The “Greatest Czech of All Time”… Almost

I promised this Jara Cimrman article a long time ago, so here it is. It might be up on the Prague Wanderer site as well. As a sidenote, I was considering expanding on the Cimrman phenomenon for my travel writing final piece, and while researching I came across his Facebook fangroup and "his" LinkedIn profile. You'll understand more after reading this.

Without further ado...

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(by Felicia Tan)

Climbing to the top of Petrin Tower may offer some of the best views of Prague, but descending below its ground floor offers a true glimpse into Czech history. Beneath, a small exhibition stands tribute to Jára Cimrman, a man who never existed, but who nevertheless captured the hearts of the Czech people while remaining unknown to the rest of the world.

Created in the 1960’s by Academy Award-winning scriptwriter Zdeněk Svěrák and his friend Jiří Šebánek, Cimrman is known to Czechs as one of the greatest inventors, explorers, and playwrights of all time. He served originally as a caricature of Czech people and as two friends’ way of aiming veiled sarcastic humor toward the Communist powers. As his followers added more and more details to the character’s life, however, Cimrman became something of a national hero.

Opened in 2002, the exhibition—entitled “Genius, Who Has Not Become Famous”—remains an oft-overlooked gem. A Prague Information Service worker, who declined to be named, estimates that of the tower’s 2,000 visitors each weekday (4,000 on Saturdays and Sundays), perhaps 20 percent view the museum below.

“Not many foreigners know about [Cimrman’s] existence,” she says. “And if they go to see the exhibit, they don’t know who he is.”

A rhythmic pounding of footsteps on the wooden staircase indicates a constant stream of tourists descending to find the bathroom, but few venture into the exhibit. Mia, from New York, has stumbled upon it while sightseeing with her Czech friend. She stands in front of a glass case, studying the inscription that accompanies a faded, powder-blue dress once worn by the boy Cimrman.

“I’m so confused,” she laughs.

Not one sentence in the museum reveals that Cimrman is an invented character, which reveals a stubbornness among his followers that has further shaped his characterization. Not one word describes his creators or place in Czech culture, and only a small plaque mentions his disputed existence.

“They make it seem like he’s a real person,” Mia says when her friend informs her of Cimrman’s fictional nature. “It’s kind of weird. Why would you go to the trouble to make up his entire family?”

A three-headed hammer, a lung-power tester for opera singers, and other whimsical Cimrman inventions adorn shelves and walls around the exhibit. Another glass case holds a small-scale model of the “original” Eiffel Tower as it looked before Cimrman recommended Gustave Eiffel pull the legs further apart. He advised other brilliant minds of his time as well—including Albert Einstein on his theory of relativity and Thomas Edison on his light bulb—but, as the story goes, always arrived a few minutes too late at the patent office, and never received recognition for his “contributions.” According to the exhibition, Cimrman filed applications for 237 inventions of his own, including yogurt and the CD (Cimrman’s Disk). All were denied.

In a 2005 television poll, Czechs nearly voted Cimrman the “Greatest Czech of All Time” before he was disqualified by Czech Television on the grounds of never having existed. Cimrman’s inability to achieve international fame encapsulates the Czechs’ desire for their country to receive more credit than it has in the past, Svěrák later told Radio Prague.

Mia has no way of knowing any of that. Neither do any of the foreigners who poke their heads into the exhibit, peeking curiously into glass displays. After a few more minutes of examining the cases, Mia climbs the steps back to the ground floor.

She is still laughing.