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h the worse for him。 Internal imperatives are all the more powerful and therefore all the more of an inducement to revolt。
Being a surgeon means slitting open the surface of things and looking at what lies hidden inside。 Perhaps Tomas was led to surgery by a desire to know what lies hidden on the other side of Es muss sein！ ； in other words； what remains of life when a person rejects what he previously considered his mission。
The day he reported to the good…natured woman responsible for the cleanliness of all shop windows and display cases in Prague； and was confronted with the result of his decision in all its concrete and inescapable reality； he went into a state of shock； a state that kept him in its thrall during the first few days of his new job。 But once he got over the astounding strangeness of his new life （it took him about a week）； he suddenly realized he was simply on a long holiday。
Here he was； doing things he didn't care a damn about； and enjoying it。 Now he understood what made people （people he always pitied） happy when they took a job without feeling the compulsion of an internal Es muss sein！ and forgot it the moment they left for home every evening。 This was the first time he had felt that blissful indifference。 Whenever anything went wrong on the operating table； he would be despondent and unable to sleep。 He would even lose his taste for women。 The Es muss sein！ of his profession had been like a vampire sucking his blood。
Now he roamed the streets of Prague with brush and pole； feeling ten years younger。 The salesgirls all called him doctor （the Prague bush telegraph was working better than ever） and asked his advice about their colds； aching backs； and irregular periods。 They seemed almost embarrassed to watch him douse the glass with water； fit the brush on the end of the pole； and start washing。 If they could have left their customers alone in the shops； they would surely have grabbed the pole from his hands and washed the windows for him。
Most of Tomas's orders came from large shops； but his boss sent him out to private customers； too。 People were still reacting to the mass persecution of Czech intellectuals with the euphoria of solidarity； and when his former patients found out that Tomas was washing windows for a living； they would phone in and order him by name。 Then they would greet him with a bottle of champagne or slivovitz； sign for thirteen windows on the order slip； and chat with him for two hours； drinking his health all the while。 Tomas would move on to his next flat or shop in a capital mood。 While the families of Russian officers settled in throughout the land and radios intoned ominous reports of police functionaries who had replaced cashiered broadcasters； Tomas reeled through the streets of Prague from one glass of wine to the next like someone going from party to party。 It was his grand holiday。
He had reverted to his bachelor existence。 Tereza was suddenly out of his life。 The only times he saw her were when she came back from the bar late at night and he woke befuddled from a half…sleep； and in the morning； when she was the befuddled one and he was hurrying off to work。 Each workday； he had sixteen hours to himself； an unexpected field of freedom。 And from Tomas's early youth that had meant women。
9
When his friends asked him how many women he had had in his life； he would try to evade the question； and when they pressed him further he would say； Well； two hundred； give or take a few。 The envious among them accused him of stretching the truth。 That's not so many； he said by way of self…defense。 I've been involved with women for about twenty…five years now。 Divide two hundred by twenty…five and you'll see it comes to only eight or so new women a year。 That's not so many； is it？
But setting up house with Tereza cramped his style。 Because of the organizational difficulties it entailed； he had been forced to relegate his erotic activities to a narrow strip of time （between the operating room and home） which； though he had used it intensively （as a mountain farmer tills his narrow plot for all it is worth）； was nothing like the sixteen hours that now had suddenly been bestowed on him。 （I say sixteen hours because the eight hours he spent washing windows were filled with new salesgirls； housewives； and female functionaries； each of whom represented a potential erotic engagement。）
What did he look for in them？ What attracted him to them？ Isn't making love merely an eternal repetition of the same？
Not at all。 There is always the small part that is unimaginable。 When he saw a woman in her clothes； he could naturally imagine more or less what she would look like naked （his experience as a doctor supplementing his experience as a lover）； but between the approximation of the idea and the precision of reality there was a small gap of the unimaginable； and it was this hiatus that gave him no rest。 And then； the pursuit of the unimaginable does not stop with the revelations of nudity； it goes much further： How would she behave while undressing？ What would she say when he made love to her？ How would her sighs sound？ How would her face distort at the moment of orgasm？
What is unique about the I hides itself exactly in what is unimaginable about a person。 All we are able to imagine is what makes everyone like everyone else； what people have in common。 The individual I is what differs from the common stock； that is； what cannot be guessed at or calculated； what must be unveiled； uncovered； conquered。
Tomas； who had spent the last ten years of his medical practice working exclusively with the human brain； knew that there was nothing more difficult to capture than the human I。 There are many more resemblances between Hitler and Einstein or Brezhnev and Solzhenitsyn than there are differences。 Using numbers； we might say that there is one…millionth part dissimilarity to nine hundred ninety…nine thousand nine hundred ninety…nine millionths parts similarity。
Tomas was obsessed by the desire to discover and appropriate that one…millionth part； he saw it as the core of his obsession。 He was not obsessed with women； he was obsessed with what in each of them is unimaginable； obsessed； in other words； with the one…millionth part that makes a woman dissimilar to others of her sex。
（Here too； perhaps； his passion for surgery and his passion for women came together。 Even with his mistresses； he could never quite put down the imaginary scalpel。 Since he longed to take possession of something deep inside them； he needed to slit them open。）
We may ask； of course； why he sought that millionth part dissimilarity in sex and nowhere else。 Why couldn't he find it； say； in a woman's gait or culinary caprices or artistic taste？
To be sure； the millionth part dissimilarity is present in all areas of human existence； but in all areas other than sex it is exposed and needs no one to discover it； needs no scalpel。 One woman prefers cheese at the end of the meal； another loathes cauliflower； and although each may demonstrate her originality thereby； it is an originality that demonstrates its own irrelevance and warns us to pay it no heed； to expect nothing of value to come of it。
Only in sexuality does the milliont