Finally we've traveled far enough into the bowels of this unbearably beautiful book (AKA the birthplace of Tereza's soul) to talk shit in tomorrow's class! Taking a cue from Tomas's anal fixation and the stomach-turning latrine regime of Stalin's son, please contemplate the kitschy connections between the physical and metaphysical dimensions of the text in your comments below.
Of course, all roads lead back to the bathroom in ULB anyway, so you should feel truly free to post on any topic that interests you--just be prepared for the nauseating, vertigo-inducing acts of interpretation we'll be undertaking as a class. Those with delicate sensibilities may want to pack a dramamine tab and an airplane paper bag along with your notebook and the novel before heading to Thursday's class!
Of course, all roads lead back to the bathroom in ULB anyway, so you should feel truly free to post on any topic that interests you--just be prepared for the nauseating, vertigo-inducing acts of interpretation we'll be undertaking as a class. Those with delicate sensibilities may want to pack a dramamine tab and an airplane paper bag along with your notebook and the novel before heading to Thursday's class!
The narrator (who is probably not Kundera) makes himself much more known in this section, which was at once distracting from the storyline and fascinating as a part of the metaphysical contemplation. How does his (and it's almost undeniably a him: he always uses "we" and "us" when he's talking about the male sex drive, etc) voice and interference change your perception of the text?
ReplyDeleteI know I've commented on this in past posts but I'm going to say it again here--Kundera is all about breaking the "contract" with the reader and maintaining a presence in the novel, no matter how much Nabokov may disapprove. He emphasizes that the novelistic is not separate from truth or from life, so the question isn't whether or not he is the narrator. He is and he isn't. Anyway, the narrator does take on a more present role in this section and I do think that is important.
DeleteI would compare this to a literature equivalent "breaking the fourth wall" that, when it happens in television (or less often in film), can be initially surprising and perplexing as it upsets the paradigm that a creative piece is self-contained and only speaks to readers/viewers from their own interpretations in an indirect way, rather than frankly speaking with the reader in obvious mind.
DeleteFranz and Tomas’s son are categorized as dreamers in this section of the novel. How does this alter/enhance the importance of dreams in the previous sections of the novel, specifically Tereza’s dreams?
ReplyDeleteAlso, on the way to the Vietnamese border, the photographer was blown to pieces, and yet his horrific death is treated quite lightly, even ending in joy as the parade marches on with a bloodied white flag. I interpreted this as the idea of kitsch, of ignoring “shit”; it also coincides with the idea that one death is weightless/meaningless in the infinite march of history. Thoughts?
I may be influenced by the group I am in, but I was contempkating the lightness or weight in "shit". I have yet to read the entire section, but I was personally having a difficult time if shit is heavy or light. It seems to be light, as far as people ignoring it or building a "smoke screen" around it, but then with some characters, like Sabina, shit seems to have more weight an significance. I guess, as with the rest of the novel, it would be pointless in trying to assign it one or the other, but for my sake what do you guys think? When does shit become heavy? Light?
ReplyDeleteKundera writes, "No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition," (256). As evidenced in the novel, each of the characters welcome and/or resist the inevitability of kitsch in distinct ways. Although Tomas and Franz diverge in their appreciation of kitsch, Kundera draws parallels between the two characters in death. (How) do the epitaphs of Franz and Tomas relate to Kundera's larger conceptual understanding of kitsch? Perhaps think of the ways in which the legacy of Franz/Tomas could mirror the recounting of national histories.
ReplyDeleteKundera tells us that "kitsch is the absolute denial of shit" (248), but as far as I remember he doesn't mention any of the other (precious) bodily fluids. From my understanding, kitsch glorifies the family, so does it hold other fluids in a higher esteem, particularly those necessary for reproduction? Or are bodily functions all the same? Can privileging some fluids over others be justified, or is this a fallacy?
ReplyDeleteAlthough this has less to do with this most recent section, I have been thinking a lot about the presence of bodies in Tomas' life. He seems to equate the bodies that he operates on (when he still was a surgeon) with the bodies that he sleeps with. (Not necessarily Tereza's body, which I believe is separate for him because of his whole concept of the separation of love and sex) How do you think the equation of sex and surgery changes Tomas' concept of sexuality? Do you think he connects more with one or the other? How do we take something that is almost utterly de-sexed (a body on the operating table) with one that is hyper-sexed (a naked woman before/during/after sex) and combine them?
ReplyDeleteAs Taylor mentioned, Kundera writes that Kitsch is the absolute denial of shit. I found this to resonate strongly with the motifs of heaviness and lightness. Sabina imagining defecating in front of Tomas - a full acceptance and orgasmic reveling in shitting and it's acceptance of an inherent fact of being - is an embodiment of lightness. Opposite to this is kitsch, the denial of shit, as the aesthetic (un)ideal that crowds out the possibility of shit as part of existence. "The May Day ceremony drew its inspiration from the deep well of the categorical agreement with being" - I would call such being as unbearably heavy. For if kitsch is the suppression of individuality and lightness and unseriousness, then Kundera is right to claim that gulags are the septic tank of kitsch (pg 252), ironically a bastion of light refuse. I imagine shit floating to the surface of toilet water, and no matter how many times you pull the handle (throw them in the gulags, kill them), the lightest shit just won't flush down.
ReplyDeleteBy Kundera's definition of kitsch that it is "the absolute denial of shit," the ugliness and it "excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence" I think there is a contradiction, or rather problem. I think society has to recognize the toxicness (that's not a word) of shit to be able to appreciate the beauty, creating things that have meaning. Would this be true in a totalitarian society, where they can seem to appreciate the beauty while at the same time completely disregarding the things that threaten its beauty?
ReplyDeleteThe name Mefisto is another version of the name Mephistopheles; Mephistopheles is a character in German folklore that is often interpreted as the devil. Why would Kunera assign this name to the pig, especially after stating that “animals were not expelled from Paradise”?
ReplyDeleteAnd another content question: when they bury Karenin, Tereza thought “It was unbearable to think of the earth they would soon be throwing over him, raining down on his naked body” (303). Why is naked italicized?
Although ULB is arranged in seven discrete parts, these parts are not temporally continuous, and they often revisit the same moments as experienced by different characters in the story. Why do you think Kundera offers a nonlinear sequencing of events in the novel? How might this strategic repetition inform a better understanding of the theme of eternal return (or other theories of being) as explicitly described in the content of the novel?
ReplyDeleteThe nonlinear storytelling of this (and every) section has the same effect on me as the interruptions by the narrator and the frequent pauses to define/redefine words – it structures the world around the story of these four characters, and in doing so, makes the narrative feel more like the world bending around these people rather than their journeys through history. Its historical context makes this sensation all the more interesting, as though the Cold War/Prague Spring and crackdown happened just so Tereza/Tomas/Sabina/Franz could grow as people.
ReplyDeleteOn page 297, the narrator discusses why Tereza feels such a strong connection to Karenin: "Karenin knew nothing about the duality of body and soul and had no concept of disgust. That is why Tereza felt so free and easy with him." What does this explanation say about Tereza's obsession with the body -- and her disgust with some of its ugly actions, like digestion and menstruation? Why does the idea of the body influence so many of her relationships?
ReplyDelete