Milan Kundera Lost Letters

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Communication and problematic

integration: Milan Kundera's “lost
letters” in the book of laughter and
forgetting
a
Austin S. Babrow
a
Associate professor of communication , Purdue University ,
Published online: 02 Jun 2009.
To cite this article: Austin S. Babrow (1995) Communication and problematic integration:
Milan Kundera's “lost letters” in the book of laughter and forgetting , Communication
Monographs, 62:4, 283-300, DOI: 10.1080/03637759509376364
To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/03637759509376364
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COMMUNICATION AND PROBLEMATIC INTEGRATION:
MILAN KUNDERA'S "LOST LETTERS" IN THE BOOK
OF LAUGHTER AND FORGETTING
AUSTIN S. BABROW
This essay uses the theory of problematic integration to analyze Milan Kundera's
writing, particularly the central segment, entitled "Lost Letters," in his first novel
written as an emigre. The theory is concerned with the role of communication when
desires and expectations diverge, or when we face ambiguity, ambivalence, or
Downloaded by [UZH Hauptbibliothek / Zentralbibliothek Zürich] at 16:14 26 December 2014
impossibility (i.e., when it is difficult to integrate evaluative and probabilistic

orientations). Communication plays many significant roles in experiences with such
difficulties. The essay reviews problematic integration theory and presents a case study
of Kundera's writing designed to illuminate both the theory and a work by one of the
most significant of modern novelists. The essay concludes by discussing the relevance
of problematic integration theory to other approaches to the study of communication
and by identifying questions for future communication research.
I have recently presented a view of communication that is based on and

extends two widely held ideas (Babrow, 1992). One common idea is that
people form probabilistic orientations to their world. By "probabilistic orienta-
tion" I mean a belief or expectation that associates an object of thought with
another object of thought. For example, how likely is it that George Bush lied
about his knowledge of the transfer of arms for hostages? What is the probability
that fascism is a force in current European politics? What are the chances that
China will embrace capitalism? Each of these questions asks for a probabilistic
orientation, a subjective judgment of the likelihood of an association between
two objects of thought. Moreover, as these examples illustrate, such orientations
may be retrospective, contemporaneous with experience, or prospective.
A second common idea is that people form evaluative orientations to their
world. By "evaluative orientation" I mean a sense of the degree of goodness or
badness of a given object or relation between objects. How good or bad would it
have been for Bush to have lied? How good or bad is the presence of fascism in
European politics? How good or bad would it be for China to embrace capital-
ism? Each of these questions asks for an evaluative orientation.
To the preceding ideas I add the proposition that probabilistic and evaluative
orientations are integrated in human experience. The integration entails sev-
eral processes. First, probabilistic and evaluative orientations are reciprocally
related. Our view of what is likely affects our assessment of its value, and value
judgments affect probability estimates. Thus, Aristotle's Rhetoric included the
following commonplace as a basis for establishing the possible: "It may be
plausibly argued:. . . That those things are possible of which the love or desire is
natural; for no one, as a rule, loves or desires impossibilities" (1392a8 to 26).
Indeed, a wide range of research attests to our tendency to make wishful and
defensive adjustments of probability and value estimates (see Babrow, 1991).
Austin S. Babrow is associate professor of communication at Purdue University. An earlier version of this
paper was presented at the annual meeting of the Speech Communication Association, Miami, 1993. The
author thanks Joan A. Jurich, Stephen W. Littlejohn, William K. Rawlins, and several anonymous
reviewers for comments on earlier drafts.
COMMUNICATION MONOGRAPHS, Volume 62, December 1995

284 COMMUNICATION MONOGRAPHS
And clearly we can cope with some challenges by acting in ways that improve our
expectations (e.g., citizens engage in grass-roots organizing to influence govern-
ment policies; people change diet and exercise habits to avert health threats; see
Lazarus & Folkman, 1984).
Probability and evaluation also are integrated through reciprocal processes
that link probability and value orientations to a given object with such orienta-
tions 1:0 other objects. For example, various beliefs and values may lead a person
to infer that fascism is reemerging in European politics and to evaluate this
phenomenon negatively. These judgments may in turn affect other beliefs and
evaluations and provide frameworks for interpreting new information (e.g.,

they may affect how one evaluates President Clinton's embrace of an Italian
government with prominent fascists in its cabinet; "Blessing Silvio," 1994).
In short, probabilities and values are not isolated. Rather, they are integrated
with one another and with broader complexes of knowledge, feelings, and
behavioral intentions (Babrow, 1992). However, and most important for this
essay, the integration of probabilistic and evaluative orientations is often prob-
lematic. Such difficulty, which I term problematic integration, arises in the integra-
tive processes noted above. First, because of their reciprocal influences, probabil-
ity and value orientations can destabilize one another. For example, both the
perceived probability and value of survival may shift repeatedly as the reciprocal
influences of these basic orientations play themselves out in the experience of
breast cancer (see Gotay, 1984). The initial diagnosis of a threat to survival can
make life seem more dear (see Lazarus & Folkman, 1984); this might in turn
stimulate optimism, and so on. Second, problematic integration (PI) entails
difficulty in forming and maintaining associated cognitive, affective, and behav-
ioral orientations. Continuing the previous example, unstable subjective esti-
mates of the chances and value of survival make it difficult for the individual to
interpret messages (e.g., judge the honesty of a physician's prognosis), sustain a
particular outlook (e.g., maintain optimism), make decisions (e.g., choose be-
tween lumpectomy and mastectomy), and act consistently with prior choices
(e.g., continue chemotherapy).
In sum, problematic integration is the difficulty we experience when probabi-
listic and evaluative orientations to a particular object (e.g., person, thing, event,
idea) destabilize one another and unsettle such orientations to associated
objects. But when is integration most likely to be problematic? In other words,
what causes the experience of problematic integration? I believe that such
difficulties arise from distinctive combinations of probabilistic and evaluative
orientations. To date, I have analyzed four common problematic combinations,
which I call forms of problematic integration: divergence, ambiguity, ambivalence,
and impossibility (Babrow, 1992).
Divergence involves a discrepancy between what we believe to be so (probabil-
ity) and what we want to be so (evaluation). In such cases the integration of belief
and evaluation is difficult to the extent that the expectation and desire diverge.
For example, integration becomes more difficult with an academic's decreasing
expectation of achieving tenure. Alternatively, the more the academic desires
tenure, the more difficult it is to live with the uncertainty of being tenured.
Ambiguity, or lack of clarity about some probability, causes integrative prob-
LOST LETTERS 285
lems to the extent that we desire or dread that which is ambiguous, and to the
extent that the likelihood of what we desire or dread is unclear. For example,
consider a prospective buyer who has just bid on a house. The bidder would
experience problematic integration to the extent that (a) she wants the home,
and (b) she is unsure that the bid will be accepted (i.e., PI would be a function of
the interaction between levels of desire [a] and ambiguity [b]). In short, ambigu-
ity is problematic not only because it confounds one's probabilistic orientation,
but also because of the difficulty of integrating a strong desire with an ambigu-
ous chance.
Ambivalence also gives rise to integration problems. For instance, a single idea,
object, person, or act can evoke contradictory evaluations (e.g., love-hate
relationships with family members, with one's career, or with food). In this case,
embracing one evaluative response can require us to ignore or devalue an
equally meaningful alternative response. In other situations, when we must
choose between equally attractive, mutually exclusive alternatives, any one
choice implies zero probability of realizing the values of the option foregone.1
Finally, an impossible desire (or certain unpleasantness) also gives rise to PI. It
is important to note that an impossible desire (or a zero probability of attaining
what is valued) is not merely extreme divergence. Impossibility differs from
divergence in that only the former denotes certainty; impossibility is character-
ized by the practical and epistemological problems of proof. Moreover, unlike
divergence, impossibility is often valued in its own right. For example, from
mountaineering to mathematics, impossibility is a source of wonder and chal-
lenge (see Babrow, 1992; Davis & Park, 1987). Hence, impossibility is not merely
an extreme form of divergence but rather it constitutes a fourth distinctive form
of problematic integration.
In summary, PI takes various forms depending on the particular configura-
tion of probability and evaluation that gives rise to the integrative dilemma. The
foregoing also suggests that integration can be more and less difficult. Integra-
tion processes can range from mundane and automatic to challenging and
absorbing to profoundly difficult and debilitating (cf. Csikszentmihalyi, 1975,
1990). The preceding suggests that one (necessary but not sufficient) determi-
nant of the degree of difficulty is the particular configuration of probability and
value. Integration becomes more difficult with (a) decreasing clarity of the
probability, (b) increasing value conflict, or (c) increasing divergence between
expectation and desire.
A second (necessary but not sufficient) determinant of the degree of integra-
tive difficulty is the location of the particular expectancy or evaluation in one's
system of beliefs and values. The more central or basic the value, the greater the
potential problem. For example, an expectant parent would find it more
difficult to live with the hope for a daughter than to live with the comparable
probability of the home football team winning a coin toss. Similarly, the more
central or basic the probability judgment to one's understanding of experience,
the greater the potential problem. For example, magic is amusing whereas
postmodern argument is threatening (see Anderson, 1990). Magicians amuse
modern audiences by challenging faith in visual evidence. The challenge is
never more than charming because modern audiences are confident that they
are witnessing an unusual visual illusion. Postmodern argument's challenges are

less easily dismissed, for their ramifications extend beyond the reliability of sight
to all basic articles of faith (Anderson, 1990).
COMMUNICATION AND PROBLEMATIC INTEGRATION

Finally, to the foregoing considerations I add the proposition that communi-
cation is integral to PI processes (Babrow, 1992). Communication is a source,
medium, and resource in experiences with problematic integration. The follow-
ing section explains these ideas.
Communication is a. source of PI in several senses. Communication is a source

of knowledge and evaluative orientations. Some go so far as to argue that
language acquisition is the source of the human mind, that mind cannot exist
without the symbolic representations that constitute language (e.g., Mead,
1934). Even if we disagree with this view of the relationship between mind and
communication, it is clear that much of what we know and many of our
probabilistic and evaluative orientations arise not in direct experience with
objects but in symbolic representations or constructions (e.g., orientations
toward the infinite, death, antiquity, the future). To the extent that we can know
the world only through communication, and to the extent that the meanings of
symbolic representations are ambiguous and fraught with evaluative connota-
tions (and hence with the potential for ambivalence), communicative construc-
tions weave PI into the fabric of experience.
A second sense in which communication is a source of PI is that communica-
tive acts are themselves objects of thought. That is, communicative acts are
themselves objects of both probabilistic and evaluative orientations. Indeed,
when we do things with words (Austin, 1975; Searle, 1969), the nature of such
acts—what is done and whether it be good or bad—must be interpreted. For
example, an employer's comment about an employee's appearance might be
taken as a compliment or as a sexual advance. These interpretations might be
held with varying degrees of certainty. Whatever the act is taken to be, it might
be evaluated positively or negatively to varying degrees.
In addition to being a source of PI, communication is a medium by which PI
spreads. Communication is often explicitly concerned with probabilities and
values. Problematic potentialities and evaluations are conveyed both by infor-
mal, spontaneous, playful interactions and by formal, planned, and purposeful
communication (e.g., formal education, news stories, the arts). Over time, many
problematic potentialities and values become part of culture (see Babrow,
1992): They are codified informally in linguistic and interactional norms (e.g.,
euphemism and politeness), and formally in religious and political systems; they
are thematized in art and literature (see below); they are described and analyzed
in academic discourse.
In addition to being a source and medium, communication is also a resource in
experiences with PI. When faced with PI, we are very likely to turn to communi-
cation in our attempts to resolve or otherwise manage the experience. We may
seek information, debate claims, or request assistance. When others experience
PI, we may perform any of a variety of speech acts. We might warn, chide,
advise, encourage, or otherwise use language as a resource to help another
person deal with PI. Such interactions can in turn become a medium by which
LOST LETTERS 287
PI is spread. For instance conversation can enmesh us in the problems of loved

ones we hope to assist. These interactions can become sources of PI, as for
example, when we experience ambivalence about being the bearer of bad
tidings related to our loved one's problems (see Bavelas, Black, Chovil, &
Mullett, 1990).
Because of its roles as source, medium, and resource, communication is
entwined in extended chains of PI. Three characteristics typify these chains: the
interrelations among forms, foci, and layers of experience. First, chains of PI
manifest interrelations among forms of PI (i.e., divergence, ambiguity, ambiva-
lence, and impossibility). In other words, the attempt to resolve one PI often
leads to a new form of integrative dilemma. For instance, many people cope with
the impossibility of finding a job in the vicinity of loved ones by asserting a slim
hope. They then face the difficulty of living with little chance of finding work in a
preferred location (i.e., a diverging expectation and desire). To deal with
divergence, they may ambiguate the chances of finding work near loved ones
(e.g., identifying vague facilitating factors), but they then face the challenge of
living with the resulting ambiguity, and so on.
Extended chains of PI also manifest interrelations among the foci of PI. By this I
mean that the initial experience of some particular or focal problematic potenti-
ality and evaluation can problematize orientations to related matters. For
example, doubts about one's suitability to an acutely desired career (i.e., an
initial problematic focus) can threaten a variety of related aspirations (e.g., the
likelihood and value of earning a high income, of participating in certain leisure
activities) and challenge one's self-esteem. This chaining from one focal di-
lemma to others is the direct result of the process of integration. As noted above,
we integrate particular probability and value judgments into surrounding
belief, value, and intentional structures. And, again, the more central or basic
the initially problematic probability or value, the greater the potential chaining
to related concerns.
A third characteristic of extended struggles with PI is the interrelation among
layers of experience. Interrelations among layers of experience reflect the roles of
communication as source, medium, and resource in PI processes. PI necessarily
involves individual psychological processes, but it is also a communicative
phenomenon in all but cases of complete isolation. Sympathy and empathy
spread PI beyond the individual-psychological mode. Another person's PI
becomes our own if our lives are interdependent. Even when interdependence
is minimal, an interaction about some shared value can trigger PI, as when talk
with an acquaintance coping with the loss of a loved one arouses our own fear of
death (see Kubler-Ross, 1981). Moreover, individuals join with others to form
collective responses to PI (e.g., people join social support groups for countless
stressors and engage in political organizing for various purposes). And individu-
als (speakers, authors, composers, painters, actors, directors) and groups (politi-
cal, religious, artistic) struggle with PI in a variety of media. As this occurs, PI
becomes sedimented in layer upon layer of communicative acts and artifacts
(e.g., as authors respond to other writers). Such cultural artifacts are both media
for the intergenerational spread of PI and resources for responding to integra-
tive dilemmas.
In short, the greater the value at stake or the more basic the belief, the more
likely it is that the PI will be manifested in expressive and instrumental

communication. As it becomes braided with communication, PI becomes a
multi layered phenomenon (see Babrow, 1992, 1993).
In summary, we all form both probabilistic and evaluative orientations to
experiences (retrospective, present, and prospective senses of what is likely and
whether it be good or bad). These orientations must be integrated into broader
knowledge, affect, and intentional structures and processes. But integration is
often problematic. Integrative struggles are experienced communicatively, of-
ten transmuting one form of PI into another, one focal issue into another, and
one layer of experience into another. The following application uses the theory
of problematic integration to illuminate the central segment of a novel by Milan

Kundera; at the same time, the application illuminates and enlivens the theory,
particularly the notions of chaining and the roles of communication in PI.
A LITERARY CASE STUDY OF MILAN KUNDERA'S "LOST LETTERS"

IN THE BOOK OF LAUGHTER AND FORGETTING
The Choice of a Literary Case Study
A number of recent works by communication scholars attest to the value of

literary case studies (e.g., Rawlins, 1992; Scheff, 1990). In this portion of the
essay, I use Milan Kundera's "Lost Letters," the fourth part of his seven-part
novel. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, to provide textured and powerful
illustrations of many features of communication and problematic integration
described above. Among the additional considerations that contributed to my
choice of a literary case study were ethical concerns. For one, the more
significant the PI (i.e., the more basic the belief or value in the individual's
system of probabilistic and evaluative orientations), the more difficult it is to
justify its manipulation by the investigator. Moreover, as integration becomes
more problematic, the attendant increase in stress can undermine the equanim-
ity required to provide meaningful informed consent.2 These ethical concerns
are minimized in an analysis of published works.
In addition to ethics, pragmatic concerns supported the choice of a case study.
Two of these considerations are rooted in characteristics of the theory. First,
chaining makes PI processes unstable and unpredictable. Second, prediction is
undermined by the multiple, often redundant, but often contradictory pro-
cesses involved in PI (Babrow, 1991, 1993). For example, consider the complex
interweaving of complementary and contradictory thoughts, feelings, informal
talk, and formal messages that constitute the experience of academic tenure
review (Babrow, 1992, 1993).
One final pragmatic reason for choosing a literary case study was that it
provided an opportunity to examine PI on a level of human significance that is
ordinarily unavailable in a single empirical work. This novel was chosen because
Kundera's writing reflects some of the century's most important issues and
events. For example, Kundera's presentation of a Writers Union policy state-
ment at the Fourth Czechoslovak Writers Congress and the publication of his
first novel, The Joke, both in 1967, contributed substantially to the enlightened
Prague Spring of 1968, and to the Czech government's subsequent repressive
response, abetted by Russian invasion (Ryan, 1987). Kundera was persecuted
LOST LETTERS 289
and ultimately exiled as a direct result of his writings. These experiences have
become leitmotifs in much of his subsequent writing, and the study of them
illuminates the theory of problematic integration.
Summary of the Text
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (TBLF), which was first published in France
in 1979, is a seven-part fiction interlaced with history, autobiography, and
authorial reflections on the art of the novel. Unlike a traditional novel, in which
main themes are developed in a more or less unifying linear narrative about
some generally cohesive set of characters, TBLF comprises several discrete and
superficially unrelated story lines that are, however, unified by underlying

themes.3
Kundera gives us a key to the work's themes in his authorial reflections within
the novel. He describes the self-conscious act through which he creates a
character named Tamina. "I picture her as tall and beautiful, thirty-three, and a
native of Prague" (Kundera, 1981; [hereafter, TBLF], p. 79). She appears in only
two of the novel's seven parts: the work's central part four, "Lost Letters,"4 and
part six. Nonetheless, Kundera writes that TBLF is "about Tamina, and when-
ever Tamina is absent, it is a novel for Tamina. She is its main character and
main audience, and all the other stories are variations on her story and come
together in her life as in a mirror" (TBLF, p. 165).
When her story begins, Tamina is living a solitary exile in France after the
death of the loving husband with whom she had fled from her homeland. She
spends her days quietly waiting on cafe customers who only want to talk about
themselves. They take her silence for limitless interest. One day, when a
customer named Bibi mentions a plan to visit Prague, Tamina asks her to
retrieve a package from her homeland. Bibi agrees to retrieve the package but
abruptly changes the subject to her desire to write a book.
We learn that the package contains Tamina and her husband's letters to each
other and a notebook she kept during their time together in Prague. Tamina is
unwilling to try to retrieve the package through correspondence. Because she
and her husband are considered enemies of the state, the package would be
confiscated by the Czech secret police who inspect the mails. But Tamina is
desperate to regain the lost letters and notebooks; they are repositories of her
memory and therefore the life of her husband.
As the years pass, Tamina has ever more difficulty remembering her husband
and their life together. For instance, she despairs over her inability to remember
and place all of his pet names for her. She can recall one that he used to console
her after her mother's death:
That name she remembers perfectly, and she can enter it with confidence under the year
1964. But all the other names are soaring freely, madly, outside time, like birds escaped from
an aviary.
That is why she so desperately wants that package of notebooks and letters back.
She is aware, of course, that there are many unpleasant things in the notebooks—days of
dissatisfaction, quarrels, even boredom. But that is not what counts. She has no desire to turn
the past into poetry, she wants to give the past back its lost body. She is not compelled by a
desire for beauty, she is compelled by a desire for life. (TBLF, p. 86)
I believe that Tamina's struggles are Kundera's. Their stories illustrate
interlocking chains of PI. One form gives way to another, focal dilemmas evoke
their associates, and layers of experience interweave. To illustrate these chains,

the following section analyzes Tamina's story. Next, the analysis considers
extended chains of PI in Kundera's situation as revealed in autobiographical
comments threading through the novel and associated writings. The final
section of the case study gives special attention to the role of communication in
extended struggles with PI.
Tamina
"The experience of losing a dearly loved human being is the intimate heart of
'Lost Letters' " (Banerjee, 1990, p. 141), and therefore of the novel as a whole.
Tamina must cope with the reality of physical loss. She challenges the certainty
of the corporeal by transforming living men's faces into that of her dead
husband. For example, with a suitor named Hugo:
It takes a good deal of effort, she needs to mobilize all her imagination, but all at once Hugo's
brown eyes really do turn blue. Tamina keeps her eyes fixed on his. To keep the blue from
dissipating, she has to concentrate all the force of her stare on it. (773LF, p. 107)
But time threatens even the most heroic imaginative acts. Tamina's memory is
failing. For instance, having succumbed to Hugo's sexual assault, her mind full
of "that boy's balls, prick, and pubic hair" and the sour smell of his breath, she
realized that "she was no longer able to remember what her husband's genitals
looked like—in other words, the memory of revulsion was stronger than the
memory of tenderness" (TBLF, p. 114).
Painfully aware of the values and uncertainties of her enterprise, Tamina is
desperate to regain the package of letters and notebooks from her homeland.
The package contains the repositories of her most dearly valued memories.
And, "if the shaky structure of her memory collapses like a badly pitched tent, all
that Tamina will have left is the present, that invisible point, that nothing
moving slowly toward death" (TBLF, p. 86).
In sum, Tamina contends with several interrelated foci and forms of PI: the
certainty of the physical loss of a loved one, the divergence between her desire to
remember her beloved and the improbability that her memory will survive the
ravages of time, and the ambiguity of her chances of ever retrieving the package
of memories. As she struggles, one form of PI is transformed into another;
longing and imagination ambiguate the certainty of physical loss.
Kundera
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting mixes fiction with autobiography and
history. Shadowing Tamina's struggle is Kundera's struggle to live with the loss
of a beloved country. Numerous essayists have discussed the significance of exile
to TBLF and to Kundera's writings more generally. Some go so far as to
characterize the entire work as a novel of exile and Kundera as the quintessen-
tial author in this genre, whereas others view him as a writer struggling to
transcend this characterization (see Bell, 1980; Doctorow, 1984; Kendall, 1981;
MaloflF, 1976; Michener, 1980; Ryan, 1987). Kundera writes about exile in quite
general terms: the interrelated possibilities and values of love and loss, memory
and meaning (laughter), in the private and the public (or political) spheres.
These ideas are examined below.
LOST LETTERS 291
Kundera emigrated to France in 1975, seven years after the Prague spring
and Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia. In those seven years, Kundera was
expelled from the communist party, he lost his post as a professor at the Prague
Institute for Advanced Cinematographic Studies, his books were removed from
libraries, he was blacklisted, and his name was removed from literary compen-
dia and the phone book ("Milan Kundera," 1991; Ryan, 1987).
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting was the first novel Kundera wrote outside
his homeland. In response to the book's publication in 1979, the Czech govern-
ment revoked his citizenship. So it was with prescience and irony that he
wrote—in the book that would have him officially exiled—of a desire to cling to
something to stop the fall from his homeland's embrace:

From the day they excluded me from the circle, I have not stopped falling, I am still falling, all
they have done is give me another push to make me fall farther, deeper, away from my
country and into the void of a world resounding with the terrifying laughter of the angels that
covers my every word with its din. (TBLF, p. 76)
Like Tamina, Kundera and the Czech people were struggling with painful
certainties and potentialities. The emigre faced an unpleasant certainty—his
current physical separation from home. He also faced divergence in the probabil-
ity that his beloved home would be lost forever. So too the Czech people were
exiled from their past by a regime determined to reform society and revise
history. Moreover, given the power of Soviet forces supporting the regime, the
loss of Czech history and culture might be irretrievable. Hence, in TBLF,
Kundera wrote:
None of us knows what will be. One thing, however, is certain: in moments of clairvoyance the
Czech nation can glimpse its own death at close range. Not as an accomplished fact, not as the
inevitable future, but as a perfectly concrete possibility. Its death is at its side. (TBLF, p. 159)
One way to manage the experience of a certain loss or diverging expectation
and desire is to cultivate ambiguity. For example, certain or likely exile—of an
individual from his homeland or a nation from its past—can be managed by
ambiguating the chances of return. Kundera's commitment to this form of
coping is illuminated in the following sentiment, which he expressed in an
interview with Philip Roth (1980) that was published in the New York Times Book
Review and as an afterward to the 1981 edition of TBLF:
I am wary of the words pessimism and optimism. A novel does not assert anything; a novel
searches and poses questions. I don't know whether my nation will perish and I don't know
which of my characters is right. I invent stories, confront one with another, and by this means
I ask questions. The stupidity of people comes from having an answer for everything. The
wisdom of the novel comes from having a question for everything. (TBLF, p. 80)
In rejecting optimism and pessimism, Kundera spurns the presumption that the
future can be clearly forecast; this is the essence of ambiguity as a defense against
certain or probable loss (see Babrow, 1992). The rejection of answers and the
embrace of the novel reveal a program for coping with PI in which communica-
tion is central. I will return to these issues below.
Further illustrating the interrelations among problematic foci and interpen-
etrating layers of experience in chains of PI, Kundera's novel expresses through
the character Tamina his painful awareness of the limits of his resources for
coping with the loss of his home. Like Tamina, Kundera and the Czech people
must depend on memory for their survival, for "the metaphysics of man is the
same in the private sphere as in the public one" (Kundera quoted in Roth, 1980,
p. 80). But Kundera knows that memory is fragile:
This is the great private problem of man: death as the loss of the self. But what is this self? It is
the sum of everything we remember. Thus, what terrifies us about death is not the loss of the
future but the loss of the past. Forgetting is a form of death ever present within life. This is the
problem of my heroine. . . . But forgetting is also the great problem of politics. When a big
power wants to deprive a small country of its national consciousness it uses the method of
organized forgetting. This is what is currently happening in Bohemia. (Kundera quoted in
Roth, 1980, p. 80)
The chaining from one focus or dilemma to another is illustrated in the threat
of corporeal loss (through death or exile) that evokes the fragility of related
values—memory, self. Chaining also connects the individual-psychological and
public-political layers of experience, for they are interdependent. Here, for
example, the forces of "organized forgetting" threaten the memory and identity
of both individuals and the entire Czech nation.5
Communication in the Experience of Problematic Integration
Just as "Lost Letters" illustrates several interlocking forms, foci, and layers of
experience with PI, it also illustrates several ways in which written communica-
tion functions as both a response to and source of PI. For example, Tamina's
desire to retrieve her lost letters and diary illustrates faith in the power of the
written word to embody life. She is like the worshipper of a sacred text who
believes in the power of the written word to embody the spirit of the divine. But
such faith is often the source of problematic integration.
When a communicative act or artifact is invested with great value, it can be
transformed from a coping resource into a source of PI (hence the power of
threats to the physical integrity of a sacred text, and the problems of translation
and interpretation). For instance, Tamina may not be able to retrieve her letters
and diary. Even if she can recover them, their value as a means of coping with
the loss of the memory of her husband is threatened by others' eyes:
The more she thought about it, the more she had the feeling that her notebooks were being
read by outsiders, and it seemed to her that the outsiders' eyes were like rain washing away
inscriptions on a stone wall. Or light ruining a print by hitting photographic paper before it
goes into the developer.
She realized that what gave her written memories value, meaning, was that they were
meani: for her alone. As soon as they lost that quality, the intimate chain binding her to them
would be broken. (TBLF, p. 100)
It is no accident that Tamina likens the degradation of her private, intimate
notebooks and letters into public words to the erosion of other communication
artifacts. Kundera is vitally concerned with the possibilities and limits of commu-
nication as a resource. Kundera views the novel as a laboratory for experiment-
ing with the problems that beset him. To understand this view, we must assess
both his experimental goal and method.
Considering the former, Kundera's writing in TBLF is strikingly unrefiective
in its sentimental yearning for a beloved homeland. By contrast, the novel is a
searching examination of the probability that his homeland would be lost
forever. In other words, Kundera's goal was to experiment with the probability
LOST LETTERS 293
of losing his country rather than the value of his beloved home. I believe that
this aim reflects the context in which Kundera wrote TBLF. The pain of his
recent and reluctant emigration prevented him from reconsidering the value of
his homeland, forcing him to the alternative aim of experimenting with the
possibility of returning to a home free of totalitarian rule.6 To pursue this goal,
Kundera used the creative potential of the novel.
Kundera reveals his interest in the potential of creative writing as a means of
response to PI, but he does so obliquely in the novel's part six. This segment of
the novel is an account of Tamina's death. It also contains an autobiographical
account of the death of Kundera's father, a renowned classical musician.

Kundera first reveals his interest in the reach of creativity by discussing an
insight into his father's understanding of the theme and variation form of
Beethoven's last sonatas. Kundera contrasts the form of these sonatas with that
of a symphony:
The symphony is a musical epic. We might compare it to a journey leading through the
boundless reaches of the external world, on and on, farther and farther. Variations also
constitute a journey, but not through the external world. . . . The journey of the variation
form leads to that second infinity, the infinity of internal variety concealed in all things. (TBLF,
p. 164)
Kundera uses this insight about creativity in music to reveal his approach to the
novel. He writes that TBLF is a novel in the form of variations and that the form
of theme and variation is a key to the infinite (pp. 164-165).
Kundera's use of writing in the form of theme and variation can be under-
stood as a response to problematic integration. At the time he wrote TBLF,
Kundera lived not with the trials of a boundless, epic journey but bounded by
the walls of a divided Europe (see Banerjee, 1990, p. 184). Central Europe was
divided and dominated by military superpowers. For subjugated people, for
people in exile (inside or outside of their country's borders), the potentialities
for concrete change are limited. People can, however, find comfort by construct-
ing visions of more hopeful worlds. The act of constructing alternative visions
can be comforting in that it gives a sense of hope; hope is implied by actions
presupposing the possibility of a better world (see Muyskens, 1979). The
creative act of writing a novel is a means of keeping alive the memory of another
life, another time, and thus it is a means of sustaining the possibility of a
reclaimed self and nation. Moreover, the act of publishing one's construction of
alternatives is itself an assertion of political power and a challenge to the
structures that are the source of the original problematic integration. In all of
these ways, the novel is a form of creative communication that is well suited to
coping with threats to or loss of a value too dear to be altered or surrendered.
And, just like a musical piece, a novel in the form of theme and variation opens
up the infinite within external constraints—no matter how powerful the outer
constraints.
Kundera uses the creative potential of written fiction to free the writer and
reader from certain unpleasantness. At the time he was writing TBLF, Kundera
had to contend with terrible apparent certainties. His nation appeared to be lost
to a totalitarian regime, backed by a military superpower, that was determined
to suppress any contrary memories, beliefs, or hopes. One view on coping with
stress suggests that certain knowledge is necessary for effective coping (see
Albrecht & Adelman, 1987). Kundera offers an alternative approach, one which
embraces uncertainty and recognizes its potential to liberate and empower (see
Ford, Babrow, & Stohl, 1995; Lazarus & Folkman, 1984).
Kundera recognizes the risks in embracing uncertainty. In a literary essay
entitled "The Depreciated Legacy of Cervantes," he writes:
To take, with Cervantes, the world as ambiguity, to be obliged to face not a single absolute
truth but a welter of contradictory truths (truths embodied in imaginary selves called
characters), to have as one's only certainty the wisdom of uncertainty, requires . . . courage.
(Kundera, 1988, pp. 6-7).
Though he is writing of the art of the novel, Kundera is also writing of the art of
living; with profound PI.
However, the creative construction of alternatives and insistence on uncer-
tainty also provide a cloak, a means of hiding as well as a means of sustaining
hopefulness. Note, for example, that Kundera insists that he merely asks
questions to which no one knows the answers. Someone more self-consciously
hopeful would insist on the view that there is a chance, however remote, of
reading one's desire.
Kundera also enlists the creative potential of communication, in this case the
novel, to deal with the temporal dimension of threats to the values he holds
dear. His writing manages temporal threats both explicitly and implicitly. The
present is dismissed explicitly, even contemptuously, as an "invisible point," a
"nothing moving slowly toward death" (TBLF, p. 86). The future is explicitly
and implicitly an object of ambivalence and distrust. In its potential, the future
connotes both the possibility of redemption and also the possibility of ultimate
loss. Hence, Kundera asserts that the future has meaning only in terms of its
implications for the valued past: "The only reason people want to be masters of
the future is to change the past" (TBLF, p. 22).
Given that it would be easy to cite or construct equally compelling views that
esteem the present or future, it is important to ask why this intelligent and
sensitive writer has so fixed on the past. I believe that he clings to the past
because the alternatives are so unpleasant. He must contend with the certainty
of his. current exile. He must also live with the ambiguity of the future. To the
extent that he is willing to consider the possibilities for the future, he faces
diverging expectation and desire in the apparently slim chances for his coun-
try's liberation. Moreover, just as Tamina's beloved lives only in memories of the
past, so too Kundera's home and nation exist only in his memory and in the
collective memories of the Czech people. In short, Kundera uses the novel to
cope with profound problematic integration. Just as Tamina hopes that love
letters will sustain the memory of her husband, Kundera struggles to sustain
memory and the past by writing a novel. Moreover, the act of writing his novel
gives meaning to an otherwise meaningless present and sustains hope in the face
of a bleak future.
However, like his heroine, Kundera recognizes that the limits of communica-
tion as a coping resource also make it a source of further PI. "Lost Letters" is
alive with writers who individually and collectively represent many of the
frailties and therefore the problems inherent in using writing as a resource for
coping with problematic integration. To begin, an author who requires an
audience to deal with PI also must have considerable writing skills, motivation to
LOST LETTERS 295
use those skills, ideas that are potentially meaningful to others, and a receptive
audience. The writers in "Lost Letters" illustrate various combinations of
shortcomings in these regards. For example, Bibi, the insipid and insincere cafe
habitue, wants to write a novel about the world as she sees it, but she has nothing
to say. Ironically, Banaka, an author of many unread novels, counsels Bibi on
the importance of self-absorption. And, an insomniac taxi driver writes of his
war experiences for the sake of disinterested children. Whatever one's level of
skill or motivation, the limits of writing as a resource can be painfully circum-
scribed by an obdurate reality. For instance, Hugo, Tamina's foul suitor, dreams
of writing a novel about the love he hopes to share with her, just as he hopes for
wide recognition as an author. But Hugo is unable to author either the lines that
would inspire Tamina's love or the public notice he desires.
Even when a writer has motivation, ability, and a receptive audience, the
written word is a frail resource. In Tamina's story, letters are lost. Kundera
knows from bitter first-hand experience that writing (or any form of communi-
cation) can be suppressed. He also knows that the written word is slave to
interpretation, and that, as a result, readers are perennial threats to the aims of
the writer. When an author like Tamina values letters solely so that she can
relive the life they embody, the meaning of the letters—such as intimacy—is
threatened by others' eyes and others' meanings. Similarly, when an author
writes for an audience, the value of the words is threatened by readings at
variance with the author's. This is not to say that one or another reading has
more inherent significance. It is merely to recognize that authors like Kundera
have purposes, and those purposes may be jeopardized by the very communica-
tive acts by which the authors pursue their aims.
Although his unusual novelistic structure may confuse readers (which may be
an intentional strategy), Kundera seems deeply interested in guiding audience
interpretations. To encourage readers to see questions rather than answers in
his novels, he weaves into his fiction a combination of autobiography, history,
and first—person authorial comments on his characters' actions and reflections
on the art of the novel. This style has been criticized. For example, in his review
of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a novel by Kundera which is strikingly
similar in themes and structure to TBLF, Doctorow (1984) has written: "The
author who ostentatiously intrudes in his characters' lives and tells them how to
behave mimics, of course, the government that interferes deeply in its citizens'
lives and tells them how to behave" (p. 45). I believe that this interpretation
misses Kundera's aim; his intrusiveness expresses a powerful desire to guide
audience interpretations.
Given the values at stake in his writing, Kundera could not help but be
concerned with how he is read. He is, after all, writing to cope with profound
problematic integration. Moreover, his concern about interpretations is well
founded (see Lodge, 1984). Kundera's work has been engulfed by controversy
over its political significance. Writers on both the left and right have appropri-
ated his novels in their critiques of totalitarian communism and western democ-
racies (see Bell, 1980; Doctorow, 1984; Kimball, 1986; Lodge, 1984; Podhoretz,
1984; Theroux, 1974; Updike, 1980). In short, when a writer responds to PI,
and when the response requires an audience, the audience itself is a threat to the
writer's aims; communication is simultaneously a resource for coping with and a

source of PI.
Finally, "Lost Letters" recognizes that the meaning of the written word is now
threatened by what Kundera (TBLF) terms "mass graphomania" (p. 106). By
this term he means that everyone—"politicians, cab drivers, women on the
delivery table, mistresses, murders, criminals, prostitutes, police chiefs, doctors,
and patients"—wants to write a book. The novelist opines that all of us have the
potential to be writers because:
everyone has trouble accepting the fact that he will disappear unheard of and unnoticed in an
indifferent universe, and everyone wants to make of himself a universe of words before it's too
late.
Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for
an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding. (TBLF, p. 106)
Paradoxically, the avalanche of words brought about by mass graphomania, in

Kundera's view, threatens the chances of all who would be heard.
CONCLUSION
Having presented PI theory and illustrated it by analyzing a literary text, I
conclude this essay by discussing the relevance of the theory to other approaches
to the study of communication, and by suggesting questions for future commu-
nication research. As noted at the start of this essay, PI theory is based on widely
held ideas about the importance of probabilistic and evaluative orientations to
human experience. For instance, many studies in rhetoric, criticism, and philoso-
phy of communication are concerned with matters of epistemology and ethics;
rhetoricians have written extensively on logos and pathos appeals; and forensics
considers propositions of fact and value. However, PI theory grows primarily
from social scientific models, particularly psychological approaches to communi-
cation and persuasion. In this vein, attribution (Fiske & Taylor, 1991), uncer-
tainty reduction (Berger, 1987), locus of control (Brenders, 1989), and Bayesian
theories (Wyer & Srull, 1991) offer insights into the nature of the relationship
between communication and probabilistic orientations. More generally, the
attitude change paradigm in persuasion research is predicted on the assump-
tion that evaluative orientations are among the most pervasive and influential of
psychological entities (Eagly & Chaiken, 1993). PI theory differs from probability-
focused theories and many attitude change models by its concern with both of
these orientations. Of course, some theories, such as expectancy-value (Fishbein
& AJ2:en, 1975) and health belief (Rosenstock, 1990) models, encompass both
probabilistic and evaluative orientations. But these perspectives take the integra-
tion of probability and evaluation to be nonproblematic and coldly machine-
like. Clearly, this ignores a great deal of human experience.
PI theory also has ties to "warm" psychological models: theories that mingle
"hot" motivational or emotional dynamics with "cold" cognitive mechanisms
(see Dillard, 1994; Donohew, Sypher, & Higgins, 1988; Witte, 1992). Although
these perspectives promise to shed light on long-standing problems such as the
relationships between logical and emotional appeals, cognition and emotion,
and belief and attitude, PI theory provides an alternative. PI theory suggests
that these relationships could be clarified by focusing on situations where the
LOST LETTERS 297
integration of probability and evaluation is problematic; such situations high-

light distinctions between probabilistic and evaluative orientations as well as the
significant tensions that arise between them (Babrow, 1992). Unfortunately,
warm modelers have said little about the circumstances and dynamics of
communication and PI.
PI theory also has ties to "hot" consistency theories, but the latter are either
extremely narrow or broad in conception. For example, congruity (Osgood &
Tannenbaum, 1955) and recent reformulations of dissonance theory (Cooper &
Fazio, 1984) have quite narrow ranges of application. In contrast, recent balance
theoretic formulations (Insko, 1984) and Festinger's (1957, 1964) early formula-
tions of cognitive dissonance theory are quite broad in their conceptions of the
nature and elements of inconsistency (see Note 1).
While it is rooted in individual/psychological perspectives, PI theory reaches
beyond these views by tying the individual to other levels of analysis (Babrow,
1992, 1993). For example, a person struggling with, say, divergence is likely to
use communication as a coping resource. When this occurs, the interactants'
views of conversational norms governing talk about devout wishes or dire
dreads (e.g., that such talk is an important form of social support and connec-
tion; that such talk is risky or distasteful and hence best avoided) will be
associated with particular utterances and patterns of messages within an ex-
change. The participants' views of conversational norms also will be associated
with characteristics of their relationship to one another (e.g., particular private
norms within the relationship), which will in turn be associated with processes
that connect particular relationships to characteristics of the broader social and
historical context (Babrow, 1993;Scheff, 1990).
In short, PI theory builds on many perspectives that share interests in
probabilistic and evaluative orientations. But PI theory is distinctive for its focus
on integration, and particularly on problematic integration. This focus provides
a means to extend thinking beyond various limiting simplifications, thus open-
ing up new areas for research and synthesis.
The current application of PI theory to Kundera's writing suggests a set of
specific, related issues that should be pursued in future research. The case study
indicates that it may be difficult for someone experiencing profound PI to fully
appreciate the dilemma. In other words, PI may be more or less visible. For
example, Kundera's attempt to wrap himself in uncertainty seems to hide
hopefulness even as it is sustained. He also denies the value of the present, yet
the present is home to his living hope. And, he hides the value of the future by
allowing it value only in terms of the past. Perhaps PI is least visible when it is
most significant.
But what role(s) does communication play in concealing and revealing PI? If
anything is clear, it is that communication does not necessarily uncover PI. For
instance, many writers write despite the futility of their project, many ideologues
demand choice in the face of irresolvable ambivalence, and many fanatics trade
life for meaning as if there were no ambiguity in their acts. Communicative acts
at times obscure fundamental dilemmas. Future research ought to ask, when
does communication about foundational beliefs or values make PI more visible,
and when does communication prevent us from seeing the experience of PI for
what it is?
Finally, it is not necessarily desirable to make PI visible. Complete understand-

ing of one's situation can at times undermine coping by adding to stress and
anxiety (Ford et al., 1994; Lazarus, 1983; Mishel, 1988). Moreover, to the extent
that our conceptions of probabilities and values shape our experiences, a clear
and fixed understanding might lock us into experiences we would rather not
have. To the extent that probabilities and values are potentially malleable and
dynamic, a clear and fixed sense of some problematic probability and value
might be both illusory and damaging. In short, future work ought to ask not
only about the possibility of communication revealing and concealing PI; it
should also ask, when and how does communication shape the value of both
visible and invisible PI? In a world in which eroding certainties and conflicting
values evoke intolerance and barbarity (see Jacoby, 1994), it is hard to imagine a
more pressing set of questions for communication research.
ENDNOTES
1
This analysis is consistent with but not equivalent to the cognitive dissonance explanation of decision
making (Festinger, 1964). Some of these differences are rooted in the fact that dissonance theory is quite
broad in its conception of cognitive elements. By contrast, PI theory focuses specifically on the
relationship between probabilistic and evaluative judgments. In addition, the consonance or dissonance
between pairs of cognitions is generally treated as a dichotomy, whereas the tensions described by PI
theory are continuous (see Babrow, 1992). Other differences between dissonance and PI theory include
the hitter's distinctive recognition of ambiguity, as well as its analysis of the interrelations of forms, foci,
and levels of experience with PI (discussed below).
2
Both casual conversations with acquaintances and brief reviews of PI theory in classroom lectures have
called forth spontaneous, unsolicited, and remarkable revelations (e.g., substance abuse, infidelity). For
some persons, as PI becomes more substantial, the impetus to communicate is more likely to overwhelm
discretion.
3
There have been numerous, often contentious discussions of the work's form (e.g., Banerjee, 1990;
Bell, 1980; Lodge, 1984; Nicol, 1980; Roth, 1980). One of the most interesting general commentaries on
his works' characteristic form is found in Kundera's most recent novel, Immortality, where he writes:
I regret that almost all novels ever written are much too obedient to the rules of unity of action.
What I mean to say is that at their core is one single chain of causally related acts and events. These
novels are like a narrow street along which someone drives his characters with a whip. Dramatic
tension is the real curse of the novel, because it transforms everything, even the most beautiful
pages, even the most surprising scenes and observations merely into steps leading to the final
resolution. . . . A novel shouldn't be a bicycle race but a feast of many courses. ("Milan Kundera,"
1991, p. 231)
4
"I.ost Letters" is also the title of the book's first part. It concerns the machinations of a fallen member
of the communist party as he tries to regain letters written in his youth to a lover who has remained
faithful to the party and to the author.
5
Another and very timely example of the interrelation of layers of experience is the struggle over
official memories of the holocaust that is heating up as the living memories of survivors are lost. As the
numbers of survivors dwindle, the numbers and significance of official monuments are increasing.
"Holocaust memorials and memorializing have . . . emerged as an arena of high political drama, in which
the political life of memory is crystallized and perpetually played out" (Jacobson, 1993, p. 431). The
drama is clearly explicable from the perspective of PI.
6
Kundera has since begun to reassess the meaning and value of home (see the interview by Kramer,
1984, p. 47).
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Milan Kundera Lost Letters

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This article was downloaded by: [UZH Hauptbibliothek / Zentralbibliothek Zürich]

On: 26 December 2014, At: 16:14

Communication and problematic

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/03637759509376364

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impossibility (i.e., when it is difficult to integrate evaluative and probabilistic

I have recently presented a view of communication that is based on and

COMMUNICATION MONOGRAPHS, Volume 62, December 1995

evaluations and provide frameworks for interpreting new information (e.g.,

are witnessing an unusual visual illusion. Postmodern argument's challenges are

COMMUNICATION AND PROBLEMATIC INTEGRATION

Communication is a. source of PI in several senses. Communication is a source

PI is spread. For instance conversation can enmesh us in the problems of loved

likely it is that the PI will be manifested in expressive and instrumental

of problematic integration to illuminate the central segment of a novel by Milan

A LITERARY CASE STUDY OF MILAN KUNDERA'S "LOST LETTERS"

A number of recent works by communication scholars attest to the value of

superficially unrelated story lines that are, however, unified by underlying

their associates, and layers of experience interweave. To illustrate these chains,

something to stop the fall from his homeland's embrace:

account of the death of Kundera's father, a renowned classical musician.

writer's aims; communication is simultaneously a resource for coping with and a

Paradoxically, the avalanche of words brought about by mass graphomania, in

integration of probability and evaluation is problematic; such situations high-

Finally, it is not necessarily desirable to make PI visible. Complete understand-

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