By Karel Capek
Written in the course of and correct after global struggle I, this quantity pairs brief tale collections from Karel Capek, one of the best Czech writers. the 1st assortment, “Wayside Crosses,” offers an agonized and unsuccessful look for God and fact. those metaphysical stories are usually not approximately discovering God up to they're approximately getting to know man’s boundaries, his terror and helplessness, and knowing the worth of the continuing seek. the second one assortment, “Painful Tales,” includes extra lifelike tales of characters being compelled to make offerings within which one solid conflicts with one other.
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Yes, there was something stupendously important about the soul. ” “I don’t know. There weren’t any words, there was simply a certainty. ” “Yes, and quickly. Something about the soul? ” “Try to think of it. ” “Thank you. ” Nighttime clung to black and formless things. But look, here is the first early bird walking along the empty road. Isn’t that a cock crowing in the village? Didn’t the night’s silent center stir? ” “In a moment. Only something still…” A weak illumination appeared on the horizon.
Look, now he’s recollecting. The man softly waved his hand and went on staring vaguely and pensively at nothing. Perhaps he’s saying: I see by your look that you find me interesting; you mistook me for a dead man and you leaned over me in pity. I will now relate to you the story of my life. Don’t interrupt me if something seems to you disconnected or extraneous. Simply read my face to see whether I lived simply S TORY W ITHOUT W ORDS 35 and easily. That’s more or less the way he’d start. But the man just smoked, slowly and in silence, fastening his clear, unseeing eyes upon the infinite.
Thanks,” he said, and he became lost in thought. He was graying, no longer young, with a broad and vague sort of face; he had somehow grown too thin for his clothes, so that they hung on him in oddly lifeless folds. And there he lay, stretched out on his side, smoking and staring at something somewhere on the ground. Puerta del Sol, Ježek reflected, Gate of the Sun; what was he doing in Spain? He doesn’t seem like the tourist type. Perhaps he isn’t well, he has such solemn eyes. Puerta del Sol in Madrid.