Czech writer Ivan Klima masterfully recounts, first, what it was like for him as a Jewish child confronting with his family the inhumanities of the Theresienstadt concentration camp situated at the edge of their hometown, Prague. Then, more fully, he painstakingly recalls what it was like for him and his countrymen after the Nazi thugs were driven out by the Soviet Army and replaced for four decades by the Communist thugs. Includes an appendix of essays on topics ranging from social history and political thinking to love and liberty.

Ivan Klima was in the United States when Russian tanks entered Prague in 1968 but, against the advice of friends and colleagues, he returned home. He became a dissident, writing books (never officially published) that were invariably inspired by Czechoslovakia's repressive regime. But what happens to a rebel artist when there is nothing left to rebel against? This question indirectly informs Klima's powerful new novel - his most important and far-reaching fiction to date. Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light describes life before, during, and after the Velvet Revolution of 1989. It is the story of Pavel, a middle-aged television cameraman working uneasily within the boundaries set by the regime, who dreams of one day making a film - a searing portrait of his times - that the authorities will never allow. But after the collapse of communism, Pavel finds he is unprepared for this new world of supposedly unlimited freedoms. He never quite gets around to making that searing portrait of his times; his time, his day, is taken up instead with lucrative small jobs - a TV spot, a commercial, a porn film ... Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light is a masterful novel that focuses on the most pressing issue confronting the individual in the former Soviet bloc countries today: how to live one's life when one is truly free. Written with humor and compassion, it is powerful, provocative, and certain to further the reputation of Ivan Klima as a brilliant and original writer of international stature.

Adam Kindl is assigned to be the judge of a murder trial putting him in the spotlight of politics and evoking painful memories.

Here, in Klima's own powerful words, is the motivation behind his writing - the necessity to bear witness to his country's turbulent history. In the title essay of this collection of essays, Klima invokes the spirit of the city that has shaped and sustained him: ironical, cultural, accustomed to adversity but full of hope. A city which has spawned and inspired Milan Kundera, Josef Skvorecky and Pavel Kohut.

Product Description Ivan Klima has been acclaimed by Booklist as "one of the most important literary voices of Eastern Europe, on a par with Havel, Konrad, and Haraszti." His novels Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light and The Ultimate Intimacy have established him as a writer with a uniquely wry perspective on human affection. In Lovers for a Day, he delivers a beautiful and masterfully crafted collection of short stories on the theme of love. In "Heaven Hell Paradise," a doctor who has escaped to London comes back to communist Czechoslovakia to be with his lover and realizes too late that he barely knows her. And in "A Baffling Choice," a young woman begins an affair with an older man who lives in her apartment building, right under the nose of his wife. The dreams and frustrations of the student cafeteria and the turmoil of political exile in the early 1960s evolve into portraits of people struggling with responsibility, fidelity, and absence, haunted by a terrible guilt when their desires begin to become reality. Klima's unique wisdom creates a personal political history of Prague that is an acute and moving examination of our attempts to find freedom in love. Amazon.com Review Ranging over nearly three decades, the stories collected in Ivan Klíma's Lovers for a Day offer a fine cross section of the Czech writer's career. Yet the book also traces the misunderstandings and frustrations, the hopes and disenchantments of an entire nation--where, ironically enough, Klíma's creations were banned until the mid-1990s. How does this fictional barometer work? The earlier tales, which tend toward dissections of private life, seldom mention the Communist regime--yet their protagonists are so thoroughly warped by political circumstance that even love becomes an avatar of control and constraint. In the later, post-perestroika stories, Klíma's characters explore their newfound freedom. Yet that, too, turns out to be something of a mixed bag, in both the public and private sector. No wonder the judge in "It's Raining Out" finds his new beat--divorce court--nearly as dispiriting as the old regime's political trials: He would divorce couples on grounds of infidelity or mutual incompatibility. Some of them were husbands and wives who had stopped living together long ago, but in spite of that, he could never rid himself of the conviction that most of the divorces were unnecessary, that people were attempting to escape the inescapable: their own emptiness, their own incapacity to share their lives with another person. For Klíma's countryman desire represents a zone of freedom: an assertion of the unique self in the face of a collective state. For Klíma, alas, eros is yet another venue for repression. Suggesting that national politics might inscribe itself onto the deepest contours of the individual, he's able to write about both at once. It's a grim equation, perhaps. But Klíma's mastery of the medium, and his rare emotional intelligence, make for a superb exposition of love among the ruins. --Burhan Tufail From Publishers Weekly Sophisticated readers may expect to admire anything new from the justly revered Czech novelist (Waiting for the Light, Waiting for the Dark). Many of them will be disappointed with these 12 short stories. Klima's tales are sorted into three unequal sections: "Lovers for One Night" collects five stories from the 1960s, while "Intimate Conversations" and "About Love and Death" hold seven from the '80s and '90s. All these dejected fictions concern the success or failure of hopeful myths of intimacyAbut they are not equally successful. The fiction from the '60s tends to drown in involuted rhetoric; sometimes it's trite, other times it's supercharged with languid enervations and prominent symbolism through which the characters barely appear. It's hard to know whether the translator or Klima is responsible for such clunky prose as "She knew everything. She knew precisely why it was w