This week marked the 25th anniversary of the death of the Czech writer, Bohumil Hrabal. I’ve been dipping into his work and sucking on his words like a cough drop.
I spent the whole decade of the 90s shuttling between Corsica and the Czech Republic, with a few pit stops back “home” in Canada. Writing poetry, drinking beer, running through the forests, being free and alive and growing as a person.
I loved the heady days just after the Berlin Wall had fallen - days and days of people, happy people, filling the streets. The officials didn’t know what to do. Policemen and apparatchiks just stood in the streets frozen, not knowing what to do. Free, free at last!
Part of my own journey at that time was a journey and discovery of Czech literature and especially my beloved Bohumil Hrabal. He has informed my own creativity more than any other writer, person. He should have won a hundred Nobel Prizes. I’m so pleased that my mother and father too, recognized his genius, his authenticity as a writer when I introduced his books to them.
“Which must be why Bondy the poet says that real poetry must hurt, as if you’d forgotten you wrapped a razor blade in your hankerchief and you blow your nose, no book worth its salt is meant ot put you to sleep, it’s meant to make you jump out of bed in your underwear and run and beat the author’s brains out.” - Hrabal, Dancing Lessons For The Advanced In Age.
Hrabel’s short essay - Magic Flute is perfect in tone and description. Such a human document about protest and the hope of freedom as the wretched smell of communism began to wane. I read it often and it means different things to me each time. It’s a deeply, personal and authentic piece of art. As totalitarianism raises its head and pounds on its drums again, The Magic Flute is particularly relevant. It speaks to freedom and our deep need to feel free - however you define that.
I wrote a poetic essay about Hrabal, the day I found out about his passing. You can read it here. I’m very proud of it. Even 20 years later, it stands the test of time. The title is suggestive of his great novel - Too Loud A Solitude. One of his finest books. A meditation on literature, the power of words and books.
“Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know.” ― Bohumil Hrabal, Too Loud a Solitude
All this week, I’m raising my glass of beer and remembering the sad king of Czech literature. Just a man but a great man.
Almost Heaven
It’s been 6 hours now
no electric
so calm
almost like things were meant to be
no internet noise
no TV selling me stuff
just the vultures overhead
keepin’ watch
and the always wind
a pleasant roar
up my unders
as I sit here in the hammock.
Reminds me of when
I was a kid
newspaper in hand
cleaning the kerosene lamps
one by one
while dreaming of African adventures
or building a battery-powered radio
of my own.
Almost heaven. Almost.
Or the garden of Eden
except
I’ve got mangoes here
no apples
and no worries
of a god
I’ve arm wrestled to death long ago
many drunken nights ago.
Time for a warm beer.
They aren’t so bad
said my beloved Hrabal
rubbing his bald head
years ago in some other paradise.
Not so bad.
Better a warm beer than
a cold German woman.
My beer is gone.
So too heaven.
The hydro’s back on.
The man has got his act together
and in the kitchen
murder is taking place
as the blender roars.
Damn.
I wish some people
had a plug I could pull out.