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And so it is that in order to speak of our own times, I have had to make a long detour, by way of Ovid’s fragile Medusa and Montale’s pitch-black Lucifer. It’s hard for a novelist to convey his idea of lightness with examples drawn from the events of contemporary life without making it the unattainable object of an endless quest. Yet Milan Kundera has done just that, with clarity and immediacy. His novel Nesnesitelná lehkost bytí (The Unbearable Lightness of Being, 1981) is in fact a bitter declaration of the Ineluctable Weight of Living—living not only with the desperate and all-pervading state of oppression that was the fate of his unlucky country, but with the human condition shared also by us, however much luckier we may be. For
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