Once again, Klima (Judge on Trial, 1993, etc.) skillfully explores
Prague life under the Communist regime in the trying years before
the Velvet Revolution. This time around, Klima offers six stories
in which a writer (the author's afterword suggests it is the same
writer throughout) finds himself working as everything from a
courier to an archaeologist to a surveyor. Sometimes the writer
finds pleasure in his new employment: In "The Engine Driver's
Story," he dreams of driving a locomotive, despite the fact that
his "non-existent psychoanalyst" insists that the dream is not
about trains but about missed opportunities. Sometimes he finds his
new job distasteful: In "The Smuggler's Story," he consoles himself
with the fact that "in the conditions prevailing here, it is rare
for someone to be doing what he was trained to do, or what he is
suited for" as he struggles to outwit the police with three bags of
contraband books. But the beauty of this particular collection
(after ali, these themes of conscience, oppression, and expression
are par for the course with Klima) lies in the sense of liberty and
hope it offers when the writer reaps the unexpected benefits of new
experiences. A talentless painter-by-default draws his first true
likeness when he must identify a young girl he saw just before she
committed suicide; an archaeologist interested in human origins
finds the courage to admit (at least to himself) to hearing the
voices of the home spirits in a 2,500-year-old burial ground. Few
writers have the talent or insight to infuse old themes with new
life when, according to Klima's narrator, "we have declared
progress to be our idol" so that "the furious hunt for novelty [has
become] diseased and self-destructive." But in this piercing, rich
collection, Klima does just that. A master delivers. (Kirkus
Reviews)
One of the last artistic expressions of life under communism, this
novel captures the atmosphere in Prague between 1983 and 1987,
where a dance could be broken up by the secret police, a traffic
offense could lead to surveillance, and where contraband books were
the currency of the underworld.
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