3 Seasons in Hell (3 sezóny v pekle)

It screams at me out of every second of time,

from the leaves on the trees, from the rubbish beneath my feet.

The sun is shining, the birds are singing,

so keep smiling.

The only thing I've got to say about that is shit.

Shit!

I protest! You hear me?

I protest!

Bohemia reminds me the most of a chamber pot.

With Prague in its very centre

More specifically, I can’t shit by myself.

L'image surréaliste...

May I take it away?

No.

- Would you like anything else? - Pernod.

It hasn't come yet, I'm sorry.

Taking quite a long time, isn't it?

It's two years since the war ended.

Surrealists only drink Pernod!

Do you know why?

Because it's so cheap

that even the proletarian masses can afford it.

Of course. How about some excellent homemade vermouth?

- I'm waiting for an explanation! - What exactly?

You have 121 hours of absence without leave!

A modern day hero doesn't need to fart around in school. Sorry.

Everybody goes to school.

I'm not afraid to be different.

Are you going into the stewed fruit business?

You haven't washed your hands.

We're going to eat.

What I really need is to study life.

You need discipline!

That's the soldier in you speaking.

Tomorrow you'll go and apologize to the headmaster.

And that's all I'm saying about it!

He's a senile old fart.

He can't see further than he pisses.

He's younger than me.

Enjoy your meal.

It's good.

-Dad, big changes are coming. -Not too salty, is it?

A world revolution is coming!

-You're talking like a communist. -A Marxist! It's different.

That Marxism of yours is just a classic example

of how a few dogmatists can fanaticize the masses!

Without any means of comparison, Ivan,

one often judges things incorrectly!

You can't stop progress.

That's enough!

My son won't be a Marxist or a communist and that's that!

Is that clear?!

You don't know anything about it.

-Sit down! Where are you going? -No!

I said, sit down!

Since mum died you're just a boring old fart.

You can live here on your own!

And so our lightened heart, its pulses pressing

Thus wills us still to love, with will for living.

Classic poetry is finished. Shakespeare, Goethe

What do lines like this mean?

... and so our lightened heart, its pulses pressing...

-How would you write it? -Better, of course.

Pass me the bread!

-What does schlagen mean? -To beat.

Writing poems is useless.

We'll talk about that when I'm famous.

-Hello. -Hi.

Is it good or just okay?

My vegetative system is completely thrown out

by this endless diet of beans.

You're here illegally, so you should shut up!

Karel...

Do you want some more?

You're just a poser,

who doesn't know what hunger is!

Tonda, what is hunger?

Ivan?

Here... you haven't eaten much today.

What are you doing?

Writing.

Poems?

Something like that.

Because I am the greatest living poet,

I have thought about poetry.

The only real measure are the seconds I spend helpless.

Nice.

I won't disturb you.

I'm a poet!

Freedom of an artist, as every individual, must be unconditional.

In a society not burdened with hypocritical morality

sex is viewed in the same way as anything else.

-Such as? -Writing, cooking...

So while I'm cooking I can do it with several guys at the same time?

Modern man assumes

that everyone has love for everyone else.

Or rather not for everyone, but with everyone.

In the most concrete way.

No alcohol or visitors are allowed in the rooms.

Wait, don't be stupid.

Pour everyone a glass.

Blimey!

Now it’s certain, that we have booze from a communist worker.

It's the artist's duty to make every moment unrepeatable!

What are you doing?

-Wait and see. -Give me that!

I'm punching a hole in the fog!

Ivan, no!

I'm burning with desire and hope!

Everything at this moment is intertwined - you and me!

Metaphysically and spatially... like a gigantic pretzel!

Happiness, freedom...

That's what happiness is, my friends!

You're mad.

That was good, wasn't it?

I'll dress it for you, sit down.

It's out of fashion anyway.

Hanes?

The hopes of world poetry!

-I left home. -At last.

I guess your dad doesn't like it.

-Where are you living? -In a boarding house.

I met a girl on my way here.

Hanes?

Okay, where is it then?

Wait, who was she?

Wouldn't you like to know? She left some photos here.

I never saw her here.

Oooh this one, or this...

Imagine if they all belonged to us.

What would you do with so many women?

I'd autograph their diaries.

-With a wet pencil? -Exactly. Here.

I can't give him this.

It's an original, it's valuable.

Original? It's a mess!

I want to have it published as soon as possible.

Patience is not your strength.

Can I borrow it?

Yes, I don't think anyone would delay it.

You have my word.

Hi.

Let's go.

You can count on me.

Good morning. I'm Ivan Heinz.

Hanes Walter gave you my poems and...

I appreciate that such a famous critic

has found time for my notebook and...

I'm working. Try again another time.

Next week perhaps.

But not in the morning.

And say hello to Hanes.

What a stench!

Philosophically speaking, I should be grateful to you for this job.

We're actually participating in a kind of existential mass.

This is what's left

of what was consumed in beauty and freshness.

This is where everything returns to where it came from.

Here I look at myself from above

and I tell myself: man, this is a celebration of humanity.

Did you know that a veterinary professor in England

tried to prove the harmlessness and sterility of a newborn's feces

so right there on the dissecting table in front of his students

he ate the contents of a young calf's intestines with a spoon.

What did he wash it down with?

How's it going, boys? Come inside for some soup.

Just two more thimblefuls, ma'am, and we're done.

At twilight I say fuck it.

I look down at the table's trestle.

No one knows I'm a Marxist.

I'm a bit late.

If something's in here, then everyone's wearing it.

Maybe they're just here as sample hairstyles.

-May I be frank? -Of course.

These were written by a boy who hasn't achieved anything yet,

and that bothers him.

Forget about verbal pirouettes,

throw out everything you wrote using reason

and write the first thing that comes to you.

So you didn't like them?

Not one bit.

Have I made a bad impression?

You really took me apart!

That's what I call psychoanalysis! From a single notebook of poems.

You know what?

I don't need anyone to tell me what I'm like.

Contempt is one of the risks of creating.

Are we going to see each other again?

I'll have to think about it.

A vivid fantasy, a fantastic sense of rhythm...

I'm a miracle of modern poetry, you'll see!

When I empty all of my cloaca

the true epidemic of shock will come!

You're onto something,

but you must feed the text with spontaneous energy,

write so fast it hurts.

It has to spurt out of you like blood.

And don't think; you can fill in the gaps afterwards.

-That's a recipe? -No, I don't hand out recipes.

That can end in you writing thousands of pages