from Milan Kundera’s, The Joke,
Czech: 1967 / English: 1992, Harper Perennial
“… I only asked with a calm (and well-rested) heart: why did I meet her? what did the encounter mean and what was it trying to tell me?
Do stories, apart from happening, being, have something to say? For all my skepticism, some trace of irrational superstition did survive in me, the strange conviction, for example, that everything in life that happens to me also has a sense, that it means something, that life speaks to us about itself through its story, that it gradually reveals a secret, that it takes the form of a rebus whose message must be deciphered, that the stories we live comprise the mythology of our lives and in that mythology lies the key to truth and mystery. Is it an illusion? Possibly, even probably, but I can’t rid myself of the need continually to decipher my own life.”
Me: But more specifically, I want to decipher the now of my life as it is happening. Some things I have deciphered – long after the thing passed and was just ready to be forgotten completely. But that doesn’t satisfy. I want the sense of right now, the meaning of right here.