10.1.04
Jan Palach is exactly 35 years older than I am. This year, on January 16th, it will be the 35th anniversary of his death. On that day, I will be exactly the same age as he was when he poured gasoline over himself, set himself on fire, and ran, screaming across Wenceslas Square in the name of Czech freedom. He died three days later.
Last week I went to Prague for the second time in my life. I first went with my orchestra when I was 11. The memories are hazy, but I remember the people seemed exhausted, and grey. But they were four years out of a half-century of communist rule; two years out of the Czech-Slovak divorce. I suppose that was their right.
The second time I went, I had a greater appreciation of architecture (there was romanesque, gothic, renaissance (which is like lemon sherbet), baroque, rococo (which is like lemon meringue), neo-gothic, neo-baroque, art noveau, art deco, uniquely: cubism). I had a greater appreciation for the pure length of history. I wish I could remember more about my first trip, or that I had been there, at that time, when I was more politically aware and interested.
Still, I noticed differences. Both the beggars and the charicature artists had disappeared. With the former I suspect the removal was permanent. The latter, I hope, had only been chased away by the cold.
Jan Palach died 21 years before Czechoslovakia was redeclared an independent nation. He has become a Czech hero, a symbol of idealism, if also naivety.
I could not imagine burning myself alive a week from now.
Ultimately, Jan Palach affected no revolution.
In retrospect, how can we ever tell how much weight these sacrifices carry? Would things have gone differently had they not occurred? Were they made for the right reasons? In desperation, or insanity?
Perhaps I just feel guilty because it is something I would be utterly unwilling to do.
Ä
Last week I went to Prague for the second time in my life. I first went with my orchestra when I was 11. The memories are hazy, but I remember the people seemed exhausted, and grey. But they were four years out of a half-century of communist rule; two years out of the Czech-Slovak divorce. I suppose that was their right.
The second time I went, I had a greater appreciation of architecture (there was romanesque, gothic, renaissance (which is like lemon sherbet), baroque, rococo (which is like lemon meringue), neo-gothic, neo-baroque, art noveau, art deco, uniquely: cubism). I had a greater appreciation for the pure length of history. I wish I could remember more about my first trip, or that I had been there, at that time, when I was more politically aware and interested.
Still, I noticed differences. Both the beggars and the charicature artists had disappeared. With the former I suspect the removal was permanent. The latter, I hope, had only been chased away by the cold.
Jan Palach died 21 years before Czechoslovakia was redeclared an independent nation. He has become a Czech hero, a symbol of idealism, if also naivety.
I could not imagine burning myself alive a week from now.
Ultimately, Jan Palach affected no revolution.
In retrospect, how can we ever tell how much weight these sacrifices carry? Would things have gone differently had they not occurred? Were they made for the right reasons? In desperation, or insanity?
Perhaps I just feel guilty because it is something I would be utterly unwilling to do.
Ä
