It’s hard to overstate how central Milan Kundera was, in the mid-1980s, to literary culture in America and elsewhere. He was the best-known Czech writer since Kafka, and his fiction brought news of sophisticated Eastern European societies trembling under the threat of Soviet repression.
Reviews of his erotic, heavy-hearted and metaphysical novels commanded the front pages of books sections, as did his occasional interviews. His work cast a spell, and few did not submit. In every college town, people were buying, reading and crushing on Kundera. His status has fallen somewhat. In retrospect, the moment feels slightly like a mass delusion, if an agreeable and largely worthwhile one.Surveys of his suggestive, forsaken and mystical books instructed the front pages of books areas, as did his periodic meetings. His work cast a spell, and few didn't submit. In each school town, individuals were purchasing, perusing and pounding on Kundera. His status has fallen fairly. Everything considered, the second feels marginally like a mass dream, if a pleasing and to a great extent beneficial one.
Kundera's ideal and most agent novel, "The Unendurable Daintiness of Being," was distributed in 1984. Set during the Prague Spring of 1968, about an effective specialist stops to turn into a window washer in the wake of declining to promise loyalty to the Soviet Association. He's a youthful, canny protester who finds comfort in bed-bouncing, and who shocks himself by experiencing passionate feelings for. The original's impact was established by Philip Kaufman's urbane 1988 film variation, which featured Daniel Day-Lewis, Lena Olin (and her bowler cap) and Juliette Binoche.
Kundera's standing in the West had been developing for over 10 years on account of the distribution in English of books that included "The Joke" (1967), "
He had an extraordinary gift for incendiary humor. In "The Joke," for instance, a lady attempts to commit suicide by ingesting pain relievers, just to find they were purgatives. Kundera's humor had a more profound reason. It was frequently flippant and deriding; it had an underground quality, and it sprang from his natural doubt of power.
"I took in the worth of humor during the hour of Stalinist dread," he told Philip Roth in a 1980 meeting that ran in The New York Times Book Survey. "I was 20 then, at that point. I could continuously perceive an individual who was not a Stalinist, an individual whom I shouldn't for even a moment need to fear, by the manner in which he grinned. A comical inclination was a reliable indication of acknowledgment."
The Socialist government in Czechoslovakia, until the Velvet Upheaval in 1989, prohibited Kundera's books. He went far away, banished for good in France in 1975, and exile of different sorts was among his withstanding topics. He at last considered himself to be a French essayist.
Kundera's books frequently felt essayistic; they were about whatever was at the forefront of his thoughts: wistfulness, the idiocy of absolutes, music. Frequently enough however, what was at the forefront of his thoughts was sex. Jonathan Rosen, in a 2015 piece for The Atlantic, read "The Book of Giggling and Neglecting" in secondary school, composing that the book "highlighted bashes the way 'Pride and Bias' included evening gatherings."
In that equivalent novel, notwithstanding, Kundera showed his material and philosophical interest in memory, in what remains. Of Tamina, who can't remember her dead spouse's face, he composes:
She fostered her own extraordinary strategy of bringing him to mind. Whenever she sat opposite a man, she would think carefully as a sort of stone carver's armature. She would focus all her consideration on him and rebuild his face inside her head, obscuring the composition, adding spots and moles, downsizing the ears, and shading the eyes blue. However, every one of her endeavors just demonstrated that her significant other's picture had vanished for good.
Kundera considered sex to be a demonstration of reclamation and of freedom under abusive systems, yet his fixation returned to cause major problems for him. Pundits progressively came to consider his men to be unpleasant womanizers. Geoff Dyer contrasted Kundera's books with the droll vaudeville of "The Benny Slope Show," with "the attendant in her bra and undies getting pursued around by these horny specialists."
Kundera’s best and most representative novel, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” was published in 1984. Set during the Prague Spring of 1968, it’s about a successful surgeon who quits to become a window washer after refusing to pledge allegiance to the Soviet Union. He’s a young, intelligent dissident who finds solace in bed-hopping, and who surprises himself by falling in love. The novel’s influence was cemented by Philip Kaufman’s urbane 1988 film adaptation, which starred Daniel Day-Lewis, Lena Olin (and her bowler hat) and Juliette Binoche.
Kundera’s reputation in the West had been growing for more than a decade thanks to the publication in English of novels that included “The Joke” (1967), “
He had a great gift for subversive humor. In “The Joke,” for example, a woman tries to kill herself by ingesting painkillers, only to find they were laxatives. Kundera’s humor had a deeper purpose. It was often irreverent and mocking; it had an underground quality, and it sprang from his innate distrust of authority.
“I learned the value of humor during the time of Stalinist terror,” he told Philip Roth in a 1980 interview that ran in The New York Times Book Review. “I was 20 then. I could always recognize a person who was not a Stalinist, a person whom I needn’t fear, by the way he smiled. A sense of humor was a trustworthy sign of recognition.”
The Communist government in Czechoslovakia, until the Velvet Revolution in 1989, banned Kundera’s books. He went into exile in France in 1975, and exile of various sorts was among his abiding themes. He ultimately saw himself as a French writer.
Kundera’s novels often felt essayistic; they were about whatever was on his mind: nostalgia, the absurdity of absolutes, music. Often enough though, what was on his mind was sex. Jonathan Rosen, in a 2015 piece for The Atlantic, recalled reading “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting” in high school, writing that the novel “featured orgies the way ‘Pride and Prejudice’ featured dinner parties.”
In that same novel, however, Kundera displayed his tactile and philosophical interest in memory, in what remains. Of Tamina, who cannot recall her dead husband’s face, he writes:
She developed her own special technique of calling him to mind. Whenever she sat across from a man, she would use his head as a kind of sculptor’s armature. She would concentrate all her attention on him and remodel his face inside her head, darkening the complexion, adding freckles and warts, scaling down the ears, and coloring the eyes blue. But all her efforts only went to show that her husband’s image had disappeared for good.
Kundera saw sex as an act of redemption and of liberation under repressive regimes, but his obsession came back to haunt him. Critics increasingly came to see his men as creepy womanizers. Geoff Dyer compared Kundera’s novels to the slapstick burlesque of “The Benny Hill Show,” with “the nurse in her bra and panties getting chased around by these horny doctors.”
In her essay collection “In Praise of Messy Lives,” Katie Roiphe noted Kundera’s libertine influence on a generation. She recalled an unhappy sexual episode from her youth and chalked it up in part to “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” which she called “that sublime adolescent ode to emotional carelessness, that ubiquitous paperback expounding an obscure Eastern European profundity in moral lapses.” What do we want? that book asked. Weight or lightness?
About the sex in his fiction, Kundera told Roth, “I have the feeling that a scene of physical love generates an extremely sharp light which suddenly reveals the essence of characters and sums up their life situation.” He added: “The erotic scene is the focus where all the themes of the story converge and where the deepest secrets are located.”
Kundera’s novels, especially his later ones, could be abstract and heavy-handed. His characters, at times, were little more than chess pieces. Their author could be pretentious. His work is filled with observations such as: “In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.” But his best fiction retains its moments of sweep and power.
Great novels, Kundera remarked, are always a little more intelligent than their authors. His best work, like Gabriel García Márquez’s writing about Latin America in the 1960s and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s about Russia in the 1970s, didn’t just bring a neglected region of the world to light, but gave it complex life.
Dwight Garner has been a book critic for The Times since 2008. His new book, “The Upstairs Delicatessen: On Eating, Reading, Reading About Eating, and Eating While Reading,” is out this fall. More about Dwight Garner.
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