"The Unbearable Lightness Of Being" By Milan Kundera
136
Would you be terribly upset if I went on the march? he asked the girl with the glasses,
who counted every day away from him a loss, yet could not deny him a thing.
Several days later he was in a large jet taking off from Paris with twenty doctors and
about fifty intellectuals (professors, writers, diplomats, singers, actors, and mayors) as
well as four hundred reporters and photographers.
The plane landed in Bangkok. Four hundred and seventy doctors, intellectuals, and
reporters made their way to the large ballroom of an international hotel, where more
doctors, actors, singers, and professors of linguistics
had gathered with several
hundred journalists bearing notebooks, tape recorders, and cameras, still and video. On
the podium, a group of twenty or so Americans sitting at a long table were presiding
over the proceedings.
The French intellectuals with whom Franz had entered the ballroom felt slighted and
humiliated. The march on Cambodia had been their idea, and here the Americans,
supremely unabashed as usual, had not only taken over, but had taken over in English
without a thought that a Dane or a Frenchman might not understand them. And
because the Danes had long since forgotten that they once formed a nation of their
own, the French were the only Europeans capable of protest.
So high were their
principles that they refused to protest in English, and made their case to the Americans
on the podium in their mother tongue. The Americans, not understanding a word,
reacted with friendly, agreeing smiles. In the end, the French had no choice but to
frame their objection in English: Why is this meeting in English when there are
Frenchmen present?
Though amazed at so curious an objection, the Americans, still smiling, acquiesced: the
meeting would be run bilingually.
Before it could resume, however, a suitable interpreter
had to be found. Then, every sentence had to resound in both English and French,
which made the discussion take twice as long, or rather more than twice as long, since
all the French had some English and kept interrupting the interpreter to correct him,
disputing every word.
The meeting reached its peak when a famous American actress rose to speak.
Because of her, even more photographers and cameramen streamed into the
auditorium, and every syllable she pronounced was accompanied by the click of
another camera. The actress spoke about suffering children, about the barbarity of
Communist dictatorship,
the human right to security, the current threat to the traditional
values of civilized society, the inalienable freedom of the human individual, and
President Carter, who was deeply sorrowed by the events in Cambodia. By the time
she had pronounced her closing words, she was in tears.
Then up jumped a young French doctor with a red mustache and shouted, We're here
to cure dying people, not to pay homage to President Carter! Let's not turn this into an
American propaganda circus! We're not here to protest against Communism! We're
here to save lives!
He was immediately seconded by several other Frenchmen.
"The Unbearable Lightness Of Being" By Milan Kundera
137
The interpreter was frightened and did not dare translate what they said. So the twenty
Americans on the podium looked on once more with smiles full of good will, many
nodding agreement. One of them even lifted his fist
in the air because he knew
Europeans liked to raise their fists in times of collective euphoria.
How can it be that leftist intellectuals (because the doctor with the mustache was
nothing if not a leftist intellectual) are willing to march against the interests of a
Communist country when Communism has always been considered the left's domain?
When the crimes of the country called the Soviet Union became too scandalous, a
leftist had two choices: either to spit on his former life and stop marching or (more or
less sheepishly) to reclassify the Soviet Union as an obstacle to the Grand March and
march on.
Have I not said that what makes a leftist a leftist is the kitsch of the Grand March? The
identity of kitsch comes not from a political strategy but from images, metaphors, and
vocabulary. It is therefore possible to break the habit and march against the interests of
a Communist country. What is impossible, however, is to substitute one word for others.
It is possible to threaten the Vietnamese army with one's fist. It is impossible to shout
Down with Communism! Down with Communism! is a slogan belonging to the enemies
of the Grand March, and anyone worried about losing face
must remain faithful to the
purity of his own kitsch.
The only reason I bring all this up is to explain the misunderstanding between the
French doctor and the American actress, who, egocentric as she was, imagined herself
the victim of envy or misogyny. In point of fact, the French doctor displayed a finely
honed aesthetic sensibility: the phrases President Carter, our traditional values, the
barbarity of Communism all belong to the vocabulary of
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