When Milan Kundera died last year, I was in Prague, visiting my parents. After nearly thirty years as missionaries in the city, they were planning to move back to South Carolina, and I wanted to say goodbye. I spent a lot of my time out, reading. I was trying to read Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. I drifted between two cafes, one that doubles as a bookstore for a small leftist press, and another that largely caters to film-school students. The staff at the latter establishment were all beautiful men a decade younger than me with identical DIY bowl cuts. One sometimes wore a t-shirt with the words FUCK PUTIN printed on the front. A portrait of Václav Havel hung over the bar.
Read Full Article »
