Love, and its failures, are more than a symptom of the disjointed modern world described by Balabán in his stories. Rather, he uses them, not unlike Oldřich’s therapy, as a symbol for the cause of the disease: the rampant selfishness that sits at the root of societal atomisation. This is especially seen in the aforementioned “At the Communists,” in which the s*x act for Leoš is so auto-erotic in nature, that it can be replaced just as easily by onanism:
I c’n toss off at home under the covers on the airport even drunk. Three, four times a night, no problem. Of course, Leoš can do it, Leošek. Leoš, after Brezhnev, of course, Leonid! Not f*****g Emperor Leopold, first or second! I don’t have the good heart of an emperor. Don’t have a good one, or a bad one. Don’t have any at all.
Whatever
