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       I don't know: when it happened to me: or rather: when it didn't happen to me: but the national pride
and awareness are all Greek to me. I've never felt anything so special.   Looking at the fertile fields and
high peaks of my birthplace: I can have an equally tumultuous emotion:     as when I look at the fog spread
across Iceland - my eyes glide through Vincent's Hložník drawings: as hungrily and enviously:        as for
example through those:  on which is written in cube Schiele. Banič: Newton: Ondruš: Rilke: Štrpka: Cohen ..
       One way or another:  I don't see any artist in our country today: whose work is Slovak:   in such a
true and lively way: as the work of Petr Hapka and Michal Horáček: is Czech.
       So: this year's Cruel Prize for Truth 2013: I proudly present to these two gentlemen  - for the Snow
Owl- for the ill ruined voice of Jana Kirshner - for the stories - for the strange love:    "I am writing a
letter to you at the hotel in Olomouc .. with a foreign woman .."  :for the Czech pub:     for the drunkard
choirs. For the most beautiful circus. For a lot.
       Of course: in addition to dense prestige: they also gain the permanent privilege of being   - at any
time - marked with the title: The Poet.