When reading first class poetry in a language like Czech I can't help to feel a burdon of contradiction: It's such a pity that poetry essentially cannot be translated and therefore the beauty of those creations cannot really be shared with anybody who does not speak (or at least read) this language. (And for that matter, I can't help to feel some pity for poets who write in a "small" language, i.e. a language with a small number of readers, as their audience is so much limited by nature.) On the other hand, as good poetry is displaying unexpected opportunities, associations, possibilities, and as good poetry works creatively on stretching the limits of a language, we must say that the more languages there are in the world, the more types of poetry can exist, and therefore every language is a gift to mankind, not a punishment as the story of the tower of Babel tries to tell us. It was in the first place a prose writer who made me want to learn Czech and read his works in the original version. But I thank him so much for opening up the world of Czech poetry, of Seifert, Nezval, Biebl, and, certainly Halas. This little book "A co?" ("So what?) is his very last poem collection, published posthumously, yet designed during the last years of his life. The foreshadow of death is already darkening the imagery, but the words are sparkling stars of anti-oblivion.
Tady najde figury a tropy i blbej (já). Tak napůl nevím, co si o tom myslet, ale vlastně se mi to líbí. Možná proto, že je to docela temná sbírka. Akorát mi temná nepřijde... Jsem paměť vody // mráz