At times this barely feels like a novel at all, but rather a collection of historical anecdotes and philosophical musings held together with a tissue-thin narrative. Kundera inserts himself into the story at various points, but I'm not entirely sure why. Most of the characters are unlikeable and irritatingly self-absorbed and the ways in which they are linked together and used by the author to illustrate his ideas are a little dry and schematic, but at least many of the ideas are interesting (memory, sexual desire and love, self-image). Ironicaly I found the early parts dealing with immortality the least interesting, as they deal with a kind of fame-hunting behaviour which frustrates and bores me.