“The Dead Subtracted, 
the Greatest Resigned”
 „Mrtví odešli, 
nejvìtší rezignovali“
 György Petri, Andrzej Szczypiorski, Ryszard Krynicki 
in conversation with John Banville
 Franz Kafka Centre
György Petri
     Night Song of the Personal Shadow 
     The rain is pissing down,  
     you scum. 
     And you, you are asleep 
     in your nice warm room –  
     that or stuffing the bird 
     Me? Till six in the morning 
     I rot in the slackening rain. 
     I must wait for my relief, I’ve got to wait 
     till you crawl out of your hole, 
     get up from beside your old woman. 
     So the dope can be passed on 
     as to where you’ve flown 
Andrzej Szczypiorski
      The Beautiful Mrs Seidenman  

      In the evenings, when he couldn’t fall asleep for hours, he would cry softly. He didn’t know why. But the tears brought him relief. And when late at night he would finally drift off, he dreamed of the war and the occupation. People often dream about the best moments of their lives, and so he was not an exception, although a Freudian analyst would have had little use for him. Because when Wiktor Suchowiak dreamed of a wardrobe, it didn t mean in the slightest that he wanted a woman.

Ryszard Krynicki
      Journey Through Death III
      Perhaps you’ll suddenly  
      leave your home. 

      Perhaps you’ll awake in a strange body, 
      beyond the walls of an asylum with unknown victims 
      perhaps on a square 
      red from blood; 

      with a dead tongue, 
      mute heart; 

      Perhaps you won’t awake 
      perhaps you won’t return; 

      perhaps you’ll meet Jan Palach, 
      your contemporary, 
      who burned helpless in the heart of Europe 
      protesting alone against foreign armies: 
      your vanquished country’s army 
      among them; 

      perhaps you’ll meet the workers from the coast 
      bearing stigmata 
      on their wounded foreheads; 

      perhaps you’ll meet no one, 
      perhaps you’ll meet no one, 

      perhaps you’ll awake in me.

John Banville

      He wrote to Mästlin: I do not speak like I write, I do not write like I think, I do not think like I ought to think, and so everything goes on in deepest darkness. Where did these voices come from, these strange sayings? It was as if the future had found utterance in him. 

 15:00  Saturday 25 April  Franz Kafka Centre  Staromìstské nám. 22, Praha 1 
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