I finished my K book for the A to Z list a few days ago. It was a long time coming. I think I started it a few months ago. I could say that with summer school and my sister being here, I just wasn't finding the time...but I'll be truthful. I just couldn't get into it.
I've had a lot of friends and respectable people recommend his work to me. I started The Unbearable Lightness of Being a few years back, but never could get more than a few pages into it. After perusing the K section, I thought he would be a good choice. I picked up The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.
From the get go, I pretty much knew I wouldn't like it. In my opinion, he shouldn't have written a book, but an essay or series of essays. I got the sense that I was being preached to, or even looked down on as if I wasn't good enough.
I will say that I gave the book a good hard chance. I read the whole thing through and tried to take what I could from it, but in the end, I felt unappreciated as a reader. I got the very strong sense that Kundera, or the voice he was writing through, was very pretentious.
I distinctly remember a portion where he discusses how a spoken word can be emphasized. Here's a very short excerpt:
He said the word "subtle" as if it were in italics. Yes, some words are not like others; they have a special meaning known only to initiates.
I don't know about you, but I know what emphasizing a word means and I know that when it's in italics, it's being emphasized. I also know it can create special meaning for said word. This whole little section sort of sums up how I feel about the book.
It felt a bit preachy, had a holier-than-thou type of feel. I just wasn't, and couldn't get, into it. Maybe in a few years, at a different point in my life I'll like it more, but I'm pretty iffy about that.
We’re walking down the aisles, lit up bright with rows of beaming bars of light. The reds seem more vibrant, the blues livelier, the yellow casts off rays like the sun. You’re wearing that vest, the one they make you wear. I think it looks good on you, it fits. You think it’s a burden.
We’re in your store. Or at least the one you work in. It’s all aisles, up and down. It’s all colors and boxes, and bottles of hairspray and tins of crackers. It could be any store. I could be anywhere. But I’m walking down this aisle, number 4, with you wearing your smart vest. Even with you here, we could be anywhere.
We pass kitty litter, with pictures of cats looking pleasant as they tiptoe from a box, leaving behind waves of clean scent behind their dirtied tails. We pass the dog toys, the training treats. We are talking about something inconsequential. I can’t recall it now.
It was then, in front of the dog doo pick up bags that you stopped and said, oh I meant to give this to you.
Out of your vest pocket, you plucked a shiny something and handed it to me. It’s a button. The kind you fasten to your coat pocket or lapel. Homer Simpson smiles up at me, his round butt covered in blue jeans just stuck on a pin, smiling.
I look up at you in your vest and I’m smiling a big thank you. I put that pin on right there and then, right on the lapel of my grey blazer. Homer Simpson, fake though he may be, is a good man. I sense spiffy good luck in the near future.
You like that I’m happy. You grin with broad white teeth. Overhead, white circles garble your name. You say you’ve got to actually work now. You’re putting that vest to use, though the vest does nothing but make you feel silly. I still think it looks good.
I follow you to the end of the aisle and around the bend I’m hearing disgruntled muttering. Your hand draws back across my body. Be careful, you whisper, stand back. She’s been here before. You’re tense as you lean back whispering, watch out she’s got a strong left arm.
The shiny soles of your heels turn around the aisle end. I follow, gingerly, listening for danger. The dry lifeless cackle of an old woman hits my ears. Before I see her, I can tell she’s armed. She sounds wheezy, tired, as if the fight’s been fought. Between bursts of exclamations, her throaty breath heaves as if she is lunging or thrusting.
Things sound bad. I’m afraid to see what it looks like.
Her hair is white oblivion. It is cumulus clouds. It floats gently above her flashy head, swaying with the winds of her thrusting, her lunging.
The thin lithe of a fishing pole’s hook and sinker come whipping through the air. Her hands, though brittle, made quick work of it. She lumbers close and her breathy rasp screeches maniacally and I’m frozen quick, lost in her white oblivion.
The fishing pole whips at me and I know, surely, I must be dead. There is no movement quick enough to escape her pole, her horrid breathing. I can see the end of the fishing pole, the glint of the hook, but I don’t even put up a hand. I just grimace and wait for the sharp stab of death.
Seconds pass. A sharp plink and just barely your voice reaches my ears. You’re saying something and I’m desperate to hear it. You’re grabbing my arm and I am sluggish. I say, I’m dying, just leave me.
Slowly the sound comes back, my breath comes back. I look down and Homer Simpson is smiling up at me, a fish hook stuck right in his happy grin.
I think I hear you calling me an idiot.
I think Homer Simpson just saved my life. I’m smiling like an idiot.
