Forty years ago, if there was one novel you could count on educated readers having read and loved, it was The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera. First published in an English translation in America in 1980, it took the temperature of the age as no other book did.
It was the great novel of the end of European Communism: a novel of ideas and eroticism, the surreal and the naturalistic. In tone intimate and ironic, it seemed to take its readers into its confidence, assuming a high level of curiosity and scepticism, large-mindedness and mirth, but also anxiety, lest waking from one nightmare was no guarantee that we wouldnāt fall headlong into the next.
We didnāt read it as we read polemic ā the characters were too vivid to allow us to forget we were reading fiction ā but it was conjecturally high-risk in a way that other novels werenāt. Laughter and Forgetting: the very concatenation of those words promised an original ride. So we hung on, rubbing our eyes as though waking from a long sleep, curious to read whatever Kundera had written earlier and impatient to read whatever he would write next. Today, the laughter has fallen silent and, except among a few aficionados and readers without an axe to grind, Kundera himself is all but forgotten.
The forgetting of Kunderaās title is the state-sponsored forgetting essential to totalitarianism, allowing that totalitarianism insinuates its way into the most private corners of our lives. The novelās opening reads like a fairy tale told by a historian. āIn February 1948, the Communist leader Klement Gottwald stepped out on the balcony of a Baroque palace…ā Next to Gottwald on the balcony is the Foreign Minister, Vladimir Clementis. It is cold and, noting that Gottwald is bareheaded, Clementis takes the fur hat off his head and puts it on his leaderās. Four years later Clementis is hanged for treason and āimmediately airbrushed out of historyā, which means being airbrushed out of this and all other photographs as well. Inspect the photograph today and the only evidence that Clementis was ever on that balcony is the fur hat on Gottwaldās head. So tellingly comic is the image that one wants to push it further into surrealism and remove Gottwald too, leaving only the hat to hover Magritte-like in the snow.
We have our own vocabulary to describe what the Czech Communist party did to Clementis 70 years ago. We say it ācancelledā him. It is, I think, instructive to trace cancel cultureās political origins in the mindset of totalitarianism.
The cruel irony is that Kunderaās novel has itself become the object of the very cancelling it describes. Little by little, whether by malevolent design (which is hard to prove) or by subtle changes in the literary/political zeitgeist (also hard to chart) Kundera and his novels fell out of favour.
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SubscribeA fine essay. And noting the fall from modish approval of a non or even anti-communist writer like Kundera is timely indeed, as are the prescient associations of “cancellation” with the totalitarian outlook. The discussion of “angelic” or ideological laughter applies in spades to modern British comedy; and would have applied to the younger “comedians” of the late eighties. These are points which should be noted and heeded. My only addition would be to suggest that this process has deep roots. I well recall that when “Lightness” came out as a film, an old acquaintance from school, already soaked in the worst that radical Cambridge could brew, dismissed the work, the original and the author with a grimace of contempt and, of course, would not explain himself. Argument, in which we had engaged so freely when younger, was now beneath him; and expressions of opposition were, in any case, expressions of ignorance or heresy. Had he let me speak in Kundera’s defence, he would have hated me. I was, long before the word was coined, in the process of a slow “cancellation”, albeit in stages and by one person. These are the persons who have been running the show for some time, now; and the slow squeeze of their continuing advance is being felt with greater intensity and by greater numbers than ever before.
Well said. I must confess to not having read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, but I have read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and was rather taken by the writing. I think I need to read Laughter and Forgetting and perhaps re-read Lightness as I am now older and times are different so, perhaps I will get somehing different from them.
The Joke is worth reading too.
The unbearable rightness of getting the author’s name wrong. Kinda proves the article’s thesis.
?
I would like to hear a defence, but I fear what you will get is the same refusal to discuss it – as we all know all discourse is an exercise in power relations (just ask M.Foucault)
Great writing from an intellectual.
I thoroughly enjoyed The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Partly because the writing is wonderful, partly because those of us who found success with the ladies hard work are always fascinated by stories of those who effortlessly collect them.
I suspect Kundera just went out of fashion rather than being consciously cancelled. If the point of the article is to highlight the cancellation of ideas, by intellectuals and the publishing world, more obvious targets could have been found. That cancellation is a tool of totalitarianism also has many more obvious examples.
Yeah, great writer that Michel Kundera. I prefer the work of his rebellious younger brother, Milan, meself.
To focus on a typo, and ignore the argument, brilliant. I must stop, Iām so in awe of your intellect I must go and sit in the corner for a while and weep at my own inadequacy.
I did not get the argument
Neither did Prashat!
No need for shame. Counselling available on request.
The UnHerd subeditor has been cancelled and sent for re-education.
?
Hell hath no fury like an Utopian scorned.
They’d gaslight you and say it’s not happening.
Meanders a bit.
Forgive me for lapsing into hyperbole. A brilliant, brilliant article by a brilliant writer – one whose contribution to literature and thought in general outstrips the vast majority of the Planet.
Progressives silence – they donāt debate. When was the last time you saw an actual debate (two people on stage arguing a side) on global warming, abortion, etc?
Great idea
I think we should cancel Michel Kundera, particularly as he doesn’t exist.
Milan Kunderaās old hat.
His old fur hat.
That one.
That joke.
To stir the glum.
And rile the woke.
ā: ā¦ the Devilās, ā¦, and which by its very maliciousness ā¦ā
Would mischievousness not be a better word? The problem today is that āpoking funā is seen as crude or malicious. That is poking fun at gloried and admired figures. Perhaps older generations view āpoking funā differently to how younger generations see the phrase. The older generations had been starved of entertainment in the past. Many folk had no TV at all until the late 1960s or 70s. And then, say, a little bawdy humour was bound to be the name of the game for many.
āTeeth-for-thatā* said Ollie imperiously to Stan, as an excuse for squashing a cream bun on the face of the hostile shopkeeper whom they are in a spat with standing dejectedly before them.
Stan with a smile tips his hat towards the shopkeeper. āWhatād you do that for?ā says Ollie.
āI thought you said, Tip your hat.ā
Itās bound to hurt, but now itās a laugh.
What was malicious is rendered mischievous.
As for Glasto, and the Jeremy moment, it was like for the crowds seeing someone in the flesh whom they had only seen on TV. Thatās always so thrilling. Isnāt it?
*Deliberate incorrect spelling
Milan Kunderaās old hat
His old fur hat
That one
That joke
To stir the glum
To rile the woke folk
ā:ā¦, the Devilās, ā¦, and which by its very maliciousness ā¦ā
Would mischievousness not be a better word? The problem today is that āpoking funā is seen as crude or malicious. One may poke fun at oneās peril at admired or praised individuals. Perhaps older people view āpoking funā differently to how younger people do. Older people had scrapped back in the old days for any entertainment they could get. Poking fun was a staple of music hall, I imagine.
āT*t-for-t*tā says Ollie to Stan in a pompously relaxed manner, by way of excuse for his and Stanās having just squashed a cream bun or two into the face of the hostile, impetuous shopkeeper whom they are in a spat with and who stands dejectedly before them. Then Stan smiles and lifts his hat off his head, tipping it towards the shopkeeper.
āWhatād you do that for?ā says Ollie.
Stan: āI thought you said, Tip your hat.ā
What was malicious was rendered mischievous.
As for Glasto and the Jeremy moment, it was like for the crowds seeing in the flesh for the first time someone whom they had only seen on TV. That was naturally thrilling for them, I imagine. As it would have been when seeing in the flesh many of their favourite pop bands.
Beyond the main thread of this article, does it give wiggle room to cancel? With reading between the lines:
– if an author (Celine) is anti-semitic their books can still be seen on their own merit.
Fine, or too much creative endeavour may be lost (per separate Hensher article on books we will never see). But:
– if a politician is seen as anti-semitic (e.g. Corbyn) are you saying by extension their policies can still be seen for their own merit.
Despite perhaps an opposite intent, does Corbyn’s cancelling crowd get a free pass here?
The comparison between politics and art is not helpful because a work of art exists independent of the artist.
I agree, largely, which is why I wrote the above. However, the wiggle room for people to exploit this nuance is the very devil in the divide.
It’s an interesting question. If I watch a film with Mel Gibson or Jane Fonda, for instance, I believe that I am able to judge to the film on its own merits without being influenced by my opinions about them. Actually, I dislike both of them but I have enjoyed their work on occasion. I do not like to ‘cancel’ people or works of art. I am not interested in punishing people or having political enemies either. Of course, I avoid giving money to people I consider objectionable. In the case of Rooney, I think her writing is bad so the decision is really easy. In most cases, I know nothing about the actors, the director, or the writer, etc. Probably I have supported many artists with bad opinions. This is normal. When I look at a painting in a museum, I know very little of the life of the artist. Maybe it is better this way. But in politics I will judge differently because public office brings power and discretion to make decisions.
The article here seems to set aside from art the French writer Celine’s anti-Semitism – in a way that perhaps only the tormented can. The excerpt below is from a later Unherd article on the German writer Ernst Jungen, where Celine’s views are referenced from amid the German occupation of Paris:
“A fĆŖted intellectual, and a lifelong francophile, he (Jungen) befriended the cityās cultural elite, socialising with Cocteau and Picasso as well as the collaborationist French leadership and literary figures such as the anti-semitic novelist CĆ©line, a monster who āspoke of his consternation, his astonishment, at the fact that we soldiers were not shooting, hanging, and exterminating the Jews ā astonishment that anyone who had a bayonet was not making unrestrained use of itā.”
Forgiveness is perhaps easier after the death of a tormentor and the passing of contextual “events”. To have forgiven Celine at that time of the war, when he was artfully writing whilst urging the extermination of others, would, surely, have been harder for those leaving Paris in a boxcart? Whilst cancel culture now is pernicious, and a refuge of rogues, this still reminds me of a work colleague in the 1980s inked with a wrinkled concentration camp number. What might he have said too, then or now, of the unbearable lightness of being annihilated at the behest of such an author? No easy answers – but banning things in the long term generally invites additional risks.
Much as I have personally borne witness to the libertarian right’s cancelling of the left authoritarians if only for the sake of vested interests, upwardly mobile insecurities and other similarly wrong reasons, I immensely enjoyed Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting as well as some of his other stories. Two words I learnt from my readings — kitsch which finds expression in Tagore, Durgapuja and other Bengali(st) fetishes and litost. The last is what Indian women routinely perform to demoralise one another. Thank you, Howard, for your lovely article that recalled these memories.