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It was futile to attack with reason the stout wall of irrational feelings that, as is known, is the stuff of which the female mind is made.
Milan Kundera
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Milan Kundera
Age: 95
Born: 1929
Born: April 1
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
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University Teacher
Writer
BrĂ¼nn
Mind
Attack
Female
Wall
Known
Stuff
Feelings
Stout
Reason
Futile
Made
Irrational
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In the world of highways, a beautiful landscape means: an island of beauty connected by a long line with other islands of beauty.
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For everyone is pained by the thought of disappearing, unheard and unseen, into an indifferent universe, and because of that everyone wants, while there is still time, to turn himself into a universe of words.
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Nothing is more repugnant to me than brotherly feelings grounded in the common baseness people see in one another.
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We can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions - love, antipathy, charity, or malice - and what part is predetermined by the constant power play among individuals.
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The emotion of love gives all of us a misleading illusion of knowing the other.
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loves are like empires: when the idea they are founded on crumbles, they, too, fade away.
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In her presence I could dare everything: sincerity, emotion, pathos.
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He suddenly recalled from Plato's Symposium: People were hermaphrodites until God split then in two, and now all the halves wander the world over seeking one another. Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost.
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The basis of shame is not some personal mistake of ours, but the ignominy, the humiliation we feel that we must be what we are without any choice in the matter, and that this humiliation is seen by everyone.
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We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under . . . The fourth category, the rarest, is the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers.
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In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.
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The history of music is mortal, but the idiocy of the guitar is eternal.
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The longing for order is at the same time a longing for death, because life is an incessant disruption of order.
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It takes so little, so infinitely little, for a person to cross the border beyond which everything loses meaning: love, convictions, faith, history. Human life -- and herein lies its secret -- takes place in the immediate proximity of that border, even in direct contact with it it is not miles away, but a fraction of an inch.
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Disgust at having to talk about oneself is what distinguishes novelistic talent from lyric talent.
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Nudity is the uniform of the other side... nudity is a shroud.
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You can understand nothing about art, particularly modern art, if you do not understand that imagination is a value in itself.
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[Kafka] transformed the profoundly antipoetic material of a highly bureaucratized society into the great poetry of the novel he transformed a very ordinary story of a man who cannot obtain a promised job . . . into myth, into epic, into a kind of beauty never before seen.
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The young man called the waiter and paid. Then he got up and said to the girl: 'We're going.' Where to?' The girl feigned surprise. Don't ask, just come on,' said the young man. Is that any way to talk to me?' It's the way I talk to whores.
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we might also call vertigo the intoxication of the weak. aware of his weakness, a man decides to give in rather than stand up to it. he is drunk with weakness, wishes to grow even weaker, wishes to fall down in the middle of the main square in front of everybody, wishes to be down, lower than down.
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