In spite of their love, they had made each other’s life a hell.
The fact that they loved each other was merely the proof that the faults lay not in themselves, in their behaviour or inconstancy of feeling, but rather in their incompatibility: he was strong and she was weak. She was like their President, whom made a 30s pause in the middle of a sentence; she was like her country, which stuttered, gasped for breath, could not speak.
But when the strong were too weak to break the weak, the weak had to be strong enough to leave.
And having told herself all this, she pressed her face against her dog’s furry face and said, “Sorry. It looks as though you’re going to have to move again.”
Sitting crushed into a corner of the train compartment with her heavy suitcase above her head and her dog squeezed against her legs, she kept thinking about one disgusting man whom represented everything she loathed. And all she could think of was looking him up and telling him, “You used to say you wanted me. Well, here I am.” In fact, that man could be anyone.
She longed to do something that would prevent her from turning back to him. She longed to destroy brutally the past few years of her life. It was vertigo, a heady, insuperable longing to fall.
We might also call vertigo the intoxication of the weak. Aware of his weakness, a man decides to give in rather than stand up to it. He is drunk with weakness, wishes to fall down in the middle of the main square in front of everybody, wishes to be down, lower than down.
She tried to talk herself into settling outside of Prague and giving up her profession as a photojournalist. She would go back to the small town from which his voice had once lured her.
But once in Prague, she founded she had to spend some time taking care of various practical matters, and began putting off her departure.
On the 5th day, he suddenly turned up. Her dog jumped all over him, so it was a while before they had to make any overtures to each other.
They felt they were standing on a snow-covered plain, shivering with cold.
Then they moved together like lovers whom had never kissed before.
“Has everything been alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Have you been to the magazine?”
“I’ve given them a call.”
“Nothing yet. I’ve been waiting.”
She made no response. She could not tell him that she had been waiting for him.
– Milan Kundera