Overture to the May MP

It is a truth universally acknowledged that May is a month both loved and dreaded. While on one hand summer and the bliss of holidays are near, on the other one must survive and pass the ordeals of exams. Nevertheless, the May MP is out! This issue’s interviews are with two head personas from Prague literary magazines. The first is with Stephan Delbos, who is not only a professor at our faculty, but also is the Poetry editor of B O D Y and the second is with Shaan Bon Joshi, the Editor in Chief of The Prague Revue. These interviews share the pages with; event reviews, poems and a study report from an Erasmus student from Kent – and together, they form the 10^th Musepaper.

Anna Hupcejova (Editor in Chief)

The Hooligirl

I think I was flying. I must have been flying, since nothing else explained how fast I got to LaVerna that night. I turned at the corner and saw the badly-lit sign above the glass door and the dim reddish glow coming from between the curtains framing the rectangle that was my destination. As I flew closer to it, I tried to see through the glass, to make out the shape that was supposed to be there waiting. A shape I craved to see... Ah, there it was. A huge thing enveloped in black, standing by the bar, its crimson head above others, shining peculiarly in the boring crowd.

I burst the door wide open and a flow of hot air smashed me in the face. My eyesight was all blurry from the cigarette smoke, yet my lungs grasped for it as if I had just resurfaced from a pool of dark night air to the bliss of carbon dioxide. My feet walked automatically to the dark shape, with all my courage dangerously dragging at my heels. I sat next to him. Only then he turned. And then he sat. And smiled.

He wasn't visibly bruised. It didn’t look like his pride was hurt either, I could see that much in the freakish brothel light. LaVerna was no brothel, but it had always reminded me of one, a little Gothic chapel just fit for sinning and dirty dark confessions… which was exactly what I had come there for. He had sinned and I was to be his priestess - a priestess rather excited to be hearing about this magnetic man's mischief. I got a drink, he had none before him. He never drank. I had no time to calm my shaking knees or adjust my eyes to the room light, so I just drained my double Cachaça like sacred water from the Holy Grail, believing it will purify me and instantly cooled off. How had it been, I asked.

He leaned on the chair, turning his lusty body to me, but looking away to some nonexistent distance. He kept smiling, so I knew it went well. They first took the train, he said, arrived there without big troubles. They had initially planned to take the traditional walk to the stadium - all seven hundred of them, but the police had said no and took them there by bus, motherf*ckers, traitors, ACAB. They had been very loud at that point. However, they controlled themselves, just until after the first half. The Others were just a few meters away, separated from them by a fluid line of neon green vests and a couple of fences that went down first, then white plastic seats rained on the neon vests, who flowed away in streams to find shelter, and on the bastards that stood closest. After some brawling, he got hit with something on the head, lost consciousness for a moment... Woke up on dirty beery concrete, somebody stepping on his hand in that very moment, which got him real mad… Endless shouting, cracking noise, blazing lights from everywhere. They had started the show while he was insensible.

I felt myself shivering. He was taking me on a trip to hell with him and I indulged in the pleasure of it, melted at the scenes of chaos radiating from his every breath. I could imagine all the things he didn't say since they were obvious and not out of the ordinary for him. Like the sound of sirens, the vuvuzelas, the chorus, the rhythm of destruction, the symphony of swearing. The Red Sea of scarves and the heads with black balaclavas turned in the direction of the Green Sea just two broken fences away. I could smell the anticipation in the muscles under their black jackets, all the same. Had you removed the balaclavas, all the heads would have been the same as well, naked, bald, glistening with the continuous light emitted by the pyro dancing in the air above the fighting and raging crowds.

Of course it had been the cops to f*ck it all up. Chased them all up to different sides and kept them far from each other, those traitors, scum, ACAB. They had stayed put until the match was over and for a few hours after it, while waiting for the train home to come. The cops had been there all the time, but so had the Others, since just a few meters behind the police wall, five of Them stood by a bench. A crystal-clear provocation. All in black, heads turned in the same direction, upwards, trying to smell horror in the night air. But there was none. Three of Us had managed to break through the living wall of uniforms and reach the five at the bench. The police were too late. Nothing had really changed, except all five Others now seemed to be sleeping on the ground, as if praying to a God that resided below its surface. They had looked the same as before, yet he was sure that once washed all the balaclavas would paint the crystal water scarlet.

Did you get it, I was shaking again as I asked. All this, was it for nothing? Had the atavistic mission of all times been successful? He smiled wider, the cold eyes of the man that just painted inferno for me warmed up. He slid his phone out of his pocket, played with it for a minute and then showed me the desired picture. It was a before-and-after one. A vast green flag the size of three cars proudly displayed on Their tribune, then the same flag turned upside down in the hands of the Crimson Thieves.

And there it was, my reason for flying there in the middle of the night. The peak of my excitement, the reward for all scheming and sleepless nights, for the couple of sweaty hours before dawn, for the filth that had grazed my breasts, for the regret that was now almost gone. The pride of their firm had been stolen; there was no pride they could return to now. The green will be painted over by crimson again, the crimson that could never be washed, the crimson that glowed in our eyes, the crimson that flowed in our veins.

His smiling face was painfully close all of a sudden, gravity sucking me in. What for? No reason for lusty bites and heavy breathing now, it could grant me no redemption. I used to think I was holy, a sacrificial virgin, but not anymore. Had I not slept with Him I still could be… Yet it had to be done. The biggest baldhead shining in the green crowd had been responsible for the flag, and he left home with me. The flag had to be passed down to someone else, to the second-in-command, someone who didn't go off to f*ck a chick he just met on a football match that night... someone who just ‘happened’ to be among the five sitting on the bench. It was ours now. That is all that mattered. He stopped smiling for the first time since we met that night.

Why was it that he found it difficult to believe me when I tried believing myself so hard? I'd done it for him and for all the other sinners. I was their priestess after all; the highest-ranking sinner among them, which, according to all celestial laws, made it my responsibility. And they forgave my sins, just as I created theirs. I sometimes catch myself thinking it is because of our fallen souls that hell is red, burning with the fire of pyro, screaming to the rhythm of the chorus with our fists doing the job of the devils’ tuning forks. And for all that, purity is a not such a big price to pay.

Yes, I used to be holy. Now, I am hooli instead.

Angie Siljanoska

Interview with Stephan Delbos

Many know him as the professor of the usually feared subject with a fancy name: English Skills in Cultural Communication. The less-known reality is that Stephan Delbos is also a poet, playwright, translator and essayist whose works have been published in numerous literary journals. He is also a founding editor of the online literary journal B O D Y, and he previously worked with The Prague Post and The Prague Revue. The following interview reveals more about this New England-born man of letters.

When I enquired my fellow students if they have any questions for you, most of them were personal ones from the female portion… Does it make for easier lecturing when one naturally attracts attention?

(Smiles) I just do my thing. Someone told me one time I was intimidating. I was surprised, because obviously I don’t think of myself that way. But pedagogically, I think it’s best to orchestrate your relationship with students and clarify expectations early on – because if we’re best buddies from the start, how can we get anywhere?

Also there appeared a request for the link of a movie you were featured in.

Oh, that... (looks down, smiling) Actually I don’t have a copy either! Hopefully it’s been relegated to the bowels of cinematography. I saw it premier at Světozor, but I lost touch with the producers. It wasn’t an amazing movie – but it was a good experience and something I wanted to try. Filming is boring though; a lot of waiting around for the lights to be arranged.

Out of interest, what are the origins of your surname?

French. My great-great-great-grandfather’s name was Du Bois – which means “from wood,” as in, a woodsman – and when he emigrated to the States his name was Americanized at Ellis island, as were many foreign names. So I’m French and German on my father’s side and Irish on my mother’s side.

Image credit: Stephan Delbos

• ·         Early years

You graduated college with a BA American Literature, poetry and writing.

Actually, I majored in English and took classes in creative writing, which got me a “minor,” or a “focus” in the subject. After that I did my MFA in Poetry. Now I’m working on my PhD.

Do you recall the first university essays you wrote? Were they good or did you also need time to sharpen up your argument and polish your style?

Um... good question! One early essay I remember was on Robert Lowell’s “Waking Early Sunday Morning.” I read it a little while back. It was, well... it was clear I should have taken English Skills. So yes, I definitely needed time to get better at essay writing.

Besides more and more writing, what helped? Do you have some specific advice?

The best advice I got was from my uncle. It wasn’t actually advice, but a statement: “A writer is a reader first.”

What was your motivation for studying what you did at university; did you have an idea about what job you’d like to have in the future?

I don’t really consider what I do “a job.” I can’t say I studied English with the same excitement as I had when I was 7 and said I wanted to become a fireman. But I’ve enjoyed writing as long as I can remember. I was writing stories and poems from a really young age and my facility with language was never matched by my facility with numbers. In other words, math was never my thing. I wanted to become a veterinarian for a while... I also played jazz guitar very seriously and was thinking of studying music. But when it came to deciding on a subject at university, the choice was clear.

A majority of people in the 2^nd year are putting together ideas for their BA thesis. Do you recall what was yours on?

I was really into the Beats in college, so I wrote on Gary Snyder. His somewhat ideogrammatic poetry style, and his ecology.

What other pursuits were you engaged in while at college?

(Smiling, after a while of thinking) Dissipation. No, I was actually very busy. This was the height of my musical pursuits, so I was studying jazz guitar, teaching at a music school, and playing gigs with several bands. I worked at the school newspaper, and was always publishing ‘zines and poetry pamphlets, and skateboarding and travelling on Greyhound busses. Also ornithology.

What’s that?

Bird-watching.

Are birds different here than in the States?

Oh, sure. For example, the gulls here are a smaller version of the gulls in New England. They’re like gargoyles. And bold enough to snatch whatever you have in your hands; an ice cream cone, or a cucumber sandwich... The ducks here are different from New England too. There it’s mostly Mallards. In Port Arthur, Texas one time I was at a sailor’s watering hole down by the docks and outside in the parking lot were these huge ducks that had the drooping red chin like a turkey. We called them “durkeys”.

·         Prague’s English language literary circles

It was also during your undergraduate years that you came to Prague to study. Why Prague?

There were other countries I could choose from, like Spain or England. I remember that people who wanted to go to Spain had to speak Spanish; then London wasn’t exotic enough. I knew Kafka, and Rilke was the first poet who really affected me. So that combination was enough to entice me.

And you studied at the Faculty of Arts?

Yes, but it was kind of a scattering of classes across programs. I also took classes outside my major, like Food Psychology - that was interesting.

What was the English language literary scene in Prague like when you arrived?

When I came back to Prague after finishing my BA, I did some research on the internet about poetry readings and came upon Alchemy. At that time it was held in a place called Kenny’s Island. It had a kind of African cartel feel, with owners from Ghana, I think. The reading was in the basement, which was dark and dank and swampy-smoky, but it fit the atmosphere, it had a šmrnc. The host Ken Nash (interviewed in the April 2014 MP, ed. note) was very friendly, the people were great. And it felt like being welcomed into something that had its own momentum, which was just what I was looking for.

• B O D Y

In 2012, you, Christopher Crawford and Joshua Mensch founded the literary journal B O D Y. How would you define B O D Y – what is its purpose?

It’s an international online literary journal. Its purpose is to find and promote great writing.

Image credit: bodyliterature.com

Where do you see B O D Y in a few years – realistically? And ideally?

Both realistically and ideally, we’ll still be publishing writing that’s as strong as what we’ve published so far. Still finding great work, staying active, building our archive and keeping alive the editors’ tradition of donning velvet cloaks during the crescent moon to drink sumptuous single-malt Scotch in our secret tower. Also, we’ll still be hosting events, like our Spring reading series this May.

Will B O D Y be available also in print form in the future?

That is unlikely. I see B O D Y remaining an online journal, which makes it accessible to everyone with an internet connection. This way we don’t have to worry about finances and distribution and we can just focus on the writing without monetizing it and become alienated laborers.

• University life

Apart from working on B O D Y and writing, you teach at the Anglo American University and of course, at the Faculty of Arts. Did you want to become a professor or did that happen by chance?

Yes, I teach at AAU and the Faculty of Arts, technically though I’m not a professor, but a lecturer. I guess it’s been a mixture of chance and design. I love teaching.

If you could do BA or MA Anglophone Studies, would you?

Certainly, the department is great. The students are motivated and the professors are brilliant. In general the level is quite high, I think. I’m happy for the chance to work here.

Before The Musepaper, there was GRASP magazine to which you contributed fairly regularly. However, it ended when its editors finished their studies – how do you feel about student magazines?

I had a few poems in GRASP. I think student magazines are invaluable – they connect students at the university, and also give the faculty a porthole into the student community. At American universities, magazines and newspapers play a major role in establishing the community, while providing an outlet for student writers.

• On literature

You mentioned Kafka and Rilke to be part of the reason why you chose to come to Prague. Which of their works impressed you the most (one from each)?

I'd read Kafka's short stories in high school and then later as an undergraduate. They were unlike anything I'd read before and challenged all my ideas about what fiction should be. They seemed to operate by a completely different system, with their own logic, which was Kafka's. It wasn't until I came to Prague and got to seriously study his work that I realized where that sense of otherness was coming from, that sense of what Deleuze and Guattari call a "minor literature," and that interesting position of being between societies, between languages at this moment of intense historical transition. Today his aphorisms are most interesting for me.

Who introduced you to Rilke?

I was introduced to Rilke by my older brother, who gave me a copy of the Letters to a Young Poet around the time I was 16. Of course I fell in love with the lushness of the writing and the alluring life of the pure artist as Rilke presents it. From there I moved to the Pocket Edition of his poems, a little pink hardcover that I carried with me all throughout Europe. It had translations by a number of different people, including Stephen Mitchell. When I got to Prague I devoured Ralph Freedman's sumptuous biography, Life of a Poet. By that time I'd also discovered Rilke's French poems in Al Poulin Jr.'s translations. He was a great poet and translator from Maine who was a friend of my uncle's. His I think are some of the best English translations of Rilke. Looking at Mitchell's translations now, especially with some sense of the German texts, a lot of early English versions of Rilke are like what Pound called the poems in his first book, looking back at them years later: Stale cream puffs. 

Rilke wrote: "ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this question with a strong, simple 'I must', then build your life in accordance with this necessity..." Have you yourself gone through this process? Should one give up writing if he/she doesn't feel this rather dramatic need?

I certainly spent my fair share of dark nights puzzling out this demand. Lots of time alone on trains in the Spanish wilderness, or on the streets of Paris, having no money and eating a baguette a day, you know, really looking for what Rilke saw. Whole days at the Rodin museum, the Jardin des Plantes... Rilke was formative partially because of the seriousness with which he approaches writing. It can be hard to read these quotes nowadays with a straight face -- irony has become such a part of our response to and defence against the world. Irony, by the way, is "the gaze that sees but does not penetrate," according to Rilke. The need he states here is rather dramatic as you say. I think he's also gently telling Franz Xavier Kappus that his poetry isn't much good. But from a very practical standpoint, yes I think this is good advice. As Jack Spicer said, echoing Dante: "No kid, don't enter here." Given that the financial rewards for serious writing are virtually nil, given that even the personal rewards are muted at best since your achievements on the actual page are simply never as lustrous as they are in your mind (coming from the inadequacies of language), given that writing necessitates a large solitary space that you build in the centre of your life, requiring you to be selfish with time and cut yourself off from society -- at least while you write -- no, I don't think it's a logical pursuit for anyone who doesn't feel compelled to do it. Then again, what is? 

The aforementioned quotation was taken from Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet - do you think that one can be mentored towards good writing? How?

Yes and no. Creativity can be mentored, but talent cannot be taught. In terms of academic writing, absolutely one can be mentored toward good writing. But in terms of having insight whether for great criticism, or for creating poems, plays, novels and so forth, I think there needs to be some spark there already. But actually, an established poet in the US once told me: just survive long enough and you'll get your laurels. I would say if you're going to write well creatively, you're going to do it on your own eventually. Mentors can be invaluable essentially because they save you time in terms of pointing you in certain directions for reading, or giving you insight into your own work or the work of others that can been immeasurably beneficial. So much of writing is developing the critical intelligence to judge your writing objectively, and so much of critical writing is developing a sense of the ongoing discourse on your subject and then entering that. But there's no shortcut to accomplishment. 

About Kafka, how do you interpret the feeling of guilt in The Trial?

For me the book is about the trial of life that really begins when you're 30. Now that I've hit that landmark I can understand the truth of that in ways I didn't understand a decade ago. I believe it was Bataille who said something like suffering begins when you realize you can't do everything. As you get older you inevitably move in certain directions that are irrevocable, and become more involved in society and therefore have to play by those rules in order to get things done. The guilt is attendant in that from all sides, from people telling you you're guilty of one thing or another, from doing what you're "supposed" to do, not what you want to do, from doing what you want to do, not what you're "supposed" to do. It requires either fortitude or ignorance to persevere. 

• Concluding questions

How do you find time to write your own creations (poetry, prose)?

For me it's not really about "finding" time to write. The craft of writing is so woven into the fabric of my life that it's just something that happens every day. I've been lucky enough to be able to merge my personal and professional interests. I'm always working on several projects at once, also my own poetry is constantly bubbling up. So I usually wake up quite early and devote the first few hours of the day to writing, before anything else. If it's translations that day I'll do one poem. If it's my own poetry I'll maybe write two pages in my notebook -- or have been doing that lately as I'm working on a single long poem. Or if it's a script I'll work through one scene, or maybe more depending on what kind of detail work I'm doing. But I certainly believe that it's necessary to create the space for the work to take place. Like David Byrne said, if you're not at the bus stop you can't catch the bus. You've got to stay sharp, stay limber and stay open to the language, and to the life. 

Beside writing, teaching and working on B O D Y, what are you working on?

I’m joyfully overburdened. I just finished the first draft of a book-length poem and I have a book of poetry I’m sending out to publishers. And I have a new script that's going into production in the fall, so I’m fine-tuning that, and I’m also working with Tereza Novicka translating Nezval’s ‘The Absolute Gravedigger,’ which should be published next year. And of course I’m working on my PhD. I’ll be attending conferences in the fall, so I have some papers to write. And this summer I plan to write the first draft of my dissertation.

Do you have a notebook or do you write your poems on a laptop?

I don’t like writing on laptops. I carry a notebook around, then I re-write on a typewriter, then finally on computer. Delaying the computer keeps you closer to the language and establishes a physical relationship between you and each letter or piece of punctuation.

What do you do when you have ‘writer’s block’?

Writer’s block just means you don’t feel like writing. I don’t believe there’s a boundary between myself and a blank sheet of paper – you just write.

Where do you see yourself in five years – ideally and realistically?

I’ve been meaning to take up fencing, free diving and aeronautics. But certainly I’ll be writing, teaching, reading, thinking… hopefully with a few more books on the shelf, and some newly completed projects. My modus operandi has always been to say yes to opportunities. Now I have the privilege of being selective. Also I’d like to be looking at the sea more often.

Anna Hupcejová

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Pygmalion

Heifers with gilded horns no longer part before the axe,
in celebration of the rites of Venus; these days no
mythical obstruction dulls authentic pain, her hidden
                                                                               face.

Art always seemed to offer permanence surer than
the fading skin. But I am tired of scraping at a rock
to find the girl within. Here in my garden, beside a pine
                                                                                  tree

skirted by shadow, a youthful form burgeons in alabaster.
Caught in a state of grace, she grasps after the fluency
of air surrounding her entombed appeal. A straying
                                                                              breeze

whistles through her fluted curls. Beauty that cannot dance
or kiss. It scares me suddenly, to see my need transformed
into this lissom milk, compacted hard enough to grind the
                                                                                    seed
of dreams; holding my life between her glowing thighs.

Jakob Ziguras

Evening of the Reversed Pygmaion Effect

The Pygmalion effect, or Rosenthal effect, is the phenomenon whereby the greater the expectation placed upon people, the better they perform.

Before I went to the reading of the Australian poet with Polish roots Jakob Ziguras on the 28^th of April (an event organized by the AAU and B O D Y), I read some of his work. Most of them I have enjoyed – though some were too philosophical for my taste. I looked forward to seeing the man behind the poems and needless to say, I had great expectations. I expected that I would like his poetry even more after meeting him and seeing him read – but this expectation failed.

I simply felt that the poems deserved a better presentation. The poet himself seemed kind and warm, but gradually I received the impression that he is distant. His persona was absent, he seemed to be unreachable – like a Grecian urn was for Keats. A question posed from the audience was if he could read something personal – he smiled and said that he could, but only after the second nudge from the audience did he do so. It was a poem about a vacation by the sea. Still, the poet seemed impersonal, aloof in his attitude and lacked enthusiasm and perhaps even emotion.

This I found was a great contrast to my expectation – he failed to excite me for his work and based on this conclusion and the fact that the Literary Theory exam is coming up, I am definitely taking the objective approach. The creator of the verses I choose not to connect with the creation itself as instead, I decided to read the poems (like “Pymalion”, included in this issue) in my mind, voiceless. In short, it was the evening of the reversed Pygmalion effect – when my expectations were not reached. I hope the next poetry reading attended will leave a more positive aftertaste than this one has. (Though the wine was good.) 

Anna Hupcejova

Cold Organs

I cross my fingers

on his lips

I put them

into his cold organs

where nothing lived

and never

will

unless we hastily

confront it.

I did him lover.

We enjoyed.

I cared no more

he wasn't better

I shared no more

he hardly did

we kissed apace

(who can forbid it).

No cherished memories,

no ruins

I ruined nothing

of them all

and nor did he

as I assume it

with no salute

no farewell.

Margo Kirlan

Questions for Shaan Bon Joshi

An Indian from the State of Indiana, Shaan Bon Joshi is the Editor in Chief of Bohemia's English Language Literary Journal and Cultural Review, The Prague Revue. The following interview reveals the background of the Prague-based literary magazine that has over 10, 000 readers and about his perception of writing, literary journalism and literature.

When did you come to Prague?

I believe two years ago.

How and why?

Good questions. I was working with a school at Haiti. Before I came to Prague, I was a project developer on a primary education course at a school and I spent a few months down there. They had an education programme that was good, but it didn’t quite meet its potential. I was asked to take the lead and take (the program) to the next level – so we were able to standardize the curriculum, hire local teachers and everything was going well. I realized I had a foundational and structural understanding on how this programme should run and where it should go, but I reached a limit in how I could mentor those teachers in how to teach ESL – because I wasn’t a trained ESL teacher. My thinking on that was that I would go get trained in ESL and in that way better serve those native-born teachers who were doing really great work there. So I was looking around at different programmes, I necessarily didn’t want to stay in the States. I was able to work from a satellite location. I had a friend who had taught in Prague who I respected and he said “Hey Shaan, I think you’d really like it if you went there”. So I found a month-long certification programme and decided okay, I’ll do it, I’ll go see Europe. During this time the school has undergone great development allowed by the work we did (holding technical or computer courses, getting TEFL certified) and I fell in love with Prague and was able to stay here without any feeling of guilt or irresponsibility. I fell in love with the culture, the people, the deep beauty of walking through the city and, of course, the cheap beer. The cheap beer was the kicker. So that’s how I decided to come and to stay.

So you continued to teach English here?

Initially, yeah. It was never really planned, but I got certified and that work in Haiti had evolved independently. I could leave it without any regret. They were moving in wonderful ways and there was nothing more I could give them really.

How long did you work there actually?

I was on site at the school for 3 months but was probably engaged in work with them as Education Coordinator about a year in total – in Croix-de-Bouquet, which is a suburb of Port-au-Prince. I miss it very much and I hope to come back there in the summer; it’d be amazing for me to see the school and see where they are now. 

So you came here, began teaching for a while..?

Yup – but didn’t really plan it to be something that was permanent. I always had these romantic ideas about Europe and saw that Prague was really one of the best places to be. In the United States, we have such a myopic understanding of the world outside of us and I quickly realized I kinda had a myopic understanding of Central and Eastern Europe. Coming here even just for short 4 weeks during that programme, I saw that there was more I wanted to know more about this place. As cliché as it sounds, I fell in love with it here. Even just taking a stroll for breakfast, I look up (which is dangerous to do in Žižkov) and am amazed by the beautiful architecture.

·         College years

Before you came to Prague, you graduated college in Journalism.

Yes, journalism with concentration on English.

Why did you choose that field in the first place?

Ironically enough, I didn’t wanna become an English teacher. (pause) I always loved literature and reading, but I wanted to approach making a living in writing in a pragmatic way. Most of my friends who went into English had these high ambitions to become novelists, which is fine, but I could see that if I was going down the route of getting an English degree, then the likelihood of just getting shuttered in by teaching 7^th graders would get higher with every day. For me, journalism was a way to write and get paid for it; and it was the best way to also become a better writer.   

Did the course teach you anything new?

That’s a whole different interview. My feelings on higher education (laughs) vary. Did they teach me anything? I don’t know, maybe I’m stubborn, but I think I learned everything myself. I’ve always enjoyed learning in my own way – so if you give me a stack of books, I can figure things out my own way, especially when we’re talking about things like writing. When you try to standardize creative expression, I start having a problem with that. I think young writers need guidance, but necessarily not all of them need rules. Journalism sets these rules and I found this to be an old way of thinking. It was a dinosaur that would be extinct soon and I could see it back then. And I think time is proving me correct on that. The smart thing would’ve been to just do my work and get good grades, but sometimes your mouth gets you in trouble (laughs).

Image credit: Anna Hupcejová

·         The Prague Revue

Did you have any experience working with magazines before TPR?

Yeah. I worked for a newspaper, did some free-lancing for websites, covered boxing, some racing... probably had more experiences in sports journalism than anything else. I also covered Obama’s nomination and inauguration, so my experience was pretty varied.

Turning to the PR, how did you get the job of editor in chief?

That’s a good question. You know, they say that the best place to network is on the golf course. In my case, it was watching American football. I have a deep and profound love for sport – the biggest two of which are basketball and American football. I found this place that was showing American football games and I came to watch; I saw in the window that they had some Prague Revue stuff and I got talking to a guy by the name of Max Munson. Turned out this Max Munson was a founding editor –great guy - of TPR. And through many months of the second half of the football season (which can be very long), we talked philosophy and theory about if we were to partner on something, then how we would do it and how would we make it relevant. So he said, let’s bring back TPR in a way that’s really relevant to what’s happening today. Four, five, six months later we thought we had enough basis to do something – and once that was agreed upon, then it was full sail ahead, I guess. We clinked glasses, had a gentlemen’s handshake and it’s been that way ever since.

What is the history of TPR?

Max Munson would be the best person to ask. But I can tell you that it started right here in this restaurant, in Jáma. Max came to Prague in ’93 - he had the Jáma Reading Series in 1994, 1995 here. There was a lot of great stuff happening with English language publications because the wall had fallen – what initially was The Jáma Revue was born from the reading series and in the second issue it evolved into TPR. For each subsequent year until 2000, 2001 an annual edition of TPR came out. So that’s how it started.

So it started off in print form.

Yeah. But being in journalism school, Max agreed with me that if we are to come back, then we should in print form as well as have an online way of doing it. It is prestige because you can hold it in your hands, but I think that the internet is more forever now than print, you know? That is a piece of carbon that will erode and whither eventually while the internet is here for eternity. Even if we manage to destroy ourselves (at which we’re doing a good job), I think that somebody will come around in the next, you know, one, two hundred million years and they’ll still be able to glean information off the internet and see who we are and what we were doing. But that carbon-based publication ain’t gonna be around for our biological ancestors to see so to speak... Everything is happening online and if you wanna be relevant, you need an online media arm - and that’s what the original mind-set was. The idea for print was there from day one though.

Who are the aimed readers?

Hmm... You know, we have a lot of diversity of content... I know that when you start with something, you should (they say) have a targeted reader-base of who you want or what you wanna do. To be honest, that was never my intent – maybe that’s a fault, maybe a virtue. But really, my whole aim is to bring together as many diverse voices as we can and to have the best writing that we can. Whether people read it or not, I do care, but I really don’t. The whole targeted/aimed readers, I don’t know – I just want to focus on getting the best writing we can out there. That may not be the best approach, but that’s the way I do it. But I can tell you that most of our readers are in that coveted 18-35 demographic and most of them are native English speakers.

What would you say makes TPR so attractive to them – the articles, featured writers, the city in which the magazine is based?

I would hope all of it – the architecture, the website, the easy navigation, stuff like artwork, photos... The articles and content are one aspect of it, but you have to have the total picture there. I would like to think that when strolling down the museum of the internet, that you stop and ponder upon the portrait that is TPR.

Define “In the Stream” for our readers?

Everything that’s not classical fiction and poetry. I don’t want to think of “The Stream” as a blog – there are a lot of blog pieces in there, but there is a lot of magazine feature writing, a lot of literary journalism, confessional essays, photo journalism... Let’s say it’s inspired by the whole Jack Kerouac “stream of consciousness” concept, which means when you’re sitting there, it’s in that moment of creation. I didn’t wanna limit what we could do there, except that it has to have a non-fiction bend. We’re basically there every day – collecting moments and articles from people all over the world and in this I’d say we’re more than just a literary magazine.

·         Behind TPR

Do you think of leading TPR as a job?

Mmm... sometimes it feels like a job, yeah.

In the negative sense?

Yeah, sure. Not always though, I enjoy the work, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t. Kurt Vonnegut’s daughter was talking about him writing – and she would say that he didn’t really enjoy writing – he didn’t like it, but he did it with purpose and dedication and he was very disciplined in how he approached it. He would do things like draw and paint for enjoyment. So... I would say writing was Vonnegut’s purpose, but did it feel like a job to him? Probably yes. So I would say that I enjoy doing TPR probably more than Vonnegut did writing.

For example, there is the writer’s block, artist’s block... Have you ever reached the point when you thought, “I don’t wanna do this anymore”?

Absolutely! I think everybody does. But you just sack up and you do it.

So is that how did you overcome the feeling?

Listen, you can find excuses not to do anything – you have to have the mental discipline to sit down and do it. When you’re talking about creative writing, if you have the luxury of time on your side, you can walk away from it - you can go for a walk, have a drink, but at the end you must always come back and sit down and do it. And that’s what I think separates writers from people who say they are writers. Because people who say they are writers aren’t able to overcome that mental switch; they don’t have the discipline to sit down and flick it. Sometimes it sucks, sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, but I find that sometimes that’s when you get the best work done. Then you’re showing your dedication beyond doing it for pleasure. You’re showing your dedication to the craft – and that’s what shows the real writers.

What takes the most time - the editing, uploading, writing of articles?

It really, really, really depends. The writing is always tricky. Sometimes it’s like golf when swings can be either strained, or effortless and easy - and writing can be a lot like that. It really varies, though... Some pieces require more time to write, others more time to edit, then some take more time to present. There’s no one answer to that. Everything depends on the piece itself – it’s always centred on the content. Sometimes the hardest part is the content, sometimes it’s the displaying and editing.

Is there anything you would say you don’t enjoy about leading TPR?

(Repeats the question, thinking) Uuuuh... no. Sitting here I honestly can’t say. I don’t know, if all the editors aren’t there and it falls to me to upload all the articles for an entire week, then sure, it isn’t so much fun. But then, there’s a reward for everything – the work that you enjoy the least is then the most rewarding. Just do it.

How many people are actually in the Editor’s team?

(Thinks) I’ll tell you how many people are working on it, regardless if on an everyday basis or not. Our editorial board consists of 14-15 people. We’re entering the kind of territory where we’re growing – and we need more hands on deck. In the next year we want to become a multi-media organization and that only underlines the importance of having a functional team to help you.

Do Czechs contribute also to TPR or are mainly Americans (and native speakers generally) encouraged to write for you?

We are open to ev-e-ry-body. Whoever submits, we take the best from. It’s like asking the San Francisco Chronicle, do they only take people from San Francisco? We celebrate Czech culture, especially the Czech freedom fighters and the whole revolution and great struggle of people being here. Do I wish to have more writers of Czech origin? Yes, yes I do. But that proves more difficult than just saying “do you have Czech writers?” because you always have to find those people. But if anybody is reading this, yes, I would welcome them to submit.

·         Literary journalism, writing and literature

Does TPR have any “role models”, or other magazines that inspire its form?

I have to think about that... You know what? No. Maybe initially, but I think we’re doing something new that certainly no other literary magazine has. We do so much in creative non-fiction, literary journalism, everyday life that we are forging our own identity. We may borrow certain elements from here or there that comprise us – something like The Rolling Stones in the 70s, maybe even Playboy magazine in the 60s and 70s that – which many people forget back in the day published some of the best fiction around. But I wouldn’t say that there’s one source that informs us. Instead, we’re forming something that hasn’t been here before – and that is evident day by day. But maybe when we started, we were looking at The Paris Review – but not anymore. Every day is a new frontier.

What topics are discussed in literary journalism – is it only reduced to literature, as the title of the field suggests?

I can give you examples of literary journalism and I’ll leave it up to your readers to apply their own definition to it. Literary journalism is ... Tom Woolf, Hunter Thompson, Joan  Didion, it’s what those people are doing. It can be about politics, it can be about a lot of things but it’s just a more considered approach than what you’d see in classic journalism, which is your who-what-why-where-how and that formulaic thing that comes after it. So I would really point you towards the new school journalism with people like Joan Didion. You can see in their work what literary journalism is. In the end it’s a more creative expression of writing which takes into account the human psyche, the human soul that regular journalism leaves out.

What do you think makes a good article / writer?

What I’m looking for is execution of an idea – I may not agree with it, but if the writer is executes it well, I’m glad. We’re not a closed box – we’re open to rain at The Prague Revue.

Reading and editing articles all day, do you still have time to write outside TPR?

Not anymore. (after a while) Aaah well... yeah, yeah I do. For other organizations? No, but for myself on a personal basis? The last 3, 4 months were hard to do so but yeah.

Poetry?

No, I’ve never been a poetry guy. More literature. I like fiction. Hard-boiled, hard diction, chockful of good ideas, good plotting – that’s the kind of stuff I like.

So what writers do you admire?

The holy trinity for me as a writer growing up, not necessarily who I’m reading now these days, but who I will defend on all grounds against any assault will be Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski. Those are my three guys, often imitated, much maligned, but I find them all necessary and I will defend them to my dying breath from anybody.

Reading all day articles for TPR, do you still have time to read other journals and books?

I think it was Marquise de Sade (I think it was and I’m sure I’ll butcher this) said something along the lines that “A good writer needs to read more than he writes”. So I would say that in my reading I’m always chasing the ghosts of classic literature. And as far as other journals go, like ours? Probably not. When I find time to read, I want to read books. Good books by great writers. I spend enough time online with our stuff that I don’t wanna see anything else online – am really past that. It doesn’t mean that I don’t, but I just don’t do in-depth reading of other sites. I return to books if I really wanna read.

Do you ever reach a stage when you get “sick” of words?

All the time when I’m losing an argument, I get really sick of words! (Pause) Sure- sure! More I feel that I fail the words by not being able to reach for the appropriate words on the shelf. I’m more sick of my inadequacy with words rather than the words themselves.

·         Concluding questions

Image credit: praguerevue.com

Where would you like TPR to be in 10 years - ideally and practically?

I’m neither a practical nor realistic person, so I can only answer upon the foundation of idealism. (Thinks) I wanna see us as a multi-media organization, I want to have a dedicated print arm, I want to expand the number of articles and the scope of what we do online and I also want to play with some video stuff. Vice dominates that video landscape and they do a great job, but it’d have to be something new, different from them. I’ve kind of toyed with the idea in my brain of a creative content channel, beyond podcasting, maybe with creative content video, but that’s something we’re not close to yet. I’d say it’s in its conception state if anything at all. But it’s something that’s 3, 4 years down the road. Right now we’re focusing on the print issue that’s coming out in May and then 3, 4 months down the road I want to have the podcast running. We’ll have to find a way to make those things successful and sustainable – and if we do find a way and continue to grow as we are, then I think that you’ll see us doing some original video content type of stuff. But it’ll have to be done with the right partners. I wouldn’t say it’s so far down the road, but it’s far enough down the road that we see the silhouette on the horizon and we can’t kick at it just yet. 

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

I love Prague, I wanna be here. The great thing about the internet is that it allows you to be at all places at one time. I definitely want to do more travelling in life - but Prague has given me so many things that I’m going to be forever grateful for and I want to have a foothold in this city for as long as I still draw breath on this Earth.

Anna Hupcejová

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