Book Reviews - Review 213

Milan Kundera muses on the novelist's craft via a series of essays and self-instigated interviews. There is no central thesis; or rather, there are several central theses, which often contradict each other. Some might say this shows up a problem with Kundera's epigrammatic style: every perspective is presented as a truth. Yet as Kundera himself points out, "The realm of the novel is not for affirmations: it is the realm of play and hypothesis." This statement can, I think, be taken as equally valid for Kundera's non-fiction, since extra-narrative musings by the author play such a key role in his novels.

Like most of Kundera's books, this infuriates and fascinates simultaneously. It is hard to warm to his narcissism, his intellectual machismo and, occasionally, his sheer arrogance; but the penetration of his insights, and the forceful concision and clarity with which they are expressed, make reading him a stimulating and an uplifting experience far more than it is an irritating one. Even his absurd generalisations appeal, owing to their internal logic and the one-sided insight that they offer. Reading Kundera is, oddly, like reading good poetry: subjective views have the aura, at least for a while, of universal truth.

Finally, he can always be relied on to reawaken the reader's interest in literature. His eloquent enthusiasm for his favourite novels - here, he focusses on Cervantes, Hermann Broch and Franz Kafka - is infectious, and it's hard to put down his books without instantly wanting to read something he's recommended.