Darling, my darling, don't think that I don't love you or that I didn't love you, but it's precisely because I love you that I couldn't have become w… - Milan Kundera

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 novels. She had read any number of them, from Fielding to Thomas Mann. They not only offered the possibility of an imaginary escape from a life she found unsatisfying; they also had a meaning for her as physical objects: she loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane from the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others.

أما بين ذراعيه فكانت تغفو دائما مهما تكن درجة اضطرابها.كان يروى من أجلها بصوت خافت قصصا يبتدعها أو ترهات وكلمات مضحكة يعيدها بنبرة رتيبة.كانت هذه الكلمات تتحول فى مخيلتها إلى رؤى مشوشة تأخذ بها إلى الحلم الأول.كان يملك تأثيرا خارقا على جعلها تغفووكانت تغفو فى الدقيقة التى يقرر هو أن ينتقيها.

In spite of their love, they had made each other's life a hell. The fact that they loved each other was merely proof that the fault lay not in themselves, in their behavior or inconstancy of feeling, but rather in their incompatibility: he was strong and she was weak.