An amusing passage:

Jaromil’s body was lying sick in bed, while his soul dwelled in contemplation of the great upcoming event. Anticipation of that date consisted of abstract happiness and concrete worry. For Jaromil had no idea at all what making love to a woman was all about, in terms of the barious specific details involved. He knew only that such an act required preparation, skill, and knowledge. He knew that behind the lovely visage of Venus leered the threatening grimace of pregnancy, and he realized (this had been discussed innumerable times with schoolmates) that there were ways of preventing it. In those barbaric times, men (like knights donning their armor before battle) put on a kind of transparent little sock over their amorous extremity. From a theoretical viewpoint Jaromil was richly informed about such matters. But how can such a little sock be procured? Jaromil would be too ashamed to ask for one in a drugstore! And how could he put it on without the girl noticing it? The little sock seemed embarrassing to him, and he couldn’t bear the idea that the girl might find out about it. Was it possible to put it on beforehand, at home? Or was it necessary to wait until he was standing naked before the girl?

He had no answers for such questions. Moreover, he had no trial or practice little sock at hand, but he told himself he must get one at all costs and practice putting it on. He imagined that success in this matter depended largely on seed and skill, and that these could not be achieved without practice. (116)

This reminds me both of Don Quixote, USA and that episode of South Park where the boys wore condoms all the time because the teachers had made them scared of STDs.

A passage I really like:

He copied the poem on special paper and it was even more beautiful than when he had recited it aloud, for it had ceased to be a mere group of words and had become an object. Its independence was beyond doubt. Ordinary words exist only to perish as soon as they are uttered, for they serve only the immediate moment of communication – they are subordinate to objects; they are only their signs. By means of the poem, words had been transmuted into objects themselves and were no longer subordinate to anything. They were not destined for ephemeral signaling and quick extinction, but for permanence. (56)

This is a fairly harsh critique of poetic romanticism but even though I consider myself a romantic poet-type, I really enjoyed the book and the style/voice of the author (or translator, maybe).

...that the only version the library had of this book was an English translation of the French version, which of course was translated from the original Czech version. This book is like a game of telephone.