While Ulrich was signing, he asked the man if he had already seen those electrically driven sausage machines with a picture of Saint Luke as patron of the guild of butchers; he himself, he said, had once seen them in Brussels—but before he could expect to receive an answer, this man had been displaced by another who also wanted something from him and who was a reporter from the leading local newspaper seeking information for the obituary. Ulrich dismissed the undertaker, but as soon as he began to recite to the journalist the most important events in his father’s life, he realized he did not know what was important and what wasn’t, and his visitor had to come to his aid. Only then, thanks to the precision grip of a curiosity trained to isolate essentials, did the interview get underway, and Ulrich began to feel as if he were present at the creation of the world. The reporter, a young man, asked if the old gentleman had died after a long illness, or unexpectedly, and when Ulrich answered that his father had continued lecturing until the last week of his life, the resulting formulation was: . . . in the full exercise and enjoyment of his powers. Then the chips began to fly off the old gentleman’s life until all that was left were some ribs and joints: Born in Protivín in 1844 . . . attended these and those schools and universities . . . appointed to the post of . . . on this and that date . . . appointed as . . . until finally, with five appointments and honorary degrees, the essential facts were nearly exhausted. A marriage in between. A few books. Once he almost became minister of justice, but ran into opposition from some quarters. The reporter took notes, Ulrich checked them, everything was correct. The reporter was pleased, he had the requisite number of lines. Ulrich was astonished at the small heap of ashes that remains of a life. For every piece of information supplied, the reporter had a coach-and-six phrase at the ready: distinguished scholar, wide-­ranging sympathies, forward-looking but cautious politician, a Renaissance man, and so forth; apparently no one had died for a considerable time and the long-unused words were hungry for employment. Ulrich reflected: he would have liked to add a kind word about his father, but the chronicler had his facts and was putting his notebook away, and the rest was like trying to take hold of the contents of a glass of water without the glass.