The Oak and the Calf [antikvár]

By Vfhf of Explanation There exists a large body of so-called secondary literature: literature on literature, literature apropos of literature, literature begotten by literature (new works which would never have been born if something similar had not existed beforehand). As a professional writer, I myself like reading such things. But I rate them considerably lower than works of primary literature. Besides, so much has been written, and people have less and less time for reading: should we, in all conscience, be writing memoirs, and literary memoirs at that? I had indeed never expected that I myself, in the forty-ninth year of my life, would dare to piece together these scrappy memoirs. But two circumstances have combined to set me on this course. One is the crippling and cowardly secretiveness from which all our country's misfortunes come. We are afraid not only to say openly, in speech or in writing or even in conversation with friends, what we think and how things really were; we are afraid even to confide it privately to paper, for the headsman's ax hangs still over the neck of every one of us, and may descend at any moment. How much longer this secretiveness will last there is no knowing: many of us may be decapitated before it ends, and what we have kept to ourselves will perish with us. The second circumstance is that a noose was draped around my neck two years ago, but not drawn tight, and I want to see what will happen next spring if I jerk my head slightly. Whether the noose will break or I shall be strangled cannot with any certainty be foreseen. Besides, I am at this moment between two great boulders: one of them I have rolled out of my way; the second daunts me, so that I find myself with a short breathing space. I have decided that perhaps it is time to explain a few things just in case. April 1967