How Prague cured me of my communism

Proust can keep his soggy madeleine. For me the word ‘Prague’ is a trigger of memory like no other. It stirs me up like some plaintive half-heard tune, or the faint scent of lavender in sheets left folded for years. Evil news from Prague, in another stuffy August long ago, turned my world over completely.

Raccontata daspectator.com