‘Life is elsewhere’ is about what?The question albeit futile, is pertinent from the exigency of not finding a well-knit congruent conglomeration of all the individually worthwhile ideas, pieces of brilliance that overtly or even covertly (raked my neural synaptic exchanges to discover) do not congeal into brilliant splendor which for me pulls this work down quite decidedly. I picked it up on whim based on the title and the descriptive excerpt although the greatest backing was the ‘Unbearable Lightness of Being’ which enthralled me, enraptured me as one of the best among all I have read. My towering expectations brought me to the verge of ridiculing this one in the heat of unfulfilled prejudice but on cooling it down and envisioning through the eyes of open minded reverie, I find it to be good book that enriched me a trifle, but sadly, only that. The potentially gut wrenching experience that seemed round the corner always remained there, round the corner, never visited the gut. It must be read when one has eons of patience and no or little expectation or (harshly speaking) when lacking anything else ready to read (only my opinion of course.There is Jaromil and his mama around whom the story starts to weave itself which is sheer poetry at times when the existential chords of the two of them are explored. The poignant end of rebellions! First she rebelled against her parents for the sake of the young engineer, and then she ran to her parents for help against him.Wasn't her great love for the poet's father a romantic rebellion against the dullness and regularity of her parents' life? Wasn't there a hidden likeness between the untamed landscape and the boldness she, the daughter of a rich merchant, showed in choosing a penniless engineer who had just finished his studies?This thought provided her a reassuring excuse, for it follows that she was brought into adultery not by her sensuality but by her innocence; and the thought of innocence immediately increased her anger toward the one who perpetually kept her in a state of innocent half maturity, and this anger fell like an iron curtain in front of her thoughts so that she only heard her breath quicken and she gave up pondering what she was doing.Jaromil, the proverbial ‘mama’s boy’ is portrayed as a prodigal son mainly on the force of backing bestowed upon him by his mama till he comes on his own and becomes a real poet but does he really? in paradise there is no distinction between beauty and ugliness, so that all the things the body is made of were neither ugly nor beautiful but only delightful; even though toothless, the gums were delightful, the breast was delightful, the navel was delightful, the little bottom was delightful, the intestines—whose performance was closely overseen— were delightful, the standing hairs on the grotesque skull were delightful. She watched over her son's burps, pees, and poops not only with concern for the child's health; no, she watched over all the small body's activities with passion.The emotional insecurity and possessiveness of his mother gets complemented by the overt sensitivity and introvertedness of the son who at times is willing to leave all his poetry for a semblance of manliness only to recede behind the same lyricism for comfort as well as to find his own voice in the world that mauls him each time he ventures... poetry simply enables him to make ‘his own’ sense of it all. But there was something more precious than his poems; something far away he didn't yet possess and longed for—manliness; he knew that it could only be attained by action and courage; and if courage meant courage to be rejected, rejected by everything, by the beloved woman, by the painter, and even by his own poems—so be it: he wanted to have that courage.It is this section of the book where the story is at its crescendo and strikes almost every chord of ‘Being Human’, while projecting a ‘coming to terms’ struggle of Jaromil with his adolescent physicality as well as emotional turmoil, in a growing artist of supposedly prodigal potentialities. He weaves a world of dreams, of dreams within dreams, where he almost ‘quixotically’ imagines all that he may have wished to do and potentially attain in real life. This world of his becomes his immunity, a cocoon that is ephemeral but becomes his eternal carrier in the worldly confusions he fails to grapple with.The world was constantly wounding him; he blushed when he faced women, he was ashamed, and he saw ridicule everywhere. In his dreams of death he found silence; one could live there slowly, mutely, and happily. Yes, death, as Jaromil imagined it, was a lived death: it was oddly like that period when a person has no need to enter the world because he is a world unto himself....Jaromil’s dependencies upon his mama, his wishing to run away from her, at the same time needing her big time and she even reaching his love-bed in a fit of possessiveness is both comical and innocent and bodes well for the story. When it starts to dabble with politics, questions of art, life and philosophy, does the book starts hitting the nadir. Although well written and structured, these sections do not back themselves sufficiently to elicit belief or provide confidence that they are integral components of otherwise poignant story. Some of the most novel and intriguing ideas that author envisages about origins of poetic tendencies in a human in the context of Jaromil, of course, Jaromil’s prodigious talent or his mere desire to hide behind a veneer that comes across as poetry, comment on art via another character ‘a painter’ all are good writing but they are like skimmed portion when the milk is centrifuged – immiscible… the casein is missing, unfortunately. It all borders very nearly on being an exercise in futility.None of Kundera’s signature writing and imagery is missing, plots within plots wrought in non-linearity and individually these are bordering brilliance, raising the hope every time of witnessing a comprehensive towering piece of literature but right on the verge of potential orgasmic heights, one meets precipitous drabness repeatedly, salvaged only by the author’s appearance and sort of epilogues, couple of chapters at the end. The semblance of perspective is attained but fails to make an enrapturing sense of it all to sing paeans or vouch for it. I couldn’t.
ياروميل، الشاعر الصغير الذي لم ينعم بالحرية أبدأ. *يخنقه حب أمه التي وجدت في صغيرها تعويضًا عن حب أبيه المفقود. يخنقه تعقبها له أينما ذهب، يخنقه تدخلها في الحكم على فتياته، يخنقه حتى متابعتها لأشعاره، والبحث في أدراجه الخاصة، واقتحام خصوصياته. الفتى المدلل محل سخرية زملاؤه لتدليل أمه له، وتصفيفها شعره، و اختيار ملابسه وحتى كلسوناته."ياروميل المسكين، لن تتخلص أبدًا من هذاالإحساس. ستجوب العالم مثل كلب مقيد بحبل طويل! وحتى عندما تصير بعيدًا، ستشعر دائمًا بالطوق يحيط بعنيك! وحتى عندما تكون مع النساء، وتنام معهن في السرير، ستشعر بالرباط الطويل يطوق عنقك، و أمك تمسك بطرفه في مكان ما، وستعلم من خلال اهتزاز الحبل في يدها بما تأتي من حركات خليعة" *يخنقه حب فتاته النمشاء التي لا يجدها جميلة. بوجهها المنمش، و جسدها النحيل، و وجهها المضرج قليلاً. بعد أن أحب هذه العيوب فيها ذات يوم. *يخنقه شخصية "كزافييه" التي صنعها هو بنفسه، وتمنى أن يصبح مثله، في كل شئ. *يخنقه صوت الرسام الذي يصدر عنه في حديثه، وكلامه المماثل، وتأثره برأيه. حتى أشعاره، و آرائه التي يُسفه بها ولا يستطيع أن يعبر عن أي منها بحريه صارت تخنقه، وتضيق النطاق عليه.فكيف للمرء أن يكون شاعرًا في ظل نظام ديكتاتوري؟ نظام لا تتوفر فيه حرية الفكر! أحببت كونديرا، بفلسفته الغريبة. أسلوب السرد سلس، متفلسف بهدوء محبب للنفس.أسلوب سرد الأحداث في الفصل الأول ذكّرني بفيلم" Amélie" القريب لقلبي. وهو إحساس شخصي بحت، لايمت للحقائق بِصِله. :')) رواية عظيمة حول حب الذات، والآخرين. مفعمة بالحقائق المذهلة، تخوض في أجواء السياسة، و الشعر، و الفن. لا شك أنها ستنجح في الوصول لقلبك، وتغيير نظرتك بطريقة ما. "أ ليس من الرائع أن يعيش المرء فلا يكون سجين حياة واحدة؟ أن يكون فانيًا، بكل تأكيد، ولكنه يعيش حيوات عديدة" .
What do You think about Life Is Elsewhere (2000)?
أكثر من رائعةهو كتاب بعد أن تغلق صفحته الأخيرة كل ما تستطيع أن تفعله أن تصفق من الإنتشاءتقع في مرتبة كائن لا تحتمل خفته بالنسبة ليمن منا لا يعيش ياروميل بداخلهياروميل هو النسخة السيئة التي تعيش بداخلنا كلنا, التي تريد أن تمتلك, التي يقتلها غرورها و كبريائها حرفياًتستطيع أن تلمس روح ميلان كونديرا في كل صفحات الكتاب, فـهو ياروميل بشكل أو بآخر, فهو نفسه كان شاعر و كان مفتونا بكل ما كان ياروميل مفتوناً بهو كثيراً ما كان ينعته بالابله لأندفاعه وراء موجة العصر و الشباب لدرجة جعلته يوشي بحبيبته النمشاء" لأن الهاوية كانت تجذبه .. هاوية الوحدة .. هاوية محاسبة الذات " أستوقفتني تلك الجملة طويلاًربما لأنني بداخلي هاوية مثل هذه تجذبني للسقوط فيها و أهدر نصف طاقتي حتى أمنع نفسي من الاستسلام للا شيءالكتاب رائع مثل كل كتب كونديرا .. و كلما أقرأ له يثبت لي أنه كاتبي المفضل بلا منازعأنا مفتونة بالرواية لدرجة تمنعني من ايجاد الكلمات المناسبة للتعبير عن مدى جمالهاياروميل هو الابله الذي داخل كل منا, يقنعك بأن مثالياتك و قناعاتك هي صحيحة 100% و كل من يخالفك مخطيءترى كم أن والدته دمرت حياته بمبرر الحب, و يثبت نظريتي بأن كل مشاكل العالم تأتي من أبوين غير مؤهلين لتربية الأطفالكل ما كان يريده أن يتحرر منها, أن ينول رضى من حوله, و لكنه فشل, و جعل منه كل هذا شخصاً مريضاً من دون أن يدري
—Dina
؛في الحياة من الأمور ما هي لشدّة سطحيتها عميقة، هذا التضاد الآسر هو ما يتقنه #ميلان_كونديرا جيداً. فأنت لن تتمكن من سبر فلسفة هذا الكونديرا ما لم ترتدي عينين قادرتين على ثقب سطحية النص الغضّة لتنزلقا داخل نفق العمق الفلسفي والذي لا نكاد نراه ولا نشعر به لشدة ما هو ملتصق بنا، عالق ببشريتنا الناتئة كبثور قبيحة تشوّه وجه الحياة الجميل..هنا يجيء (ياروميل) ثمرة الحب الطائش لأب تنصّل من أبوته ما إن قذفه في رحم الأم التي لم تفتأ تجلده بسياط حنانها وتحيطه بسياج اهتمامها فتقتل روحه في حين كانت تحسب بأنها تسدي إليه صنيعاً لا يجدر به أن يواجهه بكل ذلك الامتقاع والتجهم..كأن #ميلان_كونديرا عمد إلى إبراز نرجسية هذا الشاعر (ياروميل) بجعله العلم الوحيد في هذه الرواية وكل من حوله نكرات يُشير إليهم بالصفة التي يتصلون من خلالها بياروميل الذي نبذ الشعر حين بدأ يلمس رخاوته وهلاميته التي لم تجلب له صيتاً أو جاه، ووثب إلى الحقل السياسي بحثاً عن سنبلة يتشبث بها فيضيء ويسمو ويتألق..في داخل كل منا (ياروميل) نحاول إخفاؤه بشتّى السبل، والهرب منه وتجاهله وحشره في أقصى زاوية معتمة داخل خزانة شهواتنا البشرية المقيتة..عميقة جداً هذه الرواية، استمتعتُ بقراءتها وبلغة كونديرا الباذخة وشاعريته العذبة والترجمة التي جاءت ثوباً أنيقاً يضفي على جسد النص جمالاً وفتنة.انتهى*.
—Tahani Mohamed
“Because real life is elsewhere. The students are tearing up the cobblestones, overturning cars, building barricades; their irruption into the world is beautiful and noisy, illuminated by flames and greeted by explosions of tear-gas grenades. How much more painful was the lot of Rimbaud, who dreamed about the barricades of the Paris Commune and never got to it from Charleville. But in 1968 thousands of Rimbauds have their own barricades, behind which they stand and refuse any compromise with the former masters of the world. The emancipation of mankind will be total, or it will not exist. But only a kilometer from there, on the other bank of the Seine, the former masters of the world continue to live their lives, and the din of the Latin Quarter reaches them as something far away. Dream is reality, the students wrote on the walls, but it seems that the opposite was true: that reality (the barricades, the trees cut down, the red flags) was a dream.” Life is Elsewhere (pg 237)Life is Elsewhere by Milan Kundera is the ultimate attack on Romanticism—childhood, motherhood, love, revolution, and especially poetry. Published in 1973, the book takes place in Czechloslovakia before, during, and after the Second World War and focuses on a young poet and revolutionary named Jaromil. Because Jaromil’s father never wanted a family, the boy’s mother makes her son the center of her world. Nothing Jaromil does as a child goes unnoticed. Childishly cryptic remarks are seen as grand philosophical statements. The sketching of dog heads on human bodies due to the inability to draw human ones is seen as profound artistic vision. Simple rhymes are seen as poetic genius. As Jaromil grows up, he believes himself to be a prodigy, because he has always been told he is.However, as he gets older he begins to yearn for independence. He joins the revolution, tries to meet girls, becomes secretive, and attempts to turn himself into an individual by rejecting the philosophies of childhood mentors and taking opposing stances. The tragic story unfolds as time and time again the poet tries to free himself of his mother and finds the task an impossibility. Throughout the novel the reader’s feelings toward Jaromil are tugged from one extreme to the other. At times he is cruel, unforgivable, whiney, and concieted, and at others he’s a sympathetic victim of a clingy and embarrassing mother who will stop at nothing to make sure she’s the only woman in her son’s life.Kundera’s story is compelling, philosophical, brilliantly written, and filled with sadness as the the author no doubt thought back to his country before his exile.
—Sarah Capps
