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
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Man Who Learned To Fly
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
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
Monday, February 25, 2008
Halo
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
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
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
When the Diplomats Sit in Judgment
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
...
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
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Tonda
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
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
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Association of Baron Biháry's Creditors
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
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
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Proposal
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:
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
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
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