40/CHRONICLESnBut it was so far that we saw nothing.nThe next day we took the socialistnsubway, built on the Paris model butnfunctioning somewhat unsocialisticallyn—that is, very well. We got off at thenfifth stop (the third was thenGottwaldowa cultural center, a cementnwedding cake) and found ourselves in anFlorence of the North! This Prague is andormant princess—a German one, Inmay add. Its center, with centuries ofnart, is majestic and subtle, aristocraticnand bourgeois, imperial and Catholic.nThe Hradcanny castle quartier assemblesnexquisite architectural marvels,nand looking down from the bastionnwalls you may easily count 50 churchnsteeples — Romanesque, gothic, andnbaroque—beautifully harmonized.nNot only churches: palaces, squares,nparks, narrow medieval streets, 19thcenturynopera, fine statues — all of itnbequeathed by the nobility, the church,nthe empire, or the bourgeoisie. Thenmark of the Communist regime is onlyndesolation; it built nothing, but onlynconspired to let the past peel off thenwalls.nAs we turned a corner, we saw thenCharles Bridge. It was a religious experience.nImagine a stone bridge, sonsimple that it fills your eyes and soul atnonce. None but an art- and learninglovingnemperor of the “Dark Ages”n(Charles IV) would dare build thisnbridge, then place on its dark sandcolorednparapets the black metal statuesnof saints with gilded crowns, scepters,nand crosses. Cars are not allowed;nthe bridge lives with ordinary humanity,nconnecting two old parts of Praguenlike a holy wedding band. At everyncorner, the streets and squares surprisenyou with styles, from the 14th to then19th century. A walk through the oldncity is like promenading through time,nat least as much as in Vienna (Praguentoo was the capital of an empire),nalmost as much as in Paris or Romen(both of which are, after all, muchnmore ancient).nNow this was the good news. Thenbad news is that almost all structures,nfrom the cathedral on Hradcanny tonSt. Jakob, are in bad repair, the wallsnpeeling and leprous, the churchesn”closed for restoration,” many buildingsnpractically in a state of collapse. Isnthis the consequence of ill will, neglect,nor lack of funds? Probably allnthree, but in some places restoration isnproceeding, such as on the housenwhere Kafka lived. At every turnnPrague breathes an ancient culturalntradition: its church music, its privatencircles where members read great literature,nits cafe terraces, museums,nprincely palaces, even the tiny workshopsnbehind the castle wherenalchemists and goldsmiths used tonwork. (Emperor Rudolf II’s court alchemistnwas none other than astronomernKepler.)nOutside the city’s beautiful core,nthere spreads to infinity the most desolatenpostwar “living area” I ever saw.nThe concrete blocks perfectly symbolizenMarxist thought and its conceptionnof man. In the city of two Karls — thenemperor and Marx—what else can theninhabitants be but morose, unsmiling,noften brutal in their contact with eachnother and with visitors? Restaurantsnand cafes serve inedible food, waitersnare impatient and rude, the clientsnpoorly dressed. It is an all-aroundnproletarization.nPrague provides a great lesson innpolitical philosophy, by its juxtapositionnof culture and barbarism. The first isnrepresented by the extraordinary richnessnof cityscape. Italian, German,nCzech, and Flemish architects passednthrough here, working for bishops, andnnoble families endowed with tested andnsubtle taste. These past patrons knewnwhat they wanted and discussed it withntheir artists. (Only the late-bourgeois ofnthe 19th century and the yuppy generationnof this one submit to the “interiorndecorator” and his showroom taste.)nPrague — Catholic, Hapsburg-imperial—becamena miracle of harmony bynwhich the excellence of taste darednexpress itself in many styles. This townnis the crowning beauty of CatholicnCentral Europe; it suffered from nonbombs.nNow it suffers from barbarism. Thisnjewel box is squeezed by endlesslynstretching Stalinist blocs, the proof thatnregimes and their art are in subtlencorrespondence. Ideologues do notnbuild but construct; they mechanizeninner life because it is the source ofnimagination and incalculable desires.nNowhere did I understand Marxism asnfully as at Sankt Jakob Platz. In theirngreed for the dollar and the deutschenmark, the gray and nameless authoritiesn(one inevitably thinks of Kafka,nwhose windows happen to be nearby)nnnmust have decided on its restoration tonattract tourists. But there seems to be anglee {Schadenfreude) on the noticesnposted: “temporarily closed to thenpublic” — or no notices at all,ndisinforming you thereby that younstand on architecturally sacred groundnand that you could be in a wonderland,nhad the authorities not decidednotherwise. In short, I recommendnPrague to lovers of beauty and to thenstudents of art (although the two arennot necessarily the same), as well as tonthose in need of a lesson in the finerntype of destruction that Marxism inflictsnon God’s and man’s handiwork.nThomas Molnar is on the faculty ofnThe City University of New York andnauthor of The Pagan Temptation.nLetter From thenHeartlandnby Jane GreernLumpenpolitics: A LamentnElection Day nears, and two facelessncandidates leer ahead of us like dopestarvednpunks who know there’s nowherenelse for us to go. They need a fix,nand in the process we’ll lose our moneynand our dignity. If that’s all we lose, Inguess we’re lucky.nThese strange men (and the occasionalnodd woman) who want to benPresident seem to operate outside any ofnWestern civilization’s ethical considerations.nThey violate every rule the rest ofnus learned in kindergarten, Sundaynschool, and at our mothers’ knees. Theyntell lies. They make promises they knownthey can’t keep. They covet what belongsnto others. Each one would sacrificenhis first-born child to live in a largenwhite house in a city that most of usnhere in the Heartland consider the endsnof the earth—somewhere to visit patriotically,ndutifully, but no place to raise anfamily.nMostly, though, it’s not the unsavoryncharacter of all the candidates that bothersnme so much as the feeling that theyncome from the planet Grzyk, a millionnlight years from reality. I’m sure thesenguys would all make fine neighbors, butnwhen a man gets it into his head that henwants to be President, not only alln