Complexity: Kundera, Huston, Baldwin, Rushdie, Mabanckou, Laferrière
Milan Kundera famously states that “the novel’s spirit is the spirit of complexity,” describing it as a genre that is layered, multifaceted, and anything but simple. Many would agree that the novel captures the human experience in its truest form, embracing the subtleties and contradictions that shape our daily lives. Kundera, known for his ironic and intricately crafted stories, is a prime example of this complexity in action. Through his writing, he raises profound questions about identity and exile while maintaining a style that is as elaborate as it is engaging. In this essay, I explore complexity as a defining feature of the novel, tracing its presence in literary texts and critical discussions. By focusing on Kundera and others, I aim to understand how this complexity shapes their portrayals of exile, expatriation, identity, and the self.
The word complexity comes from the Latin complexus, which means “entwined” or “embraced,” combining com- (together) and plectere (to braid or weave). Over time, with the addition of the suffix -ity, it grew to describe the quality of being intricate or made up of interconnected parts. By the 18th century, it had taken on a broader meaning, one that included abstract ideas and relationships. Simplicity, probably the most thought of antonym for the word is defined as “the fact that something is easy to understand or do.” This word, (an antonym for complex) is an antonym too, for humanity. Saying that the human experience is one that is simple would just be contradictory. This sense of interconnection and layering associated with the word complexity mirrors what Kundera describes and does in his work: a refusal to simplify or untangle the messy, braided realities of human experience, to let questions linger rather than answer them as soon as they arise. Complexity therefore is understood as “the state of having many parts and being difficult to understand or find an answer to,” opposing then, the reduction of things and the one-dimensionality of a certain entity or subject. In conversations about exile, expatriation, and identity (which we can agree are multifaceted and layered topics) the word is of utmost importance as its use or lack thereof in such narratives can create a narrow/limited or broad/general portrayals of what it means to undergo displacement.
In Ignorance, Kundera unravels the complex and disorienting experience of returning to a homeland after years in exile. The story centers around Irena and Josef, two expatriates who return to the Czech Republic after decades abroad, only to find that “home” is no longer the place they once knew. Through a narrative that fluidly shifts between past and present, Kundera dismantles the romanticized idea of homecoming, presenting it instead as an emotionally complicated process shaped by alienation, loss, and transformation. For both characters, the act of returning reveals the profound changes that time and distance have not only on their homeland but also on their own sense of self. The novel’s nonlinear structure mirrors the fragmented nature of memory, portraying exile not as a singular and linear event but as an ongoing state of disconnection, loss, and reconstruction.
A trademark of Kundera’s writing is his ability to weave themes seamlessly into the narrative, crafting them, as he describes, “within and by the story.” In Ignorance, this is most evident in his exploration and commentary of nostalgia—not as a comforting link to the past but as a force laden with consequences, signifying irretrievable loss. Kundera’s narrator is perhaps the most invested in the story, essaying the storyline throughout and making meaningful statements that shape the story as a whole; “It is important to understand the mathematical paradox in nostalgia: that it is most powerful in early youth when the volume of the life gone by is quite small.” Kundera interlaces the narrative with references to works like The Odyssey, embedding these motifs alongside interconnected storylines, such as Milada’s narrative juxtaposed with Josef’s and Irena’s, to shift and deepen the reader’s perspective. These elements serve as touchstones, contrasting the mythologized and idealized notion of homecoming with the messy, disjointed reality of modern displacement. Nostalgia, for Irena and Josef, doesn’t bridge the gap to their past but instead widens it—estranging them not only from their homeland but also from the people they once knew, who they themselves were, and even from their then-current lives and selves in Paris and Denmark.
For both characters, memory is not fixed but fluid and unreliable, shaped and reshaped by the distance of years and the forces of exile. Kundera resists offering simple resolutions or romanticized portrayals of identity and belonging, taking after post-Proust novelists and their incorporation of psychological realism and their refusal of any obligation to “give the reader the illusion of reality.” By allowing the narrator in Ignorance to directly question the storyline and redirect our thinking through seemingly tangential yet pivotal characters, Kundera showcases this so-called “spirit of complexity.” He refuses to distill the emotional and psychological dimensions of displacement into compact answers, choosing instead to confront their inherent ambiguity and depth– and even has fun with it.
Dany Laferrière employs this “spirit of complexity” in his novel I Am A Japanese Writer, beginning with its provocative title. Given Laferrière’s background and identity as a Haitian author, the title immediately challenges the idea of identity as something fixed or singular. The novel becomes a playful yet deeply philosophical meditation on what it means to claim an identity. Like Kundera, Laferrière distances himself through a narrator, allowing him to explore the paradox of calling himself a Japanese writer while embodying none of the cultural or societal markers traditionally associated with that particular identity. In doing so, he dismantles rigid notions of selfhood and invites readers to question whether identity is shaped by culture, language, or the gaze of others.
The narrative is humorous and self-aware, leaning into contradictions rather than resolving them. This complexity extends to the structure, which resists linearity and intertwines autobiographical elements with fiction, blurring the lines between author and narrator. Laferrière uses this approach to highlight the fluid and performative nature of identity, particularly in the context of diaspora and displacement. Like Kundera, he doesn’t attempt to offer answers and often uses irony to plant questions; “I am not a Japanese writer. I’m writing a book called ‘I am a Japanese Writer.’ That doesn't make me a Japanese writer.” This encourages readers to grapple with the many layers of selfhood. By embracing and utilizing this spirit of complexity, Laferrière’s work challenges conventional narratives, presenting identity not as a static truth but as an ongoing, undefined process.
These novels resonate with the questions raised in essays and shorter works like James Baldwin’s The Discovery of What It Means to Be American and Salman Rushdie’s Imaginary Homelands, both of which grapple directly with the fluidity and complexities of identity. Baldwin, in his introduction, writes, “The principal discovery an American writer makes in Europe is just how complex this fate is”. Baldwin reflects on his experience as a Black American writer in Europe, observing that the weight of what he calls “the color problem” is less oppressive when he is outside the United States. This recognition allows him to step back from the intense racial identity struggles he faces in the U.S., where his Blackness is a defining and often burdensome aspect of his reality. In Europe, he feels a sense of liberation—his American identity, while still present, is no longer burdened by the same racial prejudice and societal division.
The complexities of expatriation and exile become palpable in Baldwin’s writing, where he acknowledges the pain of being distanced from his homeland while also benefiting and acknowledging what Edward Saïd in Reflections On Exile calls “positive exile”, where physical distance provides the freedom to reflect on and reshape his identity. Baldwin explains that this external perspective allowed him to reconcile with his sense of self, recognizing how much his identity had been shaped by the negative forces within the American system. This complex re-evaluation mirrors the explorations of identity and selfhood that Kundera and Laferrière engage with in their works: how physical distance not only estranges oneself but allows one to gain new insights into one's identity. Baldwin’s work, like Kundera’s and Laferrière’s, embodies the notion that exile—though filled with loss and tension—can also serve as a space for profound self-reflection, questioning, and transformation.
In essays, complexity is approached differently. The essence of the word, is derived from the French essai "trial, attempt, essay" (in Old French from 12c.), from Late Latin exagium "a weighing, a weight," from Latin exigere "drive out; require, exact; examine, try, test–" prompts these authors to question and consider the nuances of a subject. This is especially evident in The Song of the Migrating Bird by Alain Mabanckou, where the essay form itself serves as a way to explore the layered nature of migration and identity and the labels associated with such. Mabanckou, much like Laferrière, tackles the limitations of identity labels and the expectations that come with them. He pushes back against the label “francophone writer,” calling it condescending, revealing how identity markers imposed by others can often feel restrictive and confining. For Mabanckou, complexity becomes inevitable in conversations about identity and exile—subjects that are inherently multifaceted and resistant to easy answers. He quotes Derek Walcott, who claims that African writers’ poetry is “confined to lamentation” and “their novels to propaganda.” It highlights what Kundera is so wary of—the oversimplification of identity and literature. Kundera’s refusal to provide answers or resolutions reflects his fear of reducing the complexity of life to something easily consumable, something Mabanckou’s critique directly echoes.
In Commonwealth Literature Does Not Exist, Rushdie echoes observations similar to those of Mabanckou, arguing that the term “commonwealth literature” is overly broad. He notes, “Our differences were more significant than our similarities.” Like Laferrière, though more concisely, Rushdie critiques the pervasive impulse to impose labels both inside and outside the literary world. These labels, they argue, are restrictive and contradict the freedom and liberation that writing traditionally embodies. Nancy Huston’s essays in Losing North similarly take a nuanced approach to expatriation. Huston, a Canadian émigré writing in French, examines language as both a bridge for communication and a barrier to understanding identity. Her reflections align with those of Rushdie, Mabanckou, and Laferrière, as she explores themes of memory, the performative nature of expatriate life, and the unrelenting sense of being caught between worlds. Like Laferrière, Huston probes the question of what it means to be French, focusing on how the intricacies of language shape our self-perception. As an expatriate herself, she resists oversimplifying the experience of living between cultures. Writing for a French audience, Huston articulates the complexity of this state, delving into how language and identity intersect in profound and sometimes contradictory ways.
The spirit of complexity in these works is difficult to understand, (much like the experiences of exile). Whether it’s the fragmented memories and characters in Ignorance, the playful paradoxes and absurd claims of identity in Laferrière’s I Am a Japanese Writer, or the deeply personal challenges and critiques of Baldwin, Rushdie, Mabanckou, and Huston, one thing becomes clear: complexity isn’t just a feature of these works; it is not merely a writing style or a way of thinking, it is their very essence. These authors remind us that narratives and experiences, especially those of exile and identity, can’t be boiled down, generalized, or grouped, as Irena and Josef’s family members and friends attempted to do after their return. If the novel’s spirit is one of complexity, as Kundera asserts, then the novel is ultimately a mirror of the real human experience.
Ultimately, the importance of complex and nuanced portrayals of exile in literature lies in their ability to reflect the profound intricacies of human experience. Exile is not merely a title, a theme, or a geographic displacement but an emotional, cultural, and psychological state that defies simple categorization– associated with very real trauma. Novels that embrace this complexity allow readers to grapple with the contradictions and tensions inherent in exile. The simultaneous longing for home and the realization that home may no longer exist as imagined, the blending of identities, and the interplay of memory and reality. These narratives challenge the reductive stereotypes often imposed on exiled individuals, instead presenting their lives as multifaceted and deeply human. In doing so, they foster empathy, expand our understanding of belonging, and resist the erasure of diverse experiences. By honoring all possible realities of exile, these works affirm the power of literature to highlight truths that are too often overlooked or simplified in dominant cultural narratives.
The Art Of The Novel, 18.
Etymology Online, s.v. "complexity," https://www.etymonline.com/word/complexity.
Cambridge Dictionary, s.v. “simplicity,” https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english-french/simplicity
Cambridge Dictionary, s.v. “simplicity,” https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english-french/complexity
Ignorance, 41.
Testaments Betrayed, 72.
I’m A Japanese Writer, 74.
Notes Of A Native Son, What It Means To Be American, (137).
Etymology Online, s.v. "essay,"https://www.etymonline.com/word/essay
The Song of the Migrating Bird: For A World Literature In French, 148.
Imaginary Homelands, Commonwealth Literature Does Not Exist, 62.
