Prague Succession Quotes

You cannot change the world with ideas. People with few ideas are less likely to make mistakes; they follow what everyone else does and are no trouble to anyone; they're successful, make money, find good jobs, enter politics, receive honours; they become famous writers, academics, journalists. Can anyone who is so good at looking after their own interests really be stupid? I'm the stupid one, the one who wanted to go tilting at windmills.

Very often the test of one's allegiance to a cause or to a people is precisely the willingness to stay the course when things are boring, to run the risk of repeating an old argument just one more time, or of going one more round with a hostile or (much worse) indifferent audience. I first became involved with the Czech opposition in 1968 when it was an intoxicating and celebrated cause. Then, during the depressing 1970s and 1980s I was a member of a routine committee that tried with limited success to help the reduced forces of Czech dissent to stay nourished (and published). The most pregnant moment of that commitment was one that I managed to miss at the time: I passed an afternoon with Zdenek Mlynar, exiled former secretary of the Czech Communist Party, who in the bleak early 1950s in Moscow had formed a friendship with a young Russian militant with an evident sense of irony named Mikhail Sergeyevitch Gorbachev. In 1988 I was arrested in Prague for attending a meeting of one of Vaclav Havel's 'Charter 77' committees. That outwardly exciting experience was interesting precisely because of its almost Zen-like tedium. I had gone to Prague determined to be the first visiting writer not to make use of the name Franz Kafka, but the numbing bureaucracy got the better of me. When I asked why I was being detained, I was told that I had no need to know the reason! Totalitarianism is itself a cliché (as well as a tundra of pulverizing boredom) and it forced the cliché upon me in turn. I did have to mention Kafka in my eventual story. The regime fell not very much later, as I had slightly foreseen in that same piece that it would. (I had happened to notice that the young Czechs arrested with us were not at all frightened by the police, as their older mentors had been and still were, and also that the police themselves were almost fatigued by their job. This was totalitarianism practically yawning itself to death.) A couple of years after that I was overcome to be invited to an official reception in Prague, to thank those who had been consistent friends through the stultifying years of what 'The Party' had so perfectly termed 'normalization.' As with my tiny moment with Nelson Mandela, a whole historic stretch of nothingness and depression, combined with the long and deep insult of having to be pushed around by boring and mediocre people, could be at least partially canceled and annealed by one flash of humor and charm and generosity.

To be successful, Soviet secret policemen thought that show trials needed a complex story line, a conspiracy involving many actors, and so Soviet advisers pushed their Eastern European colleagues to link the traitors of Prague, Budapest, Berlin, and Warsaw into one story. In order to do so, they needed a central figure, someone who had known some of the protagonists and who could plausibly, or semi-plausibly, be accused of recruiting all of them. Eventually they hit on a man who fit these requirements: a mildly eccentric Harvard graduate and American State Department official named Noel Field.

I was able to visit Prague ten months after the successful revolution and to speak to a number of people close to Havel who described their own experiences in carrying out his principles. They found that they could call upon aspects of their selves that they didn’t know existed: a ne’er-do-well part-time musician became a completely reliable organizer and distributor of an important underground newsletter. A writer denied publishing outlets by the regime came to work effectively with mental patients and then became an adviser to the president of the new democracy. What I called “Proteus in Prague” was the capacity of individual people for attitudes, actions, and skills they had not previously recognized in themselves.

About 1369 Wickliffe began to preach the faith in England, and his preaching and writings were the means of the conversion of great numbers, many of whom became excellent preachers; and a work was begun which afterwards spread in England, Hungary, Bohemia, Germany, Switzerland, and many other places. John Huss and Jerom of Prague, preached boldly and successfully in Bohemia, and the adjacent parts.

The Marriage of Figaro debuted first in Vienna in 1786 to great success (Mozart was becoming accustomed to such a reaction, no doubt), but it received an even more fevered positive reaction when it toured to Prague later the same year. Jumping off such a successful collaboration, Mozart and Da Ponte immediately set to work on their second collaboration, Don Giovanni, and produced it in Prague in 1787. It was also well received by critics and the public alike, but the public reaction cooled when it opened in Vienna in 1788.

Shirer was used extensively by CBS in its daily coverage of the buildup to war. He did a daily five-minute broadcast from Prague in 1938, and tried to cover Hitler’s invasion of Austria but was ejected from the Vienna radio station at bayonetpoint. At Murrow’s directive, he flew to London and gave his report from there. He returned to Berlin in September 1939: his daily reports, beginning “This is Berlin,” were done under strict censorship. But Shirer was able to tell much by using slang phrases that otherwise might not have been allowed. He returned to the United States in 1940, bringing the detailed diaries he had kept throughout his years in Germany. These were published in June 1941 as Berlin Diary, which became a bestseller. Shirer settled with his family in Bronxville, New York, and began a regular stint as a CBS commentator Sept. 28, 1941. But he and Murrow (who by 1947 was head of CBS News) came to an unfortunate parting of ways, and Shirer went to Mutual. His final broadcast was April 10, 1949. He then entered a new career, that of contemporary historian. His history of Nazi Germany, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, was published to great acclaim and financial success in 1960. He was still producing books in his 80s.

You cannot change the world through ideas. People with few ideas are less likely to make mistakes; they follow what everyone else does and are no trouble to anyone; they’re successful, make money, find good jobs, enter politics, receive honours; they become famous writers, academics, journalists. Can anyone who is so good at looking after their own interests really be stupid? I’m the stupid one, the one who wanted to go tilting at windmills.