Accidentally tying into themes brought up by reading Kundera is Billy Bragg's "Tank Park Salute", a beautiful and sad song.
I like acknowledgement of sadness that comes from the human condition, internal, as opposed to imposed from outside, dehumanised human enemies. The other seems far overdone, standing alone, an immature understanding of reality. Humanity as deferring to other judgement as not so beautiful, humanity as recognising that one's own condition and judgement can be broken as refreshingly mature. Ages makes us all goth inside if we ever stop running. Without another person, even the best of things seem like hollow vanities, to honest eyes.
She's not shallow, is she afraid of closeness or is such closeness an alien thought to her? Perhaps to love is more often wrong than right - to express everything would be as foolhardy as to speak the truths opposite to the lies that hold up the clouds - fire was not meant for man, and so I took it, he told me as the eagle fed.