Peter Handke - The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick

Nobody sat next to him now. Bloch retreated into the corner and put his legs up on the seat. He untied his shoes, leaned against the side window, and looked over at the window on the other side. He held his hands behind his neck, pushed a crumb off the seat with his foot, pressed his arms against his ears, and looked at his elbows in front of him. He pushed the insides of his elbows against his temples, sniffed at his shirtsleeves, rubbed his chin against his upper arm, laid back his head, and looked up at the ceiling lights. There was no end to it any more. The only thing he could think of was to sit up.
The shadows of the trees behind the guard rails circled around the trees themselves. The wipers that lay on the windshield did not point exactly the same direction. The ticket tray next to the driver seemed open. Something like a glove lay in the center aisle of the bus. Cows were sleeping in the meadows next to the road. It was no use denying any of that.
Gradually more and more passengers got off a their stops. They stood next to the driver until he let them out in front. When the bus stood still, Bloch heard the canvas fluttering on the roof. Then the bus stopped again, and he heard welcoming shouts outside in the dark.Farther on, he recognized a railroad crossing without gates.
Just before midnight the bus stopped at the border town. Bloch immediately took a room at the inn by the bus stop. He asked the girl who showed him upstairs about his girlfriend, whose first name - Hertha - was all he knew. She was able to give him the information: his girlfriend had rented a tavern not far from town. In the room Bloch asked the girl, who was still in the doorway, about the meaning of all that noise. "Some of the guys are still bowling," the girl answered, and left. Without looking around, Bloch undressed, washed his hands, and lay down on the bed. The rumbling and crashing downstairs went on for quite a while. But Bloch had already fallen asleep.

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Nadechnout a - Peter Handke. Speciální kategorie spisovatele. Cokoli jsem od něho četla, se mi četlo namáhavě až protivně, rozčilovala mě nejasnost věcí, víceznačnost, naprostý nezájem autora o věrohodnost napsaného, bezbřehá temnota. Ale. Po dočtení mě jeho knihy pronásledovaly týdny, vynořovaly se z nich jednotlivé obrazy, ve snech jsem cestovala stejná podivná, přízračná, zdánlivě bezcílná putování jako hrdinové. Dodnes si s některými nevím rady, ale do ruky je beru jen když si připadám odvážná, jinak mě úplně převálcují. Tahle konkrétní je snový noční thriller o bývalém fotbalovém brankáři, děj vlastně není nijak podstatný.

Speciální prosba, bude nejspíš pokaždé, když přijde na Handkeho řada. Už dlouho marně sháním jeho knihu Za temné noci jsem vyšel ze svého tichého domu. Četla jsem ji (půjčenou z knihovny) a ráda bych ji vlastnila (z důvodů víc osobních než literárních), ale nemůžu ji nikde objevit. Kdybyste na ni kdekoli narazili, případně se jí chtěli zbavit, napište mi (plotím zlotem!).