How does one describe that particular series of grief?
The grief of gainsaying against values that you once swore by.
The grief of being shooed away from the land you were born, and raised in.
The grief of penning that pain, and finding recognition from it.
Worse so, the grief of watching it transpire before one’s eyes, twisted for popularity.
Ah, yes. Coupled with the grief of never returning.
Having it all, losing it all.
“We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.”
The beauty of admiring Milan Kundera is in forgiving many aspects.
I do not know how often that happens with people. It did happen to me though. It would not have bothered him. Least of all, affected him. However, I felt what I did.
The American writer-activist Rita Mae Brown once put it succinctly, “One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory.”
As I sit here, penning this piece, mourning the demise of a wordsmith, and more importantly his brilliance, my heart swells with both admiration, and disdain.
In other world, I would have written phrases like “his departure from this earthly realm has left an indescribable void”, “through his words, Kundera’s essence continues to linger, forever etched within the fabric of literature and the depths of my soul.” It is both true, and false. I would not lie, for I had, indeed, been captivated by the irony that danced effortlessly through his narratives.
Kundera’s ability to infuse humour and tragedy, lightness and weight, within the same breath was nothing short of magical.
It was as if he possessed a secret alchemy, transforming the mundane into the extraordinary. Despite all odds, he did dare to explore the paradoxes of human existence. And in that pursuit, he did reveal the contradictions that lie at the core of our being.
In Kundera’s hands, irony became a mirror, reflecting the absurdity and complexity of life itself.
In Kundera’s works, one cannot help but recall, with much fondness of course, his poignant criticism of abstract idealism. He understood that lofty ideals and grand ideologies often crumble under the weight of human frailty. And I think that does imply something significant. Grief gives us a strange sense of strength which does not shy away from admitting to one’s frailties. Admitting to that is momentous in humans. Even more so in literature.
In a world filled with promises of utopias and grand visions, Kundera reminded us of the fallibility of our aspirations. Through his characters, Kundera peeled back the layers of pretence, exposing the inherent flaws and vulnerabilities that exist within each of us. His words were a clarion call to embrace the imperfect reality before us, rather than chasing elusive dreams.
Ah, now that I put my thought to it, his writing did echo a symphony of rhythms, a melody that flowed effortlessly across the pages. Each sentence danced with its own cadence, reflecting the ebb and flow of life itself. From the gentle, melodic prose that caressed his readers’ hearts to the cacophony of urgency that quickened their pulses. He was a rare conductor who orchestrated a symphony of emotions with much élan.
It would be easy to sift through his works, quote instances from those pages, and remark on their sheer brilliance. However, that would be the usual affair, and who would want that?
Kundera’s variations in rhythm mirrored the unpredictability and fluidity of the human experience. He reminded us that life itself is a symphony of moments, each with its own unique tempo.
Wickedly so, what I did love in the arresting flow of his words, is the subtle exploration of the comic side of sexuality that he undertook. In a world often burdened by shame and taboos, he fearlessly delved into the complexities and absurdities of human desire.
Oh, the courage to do so.
He exposed the inherent humour in our carnal pursuits, liberating us from the shackles of societal norms and expectations. With wit and charm, Kundera celebrated the messiness, and the sheer joy that accompanies our most intimate encounters.
To admit it very fairly, it was only because of Kundera, that I understood sexuality is not something to be hidden or repressed. It was only who raised me from the shame of it all, and enlightened it to be a vital and vibrant aspect of our humanity.
Kundera’s unwavering political stands, especially in a time of political turmoil and shifting ideologies, teaches his admirers many things. His courage to challenge the prevailing narratives, to question the status quo, was, indeed, an inspiration. In his recognition of the danger of complacency and the importance of critical thinking, Kundera ignited a spark to question the powers that be and to seek a deeper understanding of the world dancing around us. I sit here, penning this strange stream of consciousness, suddenly I am struck by a tune. David Byrne is almost screeching in my ears.
“Here’s your ticket, pack your bags
Time for jumpin’ overboard
Transportation is here
Close enough but not too far
Maybe you know where you are
Fightin’ fire with fire”
Burning Down the House, Talking Heads (1983)
There exists a striking resemblance.
The ceaseless quest for freedom and genuineness in the human spirit in the song aligns uncannily with Milan Kundera’s profound philosophical voyages. Upon reflection, it becomes evident that both the captivating melody and Kundera’s literary creations beckon us to ponder the confines of societal expectations, the relentless pursuit of purpose, and the evanescent nature of our existence.
Yes. Very intense.
Yet, as I embark on a profound exploration of Kundera’s profound legacy, I find myself confronting the shadows that taint his path. The undeniable truth emerges: my admiration for his literary genius has been tested by his support of Roman Polanski, a controversial figure embroiled in allegations of grave misconduct.
How do I reconcile the deep appreciation I hold for Kundera’s enlightening insights with the endorsement of someone who has caused immeasurable pain and suffering to others?
This internal struggle is undeniably challenging, yet it serves as a poignant reminder that perfection eludes us all. The tapestry of life is interwoven with both luminosity and darkness.
“It was futile to attack with reason the stout
wall of irrational feelings that, as is known,
is the stuff of which the female mind is made.”
(Laughable Loves, 1974)
Well, ouch.
As Kundera once said, “for there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.”
These words encapsulate the depth of his understanding of the human experience, as he masterfully wove empathy and introspection into his works. Kundera’s legacy shall endure, reminding us of the weight of compassion and the profound impact of our connections with others.
Let his literary legacy serve as a guiding light for future generations, encouraging them to delve deep into the recesses of their own souls and explore the kaleidoscope of existence.
Also, there is nothing elegant in supporting the intricate interplay of sad decisions.
One must continue to call out the moral quandaries of their heroes.
Kundera would have. We should too.
Chandrali Mukherjee is a public relations executive. She is pursuing a doctorate in mass communication and journalism from Banaras Hindu University.
