Prague
Prague is one of those dear cities of Mitteleuropa that I could visit very early in my life, perhaps around 1985, when it was still quite a surprise for me that chocolate was available in any store (in Poland, chocolate was still to be bought exclusively with food stamps). Certainly, I returned there many times, in 2000, 2016 and 2017, till the point of falling under the charm of Czech language, so amusing to my ear as if it were a constant parade of puns and funny ways of dubbing things.
Together with Lisbon, Prague used to be commonly regarded as an utterly poetic place; was it for a resonance of Kafka and Pessoa in popular imagination? Be as it may, there exist advanced schools of taking pictures of these cities (Prague even more than Lisbon). Myself, I could never achieve the level of sophistication in any of them. Perhaps my eye is not fresh enough, or I don't have sufficient patience to equal the best photographers. But I've tried my best.
Together with Lisbon, Prague used to be commonly regarded as an utterly poetic place; was it for a resonance of Kafka and Pessoa in popular imagination? Be as it may, there exist advanced schools of taking pictures of these cities (Prague even more than Lisbon). Myself, I could never achieve the level of sophistication in any of them. Perhaps my eye is not fresh enough, or I don't have sufficient patience to equal the best photographers. But I've tried my best.
In 2000, before the digital age
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In 2016 and 2017
I have dreams, plans for when I settle in the Netherlands for good, with a decent house and a stable employment. I would like to buy more books in Czech. I have learned the language, at least enough to read, just for the sheer fun of it; for someone speaking Polish it is not such a great exploit; it seems a constant source of absolutely mind-boggling linguistic humour; at least at a certain stage of my life I grew a palate for such things. What is more, Czech Republic, together with Romania, are my favourite countries in Central and Eastern Europe. In spite of their cuisine.
This is thus a shame that I have read so few Czech literature, and usually in translation. I've read Kundera in French when I was a student; I took it from the library of the local Alliance Francaise centre in Lublin. Other things in Polish. But it must be an adventure to read Jaroslav Hašek's Szwejk right in its proper, picturesque language.
There are other Czech things in my Multilingual Library as well, for instance Poslední stupeň důvernosti (The Ultimate Intimacy) by Ivan Klíma. And the best of all, Milostný dopis klínovým písmem by Tomáš Zmeškal, a son of a Czech and a Congolan. His delving in the times of communist oppression makes me remember Kundera's Unsupportable lightness of being, and what remains is a love letter written in Cuneiform and the background of the bygone academic excellence, when such things were studied and taught in Prague.
I even have a history of Czech literature, by Zofia Tarajło-Lipowska, but for some not quite clear reason, I miss my Dutch home, definitively outside Mitteleuropa, to read all this. Somehow, this is a kind of literature – like a lot of Romanian and Chinese one as well – that one feels better to read without, not within.
This is thus a shame that I have read so few Czech literature, and usually in translation. I've read Kundera in French when I was a student; I took it from the library of the local Alliance Francaise centre in Lublin. Other things in Polish. But it must be an adventure to read Jaroslav Hašek's Szwejk right in its proper, picturesque language.
There are other Czech things in my Multilingual Library as well, for instance Poslední stupeň důvernosti (The Ultimate Intimacy) by Ivan Klíma. And the best of all, Milostný dopis klínovým písmem by Tomáš Zmeškal, a son of a Czech and a Congolan. His delving in the times of communist oppression makes me remember Kundera's Unsupportable lightness of being, and what remains is a love letter written in Cuneiform and the background of the bygone academic excellence, when such things were studied and taught in Prague.
I even have a history of Czech literature, by Zofia Tarajło-Lipowska, but for some not quite clear reason, I miss my Dutch home, definitively outside Mitteleuropa, to read all this. Somehow, this is a kind of literature – like a lot of Romanian and Chinese one as well – that one feels better to read without, not within.
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Karlstein Castle
Buzov Castle
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Olomouc
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