فالإنسان المطرود من سياج الطفولة الواقى يرغب فى اقتحام العالم، لكن خوفه يدفعه إلى صنع عالم اصطناعى تعويضى بواسطة أشعاره، فيحيط نفسه بتلك الأشعار كما … - Milan Kundera

The engineer’s ready capitulation, however, did not hide from the poet’s mother the sad realization that the adventure into which she had plunged so impulsively — and which had seemed so intoxicatingly beautiful — had no turned out to be the great, mutually fulfilling love she was convinced she had a full right to expect. Her father was the owner of two prosperous Prague pharmacies, and her morality was based on strict give-and-take. For her part, she had invested everything in love (she had even been willing to sacrifice her parents and their peaceful existence); in turn, she had expected her partner to invest an equal amount of capital of feelings in the common account. To redress the imbalance, she gradually withdrew her emotional deposit and after the wedding presented a proud, severe face to her husband.

تصور کنید یک دست شما را قطع کرده و به پیکر شخص دیگری پیوند زده باشند و یک روز، کسی در مقابل شما می‌نشیند و جلو روی شما، این دست را تکان می‌دهد و با آن به شما اشاره می‌کند. بدون تردید فکر می‌کنید که این یک مترسک است و هرچند که با آن به‌تمامی آشنا باشید، هرچند که مطمئن باشید که این دست خود شماست ولی از اینکه لمسش کنید، هراس خواهید داشت.

Suspending moral judgment is not the immorality of the novel; it is its morality. The morality that stands against the ineradicable human habit of judging instantly, ceaselessly, and everyone; of judging before, and in the absence of, understanding. From the viewpoint of the novel's wisdom, that fervid readiness to judge is the most detestable stupidity, the most pernicious evil. Not that the novelist utterly denies that moral judgment is legitimate, but that he refuses it a place in the novel. If you like, you can accuse Panurge of cowardice, accuse Emma Bovary, accuse Rastignac — that's your business; the novelist has nothing to do with it.