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The showers they promised us have evaporated, along with multiple other promises of showers, and we’re looking at temperature in the 90s, and humidity at 120 percent — or so it feels.
As I type this, I have my morning coffee at my feet and a fan pointed right at me, roughly four feet from my head. I’m no fan of steamy-hot weather, but I’m heading for our creaky boat (which we will sell you if you ask nicely) with my handsome and infuriating husband, and then tomorrow, I’m spending time with the grandbabies. The one I was groomed for — and I’ve given this more than a little thought — was one of subservience, and shame.
There is something charming and elegant for Kundera about this hand wave that reminds him of the gesture of a young woman “playfully tossing a bright colored ball to her lover.” This unique gesture reveals to Kundera the essence of Agnes’ charm, and he is dazzled and strangely moved by it.
Later in the novel we discover that this gesture is not as unique as it initially seems.
At the time this gesture, which evoked “vague and immense longing” in Agnes, became unconsciously imprinted in her memory.
The snow is falling, the digital seconds flashing, the wipers swiping as a man on the radio sings a twangy country tune, "Goodbye ole paint, I'm a leavin' Cheyenne...," cutting the cold, sleeping silence of this Swedish industrial town.
In the windows of the dark houses, electric candelabra glow, still burning from Christmas nearly three weeks past.
I can't remember precisely when I read my first Kundera or which it was, because once I had started I couldn't stop until I emptied them all.
Fresh from the English classics at Oxford and finding my feet on a south London rag, a little sheltered, very impressionable, I was drawn into a restless world of ideas and characters in which nothing is how we first perceive it, and meaning and motive are bent like light refracting through a prism. I was brought up in a Lincolnshire market town, went to the local grammar; at 16 I was a communist, by 17 a Roman Catholic.