You know, one of the reasons I don’t read that much is that everything I read circulates for a very long time. I digest, then digest some more.
What I will speculate–perhaps stupidly, since I am not pulling out the book and going through it again–is that the whole thing was intended as a sort of Rorschach Test for the readers. Perhaps it was a very sarcastic and bitter joke played by Kundera on his former fellow travelers, many of whom fell for it, many of whom overlooked the horrors in it in favor of the types he mocked and satirized.
Perhaps all the stories exemplified types he saw in the perverted emotional world of Communistic authoritarianism: the pettiness, egotism, childishness, and callous violence, all combined with puerile sentimentality and self congratulation.
It obviously bothered him deeply that the Czech Premier, or whatever his title was, teared up when his beloved pop singer returned, and how much of a grand reception he or she–I don’t remember–received.
And he more or less said great music was dead. Keep in mind, he was a trained musician. His father was also a musician.
I read he renounced Czechoslovakia permanently, and has lived in France since he was more or less forced to leave. I read he also said his books should be considered as French literature.
I find when I enlarge my world, pain comes in. There is so much pain in this world, so many thorns. But it is the path. I am very sure of it.