Very slowly, and
not particularly steadily, but I will try to catch-up on missed entries. A
couple of months ago a colleague of mine dumped a few unwanted books on my desk
– in there I found some greats reads (Peter Carey’s Bliss, for instance), and some not-so-great ones, like this one
(although admittedly, it probably didn’t help that I had to read it
intermittently during a time of sleepless nights and when my in-laws were around).
As I was reading Immortality I actually started wondering
whether Kundera used a ghost-writer for The
Unbearable Lightness of Being or whether he simply took himself too
seriously after writing that book. Sure, Immortality
does have some nice ideas (the first appearance of Agnes, the
tyre-slashing, and the first few pages about Goethe – before these start to
become rather boring), but I really could have done without hundreds of pages of
pseudo-philosophical quibbles.
And if you want
pseudo-philosophical quibbles, the trajectory of the physical copy of the
book I read actually represents the circle of life: someone probably once loved
it, then my colleague picked it up, and dropped it on my desk after reading it,
and after I finished it myself I brought it to the book exchange shelf of an urban farm next to my flat, where I am
afraid it will sit for a rather long time (if not for ever).
