Here, in his most full-throated fashion, Kundera sets forth his central thesis that art—and the novel, in particular—operate above and beyond History. I don’t begrudge him the point, at least as it pertains to history with a capital H. But he’s wrong, I believe, to suggest that a novelist can escape the duty to hold up a mirror to human life. And, to the extent that human life changes only so much, so will novelists find that retreading old narrative ground is part of their lot.
It would be ridiculous to write another Human Comedy. Because while History (mankind’s History) might have the poor taste to repeat itself, the history of art will not stand for repetition. Art isn’t there to be some great mirror registering all of History’s ups and downs, variations, endless repetitions. Art is not a village band marching dutifully along History’s heels.
