15 June 2010. Anatole Kuragin, in a sertyuk. His pleasant smile--"now begins the amusement"--picking up on Prince Bolkonsky's intended demolishment, and laughing right along. Unflappable, a word from another age. "I was on the list," (the list to avoid military service), turning now to his father, "now, papasha, just what was I down for...?" All seriousness vaporized in these moments of applied mirth, laughter barely surpressed. Kundera's incredible lightness of being--probably very much misunderstood on my part--for what else can one DO in the face of this enslaught of reason and duty. Slava--the word itself--as in Slav--all glory and rightness and glory...
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