Too Loud a Solitude

Hrabal was a master of comic tragedy. Even in his own death (he fell out of a hospital window while feeding pigeons) there is an element of comedy in the tragedy. This masterfully written book about the life of a paper compactor was written to move its readers to laughter and to tears. Hrabal managed to distill metaphors of nearly endless depth into a book less than 100 pages long. His writing is perfect. His style is a readily accessible stream-of-consciousness, very much unlike the atmospheric stream-of-consciousness we find in the elaborate works of James Joyce. What makes the writing so enjoyable is that Hrabal includes the tiniest details which make the story sing with flawless realism. This is a great introduction to the works of a tremendously talented author, and will leave you wanting to read more from Bohumil Hrabal.

"For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story." So begins Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud Solitude. The narrator, Hantá, has worked as a trash compactor his entire adult life and his job centers on creating machine compressed bales of waste paper. The most depressing aspect of his job is the fact that a core part of the waste left for compacting consists of books, hundred and thousands of books no longer wanted or desired by the then current political regime. Hrabal's novella explores in its own unique way the life and after-life of books and knowledge.At first glance, Hantá comes across as an unwashed, miserably drunk, under-educated worker. However, from the outset it becomes clear that the books condemned to destruction by Hantá have left an indelible imprint in his own soul. Hantá notes that his "education has been so unwitting I can't quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books." He notes that he doesn't really read, rather, he will "pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop." As the story progresses Haòtá thoughts are sprinkled with thoughts and quotations from the Talmud, Kant, Erasmus and all the great thinkers of the ages.Hantá cannot destroy all the books submitted to him for destruction. Rather, he has spent thirty-five years sneaking books out in his briefcase, one or two at a time. His modest house is overrun with books and Haòtá notes that too loud a sneeze could condemn him to death if the books towering over his bed collapse upon him. Despite the despair caused by the nature of his work and his being lost in too loud a solitude, Hantá continues to live for his books. At the end of his work day he makes his way home "yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know." Hantá's life though is beset with woe. His boss looks down upon him on account of his slovenly and drunken appearance and his work has been made obsolete by a new compacting machine on the other side of town. Hantá makes a trip to view the new compacting factory and upon his return to his own decrepit surroundings engages in a futile fury of compacting in a manner reminiscent of John Henry and his hammer. Hantá is also wracked by guilt at the destruction of thousands of books. He hears the crunch of human skeletons whenever his hydraulic press crushes beautiful books with astonishing force. At the end of the day, Haòtá attempts to relieve himself of his guilt by dint of the Talmudic saying "For we are like olives: only when we are crushed do we yield what is best in us." Hantá clearly wants to believe that he is simply releasing what is best in the books he must crush.The tone for the book's conclusion is established by reference to this crushing of olives. Hantá's internal monologue reveals his awareness that he has consumed the contents of thousands of books. He is aware that he cannot write wor

Simply brilliant! Hrabal's story is a stunning piece of work told through the eyes of one of the most interesting charactors in literature. I have read the short novel at least once a year for philosophic ispiration and to take joy in the love of books, like the main charactor. When I finish I am left in wonder at how the western world has overlooked Hrabal for so long. What a poetic and marvelous book!

I have just finished reading Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud a Solitude and am reeling from its intoxicating effect. This book is not for everyone - there is no real "plot," and readers expecting a traditional narrative style will be bewildered and disappointed. But those readers who are sensitive to the beauty of language and wonderful thoughts will adore this book. It is pure poetry, lyricism, and philosophy. This is an incredible book, and I can't wait to read it again. And again, and again...

On sleepless nights, when seeking for peace of mind, sometimes I take Hrabal's "Too loud a solitude" and read a couple of pages from it. (Well, sometimes a couple of chapters.) Probably the reason it comforts me so much is that the language he uses is so beautiful. You probably have to have East-European origins in order to fully appreciate this kind of beauty, because the stories of Hrabal are all sad after all. But that's how life is in this corner of the world: a stange, grotesk mixture of humour, sadness, beauty and insanity. So it goes.