http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2015/07/the_festival_of_insignificance_by_milan_kundera_reviewed.html

When its publisher announced in early 2015 that The Festival of Insignificance, Milan Kundera’s first novel in 13 years, would be a “summation of his life’s work,” fans were giddy with anticipation. With uncanny prescience, Kundera’s previous books all but predicted our Instagram era—what would he have to say about the Panopticon we now live in? Kundera is also the most notorious Russophobe of modern European letters—would he enjoy an I-told-you-so moment, addressing Russia’s recent return to authoritarianism, its invasions of Georgia and Ukraine, and its Soviet-style effort to whitewash its history? And what about his stubborn hatred of pop music—as a citizen of France, would he at least admit that the guitar riff in that Daft Punk song is pretty sweet? Alas, none of the above—no musings on the Internet or rants about the ubiquitous cellphone camera, no mention of Vladimir Putin, and no discussion of music.