I've read this book several times, and I'll probably read it a couple more times this year. I have strong reactions to it every time through, and this time I'm trying not to analyze it too deeply. My favorite Kundera quote (from The Art of the Novel) came to mind as I wrapped up the last few pages this afternoon:
But there is an intellectual, sophisticated misomusy as well: it takes revenge on art by forcing it to a purpose beyond the aesthetic.
I feel like I appreciate my favorite authors best when I don' t carve them up, when I just let them be what they are. I don't want to think too hard about it right now, because the mystery of this kind of genius is a reward in itself.
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