Re-reading L.A. Confidential gave me so much pleasure that instead of reading novels that are new to me (a cumulative stack of about fifty is distributed around my apartment), I decided to go back and re-read a few other novels I read previously and loved.
I started on The Unbearable Lightness of Being last night.
A few chapters in, it is as good as I remember.
Kundera's pedagogic digressions are somehow endearing. Unlike, say, Melville's.
Someone once told me, "You like [Lightness] because it tries to justify male infidelity by discussing it as a philosophical concern." The implication was that it's a moral concern. And it is, but the two sorts of concern--need this even be said?--are not mutually exclusive.
The putative characters in Lightness are some of my favorites in any novel.
Kundera is the real main character.
Then again, I often feel like the author is the main character of most novels I enjoy. I prefer it that way. An author without a style is weak... light... "his movements as free as they are insignificant."
Or maybe he is leaden, pinned down, his movements as limited as they are useless.
Hard to say.