There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his space, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.
In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.
As the first novel written in French by Milan Kundera, La Lenteur is proof that he immersed himself wholeheartedly into the Parisian lifestyle, that he embraced unreservedly his adopted country cultural heritage (see the references to eighteen century society) and its present sensibilities. The novel is only about 150 pages long and it is an exploration of pleasure (hedonism, epicurianism) and how modernity is limiting our capacity to relax and enjoy the finer things in life. Sounds serious, but the novel is anything but : frivolous, self-indulgent, ironic, irreverent, rambling and, despite the numerous aphorisms and existential equations proposed, generally lacking in seriosity. Seriosity is overrated anyway. Since the inception of the book appears to be in friendly conversations and alcoholic debates in the literary cafes of Paris, I see the best way to enjoy this novel would be to read it out loud and then dissect all its nuances and theories in the company of friends, sitting at a sidewalk table, preferably chez Les Deus Magots or Cafe Flores in St. Germain, or in the shade of Jardin de Luxembourg, idly passing the time and checking out 'les jeunes filles en fleur' passing by.
To illustrate his thesis about memory and speed, Kundera introduces two storylines, meeting across a two hundred years gap at a chateau on the Seine. The first story is a retelling of a one night stand beween the Chevalier and Madame de T., a couple of eighteen century libertines, each involved in a different relationship (Madame de T. with her husband and with her 'amant' the Marquis, the Chevalier with another woman of society), who tranform the trivial into a work of art and thus unforgettable:
By slowing the course of their night, by dividing it into different stages, each separate from the next, Madame de T. has succeeded in giving the small span of time accorded them the semblance of a marvelous little arhitecture, of a form. Imposing form on a period of time is what beauty demands, but so does memory. For what is formless cannot be grasped, or committed to memory. Conceiving their encounter as a form was especially precious for them, since their night was to have no tomorrow and could be repeated only through recollection.
The story feels familiar, and pretty soon I got confirmation, when Kundera starts to praise a book that has begun to haunt me over the past couple of months - I see references to it everywhere:
The true greatness of eighteen century art consists not in some propaganda or other for hedonism but in its analysis. That is the reason I consider Les Liaisons Dangereuses, by Choderlos de Laclos, to be one of the greatest novels of all time. Its characters are concerned only with the conquest of pleasure. Nonetheless, little by little the reader comes to see that it is less the pleasure than the conquest that attracts them. That it is not the desire for pleasure but the desire for victory that is calling the tune. That what first appears to be a merely obscene game shifts imperceptibly and ineluctably into a life-and-death struggle.
To contrast the langurous pacing of the illicit lovers thryst, the second storyline describes a present day shindig at the same chateau, witnessing a congress of entomologists and introducing the concept of 'dancer' or attention-whore. Berck is the ultimate 'dancer' embracing any cause that helps him hog the spotlight of public attention, loudly declaiming his moral integrity and his devotion to the downtrodden. Vincent professes his despise for Berck and his ilk, only to become himself a dancer as he tries to shine in the company of his friends with borrowed ideas and later strutting around in order to impress a woman he picks up at the convention. Immaculata is a reporter who tries to bask in the light of popularity emited by Berck only to be confronted with the emptiness behind his shiny facade. As a bemused and anachronic oberver of this modern fandango, Kundera introduces one of his co-nationals : a Czech academician with an unpronounceable name and a history of persecution under the Communist regime. Hilarity ensues as misunderstandings and obtuseness break down the channels of communication and love devolves into a grotesque mimicry of passion.
As morning comes, the Chevalier strolls contendenly through the gardens, all his senses atuned to the memory of passion, while Vincent jumps on his motorcycle and flies away as fast as possible from the embarassment of the night. Quod erat demonstrandum!
Both approaches are artificial / coreographed but one serves to reveal and explain, to preserve and to cherish, while the other to hide and to fake our emotions.
Why has the pleasure for slowness disappeared? Ah, where have they gone, the amblers of yesteryear? Where have they gone, those loafing heroes of folk song, those vagabonds who roam from one mill to another and bed down under the stars? Have they vanished along with footpaths, with grasslands and clearings, with nature? There is a Czech proverb that describes their easy indolence by a metaphor: "they are gazing at God's windows." A person gazing at God's windows is not bored; he is happy. In our world, indolence has turned into having nothing to do, which is a completely different thing: a person with nothing to do is frustrated, bored, is constantly searching for the activity he lacks.
Kundera has found an explanation in the discovery of photography, and consequently cinema and television, and the rise of the cult of popularity that it engendered. Our obession with actors and pop stars is explained as our need to identify with the 'elect', with the 'dancers', with the succesful and the beautiful, living life vicariously through their exploits.
When a person sees himself as elect, what can he do to prove his election, to make himself and others believe that he does not belong to the common herd? That is where the era founded on the invention of photography comes to the rescue, with its stars, its dancers, its celebrities, whose images, projected onto an enormous screen, are visible from afar by all, are admired by all, and are all beyond reach.
Proposed as the antithesis of the fake gurus of the modern media frenzy (Berck and his companions), is Denon - the author of the novella recounted here, returning me to the earlier image of the circle of friends debating everything under the sun at that sidewalk cafe:
Fame meant something different in the eighteenth century: the audience that he cared about, that he hoped to beguile, was not the mass of strangers today's writer covets but the little company of people he might know personally and respect. The pleasure he derived from success among his readers was not very different from the sort he might experience among the few listeners gathered around him in a salon where he was scintillating.
This makes the author ultimately a 'dancer' in his turn, and this novel his way of trying to impress us with his erudition, his sense of humour and his subtle observations on human nature. The result may not be as impressive as his more famous novels, being in the way of an extended essay uninterested in plot or character development, but it was enjoyable in its appeal to relax, and smell the roses. I'll let Madame de T. have the last words:
The art of conversation, the art of making love - they demand slowness, not speed. When we are too ardent, we are less subtle. When we rush to sensual pleasure, we blur all the delights along the way.