The back cover reveals little about the novel, instead -- as is the modern style -- it features snippets of reviews as if to say 'these people think the book is great, so will you.'
I found an overview online, At least this gives part of an impression of what will come.
Synopsis (http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/k/milan-kundera/immortality.htm):
Milan Kundera's sixth novel springs from a casual gesture of a woman to her swimming instructor, a gesture that creates a character in the mind of a writer named Kundera. Like Flaubert's Emma or Tolstoy's Anna, Kundera's Agnes becomes an object of fascination, of indefinable longing. From that character springs a novel, a gesture of the imagination that both embodies and articulates Milan Kundera's supreme mastery of the novel and its purpose; to explore thoroughly the great, themes of existence.The book started well; the prose poetic, longing, rich and detailed with a tainted worldiness that hooked me in. Divided into seven parts, I worked through part one with a heady sense of wonder, luxuriating in the complexity of the author's mind and delighting in the philosophical wanderings of a writer whom blends himself into his work. The female character engaged me and I sympathised with her. She wasn't around long enough for me to connect.
Part two began to bog down, but I persevered, aware that the fictional nature of the work had crossed over into the realm of non-fiction, yet without going all the way there. I felt that the author held strong views about life, love, human connectedness and the ongoings of select historical figures but lacked the determination to pursue them other than in idle daydreams.
As the book progressed, I laboured forward. I felt trapped inside the author's head, locked in a theatre of his mind with his theories, his values, his moral questions and hypotheses. The characters lusted and toyed with each other in a bitter orgy of misplaced emotions and deviant motivations.
Yes, in places the author's insight impressed me. I thought outside of the square, but as the chapters laboured on and the same themes repeated in different ways, I grew bored.
This novel best suits academia where students can pore over the words, compare the text with other masters and engage at great length in discussion about the meaning and intent. It is well written and obscure enough to appeal to intellects who long to unearth its secrets. As a writer, however, I approach reading from another angle, not from the intellectual challenge it might bring but from the emotions it can evoke. This story tells a story and offers up a paradigm shift in how the reader might view their relationships and lives, but it doesn't offer an experience, a sensory world between the written lines. I seek that.
I acknowledge that I wouldn't make a good academic intellectual. I don't read to learn, I read to feel, and through feeling, to become more than I am. This isn't my type of book, but that doesn't make it bad. In fact, it's not. Maybe in another time I'll give it another try. Maybe.
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