Milan Kundera


Czech-born French Writer, Playwright and Author who lived in exiled in France

Author Quotes

We can regard the gulag as a septic tank used by totalitarian kitsch to dispose of its refuse.

What he did succeed in seeing behind him in his mind's eye was tiny, compressed like a closed accordion.

When a private talk over a bottle of wine is broadcast on the radio, what can it mean but that the world is turning into a concentration camp?

Whenever I think about ancient cultures nostalgia seizes me. Perhaps this is nothing but envy of the sweet slowness of the history of that time. The era of ancient Egyptian culture lasted for several thousand years; the era of Greek antiquity for almost a thousand. In this respect, a single human life imitates the history of mankind; at first it is plunged into immobile slowness, and then only gradually does it accelerate more and more.

Xavier told him where they were going. She replied that that room was home while there where Xavier wanted to take it would not have your clothes closet or your bird in the cage. Xavier said that a home is not a clothes closet or a bird in the cage, but the presence of someone you love. I told him then that he had no home, or rather, to express themselves in another way, that your home was your steps in your walk, in your travels. That his home was opened where unknown horizons.

You know what it's like when two people start a conversation. First one of them does all the talking, the other breaks in with That's just like me, I... and goes on himself until his partner finds a chance to say, That's just like me, I... The That's just like me, I... 's may look like a form of agreement, a way of carrying the other party's idea a step further, but that is an illusion.

We can reproach ourselves for some action, for a remark, but not for a feeling, quite simply because we have no control at all over it.

What he yearned for at that moment, vaguely but with all his might, was unbounded music, absolute sound, a pleasant and happy all-encompassing, over-powering, window-rattling din to engulf, once and for all, the pain, the futility, the vanity of words. Music was the negation of sentences, music was the anti-word!

When Don Quixote went out into the world, that world turned into a mystery before his eyes. That is the legacy of the first European novel to the entire subsequent history of the novel. The novel teaches us to comprehend the world as a question. There is wisdom and tolerance in that attitude.

Whenever the time behind the bigger became the voice that urges us to return irresistible, it seems this provision general principle, but it is a fake. Human aging and the end is approaching, becomes every precious moment is not because there is no time wasted on memories. Should understand the contradiction Sports Virtual nostalgia: This shows strongly in the first stage of youth, while the size of past life pittance.

Yes, if you're looking for infinity, just close your eyes!

You know, I think that life should be taken the way it is... It's all in God's hands and we know nothing about tomorrow, by which I mean to accept life as it a means to accept unpredictable. A child is his collective image. The child is very unpredictable. You do not know what will come of it, what would you bring and that is why you have to accept. Otherwise live half live as a man who cannot swim and slapped the shore, though the real sea is deep.

We don't know when our name came into being or how some distant ancestor acquired it. We don't understand our name at all, we don't know its history and yet we bear it with exalted fidelity, we merge with it, we like it, we are ridiculously proud of it as if we had thought it up ourselves in a moment of brilliant inspiration.

What I love in a woman is not what she is in and for herself, but the side of herself she turns towards me, what she is for me. I love her as character in our common love story. What would Hamlet be without the castle at Elsinore, without Ophelia, without all the concrete situations he goes through, what would he be without the text of his part? What would be left but an empty, dumb, illusory essence?

When graves are covered with stones, the dead can no longer get out. But the dead can?t go out anyway! What difference does it make whether they?re covered with soil or stones?

Where are all those virtues of unreason that have shaped our idea of love?

Yes, it was too late, and Sabina knew she would leave Paris, move on, and on again, because were she to die here they would cover her up with a stone, and in the mind of a woman for whom no place is home the thought of an end to all flight is unbearable.

You mean you don't want to fight the occupation of your country?' She would have liked to tell them that behind Communism, Fascism, behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic, pervasive evil and that the image of evil was a parade of people marching by with raised fists ad shouting identical syllables in unison.

We go through the present blindfolded... Only later, when the blindfold is removed and we examine the past, do we realize what we've been through and understand what it means.

What is flirtation? One might say that it is behavior leading another to believe that sexual intimacy is possible, while preventing that possibility from becoming a certainty. In other words, flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.

When his wife was at his side, she was also in front of him, marking out the horizon of his life. Now the horizon is empty: the view has changed.

Where the heart is speaking rude that contradicts reason.

Yes, it's a well-known fact about you: you're like death, you take everything.

You see a young woman who moves away from her life and goes, forever inaccessible. Mesmerized, can do nothing but look at this piece of your life that moves away, can only look at it and suffer. Experience a whole new feeling called nostalgia.

We have no idea anymore what it means to feel guilty. The Communists have the excuse that Stalin misled them. Murderers have the excuse that their mothers didn?t love them? No one could be more innocent, in his soul and conscience, than Oedipus. And yet he punished himself when he saw what he had done.

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Czech-born French Writer, Playwright and Author who lived in exiled in France