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nowhere else。
He was so upset he sat straight up in bed。 Tereza was breathing deeply beside him。 The woman in the dream； he thought； was unlike any he had ever met。 The woman he felt he knew most intimately of all had turned out to be a woman he did not even know。 And yet she was the one he had always longed for。 If a personal paradise were ever to exist for him； then in that paradise he would have to live by her side。 The woman from his dream was the Es muss sein！ of his love。
He suddenly recalled the famous myth from Plato's Symposium： People were hermaphrodites until God split them in two； and now all the halves wander the world over seeking one another。 Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost。
Let us suppose that such is the case； that somewhere in the world each of us has a partner who once formed part of our body。 Tomas's other part is the young woman he dreamed about。 The trouble is； man does not find the other part of himself。 Instead； he is sent a Tereza in a bulrush basket。 But what happens if he nevertheless later meets the one who was meant for him； the other part of himself？ Whom is he to prefer？ The woman from the bulrush basket or the woman from Plato's myth？
He tried to picture himself living in an ideal world with the young woman from the dream。 He sees Tereza walking past the open windows of their ideal house。 She is alone and stops to look in at him with an infinitely sad expression in her eyes。 He cannot withstand her glance。 Again； he feels her pain in his own heart。 Again； he falls prey to compassion and sinks deep into her soul。 He leaps out of the window； but she tells him bitterly to stay where he feels happy； making those abrupt； angular movements that so annoyed and displeased him。 He grabs her nervous hands and presses them between his own to calm them。 And he knows that time and again he will abandon the house of his happiness； time and again abandon his paradise and the woman from his dream and betray the Es muss sein！ of his love to go off with Tereza； the woman born of six laughable fortuities。
All this time he was sitting up in bed and looking at the woman who was lying beside him and holding his hand in her sleep。 He felt an ineffable love for her。 Her sleep must have been very light at the moment because she opened her eyes and gazed up at him questioningly。
What are you looking at？ she asked。
He knew that instead of waking her he should lull her back to sleep； so he tried to come up with an answer that would plant the image of a new dream in her mind。
I'm looking at the stars； he said。
Don't say you're looking at the stars。 That's a lie。 You're looking down。
That's because we're in an airplane。 The stars are below us。
Oh； in an airplane； said Tereza； squeezing his hand even tighter and falling asleep again。 And Tomas knew that Tereza was looking out of the round window of an airplane flying high above the stars。
PART SIX
The Grand March
1
Not until 1980 were we able to read in the Sunday Times how Stalin's son； Yakov； died。 Captured by the Germans during the Second World War； he was placed in a camp together with a group of British officers。 They shared a latrine。 Stalin's son habitually left a foul mess。 The British officers resented having their latrine smeared with shit； even if it was the shit of the son of the most powerful man in the world。 They brought the matter to his attention。 He took offense。 They brought it to his attention again and again； and tried to make him clean the latrine。 He raged； argued； and fought。 Finally； he demanded a hearing with the camp commander。 He wanted the commander to act as arbiter。 But the arrogant German refused to talk about shit。 Stalin's son could not stand the humiliation。 Crying out to heaven in the most terrifying of Russian curses； he took a running jump into the electrified barbed…wire fence that surrounded the camp。 He hit the target。 His body； which would never again make a mess of the Britishers' latrine； was pinned to the wire。
2
Stalin's son had a hard time of it。 All evidence points to the conclusion that his father killed the woman by whom he had the boy。 Young Stalin was therefore both the Son of God （because his father was revered like God） and His cast…off。 People feared him twofold： he could injure them by both his wrath （he was； after all； Stalin's son） and his favor （his father might punish his cast…off son's friends in order to punish him）。
Rejection and privilege； happiness and woe—no one felt more concretely than Yakov how interchangeable opposites are； how short the step from one pole of human existence to the other。
Then； at the very outset of the war； he fell prisoner to the Germans； and other prisoners； belonging to an incomprehensible； standoffish nation that had always been intrinsically repulsive to him； accused him of being dirty。 Was he； who bore on his shoulders a drama of the highest order （as fallen angel and Son of God）； to undergo judgment not for something sublime （in the realm of God and the angels） but for shit？ Were the very highest of drama and the very lowest so vertiginously close？
Vertiginously close？ Can proximity cause vertigo？
It can。 When the north pole comes so close as to touch the south pole； the earth disappears and man finds himself in a void that makes his head spin and beckons him to fall。
If rejection and privilege are one and the same； if there is no difference between the sublime and the paltry； if the Son of God can undergo judgment for shit； then human existence loses its dimensions and becomes unbearably light。 When Stalin's son ran up to the electrified wire and hurled his body at it； the fence was like the pan of a scales sticking pitifully up in the air； lifted by the infinite lightness of a world that has lost its dimensions。
Stalin's son laid down his life for shit。 But a death for shit is not a senseless death。 The Germans who sacrificed their lives to expand their country's territory to the east； the Russians who died to extend their country's power to the west—yes； they died for something idiotic； and their deaths have no meaning or general validity。 Amid the general idiocy of the war； the death of Stalin's son stands out as the sole metaphysical death。
3
When I was small and would leaf through the Old Testament retold for children and illustrated in engravings by Gustave Dore； I saw the Lord God standing on a cloud。 He was an old man with eyes； nose； and a long beard； and I would say to myself that if He had a mouth； He had to eat。 And if He ate； He had intestines。 But that thought always gave me a fright； because even though I come from a family that was not particularly religious； I felt the idea of a divine intestine to be sacrilegious。
Spontaneously； without any theological training； I； a child； grasped the incompatibility of God and shit and thus came to question the basic thesis of Christian anthropology； namely； that man was created in God's image。 Either/or： either man was created in God's image—and God has intestines！—or God lacks intestines and man is not like Him。
The ancient Gnostics felt as I did at the age of five。 In the second century； the great Gnostic master Valentinus resolved the damnable dilemma by claiming th