The Czech Socialist Literature That Influenced Milan Kundera

Ondřej Slačálek
Vít Bohal

Milan Kundera, who died this month, became known as a staunchly individualist critic of one-party Communist rule. Yet his work was also steeped in the rich earlier traditions of left-wing Czech literature, which grappled with the meaning of human freedom.

The writer Milan Kundera in France, June 1, 1981. (Louis Monier / Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images)


The death of Milan Kundera this July 11 brings to a close a unique life story — from his growing up in a musical family in Brno, through his disowned early poetic attempts, to the publication of his great novels and essays. But perhaps paradoxically, it is as if an older narrative comes to a close here as well: the story of the socialist school of Czech literature that shaped the young Kundera and whose legacy he carried on — despite his criticisms and pariah status.

Milan Kundera lived long enough to become friends with the greatest Czech avant-garde poet Vítězslav Nezval as well as the French philosophy publisher Bernard-Henri Lévy. He himself said that friendship stands above politics. And so, he managed to take the best of Nezval — a poet who authored the purest poetist and surrealist poetry written in Czech, along with an ode to the bloody dictator Joseph Stalin — as much as from Lévy — author of Sartre: The Philosopher of the Twentieth Century, ideologue for Western military intervention and producer of highly medialized bollocks. As a teacher at the Prague Film Academy (FAMU), Kundera influenced an entire generation of filmmakers who were later to become the New Wave. But he was most respected as a novelist and essayist.

The Great Socialist Tradition and Its Self-Image

It may, at first glance, seem absurd to connect Kundera with the socialist tradition of Czech culture: Did he not rebel against his contemporary situation? Did he not author one of the most poignant portraits of the absurdity of “actually existing socialism”? And did he not then gleefully betray it in favor of a skeptical individuality and radical distance from all collectivist projects? He did, indeed, do all this. Unlike many members of the critical avant-garde, such as Vratislav Effenberger, Milan Nápravník, or Egon Bondy, he was not fighting for the return of authentic socialism nor a return of avant-garde aesthetics. Yet he certainly metabolized a particular desire for a free socialism and a love for avant-garde aesthetics — and made them both his own.

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