One year of Michal Viewegh
Shouldn't today - both my once unquestionable, long-lasting love for Veronica (however tragically ended) and my once unquestionable, even longer friendship with Martin (albeit later also shipwrecked) - be a cause for celebration rather than mourning? Shouldn't my usual anger at Veronika and Martin - as well as my legitimate sense of injustice - perhaps be replaced at least sometimes by simple gratitude? In gratitude for having received many years of love and many years of friendship in the first place? Today begins the meteorological autumn, the poetic time of autumn fields of pain. Well, we will see. The year 2020 has probably been the strangest and, unfortunately, often the most painful time ever for a large part of the inhabitants of this planet. The year that changed everything - even though it was cancelled most of the time. Three hundred and sixty-five days in the life of Czech society, three hundred and sixty-five days in the life of a writer, Father, brother, son, partner or a citizen of Sázava.
