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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of sexual content and death.
Literature symbolizes resistance to authoritarianism and bureaucracy. The narrator makes a distinction between documents and literature: Documents are the state’s preferred medium because they reduce a life to extractable entries; literature, by contrast, prioritizes interiority and private meaning. Tamina, for instance, realizes that her notebooks would turn into a “document” if others read them, and even she would become “some other person” who is unknown even to herself when perceived through an official lens (139-40). While documents stabilize identity for the purposes of surveillance, literature complicates selfhood by preserving memory, emotion, and subjectivity. The retouched photograph of Gottwald and Clementis epitomizes state erasure, but its success is only partial because the narrative exposing the manipulation survives, serving as a reminder that “nothing remains of Clementis but the fur hat on Gottwald’s head” (4). The narrative—which is literature—thus symbolizes resistance against the state and ties back to the theme of The Politics of Memory and Erasure.
The novel’s meditation on the word litost turns language itself into a symbol of human experience that resists neat bureaucratic categories. The narrator introduces litost as “an untranslatable Czech word” (166), and it names the ache of humiliation, the panic of being seen as lacking, and the urge to retaliate. The word’s untranslatability is a sign that certain experiences resist easy equivalence across cultures. By insisting on using the word litost in Czech, Kundera indicates his fidelity to experience and his refusal of the bureaucratic convenience that would file it under a close English synonym. To him, literature must not flatten difference for mere convenience.
The novel’s form also symbolizes resistance. Its “variations” echo musical composition, favoring “the infinite diversity of the interior world” (226). In other words, the novel refuses the bureaucratic method of a single defining document. By presenting a collection of stories that are variations on the same theme, the form of the novel itself represents the idea of multiplicity.
Sex is a motif that highlights The Instability of Love, Desire, and Intimacy, revealing how intimacy in the novel is shaped by power and performance rather than genuine human connection. The novel focuses on the physical mechanics of sex rather than the cultural aura that surrounds the act, and its sex scenes are often comic, sometimes cruel, and always anatomically explicit. For instance, the scene between Kristyna and the student highlights the contrast between the language of philosophy and the awkward physicality of the human body. Elsewhere, Jan and Edwige argue about rape and castration, forcing into speech the violent scripts that underlie sexual relations. Even libertinism feels theatrical and meaningless: At Barbara’s villa, a young woman undresses on command and performs before a circle of bored onlookers, turning sex into a choreography that mimics bureaucracy rather than liberation. The explicitness of these scenes resists the sentimental depiction of sex and instead uses sex as a means of social critique.
The novel depicts its male characters as driven by their sexual urges, and the narrator neither excuses nor romanticizes this energy. The student wants Kristyna with a sincerity that seems like clumsiness, and his desire gathers strength in proportion to her refusal. Jan, on the verge of leaving for America, accepts an invitation to collective sex because “he knows he will never return to that town again” (281), a choice that reveals how borders can license repressed desires. His debates with Edwige demonstrate that men’s desire is historically conditioned and often violent, and he admits that women may want “to invent other images and another game” (289). The narrator’s insistence on situating desire within these parameters represents the complexity of sex.
Sex also becomes a symbol of alienation. When Jan thinks of seduction as a film he unwinds on Edwige’s body, the image recasts intimacy as a task drained of reciprocity. Barbara’s party also reduces sex to protocol and obligation as the hostess scolds a performer for not following instructions, Jan is quickly distracted, and the event is gripped by inertia. Even the student’s hope for a night with Kristyna is shadowed by routine instructions, which turn tenderness into negotiation and script. These hollow encounters critique both sentimental idealism and mechanical libertinism. Sex comes to represent the difficulty of intimacy and connection in a world dominated by politics, repression, and power.
Borders in the novel symbolize both external constraints and internalized divisions that structure identity and desire. Historical borders mark Czechoslovakia’s fate under Soviet occupation, where disappearances, manipulated facts, and violence enforce new boundaries. For exiles like Tamina, crossing the border into the West means both salvation and loss, as she carries nothing but a suitcase of her possessions and only memories of her homeland. Borders are thus portrayed as life-altering, and they are created by men rather than nature.
The novel also explores the border between the living and the dead. Jan remembers a woman who said she held on to life by a “spider thread,” and the narrator expands upon the remark with the insight that the border between life and death is fragile: On the other side, “everything—love, convictions, faith, history—no longer has meaning” (281). Angels appear as symbols of severity and judgment. The narrator announces his subject as “about Prague and about the angels” (227) and describes how “the angels had occupied all positions of authority” (99), which is how he describes the humorless militancy that condemns play and ambiguity. Death is described plainly, without reverence. Tamina scatters her husband’s ashes because otherwise she would be carrying him forever “like a piece of hand luggage” (115), and this unsentimental simile emphasizes the burden of grief. At Passer’s funeral, a hat falls into the grave, and mourners struggle not to laugh. In this scene, comedy encroaches on solemnity and reveals how the border between mourning and laughter is porous.
The final story, titled “The Border,” shows how borders colonize a person’s imagination. Jan is about to accept a job in the United States and the prospect of crossing frontiers makes other borders vivid, including those that separate erotic scripts and social codes. He suddenly agrees to attend Barbara’s orgy because he will soon leave Prague behind, suggesting that the prospect of crossing a geographical border loosens his moral boundaries. He watches a television debate about toplessness that divides the West into camps and exposes yet another border between permissiveness and those who crave instruction. He realizes that borders are “omnipresent,” shaping meaning, and that he has internalized the border as a principle for self-definition.



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