[In the following essay, Adams highlights the way Kundera's folk heritage informs his concept of identity in both his theoretical writings and his fiction, suggesting reasons for his international appeal.]

Carlos Fuentes has said that the most urgent poles of contemporary narrative are found in Latin America and in Central Europe, and the modern reader automatically thinks of Gabriel García Márquez and Milan Kundera. This paper will look at one of these well-known authors, Milan Kundera, in terms of the Slavic soul representing its geographic standing between East (the land of orthodoxy or ideology), and West (the land of nihilism). Kundera is interesting in this connection because he resists either camp: what he calls the angelic laughter of certainty, of truth, of ideology, and the demonic laughter of infinite relativism, cynicism, and nihilism we have heard so much about in Western philosophy.

Milan Kundera, the Czech writer who has been living in Paris for more than twenty years, and writing for a foreign audience because his books were banned in his own land, does lean toward the abyss (nihilism), does favor what R. B. Gill has called "epicurean accommodation," does opt for the novel of relative truths, but somehow has managed to keep a foothold on the cliff overhanging the modern abyss of nothingness. His particular foothold seems to be a rediscovery of his folk culture, as the comforts found in his early Moravian roots offer him touchstones of identity perhaps not available to other contemporary writers. His philosophical novels offer a compromise between memory and forgetting, between irony and commitment. What might be so fetching about this writer is that, instead of arriving at the modern conclusion that life has less and less meaning in a post-Derridian world, he celebrates those very weaknesses that make us human (angst, confusion, hopelessness, uncertainty, and especially, man's simplicity)as synonymous with beauty. Thus, he turns the modern philosophical world topsy-turvy, because aesthetics has a way of turning to ethics in his post modern fiction … his post-structuralist worldview emphasizes the beauty of the uncertainty. Unlike other modern spokesmen of a bleak and dreary reality, his acceptance of relative truths seems to be a manifestation of a wry Kunderian accommodation to man's powerlessness in post-Stalinist Central Europe.

The goal of this paper is to underscore the role of Kundera's folk heritage in the formation of his world view in his search for self and, in doing that, to consider the source of his international appeal. The investigation will first of all consider Kundera as firmly in the post-modernist camp and then look at some of Kundera's own theoretical statements on fiction and the novel (including revelatory excerpts from six of his novels). Attempting to show how his chosen form of expression—the novel—is the only one capable of expressing his concept of identity in a post-modern world, a transition will then be made from the seemingly value-free post-modern viewpoint to Kundera's other side—where his individual characters are called upon to make choices, and where the destinies of "Der Volk" matter intensely. The transition will use some very recent ideas of Derrida and Lyotard to pose the obvious question: How can a novelist, clearly so postmodern in his techniques and philosophical thrust, be at the same time a heralder of the beauty in a life chock full of irony and chaos?

Jacques Derrida offers a justification for deconstructionist thought in our world that Kundera will echo in both his novels and his own critical writings. If the truth of reason is really our own experience of it, it is relative anyway. So, we need new kinds of "knowledge" to deal with this relative world, new unheard of thoughts, "qui se cherchent à travers la memoire des vieux signes" [sought from the memories of old signs]. This is precisely what Kundera will discover in his folk culture—memories of old signs—which will offer the possibility of an identity, a spiritual or psychological homeland waiting to be repossessed by him.

In terms of history (and Kundera is mainly concerned with man's relationship to the past, to history), his theory was already introduced by Foucault's deconstructionist views that it is just possible that history is made up of interpretation, not fact; that any sign/event is already an interpretation of another sign/event. The goal of history has always been the triumph of meaning, annihilation of the negative, the presence of a truth; but, when this happens, according to the deconstructionists, there is nothing left to do, nothing more to learn. Kundera's view of history has more to do with disorder than triumph of meaning. While his sentimental side yearns for a safe, unchanging, constantly returning, idyllic past, his skepticism tells us that Foucault's view was right: alternative accounts are possible when authorities in Czechoslovakia tear down the old heroic monuments, give the streets new Russian names, and fabricate in the schools a tidy and sentimental account of Czech history. Kundera writes his fiction to awaken doubts or skepticism as an alternative. He insists that the novel is the form to express this doubt, or contradiction. The novel teaches us to comprehend other peoples' truths and the limitations of our own truth, so the novel should be deeply non-ideological: "it is as essential to our insanely ideological world as is bread" ["Interview," Le Monde, Vol. 23, January, 1976]. In another article, "Man Thinks, God Laughs," he says that the novel's wisdom is different from that of philosophy—it is born of the spirit of humor. The novel contradicts ideological certitudes: "Like Penelope, it undoes each night the tapestry that … philosophy and learned men wove the day before." Life is seen rationally, as a:

glowing trajectory of causes and effects, failures, and successes, and man, setting his impatient gaze on the causal chain of his actions, accelerates further his mad race toward death.

Kundera sees human existence (its beauty) located "where the bridge between a cause and an effect is ruptured." At this juncture, there is liberty, digression, the incalculable, a lack of reason, the opposite of eighteenth-century rationalism and Liebniz. So the art born of God's laughter—the novel—is the "art that has managed to create the … imaginative realm where no one is the possessor of the truth, and there everyone has the right to be understood." Clearly, Foucault's view of history as interpretation, or as "alternative accounts" is manifested in this 1985 essay by Kundera [New York Review of Books, June 13, 1985; reprinted in The Art of the Novel].

In Kundera's own fiction, one strongly senses a deconstructionist view of the modern world and an example of Kundera's attempt to deal with the concept of identity in this deconstructed world of his novels. In his 1973 Life Is Elsewhere, the theme is that the poetic viewpoint should not dominate one's life because it is incapable of irony; its only goal is beauty. Because lyricism is never ironic, it risks being totalitarian. In this novel, Jaromil, the young poet, cannot draw human faces, giving the reader a metaphor for an ideology—where only causes, and not individuals, exist, where nuance and irony are absent. At one point the narrator says of Jaromil:

The raw simplicity of the statement made him happy because it placed him in the ranks of those direct and simple men who laughed at nuances and whose wisdom lies in their understanding of the ridiculously simple essentials of life.

Speaking later in the novel of the "adult world" of relativity, Kundera compares it with poetic form:

In rhyme and rhythm reside a certain magical power. An amorphous world becomes at once orderly, lucid and clear, and beautiful when squeezed into regular meters. Death is chaotic, but if it is in rhyme, it is orderly.

He goes on later to say: "The adult world knows perfectly well that the absolute is an illusion, that nothing human is either great or eternal."

In Laughable Loves (1974) Kundera portrays love as a meaningless game, but one area of life where we are convinced we have some control, one area (along with religion) where we try to find our essence, our peculiar identity. Man has little control over most spheres of life, but in love, there is a sense of relative freedom, and that being so, women became, for one of his characters, the "one legitimate criterion of his life's destiny." Women became, for the protagonist, a way of choosing his identity in a society where he was, in every other way, powerless to express himself. Later in the same story, however, the same character complains:

All at once I understood that it had only been my illusion that we ourselves saddle events, and are able to control their course. The truth is that they aren't our stories at all, that they are foisted upon us from somewhere outside, that we are not to blame for the queer path they follow.

The interesting, diverse group of characters in The Farewell Party (1976) try to control their destinies in a fertility clinic where sex is used to trick destiny. They gather to say good-bye to a comrade who has gotten permission to emigrate, and the themes are similar to those in his other novels. One character says: "We really had no choices," after he had carried with him what he thought was a suicide pill for years, feeling that at least in the end, if things turned bad, he could decide his own life or death. The doctor who gave him the pill explains: "… the fake pill allowed him to turn his life into a noble myth," the myth of some control over his destiny. Kundera has also created characters in his novels who equate order with identity, who need to have the authorities establish their identities. An outspoken, and very ideological nurse at the clinic dislikes the emigré's face because it looks "ironic" to her, and she hates irony. All irony was, for her, "like an armed watchman guarding the portal to her future, disdainfully refusing her admittance." Admittance to what? To Kundera's adulthood of irony, or uncertainty, to real life? Kundera asks, "What motivates people to totalitarianism? The longing for order, the desire to turn the human world into an inorganic one?" This kind of Kunderian character needs her identity established for her; she fears that in freedom, in the chaos of uncertainty, she will not know who she is. For Kundera, real life is disorder, chaos, while a willfully imposed order is akin to death.

Kundera's two most successful novels are The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, published in 1978, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being, published in 1984. Both texts are concerned with man's relationship to history and both texts resist a single reading. Both texts need to be considered in any discussion of problems of identity because Kundera himself has equated the absurd chaos in historical events with an individual's life. The two novels keep insisting that understanding the absurdity, the lack of a rational structure in historical events is just one more way to understand his concept of individual identity. Both are inaccessible to our human understanding. The structuralists' view of history is just as mistaken as the poetic view of individual identity: rational cause and effect in history is just as illusory as is the absolute (he would say, childish) concept of apprehending one's individual identity, of knowing who we really are. Control over history and individual identity is a fiction. Both novels place their protagonists in a world where the border is warped between reality and art, or between history and the fantastic, between memory and forgetting. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting is called by David Lodge, "a masterpiece of post-modernist fiction." The novel offers several separate stories, some having the same characters which flow (or, as Lodge puts it, "leak") into each other. Themes, motifs and author's comments are repeated. It is a novel in the form of variations, which is not so much manipulation of chronology or point of view as it is a disruption between author and narrator. Milan Kundera keeps leaping over his narrator to appear overtly in the stories. It is in Laughter and Forgetting that Kundera moves back and forth from the historical to the fantastic, where previously introduced motifs and fantastic events are brought together with real facts. (We think of Marquez's magical realism here, and the broader connection between Central Europe and Latin American literature in our era.) As Lodge has said: "The outrages of modern history in those regimes are of such a scale that only the 'overt lie' of the fantastic and the grotesque can represent them."

It is in both The Book of Laughter and Forgetting and The Unbearable Lightness of Being that Kundera clearly portrays history as a narrated story, and shows the fabrication of what is called the truth, or shows history as an interpretation. In the more recent novel, Kundera's most philosophical novel to date, he considers such questions as individual responsibility, Nietzsche's 'eternal return,' and chance and coincidence in life. Again, familiar motifs are here: erotic trickery in order to outwit fate, self deception, the limits of human lucidity, and the games of history. The now-familiar technique of mixing history and the fantastic is rampant in this story. The characters have a goal of making decisions, but, since Kundera rejects Nietzsche's eternal return, his characters cannot learn from repeated events, and thus, decisions or actions cannot weigh heavily on them. We are, like his characters, relieved of that responsibility of learning from history. Robert interprets Kundera's sense of "lightness of being" in this way: "If reality were like clockwork, history would have been infinitely organized. Any accident would have affected the whole: there would have to be individual responsibility in history." If individuals are as light and meaningless as historical events, if individuals have no responsibility for these events (as Kundera's narrator suspects in this novel) then how can we determine who we are, where we fit into the scheme of society's fate, its progress, its demise? Kundera jumps into his novel to tell us that history is as light as an individual's life. In fact, as early as 1958, Kundera would write [in "Quelque part la derriere," Le debat, Vol 8, January, 1981, pp. 50-63]:

… les mécanismes psychologiques qui fonctionnent dans les grands événements historiques (apparemment incroyables et inhumains) sont les mêmes qui régissent les situations intimes (tout à fait banales et humaines.).

[… the psychological mechanisms which function in the grand (and apparently inhuman and unbelievable) historic events are the same which rule intimate (and completely banal and human) situations.].

Whether readers understand the novel's quartet of Tereza, Tomas, Sabina and Franz as representing weightiness or lightness, (or probably, as structures or variations on a theme), it is clear that Kundera's fictional mode is now more philosophical than political. He uses Nietzsche as an introduction to Tomas's philosophical quandary between weightiness and lightness, and the reader is led through the philosophical maze of questions concerning individual identity in this world either devoid of individual responsibility or filled to overflowing with personal responsibility. Tomas keeps fluctuating between the negation of both social and personal responsibility, and accepting the burden of Teresa's ponderous love, his country's shame, and his medical work (where he, as a surgeon, claims to be able to find another's identity with the act of cutting open another's body). Tomas finally chooses the responsibility of another's life (weightiness), marries Teresa and moves to a farm commune, and thus has his identity given to him by his circumstances. By Kundera's ironic slight of hand, however, Tomas has also managed to choose lightness of being: he has moved from city to simple country life; he has given up a very controlled medical profession (the weightiness of his beloved work); and, he is now free and away from authorities, living a simpler, rather idyllic life of limited responsibility, freer to define who he is. Kundera has ended his novel ironically; the reader may choose the philosophical stance he prefers as he finishes the novel. Has the protagonist found an identity, or given up the search?

After having looked at Kundera's oeuvre in terms of his being solidly based in the post-modern intellectual camp, it would be beneficial to digress briefly for the purpose of coming at a conclusion from another angle. The original question of this investigation was: How does Milan Kundera, who is solidly post-modern in his theoretical stance and in his fiction, who espouses a modernist (some say, nihilistic or anti-humanist) credo of lack of certainties in life, lack of high tragedy in human events, how does this very modern writer manage to convey the bittersweet beauty inherent in the sometimes absurd, often meaningless lives in his books? How does he successfully shun, as R. C. Porter claims he does, both the literature of incoherence and the literature of absolute ideas? The following brief digression is meant to put his seemingly janus-faced contribution into an historical context.

First of all, intellectuals from Central Europe have always been engaged, have always had an ethical motivation for their theoretical output. The charges of an "arid formalism or political escapism" which members of literature departments level against post-modern theoreticians are just not applicable to Slavic writers. "In the Slavic world, structuralism is seen not as the cerebral play of a few armchair theoreticians, but as a clear-cut political stance…." For Kundera, whose nostalgia yearns for the Bohemia of pre-history, who sees his whole oeuvre [in "Un occident kidnappé," Le debat, Vol. 27, November, 1983, pp. 3-22], "comme une longue méditation sur le fin possible de l'humanité européene" [as a long meditation on the possible end of European civilization], literary theory must be attached to the ethical; and, in fact, the importance of this art (modern literature from Prague, Budapest or Warsaw) does not lie in the fact that it criticizes this or that political regime, but "that it offers new testimony about mankind in a social or political setting which people here in the West cannot even imagine" [Kundera, "Comedy Is Everywhere," Index on Censorship, Vol. 6, November/December, 1977].

Secondly, even Jacques Derrida admits to an ethical, even political thrust of modern literary theory when he writes in Ecriture et la différence that the only way to do battle with Western metaphysical absolutism is through stratagem or strategy. Sounding particularly political, he suggests playing a "double game" or double agent, "serving two sides" or feigning obedience to a system of rule while simultaneously trying to undermine its rule by posing unsolvable problems. He continues: "The question here is to pretend to speak the master's language in order to kill him." This sounds like the strategy of any minority, and defeated group (i.e., Kundera's citizens in post-1969 occupied Czechoslovakia). The key to keeping one's identity intact is that "arriére pensée," a mental reservation, held back so that one does not buy into the ideology completely. Kundera calls it a moment of pause before we give an arbitrary significance to a word. So, Derrida concludes, modern theories need not be so alienated from ethical concerns; they can be, on the contrary, "active interventions." An artist need not be enclosed in some "prison house of language," but rather engaged in very political, ethical pursuits. Milan Kundera elegantly makes that bridge or crossover from aesthetics to ethics, and his motivation is clear in this borrowed quote from a 1983 article: "Only in opposing history can you oppose today's history." By questioning an individual's responsibility in historical events, the individual can better define his responsibility and his essence in contemporary events.

Francois Lyotard, author of The Post-Modern Condition and several other texts considering that state of contemporary knowledge, has said that post-modern knowledge refines our sensitivity to differences and reinforces our ability to tolerate the incommensurable. Milan Kundera's work is a product of this post-scientific era, an era, according to Lyotard, in which narrative knowledge will be more valuable to us than scientific knowledge. Since, according to most postmodern theorists, language is no longer a system of signs, but "tricks or games," or, to quote Jameson's forward to this text, "a conflictual relationship between tricksters." Kundera's themes of linguistic and historical trickery of sleight of hand are definitely post-modern. But also, Kundera shares with these new theorists the goal of generating new ideas, new kinds of knowledge, and ultimately, a new way of looking at man. Kundera's art offers a way of seeking one's identity in this post-modern world of extremes. He suggests, in his novels, another alternative—beyond those of nihilism or absolute truth.

Each age has its dominant way of the sign, and the things they signify, says Foucault in The Archeology of Knowledge. Lyotard, in The Post-Modern Condition, claims that there are scientific periods of history, but now, there is a revival of the narrative view of truth. He insists that scientific knowledge is based on narrative truth anyway, that theories are just disguised narratives, that philosophy too was just a seductive tale. He gives as examples Plato's "Myth of the Cave," a non-scientific narrative used to inaugurate science, or Descartes resorting to what he calls the "story of the mind" in his Discourses or even Aristotle suggesting that scientific knowledge is composed only of arguments (i.e., dialectics). For Lyotard, narrative is not just a new field of research, but a mode of thinking, fully as legitimate as that of abstract logic.

Another urgent level of Lyotard's text proposes that the narrative must generate the illusion of an imaginary resolution of real contradictions. It is on this level that a real correspondence between Kundera and Lyotard can be made: using as his backdrop real contradictions, (social, political and historical), Kundera creates illusions (a fiction) of imaginary resolutions, or he emphasizes the imaginary aspects of his resolutions. That, then, is another function of mixing the fantastic with the real in these novels. The very idea of "idyll" on which Kundera relies so often, is his "illusion of a resolution." Carlos Fuentes calls Kundera's notion of idyll, "a Communist offering to forget the past, a false remembering." His characters are desperately looking back (into prehistory?), through the memory of "old signs" to find themselves. It is this concept of idyll that will be exploited to suggest a dreamy, almost mythic, remembering of early Moravian folk culture as sedative to the barrage of absurdities in the postmodern world. Kundera defines idyll this way in The Unbearable Lightness of Being: "… an image … like a memory of Paradise" or "… a looking back to Paradise." But, Kundera's ultimate message is that the good old days cannot return because there never was an original, or a model to imitate. The concept of an original is only a disabled metaphor. The narrative, or history, had always already begun, and it changed a little each time in the telling, so now history is a story that never ends. What is myth, but a collection of stories endlessly retold, and Lyotard would add that all discourse is narrative, so really we live in an age when reason or truth is transformed into mythos (myth) and thus all history is myth.

Many of Kundera's contemporaries in Czechoslovakia see him portraying Central Europe as "a Europe raped by Asia … a spiritual graveyard maintained by governments of forgetting," and his idea of history as an "inexhaustible store of cruel jokes." For [Vaclav] Havel, Kundera's history is a "deity capable of deceiving and destroying us, playing tricks on us," and thus real life is elsewhere, outside of history. Real life, for Kundera as well as for other post-modern theorists like Lyotard, is in myth, or in narration, or in interpretation.

In 1964, Kundera wrote The Joke, a cult book for the intelligentsia in Czechoslovakia, and the book that resulted in his expulsion from his homeland and emigration to France. This early novel seems to embody his later themes of history as myth and, at the same time, to provide the rationale for proclaiming Kundera as a modern humanist. The novel deals with folk culture and prehistory in an absurd environment. Ludvic, a clever university student, sends a post-card to his girlfriend (a passionate Stalinist), and as a joke says, "optimism is the opium of the people … long live Trotsky." The result is his expulsion from the university and the Party, and years of labor in the mines. Years later, after a completely unsatisfactory life as a result of that one joke, he is in his hometown, and witnesses the legendary "Ride of the Kings," a folk tradition that will illustrate to him "our world of ever-accelerating forgetting." He writes:

Suddenly I saw it all clearly. People willingly deceive themselves with a double false faith. They believe in eternal memory (of men, deeds, things) … and in rectification (of deeds, errors, sins, injustice). Both are shams. The truth lies at the opposite end of the scale: everything will be forgotten, and nothing will be rectified. All rectification will be taken over by oblivion. No one will rectify wrongs; all wrongs will be forgotten.

While watching the "Ride of the Kings," however, Kundera's narrator (whose son was chosen to be this year's King in the parade) reflects on the origin of the legend of the King's Ride:

Where did it come from and what does it mean? Does it perhaps date back to pagan times … The "Ride of the Kings" is a mysterious rite; no one knows what it signifies, what its message is … perhaps the Ride of Kings is beautiful to us at least partly because the message it was meant to communicate has long been lost, leaving the gestures, colors, and words to stand out all the more clearly.

It is in Moravia, Kundera's ancestral land, where he:

had the sensation of hearing verse in the most primitive sense of the word, the kind of verse I could never hear on the radio or on TV … it was a sublime and polyphonic music—each of the heralds declaimed his verse in a monotone, but each on his own individual note, so the voices combined willy-nilly into chords.

This music of variation describes also Kundera's technique of theme building already noted.

Kundera's sense of myth (of history as myth), which his protagonist seems to find in his folk culture, is the key to his love of humanity. Perhaps he believes it is futile to seek to shape the future, or to recapture the past, but it is in these rare moments when his characters fall back beyond history into myth, that Kundera reveals his own nostalgia for human solidarity, some common past which is an amalgam of truth and legend. The narrator's thoughts, while playing the final folk concert after the "Ride of the Kings" is played out, are moving. He says, "I felt a long-forgotten sense of companionship come over me." He and three friends are playing in a noisy cafe filling up with a young, boisterous audience; but, says the narrator:

We managed to forget what was going on around us and create a magic circle of music; it was like being walled off from the drunks in a glass cabin at the bottom of the sea … I felt happy inside of the songs … where sorrow wasn't playful, laughter wasn't mocking, love wasn't laughable … where love is still love, pain, pain and values free from devastation.

This a rare instance, among all of Kundera's novels, where the author describes a freedom from irony, where the author feels no irony, and this instance is in myth, in Kundera's rediscovery of his folk culture. This is Kundera's nostalgia, his own kitsch, his own way of forgetting history—through folk tradition, legend or myth. Predictably, however, he immediately counters with:

I was equally aware that my home was not of this world … that everything we sang and played was only a memory, a monument, a recreation in images of something that no longer was, and I felt the firm ground of my homeland sinking under my feet, felt myself falling … into the depths where love is love and pain, pain, and I said to myself that my only real home was this descent, this searching eager fall, and I gave myself up to it, savoring the sensuous vertigo.

Here is Kundera, the master of "epicurean accommodation"; he has chosen accommodation to an absurd world, not denial or revolt, and he is instantly a post-modern writer. For an instant, I think, we see what is the core of his attraction for modern readers, why he is not a nihilist, why he is not an ideologue. It is his method of accommodation to modern angst.

In his choice of accommodation, Kundera leaves room for the importance of the individual; while institutions and political systems may be absurd, individuals are not. In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera is constantly studying individual life, how concrete it is, how varied it is, how beautiful it can be. Most of his characters in this novel have no outside system of reference, so they must constantly make decisions. Human life is celebrated in this novel in all its chaotic progress, and, as Robert has described it, in all its existential contingency. The protagonist's life turns on coincidences; the very beauty of life, however, is in these coincidences.

The characters in this novel live in a non-tragic mode of fiction, in their own brand of twentieth-century folk culture. Kundera sees his characters as central European, representing the flip-side of European history, its outsiders, its victims. It is this historical disenchantment which is the source of their non-tragic character which "se moque de la grandeur et de la gloire" [mocks grandeur and glory]. In Kundera's post-Stalinist Central Europe there are few of the elements of high tragedy like grandeur, high status, or fatal flaw, so it is understandable that what is left is a sense of humor, a sense of humor which allows one to see other points of view, and to seek a measure of values on a human scale. But Kundera also finds beauty in man's sense of discomfort in the modern ideological world. Fuentes explains that while "Central Europe took care to demonstrate that a man need not be an insect in order to be treated as such," there is, when one reads Kundera, a change in Kafka's scenario: "The cockroach no longer thinks he knows; now he knows he thinks." He suggests that even if the future has already taken place and it stinks, maybe the answer for Kundera is "an internal utopia," a real space of untouchable life. Herein may lie the core of his constant preoccupation with sex and love. Kundera wrote in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting:

The symphony is a musical epic. We might compare it to a journey leading through the boundless reaches of the external world, on and on, farther and farther. Variations also constitute a journey, but not through the external world. You recall Pascal's pensee about how man lives between the abyss of the infinitely large and the infinitely small. The journey of the variation form leads to that second infinity, the infinity of internal variety concealed in all things.

While there is nothing new in this approach to modern life, Kundera is fresh in his ability to see beauty in our very postmodern condition: the common folk, be he comrade, poet, peasant or professor, swimming in a disconnected world, uncertain of its past, of what is its real present, wallowing sometimes in irony, reveling in coincidence. It is Kafka sans insects, with flesh and blood characters in a modern communist society, striving for some sense of joy and vitality. His is neither the literature of incoherence, nor the fiction of ideology. He is capable of satirizing loss of memory, but still offering unlimited possibilities of choices to his characters. He talks about the "semantic hoax" by which the same word can be endowed with the opposite meaning, or with a meaning just a little off, the same successive approximations which he and Lyotard and Derrida use to describe communication in general. I suppose we are talking here about a metonymic and not a metaphoric relation (an associational and not an exact correspondence), and that it applies to Kundera's treatment of historic truth, meaning in language, and possibilities of knowing. Kundera's very ethical goal [according to Carlos Fuentes] seems to be to "discover the yet unknown avenues that depart from history and lead us to realities we had hardly suspected." What is pleasing about this goal is that it celebrates our very post-modern condition; instead of wallowing in the hopelessness of it all, it celebrates our very lack of connection to external codes, to institutions, and heralds the yet unknown possibilities for men—unconnected, demystified, and deconstructed. Kundera's (and Derrida's and Lyotard's) contribution might be as simple as the suggestion that the invariable is only one way of looking at things, that others do exist. Perhaps Kundera's folk culture offers not a collision with these postmodern forces, but an instance of beautiful accommodation.