#4 ALL MY CATS (8/10)

by Bohumil Hrabal

I picked this one up in a secondhand bookshop in Stockholm after spending the morning pretending to be a cat, with other people. We were under the formal instruction of a dance choreographer called Pontus Pettersson. I ended up in his studio because I’d spotted his poster taped to a lamppost—it caught my eye because it was sweet and hand-drawn; I like lampposts.

Mr. Hrabal, (I can address you directly because this book is autobiographical)

Mr. Hrabal,

I love how your head is so full of your cats even your manuscript admits mistakes. I love how aware you are of all their catty little things and how they talk to you in the morning when you can’t sleep like good mmmmmmoooooorning Mr. Hrabal you were having a bad dream go back to sleep…….sleeeeeeeeeep now Mr. Hraballllllllll———now wake! Wake! You remember how much you like to feed us. You don’t? But our stomach’s rumbling. It’s not? Then stroke us. Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. That should do it. Where’s our chin? Only you know how to scratch that. Yessssssssssssssss. Up a bit. Now down

down

down. That’s ittttt. You’re the beeeeesssssssst. Enough. Breakfast? What was that sound? We must investigate. But first, more cuddles. Yes right here under the blankets—ah life is good when you have a warm bed and a loving human

You know, stuff like that.

I like the sexual resonances (subtle) of the ways you interact with them too. You say you’ve reached an age where being in love with a beautiful human is beyond your reach because you’re balding and your face is full of wrinkles but I don’t think it would stop me. Blackie, your favourite cat, swoons whenever you pick her up. (And I bet she isn’t even a rag-doll.) You hold her up to your head and whisper sweet nothings in her ear—what do you say?

[missing in action]

Most of all though I like joining you on your early morning walks because the way you speak about snow makes my heart stop. You’re walking through the woods in the outskirts of Prague in a deep glittering twilight and when you crunch through the snow you say it’s as if you’re breaking through the glass that covers a hot bed? …. ugh. That makes me want to crack my neck—in a good way.

Do you know I finished you in one sitting? That’s how I like to enjoy a book. And I kissed your red cover at the end?

It was good but weighty, Mr. Hrabal. On my heart, Mr. Hrabal. I actually had to breathe to take the edge off. The mass of. This book may have been small, but it was massoff.

Next.