Excerpt from ’s The Joke

Overview Kundera’s novel explores the consequences of a stupid joke, which Ludvik sends to his college girlfriend Marketa on a postcard. Both Ludvik and Marketa are enthusiastic supporters of the socialist revolution in , but when Marketa decides to spend two weeks at a Party training camp in the summer instead of with Ludvik in , Ludvik is hurt and angry. To make Marketa mad, he sends her a joke on a postcard (“Optimism is the opium of the people! A healthy atmosphere stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky!”), but the joke is taken seriously by socialist authorities who label Ludvik a counter-revolutionary. They kick him out of the university and sentence him to hard labor in an ideological re- education camp. Read the excerpt from the novel in which Kundera describes Ludvik’s love for Marketa, his complicated relationship to the socialist revolution, and the joke that unintentionally has dire consequences for Ludvik’s life.

Excerpt

The events leading to my first major disaster… might well be recounted in a detached, even light-hearted tone: it all goes back to my fatal predilection for silly jokes and Marketa’s fatal inability to grasp any joke whatsoever. Marketa was the type of woman who takes everything seriously (which made her totally at one with the spirt of the age)… Everyone at the university like her, and we all made more or less serious passes at her, which didn’t stop us (at least some of us) from poking gentle, perfectly innocent fun at her.

But that kind of fun did not go over very well with Marketa, to say nothing of the spirit of the age. It was the first year after February 1948. A new life had begun, a genuinely new and different life, and its features–they are imprinted upon my memory–were rigid and grave. The odd thing was that the gravity of those features took the form of a smile, not a frown. That’s right, those years told the world they were the most radiant of years, and anyone who failed to rejoice was immediately suspected of lamenting the victory of the working class or (what was equally criminal) giving way individualistically to inner sorrows.

Not only was I unencumbered with inner sorrows; I was blessed with a considerable sense of fun. And even so I can’t say I wore the joyous physiognomy of the times: my sense of fun was too frivolous. No, the joy in vogue was devoid of irony and practical jokes; it was, as I have said, of a highly serious variety, the self-proclaimed historical optimism of the victorious class, a solemn and ascetic joy–in short, Joy with a capital J.

I remember how we were all organized into ‘study groups’ that met for frequent criticism and self-criticism sessions culminating in formal evaluations of each member. Like every Communist at the time, I had a number of functions (I held an important post in the League of University Students), and since I was quite a good student as well, I could pretty well count on receiving a positive evaluation. If the public testimonials to my loyalty to the State, my hard work, and my knowledge of Marxism tended to be followed by a phrase along the lines of ‘harbors traces of individualism,’ I had no reason to be alarmed: it was customary to include some critical remark in even the most positive evaluations, to censure one person for ‘lack of interest in revolutionary theory,’ another for ‘lack of warmth in personal relations’…

Sometimes (more in sport than from real concern) I defended myself against the charge of individualism. I demanded that my colleagues prove to me why I was an individualist. For want of concrete evidence they would say, ‘Because you act like one.’ ‘How do I act?’ ‘You have a strange kind of smile.’ ‘And if I do? That’s how I express my joy.’ ‘No, you smile as though you were thinking to yourself’…

I began to keep tabs on my smiles, and soon I felt a tiny crack opening up between the person I’d been and the person I should be (according to the spirit of the times) and tried to be. But which was the real me? Let me be perfectly honest: I was a man of many faces.

And the faces kept multiplying. About a month before summer I began to get close to Marketa (she was finishing her first year, I my second) and like all twenty-year-olds I tried to impress her by donning a mask and pretending to be older (in spirit and experience) than I was: I assumed an air of detachment, of aloofness; I made believe I had an extra layer of skin, invisible and impenetrable. I thought (quite rightly) that by joking I would establish my detachment…

Who was the real me? I can only repeat: I was a man of many faces…

Since I’ve spoken of my spoken of my schoolboy-like crush on Marketa, I should point out that the excitement I felt stemmed not so much from my being in love as from my awkward lack of self-assurance; it weighed heavily on me and exerted much more of an influence on my thoughts and feelings than Marketa herself.

To ease the burden of my embarrassment, I flaunted my knowledge, disagreeing with her at every opportunity and poking fun at all her opinions. It wasn’t hard to do because despite her brains (and beauty, which, like all beauty, had an aura of inaccessibility to it) she was innocent and trusting. She was constitutionally unable to look behind anything; she could only see the thing itself; she had a remarkable mind for botany, but would often fail to understand a joke told by a fellow student; she let herself be carried away by the enthusiasm of the day, but when confronted with a political deed based on the principle that the end justifies the means, she would be as bewildered as when told a joke. That was why the Comrades decided she needed to fortify her zeal with concrete knowledge of the strategy and tactics of the revolutionary movement, and sent her during the summer to a two-week Party training session.

The training session put a definite damper on my plans: those were the two weeks I’d planned to spend alone with Marketa in Prague with an eye to putting our relationship (which until then had consisted of walks, talks, and a few kisses) on a more concrete footing, and since they were the only weeks I had…, I reacted with painful jealousy when Marketa, far from sharing my feeling, failed to show the slightest chagrin and even told me she was looking forward to it.

From the training session (it took place at one of the castles of central Bohemia) she sent me a letter that was one hundred percent Marketa, chock-full of earnest enthusiasm for everything around her. It was all so wonderful: the early-morning calisthenics, the talks, the discussions, even the songs they sang; she praised the ‘healthy atmosphere’ that reigned there and diligently added a few words to the effect that the revolution in the West would not be long in coming.

Actually I quite agreed with what she said; I even believed in the imminence of a revolution in Western Europe; there was only one thing I could not accept: her happy, buoyant mood in the face of my desire. So I bought a postcard and (to hurt, shock, and confuse her) wrote: Optimism is the opium of the people! A healthy atmosphere stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky! Ludvik.”

Discussion Questions:

Why did Ludvik send Marketa the postcard, and does he, in your opinion, intend to be a counter-revolutionary?

Why do you think the authorities interpret Ludvik’s attempt at humor as a threat to the revolutionary movement? How can humor sometimes become so powerful that others perceive it as a danger?