Milan Kundera

Milan
Kundera
1929

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

Author Quotes

To die; to decide to die; that's much easier for an adolescent than for an adult. What? Doesn't death strip an adolescent of a far larger portion of future? Certainly it does, but for a young person, the future is a remote, abstract, unreal thing he doesn't really believe in.

Toilets of modern bathrooms rise from the ground like a white lily flower. Architects do the impossible for the body to forget his misery and that man does not know what happens to excreta of their guts when water from the toilet, gurgling, driving them away from view. Although its tentacles extending to our homes, sewer pipes are carefully disguised so we know absolutely nothing about the invisible Venices fucking on which are built our bathrooms, our rooms, our salons . prom and our parliaments. The bathrooms that old building in a working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Prague were less hypocritical; gray tile floor, stood up, and miserable orphan, the toilet. did not remember a flower of water lily, but on the contrary, evoked what actually was: the place where the pipe ended and widened its diameter. Even had soundboard wood and Tereza had to sit directly on the enamel lio‡a, felt a cold shiver.

Vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.

The meaning of poetry is not to dazzle us with an amazing idea, but to make a moment of being memorable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia.

The passion for knowledge when the novelist is not aimed at politics nor history. What the new feature can be found by about the events described in the discussion and thousands of books discreet diverse?

The shame does not merit a mistake of ours committed, but the humiliation we feel to be what we are without having selected and unbearable feeling that this humiliation is seen everywhere.

The woman we love ought to swim as slowly as we do, she ought to have no past of her own to look back on happily. But when the illusion of absolute identity vanishes (the girl looks back happily on her past or swims faster), love becomes a permanent source of the great torment we call litost.

There are things that can be accomplished only by violence. Physical love is unthinkable without violence.

This is the real and the only reason for friendship: to provide a mirror so the other person can contemplate his image from the past, which, without the eternal blah-blah of memories between pals, would long ago have disappeared.

To ensure that the self doesn't shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends.

Tomas came to this conclusion: Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are to separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).

Vlasta criticizes me I'm a dreamer. It seems that I do not see things as they are. No, I see things as they are, but in addition to also see visible things invisible. Invented ideas are useless. Are precisely the ones who make our homes houses.

The moment love is born: the woman cannot resist the voice calling forth her terrified soul; the man cannot resist the woman whose soul thus responds to his voice.

The passion of extremism, whether in art or in politics compelling desire to die.

The simplest questions are always the most important questions and the answer is no, and the question cannot be answered obstacle that cannot go beyond that.

The word change, so dear to our Europe, has been given a new meaning: it no longer means a new stage of coherent development (as it was understood by Vico, Hegel or Marx), but a shift from one side to another, from front to back, from the back to the left, from the left to the front (as understood by designers dreaming up the fashion for the next season).

There has never asked those questions that torture pairs of human love me? Has ever loved someone more than me? Loves me more than you love me? Maybe all these questions put to love, which measure, the investigating, looking at each other, subjecting them to interrogation, they also succeed in destroying it in the bud. We may not be able to love just because we want to be loved, that is to say we want something (love) instead of the other close to him unpretentious and want only his mere presence.

This part of the story could serve as a parable about the power of beauty. When Mr. Zaturetski first saw Clara in my quarters, he was so blinded that does not actually seem real. Beauty brought before it opaque curtain. Light curtain behind which she hid behind a veil. Klara is neither high nor blonde. Only the inner greatness of her beauty created at Mr. Zaturetski idea for the fuller figure. A glow that radiates beauty, confer on her hair a golden glow.

To have compassion (co-feeling) means not only to be able to live with other's misfortune but also to feel with him any emotion -joy , anxiety, happiness, pain.

Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.

We all reject out of hand the idea that the love of our life may be something light or weightless; we presume our love is what must be, that without it our life would no longer be the same; we feel that Beethoven himself, gloomy and awe-inspiring, is playing the Es muss sein! to our own great love.

The moment someone keeps an eye on what we do, we involuntarily make allowances for that eye, and nothing we do is truthful. Having a public, keeping a public in mind, means living in lies.

The phrase It's absolutely the same with me, I... seems to be an approving echo, a way of continuing the other's thought, but that is an illusion: in reality it is a brute revolt against a brutal violence, an effort to free our own ear from bondage and to occupy the enemy's ear by force. Because all of man's life among his kind is nothing other than a battle to seize the ear of others.

The situation has changed, and the understanding of journalists to ask questions not only a way to work Maker reportage, which tracks humbly investigating what clutching in his hand, but a way of exercising power really, not the journalist is to ask a question, it is a person who has the sacred right to put them, and put them on any was, and about any subject. Authority and not doing the right journalist asking the question, but the right to claim with an answer.

The world has become man's right and everything in it has become a right: the desire for love the right to love, the desire for rest the right to rest, the desire for friendship the right to friendship, the desire to exceed the speed limit the right to exceed the speed limit, the desire for happiness the right to happiness, the desire to publish a book the right to publish a book, the desire to shout in the street in the middle of the night the right to shout in the street.

Author Picture
First Name
Milan
Last Name
Kundera
Birth Date
1929
Bio

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