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Identity: A Novel por Milan Kundera
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Identity: A Novel

por Milan Kundera

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Sparked by a misunderstanding brought on when his slightly older, middle-aged lover hides the reason for her hot flashes, Jean-Marc begins writing her anonymous love letters as a means of making her feel desired under the gaze of another. With the notion that she is being watched, Chantal responds in ways not entirely keeping with the person Jean-Marc thought she was. This, in turn, causes a change in Jean-Marc.

Through these two characters and their changing relationship Kundera reveals that identity, even though tied to the body, even if one were to reduce oneself to the body, is nevertheless unstable. In a similar vein, the boundaries between reality and fantasy are equally unfixed, and as the novel continues on elements of improbability and surrealism (or what Kundera has dubbed ‘oeneric’ narrative or dream narrative) enter into the story.

This is the second novel of Kundera’s to be written originally in French, but the English translation manages to maintain a continuity of voice and narrative style (an irony when one thinks of this book’s subject) found in his other works. His is neither a poetic nor a strongly visual style, but relies largely on philosophical musings. For this reason his writing can often sound flat, but the storylines of his other books, such as The Unbearable Lightness of Being, were strong enough to carry the voice. Identity, unfortunately, is a slighter book—not simply in size, but in its dramatic handling. ( )
  bulibar | Nov 22, 2009 |
Blurp: Identiteit vertelt het verhaal van een crisis. Een crisis tussen een man en een vrouw, Jean-Marc en Chantal, die veel van elkaar houden. Beiden hebben ze in het bestaan van de ander de voorwaarde voor hun evenwicht en ontwikkeling gevonden. Hij neigt naar een leven in de marginaliteit en heeft een rijke verbeelding. Zij is op haar hoede, fragiel en realistisch. Sinds jaren leven ze samen in de rustige zekerheid van hun geluk. De problemen ontstaan uit het niets, althans uit bijna niets. Er is geen ramp, geen overspel, slechts twee vluchtige gewaarwordingen die toevallig bijna tegelijkertijd plaatsvinden. Op het Normandische strand bemerkt Chantal dat de mannen niet meer naar haar omkijken. Even later verwart Jean-Marc het silhouet van Chantal met dat van een oudere, minder mooie vrouw. Voor ze het weten belanden Jean-Marc en Chantal in een proces vol misverstanden dat, juist omdat ze van elkaar houden, op hun scheiding lijkt af te koersen. Alleen Milan Kundera kan zo'n verontrustend gegeven in een mooie heldere liefdesroman omzetten. 'Kundera is daar meesterlijk in, in het beschrijven van dat vage levensgevoel en die onrust, die tot ontreddering voert.' - de Volkskrant. 'Kundera weet aannemelijk te maken dat samenleven vaak is als dansen in een veel te kleine ruimte.' - NRC Handelsblad.
Samenv.: Een crisis in de relatie tussen een vrouw in de overgang en een maatschappelijk uitgerangeerde man roept vragen op over hun persoonlijke autonomie.
Samenv.: In hoeverre zijn wij een product van onze omgeving of van onze eigen dromen? Waarop berust de verbondenheid tussen twee partners, waarbij de een, naamloos en willoos, kan oplossen in de ander? Wie zijn wij eigenlijk? Dit filosofische debat nu beheerst de verhouding tussen Chantal, vrouw in de overgang, en Jean-Marc, tot zwerven neigende randfiguur. Hun blikken kruisen elkaar, vullen elkaar in, bedreigen elkaars identiteit. Ook in de vorm is het spanningsveld tussen werkelijkheid en droom gecopieerd: een geleidelijke overgang van ogenschijnlijk realistische beleving naar ogenschijnlijk onsamenhangende gewaarwordingen. De treinreis naar Londen door de Kanaaltunnel functioneert dan als de oversteek van de Styx, met alle risico's vandien. Weer bekomen van alle nachtmerries en nadrukkelijke symboliek, is het nog maar de vraag of Chantal en Jean-Marc, wij mensen dus, 'de mooi aangeklede ellende' (blz. 149) die het leven is, wel aankunnen. Een relatiecrisis met de eigen identiteit als inzet: niet bijster origineel, maar wel zeer essentieel.
Samenv.: Aan de hand van de wederwaardigheden van een samenwonend verliefd paar wordt de vraag naar het wezen en de identiteit van de mens aan de orde gesteld.
Samenv.: De plot van dit verhaal van de beroemde auteur is ook nu weinig origineel, zelfs op het melodramatische af: het gaat om de wederwaardigheden van twee mensen die liefde, huis en bed delen. De knappe Chantal is een gescheiden vrouw, bij het heden levend, goed verdienend, met als enige angst dat met het vorderen van de jaren de mannen geen aandacht meer aan haar zullen wijden. De vier jaar jongere Jean-Marc, mislukt student in de medicijnen, in wezen een citadel van conformisme, marginaal denkend en levend, wordt in zijn liefde voor Chantal en zijn jaloerse aanleg beheerst door het verlangen zijn geliefde ten volle te doorgronden. Hij veroorzaakt onbedoeld een hevige crisis in hun relatie die leidt tot een kafkaiaanse gebeurtenis met uiteindelijk een cathartische werking. Het verhaal is in wezen gesublimeerd tot een ontdekkingstocht naar de identiteit van de mens. Het werpt vragen op als: in hoeverre heeft de mens een eigen identiteit en is die eenduidig herkenbaar voor de medemens? Wat bepaalt onze identiteit? Wat betekenen in dit kader zaken als vriendschap, liefde, trouw, etc. Prachtig boek voor wie dieper wil leven dan de waan van de dag hem wil toestaan.
  cowpeace | Jun 26, 2009 |
A short Novel from Kundera this time but still plenty to get your teeth stuck into. Always gives you someting to think about.

'Friendship is indispensable to man for the proper function of his own memory'. ( )
  dayends | Jun 25, 2009 |
This is the story of Chantal and Jean-Marc who seem to have a beautiful relationship but then it starts to unravel over age issues, misunderstandings, miscommunciation. Or, wait. Did what happen really happen or was it just a dream of Chantal, Jean-Marc, or both? The theme is "losing sight" of the person you love most in the world, and the writing was excellent and thought-provoking, but I was somewhat put off by the bizarre ending. ( )
  CatieN | Jan 25, 2009 |
an incredible novel, masterfully introspective and philosophical as no one but kundera can muster. i'm a 2-3 chapters a day -type reader. i finished this novel in one sitting. ( )
  headphones.on | Nov 10, 2008 |
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Amazon.com (ISBN 0060930314, Paperback)

The reader sits down to dinner with Chantal, who is waiting for her lover, Jean-Marc, in a seaside hotel. While waiting to be served, she overhears two waitresses discuss the unexplained disappearance of a family man. This blatant foreshadowing posits the central question of Identity: what we think we know about our intimates is predicated on projection, primal yearnings, and the deep denial of life's impermanence. Identity reads like a musical exercise; its playing out of themes is reminiscent of a fugue. An image dropped into the narrative will be revisited from a different vantage point, tossed back and forth between the lovers; out of it will be teased every possible meaning. The 51 sparse, tiny chapters reinforce the fuguelike feel.

The plot is simple: Jean-Marc arrives at the hotel; Chantal is out walking. Near misses and mistaken identities characterize his frantic search for her, offering Kundera the opportunity to philosophize on the unknowability of the "other." They reunite; Chantal blurts out the distressing thought that's plagued her day: "Men don't turn to look at me anymore." This launches the protagonists into sketchy flashbacks, stilted dialogues, and interior monologues, all loosely bound by their embarkation on an erotic journey.

Key bits from the characters' pasts become signature refrains. Chantal, for example, has buried a son, who died at the age of 5. Strands such as this are dropped lightly in the narrative, to be pulled through later chapters like a needle with different colored threads. Later, for example, the boy's death will trigger her unpleasant realization--that it was, in the end, a "dreadful gift." Children, she thinks, keep us hopeful in the world, because "it's impossible to have a child and despise the world as it is; that's the world we've put the child into." Thus, her child's death has set her free to live out her genuine disdain of the world. Although the illogical extremes of Kundera's thought can be wildly dissonant and wondrously shocking, this reiterative device of Identity lacks energy. There's no sense of discovery about these characters. They remain flat; the style effects one like an Ingmar Bergman film when one is in the mood for Sam Peckinpah.

As if in serendipitous response to her pain in getting older, Chantal receives an anonymous "love" note. More notes follow. Will they prove Jean-Marc's attempt to sweeten her sad disclosure? Her sexual awakening begins to blur the boundaries of what's real. All well and good, but somewhere along the line, Kundera concludes that Chantal is weak because she's older. Age, we are asked to believe, becomes a wedge between the lovers, even though Chantal is only a few years older than Jean-Marc, who is himself only 42. And in the exploration of her sexuality on the wax and wane, Kundera succumbs to cliché: she is consumed too often by too many flames, and red is all used up as a symbol of violent passion. On the subject of male and female desire, Kundera is incomparably funny, and the novel sports some nervy images--masturbating fetuses; our human community joined in a sea of saliva; the ubiquity of spying eyes, harvesting information for profit; the human gaze itself, a marvel, jaggedly interrupted by the mechanical action of the blink. Kundera betrays a witty revulsion for the values and mores of the late 20th century.

But with sentences such as, "This is the real and the only reason for friendship: to provide a mirror so the other person can contemplate his image from the past, which, without the eternal blah-blah of memories between pals, would long ago have disappeared," the reading experience reduces to an annoyance. Perhaps this is the fault of the translator attempting a breezy, colloquial tone. But it's sloppy and careless. Still the novel's an entertainment, a good companion. Reading it is like passing an afternoon in a sidewalk café, catching up with an old friend, say, with whom one has shared youthful cynicism and diatribes against the ignominies of human behavior. One will look back on such an afternoon and remember too many Galloises smoked, too many cups of coffee, moments of intense engagement that fell, alas, into the indulgence of a "retro" ennui.

(retirado da Amazon Fri, 24 Apr 2009 07:57:53 -0400)

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