The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being is the second of Milan Kundera’s books I’ve read, along with The Book Of Laughter and Forgetting, and … I don’t get it. I admit this of my own free will: I don’t understand why his books are revered, but revered they are, with literature professor Daniel Burt including Unbearable Lightness on his revised list of the 125 greatest novels ever written at #112.

I do understand the core theme of this book, at least, since it is spelled out in the title and Kundera makes frequent references to it in the text. In direct contrast to Nietzsche’s idea that anything we experience just once might as well not be experienced at all, Kundera subscribes to the believe that we live just once, and that everything that we do and undergo is thus unique. He describes life in terms of contrasts, and how you can view life as having weight or, in the case of the title and most of his characters, as being unbearably light. It is as if he’s saying life is so nasty, brutish, and short that we might as well try to enjoy it in spite of ourselves.

His characters do seem to get after it, at least; Tomás, the main character, is a philandering asshole who refuses to keep it in his pants even when he belatedly realizes that his bed-hopping is making him miserable and that he actually loves his paramour Tereza, for whom he flees the communists of Czechoslovakia and, almost inexplicably, then follows her back into the authoritarian state even though he knows he will lose his livelihood and possibly his freedom for doing so. One common criticism of horror movies is that the plots require the characters to do dumb things so that the bad stuff can happen. Kundera makes Tomás do a dumb thing – really, who defects from a police state and then un-defects? – so he can move the story along too. He does have a bizarre philosophy to rationalize his womanizing, but I found it unconvincing.

Tomás is a man of principle at work, despite his utter lack of scruples when it comes to women or his one son, custody of whom he gives up to the boy’s mother so that he doesn’t see his own child for about twenty years. When Tomás is asked to renounce an essay he’d written for a newspaper about the meaning of Oedipus Rex because the Communist puppets in charge of Czechoslovakia after the Prague Spring find it subversive, he declines, even though he knows it will cost him his job as a surgeon, eventually leading him to increasingly menial jobs and out of the city entirely. It’s the contrast Kundera outlines in the first part of the book, although I found it hard to reconcile the two sides of Tomás’ character, since the area where he acts amorally involves causing pain to many other people.

These two are connected with another couple, Sabina and Franz, via, what else, Tomás’ affair with Sabina. Sabina is an artist who loathes kitsch, a term that Kundera takes from its normal denotation of tackiness in art to some broader connotation across multiple disciplines, including philosophy, that nearly put me to sleep. Franz is the least defined of the four major characters – the dog, Karenin, might have more depth – and I never quite understood why he ended up in a protest march in Cambodia alongside publicity-seeking American celebrities.

I hated this book – not so much while I read it, but when it was done and I realized how little I’d gotten out of it. Perhaps it’s a function of my lack of any philosophy education whatsoever – I probably got more from Monty Python than I did anywhere in school – but I didn’t take anything away from the book other than Kundera’s extreme materialist attitude towards life; his characters are inscrutable and unlikeable and they do and say things that feel unrealistic. I know a few of you mentioned absolutely loving this book, but it did nothing for me whatsoever.

Next up: I’ll be reading Wolf Hall for a while longer.