It seems important now, as my country slides into totalitarianism, to read more Central European writers. There's a certain curious soothing element common to their voices: Havel's dignity, Sruoga's levity, Kundera's... what? Detachment? Aloofness? It's hard to know how to interpret this book. Kundera spotlights the absurd ways we try, and so catastrophically fail, to connect with others or even our own selves. I found myself wondering if I'd misread the title, if it should be Loneliness and Forgetting, except none of the characters ever seem to realize how lonely they are. As we expect from Kundera, much of the attempted connection is through sex but here, in addition to sensuality, there are elements of the grotesque: Kundera shows the physical act, bared of intimacy, as both comic and repulsive.

I loved the writing. Loved his insights into our primal need to be seen. Did not like any of the characters, but that's because I recognized parts of myself in each of them, and that's his point, isn't it?