Kundera is writer who handles human beings in all their ways; the forms of existence of the being, specious called human in the place we call world, mostly ironical, tasteless forms, the struggle of living with the pressures, oddities, discrepancies of both her/his own being and the place.
How fascinating is the solitary, free beauty of a flower. It has found its exclusiveness in self-actualization, even if it is all alone on a mountain top, it knows it is a breath on life journey that it has to join with its colour riot. Its guide is the sounds inside, making it unique. It experiences the joy of the moment in its being, comrades of the birds singing freely. It can stand side by side with another flower as well but never loses the rhythm of its heartbeat in the fullness of its being one and only.
Mountains were always in him, they were his home, the meaning of his being, sad but alive, the source of life of his veins, so the source of his art and with the touch of his eyes and hands to his homeland everything found its meaning in the full sense. Saroyan is one of us, our relative, we belong to each other, happy to us.