A book that I've read on a plane to Portugal. And a book that really should only be read on a plane.
I feel like Kundera has made a living out of being the author of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and even the value of that book seems to be diminishing with every other Kundera novel that I read. I do realize that I'm nobody to comment on the life of people in (self) exile and their problematic relations wit their native countries, but his characters feel remarkably flat and stereotyped.
If I'm ever in need for a fictional bridge between Eastern Europe and France, even to this day, I'd go with Kieslowski...
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