Milan kundera

would not
keep ranks! She 
refused
to keep ranks—always with the same people, with the same speeches! That 
was why she was so stirred by her own injustice. But it was not an unpleasant feeling; 
quite the contrary, Sabina had the impression she had just scored a victory and 
someone invisible was applauding her for it. 

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"The Unbearable Lightness Of Being" By Milan Kundera
 
50
Then suddenly the intoxication gave way to anguish: The road had to end somewhere! 
Sooner or later she would have to put an end to her betrayals! Sooner or later she 
would have to stop herself! 
It was evening and she was hurrying through the railway station. The train to 
Amsterdam was in. She found her coach. Guided by a friendly guard, she opened the 
door to her compartment and found Franz sitting on a couchette. He rose to greet her; 
she threw her arms around him and smothered him with kisses. 
She had an overwhelming desire to tell him, like the most banal of women, Don't let me 
go, hold me tight, make me your plaything, your slave, be strong! But they were words 
she could not say. 
The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was, You don't know 
how happy I am to be with you. That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to 
express. 
A Short Dictionary of Misunderstood Words (continued}
PARADES 
People in Italy or France have it easy. When their parents force them to go to church, 
they get back at them by joining the Party (Communist, Maoist, Trotskyist, etc.). Sabina, 
however, was first sent to church by her father, then forced by him to attend meetings 
of the Communist Youth League. He was afraid of what would happen if she stayed 
away. 
When she marched in the obligatory May Day parades, she could never keep in step, 
and the girl behind her would shout at her and purposely tread on her heels. When the 
time came to sing, she never knew the words of the songs and would merely open and 
close her mouth. But the other girls would notice and report her. From her youth on, she 
hated parades. 
Franz had studied in Paris, and because he was extraordinarily gifted his scholarly 
career was assured from the time he was twenty. At twenty, he knew he would live out 
his life within the confines of his university office, one or two libraries, and two or three 
lecture halls. The idea of such a life made him feel suffocated. He yearned to step out 
of his life the way one steps out of a house into the street. 
And so as long as he lived in Paris, he took part in every possible demonstration. How 
nice it was to celebrate something, demand something, protest against something; to 
be out in the open, to be with others. The parades filing down the Boulevard Saint-
Germain or from the Place de la Republique to the Bastille fascinated him. He saw the 
marching, shouting crowd as the image of Europe and its history. Europe was the 
Grand March. The march from revolution to revolution, from struggle to struggle, ever 
onward. 
I might put it another way: Franz felt his book life to be unreal. He yearned for real life, 
for the touch of people walking side by side with him, for their shouts. It never occurred 

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to him that what he considered unreal (the work he did in the solitude of the office or 
library) was in fact his real life, whereas the parades he imagined to be reality were 
nothing but theater, dance, carnival—in other words, a dream. 
During her studies, Sabina lived in a dormitory. On May Day all the students had to 
report early in the morning for the parade. Student officials would comb the building to 
ensure that no one was missing. Sabina hid in the lavatory. Not until long after the 
building was empty would she go back to her room. It was quieter than anywhere she 
could remember. The only sound was the parade music echoing in the distance. It was 
as though she had found refuge inside a shell and the only sound she could hear was 
the sea of an inimical world. 
A year or two after emigrating, she happened to be in Paris on the anniversary of the 
Russian invasion of her country. A protest march had been scheduled, and she felt 
driven to take part. Fists raised high, the young Frenchmen shouted out slogans 
condemning Soviet imperialism. She liked the slogans, but to her surprise she found 
herself unable to shout along with them. She lasted no more than a few minutes in the 
parade. 
When she told her French friends about it, they were amazed. 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 that evil was a parade of people marching by with 
raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison. But she knew she would never be 
able to make them understand. Embarrassed, she changed the subject. 
THE BEAUTY OF NEW YORK 
Franz and Sabina would walk the streets of New York for hours at a time. The view 
changed with each step, as if they were following a winding mountain path surrounded 
by breathtaking scenery: a young man kneeling in the middle of the sidewalk praying; 
a few steps away, a beautiful black woman leaning against a tree; a man in a black suit 
directing an invisible orchestra while crossing the street; a fountain spurting water and a 
group of construction workers sitting on the rim eating lunch; strange iron ladders 
running up and down buildings with ugly red facades, so ugly that they were beautiful; 
and next door, a huge glass skyscraper backed by another, itself topped by a small 
Arabian pleasure-dome with turrets, galleries, and gilded columns. 
She was reminded of her paintings. There, too, incongruous things came together: a 
steelworks construction site superimposed on a kerosene lamp; an old-fashioned lamp 
with a painted-glass shade shattered into tiny splinters and rising up over a desolate 
landscape of marshland. 
Franz said, Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it. 
We've always had an aesthetic intention and a long-range plan. That's what enabled 
Western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a Renaissance piazza. 
The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It's unintentional. It arose 

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52
independent of human design, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which are in themselves 
quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they 
sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry.
Sabina said, Unintentional beauty. Yes. Another way of putting it might be 'beauty by 
mistake.' Before beauty disappears entirely from the earth, it will go on existing for a 
while by mistake. 'Beauty by mistake'—the final phase in the history of beauty.
And she recalled her first mature painting, which came into being because some red 
paint had dripped on it by mistake. Yes, her paintings were based on beauty by 
mistake, and New York was the secret but authentic homeland of her painting. 
Franz said, Perhaps New York's unintentional beauty is much richer and more varied 
than the excessively strict and composed beauty of human design. But it's not our 
European beauty. It's an alien world.
Didn't they then at last agree on something? 
No. There is a difference. Sabina was very much attracted by the alien quality of New 
York's beauty. Franz found it intriguing but frightening; it made him feel homesick for 
Europe. 
SABINA'S COUNTRY 
Sabina understood Franz's distaste for America. He was the embodiment of Europe: 
his mother was Viennese, his father French, and he himself was Swiss. 
Franz greatly admired Sabina's country. Whenever she told him about herself and her 
friends from home, Franz heard the words prison, persecution, enemy tanks, 
emigration, pamphlets, banned books, banned exhibitions, and he felt a curious mixture 
of envy and nostalgia. 
He made a confession to Sabina. A philosopher once wrote that everything in my work 
is unverifiable speculation and called me a 'pseudo-Socrates.' I felt terribly humiliated 
and made a furious response. And just think, that laughable episode was the greatest 
conflict I've ever experienced! The pinnacle of the dramatic possibilities available to my 
life! We live in two different dimensions, you and I. You came into my life like Gulliver 
entering the land of the Lilliputians.
Sabina protested. She said that conflict, drama, and tragedy didn't mean a thing; there 
was nothing inherently valuable in them, nothing deserving of respect or admiration. 
What was truly enviable was Franz's work and the fact that he had the peace and quiet 
to devote himself to it. 
Franz shook his head. When a society is rich, its people don't need to work with their 
hands; they can devote themselves to activities of the spirit. We have more and more 
universities and more and more students. If students are going to earn degrees, they've 
got to come up with dissertation topics. And since dissertations can be written about 
everything under the sun, the number of topics is infinite. Sheets of paper covered with 

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53
words pile up in archives sadder than cemeteries, because no one ever visits them, not 
even on All Souls' Day. Culture is perishing in overproduction, in an avalanche of 
words, in the madness of quantity. That's why one banned book in your former country 
means infinitely more than the billions of words spewed out by our universities.
It is in this spirit that we may understand Franz's weakness for revolution. First he 
sympathized with Cuba, then with China, and when the cruelty of their regimes began 
to appall him, he resigned himself with a sigh to a sea of words with no weight and no 
resemblance to life. He became a professor in Geneva (where there are no 
demonstrations), and in a burst of abnegation (in womanless, paradeless solitude) he 
published several scholarly books, all of which received considerable acclaim. Then 
one day along came Sabina. She was a revelation. She came from a land where 
revolutionary illusion had long since faded but where the thing he admired most in 
revolution remained: life on a large scale; a life of risk, daring, and the danger of death. 
Sabina had renewed his faith in the grandeur of human endeavor. Superimposing the 
painful drama of her country on her person, he found her even more beautiful. 
The trouble was that Sabina had no love for that drama. The words prison, persecution, 
banned books, occupation, tanks were ugly, without the slightest trace of romance. The 
only word that evoked in her a sweet, nostalgic memory of her homeland was the word 
cemetery.
CEMETERY 
Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and 
colorful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. When the sun goes down, 
the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles. It looks as though the dead are dancing at a 
children's ball. Yes, a children's ball, because the dead are as innocent as children. No 
matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery. Even in wartime, 
in Hitler's time, in Stalin's time, through all occupations. When she felt low, she would 
get into the car, leave Prague far behind, and walk through one or another of the 
country cemeteries she loved so well. Against a backdrop of blue hills, they were as 
beautiful as a lullaby. 
For Franz a cemetery was an ugly dump of stones and bones. 
I'd never drive. I'm scared stiff of accidents! Even if they don't kill you, they mark you for 
life! And so saying, the sculptor made an instinctive grab for the finger he had nearly 
chopped off one day while whittling away at a wood statue. It was a miracle the finger 
had been saved. 
What do you mean? said Marie-Claude in a raucous voice. She was in top form. I was 
in a serious accident once, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And I've never 
had more fun than when I was in that hospital! I couldn't sleep a wink, so I just read and 
read, day and night.
They all looked at her in amazement. She basked in it. Franz reacted with a mixture of 
disgust (he knew that after the accident in question his wife had fallen into a deep 

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54
depression and complained incessantly) and admiration (her ability to transform 
everything she experienced was a sign of true vitality). 
It was there I began to divide books into day books and night books, she went on. 
Really, there are books meant for daytime reading and books that can be read only at 
night.
Now they all looked at her in amazement and admiration, all, that is, but the sculptor, 
who was still holding his finger and wrinkling his face at the memory of the accident. 
Marie-Claude turned to him and asked, Which category would you put Stendhal in?
The sculptor had not heard the question and shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. An 
art critic standing next to him said he thought of Stendhal as daytime reading. 
Marie-Claude shook her head and said in her raucous voice, No, no, you're wrong! 
You're wrong! Stendhal is a night author!
Franz's participation in the debate on night art and day art was disturbed by the fact 
that he was expecting Sabina to show up at any minute. They had spent many days 
pondering whether or not she should accept the invitation to this cocktail party. It was a 
party Marie-Claude was giving for all painters and sculptors who had ever exhibited in 
her private gallery. Ever since Sabina had met Franz, she had avoided his wife. But 
because they feared being found out, they came to the conclusion that it would be more 
natural and therefore less suspicious for her to come. 
While throwing unobtrusive looks in the direction of the entrance hall, Franz heard his 
eighteen-year-old daughter, Marie-Anne, holding forth at the other end of the room. Ex-
cusing himself from the group presided over by his wife, he made his way to the group 
presided over by his daughter. Some were in chairs, others standing, but Marie-Anne 
was cross-legged on the floor. Franz was certain that Marie-Claude would soon switch 
to the carpet on her side of the room, too. Sitting on the floor when you had guests was 
at the time a gesture signifying simplicity, informality, liberal politics, hospitality, and a 
Parisian way of life. The passion with which Marie-Claude sat on all floors was such 
that Franz began to worry she would take to sitting on the floor of the shop where she 
bought her cigarettes. 
What are you working on now, Alain? Marie-Anne asked the man at whose feet she 
was sitting. 
Alain was so naive and sincere as to try to give the gallery owner's daughter an honest 
answer. He started explaining his new approach to her, a combination of photography 
and oil, but he had scarcely got through three sentences when Marie-Anne began 
whistling a tune. The painter was speaking slowly and with great concentration and did 
not hear the whistling. Will you tell me why you're whistling? Franz whispered. Because 
I don't like to hear people talk about politics, she answered out loud. 
And in fact, two men standing in the same circle were discussing the coming elections 
in France. Marie-Anne, who felt it her duty to direct the proceedings, asked the men 
whether they were planning to go to the Rossini opera an Italian company was putting 

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"The Unbearable Lightness Of Being" By Milan Kundera
 
55
on in Geneva the following week. Meanwhile, Alain the painter sank into greater and 
greater detail about his new approach to painting. Franz was ashamed for his daughter. 
To put her in her place, he announced that whenever she went to the opera she 
complained terribly of boredom. 
You're awful, said Marie-Anne, trying to punch him in the stomach from a sitting 
position. The star tenor is so handsome. So handsome. I've seen him twice now, and 
I'm in love with him.
Franz could not get over how much like her mother his daughter was. Why couldn't she 
be like him? But there was nothing he could do about it. She was not like him. How 
many times had he heard Marie-Claude proclaim she was in love with this or that 
painter, singer, writer, politician, and once even with a racing cyclist? Of course, it was 
all mere cocktail party rhetoric, but he could not help recalling now and then that more 
than twenty years ago she had gone about saying the same thing about-him and 
threatening him with suicide to boot. 
At that point, Sabina entered the room. Marie-Claude walked up to her. While Marie-
Anne went on about Rossini, Franz trained his attention on what the two women were 
saying. After a few friendly words of greeting, Marie-Claude lifted the ceramic pendant 
from Sabina's neck and said in a very loud voice, What is that? How ugly!
Those words made a deep impression on Franz. They were not meant to be combative; 
the raucous laughter immediately following them made it clear that by rejecting the 
pendant Marie-Claude did not wish to jeopardize her friendship with Sabina. But it was 
not the kind of thing she usually said. 
I made it myself, said Sabina. 
That pendant is ugly, really! Marie-Claude repeated very loudly. You shouldn't wear it.
Franz knew his wife didn't care whether the pendant was ugly or not. An object was 
ugly if she willed it ugly, beautiful if she willed it beautiful. Pendants worn by her friends 
were a priori beautiful. And even if she did find them ugly, she would never say so, 
because flattery had long since become second nature to her. 
Why, then, did she decide that the pendant Sabina had made herself was ugly? 
Franz suddenly saw the answer plainly: Marie-Claude proclaimed Sabina's pendant 
ugly because she could afford to do so. 
Or to be more precise: Marie-Claude proclaimed Sabina's pendant ugly to make it clear 
that she could afford to tell Sabina her pendant was ugly. 
Sabina's exhibition the year before had not been particularly successful, so Marie-
Claude did not set great store by Sabina's favor. Sabina, however, had every reason to 
set store by Marie-Claude's. Yet that was not at all evident from her behavior. 

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Yes, Franz saw it plainly: Marie-Claude had taken advantage of the occasion to make 
clear to Sabina (and others) what the real balance of power was between the two of 
them.