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；　then　the　petition　played　into　the　rulers'　hands！　It　was　manna　from　heaven；　the　perfect　start　and　justification　for　a　new　wave　of　persecution。
What　then　should　he　have　done？　Sign　or　not？
Another　way　of　formulating　the　question　is；　Is　it　better　to　shout　and　thereby　hasten　the　end；　or　to　keep　silent　and　gain　thereby　a　slower　death？
Is　there　any　answer　to　these　questions？
And　again　he　thought　the　thought　we　already　know：　Human　life　occurs　only　once；　and　the　reason　we　cannot　determine　which　of　our　decisions　are　good　and　which　bad　is　that　in　a　given　situation　we　can　make　only　one　decision；　we　are　not　granted　a　second；　third；　or　fourth　life　in　which　to　compare　various　decisions。
History　is　similar　to　individual　lives　in　this　respect。　There　is　only　one　history　of　the　Czechs。　One　day　it　will　come　to　an　end　as　surely　as　Tomas's　life；　never　to　be　repeated。
In　1618；　the　Czech　estates　took　courage　and　vented　their　ire　on　the　emperor　reigning　in　Vienna　by　pitching　two　of　his　high　officials　out　of　a　window　in　the　Prague　Castle。　Their　defiance　led　to　the　Thirty　Years　War；　which　in　turn　led　to　the　almost　complete　destruction　of　the　Czech　nation。　Should　the　Czechs　have　shown　more　caution　than　courage？　The　answer　may　seem　simple；　it　is　not。
Three　hundred　and　twenty　years　later；　after　the　Munich　Conference　of　1938；　the　entire　world　decided　to　sacrifice　the　Czechs'　country　to　Hitler。　Should　the　Czechs　have　tried　to　stand　up　to　a　power　eight　times　their　size？　In　contrast　to　1618；　they　opted　for　caution。　Their　capitulation　led　to　the　Second　World　War；　which　in　turn　led　to　the　forfeit　of　their　nation's　freedom　for　many　decades　or　even　centuries。　Should　they　have　shown　more　courage　than　caution？　What　should　they　have　done？
If　Czech　history　could　be　repeated；　we　should　of　course　find　it　desirable　to　test　the　other　possibility　each　time　and　compare　the　results。　Without　such　an　experiment；　all　considerations　of　this　kind　remain　a　game　of　hypotheses。
Einmal　ist　keinmal。　What　happens　but　once　might　as　well　not　have　happened　at　all。　The　history　of　the　Czechs　will　not　be　repeated；　nor　will　the　history　of　Europe。　The　history　of　the　Czechs　and　of　Europe　is　a　pair　of　sketches　from　the　pen　of　mankind's　fateful　inexperience。　History　is　as　light　as　individual　human　life；　unbearably　light；　light　as　a　feather；　as　dust　swirling　into　the　air；　as　whatever　will　no　longer　exist　tomorrow。
Once　more；　and　with　a　nostalgia　akin　to　love；　Tomas　thought　of　the　tall；　stooped　editor。　That　man　acted　as　though　history　were　a　finished　picture　rather　than　a　sketch。　He　acted　as　though　everything　he　did　were　to　be　repeated　endlessly；　to　return　eternally；　without　the　slightest　doubt　about　his　actions。　He　was　convinced　he　was　right；　and　for　him　that　was　a　sign　not　of　narrowmindedness　but　of　virtue。　Yes；　that　man　lived　in　a　history　different　from　Tomas's：　a　history　that　was　not　（or　did　not　realize　it　was）　a　sketch。

16
Several　days　later；　he　was　struck　by　another　thought；　which　I　record　here　as　an　addendum　to　the　preceding　chapter：　Somewhere　out　in　space　there　was　a　planet　where　all　people　would　be　born　again。　They　would　be　fully　aware　of　the　life　they　had　spent　on　earth　and　of　all　the　experience　they　had　amassed　here。
And　perhaps　there　was　still　another　planet；　where　we　would　all　be　born　a　third　time　with　the　experience　of　our　first　two　lives。
And　perhaps　there　were　yet　more　and　more　planets；　where　mankind　would　be　born　one　degree　（one　life）　more　mature。
That　was　Tomas's　version　of　eternal　return。
Of　course　we　here　on　earth　（planet　number　one；　the　planet　of　inexperience）　can　only　fabricate　vague　fantasies　of　what　will　happen　to　man　on　those　other　planets。　Will　he　be　wiser？　Is　maturity　within　man's　power？　Can　he　attain　it　through　repetition？
Only　from　the　perspective　of　such　a　utopia　is　it　possible　to　use　the　concepts　of　pessimism　and　optimism　with　full　justification：　an　optimist　is　someone　who　thinks　that　on　planet　number　five　the　history　of　mankind　will　be　less　bloody。　A　pessimist　is　one　who　thinks　otherwise。
17
One　of　Jules　Verne's　famous　novels；　a　favorite　of　Tomas's　in　his　childhood；　is　called　Two　Years　on　Holiday；　and　indeed　two　years　is　the　maximum。　Tomas　was　in　his　third　year　as　a　window　washer。
In　the　last　few　weeks；　he　had　come　to　realize　（half　sadly；　half　laughing　to　himself）　that　he　had　grown　physically　tired　（he　had　one；　sometimes　two　erotic　engagements　a　day）；　and　that　although　he　had　not　lost　his　zest　for　women；　he　found　himself　straining　his　forces　to　the　utmost。　（Let　me　add　that　the　strain　was　on　his　physical；　not　his　sexual　powers；　his　problem　was　with　his　breath；　not　with　his　penis；　a　state　of　affairs　that　had　its　comical　side。）
One　day　he　was　having　trouble　reaching　a　prospect　for　his　afternoon　time　slot；　and　it　looked　as　though　he　was　going　to　have　one　of　his　rare　off　days。　He　was　desperate。　He　had　phoned　a　certain　young　woman　about　ten　times。　A　charming　acting　student　whose　body　had　been　tanned　on　Yugoslavia's　nudist　beaches　with　an　evenness　that　called　to　mind　slow　rotation　on　a　mechanized　spit。
After　making　one　last　call　from　his　final　job　of　the　day　and　starting　back　to　the　office　at　four　to　hand　in　his　signed　order　slips；　he　was　stopped　in　the　center　of　Prague　by　a　woman　he　failed　to　recognize。　Wherever　have　you　disappeared　to？　I　haven't　seen　you　in　ages！　
Tomas　racked　his　brains　to　place　her。　Had　she　been　one　of　his　patients？　She　was　behaving　like　an　intimate　friend。　He　tried　to　answer　in　a　manner　that　would　conceal　the　fact　that　he　did　not　recognize　her。　He　was　already　thinking　about　how　to　lure　her　to　his　friend's　flat　（he　had　the　key　in　his　pocket）　when　he　realized　from　a　chance　remark　who　the　woman　was：　the　budding　actress　with　the　perfect　tan；　the　one　he　had　been　trying　to　reach　all　day。
This　episode　both　amused　and　horrified　him：　it　proved　that　he　was　as　tired　mentally　as　physically。　Two　years　of　holiday　could　not　be　extended　indefinitely。

18
The　holiday　from　the　operating　table　was　also　a　holiday　from　Tereza。　After　hardly　seeing　each　other　for　six　days；　they　would　finally　be　together　on　Sundays；　full　of　desire；　but；　as　on　the　evening　when　Tomas　came　back　from　Zurich；　they　were　estranged　and　had　a　long　way　to　go　before　they　could　touch　and　kiss。　Physical　love　gave　them　pleasure　but　no　consolation。　She　no　longer　cried　out　as　she　had　in　the　past；　and；　at　the　moment　of　orgasm；　her　grimace　seemed　to　him　to　express　suffering　and　a　strange　absence。　Only　at　night；　in　sleep；　were　they　tenderly　united。　Holding　his　hand；　she　would　forget　the　chasm　（the　chasm　of　daylight）　that　divided　them。　But　the　nights　gave　him　neither　the　time　nor　the　means　to　protect　and　take　care　of　her。　In　the　mornings；　it　was　heartrending　to　see　her；　and　he　feared　for　her：　she　looked　sad　and　infirm。
One　Sunday；　she　asked　him　to　take　her　for　a　ride　outside　Prague。　They　drove　to　a　spa；　where　they　found　all　the　streets　relabeled　with　Russian　names　and　happened　to　meet　an　old　patient　of　Tomas's。　Tomas　was　devastated　by　the　meeting。　Suddenly　here　was　someone　talking　to　him　again　as　to　a　doctor；　and　he　could　feel　his　former　life　bridging　the　divide；　coming　back　to　him　with　its　pleasant　regularity　of　seeing　patients　and　feeling　their　trusting　eyes　on　him；　those　eyes　he　had　pretended　to　ignore　but　in　fact　savored　and　now　greatly　missed。
Driving　home；　Tomas　pondered　the　catastrophic　mistake　he　had　made　by　returning　to　Prague　from　Zurich。　He　kept　his　eyes　trained　on　the　road　so　as　to　avoid　looking　at　Tereza。　He　was　furious　with　her。　Her　presence　at　his　side　felt　more　unbearably　fortuitous　than　ever。　What　was　she　doing　here　next　to　him？　Who　put　her　in　the　basket　and　sent　her　downstream？　Why　was　his　bed　chosen　as　her　shore？　And　why　she　and　not　some　other　woman？
Neither　of　them　said　a　word　the　whole　way。
When　they　got　home；　they　had　dinner　in　silence。
Silence　lay　between　them　like　an　agony。　It　grew　heavier　by　the　minute。　To　escape　it　they　went　straight　to　bed。　He　woke　her　in　the　middle　of　the　night。　She　was　crying。
I　was　buried；　she　told　him。　I'd　been　buried　for　a　long　time。　You　came　to　see　me　every　week。　Each　time　you　knocked　at　the　grave；　and　I　came　out。　My　eyes　were　full　of　dirt。
You'd　say；　'How　can　you　see？'　and　try　to　wipe　the　dirt　from　my　eyes。
And　I'd　say；　'I　can't　see　anyway。　I　have　holes　instead　of　eyes。'
And　then　one　day　you　went　off　on　a　long　journey；　and　I　knew　you　were　with　another　woman。　Weeks　passed；　and　there　was　no　sign　of　you。　I　was　afraid　of　missing　you；　and　stopped　sleeping。　At　last　you　knocked　at　the　grave　again；　but　I　was　so　worn　down　by　a　month　of　sleepless　nights　that　I　didn't　think　I　could　make　it　out　of　there。　When　I　finally　did　come　out；　you　seemed　disappointed。　You　said　I　didn't　look　well。　I　could　feel　how　awful　I　looked　to　you　with　my　sunken　cheeks　and　nervous　gestures。
T'm　sorry；'　I　apologized。　'I　haven't　slept　a　wink　since　you　left。'
'　You　see？'　you　said　in　a　voice　full　of　false　cheer。　'What　you　need　is　a　good　rest。　A　month's　holiday！'
As　if　I　didn't　know　what　you　had　in　mind！　A　month's　holiday　meant　you　didn't　want　to　see　me　for　a　month；　you　had　another　woman。　Then　you　left　and　I　slipped　down　into　my　grave；　knowing　full　well　that　I'd　have　another　month　of　sleepless　nights　waiting　for　you　and　that　when　you　came　back　and　I　was　uglier　you'd　be　ev