生命不能承受之轻-第33部分

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It　is　much　more　important　to　dig　a　half…buried　crow　out　of　the　ground；　he　said；　than　to　send　petitions　to　a　president。　
He　knew　that　his　words　were　incomprehensible；　but　enjoyed　them　all　the　more　for　it。　He　felt　a　sudden；　unexpected　intoxication　come　over　him。　It　was　the　same　black　intoxication　he　had　felt　when　he　solemnly　announced　to　his　wife　that　he　no　longer　wished　to　see　her　or　his　son。　It　was　the　same　black　intoxication　he　had　felt　when　he　sent　off　the　letter　that　meant　the　end　of　his　career　in　medicine。　He　was　not　at　all　sure　he　was　doing　the　right　thing；　but　he　was　sure　he　was　doing　what　he　wanted　to　do。
I'm　sorry；　he　said；　but　I'm　not　going　to　sign。　
15
Several　days　later　he　read　about　the　petition　in　the　papers。
There　was　not　a　word；　of　course；　about　its　being　a　politely　worded　plea　for　the　release　of　political　prisoners。　None　of　the　papers　cited　a　single　sentence　from　the　short　text。　Instead；　they　went　on　at　great　length　and　in　vague；　menacing　terms　about　an　anti…state　proclamation　meant　to　lay　the　foundation　for　a　new　campaign　against　socialism。　They　also　listed　all　the　signatories；　accompanying　each　of　their　names　with　slanderous　attacks　that　gave　Tomas　gooseflesh。
Not　that　it　was　unexpected。　The　fact　that　any　public　undertaking　（meeting；　petition；　street　gathering）　not　organized　by　the　Communist　Party　was　automatically　considered　illegal　and　endangered　all　the　participants　was　common　knowledge。　But　it　may　have　made　him　sorrier　he　had　not　signed　the　petition。
Why　hadn't　he　signed？　He　could　no　longer　quite　remember　what　had　prompted　his　decision。
And　once　more　I　see　him　the　way　he　appeared　to　me　at　the　very　beginning　of　the　novel：　standing　at　the　window　and　staring　across　the　courtyard　at　the　walls　opposite。
This　is　the　image　from　which　he　was　born。　As　I　have　pointed　out　before；　characters　are　not　born　like　people；　of　woman；　they　are　born　of　a　situation；　a　sentence；　a　metaphor　containing　in　a　nutshell　a　basic　human　possibility　that　the　author　thinks　no　one　else　has　discovered　or　said　something　essential　about。　But　isn't　it　true　that　an　author　can　write　only　about　himself？　Staring　impotently　across　a　courtyard；　at　a　loss　for　what　to　do；　hearing　the　pertinacious　rumbling　of　one's　own　stomach　during　a　moment　of　love；　betraying；　yet　lacking　the　will　to　abandon　the　glamorous　path　of　betrayal；　raising　one's　fist　with　the　crowds　in　the　Grand　March；　displaying　one's　wit　before　hidden　microphones—I　have　known　all　these　situations；　I　have　experienced　them　myself；　yet　none　of　them　has　given　rise　to　the　person　my　curriculum　vitae　and　I　represent。　The　characters　in　my　novels　are　my　own　unrealized　possibilities。　That　is　why　I　am　equally　fond　of　them　all　and　equally　horrified　by　them。　Each　one　has　crossed　a　border　that　I　myself　have　circumvented。　It　is　that　crossed　border　（the　border　beyond　which　my　own　I　ends）　which　attracts　me　most。　For　beyond　that　border　begins　the　secret　the　novel　asks　about。　The　novel　is　not　the　author's　confession；　it　is　an　investigation　of　human　life　in　the　trap　the　world　has　become。　But　enough。　Let　us　return　to　Tomas。
Alone　in　his　flat；　he　stared　across　the　courtyard　at　the　dirty　walls　of　the　building　opposite。　He　missed　the　tall；　stooped　man　with　the　big　chin　and　the　man's　friends；　whom　he　did　not　know；　who　were　not　even　members　of　his　circle。　He　felt　as　though　he　had　just　met　a　beautiful　woman　on　a　railway　platform；　and　before　he　could　say　anything　to　her；　she　had　stepped　into　a　sleeping　car　on　its　way　to　Istanbul　or　Lisbon。
Then　he　tried　again　to　think　through　what　he　should　have　done。　Even　though　he　did　his　best　to　put　aside　everything　belonging　to　the　realm　of　the　emotions　（the　admiration　he　had　for　the　editor　and　the　irritation　his　son　caused　him）；　he　was　still　not　sure　whether　he　ought　to　have　signed　the　text　they　gave　him。
Is　it　right　to　raise　one's　voice　when　others　are　being　silenced？　Yes。
On　the　other　hand；　why　did　the　papers　devote　so　much　space　to　the　petition？　After　all；　the　press　（totally　manipulated　by　the　state）　could　have　kept　it　quiet　and　no　one　would　have　been　the　wiser。　If　they　publicized　the　petition；　then　the　petition　played　into　the　rulers'　hands！　It　was　manna　from　heaven；　the　perfect　start　and　justification　for　a　new　wave　of　persecution。
What　then　should　he　have　done？　Sign　or　not？
Another　way　of　formulating　the　question　is；　Is　it　better　to　shout　and　thereby　hasten　the　end；　or　to　keep　silent　and　gain　thereby　a　slower　death？
Is　there　any　answer　to　these　questions？
And　again　he　thought　the　thought　we　already　know：　Human　life　occurs　only　once；　and　the　reason　we　cannot　determine　which　of　our　decisions　are　good　and　which　bad　is　that　in　a　given　situation　we　can　make　only　one　decision；　we　are　not　granted　a　second；　third；　or　fourth　life　in　which　to　compare　various　decisions。
History　is　similar　to　individual　lives　in　this　respect。　There　is　only　one　history　of　the　Czechs。　One　day　it　will　come　to　an　end　as　surely　as　Tomas's　life；　never　to　be　repeated。
In　1618；　the　Czech　estates　took　courage　and　vented　their　ire　on　the　emperor　reigning　in　Vienna　by　pitching　two　of　his　high　officials　out　of　a　window　in　the　Prague　Castle。　Their　defiance　led　to　the　Thirty　Years　War；　which　in　turn　led　to　the　almost　complete　destruction　of　the　Czech　nation。　Should　the　Czechs　have　shown　more　caution　than　courage？　The　answer　may　seem　simple；　it　is　not。
Three　hundred　and　twenty　years　later；　after　the　Munich　Conference　of　1938；　the　entire　world　decided　to　sacrifice　the　Czechs'　country　to　Hitler。　Should　the　Czechs　have　tried　to　stand　up　to　a　power　eight　times　their　size？　In　contrast　to　1618；　they　opted　for　caution。　Their　capitulation　led　to　the　Second　World　War；　which　in　turn　led　to　the　forfeit　of　their　nation's　freedom　for　many　decades　or　even　centuries。　Should　they　have　shown　more　courage　than　caution？　What　should　they　have　done？
If　Czech　history　could　be　repeated；　we　should　of　course　find　it　desirable　to　test　the　other　possibility　each　time　and　compare　the　results。　Without　such　an　experiment；　all　considerations　of　this　kind　remain　a　game　of　hypotheses。
Einmal　ist　keinmal。　What　happens　but　once　might　as　well　not　have　happened　at　all。　The　history　of　the　Czechs　will　not　be　repeated；　nor　will　the　history　of　Europe。　The　history　of　the　Czechs　and　of　Europe　is　a　pair　of　sketches　from　the　pen　of　mankind's　fateful　inexperience。　History　is　as　light　as　individual　human　life；　unbearably　light；　light　as　a　feather；　as　dust　swirling　into　the　air；　as　whatever　will　no　longer　exist　tomorrow。
Once　more；　and　with　a　nostalgia　akin　to　love；　Tomas　thought　of　the　tall；　stooped　editor。　That　man　acted　as　though　history　were　a　finished　picture　rather　than　a　sketch。　He　acted　as　though　everything　he　did　were　to　be　repeated　endlessly；　to　return　eternally；　without　the　slightest　doubt　about　his　actions。　He　was　convinced　he　was　right；　and　for　him　that　was　a　sign　not　of　narrowmindedness　but　of　virtue。　Yes；　that　man　lived　in　a　history　different　from　Tomas's：　a　history　that　was　not　（or　did　not　realize　it　was）　a　sketch。

16
Several　days　later；　he　was　struck　by　another　thought；　which　I　record　here　as　an　addendum　to　the　preceding　chapter：　Somewhere　out　in　space　there　was　a　planet　where　all　people　would　be　born　again。　They　would　be　fully　aware　of　the　life　they　had　spent　on　earth　and　of　all　the　experience　they　had　amassed　here。
And　perhaps　there　was　still　another　planet；　where　we　would　all　be　born　a　third　time　with　the　experience　of　our　first　two　lives。
And　perhaps　there　were　yet　more　and　more　planets；　where　mankind　would　be　born　one　degree　（one　life）　more　mature。
That　was　Tomas's　version　of　eternal　return。
Of　course　we　here　on　earth　（planet　number　one；　the　planet　of　inexperience）　can　only　fabricate　vague　fantasies　of　what　will　happen　to　man　on　those　other　planets。　Will　he　be　wiser？　Is　maturity　within　man's　power？　Can　he　attain　it　through　repetition？
Only　from　the　perspective　of　such　a　utopia　is　it　possible　to　use　the　concepts　of　pessimism　and　optimism　with　full　justification：　an　optimist　is　someone　who　thinks　that　on　planet　number　five　the　history　of　mankind　will　be　less　bloody。　A　pessimist　is　one　who　thinks　otherwise。
17
One　of　Jules　Verne's　famous　novels；　a　favorite　of　Tomas's　in　his　childhood；　is　called　Two　Years　on　Holiday；　and　indeed　two　years　is　the　maximum。　Tomas　was　in　his　third　year　as　a　window　washer。
In　the　last　few　weeks；　he　had　come　to　realize　（half　sadly；　half　laughing　to　himself）　that　he　had　grown　physically　tired　（he　had　one；　sometimes　two　erotic　engagements　a　day）；　and　that　although　he　had　not　lost　his　zest　for　women；　he　found　himself　straining　his　forces　to　the　utmost。　（Let　me　add　that　the　strain　was　on　his　physical；　not　his　sexual　powers；　his　problem　was　with　his　breath；　not　with　his　penis；　a　state　of　affairs　that　had　its　comical　side。）
One　day　he　was　having　trouble　reaching　a　prospect　for　his　afternoon　time　slot；　and　it　looked　as　though　he　was　going　to　have　one　of　his　rare　off　days。　He　was　desperate。　He　had　phoned　a　certain　young　woman　about　ten　times。　A　charming　acting　student　whose　body　had　been　tanned　on　Yugoslavia's　nudist　beaches　with　an　evenness　that　called　to　mind　slow　rotation　on　a　mechanized　spit。
After　making　one　last　call　from　his　final　job　of　the　day　and　starting　back　to　the　office　at　four　to　hand　in　his　signed　order　slips；　he　was　stopped　in　the　center　of　Prague　by　a　woman　he　failed　to　recognize。　Wherever　have　you　disappeared　to？　I　haven't　seen　you　in　ages！　
Tomas　racked　his　brains　to　place　her。　Had　she　been　one　of　his　patients？　She　was　behaving　like　an　intimate　friend。　He　tried　to　answer　in　a　manner　that　would　conceal　the　fact　that　he　did　not　recognize　her。　He　was　already　thinking　about　how　to　lure　her　to　his　friend's　flat　（he　had　the　key　in　his　pocket）　when　he　realized　from　a　chance　remark　who　the　woman　was：　the　budding　actress　with　the　perfect　tan；　the　one　he　had　been　trying　to　reach　all　day。
This　episode　both　amused　and　horrified　him：　it　proved　that　he　was　as　tired　mentally　as　physically。　Two　years　of　holiday　could　not　be　extended　indefinitely。

18
The　holiday　from　the　operating　table　was　also　a　holiday　from　Tereza。　After　hardly　seeing　each　other　for　six　days；　they　would　finally　be　together　on　Sundays；　full　of　desire；　but；　as　on　the　evening　when　Tomas　came　back　from　Zurich；　they　were　estranged　a