What does Milan Kundera Library look like?
Short report from my visit to the Milan Kundera Library in Brno
The first news that Milan Kundera donated his archive to the library in Brno appeared in the summer of 2020 with information that the books would be transferred in the fall of the same year. According to the director of the library Tomáš Kubíček, this Kundera's "gift" was not only a message for Czech readers, but also a commentary on the writer's relationship with Brno, which was his birthplace. It was gratifying news not only for his fans, but also for critics and people interested in Kundera's life and work. However, it was obvious that the transfer of Kundera's works would not be easy, which was finally confirmed by the official opening of the library, which took place only on the occasion of Kundera's 94th birthday in 2023, i.e. with almost a three-year delay. However, waiting was definitely worth it, because the result of the work of the Moravian Library in Brno (where the Kundera’s Library is located) is truly respectable.
Last summer I decided to explore this world unique with my own eyes. I came to Brno already over the weekend—firstly to soak up the indescribable atmosphere of this city again, and secondly to catch up on the rest that was connected to this city and to Kundera.
Even before visiting the Milan Kundera Library itself, I decided to take the tram to his birthplace at Purkyňová street number 6, which, by the way, is only a few minutes away from the library. I traveled from the other end of the city and the journey was quite pleasant, although enormously hot—it was over thirty degrees outside, which I suppose also crippled the air conditioning in the entire tram. People could feel and see the indignation, which was perfectly embodied by the squatting lady with three backpacks and drops of sweat on her forehead, who was cursing herself about how hot it was and why the air conditioning didn't work in this joint. Despite everything, the journey went by quickly, we stopped at the Dobrovský stop, where I got off, and I noticed with my peripheral vision that a humming lady was also getting off behind me. I headed straight for Purkyňova 6, where there was a small villa with a green midriff and nowadays, of course, with a different name on the doorbell. A female name. I took a picture of the small villa and that was basically the end of the trip, there was nothing else to do there. Nevertheless, I still went to the opposite side of the road from where I took the last photo, and that's when I saw a lady with backpacks walking on the sidewalk on the other side. There would be nothing special about it—we got off at the same stop after all—that is, until the moment when she approached the green barrier, where she was greeted by a happy dog and a cat. She opened the diaphragm and stepped in with relief. At first I couldn't believe it—what is the probability that we are traveling on the same tram to the same place on the same day, at the same hour and minute? With the difference that one of us was returning home. Of course it occurred to me that I would go to her, ask her something, maybe she knew something about the Kundera family. But then I remembered the moving during my childhood, when we left our old apartment to a completely unknown young family. My parents met them—when signing the documents—but they had no other contact, I never saw those people. What would they say about our family? That's why I left it like that and went thoughtfully on.
What really fascinated me about that place was a large advertisement for a yoga studio that hung on the villa next door, but nowhere was there even a small mention of the fact that one of the greatest Czech and European writers once lived and grew up here. Was it the (author's) intention? Perhaps. It didn't matter.
With the memories of this "visit" saved, the next day I went to the Moravian Library, to the Milan Kundera Library, where I was later to meet the director Tomáš Kubíček. The special charm of this visit was given by the fact that last weekend Mr. Kubíček returned from the Kundera family in Paris, from where he had the rest of Kundera's books transported, which the author wanted to have with him and by which he was inspired. But more on that later.
I entered the library, where I was warmly welcomed by a lady who, like me, did not lack enthusiasm for this place and enthusiasm for Kundera's work. As she told me in the beginning, the interior of the library is inspired by the apartment of the Kunderas in Paris. Designers worked with the same colors of furniture, tried to choose similar chandeliers and so on. The space was also complemented by Kundera's drawings, which are known mainly from the foreign language editions of his books, and a few of his photos. Details that weigh in the result.
But the most important thing was that the entire work of Kundera is available in the library: it contains not only his novel "opuses", but also works to which he did not acknowledge himself over time and did not allow their further editions. It is one of the few places where you can also read Kundera's poems (I read his The Last May here), the play The Owners of the Keys and, of course, all other works in more than forty world languages.
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The largest shelf in the library is, naturally, dedicated to the novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being, where, in addition to foreign language editions, there are also limited editions, such as its "golden edition" lightly reminiscent of the Bible, each copy of which is individually signed by the author. It was an initiative of the American publishing house Easton Press, in which several of Kundera's titles were published in this way—today they can be bought on the internet for several hundred dollars.
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Kundera's fans may be most attracted by the fact that many of the exhibited books (Czech editions and translations) contain the author's direct notes and corrections, because even after the publication of the work, he was still looking for the most concise equivalent of specific words. In short, he constantly edited and refined his works and translations.
It was also fascinating that the typesetting of Kundera's works, despite the variety of covers and editions, did not differ in principle. No extra illustrations to distract the reader's attention or anything like that: just the text that follows the form he chose, that is, with clearly marked chapters that ideally start on a separate page, with appropriate font size and optimal line spacing.
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Part of the library is dedicated to the magazines in which Kundera published. There are, for example, several issues of The New Yorker, where his essays were published, and many others. Other periodicals are currently being digitized and will be available online on the library website.
In addition, works to which Kundera wrote prefaces or afterwords (for example, Francis Bacon's book) can also be found here, as well as the original edition of The Paris Review with Kundera's interview.
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As I already indicated in the introduction, the rest of Milan Kundera's library (i.e. the works not written by him) was to be moved here later. However, no one knew that the moment would come after his death, that is, in the same year that the library was opened.
When I met the director Tomáš Kubíček in the library, he showed me photos from Kundera's Paris apartment, which also somewhat resembled the library. Perhaps on every wall, the entire width and height of the shelves were filled with books—books that were being moved to Brno at that very time (end of August 2023)—and each book had its place of honor. And what books were they? I was probably one of the first to see the rest of Kundera's library (so far only in the warehouse, where the books were imported on the exact day of my visit), but soon all copies will be available to the public. Among books was Kundera's favorite Skácel, but also, for example, Melville's Moby Dick or lesser-known names such as Bruno Tessarech, various historical titles and books about art (among them a monograph by the Czech sculptor and writer Vladimír Preclík, a Spanish edition of a book about art by the Mexican author Carlos Fuentes or the French edition of Max Brod's essays), the collective works of his colleagues from Gallimard, which were published in Pleiades, and many others. According to information from Kubíček, this is about a ton of books. Even in these books, there were often notes, comments, checked passages that were related to Kundera's essays or novels.
Judging by the books that had just been transported, as well as the books available in the library, it was clear that the book as an object was not something sacred to Kundera, something that should not be written on, the pages should not be bent, etc. On the contrary: for him, the book was nothing open that was untouchable, he completed, edited and worked with it even after its publication. In this context, I would like to mention the incident with the French publishing house Gallimard, which published Kundera's collective work in the prestigious Pleiades edition. According to Kubíčková, the owner of the publishing house Antoine Gallimard asked Kundera several times whether they could publish this edition, whether his work was closed, after which Kundera repeatedly agreed that they could publish it and that he would not write anything else. The edition was published and shortly after that Kudnera came with a new book, The Festival of Insignificance. We can understand it in the way that Kundera brought his characteristic paradox and laughter to the last moment not only in his works, but also in the way he worked with them. He was the first author in history to have a second (this time really complete) edition of a collective work published in Gallimard.
The final question for now remains: What will happen to the books that will be published after Kundera's death? Will they also be available in his library? The answer is simpler than it seems: the rights to all new editions have been acquired by the Moravian Library, which means that future publishers must also send a copy to the Milan Kundera Library.