Shawn Harris, the Matches

This book came to me three years ago postmarked from Turkey. I heard about it in Paris, a bullet point in a shouting match through cigarette clouds and over a wall of rock music. I woke up with a temporary sharpie tattoo of "nylon candera," and washed it out of mind until the package came. I never dropped my favorite book into a mailbox bound for Turkey. Tomas is no longer my power animal. Maybe it's time.

Aaron Davidson, Brilliant Red Lights

This book presented a jumble of contradictions that left me unsatisfied. I couldn't connect with the coincidences, dependencies, infidelities, excuses, or the "love" that "emerged." These feelings were at odds with the big brother backdrop, something our generation can relate to more than ever.

I found Unbearable to be wildly cynical, which doesn't mean there weren't aspects I found provocative. I most enjoyed Sabina, both the receptacle and manipulator of other's fantasies. Her art was born of the mistakenly splattered paint -- just as she "happened" upon the bowler hat in front of the mirror, bearing her and Tomas' fantasy. In this way she became the art she was trying to create.

I'd call this Kundera's most elegant -- and, frankly, identifiable -- conundrum: the fantasy of mistake vs. the mistake of fantasy. Musicians and writers should be able to relate to this, as we imagine our art and ideas to be so much more than coincidence, when really they might be just that.

That Tomas and (mostly) Tereza become slaves to coincidence seemed too heavy. Honestly, I kept waiting for the love story to start. Instead, the oppressions of the country seemed to melt into the bedroom, the double agents and secret police accosting Tereza's life as hidden letters and the smell of her husband's hair (he should have looked into the unbearable lightness of Garnier Fructise products!). Few elements seemed more cynical than Tereza's submissions to Tomas' perpetual infidelities, especially since Kundera declared these representations of her "love."

I might have taken pity on her had Tomas seemed like more of a catch, but he was so passionless. Besides the faceless affairs, he couldn't commit to the imperfect revolution that he philosophically supported (and even contributed to!). The couple's move to the country seemed like literary escapism, a final removal from Sabina's noble but confused journey towards art and change and personal understanding. I would have much rather they moved away from each other (and stayed there).

The last segment was especially disappointing; the cancerous dog "smiling" in the very countryside that reduced the "lovers" to laborers seemed particularly dark and non-redemptive. What can I say? I'm not a pet person.

Shawn Harris, the Matches

My bookmark, on page 223, is a random hand flier from '06, advertising a show at the Balazo gallery in San Francisco for Meg & Dia.

Einmal ist Keinmal. Once is not at all. In the book's context, I read the line as pessimistic, but out of context (which, noted, has everything to do with the time period and Eastern Europe) it can be construed as the opposite. "Once does not exist" might be another translation, which just spins me. "Time does not exist." Infinity. Is this a misread? In terms of the author's intention, I think yes, but I like it.

Colin Frangincetto, Circa Survive

I'll start by saying that I'm only halfway through the book, which is considered a crime in most circles. It has been recommended to me more times than any other book that I can recall. I now understand why. I have so much to say about it already, and like I said, I haven't finished it.

A female friend of mine recently projected some rage in Kundera's general direction saying something along the lines of: "Now I know why so many musicians love this fucking book. They want to hear their infidelities glorified and justified in poetic form." And while I can sympathize with her, I disagree with what she implied about the book. In a margin I wrote in response to her: "This is not glorification by any means... it is a philosophical debate."

Aaron -- I suppose we've lived very different lives and experienced/observed very different things because the "jumble of contradictions" you spoke of is all that life's reflection has ever shown to me. We are all full of shit. We are all infidels… in physicality or perhaps only in thought or in many cases both. We are all co-dependent. And yes, somehow love does seem to emerge from that spew of gross contradiction. I do, however, really agree with your thoughts on Sabina. She is my favorite character as well.

Shawn -- Your Meg & Dia coincidence... so perfect. I oddly took a break from reading at our L.A. show, read your response and looked up to see miss Dia Frampton entering our backstage room. I had seen her sister (the one who chose this book) the night before.

I have always fought the idea that monogamy is natural. No, I am not a misogynist or a moral-less whore. I just think that monogamy and marriage especially are more so by-products of societal goals than of love and companionship. (Gasp!) I understand the ideas of love and commitment and whole-heartedly respect them. However, the torn emotions the characters feel are so natural it hurts to read.

More than anything else I feel that Kundera has lived many sides of his characters lives. His understanding of the psychology behind each mindset exudes evidence of either impeccable research or profound experience. I'll be back. After I finish.

Emily Zemler, SPIN.com

Colin -- It was considerate of you to disguise me as "a female friend" for the sake of the book club, but as you slightly misquoted me, I will come clean (also because I like the spark of debate being reignited within this book club).

I read the first 60 pages of this book straight, threw the book at the wall and haven't been able to even look at the cover since. This is unfortunate because the writing is undeniably lovely and it is a book I feel should be on the list of books I've read. However, I am not one with the idea that love and sex cannot be reconciled (although I do not believe they necessarily have to be) and I have grown tired of artists, particularly male artists, justifying their unkind treatment of women through poetic means.

In other words, just because an author describes a male protagonist treating the woman he cares about like shit in beautiful language should not dignify that action in reality.

I am an admitted fan of both Hemingway and Bukowski, two male authors who did not have the best track record in terms of their representation of women and their on-page treatment of the relationships between men and women, but as I grow older and supposedly grow up I find that I have more and more trouble stomaching this distorted reflection of life in literature (and all art).

I will hopefully find cause and courage to look this book in the face again and perhaps come out the other side with a different perspective, but for the sake of discussion and argument (and being correctly quoted), this is what I believe and feel in this moment. No moment, however, represents an absolute.

More discussion highlights on page 3.