Being

 

Being

It is almost disappointing that people change. As time passes new experiences modify our perceptions of the world and people around us. Wouldn’t it be simpler, nicer to be born with all the experiences we could ever accumulate? Probably not, what would be the point of life then? Eternal boredom, no one would be molded into what they currently are, they would just be. A romantic will be one from birth, not because or in spite of all the books they’ve read, or people they’ve met, but simply because they were born. So will be a skeptic, an idealist, a luminary, a drunk.

Last time I read Milan Kundera I was about seven years younger and found his books an interesting romantic drama kind of read. I liked what I’ve read, but not enough to pro-actively seek out his other books and binge-read them. If I came across them - I read them, if I didn’t - no big deal.

And now, about seven years later, I’ve picked up his “Unbearable Lightness of Being” and was stunned. An explosion of semantic awareness, an implosion of feelings, a very distinct, pronounced sadness for the time that has passed as it is doing so. Contemplative, poetic passages entwined with prosaic aspects of people’s lives. Some paragraphs gave me goosebumps. Some paragraphs made me want to pro-actively seek out his other books and binge-read them. ​ And it makes me think about how many other books that I’ve read in my lifetime would hit home hard if I read them now? And how many that did - would not. Wouldn’t I end up in an endless loop - forever re-reading the same books over and over again, seeking fresh, alternative readings. Wouldn’t that be a miniature version of Hell. So, of course, the best solution is to keep moving and hope that some of the unread books to follow will provide a similar burst of feelings, explosion of revelations. But wouldn’t it be nice to be prepared for all the revelations to follow, forever knowing that you haven’t missed anything… Hence the first paragraph.