The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Appropriately described on its jacket as "a novel of ideas," The Unbearable Lightness of Being is the story of three people simultaneously caught up in the messes of their own lives and those of the world around them. Told by an intrusive narrator primarily interested in using the characters in his self-acknowledged novel to demonstrate the arbitrary nature of life, the story alternates between the surgeon Tomas, his wife Tereza, and his mistress Sabina as they live through the fallout of the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia after the Prague Spring.

The novel's central character is Tomas; however, its seven parts tell and retell a few central events from different character's perspectives, with each retelling providing key details that show more changes the reader's understanding of the event's significance. Tomas is the epicenter of two ménages à trois, the one between himself, Tereza and Sabina; the other with Sabina and her married lover, Franz. In addition, his libido is insatiable, as evidenced by the myriad other women he sleeps with throughout the novel while attempting to prove love and sex are distinct. His pursuit subsumes his marriage, leading Tereza to return to the country they fled, with disastrous consequences for all.

Although Tomas finds happiness in the end, it comes only after he has lost his career and become a non-entity. In keeping with the narrator's worldview, this happiness is short-lived and does not extend to the woman he supposedly loves. show less

Before reading Kundera, I didn't know if its possible to write about shit and God in the same sentence; or for that matter, draw connections among entities, ideas, and conscious and subconscious indulgences which don't seem to exist unless some really intelligent people make us aware of them.

In my view, it is probably impossible to grasp the existentialist overtones scattered all along the narrative in one simple reading. I consider this a classic case of problem of locating authorial intention through the text. In this sense, its an open text where all the characters can be interpreted in numerous ways, with all these interpretation equally valid textually. Overall, its an amazingly refreshing exposure to the boundless possibilities show more of the fictional medium. show less

Ho finito questo libro alle 02:02 di domenica 29 agosto 2021.
Gli occhi sono umidi, probabilmente arrossati per il pianto.
Le guance sono bagnate e rigate dalle lacrime che ho versato.
Il piede destro non smette di muoversi agitato così come si è mosso mentre piangevo e così come continuerà a muoversi ogniqualvolta ripenserò al motivo del mio pianto breve, ma rovente.
Sì, mi ha fatto male. L’ultima parte, la settima, “Il sorriso di Karenin”, mi ha fatto un male terribile. La mia intenzione era quella di chiudere il libro, di finirlo quando mi fossi risvegliata a notte terminata, ma come poter chiuderlo? Come chiuderlo nel bel mezzo del pianto? Sottolineavo con le mani tremanti e le lacrime agli occhi; interrompevo la lettura per show more la vista accecata da quelle stesse lacrime non ancora versate che mi impedivano di leggere le parole. Ma andiamo in ordine, partiamo dal principio.

Ho cominciato questo romanzo per cambiare aria, per partire, prendere un aereo per andare in un posto a me completamente sconosciuto: la Boemia. Ho cominciato senza sapere cosa aspettarmi, senza comprendere il significato del suo titolo famoso. Ora l’ho capito il significato. Ma non è questo il momento per parlarne.
Ho cominciato la lettura e lette le prime righe non avrei immaginato che avrebbe potuto raccontare la storia che invece ha raccontato. Ringrazio Dio per avermi fatto iniziare ignara di tutto e per avermi fatto continuare solo per curiosità.
Al centro di tutto ci sono loro, Tereza e Tomàs. Si sono conosciuti al bar in cui lavorava Tereza e si sono guardati solo per una serie di coincidenze. Tereza, d’altronde, per Tomàs rimarrà sempre la donna nata dalle sei coincidenze. È lei, la barista che gira per le strade di Praga sempre con un libro sottobraccio per sentirsi e mostrarsi diversa da quelli che le camminano accanto. Ed è lui, un rinomato chirurgo destinato a diventare primario di chirurgia del suo ospedale, cosa che però non avverrà mai. Tra loro nasce una storia di passione e tradimenti continui, una storia tormentata e malata che l’autore, attraverso Tereza, paragona più volte a quella di Anna e Vronskj; una storia fondata esclusivamente sulla certezza e sulla costanza della fedeltà e dell’onestà di lei, giacché lui è il più libero dei libertini, con amanti sparse per tutta Praga e con circa duecento donne all’anno. Tra esse ce n’è però una in particolare, Sabina, pittrice intollerante al comunismo i cui quadri sono sempre gli stessi: una tela squarciata da cui s’intravede un paesaggio diverso da quello rappresentato sulla tela. Per Tomàs è impossibile rinunciare alle donne, al piacere e al tradimento, ma gli è anche impossibile rinunciare all’amore per Tereza, con la quale si sposa e rimarrà sposato fino alla morte di entrambi loro. Lei, cosciente dei suoi tradimenti, li sopporta, ci convive e cerca di neutralizzarli senza successo.
Ad accompagnare la coppia per dieci anni è un cane, una cagnolina femmina regalata a Tereza da Tomàs per tentare di riempirle il vuoto lasciato dal tradimento onnipresente. La cagnolina è Karenin - così chiamata dal momento che, quando si sono conosciuti, Tereza aveva sottobraccio Anna Karenina - ed è lei e solo lei il motivo delle mie lacrime.
Parallelamente alla loro, seppur per una durata minore, vi è la storia tra Sabina e Franz, un giovane professore universitario che, come Tomàs, tradisce la moglie. Pare, come l’ha definita Calvino, la stessa situazione che si crea nelle Affinità Elettive di Goethe, seppure con esiti diversi e ruoli differenti.
È il 1968 e Praga viene occupata dai carri armati russi. Su questo sfondo storico i protagonisti vivono e cambiano, sopportano la pesantezza in cerca della leggerezza dell’essere, senza riuscire però a trovarla. Uno sfondo tragico dannatamente reale che si ritorce contro gli stessi protagonisti, obbligati ad emigrare a Zurigo. Tomàs non può più svolgere la professione di chirurgo, diventa un lavavetri e trova dunque amanti nuove ogni giorno, e la storia con Tereza sembra precipitare. I due, però, non si lasceranno mai, vanno a vivere in campagna e invecchiano insieme ed è qui che il mio pianto ha avuto inizio. Karenin ha un tumore, è vecchia e condannata.

“L’amore tra uomo e cane è idilliaco perché il cane non è stato cacciato dal Paradiso.”

E come fare a non piangere dopo pagine e pagine di questo? Come fare a non piangere dopo pagine in cui viene mostrato l’amore più puro e sincero, quello del cane per l’uomo? Io non ce l’ho fatta. Io ho pianto mentre Karenin poggiava il muso sulle ginocchia di Tereza, mentre smetteva di giocare con Tomàs, di tenere il proprio panino in bocca; ho pianto mentre la sopprimevano, mentre le preparavano la tomba, mentre Tereza le sussurrava che sarebbe andato tutto bene, che non avrebbe sofferto più; ho pianto sentendomi lo sguardo addosso colmo di fiducia incondizionata di Karenin, mentre smetteva di respirare e ci lasciava per sempre. Io non ce l’ho fatta. Io ho pianto, mi sono lasciata andare. E anche adesso, scrivendo e rivivendo quelle scene per me fatali, mi salgono le lacrime agli occhi minacciando di lasciarseli alle spalle un’altra volta e di scendere giù veloci sulle ripide colline che sono le mie guance.
L’essere umano ha fallito, è vero.

“L’uomo ha fallito quando costringe gli animali a diventare macchine animate” dice l’autore. Dio, mai c’è stata frase più vera.

Quindi? Quindi questo non è niente in confronto a tutto quello che ho provato, è solo un assaggio, ma credo sia sufficiente.
Mentre leggevo i primi capitoli mi dicevo: “Bello, sì, ma non eccezionale.”
Oggi, finita la lettura, dico: “Non bello, ma eccezionale.” show less

Years ago when this was THE book to read, I tried to plow through it. I recently found another copy and read it over the past two days.
It’s insufferable.
Interesting because of the time it describes, awful because of the people- the men, inveterate womanizers who feel entitled to their mistresses and mistresses between their mistresses. The women- one-dimensional, given to frequently staring at their breasts in the mirror (do women DO this? Honestly, don’t they have a hobby?), hopelessly bendable to their men’s wishes- save Sabine, who actually has a bit of spleen. And a sexual fantasy involving s**tting, but hey, the author is all about sh*t, filling a chapter about how God couldn’t possibly empty his bowels so our paintings of show more him with a mouth must be wrong (really? Who’d have thunk it?)and how they came up with the whole Jesus eating and drinking but never excreting bit which I imagine must have become uncomfortable at times (I am reminded of the angels in the movie Dogma who are given to chewing and then spitting out popcorn). Nothing was made of this at the last supper. Did Jesus spit?
Argh. Such philosophical meanderings fill much of the book and they seem sophomoric and crude and really so self-obsessed. And in between, the male characters are only interested in sex. And mistresses of the younger and younger sort. And sh*t. Meanwhile the world is falling to communism around them.
The author obviously hates women, for most of their lives are painted repulsively, from their periods to their jobs to their orgasms (which they dare to deny despite dampening the rug with oozings- silly man doesn’t know that that response does not indicate orgasm...)
Argh.
I think I must give up reading male authors for a while. If I see one other novel where the women are obsessing about their breasts in mirrors, I shall pull a Dorothy Parker and throw it off my balcony, perhaps taking out an eternally-seeking-sex pigeon at the same time.
This book has quite put me off any thought of intimacy. show less

I loved this book, though it's not perfect, and it's not extremely memorable. I'll remember it for being an incredible book, though. It was a quick read, but I felt like I rushed through the last half when I shouldn't have.

The way Kundera bridges the gap between literature and philosophy is so skillful and effortless. It's truly a writing style I'd want to own one day--to be able to speak so thoughtfully and lyrically about characters in fiction in a way that also comments on the universals of life and existence.

That death lurks in my future remains one of the most frightening prospects of my life. Even more than the simple fear I have of the unknown, infinite, forever blackness of it, it's frightening to think that every action I take show more in this life, every thought I have, will only occur once at the point in time in which it took place. In essence, death demands of me to think through every action, or else my life could turn out to be a long, painful string of regrets. Death gives everything we do meaning. That is the main theme of this book, and one that Kundera articulated--and, at times, refuted--in a beautiful way. show less

I came very close to giving up on this book. Despite having read Kundera before and loved him, despite this book being on the bookslut 100, and fitting at least two categories on my book bingo challenge. This book shifts between the point of view of the author and four of the main characters. The first character, Tomas, I found nearly unbearable. Burned by divorce, Tomas develops a set of rules for "erotic friendships," a system that works for him until he falls in love with Tereza. His self-pitying attitude about his inability to give up these affairs despite their effects on Tereza, who he supposedly loves, made me want to hold his face under water. But then the point of view shifts to Tereza (who is also not perfect, but at least show more sympathetic), and it kept me from giving up.

The unbearable jerkness of Tomas aside, there was so much to this book that was wonderful. In particular, the way our personal metaphors shape our lives -- can make two people incompatible, or can make someone fall in love. If you want to just read a story, this book is not for you. If you want to think about the hows and whys of stories, how we are shaped by our past, our loves, the political situation of our surroundings in both predictable and unexpected ways, of both the importance and the triviality of these stories, then I don't know how you could not fall under the spell of this book.

I also was intrigued by the collisions between leftist-anarchism and the communist police-state, the way people were betrayed by a system they expected to make real their ideals, and how they made sense of that betrayal.

In short, Tomas bothered me enough that I couldn't give this book the full 5 stars most of my friends have, but I still found it profoundly interesting. show less

Or rather, a 3.5 star read.

I will be honest. There were times when the tale took on a very meta quality that I appreciated it to a full 5-star rating and times where the sex and philandering, mistress and the smell of another woman's juices on his face just got to be too much. The repetition of sex in the tale did not seem to be so much pornography but a literary technique to make us feel like Milan Kundera was trying to f*** the reader.

I did say meta, did I not? Well, sometimes it worked and sometimes I just wanted to put the novel aside forever.

Good thing is: I enjoyed it a lot more after the midpoint where these seemingly delightfully *real* characters were reduced to the author's fancy... the matter-of-fact way they got crushed show more under a truck just struck me as unbearably funny.

But this was not a humorous book. Not at all. It was heavy, man, and as light as ashes in America where everything is so foreign. And let's be clear about this. This is political, Soviet-era occupation literary sex-pomp. With a very touching scene with the death of a dog while the rest of the country expressed their hatred of all dogs as a substitute for hating their fellow men.

Yes, this had a lot of hidden depths and flighty fancy. The prose is pretty wonderful and the moments where it is good, it's very engaging and philosophical. But it's also about the unbearable lightness of being f***ed by Milan Kundera. I suppose that takes some getting used to.

Me, I'm a little sore. show less