The Novels of Milan Kundera by John A. A. Logan
As
a child, staring at an old atlas, Czechoslovakia was a country that somehow
fascinated.
The
spelling of the country’s name, the pronunciation, the shape of it on the map.
I
was twenty-four by the time I saw the place for myself, arriving there three
years after the Velvet Revolution of 1989, so no visa necessary, the country
was open now to European travellers.
Prague.
That’s where I first ran out of money for food, and had to eat on alternate
days, lying on public benches to conserve calories, nose bleeding.
Getting
kicked awake in the mornings by railway station guards in pale green uniforms
with wooden-handled revolvers in their waistbands.
I’d
first been introduced to the novels of Milan Kundera four years earlier, by a
guy I met who had written a book on film while he had been unemployed for three
years.
Perhaps
the connection between this person and Kundera was that Kundera had been a film
lecturer at one point, or, more correctly, a lecturer on world literature
within the Film Faculty of Charles University (where Milos Forman, director of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was one of his early students).
The
first Kundera novel I read was The Joke.
The
novel struck me as a powerful and dark meditation on endurance, suffering and
revenge.
It
had a different texture than any other novel I had read before.
Next,
I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
With
this one, I broke the rule of making sure not to see the film before reading
the novel.
One
night, my film-book-writing friend had taken me along to the cinema to see the
Daniel Day Lewis/Juliette Binoche film adaptation of The Unbearable Lightness
of Being.
Later,
I watched this film on video many times, quite obsessed with it, before reading
the novel.
Unusually,
for me, this familiarity with the film did not seem to hamper my reading or
appreciation of the book.
Perhaps
because the film concentrated on the story, but the novel had more to do with
what my film-buff friend might have called “the notes Kundera had taken between
the story”.
Next,
I read Immortality.
The
big, hardback version of Immortality was a book I saw in the hands of several
disparate readers over several years– a forestry student, a psychology student,
a philosophy student, a nurse…
All
seemed to enjoy the thick, black-covered book equally.
I
used to go into bookshops on Union Street in Aberdeen and always notice the
black hard-cover of Immortality, propped up and lurking on a prominent table,
to catch the roving eye.
My
favourite section of the book was probably that dealing with Goethe and
Hemingway’s friendship in the Afterlife, Kundera’s audacity at imagining them
so.
The
last Kundera novel I read was Life is Elsewhere.
A
novel functioning wonderfully as an indictment of certain varieties of poetry
and poet, particularly of Jaromil, the novel’s poet-protagonist – perhaps the
embodiment in the Mirror of Art representing Kundera’s look backwards at
himself as the once-youthful, once-idealist Poet-Revolutionary.
As
in all the novels, Kundera looks out at us, and in at himself, through the hectic,
kaleidoscopic lens of his experiences with the Czech Communist Party in the
late 1940s and 1950s onwards…the dashed hopes, the brutalised Ideals.
Jaromil,
Shelley, Rimbaud, are all held hard under the prosaic, forensic lens in this
novel, throwing up dazzling and troubling facets, which no other scientist-jeweller
could probably have brought out in their examination.
Perhaps
one of the lessons of Kundera’s work is that perspective is everything, a
slight shift along the spectrum here or there and, yes, suddenly black can seem
white, or maybe really become white?
And
then there is Kafka.
Kafka
is perhaps the literary ghost always at Kundera’s elbow.
Not
often mentioned, but always standing there, hollow-eyed, staring.
And
yet Kafka is perhaps the writer of the midnight soul, as opposed to Kundera,
the novelist of the evening gloaming.
Kundera
is haunted no doubt; but Kafka has more the capacity to haunt others.
Or,
no, it could be that Kafka catches the ghost, stalks it and brings it howling
into the house, a terrifying sight - but then it is Kundera we turn to for
forensic examination of the creature, he holds its face still under the lamp of
a kind of science and lets us at least pretend to become familiar with it.
We
need both these arts of course.
And
wonderful that one country gave us these two technician-priests to take on two
sides of that task; even though, of course, that country, since I lay there
hungry and bleeding on its benches, has split into two countries…perhaps like
the split in psyche between Kundera/Kafka…or the binary fission of the original
prototypical cell…or just like two ghosts, who knew each other well, but then,
somehow, at sometime since, must have separated silently in the night.
Comments
Milan Kundera
The novel is,perhaps, an effective antidote to the romanticism associated with youthful communist revolutionary zeal.
At last I have been able to get through. Great post. You should write a book about your journeys. Only eating every second day must have been hard.
Regards
Margaret
Yes, it's true that the philosophical element has to be excised from the film to a degree, but perhaps that even helped make the film of TULOB a new creation altogether - Good Kundera quote there!
Aye, No Accounting For Taste etc (nor need for accounting), indeed!
Thank-you...yes, I might try that Journey Book one day!