That's What Tyrants Do, I

In The First Few Pages, Kundera Discusses Several Abstract Historical Figures: Robespierre, Nietzsche, Hitler. For Eunice's Sake, I Wanted Him To Get To The Plot, To Introduce Actual "living" Characters - I Recalled This Was A Love Story - And To Leave The World Of Ideas Behind. Here We Were, Two People Lying In Bed, Eunice's Worried Head Propped On My Collarbone, And I Wanted Us To Feel Something In Common. I Wanted This Complex Language, This Surge Of Intellect, To Be Processed Into Love. Isn't That How They Used To Do It A Century Ago, People Reading Poetry To One Another?

By Reading This Message You Are Denying Its Existence And Implying Consent.

My Hair Would Continue To Gray, And Then One Day, It Would Fall Out Entirely, And Then, On A Day Meaninglessly Close To The Present One, Meaninglessly Like The Present One, I Would Disappear From The Earth. And All These Emotions, All These Yearnings, All These Data, If That Helps To Clinch The Enormity Of What I'm Talking About, Would Be Gone. And That's What Immortality Means. It Means Selfishness. My Generations Belief That Each One Of Us Matters More Than You Or Anyone Else Would Think.

Forget The Fountain Of Youth, Pal Of Mine. You Can Live To Be A Thousand, And It Won't Matter. Mediocrities Like You Deserve Immortality.

After You Publish A Book, You Become A Writer And You're Supposed To Take It Very Seriously. You're Supposed To Show Up At Your Desk - Although Frankly, I Don't Have A Desk, I Write In Bed - You're Supposed To Show Up At Your Bed And Produce Work. I Think It's A Little Bit Like Work. I Like To Have Fun With It, Do Things Like Make Silly Book Trailers. I Don't Want To Take This Too Seriously.