Month: December 2025

Because I once lived there for a year—a personal connection, or perhaps a bias—I am admittedly inclined to be generous toward the Czech Republic and its people. I am fully aware of this. That said, even setting aside such small, personal sentiments of a single Japanese reader, Milan Kundera is exceptional. Many works that come to be called masterpieces (not all, of course) often require the reader to endure an unbearably dull first half before being rewarded with excitement in the latter half. Kundera’s novel clearly distinguishes itself at this point. It is engaging from the very beginning—and remains so throughout. This is no doubt partly due to his frequent references to philosophical works and his interjections of historical commentary, yet the way these elements are scattered is exquisitely balanced. One cannot help but marvel at this craftsmanship.

As the main narrative draws the reader in almost instantaneously, one soon notices an unmistakable sense of pathos permeating the work. This sorrow continues—rising and falling—until the very end, and no, even beyond the final page. Of course, it is not sorrow alone; at times, it also contains gentleness and resignation. For that reason, it is profoundly refined, yet never grating. After all, when one is truly floating upon sorrow, it is exceedingly difficult to become overheated or overwrought. And I believe it is fundamentally difficult to become truly close to those who have never known this kind of sadness.

Now, turning to the characters. This, too, is a hallmark of good fiction: every character is compelling. And although it may be clumsy to add this after declaring them all “compelling,” each one also contains some aspect that overlaps with oneself. Or rather, is that not what novels are, at their core? When an author focuses on a particular character—especially in fiction—it seems inevitable that some degree of self-projection is involved. I had formed this hypothesis early on, and when the author himself casually acknowledged it, I could not help but slap my knee in agreement.

“The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities.”

Among them all, the character I personally felt most attached to was Sabina. The primary reason is that I, too, have repeatedly committed “betrayals” throughout my life. That is why I understand so well Sabina’s admiration for Tereza, and her pure, unguarded jealousy. I truly wish I could live by following my emotions so freely, as she does. I genuinely do. And yet, I lack that courage. And so I retreat into playing the clown. Those who lack the courage to hurl a meteorite-like love at someone know that they are unworthy of receiving one in return.

Moreover, the more frequently one changes residences in life, the more one’s sense of self is shaken. In searching for that unsteady self, one turns inward—because one’s inner world is less dependent on external surroundings. And then, one day, one is struck down by that “unbearable lightness of being.” Yet I had merely been pretending not to see it; my existence was never particularly significant to begin with. People often speak of “weight” as though it were something undesirable, but that may be a matter of arrogance. There may be more moments than we care to admit in which that very weight keeps the soul tethered to the earth.

Still, the weight that gradually accumulates is, fundamentally, difficult to bear. For instance, if the world continues to evolve—let us deliberately call it that—at its current pace, the concept of “death” may one day disappear altogether. When I entertain such a banal thought, the first thing that awaits me is despair. Why? Because the reason I continue to live, however insignificantly, is precisely because I know that I will someday die. Because I know that this story will inevitably come to an end. I say this without pretense: the preciousness of life lies in its transience—in other words, in its lightness.

To borrow Kundera’s own technique, this book, true to its title, allows the reader to feel—on a bodily level—their own body growing heavier and lighter as they read. When one realizes that this kind of experience can only be obtained through reading, it transforms into a quiet joy.

Incidentally, when I lived in Prague, I once climbed Petřín Hill alone—the hill that appears midway through the story. The date remains on the photograph: Monday, July 1, 2019. Although it was a weekday, the weather was perfect for a walk. Combining sightseeing with leisure, I took the funicular and slowly made my way to the top. When I arrived, stepped off, and looked around, I was stunned. It was breathtakingly beautiful—and quite literally deserted. Not a single person. I would later grow accustomed to encountering such scenes frequently, but the Czech Republic truly has many places like this. Even when visiting large museums or churches, there is no one there. Standing alone amid the silence created by beauty and history, one hears a ringing in one’s ears. You begin to feel as though you are the only person who exists in the world, which is unsettling—and yet inexplicably pleasant. Both mind and body grow lighter. Perhaps this feeling is intensified because Japan serves as my point of comparison. In Japan, beautiful and historic places are invariably crowded. This is by no means a point of pride. I have lost count of the times I have grown weary of the clamor that ruins everything—even as I myself am complicit in it.

I lived in the Czech Republic for one year, from 2019 to 2020, and my impression of both the city and its people was one of simplicity and calm. But that calm is a repose earned only by having survived turbulent times.

“Yes, Tereza says to herself, happiness is a longing for repetition.”

Kundera, no doubt, lived a life marked by intense highs and lows; such a conclusion is easy to imagine. His prose bears clear witness to this, radiating a distinctive sensuality. Even the title itself—The Unbearable Lightness of Being—leaves one at a loss for words. One almost wants to protest that it is unfair. But the author has passed away. Humanity has truly lost someone irreplaceable. Let us pray for his soul.