"At first this thought only flickered in his head,
but now that he had been made aware of his inner originality, he didn't
allow the thought to escape (as he had allowed so
many other thoughts to escape previously) but immediately seized it, observed it, examined it from all sides."
"Aren't we living in a world where headless men only desire decapitated women? Isn't a realistic vision of the world the emptiest of illusions ?"
"His distaste for himself remained down below; down below he had felt his palms become sweaty with fear and his breath speed up; but here, up high in the poem, he was above his paltryness; the keyhole episode and his cowardice were merely a trampoline above which he was now soaring; he was no longer subordinate to his experience, his experience was subordinate to what he had written."
"For him sleep is not the opposite of life; for him, sleep is life, and life is a dream. He goes from dream to dream as if he were going from one life to another."
"[...] and for the moment the hands existed alone, by themselves; they were miraculous hands in an empty space; hands between two adventures, between two lives; hands unspoiled by a body or a head."
"He would look at himself in the mirror for a long time, desperately struggling in the immense space between ape and Rilke."
"Mama immediately recognized that voice; she saw her son's face with her lost lover's voice coming out of it; she saw a face that didn't belong to her; she heard a voice that didn't belong to her; her son stood before her like the image of a double repudiation; that seemed intolerable to her."
When the mother realizes that the boy is not her own anymore.
"But Arthur Rimbaud ran away again and again; he ran with a collar fastened to his neck, writing his poems as he ran."
"[…] when he is old a man is no longer obliged to care about his group's opinions, about the public, and about the future. He is alone with approaching death, and death has neither eyes nor ears, he has no need to please death; he can do and say what he pleases."
"In an immature young man, the yearning long persists for the safety and unity of the universe that he alone completely filled inside his mother, and he is anxious about (or angered by) the relativized adult world in which he is now engulfed like a droplet in an ocean of otherness."
To go back into the womb.
"How delightful it would be to forget what it is that dries up the sap of our brief lives so as to enslave them to its useless work, how beautiful it would be to forget History!"
"History does not make its way only on the dramatic peaks of our lives but also soaks into everyday life like dirty water; it enters our story in the guise of underwear."
I like part 6 a lot- how beautiful it is. It is an interlude- a scene- which existed only for a moment. A scene which actually is of no importance- and that is what makes it beautiful. In a way- the redhead and the 40 year old man, exist apart from the story with the poet (the egoist). They have a different life apart from the novel itself. "In this novel, too, this sixth part has been only a quiet interlude in which a stranger suddenly lights the lamp of kindness. Let us keep looking at it a few moments more, that gentle lamp, that kindly light, before the novel's cottage vanishes from our sight."
All the poets are one and they exist at the same time in essence.
"[...] water is the exterminating element of those who have been led astray in their own selves, in their love, in their feelings, in their madness, in their mirrors and their whirlwinds;"
Kundera resurrects the scene of Lermontov's death through the poet, I love how he merges what happened in real life with his story. One moment he is talking about the Jaromil, and the next he transfers the names to Lermontov and Martynov. (taken from online)
"He joined the town’s social life, meeting one of his old acquaintances, fellow army officer Nikolay Martynov. Although the two men were seemingly on good terms, Martynov soon became a target of Lermontov’s sharp wit and caustic jokes.
One proved to be a joke too many and Martynov challenged Lermontov to a duel. It left Martynov unharmed – but was fatal for Lermontov. He was killed on the spot on the evening of July 27, 1941, at the foot of Mashuk Mountain. He was just 26."
Kundera even comments on his comparison, where Jaromil is kicked instead of shot: "O my Bohemia, how easily you transform the glory of a pistol shot into the buffoonery of a kick in the pants!" How witty! And yet he goes even further and gives us what we want, a scene just as it happened. But in the end it doesn't matter: "Tell us, Lermontov! Merely the stage props? A pistol or a kick in the pants? Merely the scenery History imposes on a human adventure?" It's scenery, it's not real. The detail is interesting as well, Jaromil gets shot but the Lermontov in him falls to the ground.
"And yet, should we laugh at Jaromil because he is merely a parody of Lermontov? Should we laugh at the painter because he imitated Andre Breton with his leather coat and his German shepherd? Was Andre Breton not himself an imitation of something noble he wished to resemble? Is not parody the eternal destiny of man?"
But what does he mean to say about Xavier? Was it a different part of him making love to the filmmaker? And who was he out on the balcony, the Lermontov part of him?
I am entranced by the way he switches scenes, from Lermontov to Jaromil to Xavier...
And therefore, Jaromil ends with this last confession: ""Actually, I never really liked any woman," he says. "Only you, Mama. You're the most beautiful of all." And that is why Jaromil died a death of water instead of fire: because the water was actually his mother- comforting him from all the suffering he has had- mainly from his own egoism.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was a difficult book for me to read because I can very much relate to this young "poet" for he is a person which I know in my own life. We all have our Jaromil's, even though he is not a poet (in reality).
Yes, the everlasting "maternal power". I think that his egoism was her own fault, I blame her for all of his faults because she indulged him too much. She overstepped her motherly role, especially when she started confiding in him about her personal problems. She needed him because she was forced into a love-less marriage, and when she understood that- she gave her all to her son, the only thing she had left. That is why she was so overprotective of him when he found other "women" in his life, because she was afraid of losing him.
Kunder is right to call Jaromil "foolish" because in fact, he didn't understand what impact he had on people, he was always focused on himself and what he believes, and his poetry. In fact, he got most of his inspiration when he made someone live solely for himself, such as the redhead when she was crying (or when he hit her) because she was crying for him. I think in a way, he needed someone to live for him, just like his mother needed Jaromil to live for her. And maybe that is why he loved his poetry so much, because he had power over words, and he desperately needed power.
Was there anything GOOD about him? I don't really know... he was true to his beliefs, and I admire that. But in the end, he was only faithful to his mother, even though he tried to break out and show his independence, but in the end, it was inevitable that he would come back to her. I think he really was good to his mother, because she was the only one which could dominate him (emotionally) and I think he needed that.
Sorry if I am being too cruel- maybe because at this point in my life, I am biased concerning this particular situation.
Kundera writes beautifully, and I have always been searching for a "contemporary" writer to resurrect these concepts which have long been dead, and to play with essences that are immortal, such as in this case, Lermontov, the foolish poet.
"How delightful it would be to forget what it is that dries up the sap of our brief lives so as to enslave them to its useless work, how beautiful it would be to forget History!"
many other thoughts to escape previously) but immediately seized it, observed it, examined it from all sides."
"Aren't we living in a world where headless men only desire decapitated women? Isn't a realistic vision of the world the emptiest of illusions ?"
"His distaste for himself remained down below; down below he had felt his palms become sweaty with fear and his breath speed up; but here, up high in the poem, he was above his paltryness; the keyhole episode and his cowardice were merely a trampoline above which he was now soaring; he was no longer subordinate to his experience, his experience was subordinate to what he had written."
"For him sleep is not the opposite of life; for him, sleep is life, and life is a dream. He goes from dream to dream as if he were going from one life to another."
"[...] and for the moment the hands existed alone, by themselves; they were miraculous hands in an empty space; hands between two adventures, between two lives; hands unspoiled by a body or a head."
"He would look at himself in the mirror for a long time, desperately struggling in the immense space between ape and Rilke."
"Mama immediately recognized that voice; she saw her son's face with her lost lover's voice coming out of it; she saw a face that didn't belong to her; she heard a voice that didn't belong to her; her son stood before her like the image of a double repudiation; that seemed intolerable to her."
When the mother realizes that the boy is not her own anymore.
"But Arthur Rimbaud ran away again and again; he ran with a collar fastened to his neck, writing his poems as he ran."
"[…] when he is old a man is no longer obliged to care about his group's opinions, about the public, and about the future. He is alone with approaching death, and death has neither eyes nor ears, he has no need to please death; he can do and say what he pleases."
"In an immature young man, the yearning long persists for the safety and unity of the universe that he alone completely filled inside his mother, and he is anxious about (or angered by) the relativized adult world in which he is now engulfed like a droplet in an ocean of otherness."
To go back into the womb.
"How delightful it would be to forget what it is that dries up the sap of our brief lives so as to enslave them to its useless work, how beautiful it would be to forget History!"
"History does not make its way only on the dramatic peaks of our lives but also soaks into everyday life like dirty water; it enters our story in the guise of underwear."
I like part 6 a lot- how beautiful it is. It is an interlude- a scene- which existed only for a moment. A scene which actually is of no importance- and that is what makes it beautiful. In a way- the redhead and the 40 year old man, exist apart from the story with the poet (the egoist). They have a different life apart from the novel itself. "In this novel, too, this sixth part has been only a quiet interlude in which a stranger suddenly lights the lamp of kindness. Let us keep looking at it a few moments more, that gentle lamp, that kindly light, before the novel's cottage vanishes from our sight."
All the poets are one and they exist at the same time in essence.
"[...] water is the exterminating element of those who have been led astray in their own selves, in their love, in their feelings, in their madness, in their mirrors and their whirlwinds;"
Kundera resurrects the scene of Lermontov's death through the poet, I love how he merges what happened in real life with his story. One moment he is talking about the Jaromil, and the next he transfers the names to Lermontov and Martynov. (taken from online)
"He joined the town’s social life, meeting one of his old acquaintances, fellow army officer Nikolay Martynov. Although the two men were seemingly on good terms, Martynov soon became a target of Lermontov’s sharp wit and caustic jokes.
One proved to be a joke too many and Martynov challenged Lermontov to a duel. It left Martynov unharmed – but was fatal for Lermontov. He was killed on the spot on the evening of July 27, 1941, at the foot of Mashuk Mountain. He was just 26."
Kundera even comments on his comparison, where Jaromil is kicked instead of shot: "O my Bohemia, how easily you transform the glory of a pistol shot into the buffoonery of a kick in the pants!" How witty! And yet he goes even further and gives us what we want, a scene just as it happened. But in the end it doesn't matter: "Tell us, Lermontov! Merely the stage props? A pistol or a kick in the pants? Merely the scenery History imposes on a human adventure?" It's scenery, it's not real. The detail is interesting as well, Jaromil gets shot but the Lermontov in him falls to the ground.
"And yet, should we laugh at Jaromil because he is merely a parody of Lermontov? Should we laugh at the painter because he imitated Andre Breton with his leather coat and his German shepherd? Was Andre Breton not himself an imitation of something noble he wished to resemble? Is not parody the eternal destiny of man?"
But what does he mean to say about Xavier? Was it a different part of him making love to the filmmaker? And who was he out on the balcony, the Lermontov part of him?
I am entranced by the way he switches scenes, from Lermontov to Jaromil to Xavier...
And therefore, Jaromil ends with this last confession: ""Actually, I never really liked any woman," he says. "Only you, Mama. You're the most beautiful of all." And that is why Jaromil died a death of water instead of fire: because the water was actually his mother- comforting him from all the suffering he has had- mainly from his own egoism.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was a difficult book for me to read because I can very much relate to this young "poet" for he is a person which I know in my own life. We all have our Jaromil's, even though he is not a poet (in reality).
Yes, the everlasting "maternal power". I think that his egoism was her own fault, I blame her for all of his faults because she indulged him too much. She overstepped her motherly role, especially when she started confiding in him about her personal problems. She needed him because she was forced into a love-less marriage, and when she understood that- she gave her all to her son, the only thing she had left. That is why she was so overprotective of him when he found other "women" in his life, because she was afraid of losing him.
Kunder is right to call Jaromil "foolish" because in fact, he didn't understand what impact he had on people, he was always focused on himself and what he believes, and his poetry. In fact, he got most of his inspiration when he made someone live solely for himself, such as the redhead when she was crying (or when he hit her) because she was crying for him. I think in a way, he needed someone to live for him, just like his mother needed Jaromil to live for her. And maybe that is why he loved his poetry so much, because he had power over words, and he desperately needed power.
Was there anything GOOD about him? I don't really know... he was true to his beliefs, and I admire that. But in the end, he was only faithful to his mother, even though he tried to break out and show his independence, but in the end, it was inevitable that he would come back to her. I think he really was good to his mother, because she was the only one which could dominate him (emotionally) and I think he needed that.
Sorry if I am being too cruel- maybe because at this point in my life, I am biased concerning this particular situation.
Kundera writes beautifully, and I have always been searching for a "contemporary" writer to resurrect these concepts which have long been dead, and to play with essences that are immortal, such as in this case, Lermontov, the foolish poet.
One last question: what is the significance of Xavier? Was Xavier better
than Jaromil? Was he perhaps the man Jaromil wished to be but
couldn't because he was tied down to his mother? Even Kundera says:
“Freedom does not begin where parents are
rejected or buried, but where they do not exist:
Where man is brought into the world without
knowing by whom.
Where man is brought into the world by an egg
thrown into a forest.
Where man is spat out on
the ground by the sky and puts his feet on the world without feeling gratitude.)”
Xavier had the power to be whatever or whomever he wished, because he had no history. And history holds us back. Again, I want to repeat my favorite quote of this work:
"How delightful it would be to forget what it is that dries up the sap of our brief lives so as to enslave them to its useless work, how beautiful it would be to forget History!"
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