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；　and　roamed　the　streets　of　Prague　the　whole　day　with　Anna　Karenina　under　her　arm。　Not　even　after　she　rang　the　doorbell　and　he　opened　the　door　would　she　part　with　it。　It　was　like　a　ticket　into　Tomas's　world。　She　realized　that　she　had　nothing　but　that　miserable　ticket；　and　the　thought　brought　her　nearly　to　tears。　To　keep　from　crying；　she　talked　too　much　and　too　loudly；　and　she　laughed。　And　again　he　took　her　in　his　arms　almost　at　once　and　they　made　love。　She　had　entered　a　mist　in　which　nothing　could　be　seen　and　only　her　scream　could　be　heard。
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It　was　no　sigh；　no　moan；　it　was　a　real　scream。　She　screamed　so　hard　that　Tomas　had　to　turn　his　head　away　from　her　face；　afraid　that　her　voice　so　close　to　his　ear　would　rupture　his　eardrum。　The　scream　was　not　an　expression　of　sensuality。　Sensuality　is　the　total　mobilization　of　the　senses：　an　individual　observes　his　partner　intently；　straining　to　catch　every　sound。　But　her　scream　aimed　at　crippling　the　senses；　preventing　all　seeing　and　hearing。　What　was　screaming　in　fact　was　the　naive　idealism　of　her　love　trying　to　banish　all　contradictions；　banish　the　duality　of　body　and　soul；　banish　perhaps　even　time。
Were　her　eyes　closed？　No；　but　they　were　not　looking　anywhere。　She　kept　them　fixed　on　the　void　of　the　ceiling。　At　times　she　twisted　her　head　violently　from　side　to　side。
When　the　scream　died　down；　she　fell　asleep　at　his　side；　clutching　his　hand。　She　held　his　hand　all　night。
Even　at　the　age　of　eight　she　would　fall　asleep　by　pressing　one　hand　into　the　other　and　making　believe　she　was　holding　the　hand　of　the　man　whom　she　loved；　the　man　of　her　life。　So　if

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in　her　sleep　she　pressed　Tomas's　hand　with　such　tenacity；　we　can　understand　why：　she　had　been　training　for　it　since　childhood。
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A　young　woman　forced　to　keep　drunks　supplied　with　beer　and　siblings　with　clean　underwear—instead　of　being　allowed　to　pursue　something　higher　—stores　up　great　reserves　of　vitality；　a　vitality　never　dreamed　of　by　university　students　yawning　over　their　books。　Tereza　had　read　a　good　deal　more　than　they；　and　learned　a　good　deal　more　about　life；　but　she　would　never　realize　it。　The　difference　between　the　university　graduate　and　the　autodidact　lies　not　so　much　in　the　extent　of　knowledge　as　in　the　extent　of　vitality　and　self…confidence。　The　elan　with　which　Tereza　flung　herself　into　her　new　Prague　existence　was　both　frenzied　and　precarious。　She　seemed　to　be　expecting　someone　to　come　up　to　her　any　day　and　say；　What　are　you　doing　here？　Go　back　where　you　belong！　All　her　eagerness　for　life　hung　by　a　thread：　Tomas's　voice。　For　it　was　Tomas's　voice　that　had　once　coaxed　forth　her　timorous　soul　from　its　hiding　place　in　her　bowels。
Tereza　had　a　job　in　a　darkroom；　but　it　was　not　enough　for　her。　She　wanted　to　take　pictures；　not　develop　them。　Tomas's　friend　Sabina　lent　her　three　or　four　monographs　of　famous　photographers；　then　invited　her　to　a　cafe　and　explained　over　the　open　books　what　made　each　of　the　pictures　interesting。　Tereza　listened　with　silent　concentration；　the　kind　few　professors　ever　glimpse　on　their　students'　faces。
Thanks　to　Sabina；　she　came　to　understand　the　ties　between　photography　and　painting；　and　she　made　Tomas　take　her　to　every　exhibit　that　opened　in　Prague。　Before　long；　she　was　placing　her　own　pictures　in　the　illustrated　weekly　where　she　worked；　and　finally　she　left　the　darkroom　for　the　staff　of　professional　photographers。
On　the　evening　of　that　day；　she　and　Tomas　went　out　to　a　bar　with　friends　to　celebrate　her　promotion。　Everyone　danced。　Tomas　began　to　mope。　Back　at　home；　after　some　prodding　from　Tereza；　he　admitted　that　he　had　been　jealous　watching　her　dance　with　a　colleague　of　his。
You　mean　you　were　really　jealous？　she　asked　him　ten　times　or　more；　incredulously；　as　though　someone　had　just　informed　her　she　had　been　awarded　a　Nobel　Prize。
Then　she　put　her　arm　around　his　waist　and　began　dancing　across　the　room。　The　step　she　used　was　not　the　one　she　had　shown　off　in　the　bar。　It　was　more　like　a　village　polka；　a　wild　romp　that　sent　her　legs　flying　in　the　air　and　her　torso　bouncing　all　over　the　room；　with　Tomas　in　tow。
Before　long；　unfortunately；　she　began　to　be　jealous　herself；　and　Tomas　saw　her　jealousy　not　as　a　Nobel　Prize；　but　as　a　burden；　a　burden　he　would　be　saddled　with　until　not　long　before　his　death。

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While　she　marched　around　the　pool　naked　with　a　large　group　of　other　naked　women；　Tomas　stood　over　them　in　a　basket　hanging　from　the　pool's　arched　roof；　shouting　at　them；　making　them　sing　and　do　kneebends。　The　moment　one　of　them　did　a　faulty　kneebend；　he　would　shoot　her。
Let　me　return　to　this　dream。　Its　horror　did　not　begin　with　Tomas's　first　pistol　shot；　it　was　horrifying　from　the　outset。　Marching　naked　in　formation　with　a　group　of　naked　women　was　for　Tereza　the　quintessential　image　of　horror。　When　she　lived　at　home；　her　mother　forbade　her　to　lock　the　bathroom　door。　What　she　meant　by　her　injunction　was：　Your　body　is　just　like　all　other　bodies；　you　have　no　right　to　shame；　you　have　no　reason　to　hide　something　that　exists　in　millions　of　identical　copies。　In　her　mother's　world　all　bodies　were　the　same　and　marched　behind　one　another　in　formation。　Since　childhood；　Tereza　had　seen　nudity　as　a　sign　of　concentration　camp　uniformity；　a　sign　of　humiliation。
There　was　yet　another　horror　at　the　very　beginning　of　the　dream：　all　the　women　had　to　sing！　Not　only　were　their　bodies　identical；　identically　worthless；　not　only　were　their　bodies　mere　resounding　soulless　mechanisms—the　women　rejoiced　over　it！　Theirs　was　the　joyful　solidarity　of　the　soulless。　The　women　were　pleased　at　having　thrown　off　the　ballast　of　the　soul—that　laughable　conceit；　that　illusion　of　uniqueness—to　become　one　like　the　next。　Tereza　sang　with　them；　but　did　not　rejoice。　She　sang　because　she　was　afraid　that　if　she　did　not　sing　the　women　would　kill　her。
But　what　was　the　meaning　of　the　fact　that　Tomas　shot　at　them；　toppling　one　after　another　into　the　pool；　dead？
The　women；　overjoyed　by　their　sameness；　their　lack　of　diversity；　were；　in　fact；　celebrating　their　imminent　demise；　which　would　render　their　sameness　absolute。　So　Tomas's　shots　were　merely　the　joyful　climax　to　their　morbid　march。　After　every　report　of　his　pistol；　they　burst　into　joyous　laughter；　and　as　each　corpse　sank　beneath　the　surface；　they　sang　even　louder。
But　why　was　Tomas　the　one　doing　the　shooting？　And　why　was　he　out　to　shoot　Tereza　with　the　rest　of　them？
Because　he　was　the　one　who　sent　Tereza　to　join　them。　That　was　what　the　dream　was　meant　to　tell　Tomas；　what　Tereza　was　unable　to　tell　him　herself。　She　had　come　to　him　to　escape　her　mother's　world；　a　world　where　all　bodies　were　equal。　She　had　come　to　him　to　make　her　body　unique；　irreplaceable。　But　he；　too；　had　drawn　an　equal　sign　between　her　and　the　rest　of　them：　he　kissed　them　all　alike；　stroked　them　alike；　made　no；　absolutely　no　distinction　between　Tereza's　body　and　the　other　bodies。　He　had　sent　her　back　into　the　world　she　tried　to　escape；　sent　her　to　march　naked　with　the　other　naked　women。
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She　would　dream　three　series　of　dreams　in　succession：　the　first　was　of　cats　going　berserk　and　referred　to　the　sufferings　she　had　gone　through　in　her　lifetime；　the　second　was　images　of　her　execution　and　came　in　countless　variations；　the　third　was　of　her　life　after　death；　when　humiliation　turned　into　a　never…ending　state。
The　dreams　left　nothing　to　be　deciphered。　The　accusation　they　leveled　at　Tomas　was　so　clear　that　his　only　reaction　was　to　hang　his　head　and　stroke　her　hand　without　a　word。
The　dreams　were　eloquent；　but　they　were　also　beautiful。　That　aspect　seems　to　have　escaped　Freud　in　his　theory　of　dreams。　Dreaming　is　not　merely　an　act　of　communication　（or　coded　communication；　if　you　like）；　it　is　also　an　aesthetic　activity；　a　game　of　the　imagination；　a　game　that　is　a　value　in　itself。　Our　dreams　prove　that　to　imagine—to　dream　about　things　that　have　not　happened—is　among　mankind's　deepest　needs。　Herein　lies　the　danger。　If　dreams　were　not　beautiful；　they　would　quickly　be　forgotten。　But　Tereza　kept　coming　back　to　her　dreams；　running　through　them　in　her　mind；　turning　them　into　legends。　Tomas　lived　under　the　hypnotic　spell　cast　by　the　excruciating　beauty　of　Tereza's　dreams。
Dear　Tereza；　sweet　Tereza；　what　am　I　losing　you　to？　he　once　said　to　her　as　they　sat　face　to　face　in　a　wine　cellar。　Every　night　you　dream　of　death　as　if　you　really　wished　to　quit　this　world。　。　。　。　
It　was　day；　reason　and　will　power　were　back　in　place。　A　drop　of　red　wine　ran　slowly　down　her　glass　as　she　answered。　There's　nothing　I　can　do　about　it；　Tomas。　Oh；　I　understand。　I　know　you　love　me。　I　know　your　infidelities　are　no　great　tragedy　。。。　
She　looked　at　him　with　love　in　her　eyes；　but　she　feared　the　night　ahead；　feared　her　dreams。　Her　life　was　split。　Both　day　and　night　were　competing　for　her。
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Anyone　whose　goal　is　something　higher　must　expect　some　day　to　suffer　vertigo。　What　is　vertigo？　Fear　of　falling？　Then　why　do　we　feel　it　even　when　the　observation　tower　comes　equipped　with　a　sturdy　handrail？　No；　vertigo　is　something　other　than　the　fear　of　falling。　It　is　the　voice　of　the　emptiness　below　us　which　tempts　and　lures　us；　it　is　the　desire　to　fall；　against　which；　terrified；　we　defend　ourselves。
The　naked　women　marching　around　the　swimming　pool；　the　corpses　in　the　hearse　rejoicing　that　she；　too；　was　dead—　these　were　the　down　below　she　had　feared　and　fled　once　before　but　which　mysteriously　beckoned　her。　These　were　her　vertigo：　she　heard　a　sweet　（almost　joyous）　summons　to　renounce　her　fate　and　soul。　The　solidarity　of　the　soulless　calling　her。　And　in　times　of　weakness；　she　was　ready　to　heed　the　call　and　return　to　her　mother。　She　was　ready　to　dismiss　the　crew　of　her　soul　from　the　deck　of　her　body；　ready　to　descend　to　a　place　among　her　mother's　friends　and　laugh　when　one　of　them　broke　wind　noisily；　ready　to　march　around　the　pool　naked　with　them　and　sing。
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True；　Tereza　fought　with　her　mother　until　the　day　she　left　home；　but　let　us　not　forget　that　she　never　stopped　loving　her。　She　would　have　done　anything　for　her　if　her　mother　had　asked　in　a　loving　voice。　The　only　reason　she　found　the　strength　to　leave　was　that　she　never　heard　that　voice。
When　Tereza's　mother　realized　that　her　aggressiveness　no　longer　had　any　power　over　her　daughter；　she　started　writing　her　querulous