Back when I was four years old, I taught myself to read. I enjoyed deciphering the many inscriptions surrounding me. Even then, I remember a dream, incomparable with anything seen around me – inexpressible – I just felt it slipping away from my memory and tried to recall it again and again, to revive it. It was a recollection of things that could not be experienced. I did not understand it, and in my childlike way I wanted to figure out the nature of the world. I loved books, which were to me like islands of clarity, where I could repose. Around that time, I was totally in awe of ballet-dancers and heard Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto in B minor for the first time. I started going to school only after that.

Later, when I was 15, I wrote my first story. Writing was my only way to avoid going stir crazy. I tend to recall I had nightmares at that time. I always had at hand a book, and sometimes not because of reading, but by way of a sacred amulet, like a pilgrim’s holy icon. I also created my own style of writing that combined elements of both printed and cursive script, also thanks to some boredom in the classroom. I was fascinated by black holes and fungi and I made notes about them. I tried to grasp the workings of the world through the very small and the largest aspects. At that time, I wanted to become a journalist and somehow to reach the sea. Under communism, these were both unattainable dreams.

Later still, when I was officially an adult, I was drawn back toward writing and calligraphy. This was when I also got into the natural sciences: geochemistry, thermodynamics especially. I studied how regular patterns arose in nature, and I spent some years popularizing mathematical logic and philosophy of science. I published articles about the hallucinogens of the fly agaric mushroom, amanita muscaria, and modelling periodic precipitation, and on the connection between higher order logic and the central notion of surrealism: dreamlike alienation. By then, I was regularly jotting down my dreams. This was the time I totally fell for Renaissance (or late Gothic) painting, and began to pay serious attention to prose writing.

Now I write books and explore how to communicate the intangible. But it all started back then, with that dream, which seemed to be from some other place. So it would seem that, basically, the inception of consciousness is a function of memory. I am still exploring how the world works. It fascinates me that one can think about things one cannot have any physical experience of, such as black holes or dreamlike alienation. This is literally magical.

In the sciences, systems can be understood only at the cost of leaving some part of them simply unconsidered, missed out.

There were also other events beyond those listed here. But that’s how it is with all biographies, is it not? And yet, the quintessence is singular.


cz | en | ru