The poet’s grandmother

I was nineteen when, in my hometown, a young academic gave a public lecture; it was during the first months of the Communist revolution, and bowing to the spirit of the time, he talked about the social responsibility of art. After the conference, there was a discussion; what I remember is, the poet Josef Kainar…who, in response to the scholar’s talk, told this anecdote:

A little boy takes his blind grandmother for a walk. They are strolling down the street and from time to time the little boy says, “Grandma watch out—a root!” Thinking she is on a forest trail, the old woman keeps jumping. Passersby scold the little boy: “Son, you’re treating your grandmother so badly!” And the little boy says: “She’s my grandma! I’ll treat her any way I want!” And Kainar finishes, “That’s me, that’s how I am about my poetry.”

—Milan Kundera, The Curtain