Read The JOKE for Free Online

smile, yes, what those years said of themselves was that they were the most joyous of years, and anyone who failed to rejoice was immediately suspected of lamenting the victory of the working class or (what was equally sinful) giving way individualistically to inner sorrows.
    I had few inner sorrows at that time, and moreover, I had a considerable sense of fun; even so it can't be said that I fully succeeded with regard to the joyousness of the era: my jokes were not serious enough as long as contemporary joy could tolerate neither pranks nor irony, being, as I said, a grave joy that proudly called itself "the historical optimism of the victorious class," a solemn and ascetic joy, in short, Joy with a capital J.
    I remember how we were all organized into "study groups" that met for frequent criticism and self-criticism sessions culminating in formal evaluations of each member. Like every Communist at the time, I had a number of functions (I held an important post in the Students Union), and since I was also quite a good student, I could pretty well count on receiving a positive evaluation. If the public testimonials to my loyalty to the State, my hard work, and my knowledge of Marxism tended to be followed by a phrase along the lines of "harbors traces of individualism," I had no reason to be alarmed: it was customary to include some critical remark in even the most positive evaluations, to censure one person for "lack of interest in revolutionary theory," another for "lack of warmth in personal relations," a third for "lack of caution and vigilance," a fourth for
    "lack of respect for women." But the moment a remark like that was not the only factor under consideration (when it was joined by another or when someone came into conflict with a colleague or was under suspicion or attack), those "traces of individualism," that
    "lack of respect for women," could sow the seeds of destruction. And each of us carried the first fatal seed with him in the form of his Party record; yes, every one of us.
    Sometimes (more in sport than from real concern) I defended myself against the charge of individualism and demanded from the others proof that I was an individualist. For want of concrete evidence they would say, "It's the way you behave." "How do I behave?" "You have a strange kind of smile." "And if I do? That's how I express my joy."
    "No, you smile as though you were thinking to yourself."
    When the Comrades classified my conduct and my smile as intellectual (another notorious pejorative of the times), I actually came to believe them because I couldn't imagine (I wasn't bold enough to imagine) that everyone else might be wrong, that the Revolution itself, the spirit of the times, might be wrong and I, an individual, might be right. I began to keep tabs on my smiles, and soon I felt a tiny crack opening up between the person I had been and the person I should be (according to the spirit of the times) and tried to be.
    But which was the real me? Let me be perfectly honest: I was a man of many faces.
    And the faces kept multiplying. About a month before summer I began to get close to Marketa (she was finishing her first year, I my second), and like all twenty-year-olds I tried to impress her by donning a mask and pretending to be older (in spirit and experience) than I was: I assumed an air of detachment, of aloofness; I made believe I had an extra layer of skin, invisible and impenetrable. I thought (quite rightly) that by joking I would establish my detachment, and though I had always been good at it, the line I used on Marketa always seemed forced, artificial, and tedious.
    Who was the real me? I can only repeat: I was a man of many faces.

    At meetings I was earnest, enthusiastic, and committed; among friends, unconstrained and given to teasing; with Marketa, cynical and fitfully witty; and alone (and thinking of Marketa), unsure of myself and as agitated as a schoolboy.
    Was that last face the real one?
    No. They were all real: I