Jaroslav Hasek
 |
|
Švejk represents one of the most unique and successful survival strategies ever conceived by man.
Joseph Heller said that if it weren’t for his having read The Good Soldier Švejk he would never had written his American novel Catch-22.
The only Czech book on most 100 Best Books of the 20th Century lists.
This is a new translation by Zdenek K. Sadlon and Emmett M. Joyce.
The Good Soldier Švejk is a picaresque series of tales about an ordinary man's successful quest to survive, and to enjoy life in the face of the endless absurdities imposed on him by the effects of the complex institutions of modern society that magnify the rational and moral shortcomings of individuals in direct proportion to their positions in the hierarchies they are a part of.
"Like Diogenes, Švejk lingers at the margins of an unfriendly society against which he is defending his independent existence." - Peter Steiner
"Those people who wanted the novel banned in the newly independent Czechoslovakia (after World War I) and elsewhere, some of whom succeeded, were quite correct to see it as more than a satire on war and militarism (although it is that, as well, of course)—the book is a very funny but unrelentingly savage assault on the very idea of bureaucratic officialdom as a human enterprise conferring benefits on those who live under its control and, equally important, on the various justifications such bureaucracies offer for their own existence." - Ian Johnston
Jaroslav Hašek (b. April 30, 1883, Prague ― d. January 3, 1923, Lipnice, Czechoslovakia.) Czech writer best known for The Good Soldier Švejk, considered one of the greatest masterpieces of satirical writing.
Hašek worked in Prague as a bank clerk, although
at 17 he was already writing satirical articles for Czech newspapers. He soon abandoned business for literary career, and before World War I he published a volume of poetry, Májové výkřiky, (1903; "Shouts in May") and wrote 16 volumes of short stories, of which Dobrý voják Švejk a jiné podivné historky (1912; "Good Soldier Švejk and Other Strange Stories") is among the best known. From 1904-07 he was an editor of anarchist publications. Drafted into the Austrio-Hungarian Army, Hašek was captured on the Russian front during World War I and was made a prisoner of war. While in Russia he became a member of the Czech liberation army but later joined the Bolsheviks, for whom he wrote Communist propaganda. Upon returning to Prague, the capital of the newly created country of Czechoslovakia, he devoted himself to writing Osudy dobrého vojáka Švejka za světové války1920-23; The Good Soldier Schweik, 1930). It was intended to be a six-volume work, but only four were completed by the time of his death.
Encyclopedia Britannica
One of Hašek’s biographers, Emmanuel Frynta, writes:
"He was one of that generation which fully fought with the problems of the modern world. He was one of the artists at the start of the century who so splendidly cast light on the question of a live, valid, meaningful art worthy of the time. He was a curious, not easily understood person, too mobile and opaque for portrayal. As a creator, (he was) seemingly careless, natural, (and) spontaneous, . . . but, in reality (he was) sharply discerning and refined in his specific type of non-literariness . . . (he) was working farsightedly in the field of language and style, with something that was to become the shape of (the) speech of the century."
Hašek’s life was much wilder and interesting than one can glean from the above excerpts. To learn more about the writer of the vastly popular Good Soldier Švejk, read the Bad Bohemian: The life of Jaroslav Hašek by Cecil Parrott (Bodley Head, London, 1978).
After his beautiful sunny days in the madhouse, Švejk now suffered hours full of persecution. Police Inspector Braun set the stage for his meeting with Švejk with the cruelty of a Roman henchman from the time of that charming Caesar, Nero. In those days, they used to say: "Throw that hoodlum Christian to the lions!" Inspector Braun now said, "Put him behind the iron gate!"
He said not one word more, nor less. However, when he gave the order, the eyes of police inspector Braun flashed with peculiar, perverse pleasure.
Švejk bowed and said proudly:
"I am ready, gentlemen. I think that ‘the iron gate’ must mean the same as segregation. Well, that’s not that bad."
"Don’t stretch out and get too comfortable here," warned one of his jailers.
Švejk quickly responded:
"I am absolutely modest and grateful for everything that you’ll do for me."
In the segregation cell-block, a gentleman sat on a plank bunk, lost in thought. He sat there apathetically. When the key screeched to open the gate, it was clear from the way the man looked that he didn’t believe that the door to freedom was opening for him.
"I bend my knee, honorable sir," said Švejk, while taking a seat next to him on the bunk. "About what time might it be?"
"Time is not my master," responded the man lost in thought.
"It’s not bad here," said Švejk casually. "This plank bunk was made of sanded lumber."
The pensive man didn’t answer. He stood up and started walking quickly in the small space between the locked door of the segregation cell and the bunk, as if he were in a hurry to save something.
In the meantime, Švejk was observing the graffiti on the walls with interest. There was an inscription in which an unknown prisoner promised heaven he would wage a life-or-death struggle with the police. The text read: "You’ll get it." Another prisoner wrote: "Dry up and blow away, pigs." Yet anothe
r simply stated a fact: "I was sitting here doing time on June 5th, 1913, and I was treated well. Josef Mareček, trader from Vršovice.”
There was also an inscription that was jolting in its angst:
"Mercy, great God . . ."
But, underneath it was written: "Kiss my a." The letter "a" was crossed out, however. Beside it was written, in capital letters, COAT TAILS. Next to that, some poetic soul wrote in verse:
"I’m sitting so sadly by the brook.
The sun is taking refuge behind the mountains
And I’m gazing to the hills that reflect a glow.
There, where my dear lover dwells."
Švejk’s cell-mate was still running between the door and the bunk, as if he wanted to win a marathon. Finally, he stopped, out of breath. He sat down in his old spot, put his head in his hands and suddenly screamed:
"Let me out!"
He answered himself by saying:
"No, they won’t let me out. They won’t and they won’t. I’ve already been here since six o’clock this morning."
He stood up straight and asked Švejk:
"You don’t, by chance, have a belt on you, so that I could end it all?"
"Glad that I can be of service," answered Švejk, unbuckling his belt. "I’ve never yet seen a man hang himself with a belt in segregation. -- Only, it’s a pity," he continued while looking all around, "that there’s no hook here. The window handle won’t hold you. All you can do is hang yourself from the bunk by curling up your knees, just like that monk did in the Emmaus Monastery. He hanged himself that way with his crucifix pendant, on account of some young Jewess. I like people who commit suicide very much. So, just go ahead with gusto."
Švejk slipped the belt into the gloomy man’s hand. He looked at the strap, threw it into a corner and started to weep.
