
     I made a discovery: each plant has not only its own leaves and flowers, but a certain kind of root as well. You who don't mess around in the soil, laying waste to weeds, have no conception of the hidden wealth of roots. There are roots that are light, fleshy, sickly pale; or fat, arborescent, rich as a shock of hair; creeping, woody, swollen, tuberous, stubborn, brittle, strong as catgut, shallow and deep, plump and starvingly scrawny, rosy as living nerves and black as dry rot, hirsute and bald; I tell you, life under the ground is just as rich as above it.

Clay
     I spoke of clay, and a gardener became angry with me. Garden soil, he said, is no clay; it is earth, humus, a useful and living substance; whereas clay, we all know, is dead matter, marl, slag itself. I was ashamed of myself somewhat; the gardener was right. Why, then, did the Lord create man out of clay and not out of soil? It is not written that Adam was made out of humus. It is not said that the Creator made him out of fine leaf mold. He carefully set the humus and leaf mold aside for the Garden of Eden. We gardeners, therefore, do not fritter away the best soil on doubtful pursuits.

How to Grow Clouds
     It takes a lot of work: it is necessary to weed very carefully, to toss out muck and small stones by hand, to kneel on the earth, bend over, dig about in the soil, water profusely, collect caterpillars, exterminate aphids, loosen the ground and serve the earth; when your back hurts from all this and you straighten up and look at the sky, you will have the prettiest clouds. Probatum est.

LN, 6 September 1925

Fables

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Crime and Punishment
     It cannot be denied: she has made a mess. Now she crouches in the darkest corner with a felonious and tenacious expression; her eyes glimmer greenly and her tail twitches, for she knows what is coming. All at once everything falls away which has made her into a gentle, domesticated cat; this is an evil and wild jungle creature, a beast full of fear and hatred, which follows you with burning eyes as an ancient enemy. She hisses like a serpent, when you approach her, her green little eyes scintillating with ferocious hatred, horror, rancor and villainy: pff chch chch, don’t touch me!
     Nothing doing, feline, among us people guilt must be expiated; there is Law and Order, that a cat that has sinned sticks to the spot of the deed and there! There! There! You’ve gotten yours, you rogue. Eyes downcast, the sinner frantically shrinks and recoils from the tragic torrent of punishment. Enough! And the poor creature winds like a snake from the spot of the deed.
     But before the judge can even stand up, she is already sitting in the middle of the room, a satisfied and graceful cat, as though nothing had happened at all, industriously licking a spot of ruffled fur on her back. She looks at her tormentor a little warily, but her eyes are already yellow again. “Look at what a nice kitty I am; open the door for me, I want to go into the kitchen.”
     Whereupon she goes out, clearly giving the impression that she is in no hurry at all.

Megalomania
     He was a little dog like a glove, with frog’s eyes and on spindly little legs which he always raised up daintily, as though they might freeze. Nothing entered into his old, wretched head except his name Pucinek and the knowledge that wetting the floor was a thing that was punished.
     Then the heavens opened to the clatter of thunder and a heavy, roaring, soaking downpour came down in huge sheets, the sandy courtyard of the manor then transformed into a yellow lake, which tore into the park like a flash in deep rills, gouging deep tracks as it went.
     At that moment the little dog tottered down the stairs; when he saw the heaven-sent inundation under him he started to tremble and bowed his skinny flanks in submission like a penitent and avowed sinner:
     “Master, master, punish me: it was I who wet the floor so.”

A Matter of Honor
     He was doomed by his overwhelming inferiority; of course, a wolfhound is tougher and stronger than a shaggy miniature pinscher; he was just a pile of fur on the ground into which the wolfhound sunk his horrible fangs.
     The mistress of the house dragged him out of that raging pile by his collar; he let himself be dragged, but glared back at his enemy: You coward, you cur! If they weren’t holding me back…
     Now he lies on the carpet, licking his bloody wounds; and when the mistress looks at him, we wags his stump of a tail victoriously: You should see the other guy, right?

The Forsaken One
     Three nights it rained, and three nights the gray striped tomcat did not come. She waited pressed against the wall until her paws were frozen; then in the day she complained in a deep and broken alto when she thought no one could hear. If you wanted to pet her, she crawled fussily under a chair: Pardonnez-moi, I don’t feel up to it today.
     But the third day after a night like that she hurls herself into your arms, nuzzling passionately: Pet me, serve me, entertain me! There is my ear, my chin, my neck! More! More! I love no one on earth more than you!
     And she purrs, purrs noisily and convulsively until she drools.

Horse
     Music broke out on the street, the trumpets rang out, and bum! and bum! The drum rolled like a strong fellow beating the way of some great parade. Yes, it was some sort of celebration; behind the brass band was a decorated cart, on which were banners and girls and outcry, tra-la-la and cymbals; revel, people, in this whole cartload of music, but I looked, and I do not know why, at the horse who was pulling them all, and I was greatly surprised. I at least expected the horse to be smiling.
     Quite the contrary, he was not smiling; he looked so serious and official that it made everything worse. It looked as though he were indicating that he dissented from this bubbly joy. He looked wistful, as though he were pulling a funeral car instead of a pile of madmen. It seemed as though he were deliberating over something.
     “I am doing serious and important work.”

LN, 19 July 1925