Loran's review of Identity: A Novel
Identity: A Novel by Milan Kundera
I gained a few things from my relationship with J, and Milan Kundera, while first suggested by my darling Aunt, was nevertheless one of them. I have a hard time considering him in a fair light, because his pristine and lucid phrasing so precisely mirrors the habits of men and women, fiction or not fiction, that I've come to rest on his cool and calculated introspection as more of means of existence than just some novellas I read.
Identity is a prime example of how to screw yourself up thusly; it's a shattering of you and me in the world of all possibilities; the priviledged ether of the life of the mind, for the rare genius like Kundera, who has been lucky and strong enough to forge the immense space and time required to arrive at such pristine phrasing and calculated introspection.
Identity is a prime example of how to screw yourself up thusly; it's a shattering of you and me in the world of all possibilities; the priviledged ether of the life of the mind, for the rare genius like Kundera, who has been lucky and strong enough to forge the immense space and time required to arrive at such pristine phrasing and calculated introspection.
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