The Books: “The Spirit of Prague” (Ivan Klima)

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on the shelf is a collection of essays by Czech writer Ivan Klima – it’s called The Spirit of Prague. Klima has seen it all – he was in Terezin concentration camp as a child, he went though the Stalinist totalitarianism afterwards in his home country – he’s a novelist – (his book Judge On Trial is what turned me on to him) and lived through YEARS of repression of even being able to work. Because you know who are most frightening to totalitarian despots? The writers. Nothing more dangerous than the printed word. Nothing more dangerous than a well-timed book, or painting, or film that cuts straight through all the bullshit propaganda. No, no, no, we can’t have THAT! Klima was the editor of Czechoslovakia’s most prominent literary magazine – his experience of the “Prague Spring” was, like most of his countrymen, shattering. Devastating. Most of these essays were written in the 1989-1991 period – during and following “the Velvet Revolution” (I love that they called it that) – it was a time of great hope, but also – great sadness and uncertainty. Vaclav Havel’s “moral contamination” speech in early 1990 captures that vibe perfectly. Yes, whoo-hoo, they were now “free” – but they had to deal with all they had lost, through the repression, and also how they the citizens were partly responsible for all of it. (Havel’s speech, to me, is one of the greatest speeches of the 20th century. Never heard anything like it before in MY life!! Amazing.)

I’m going to post a bit from Klima’s essay called “Culture vs. Totalitarianism”. In it, he describes the cultural opposition to the regime in Czechoslovakia. This is one of the reasons why I am so, shall we say, ‘touchy’ towards those who wish that artists would just shut up about things outside of their realm, don’t try to be important, or relevant … just juggle over in the corner and entertain me. I’m touchy about it not just for my own personal reasons and my own life-choices, but because in my mind I’m thinking: Careful what you wish for. Careful what you wish for.

I love Czech writers – and Havel is one of my idols – so it was an easy leap over to Klima. I checked out his novel first and then moved on to his non-fiction. He’s fantastic – if you haven’t read him, I hope you give him a try.

From The Spirit of Prague.

Totalitarianism correctly understood the threat this cultural resistance posed, but the nature of that power ruled out any accommodation or compromise. It continued to battle against literature. It raided private flats and detained people who had gathered there to listen to lectures or the reading of a play or something as innocent as lyric poetry. It confiscated manuscripts from poets, prose writers and philosophers, both local and translated works, just as it did documents from Charter 77. From time to time it held trials in which judgement was passed on those who copied texts or organized other kinds of cultural activitiy. Because these people were clearly innocent, even according to the laws in force, the outcome of these trials were the opposite of what the authorities intended. They were meant to intimidate, but they succeeded only in unmasking power, in revealing it for the unprincipled, prejudiced and philistine force it was. This merely stiffened people’s resistance. Early samizdat publications came out in tiny editions of tens of copies; by the eighties, books were being reproduced in many workshops, the technology of reproduction was modernized, and the number of titles mushroomed. (The literary samizdat enterprise Padlock Editions published three hundred titles.) In the seventies, there were practically no samizdat cultural journals; by the eighties, there were more than a hundred unofficial magazines. (At the same time, there were only five official magazines dealing with culture.)

Sasmizdat literature was only one of the ways in which the repressed culture expressed itself. There were seminars in philosophy, and lecture series were held on different areas of the humanities. Young people frequently tried to distance themselves entirely from the pseudo-culture offered to them by the authorities. They founded small theatres, and from the seventies on, the most authentic expression of their relationship to the ruling system was the protest song. Singers who were closest to them in age and attitude became their idols. The authorities reacted predictably, and one generation of protest singers was essentially driven into exile, but as usual, the results were the opposite of what was intended.

By the late eighties, the international situation was undoubtedly influential. Those who represented power and those who represented culture were clearly squared off against each other. Several events also sharpened the conflict between the authorities and those who were trying to extricate themselves from their toils. The authorities frequently used police brutality to break up memorial assemblies to commemorate the country’s national holiday or the memory of Jan Palach, a student who had set fire to himself, and died, in protest against the Soviet invasion. Those who came to pay their respects to a person who symbolized the possibility of individual protest taken to its furthest extreme became the object of a violent attack by special units who used truncheons, water-cannons, and tear-gas. People, mostly the young, decided not to give way to violence. For five consecutive days the peaceful assemblies were repeated, and on four occasions the police used violence to break them up. Several people were arrested, Vaclav Havel among them. During these events, which aroused the emotions of the whole country, the cruel truth about power was publicly revealed for the first time. At this critical juncture, the government could not find a single person with sufficient authority to address the nation. No one was willing to give public support to the regime, but many could be found to protest against police brutality, against imprisoning the innocent. Among the protestors were actors, filmmakers, and writers who, until then, the regime had believed to be “on its side”.

In this critical situation, the authorities — and it is hard to say whether this was out of stupidity or desperation or arrogance, or the awareness that they were indeed indelibly tarnished — refused all invitations by the cultural opposition to take part in a dialogue. The deep chasm between totalitarian power and all the “shaken”, to use Patocka’s term, became unbridgeable. It was clear that any further error, any further act of arrogance, might be fatal.

What happened in November 1989 is well known. As an eyewitness and a participant, I wish to emphasize that this revolution, which really was the outcome of a clash between culture and pwoer, was the most non-violent revolution imaginable. In the mass meetings attended by up to three-quarters of a million people, no one was hurt, not a window was broken, not a car damaged. Many of the tens of thousands of pamphlets that flooded Prague and other cities and towns urged people to peaceful, tolerant action; not one called for violence. For those who still believe in the power of culture, the power of words, of good and of love, and their dominance over violence, who believe that neither the poet nor Archimedes, in their struggle against the man in uniform, are beaten before they begin, the Prague revolution must have been an inspiration.