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欢迎访问：　　　txtsk
MILAN　KUNDERA

The　Unbearable　Lightness　of　Being
Translated　from　the　Czech　by　Michael　Henry　Heim


PART　ONE
Lightness　and　Weight

1
The　idea　of　eternal　return　is　a　mysterious　one；　and　Nietzsche　has　often　perplexed　other　philosophers　with　it：　to　think　that　everything　recurs　as　we　once　experienced　it；　and　that　the　recurrence　itself　recurs　ad　infinitum！　What　does　this　mad　myth　signify？
Putting　it　negatively；　the　myth　of　eternal　return　states　that　a　life　which　disappears　once　and　for　all；　which　does　not　return；　is　like　a　shadow；　without　weight；　dead　in　advance；　and　whether　it　was　horrible；　beautiful；　or　sublime；　its　horror；　sublimity；　and　beauty　mean　nothing。　We　need　take　no　more　note　of　it　than　of　a　war　between　two　African　kingdoms　in　the　fourteenth　century；　a　war　that　altered　nothing　in　the　destiny　of　the　world；　even　if　a　hundred　thousand　blacks　perished　in　excruciating　torment。
Will　the　war　between　two　African　kingdoms　in　the　fourteenth　century　itself　be　altered　if　it　recurs　again　and　again；　in　eternal　return？
It　will：　it　will　become　a　solid　mass；　permanently　protuberant；　its　inanity　irreparable。
If　the　French　Revolution　were　to　recur　eternally；　French　historians　would　be　less　proud　of　Robespierre。　But　because　they　deal　with　something　that　will　not　return；　the　bloody　years　of　the　Revolution　have　turned　into　mere　words；　theories；　and　discussions；　have　become　lighter　than　feathers；　frightening　no　one。　There　is　an　infinite　difference　between　a　Robespierre　who　occurs　only　once　in　history　and　a　Robespierre　who　eternally　returns；　chopping　off　French　heads。
Let　us　therefore　agree　that　the　idea　of　eternal　return　implies　a　perspective　from　which　things　appear　other　than　as　we　know　them：　they　appear　without　the　mitigating　circumstance　of　their　transitory　nature。　This　mitigating　circumstance　prevents　us　from　coming　to　a　verdict。　For　how　can　we　condemn　something　that　is　ephemeral；　in　transit？　In　the　sunset　of　dissolution；　everything　is　illuminated　by　the　aura　of　nostalgia；　even　the　guillotine。
Not　long　ago；　I　caught　myself　experiencing　a　most　incredible　sensation。　Leafing　through　a　book　on　Hitler；　I　was　touched　by　some　of　his　portraits：　they　reminded　me　of　my　childhood。　I　grew　up　during　the　war；　several　members　of　my　family　perished　in　Hitler's　concentration　camps；　but　what　were　their　deaths　compared　with　the　memories　of　a　lost　period　in　my　life；　a　period　that　would　never　return？
This　reconciliation　with　Hitler　reveals　the　profound　moral　perversity　of　a　world　that　rests　essentially　on　the　nonexistence　of　return；　for　in　this　world　everything　is　pardoned　in　advance　and　therefore　everything　cynically　permitted。

2
If　every　second　of　our　lives　recurs　an　infinite　number　of　times；　we　are　nailed　to　eternity　as　Jesus　Christ　was　nailed　to　the　cross。　It　is　a　terrifying　prospect。　In　the　world　of　eternal　return　the　weight　of　unbearable　responsibility　lies　heavy　on　every　move　we　make。　That　is　why　Nietzsche　called　the　idea　of　eternal　return　the　heaviest　of　burdens　（das　schwerste　Gewicht）。
If　eternal　return　is　the　heaviest　of　burdens；　then　our　lives　can　stand　out　against　it　in　all　their　splendid　lightness。
But　is　heaviness　truly　deplorable　and　lightness　splendid？
The　heaviest　of　burdens　crushes　us；　we　sink　beneath　it；　it　pins　us　to　the　ground。　But　in　the　love　poetry　of　every　age；　the　woman　longs　to　be　weighed　down　by　the　man's　body。　The　heaviest　of　burdens　is　therefore　simultaneously　an　image　of　life's　most　intense　fulfillment。　The　heavier　the　burden；　the　closer　our　lives　come　to　the　earth；　the　more　real　and　truthful　they　become。
Conversely；　the　absolute　absence　of　a　burden　causes　man　to　be　lighter　than　air；　to　soar　into　the　heights；　take　leave　of　the　earth　and　his　earthly　being；　and　become　only　half　real；　his　movements　as　free　as　they　are　insignificant。
What　then　shall　we　choose？　Weight　or　lightness？
Parmenides　posed　this　very　question　in　the　sixth　century　before　Christ。　He　saw　the　world　divided　into　pairs　of　opposites：
light/darkness；　fineness/coarseness；　warmth/cold；　being/non…being。　One　half　of　the　opposition　he　called　positive　（light；　fineness；　warmth；　being）；　the　other　negative。　We　might　find　this　division　into　positive　and　negative　poles　childishly　simple　except　for　one　difficulty：　which　one　is　positive；　weight　or　lightness？
Parmenides　responded：　lightness　is　positive；　weight　negative。
Was　he　correct　or　not？　That　is　the　question。　The　only　certainty　is：　the　lightness/weight　opposition　is　the　most　mysterious；　most　ambiguous　of　all。





3
I　have　been　thinking　about　Tomas　for　many　years。　But　only　in　the　light　of　these　reflections　did　I　see　him　clearly。　I　saw　him　standing　at　the　window　of　his　flat　and　looking　across　the　courtyard　at　the　opposite　walls；　not　knowing　what　to　do。
He　had　first　met　Tereza　about　three　weeks　earlier　in　a　small　Czech　town。　They　had　spent　scarcely　an　hour　together。　She　had　accompanied　him　to　the　station　and　waited　with　him　until　he　boarded　the　train。　Ten　days　later　she　paid　him　a　visit。　They　made　love　the　day　she　arrived。　That　night　she　came　down　with　a　fever　and　stayed　a　whole　week　in　his　flat　with　the　flu。
He　had　come　to　feel　an　inexplicable　love　for　this　all　but　complete　stranger；　she　seemed　a　child　to　him；　a　child　someone　had　put　in　a　bulrush　basket　daubed　with　pitch　and　sent　downstream　for　Tomas　to　fetch　at　the　riverbank　of　his　bed。
She　stayed　with　him　a　week；　until　she　was　well　again；　then　went　back　to　her　town；　some　hundred　and　twenty…five　miles　from　Prague。　And　then　came　the　time　I　have　just　spoken　of　and　see　as　the　key　to　his　life：　Standing　by　the　window；　he　looked　out　over　the　courtyard　at　the　walls　opposite　him　and　deliberated。
Should　he　call　her　back　to　Prague　for　good？　He　feared　the　responsibility。　If　he　invited　her　to　come；　then　come　she　would；　and　offer　him　up　her　life。
Or　should　he　refrain　from　approaching　her？　Then　she　would　remain　a　waitress　in　a　hotel　restaurant　of　a　provincial　town　and　he　would　never　see　her　again。
Did　he　want　her　to　come　or　did　he　not？
He　looked　out　over　the　courtyard　at　the　opposite　walls；　seeking　an　answer。
He　kept　recalling　her　lying　on　his　bed；　she　reminded　him　of　no　one　in　his　former　life。　She　was　neither　mistress　nor　wife。　She　was　a　child　whom　he　had　taken　from　a　bulrush　basket　that　had　been　daubed　with　pitch　and　sent　to　the　riverbank　of　his　bed。　She　fell　asleep。　He　knelt　down　next　to　her。　Her　feverous　breath　quickened　and　she　gave　out　a　weak　moan。　He　pressed　his　face　to　hers　and　whispered　calming　words　into　her　sleep。　After　a　while　he　felt　her　breath　return　to　normal　and　her　face　rise　unconsciously　to　meet　his。　He　smelled　the　delicate　aroma　of　her　fever　and　breathed　it　in；　as　if　trying　to　glut　himself　with　the　intimacy　of　her　body。　And　all　at　once　he　fancied　she　had　been　with　him　for　many　years　and　was　dying。　He　had　a　sudden　clear　feeling　that　he　would　not　survive　her　death。　He　would　lie　down　beside　her　and　want　to　die　with　her。　He　pressed　his　face　into　the　pillow　beside　her　head　and　kept　it　there　for　a　long　time。
Now　he　was　standing　at　the　window　trying　to　call　that　moment　to　account。　What　could　it　have　been　if　not　love　declaring　itself　to　him？
But　was　it　love？　The　feeling　of　wanting　to　die　beside　her　was　clearly　exaggerated：　he　had　seen　her　only　once　before　in　his　life！　Was　it　simply　the　hysteria　of　a　man　who；　aware　deep　down　of　his　inaptitude　for　love；　felt　the　self…deluding　need　to　simulate　it？　His　unconscious　was　so　cowardly　that　the　best　partner　it　could　choose　for　its　little　comedy　was　this　miserable　provincial　waitress　with　practically　no　chance　at　all　to　enter　his　life！
Looking　out　over　the　courtyard　at　the　dirty　walls；　he　realized　he　had　no　idea　whether　it　was　hysteria　or　love。
And　he　was　distressed　that　in　a　situation　where　a　real　man　would　instantly　have　known　how　to　act；　he　was　vacillating　and　therefore　depriving　the　most　beautiful　moments　he　had　ever　experienced　（kneeling　at　her　bed　and　thinking　he　would　not　survive　her　death）　of　their　meaning。　
He　remained　annoyed　with　himself　until　he　realized　that　not　knowing　what　he　wanted　was　actually　quite　natural。
We　can　never　know　what　to　want；　because；　living　only　one　life；　we　can　neither　compare　it　with　our　previous　lives　nor　perfect　it　in　our　lives　to　come。
Was　it　better　to　be　with　Tereza　or　to　remain　alone？
There　is　no　means　of　testing　which　decision　is　better；　because　there　is　no　basis　for　comparison。　We　live　everything　as　it　comes；　without　warning；　like　an　actor　going　on　cold。　And　what　can　life　be　worth　if　the　first　rehearsal　for　life　is　life　itself？　That　is　why　life　is　always　like　a　sketch。　No；　sketch　is　not　quite　the　word；　because　a　sketch　is　an　outline　of　something；　the　groundwork　for　a　picture；　whereas　the　sketch　that　is　our　life　is　a　sketch　for　nothing；　an　outline　with　no　picture。
Einmal　ist　keinmal；　says　Tomas　to　himself。　What　happens　but　once；　says　the　German　adage；　might　as　well　not　have　happened　at　all。　If　we　have　only　one　life　to　live；we　might　as　well　not　have　lived　at　all。

4
But　then　one　day　at　the　hospital；　during　a　break　between　operations；　a　nurse　called　him　to　the　telephone。　He　heard　Tereza's　voice　coming　from　the　receiver。　She　had　phoned　him　from　the　railway　station。　He　was　overjoyed。　Unfortunately；　he　had　something　on　that　evening　and　could　no