Milan Kundera on the novel
Here in today's Guardian. What has happened to Kundera? It seems that he has not been dead, only sleeping, more or less since The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Which reminds me. Gilles Deleuze once wrote about the gaps in people's lives being more interesting than moments of activity: times of subterranean genesis, when new patterns of being are slowly unearthed. Why do people who have made such noise suddenly fall silent? Sometimes the muse has just walked away. Sometimes new muses have created a cacophony, that needs the slow growth of new ears to unravel. Perhaps some form of occult creation has been occuring for the Czech maverick?
Strangely, although I distinctly remember reading the passage in Deleuze, I have not been able to find it again. It has become its own gap in his oeuvre.
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Kundera hasn't gone anywhere, he just is not prolific. I read Identity, published in 1998, a few years ago. Another little gem. I see he has published at least one novel since then. Funny, how when writers gain fame, we expect them to write according to our schedule and not theirs . . . but, for me at least, the famous writers that write least are the ones I appreciate most. If only we could do something about that damned Salinger, who has taken his reclusiveness to an extreme. I am sure he has manuscripts coming out the whazoo that we will never see until after he dies.
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