生命不能承受之轻-第34章

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ng　it。　Sitting　behind　the　wheel　and　gazing　dreamily　after　the　four　little　bounding　figures；　he　said　to　Sabina；　Just　look　at　them。　And　describing　a　circle　with　his　arm；　a　circle　that　was　meant　to　take　in　stadium；　grass；　and　children；　he　added；　Now　that's　what　I　call　happiness。　
Behind　his　words　there　was　more　than　joy　at　seeing　children　run　and　grass　grow；　there　was　a　deep　understanding　of　the　plight　of　a　refugee　from　a　Communist　country　where；　the　senator　was　convinced；　no　grass　grew　or　children　ran。
At　that　moment　an　image　of　the　senator　standing　on　a　reviewing　stand　in　a　Prague　square　flashed　through　Sabina's　mind。　The　smile　on　his　face　was　the　smile　Communist　statesmen　beamed　from　the　height　of　their　reviewing　stand　to　the　identically　smiling　citizens　in　the　parade　below。
8
How　did　the　senator　know　that　children　meant　happiness？　Could　he　see　into　their　souls？　What　if；　the　moment　they　were　out　of　sight；　three　of　them　jumped　the　fourth　and　began　beating　him　up？
The　senator　had　only　one　argument　in　his　favor：　his　feeling。　When　the　heart　speaks；　the　mind　finds　it　indecent　to　object。　In　the　realm　of　kitsch；　the　dictatorship　of　the　heart　reigns　supreme。
The　feeling　induced　by　kitsch　must　be　a　kind　the　multitudes　can　share。　Kitsch　may　not；　therefore；　depend　on　an　unusual　situation；　it　must　derive　from　the　basic　images　people　have　engraved　in　their　memories：　the　ungrateful　daughter；　the　neglected　father；　children　running　on　the　grass；　the　motherland　betrayed；　first　love。
Kitsch　causes　two　tears　to　flow　in　quick　succession。　The　first　tear　says：　How　nice　to　see　children　running　on　the　grass！
The　second　tear　says：　How　nice　to　be　moved；　together　with　all　mankind；　by　children　running　on　the　grass！
It　is　the　second　tear　that　makes　kitsch　kitsch。
The　brotherhood　of　man　on　earth　will　be　possible　only　on　a　base　of　kitsch。
9
And　no　one　knows　this　better　than　politicians。　Whenever　a　camera　is　in　the　offing；　they　immediately　run　to　the　nearest　child；　lift　it　in　the　air；　kiss　it　on　the　cheek。　Kitsch　is　the　aesthetic　ideal　of　all　politicians　and　all　political　parties　and　movements。
Those　of　us　who　live　in　a　society　where　various　political　tendencies　exist　side　by　side　and　competing　influences　cancel　or　limit　one　another　can　manage　more　or　less　to　escape　the　kitsch　inquisition：　the　individual　can　preserve　his　individuality；　the　artist　can　create　unusual　works。　But　whenever　a　single　political　movement　corners　power；　we　find　ourselves　in　the　realm　of　totalitarian　kitsch。
When　I　say　totalitarian；　what　I　mean　is　that　everything　that　infringes　on　kitsch　must　be　banished　for　life：　every　display　of　individualism　（because　a　deviation　from　the　collective　is　a　spit　in　the　eye　of　the　smiling　brotherhood）；　every　doubt　（because　anyone　who　starts　doubting　details　will　end　by　doubting　life　itself）；　all　irony　（because　in　the　realm　of　kitsch　everything　must　be　taken　quite　seriously）；　and　the　mother　who　abandons　her　family　or　the　man　who　prefers　men　to　women；　thereby　calling　into　question　the　holy　decree　Be　fruitful　and　multiply。　
In　this　light；　we　can　regard　the　gulag　as　a　septic　tank　used　by　totalitarian　kitsch　to　dispose　of　its　refuse。
10
The　decade　immediately　following　the　Second　World　War　was　a　time　of　the　most　horrible　Stalinist　terror。　It　was　the　time　when　Tereza's　father　was　arrested　on　some　piddling　charge　and　ten…year…old　Tereza　was　thrown　out　of　their　flat。　It　was　also　the　time　when　twenty…year…old　Sabina　was　studying　at　the　Academy　of　Fine　Arts。　There；　her　professor　of　Marxism　expounded　on　the　following　theory　of　socialist　art：　Soviet　society　had　made　such　progress　that　the　basic　conflict　was　no　longer　between　good　and　evil　but　between　good　and　better。　So　shit　（that　is；　whatever　is　essentially　unacceptable）　could　exist　only　on　the　other　side　（in　America；　for　instance）；　and　only　from　there；　from　the　outside；　as　something　alien　（a　spy；　for　instance）；　could　it　penetrate　the　world　of　good　and　better。　
And　in　fact；　Soviet　films；　which　flooded　the　cinemas　of　all　Communist　countries　in　that　crudest　of　times；　were　saturated　with　incredible　innocence　and　chastity。　The　greatest　conflict　that　could　occur　between　two　Russians　was　a　lovers'　misunderstanding：　he　thought　she　no　longer　loved　him；　she　thought　he　no　longer　loved　her。　But　in　the　final　scene　they　would　fall　into　each　other's　arms；　tears　of　happiness　trickling　down　their　cheeks。
The　current　conventional　interpretation　of　these　films　is　this：　that　they　showed　the　Communist　ideal；　whereas　Communist　reality　was　worse。
Sabina　always　rebelled　against　that　interpretation。　Whenever　she　imagined　the　world　of　Soviet　kitsch　becoming　a　reality；　she　felt　a　shiver　run　down　her　back。　She　would　unhesitatingly　prefer　life　in　a　real　Communist　regime　with　all　its　persecution　and　meat　queues。　Life　in　the　real　Communist　world　was　still　livable。　In　the　world　of　the　Communist　ideal　made　real；　in　that　world　of　grinning　idiots；　she　would　have　nothing　to　say；　she　would　die　of　horror　within　a　week。
The　feeling　Soviet　kitsch　evoked　in　Sabina　strikes　me　as　very　much　like　the　horror　Tereza　experienced　in　her　dream　of　being　marched　around　a　swimming　pool　with　a　group　of　naked　women　and　forced　to　sing　cheerful　songs　with　them　while　corpses　floated　just　below　the　surface　of　the　pool。　Tereza　could　not　address　a　single　question；　a　single　word；　to　any　of　the　women；　the　only　response　she　would　have　got　was　the　next　stanza　of　the　current　song。　She　could　not　even　give　any　of　them　a　secret　wink；　they　would　immediately　have　pointed　her　out　to　the　man　standing　in　the　basket　above　the　pool；　and　he　would　have　shot　her　dead。
Tereza's　dream　reveals　the　true　function　of　kitsch：　kitsch　is　a　folding　screen　set　up　to　curtain　off　death。

11
In　the　realm　of　totalitarian　kitsch；　all　answers　are　given　in　advance　and　preclude　any　questions。　It　follows；　then；　that　the　true　opponent　of　totalitarian　kitsch　is　the　person　who　asks　questions。　A　question　is　like　a　knife　that　slices　through　the　stage　backdrop　and　gives　us　a　look　at　what　lies　hidden　behind　it。　In　fact；　that　was　exactly　how　Sabina　had　explained　the　meaning　of　her　paintings　to　Tereza：　on　the　surface；　an　intelligible　lie；　underneath；　the　unintelligible　truth　showing　through。
But　the　people　who　struggle　against　what　we　call　totalitarian　regimes　cannot　function　with　queries　and　doubts。　They；　too；　need　certainties　and　simple　truths　to　make　the　multitudes　understand；　to　provoke　collective　tears。
Sabina　had　once　had　an　exhibit　that　was　organized　by　a　political　organization　in　Germany。　When　she　picked　up　the　catalogue；　the　first　thing　she　saw　was　a　picture　of　herself　with　a　drawing　of　barbed　wire　superimposed　on　it。　Inside　she　found　a　biography　that　read　like　the　life　of　a　saint　or　martyr：　she　had　suffered；　struggled　against　injustice；　been　forced　to　abandon　her　bleeding　homeland；　yet　was　carrying　on　the　struggle。　Her　paintings　are　a　struggle　for　happiness　was　the　final　sentence。
She　protested；　but　they　did　not　understand　her。
Do　you　mean　that　modern　art　isn't　persecuted　under　Communism？
My　enemy　is　kitsch；　not　Communism！　she　replied；　infuriated。
From　that　time　on；　she　began　to　insert　mystifications　in　her　biography；　and　by　the　time　she　got　to　America　she　even　managed　to　hide　the　fact　that　she　was　Czech。　It　was　all　merely　a　desperate　attempt　to　escape　the　kitsch　that　people　wanted　to　make　of　her　life。

12
She　stood　in　front　of　her　easel　with　a　half…finished　canvas　on　it；　the　old　man　in　the　armchair　behind　her　observing　every　stroke　of　her　brush。
It's　time　we　went　home；　he　said　at　last　with　a　glance　at　his　watch。
She　laid　down　her　palette　and　went　into　the　bathroom　to　wash。　The　old　man　raised　himself　out　of　the　armchair　and　reached　for　his　cane；　which　was　leaning　against　a　table。　The　door　of　the　studio　led　directly　out　to　the　lawn。　It　was　growing　dark。　Fifty　feet　away　was　a　white　clapboard　house。　The　ground…floor　windows　were　lit。　Sabina　was　moved　by　the　two　windows　shining　out　into　the　dying　day。
All　her　life　she　had　proclaimed　kitsch　her　enemy。　But　hadn't　she　in　fact　been　carrying　it　with　her？　Her　kitsch　was　her　image　of　home；　all　peace；　quiet；　and　harmony；　and　ruled　by　a　loving　mother　and　wise　father。　It　was　an　image　that　took　shape　within　her　after　the　death　of　her　parents。　The　less　her　life　resembled　that　sweetest　of　dreams；　the　more　sensitive　she　was　to　its　magic；　and　more　than　once　she　shed　tears　when　the　ungrateful　daughter　in　a　sentimental　film　embraced　the　neglected　father　as　the　windows　of　the　happy　family's　house　shone　out　into　the　dying　day。
She　had　met　the　old　man　in　New　York。　He　was　rich　and　liked　paintings。　He　lived　alone　with　his　wife；　also　aging；　in　a　house　in　the　country。　Facing　the　house；　but　still　on　his　land；　stood　an　old　stable。　He　had　had　it　remodeled　into　a　studio　for　Sabina　and　would　follow　the　movements　of　her　brush　for　days　on　end。
Now　all　three　of　them　were　having　supper　together。　The　old　woman　called　Sabina　my　daughter；　but　all　indications　would　lead　one　to　believe　the　opposite；　namely；　that　Sabina　was　the　mother　and　that　her　two　children　doted　on　her；　worshipped　her；　would　do　anything　she　asked。
Had　she　then；　herself　on　the　threshold　of　old　age；　found　the　parents　who　had　been　snatched　from　her　as　a　girl？　Had　she　at　last　found　the　children　she　had　never　had　herself？
She　was　well　aware　it　was　an　illusion。　Her　days　with　the　aging　couple　were　merely　a　brief　interval。　The　old　man　was　seriously　ill；　and　when　his　wife　was　left　on　her　own；　she　would　go　and　live　with　their　son　in　Canada。　Sabina's　path　of　betrayals　would　then　continue　elsewhere；　and　from　the　depths　of　her　being；　a　silly　mawkish　song　about　two　shining　windows　and　the　happy　family　living　behind　them　would　occasionally　make　its　way　into　the　unbearable　lightness　of　being。
Though　touched　by　the　song；　Sabina　did　not　take　her　feeling　seriously。　She　knew　only　too　well　that　the　song　was　a　beautiful　lie。　As　soon　as　kitsch　is　recognized　for　the　lie　it　is；　it　moves　into　the　context　of　non…kitsch；　thus　losing　its　authoritarian　power　and　becoming　as　touching　as　any　other　human　weakness。　For　none　among　us　is　superman　enough　to　escape　kitsch　completely。　No　matter　how　we　scorn　it；　kitsch　is　an　integral　part　of　the　human　condition。
13
Kitsch　has　its　source　in　the　categorical　agreement　with　being。
But　what　is　the　basis　of　being？　God？　Mankind？　Struggle？　Love？　Man？　Woman？
Since　opinions　vary；　there　are　various　kitsches：　Catholic；　Protestant；　Jewish；　Communist；　Fascist；　democratic；　feminist；　European；　American；　national；　international。
Since　the　days　of　the　French　Revolution；　one　half　of　Europe　has　been　referred　to　as　the　left；　the　other　half　as　the　right。　Yet　to　define　one　or　the　other　by　means　of　the　theoretical　principles　it　professes　is　all　but　impossible。　And　no　wonder：　political　movements　rest　not　so　much　on　rational　attitudes　as　on　the　fantasies；　images；　words；　and　archetypes　that　come　together　to　make　up　this　or　that　political　kitsch。
The　fantasy　of　the　Grand　March　that　Franz　was　so　intoxicated　by　is　the　political　kitsch　joining　leftists　of　all　times　and　tendencies。　The　Grand　March　is　the　splendid　march　on　the　road　to　brotherhood；　equality；　justice；　happiness；　it　goes　on　and　on；　obstacles　notwithstanding；　for　obstacles　there　must　be　if　the　march　is　to　be　the　Grand　March。
The　dictatorship　of　the　proletariat　o