I was avoiding this book for soooo long. I can't say why because all my friends loved it so why wouldn't I? Maybe because I don't like reading actual stories that are set in communist era. I'm always overwhelmed by a sense of insignificance and ordinariness, hopelessness,... The only tolerable thing for me is poetry. As if the hopelessness hidden in verse could be better consumed.

And then there's this book again. I bought it when I was caffeinated and looking for shelter in an antique store. I started reading it on the tram on the way home. And I had a hard time putting the book down. Surprisingly, Kundera managed to wrap the communist mood in beautiful poetry written in the form of a novel.
Short snippets of the characters lives, their feelings, analysis of what led them to the decisions they made. It probably won't appeal to readers who don't like to analyze even the most primitive things, but instead it will be loved by all those who enjoy piecing together the big picture from even the smallest details - because that's what it's about.

And a strange thing happened. While reading about the communist regime - again on the tram - I felt a sudden rush of emotion; it wasn't insignificance or ordinariness or hopelessness. I wanted to cry, but I didn't know why. Thank you, Mr. Kundera, for being able to evoke in even the most cynical reader emotions that he could not analyze.