Because You Never Asked

(5/05)

I don’t always agree with the things Kundera says. For a mere mortal like myself, such a statement has a preposterous quality I am willing to risk. An intellect such as his resides in such a lofty, minuscule percentile of humanity, it could almost be considered uncharted territory. It’s as if one found oneself in the presence of that completely omnipotent, know all, see all, do all concept the vast bulk of humanity refers to as God, and said, “excuse me, Mr. God, but don’t you think that maybe you could have …”, or, “I have an idea that you might want to hear …” etc.

Let’s consider it a sport or game, like Jeopardy or that plebian spectacle where Vanna White slinks around in one of those saran wrap dresses clinging to the luscious contours of her spectacular butt. And now, ladies and gentlemen (music, rhythmic clapping), welcome to another edition of … “Who’s Smarter Than Milan Kundera?”

Perhaps my insecurity is unfounded. Certainly, a Milan Kundera, even if he represents the nth degree of our specie’s intelligence, is capable of being in err, of not seeing something as it should be, of perceiving a concept now that reveals itself as erroneous later on. Might not a humble creature such as you or Post Consumer Man have an idea or perception that finds it’s way to the truth before a Milan Kundera arrives there? Wouldn’t someone with the unusual intelligence of the great Czech writer concede the possibility of all of the above?

If I played 100 points of tennis with Andre Agassi, somewhere along the line I’d win one.

Over the course of the last decade or so, I’ve read a number of Kundera’s books. Of all that material, there are perhaps three or four passages totaling less than a full page that I might formally dispute as incorrect. But there is also a broad overview that does not quite align itself perfectly with my vision of the world, like a reflection on a window pane that gives forth with a slight double image. It’s not enough to destroy the big picture, but it blurs it slightly, causing a small, perhaps inconsequential amount of intellectual tension.

As I alluded to in my first essay on the great man (see essay “Milan Kundera”), the eternal trauma of Kundera’s life was the Stalinist experience he had to deal with and eventually flee from as a young man. Imagine trying to contain such effervescent genius within the narrow confines of an overly dogmatic Marxist-Leninist straight jacket.

Obviously, the struggle was prodigious, epic, painful, and has left an ugly scar on the psyche of the extraordinary artist-philosopher that will never heal completely. This angry
tension flowering in his most formative years can only be seen as inevitable and correct, and we can all be thankful for its presence. But has it also clouded his objectivity? At times, he unfairly attributes some universal evils existing everywhere specifically to socialism and confuses the thick-skulled, heavy handed application with the value of principles that are still worthy of consideration.

In perhaps his most famous work, the novel “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, Kundera talks about how the rural towns have changed under Communist rule. He laments the lack of community and personal interaction. I quote, “At the end of the work day, everyone went home and shut themselves within the four walls of their houses, with their modern furniture oozing gobs of bad taste, and stared at the screens of their televisions. Nobody visited each other. Everyone dreamed of going to live in the big city. The town offered nothing that could be considered even slightly interesting.”

If Kundera had grown up in the neo-liberal, market economies this writer is constantly criticizing, he could have written the exact same thing.

Later on in the same book, there is a passage criticizing the personality that agriculture has taken on under socialist rule. He laments the fact that “… after the great cooperative factory took over the town, the livestock began to live their lives within 2 square meters, in stables. Since then, they don’t have names and have become nothing more than numbers.”

Please, Mr. Kundera, when it comes to factory farms, capitalism has taken such practices to levels of animal degradation beyond your wildest nightmares.

In the novel “Immortality”, the classical composer Gustav Mahler is frequently mentioned and obviously admired by the author. Referring to Mahler, one of the principle characters says, “Everything is perfectly elaborated, thoughtful, heartfelt, nothing is left to chance. But that enormous perfection is too much for us, it surpasses our memory capacity, our capacity for concentration, so that even the most fanatically attentive listener is capable of taking in no more than a 1/100th part of that symphony, and surely that which mattered least to Mahler.” He then continues a bit later on, “I don’t deny that symphony its perfection. But they are no more than cathedrals of uselessness. They are inaccessible for man. They are inhuman. We have exaggerated their meaning. We feel inferior before them.”

Could we not take this same argument and turn it upside down with an equal amount
of geniality and rationality? Might we not be able to argue that it is just this ingenious
subtlety, this unperceived complication, this hidden pattern of order that so very few of
us can detect, that makes the whole of the symphony such an unforgettable experience?

Before preceding, I will again confess my insecurity as I prepare to argue my case with an analogy from the athletic world, specifically the sport of American football. Mentioning the likes of Mahler or Kundera in the same breath with something as “lumpen” as American football, is an admittedly tremulous endeavor for this writer, but I’ve the courage enough (or stupidity) to let the reader decide.

In spite of the banality of its violence and macho posturing --- the two prime ingredients of the sport’s success --- ironically, American football is as sophisticated a sport, both from a strategic and execution standpoint, as there is today. There are an infinity of nuances --- timing mechanisms, delays, deceptions, blocking patterns, counters and counter-counters, etc. --- that even the most assiduous fan, week after week, year after year, will never recognize. And yet, when all of this is put into motion as it should be, the beauty and attraction of the whole is unmistakable. Indeed, without the subtlety of this generally ignored minutia, wouldn’t the rest of it fall apart and become unpleasing? The character in Kundera’s novel seems to imply that the “unindoctrinated” would enjoy the symphony just as much without Mahler’s intensely intricate, painstakingly planned but not grasped workmanship. I question this. Might it not be just this part of Mahler’s genius, that part the rest of us will almost surely never consciously associate with our enjoyment of the symphony, that creates its majestic beauty?

But this essay has a surprise ending. It should be remembered that this novel “Immortality” is one of Kundera’s later works and is fully saturated with the experience garnered even beyond his universal consecration as one of the world’s genius voices. Its purpose is to break down this myth of immortality, of exalted genius, to destroy this pantheon of infallibility us mere mortals have built around such people as Goethe, Mahler, Hemingway, Beethoven and yes, Kundera too. It tries to belittle such hero worship with the vulgarity of their normal, but ignored, human weaknesses. By questioning the omnipotence of Kundera’s word, he has led me just where he wanted me to go.

Like a dog on a leash.

OK, ladies and gentlemen (music, rhythmic clapping, Vanna blowing kisses and waving good bye), that wraps up this edition of … “Who’s Smarter Than Milan
Kundera?”