...about teacups & time & the rules of disorder.

“Life under Communism was principally a tragedy, but a tragedy with comic, not to say grotesque, interludes. Life over all could be described in those terms—as a tragicomedy. When I look back at works written by my colleagues during that period, I can see that they all have an element of humor, satire, or mockery—which shows that the writers’ spirits were not entirely crushed by the brutal atmosphere we lived in. Writers from former Eastern-bloc countries—Milan Kundera, for example—have often asserted that laughter and mockery were ways of saying no to that world. Certainly, what happened to us was no joke. On the other hand, you should not imagine writers and their circle as if they had been turned into zombies devoid of critical ability. Let me show you what I mean. In 1967 … I had published three works in prose (besides my poetry): the novels “The General of the Dead Army” and “The Monster” and the short story “Coffeehouse Days.” The last two had been banned for “decadence,” but they were widely known, because the ban had been imposed after they were published. Being “scandalous” and forbidden, they gave me a lot of trouble, of course—but, for the same reason, they gave me a certain weight in the eyes of my readers. It was one of the peculiar contradictions of life in those times. If you had problems with the state, you were looked on with a certain suspicion, but that very fact gave you greater prestige in certain circles. I think this is what creates the impression of hubris in the young writer. What we wrote was censored, but what was far worse than censorship was self-censorship. That was the real death of art.”

“I get deeply tired because everything touches me, I am never indifferent.”