Baring the "Unbearable"

At the request of the Texas Ranger, I'm updating this thing. I'd like to apologize to my loyal fans out there for not posting more; to me, making a post isn't just something to do, it's a moral committment. These can take me upwards of an hour, on the long ones, and then there's the matter of thinking of things worth saying.

Nevertheless, here I am, and posting my first legitimate review in quite some time, as well as what I believe to be my first book review (correct me if I'm wrong). The book I am writing about for your consideration is The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I was familiar with both the author and the book by name for quite some time, and finally decided it was one of those modern novels that is important to read for the sake of having read it.

First a disclaimer: as I stated at the inception of this blog, my purpose is not as the morality police. In the case of this book, however, I would like to warn certain readers of my blog who are more sensitive to what I will coyly dub "Adult situations" to stay far away from this book. To be blunt, there is sex in this book. A lot of sex. Almost every chapter. In frank, if not quite graphic, detail. That being said, I certainly recommend this book to those who think they can handle mature content well.

Perhaps the best way to give an overview of The Unbearable Lightness of Being is to describe it in terms of dichotomy: Kundera divides the book into sections such as Lightness and Weight, Body and Soul. I think a basic dichotomy exists in the writing as well. On the one hand there is the action of the novel, which traces the relationship between a husband and wife during the Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia. But there also exist the author's interjections, which I think contain the more vital and interesting parts of the novel. Yes, it is quite a modern technique, the author playing around with the action and pausing to address the reader, etc. Milan Kundera does this perhaps less skillfully than say John Fowles in The French Lieutenant's Woman, but also less substantially and it never seems like a cheap trick.

To return to the plot: Tomas is a womanizing doctor in Prague who entertains ridiculous numbers of mistresses but never commits to any. That is, until a young waitress from the country named Teresa enters his life. Though originally he intends nothing beyond his usual conquests, circumstances collide and he ends up marrying Teresa. This has little to no effect on his philandering, despite the fact that he realizes he loves Teresa more than any of his side projects. She is distraught over his infidelities, but somehow cannot bring herself to leave. All this goes on while the world falls apart around them; they leave Prague when the Russians invade, but are forced to return for seemingly trivial reasons. The main subplot also involves the travails of love; Tomas' main mistress, Sabina, enters into another affair with a professor who is married but long suffering. He falls desperately in love with her, but her own ghosts haunt her and she runs away.

So there are the bare bones. A pleasant enough plot- it never comes off as melodramatic, and Kundera does a good job of balancing the story arc. Where the novel really shines, though, is in Kundera's asides into music, history, and philosophy. He takes numerous breaks from the action to mull over ideas, or talk about Beethoven String Quartets. At times it is more than a novel; you feel as if Kundera is really having a philosophical discussion with you. This is aided by the fact that he openly admits on page that the characters are fictional. This may take away a little from the reader's connection to the characters, but since no one in the novel is really worthy of sympathy (except maybe Teresa) that doesn't really rear its head.

For a book so filled with sexual activity, I've never experienced anything that makes me more determined to live a life of monogamy. In fact the main thrust I felt through the novel was that sex by itself cannot satisfy. Tomas spends his days in lechery, but takes no real pleasure in any woman save Teresa. Yet somehow he cannot stop having sex with other women. He takes an almost scientific interest in seduction. Though he is the protagonist of the book, you cannot call him a hero. He is a downcast man trapped in his own depravity. The book may seem overly pessimistic, but in reality what else is there in human nature? Kundera thankfully dispenses with the pitifully naive humanistic notion that there are good people; the characters in his novel don't just do bad things, they are hopelessly adrift in a sea of brokenness. All this despair might be disheartening, but I would propose that not every story need be about redemption to be uplifting and, yes, Christian. Flannery O'Connor wrote about the depths of human depravity from a distinctly Christian perspective. Life doesn't always wrap up with joyful reunions and renewed committments to fidelity. Milan Kundera doesn't seek to tack on saccharine endings with no connection to reality; his characters reap the sorrow they sow. Though he may not be Christian, he shows that he cannot escape the reality of mankind's need of salvation.