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368 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1967
„Monologul lui Ludvík ocupă 2/3 din carte, monologurile celorlalţi împreună, ocupă 1/3 din carte (Jaroslav 1/6, Kostka 1/9, Helena 1/18). Prin această structură matematică este determinată ceea ce aş numi punerea în lumină a personajelor. Ludvík se află în plină lumină, luminat şi din interior (prin propriul lui monolog) şi din exterior (toate celelalte personaje îi trasează portretul), Jaroslav ocupă prin monologul lui o şesime a cărţii, iar autoportretul lui e modelat din exterior de monologul lui Ludvík. Et caetera. Fiecare personaj e luminat cu o altă intensitate şi într-un mod diferit. Lucia, unul dintre personajele cele mai importante, nu are un monolog al ei şi e luminată doar din exterior de monologurile lui Ludvík şi Kostka. Absenţa luminării interioare îi dă un caracter misterios şi insesizabil. Ea se găseşte, ca să spun aşa, de cealaltă parte a geamului, nu poate fi atinsă”.


"she had been caught stealing flowers in a cemetery."
"Now I understood why the king's face must be veiled! Not that he should not be seen, but that he should not see!"
"All I'm trying to say is that no great movement designed to change the world can bear sarcasm or mockery, because they are a rust that corrodes all it touches."
"And I was horrified at the thought that things conceived in error are just as real as things conceived with good reason and of necessity."
"They stood between life and death. They weren't petty. If they had read my postcard, they might have laughed."
"I could see nothing but actors, their faces covered by masks of cretinous virility and arrogant brutishness; I found no extenuation in the thought that the masks hid another (more human) face, since the real horror seemed to lie in the fact that the faces beneath the masks were fiercely devoted to the inhumanity and coarseness of the masks."
"we kissed through a gap in the barbed wire."


and I felt happy inside these songs (inside the glass cabin of these songs) where sorrow is not lightness, laughter is not grimace, love is not laughable, and hatred is not timid, where people love with body and soul (yes, Lucie, with body and soul), where they dance in joy, jump into the Danube in despair, where love is still love and pain is pain, where values are not yet devastated; and it seemed to me that inside these songs I was at home, that I derive from them, and if I had betrayed this home, I had only made it all the more my home (because what voice is more plaintive than the voice of the home we have betrayed); but I was equally aware that this home was not of this world (though what kind of home was it if it wasn’t of this world?), that what we were singing and playing were only memories, recollections, an imaginary preservation of something that no longer was, and I felt the ground of this home sinking under my feet, felt myself falling, clarinet in mouth, falling down into the depths of years, the depths of centuries, into the fathomless depths, and I told myself with astonishment that my only home was this descent, this searching, eager fall, and I abandoned myself to it and to my sweet vertigo.