"Back at home, after some prodding from Tereza, he admitted that he had been jealous watching her dance with a colleague of his. "You mean you were r… - Milan Kundera

A person is nothing but his image. Philosophers can tell us that it doesn't matter what the world thinks of us, that nothing matters but what we really are. But philosophers don't understand anything. As long as we live with other people, we are only what other people consider us to be. Thinking about how others see us and trying to make our image as attractive as possible is considered a kind of dissembling or cheating. But does there exist another kind of direct contact between my self and their selves except through the mediation of the eyes? Can we possibly imagine love without anxiously following our image in the mind of the beloved? When we are no longer interested in how we are seen by the person we love, it means we no longer love.

El hombre nunca puede saber qué debe querer, porque vive sólo una vida y no tiene modo de compararla con sus vidas precedentes ni de enmendarla en sus vidas posteriores.

In Tereza's eyes, books were the emblems of a secret brotherhood.
For she had but a single weapon against the world of crudity surrounding her:
the books she took out of the municipal library, and above all, the novels.